The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford
As Amos walked along, singing his favourite hymn half to himself, he felt the little boy go limp in his arms almost immediately; his head rested on Amos’s broad shoulder, one hand clutched his precious cloth bag, the other held tightly to the lapel of Amos’s overcoat.
Poor little bairn, Amos thought, he’s exhausted. Whatever will become of him? And where should I take him after we’ve had the milk at Haddon House?
It was whilst they were eating the pies in the cul-desac that Amos had had the idea to take the boy over to Haddon House, just off Whitechapel High Street. He was quite certain that Lady Fenella would be able to help. He had known her since she and her aunt had opened the safe haven for battered women three years ago, and he admired her, respected her for the extraordinary work she was doing in the East End.
After all, she was titled in her own right, being the daughter of the Earl of Tanfield, and, as the widow of Lord Jeremy Fayne, a wealthy woman. She was young, not yet twenty-eight, and considered something of a beauty in society—tall, elegant with blonde hair and grey eyes. As an aristocrat and socialite, she did not have to devote half her life to helping those in distress, yet she did, and did so with great efficiency, kindness, devotion and love. And all those who met her, from all walks of life, succumbed to her charms, fell under her spell.
It was more than likely that she wouldn’t be there at this hour of the evening. However, Amos knew that some of her helpers would be at Haddon House because Lady Fenella’s policy was to keep the doors open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week; no one was ever turned away. Perhaps the boy could sleep there tonight, once he had been cleaned up a bit.
Amos loathed the mere thought of taking him back to the cul-de-sac and that decrepit old cart, and, in fact, he had no intention of doing so. It was so unsanitary and unhealthy, and, furthermore, extremely dangerous. For the boy to be sleeping outside on the street the way he was doing begged for trouble. It was inhuman to allow a child to exist in such a terrible way.
He decided he would make inquiries at the local Dr Barnardo’s Home tomorrow; perhaps the orphanage would be able to find a place for him.
All of a sudden, as he continued on his way, Amos thought of Charlie and Maisie, wished they were here, that they still lived in Whitechapel. They would have taken the boy in to live with them without a second thought, made him feel most welcome. That’s the way they were.
As it was, the brother and sister were in New York, walking those streets they claimed were paved with gold, seeking work as actors. He missed them, most especially Charlie, and looked forward to more cheerful letters from him. One had arrived already, and it seemed that their prospects were good.
Hoisting the boy, holding him close, Amos hurried now, wanting to get to Haddon House. One thing he was certain of was a warm welcome. All of the women who worked there were pleasant, helpful and accommodating. They were the salt of the earth.
THIRTY-ONE
All the lights were blazing when Amos Finnister finally arrived at Haddon House, and they were a most welcome sight, gladdened his heart. Lifting the brass knocker, he banged it several times, and within a couple of seconds the door was opened.
To his utter surprise he stood staring at the familiar and lovely face of Will Hasling’s sister, Mrs Vicky Forth. She was looking as surprised as he was himself.
‘Goodness gracious, it’s you, Mr Finnister!’ she gasped, then immediately added, ‘Do please come in, won’t you?’
‘Evening, Mrs Forth,’ he replied at once, stepping into the vestibule. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, ma’am, and especially in the evening.’
‘I’m helping Lady Fenella two days a week,’ Vicky explained, ‘and my presence here this evening is rather unusual, Mr Finnister. There was an emergency, you see, and Lady Fenella asked me to come in to help her deal with it. But please, let us not stand here in the chilly foyer. Come into the great room where there’s a fire.’ Peering at the sleeping boy with immense curiosity, she then asked, ‘And who is this little fellow?’
‘I found him out on the streets, Mrs Forth,’ Amos answered as together they walked into the large main room where there were several big sofas, plenty of comfortable chairs, as well as a long trestle table covered with a white cloth. ‘He was hiding in a cart,’ Amos explained and quickly filled her in as they made their way over to the fireplace.
