Isabella Rockwell's War (6 page)

“Move along
now, Missy,” came the voice of a Peeler who poked at her with his
truncheon. “You can’t sleep here.”

Isabella
pulled the blanket around her, but it did little to drive out the
biting cold.

“Where can I
sleep? Everywhere I go you’re poking at me.”

“I suggest you
go back to where you came from. You won’t last a minute on these
streets.” Isabella slowly got to her feet. Her head was spinning
with fever. She hadn’t slept at all, maybe for two minutes at a
time, too terrified someone would come to steal her belongings or,
even worse, take her back to India House.

Her footsteps
echoed off high brick walls, black with soot. The arches underneath
which she’d sought shelter yawned at her from either side. Looking
up she saw the sky, previously bright with icy stars, was now full
of cloud and the air was still. Instinctively, she knew she must
find shelter soon. She’d spent most of the previous day in hiding
worried she might come across someone looking for her. Surely now,
any searches would have been called off?

At the end of
the line of arches, she found a well-made road, with light traffic
moving along it: Small carts, making their way to market and larger
carts carrying stones and timber pulled by heavy draught horses. A
cracking whip made her jump.

“Get out the
way there!”

Speeding up
her pace, she moved in next to the cart and called up to the
driver.

“Please sir,
to where does this road lead?”

The driver
spat on the ground.

“Up to
Smithfield Market. Mind your feet now, I’ve got to get on.” He
urged his Drays into a lumbering trot. Isabella tried to think. A
market would mean food and people. She didn’t imagine she’d be the
only street child to hang around a market square, but what choice
did she have? If she were lucky enough to steal a piece of bread
for later, then finding the market would have been worth it. At
least the fever had killed her appetite and her churning hunger had
all but gone. She needed rest and shelter and food. Without them,
her brain wouldn’t work.

Falling in
behind the heavy cart she placed one foot in front of the other,
barely managing to raise her eyes off her boots, except to check it
was still the same cart in front of her. At one point she stood to
one side to let a coach thunder past and she felt something touch
her face. There it was again. Tiny frozen kisses swirled around
her.

So this was
snow. How beautiful it was, though quite deadly, if the temperature
was anything to go by.

An hour later,
the thin blanket of snow had made all the ugly buildings look like
pictures from a fairy tale. The cart stopped. Isabella pressed
herself into the shadow of a doorway, and watched as the man
unhitched his team and led them down a quiet mews. Her hands and
feet were numb, as if the life were creeping from her body with
every flake of snow that settled. Shaking them under her cloak, she
wondered if the life would ever return to them, or had she damaged
herself beyond repair?

She slipped
from her hiding place and made a circuit of the giant building. If
she’d thought the snow bad before, she’d been sorely mistaken. Now
it was really coming down, blinding her as she walked and making
her feet slip on the cobbles. Her cloak was no protection, slapping
wetly against her shoulders.

Inside
Smithfield there were lanterns hung from beams and tables had been
made ready for the day’s trading. An old man swept the floor of his
pitch. Smithfield Square was probably as quiet as it was ever going
to get. She retraced her steps to the mews. All was quiet. Opening
one of the doors at the far end of the mews she found the two
Drays, knee deep in hay, munching on a feed. One of them snorted a
greeting to her. Next to their boxes was a stable filled with bales
of hay and straw. Isabella’s heart soared for the first time in
days. That would do. The man would not be back for his horses for a
few hours. She could sleep here safely, and in the morning she
could see what opportunities the market would bring.

She returned
to the heavy stable door to pull it closed. Outside the snow lashed
at the door, as if trying to pull it from her hands. She took a
last look at the now blanketed mews and the swirling whiteness.
What was that? Her fevered eyes squinted at a dark silhouette. In
fact, there were several and they seemed to be standing over
another dark shape lying in the snow. The snow had carpeted the
mews so thickly she could hear nothing, and the figures felt
removed from her, almost as if she could close the stable door and
sleep, thinking she’d imagined it all.

Almost, but
not quite.

Pushing the
door back open she walked, and then ran, as it became clear three
large boys were pushing a smaller one to the ground. Isabella hated
an unfair fight.

