‘Why are you helping me?’ Angel asked, bewildered by Dolly’s kindness.
‘I had a younger sister once.’ Dolly’s nimble fingers twisted the pinks into shape, adding a sprig of baby’s breath. ‘She was fair-haired like you and she had big blue eyes. Grace was always smiling, even though she was mortal sick. She were only ten when she went down with the fever that took Ma and me three brothers, all within days of each other. Dunno why I was spared, but here I am, and here you are, so let’s make the best of things and get on with our business.’
‘I know what you say is true,’ Angel said slowly, ‘but I must see my aunt again, and Lumpy Lil. I’m very grateful to you for helping me, Dolly, but I have to find them or die in the attempt.’
Angel kept close to Dolly all day and she soon realised that she was in the hands of an expert when it came to persuading a reluctant public to part with its money. Dolly combined bare-faced cheek with friendly banter, which worked better with men than with women. By the end of the afternoon Angel had earned threepence, but that was not enough to pay for a night in the dosshouse used by many of the flower girls.
‘Don’t worry, my duck,’ Dolly said cheerfully. ‘I’ll help you out this once, but tomorrow you’ve got to stand on your own two feet. We’ll get to the market early and see what we can scrape off the floor, but you must make your own buttonholes and nosegays and you’ll have to find your own pitch.’
‘You mean I’ll have to go out on my own?’
‘You can do it, Angel. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you could use them big blue eyes to your advantage. Choose the older gents; they’ll be more likely to feel generous to a poor little orphan. The younger coves are a bit chancy. They might have other ideas, if you get my meaning.’
‘I think I do, but what about the girls? How do I know if I’m trespassing on someone’s pitch?’
‘You’ll have to use your loaf, and take my tip and talk a bit more like the rest of us. You talk like a toff and you dress like one too. We ought to get you some duds from a dolly shop, but that costs money. Anyway, we’ll worry about that tomorrow. The main thing now is to get something to eat and pay for a night’s snooze in Mother Jolly’s palace.’
‘A real palace?’
Dolly sighed. ‘It’s a joke, Angel. You’ve got a lot to learn, my duck.’ She examined the contents of her pockets. ‘Sixpence – not a bad day. It costs fourpence a night at Mother Jolly’s, sixpence if we shares a bed. So if you add your threepence to my sixpence that comes to …’ Dolly started adding up on her fingers.
‘Ninepence,’ Angel said eagerly. ‘That leaves threepence for our supper.’
‘You’re a quick one, ain’t yer? You did that in your head.’ Dolly gazed at her with genuine admiration. ‘I wish I had more learning.’
‘You seem to do very well without it.’ Angel handed her three pennies. ‘What will we get for that?’
‘A pint of pea soup costs a ha’penny and a ha’penny for a mug of cocoa. That leaves us tuppence for breakfast. We can get by on that, but you’ll need to earn more tomorrow, nipper.’
‘I’ll try, Dolly. I’ll try really hard.’
Mother Jolly’s lodging house in Monmouth Street was a four-storey building divided into a male section, on the top two floors, and a women’s section on the ground and first floors. Mother Jolly lived in the basement and put in an appearance only to take money or to throw an unruly tenant out onto the street. The women who paid fourpence for the privilege of sleeping in a wooden cot with a lumpy straw-filled mattress and a single blanket, regardless of the temperature outside, were mostly workers from Covent Garden market, but the male occupants were poor Irish migrant workers, and Angel’s first night was disturbed by the clumping of boots on the bare stair treads and even louder altercations. She huddled up against Dolly’s back and tried not to think of her old room in Spital Square and her comfortable feather bed. Perhaps this was all a bad dream, and when she awakened in the morning she would find herself at home with Lil grumbling as she drew back the curtains, and the aroma of the hot chocolate tempting her to sit up and drink from a bone-china cup.
But next morning Angel was awakened by Dolly giving her a shake, and the smell of unwashed bodies filled her nostrils. She tumbled out of bed.
‘What time is it?’
‘Time to get to work before the others wake up,’ Dolly whispered.
Angel had slept in her shift and she retrieved her clothes from the end of the bed. ‘I think I’ve got measles or something, Dolly. I’m itching all over.’
Dolly gave her a cursory look. ‘You ain’t sick, my duck. The bed bugs have been having a feast on you.’ Dolly pulled her ragged dress over her head and slipped her bare feet into her boots.
‘Bed bugs – that’s disgusting.’ Horrified, Angel stared at the red marks on her pale skin. ‘I’m not sleeping here again.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Dolly said casually. ‘Come on. We’ve got enough money for a cup of coffee and a bread roll.’ Dolly tiptoed from the room and Angel hurried after her. She could not wait to get away from the bug-infested dosshouse, and the thought of another night in such a place made her even more determined to find her aunt.
Dolly tried to dissuade her, but Angel would not be deterred. She made as many buttonholes as she could before the flower girls descended on the market like a flock of noisy seagulls, and kindly Jack Wicks loaned her a wicker basket.
‘You can return it to me in the morning,’ he said, adding a few sprigs of lavender for good measure. ‘Just steer clear of the other flower sellers. They won’t tolerate anyone they think is trying to steal their pitch.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Angel said, nodding. ‘Can you direct me to Maddox Street, sir? My aunt is staying there and I need to find her.’
‘A well brought-up girl like you shouldn’t have to hawk buttonholes to all and sundry. I’d like to have a few words with that lady.’
‘Oh, no, sir. It’s not Aunt Cordelia’s fault. She thinks I’m safe in the country with a respectable family.’
Jack Wicks stared at her, frowning. ‘I don’t know your story, girl, but if I had a daughter I wouldn’t want her to roam the streets and mix with the likes of those flower girls.’ He took a pencil from behind his ear and drew a sketch map on a scrap of paper. ‘You can read, I suppose.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr Wicks. I’m much obliged to you.’
He shook his head. ‘I’d take you there myself if I didn’t have to look after my stall. Good luck, Angel. I hope you find your aunt.’
It was mid-morning by the time Angel reached Maddox Street. She had sold a couple of buttonholes, but most people were too busy going about their daily routine to be interested in purchasing such fripperies. She told herself it did not matter – she was going to find Aunt Cordelia and Lumpy Lil, and they would be reunited. Aunt Cordelia would realise that Mr Galloway was not to be trusted, and they would live happily ever after, just like in