The lamplight, the sudden warmth and the voices caused the boy to stir in Amos’s arms, and he suddenly awakened, began to struggle at once. ‘Steady on, laddie,’ Amos murmured and placed the boy on the floor. Again he seemed a little unsteady on his feet for a second, and then he looked up at Amos, appearing afraid. He was shivering excessively.
‘Are you cold, lad?’
The boy nodded.
‘Come on then, let’s get you settled here by the fire for a little bit. And then I’ll get you that nice glass of milk I promised you.’
The boy clung to Amos’s hand as they moved towards the roaring fire. ‘Sit here, laddie.’ The boy hesitated in front of the chair; Amos lifted him up and plopped him down in it.
‘You’ll soon feel much warmer,’ he murmured, and hurried over to Vicky who was hovering near the trestle table, waiting for him. ‘Could we get him something to drink, Mrs Forth? Perhaps water, if you can’t spare the milk, although I did promise the little mite a glass of milk.’
‘Of course he can have some milk, but do you think he might like a cup of cocoa? Children do love it, and certainly it would warm him up.’
‘Oh, what a grand idea, it is indeed! Thank you.’
‘I’ll go and tell Mrs Barnes to make a jug of cocoa for all of us. You look as if you could use a hot drink yourself. Back in a moment, Mr Finnister.’
Vicky Forth was as good as her word; she returned at once and informed Amos that the cocoa would be made within minutes. ‘Now, please tell me more about the boy.’
‘I’ve told you most of what I know, Mrs Forth. He said he’d been kicked out by the man who had killed his mother, but, of course, we don’t know if that’s true, the bit about the man killing her. However, I do have a strong feeling that his mother really is dead. He said something about her being in Potters Field.’
‘Then I agree with you. She probably passed away and the boy could easily have been unwanted after she was gone. Perhaps he was sent into the streets, if the man they were living with was not his father. You told me he said he had no name.’
‘That’s right. Well, he did give me a name of sorts, but I couldn’t possibly repeat it to a lady like you, Mrs Forth.’
Vicky smiled at him. ‘Oh you can, Mr Finnister, believe me you certainly can repeat it. You’d be surprised what I’ve heard around here. Then again, you might not be. After all, you were once a policeman in these parts, so my brother told me.’
‘Indeed I was, ma’am, and I do know the area well. My father brought me here quite a lot when I was a boy.’ He sighed, and lowering his voice, he muttered, ‘He said his name was Liddle Bugger.’
‘How awful for the child,’ Vicky shook her head. ‘It staggers the imagination what some people do, the way they wilfully hurt innocent children, harm them in the worst possible way.’ She paused, looked toward the kitchen door. ‘Ah, here comes Mrs Barnes with the cocoa.’
Mrs Barnes nodded and smiled when she saw Amos. Crossing to the long table she placed the tray with the jug and cups on it, and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen, intent on her business. A volunteer, this was her night to look after the food.
‘Thank you, Vanessa,’ Vicky called after her. At the table she poured cocoa into the three cups. ‘Come along, here’s a cup for you, Mr Finnister,’ she said and carried a second cup over to the boy, who was curled up in the large armchair.
He raised his head when he saw her, and instantly cowered in a corner of the chair. But then, as he suddenly focused on her properly, his eyes widened and he sat up a little straighter, staring at her intently.
‘Hello, little boy,’
Standing in front of the armchair, Vicky leaned toward him, again offering the cup of cocoa. Unexpectedly, with a jerky movement, the boy reached out and touched her hair, then drew back swiftly.
Vicky simply smiled at him, and handed him the cup. For once he let go of the cloth bag he was clutching to him and took the cup from her. His eyes were still wide, the look of surprise lingering on his small face.
She, too, was surprised; in fact, the child had startled her when he had reached out in the way he had. She had almost pulled back, but managed, somehow, to remain perfectly still when he had touched her hair.
She noticed he was not drinking the cocoa; his eyes were fixed on her face; he appeared to be mesmerized by her.
Vicky said softly, ‘Have a sip of the cocoa. It’s very good. I’m going to have a cup myself.’