Taking a
running jump, she leapt onto the back of one of them and punched
him hard, in the side of his head – just like her father had taught
her. The sweet spot he’d called it – where the skull became soft,
and a well-positioned blow could knock a man out. He fell to the
ground without making a sound. Isabella stood for a moment nursing
her knuckles.

“Come on
then,” she beckoned to the remaining boys with her fingertips. They
remained motionless, eyes moving from the inert body of their
companion to Isabella.

“What’s the
matter?” she jeered. “Too scared of a fair fight?” By this time the
smaller boy who’d been on the ground had got to his feet, though he
was weaving back and forth like a puppet.

“Yeah, come
on… not so big and scary without Jock now are you?” The boy
taunted, aiming a kick at the body Isabella had just felled. The
boys moved as one, and took off down the mews into the blowing
darkness.

“Cowards.
Didn’t even try and take their mate…”

The boy looked
at her. Barely ten or eleven he had hair the colour of a Palamino’s
mane, and was smothered in freckles. His front teeth were either
missing or growing in and he was dressed in layer upon layer of
dark woollen clothes, which gave him more bulk than he actually
possessed. Like her, he was filthy and wet.

“Thanks, Miss,
you done me a big favour,” he paused looking sideways at her.
“Though I think I could ’ave taken them on me own.”

Isabella
nodded, raising her eyebrows. “Of course you could, because you
were doing very well before I arrived. The
‘lying-down-on-the-ground’ defence. It’s not one I’ve heard of, but
I could see how effective it was.”

The boy’s lips
twitched and then his smile spread and he threw back his head and
laughed and laughed.

“Alright,
Miss, you got me.”

Isabella’s
fever was now so high, that she felt no cold in the snowstorm. With
the excitement of the fight over, she was feeling terrible. The boy
must have noticed because he pulled her back over to the stable
door and ushered her inside. From his pockets he produced two stale
rolls of bread and gave her one.

“This’ll make
us feel better. We should stay here for a bit. Them lads’ll be back
eventually and they might bring reinforcements.

“Thank you,”
she mumbled, mouth full.

Then, climbing
into gaps in the straw, warmed by the heat from the horses and the
sweet smell of hay, the children slept.

The boy woke
her at lunchtime, from a dream in which she and Bumblebee flew
together through a sky filled with snowflakes. Her first feeling
was relief that the fever was gone and her second was of hunger,
the likes of which she could have only previously imagined.

The boy was
shaking her shoulder.

“Ere, Miss,
we’ve got to go. Draughtsman’s going to be back in a minute and
he’ll get us with a pitchfork if he finds us in here.”

She shot to
her feet, still half asleep.

The little boy
stuck out his hand.

“I’m Midge.
Pleased to meet you.”

She took
it.

“I’m
Isabella,” she looked at him closely. His freckled face was pale
but his eyes were clear. “Are you feeling alright? You were half
dead last night.”

“Naw, I’m
fine. Got a bang on the head is all.” He took Isabella’s hand and
rubbed it against his scalp. Sure enough there was a lump as big as
an egg beneath it. He took her hand again. “Come on, let’s go.”

The snow had
stopped and a clear blue sky sat above the white rooftops, which
glittered and winked in the sun. Isabella blew a great breath out
in front of her, amused to see it turn to smoke.

“Come on, this
way,” said Midge, leading her to the top of the mews.

The market was
in full swing. Carts were bringing back the day’s catch and
unloading it onto the stalls, which lined the streets. Great sides
of beef swung on hooks and huge sheaves of flowers were being
brought up from the barges of Amsterdam. Unfamiliar smells came
from everywhere and they coughed as they passed the stall of a
Chinese trader as scented smoke billowed from his pipe. Straw and
filth was beneath their feet and all around the people of the east
end of London shouted, jostled, bartered, fought and drank.

Through the
gaps in the houses Isabella caught glimpses of the river, flowing
swiftly under a blanket of fog caused by a thousand chimneys.

“Where are we
going, Midge?”

He threw a
smile back at her.

