‘Not very good. I’ve got some laudanum to dull his pain, but I think he ought to be in hospital, or at least see a doctor.’
‘What about the bonesetter?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Essie said, frowning. ‘But I’ll see how Pa is by this evening. We really can’t afford to throw money about unless it’s going to do some good.’
Ben nodded, pushing his cap to the back of his head. ‘I’ve got to go or I’ll be late and the guvnor will dock my wages. Old Diggory used to knock me for six when I first started my apprenticeship, but I’m bigger than him now and he’s a bit more respectful.’
Essie shot him a sideways glance. She had known Ben all her life and when they were children they had roamed the muddy foreshore together, searching for valuables or coins that lay hidden beneath the surface. When he was fourteen Ben had been apprenticed to Diggory Tyce, a waterman who had won the Doggett’s Coat and Badge in his youth, and whose knowledge of the River Thames was second to none. Ben was ambitious, and Essie admired that in a man.
She smiled. ‘They say that wherries will soon be replaced by steamboats.’
‘Aye, they do, and that’s the future as far as I’m concerned, but the guvnor will take a lot of convincing.’ Ben came to a halt at the top of Duke Shore Stairs. ‘I’ll call round tonight when I finish, if that’s all right with you, Essie.’
‘Yes, but I can’t promise to be there. It all depends if I can find work.’
‘You shouldn’t be working the river on your own. It’s hard enough for a man, but it’s dangerous for a slip of a girl like you, especially after dark.’
‘I can beat you at rowing any day of the week.’ Essie blew him a kiss and he waved cheerily as he made his way down the stone steps to the foreshore where Tyce’s wherry was about to be launched. The passengers were already seated, and judging by their appearance they were seamen returning to their vessel from a night ashore, some of them very much the worse for wear. One had a black eye and another had his head bandaged, blood seeping through the grubby dressing.
Essie sighed, hoping that someone would offer her employment, although it seemed unlikely. She walked on, heading for home. It was still early but White’s Rents was alive with activity. Small, barefoot children had been turned out to amuse themselves in the street, and the boys were rolling around in the dirt, scrapping and testing each other’s strengths like playful fox cubs. The older girls sat round plaiting each other’s hair and chatting while they kept an eye on the babies.
On the other side of the road Miss Flower was bent double, using her little trowel to pick up deposits left by feral dogs. The smell added to the general stench, but she seemed oblivious to it and trudged on her way, heading in the direction of the tannery where the contents of her wooden pail would be used in the tanning of leather. She said that, on a good day, she could get a shilling for her efforts, but Essie would not have traded places with her for a king’s ransom. Miss Flower’s occupation was almost as unenviable as that of Josser the tosher, who earned his living by venturing into the sewers in search of valuables that had been washed down the drain. Josser and Miss Flower lived at number ten, sharing the house with the night-soil collector, several railway workers and a succession of Irish navvies. Essie wondered how anyone could exist in such conditions, but the poor had to make do in order to survive. She hurried past a group of slatternly women, who stopped talking to look her up and down and went on to whisper and giggle like schoolchildren. Essie was used to this and she walked on, ignoring their taunts.
As she entered the front parlour she was surprised to find her father sitting up.
‘Did you bring beer, Essie?’
‘No, Pa. I spent the money on food. I’ll light the fire so that I can boil the kettle.’
He slumped back against the worn cushions. ‘I need something for the pain.’
‘I bought some laudanum, but you’re obviously a lot better. At least you can sit up now – you couldn’t do that last evening.’
‘Give me the bottle and I’ll dose meself, Essie, love.’ Jacob’s tone changed and he gave her a persuasive smile. ‘Help your poor old pa, there’s a good girl.’
She snatched up the basket and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’ll mix some laudanum in water and then I’ll get the fire going. I’m dying for a cup of tea.’
‘I’m dying for a sip of ale. You could have bought a couple of bottles. What if I give you the money and you take a jug to the pub and get it filled?’
Essie hesitated in the kitchen doorway. ‘What if you give me more money so that I can pay the rent on time every week, Pa?
‘You’re an ungrateful child, Esther Chapman. Your poor mother would turn in her grave if she could see how you treat me.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Essie said angrily. ‘I do my best.’ She closed the door on him and busied herself unpacking the contents of the basket. Her memories of her mother were hazy, and probably enhanced by time, but everyone said that Nell Chapman had been a remarkably pretty young woman. She had come from a good family and had married Jacob to spite her father, who had tried to come between her and the penniless boatman who had captured her heart. The only thing that Essie could recall clearly was the sound of voices raised in anger, and her mother’s tears when Jacob came home from the pub the worse for drink. The sickness that had taken her ma to live with the angels had almost claimed her own life, but Essie had survived, largely thanks to the care of her brother, George. She dashed her hand across her eyes – George had left home after a furious row with their father. She had been only six years old, but that day was etched in her heart for ever.
But there was no point dwelling on the past. Essie heaved a sigh and returned to the parlour where she used the last of the coal and kindling to light the fire.
‘Where’s me tea, Essie?’ Jacob demanded crossly. ‘I’m parched.’
‘All in good time, Pa. I’ve only got one pair of hands.’ Essie sighed and scrambled to her feet. The pail, which was normally filled with water, was empty and that meant a short walk to the communal pump at the end of the street. Jacob normally undertook this, although it was done under protest. She left by the back door and went out through the tiny yard to the narrow passageway that separated White’s Rents from the ropeyard, the tarring house and the other buildings associated with rope making. The smell of hot tar lingered in the air, filling her lungs and making her cough, but she hurried to the pump and joined the queue of ragged women and barefoot children.
‘Looks as if it’s come straight from the river,’ the woman in front of Essie complained. ‘I dunno why we don’t just dip our buckets in Limehouse Hole and hope to catch a few fish as well.’
‘This water’s got legs.’ Her companion sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand as she stared at the murky water in her bucket. ‘Fish can’t live in this stuff.’
Essie knew better than to join in the conversation, but she had no intention of drinking the water in its present state. An old woman who had survived the cholera epidemic of 1848 had told her to boil water before drinking it, and she had done so ever since. Pa had said much the same thing, only he used it as an excuse to sup more ale. Essie filled her bucket and returned home, but as she entered through the back door she heard the sound of male voices coming from the parlour.
She stopped to fill the kettle before going to investigate, but the front door closed as she entered the room. ‘Who was that, Pa?’
Jacob gave her a gap-toothed grin. ‘The answer to our problems, girl. We’ve got a lodger and he’s willing to pay handsomely for a room, with no questions asked.’
‘We haven’t got a spare room, for a start, and who is this mysterious