The boy finally nodded, did as she said.
Amos had been watching Vicky with the boy, and now he came over to join her by the fireside, bringing the two cups with him. ‘Here you are, Mrs Forth,’ he murmured, handing her a cup. ‘Ah, I see you’re enjoying it, laddie. That’s good.’
The boy looked at Amos and nodded, then he said in a low mumble, ‘Mam…like Mam.’
Frowning, Amos glanced at Vicky.
She said, ‘I think he’s referring to his mother when he says Mam. It’s Yorkshire. I suppose he might be suggesting I look like her.’
Amos raised a brow, then glanced at the boy, who was now drinking down the cocoa and no longer paying attention to them.
There was the sound of footsteps and as Amos peered across the room he saw Lady Fenella, and, much to his surprise, Chief Inspector Mark Ledbetter of Scotland Yard.
The two of them walked into the great room, and when Mark Ledbetter spotted Amos his face lit up. As he came to a stop he stuck out his hand, and exclaimed, ‘How nice to see you, Finnister.’ He looked pleased, was smiling broadly.
‘Evening, Chief,’ Amos replied shaking his hand, and then he turned swiftly to Fenella Fayne. ‘Good evening, Lady Fenella.’
‘Amos, what a pleasant surprise! It’s been a few weeks since you popped in, I’ve missed seeing you. Those clothes were most welcome, as I told you at the time. It was exceedingly generous of you and your wife, and I do hope you received my letter of thanks.’
‘We did indeed, your ladyship. We admire your work, try to help when we can.’
Fenella nodded, and then quickly glanced at the child with the cup in his hand. ‘And who is our young guest?’ she asked, curious.
Vicky said softly, ‘Mr Finnister found him in the streets, Fenella. He seems to have been thrown out of wherever he was living. He had taken refuge in a cart.’
‘A cart!’ Fenella cried, her eyes startled. She was aghast. ‘How horrendous!’
Vicky nodded, and explained, ‘Perhaps it would be better if Mr Finnister filled you in. Don’t you agree with me, Mr Finnister?’
‘Happy to oblige, ma’am.’ Amos drew Lady Fenella and the Chief Inspector to one side of the room, and rapidly told them everything that had happened that evening, from the moment he had gone into the cul-de-sac with the meat pies until this exact moment.
They both listened attentively, and Amos finally finished, ‘I didn’t know what to do with him, Lady Fenella, and then I thought of you and Haddon House. He can stay here tonight, can’t he? Poor little lad, he seems worn out, exhausted I think, and he was starving. Very hungry and thirsty, and cold.’
‘Of course he can stay here tonight, Amos. Where else but here? However, I do think we have to take him into the scullery and give him a bath at once. Don’t you agree?’
‘Oh yes, indeed, I do, Lady Fenella. He does need a bit of soap and water to make him…palatable, no two ways about that.’
At first the boy was reluctant to leave the armchair, but eventually Vicky was able to coax him out of it. Even so, he did not want to leave Amos, who finally had to accompany the two women to the scullery. The boy held onto his hand tightly, looking frightened again.
Vanessa Barnes was standing at the big deal table in the kitchen, cutting up meat and vegetables which she kept putting in the bubbling pot of beef soup on the stove. The boy’s nose visibly twitched as they passed by the large black iron oven that also warmed the room. His steps faltered, as if he wanted to stop and eat. The adults noticed this and glances were exchanged but nothing was said. Once they reached the scullery door, Amos got down on his haunches and said to the boy, ‘Now listen to me, laddie, I shall be right here in the kitchen with the lady who is making the soup. I won’t go away. I’ll wait for you, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
The boy looked up at Amos, and nodded. ‘Awright,’ he muttered, and allowed himself to be led into the scullery by Vicky.
This was quite a large room, and was used for washing clothes, for the ironing, and for baths for the abused or destitute women taking refuge at Haddon House. It had a stone floor and one window; there were tall cupboards ranged around the room for linen and supplies, and in one corner a large set-pot where the washing was done. The fire underneath the set-pot was always burning in the grate; tonight it crackled and spurted, and as usual kept the room warm as well as the water heated.