“To get some
breakfast.” If she’d had doubts about following him, the mention of
food decided her. Midge changed direction suddenly, leading her off
the main square, down alley after alley, each becoming narrower
than the last.

“Are we nearly
there?” she hissed, wondering why she felt she needed to keep her
voice down. India certainly had its fair share of poverty and
Smithfield Square hadn’t been very smart, but she was surprised at
how rundown this part of London was. The buildings were of wood and
many were broken down and empty. Slop ran down the gutters and she
could see a white post sticking out from above the door of a tiny
shop front. Around it was wrapped a bloody rag.

“What’s that
doing there?”

Midge glanced
casually sideways.

“Barbers. Cuts
hair. Also does surgery – that’s why he’d tied the rag around his
post.” The boy gave a devilish grin. “Snip, snip, chop, chop!”

Their journey
ended in a sooty alley right down by the river, where new brick
buildings rose like sheer cliffs right from the water’s edge. The
tide was out, and the bright sunlight revealed the stinking
mudflats in all their glory. On their right lay vast warehouses.
Midge stopped in front of one with the name ‘Coopers and Lybrand’
painted in black letters fifty foot tall in ornate fading script.
The brick at the base of the building had faded from red to pale
pink where the Thames had lapped against it at high tide. Midge
tiptoed over the wet cobbles to a small door and took out a
key.

“Quick now,
whilst it’s quiet.”

After climbing
four flights of stairs Isabella found herself standing in a large
room piled high with sacks of coffee, the smell of which was
causing her stomach to cramp with hunger. She bent over with the
pain, feeling light-headed.

Midge caught
her.

“Easy now.
We’re here.” He gave three short whistles and there was a heavy
dragging and scuffling as one of the sacks was pulled aside. Two
dogs shot through followed by a girl of about fifteen.

“Midge! Midge!
Is that you?” And she crushed Midge to her, tears welling in her
eyes.

“I thought you
were a goner, for sure.” She held him at arm’s length, examining
him.

Midge
disentangled himself and lifted his hand to his head.

“Mind me hair,
Ruby. I’m alright.” The girl cuffed him gently around the ear. She
was tall and thin and wearing a dirty apron over a brown smock. Her
hair was the colour of dishwater and her left eye had a cast in it,
but the other eye was a beautiful clear brown. “I was alright Ruby,
just got a bang on the head is all.”

The girl
frowned. “Tell me you’ve not been fighting the Barrow Boys again.”
Midge stuck out his chin and the girl took him by the shoulders and
shook him. “You could have been killed. What if they’d have left
you in the snow? You’d have died of the cold.”

“They did
leave me out in the snow,’ replied Midge. “She pulled me into a
stable ’til I came round. I thought we could give her some brekky
as a thank you,” then in a stage whisper he added. “I don’t think
she’s eaten for days.” Ruby looked at Isabella and Isabella tried
to smile, but Ruby’s kind face was moving in and out of focus.

Ruby enclosed
her in a warm hug.

“Of course she
can have some breakfast. It’s the least we can do.”

Midge smiled,
but then his smile faded.

“Where’s
Zach?”

“He’s gone
out.”

Midge looked
relieved.

“Brilliant!
You can see where we live. It’s the business!” He said pulling her
toward the gap.

Inside the
scented walls of coffee the children had made themselves a home.
Sacks had been moved into place at right angles and then stacked to
create two walls. Along these walls were several cosy bedrolls and
scraps of blanket lying like nests in the roots of a tree. The
other two sides of the den were the bare, red brick corner of the
warehouse, but these walls were well built with no gaps. A fire
crackled in a grate next to a large window and the brick walls
caught and held the heat. Stacked neatly against the fire’s mantle
were piles of chopped wood and in front of the fire sat another
girl about Ruby’s age moving sausages around in a frying pan. The
two dogs, both blonde mongrels sat nearby, drooling.

Isabella had
never smelt anything so good. She sat on a tattered sofa in a daze
until Midge put a plate of sausages and bread into her hand and a
large mug of steaming tea on the floor next to her. Ignoring the
scalding to the roof of her mouth, she fell on the food like an
animal, paying no heed to those around her.