That night, trying to sleep on a hard wooden bed with just a thin flock-filled mattress, one blanket and no pillow, Angel made up her mind to escape. The other girls in her dormitory ranged in age from seven to fifteen: the younger ones cried themselves to sleep and the older girls talked in hushed voices for a while. Sobs, snores and coughing filled the night air, and a strong smell of carbolic emanated from the floorboards, which were scrubbed each morning until they were bleached white. This, Angel had learned from Lizzie, the older girl who shared her bed, was the job of those who were too young to pick oakum or work in the laundry, and too old for the schoolroom.
Despite her aching limbs and physical exhaustion, Angel’s mind was surprisingly clear as she plotted her escape. The first thing she would need was her own clothes. She had seen them folded and placed on a shelf in the area next to the washroom. They were to be sold off to pay for her uniform, so Lizzie had said, and Angel had no reason to doubt her. Lizzie had been born in the workhouse and had never seen her brothers, who had been admitted with their mother. The unfortunate woman had died some years earlier, but what had happened to her father Lizzie could not say. The thirteen-year-old lived in hope that one day someone would come and take her from here. She smiled as she slept and Angel could only imagine what dreams her new friend must be enjoying. At least Lizzie could escape from the reality of her incarceration for a few hours each night. But it was not so for Angel; she kept her eyes open, waiting until all was quiet. She had no idea how she was going to make a break for freedom, but she was determined to try. Anything and anywhere would be better than this dire place.
At last it seemed that everyone slept. Angel raised herself carefully from the narrow bed so as not to wake Lizzie, and crept out of the dormitory, barefoot and still in her calico nightgown. At the sound of footsteps, she dodged into a cupboard and peered through a crack in the door as the light from an oil lamp bobbed up and down, and the sound of footsteps drew nearer. She held her breath until the woman was out of earshot. She had not bargained for the night watch, but this put her on the alert and made her even more determined to get away. The long corridor ran parallel to the dormitories and moonlight streamed in through the tall windows, its benevolent rays illuminating the way to the staircase.
She made it to the ground floor without mishap, although she had to hide from the night patrol several times. The reception area was deserted and silent and the doorkeeper had, for some reason best known to himself, deserted his post. To Angel’s intense relief she found her garments still neatly stacked on the shelf. Her fingers shook as she took off the nightgown and put on her own clothes. Her red flannel petticoat caressed her bare legs like a whisper after the coarse material of the workhouse uniform. She slipped the green silk bodice and overskirt over her head, fastening it with difficulty. Every second counted and she was about to put on her stockings when she heard approaching footsteps. She pushed her bare feet into her boots and tiptoed across the room to open the outer door. The bolts drew back with little more than a click and the door opened with just a sigh of well-oiled hinges. The night air enveloped her in a warm hug as she stepped out into Bear Yard. She picked up her skirts and ran. Where she was going she had no idea, her only aim was to get as far away from the workhouse as her legs would carry her.
But as she emerged into Vere Street she realised that night time in this notorious area of London was not a friendly place. The workhouse might be sleeping silently, but it was not so outside its walls. Gaudily dressed women bared their charms in doorways, while others hung out of upstairs windows, calling out to the men who staggered along the pavements, some with bottles clutched in their hands and all of them the worse for drink. Skeletally thin dogs rummaged in the gutters for scraps of food and feral cats howled and fought over the carcasses of vermin, while big black rats slunk from alley to alley, on the lookout for anything they might attack and gobble up. Gangs of ragged boys hung about beneath the gas lamps, smoking pipes and watching out for the unwary. Angel hid in a doorway as a youth plucked a wallet from a passing stranger’s pocket, but his victim rounded on him and a fight ensued. Everyone seemed to join in and there was much shouting and flailing of arms and legs. Angel took the opportunity to make a break for it and ran, dodging down alleys and avoiding the grabbing hands of men who lurched out of doorways, offering her money and promising her a good time. She had no idea what they were talking about, but she did not stop to find out.
The narrow courts and alleys were unlit, but in the distance she could see a pool of light. Emerging from the darkness was like entering heaven – she could hear voices and the scent of fruit and flowers filled the air. Her feet barely seemed to touch the cobbled streets as she ran towards this oasis in the darkness of the wicked city. She came to a halt in a square where wagons were being unloaded by porters, who balanced baskets filled with produce on their heads. They added one on top of the other until their burdens reached improbable heights, but somehow they managed to deliver the fruit and vegetables to the stall owners without dropping a single apple. Angel watched, fascinated and excited by the bustling activity. She might have been invisible, for all the notice anyone took of her, and that was oddly comforting after the terrifying moments in Clare Market. Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, she made her way between the carts and barrows to the far side of the square and comparative safety beneath the portico of St Paul’s Church. She huddled in a corner and fell asleep.
She awakened to bright sunshine and a cacophony of noise. Cart wheels rumbled over the cobblestones and the clip-clop of heavy horses’ hoofs echoed off the surrounding buildings. The shouts of the traders bargaining for fruit and vegetables vied with the cries of the flower girls and the raucous laughter and chatter of the porters.
‘What are you doing here? This ain’t no place for the likes of you.’
Angel shielded her eyes from the sunlight and found herself looking up at an older girl with a freckled face and a mop of carroty curls escaping from a straw bonnet. ‘Who are you?’
‘I asked first. You ain’t one of us, so what d’you think you’re doing taking my pitch?’
Angel scrambled to her feet. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What place is this?’
‘Are you a bit of a simpleton? This here is Covent Garden Market. Where have you been all your life?’
Angel eyed her warily. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hoity-toity, ain’t yer? And you wearing duds what must have cost a pretty penny. Come on then, tell us who you are and what you’re doing here.’
‘To tell you the truth I’m lost. My name is Angel Winter and I ran away from the workhouse last night.’
‘You was in the workhouse?’
‘Only for a few hours. I told you, I ran away. I wasn’t going to stay in a place like that. Mr Galloway left me there, but he was supposed to take me to a family in Essex. I have to get to Maddox Street and tell my aunt what he did. She thinks he’s a nice man, but he isn’t. He’s bad and he’s cruel, and I worry about Aunt Cordelia.’ Angel’s voice broke on a sob and she turned her head away. She didn’t want this strange creature to see her cry.
‘Seems to me you’ve had a run of bad luck, nipper.’ The girl laid her hand on Angel’s shoulder. ‘I’m Dolly Chapman and I sell flowers, when I can get hold of ’em.’
Angel looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Flowers cost money, stupid. I have to sell buttonholes and such to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I ain’t got no money to pay them hawkers what they ask.’
Dolly’s snub-nosed face seemed to fade away and Angel closed her eyes.
‘Here, don’t pass out on me, nipper.’ Dolly gave her a shake. ‘You don’t look too good. Are you hungry?’
‘I