Fenella glanced across at the set-pot and said, ‘I know that Vanessa filled it up with water earlier, so there will be plenty for his bath.’
Vicky nodded and went to the end wall where a small zinc bathtub hung on a metal hook on the wall. ‘I think this is the best size to use, don’t you?’
‘I do. I’ll get soap and some disinfectant, Vicky. His hair especially will need a lot of attention—for the usual problem.’
Within a few minutes the two women were taking jugsful of hot water from the set-pot and filling the bathtub on the floor in the middle of the room. ‘Come along,’ Vicky said to the boy. ‘You have to have a bath now.’
The boy remained standing near the door, a fierce look on his face.
She went on, with a warm smile, ‘We must wash all the dirt away.’ She smiled again and beckoned to the child.
He remained stock still, clutching his cloth bag next to his little body. He was totally mute.
Finally, Vicky said to Fenella, ‘I’d better start undressing him.’ Walking over to the boy, she knelt down in front of him. ‘We’re not going to hurt you, child,’ she reassured him in a gentle voice. ‘We only wish to make you clean.’
Once again he seemed mesmerized by her, stared into her eyes, and taking advantage of his momentary distraction she whipped the big flat cap off his head before he had a chance to stop her or fight her.
The boy gasped, and so did Vicky and Fenella.
Masses of red curls were tied up in bunches all over his head.
The child began to tremble and hugged the bag tighter. Tears came, slid down the dirt-covered cheeks, making little channels.
Vicky and Fenella exchanged glances, and Vicky asked quietly, ‘Are you a little girl?’
At first the child did not answer and then after a long moment there was a nod. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The two women were stunned momentarily, and Fenella came over and knelt down next to Vicky. ‘Do you have a name, little girl?’ she asked, observing her acutely.
The girl shook her head.
‘Will you help us? Will you let us undress you so we can wash your beautiful auburn hair, and also bathe you? We want to make you clean and pretty.’
The child nodded, put the cloth bag on the floor and stood on one end of it with both feet. Then she began to untie the filthy muffler around her neck. Vicky helped her to take off the torn jacket, the grubby shirt underneath, and, finally, the old boots were removed. The trousers came off next, but with some difficulty since one foot had to r
Once the little girl was stripped naked, Vicky led her over to the tin bath in the middle of the floor.
Fenella said to her softly, not wanting to frighten the girl, ‘I’m afraid I will have to take that bag from you, but only whilst you are having your bath. Otherwise it will get wet.’
The child shook her head frantically, clung to the bag.
Pointing to the large hook where the bath had been hanging, Fenella said, ‘I shall put it over there on that hook, where you can see it. And you can have it back when you’ve been washed.’
‘Naw!’ the girl cried. ‘It’s me fings.’
She was looking at Fenella, and once again Vicky acted swiftly. She snatched the bag away from the girl in one deft movement. The child instantly cried out.
Vicky placated her, ‘Don’t cry. I’m not taking your things.’
She hurried across the floor and put the bag on the hook. ‘There! You can see it all the time. Now, get into the bath, please.’
Vicky’s sudden rather firm and commanding voice seemed to have the desired effect. The little girl stepped into the bath and sat down with a splash. Vicky rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, leaned over the girl and began to untie the bits of dirty string. Within minutes, a cascade of auburn hair hung around the girl’s face.
Taking a face cloth, Vicky dipped it in the water and began to wash the girl’s face, removing the dirt. Then she tackled her body, asking the girl to stand up in the tub to ease the process. She did so, and Vicky washed her thoroughly. As she did this she noticed a few old bruises on the girl’s body, but they might easily have been caused by sleeping rough in the streets. They did not look serious. The child was thin, but not emaciated, and much smaller than she had appeared when dressed. Vicky realized that the clothes had all been too big for her, and they were a boy’s clothes, not a girl’s.