A Christmas Revelation Read online

  “It’s cold outside,” Squeaky said with a smile, a challenging one, a baring of the teeth.

  “Who?”

  “Wally Jones.” He was a pimp Squeaky had known several years ago, but he was probably still alive…somewhere.

  “Never heard of him. Now scarper!” the younger man said. “Do you hear me?”

  “That right?” the older man asked Eloise roughly. “You better be telling the truth. You lie and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

  “Then you’ll never know what I know, will you?” she flashed back instantly.

  He lifted his hand as if to strike her.

  Worm lunged forward, as if he could do something.

  Squeaky dived after him and caught him by the scruff of his collar, bringing him to the ground.

  Eloise snatched at a pan from the top of the stove and hit the older man with it hard, not on the head, but on the shoulder. He howled with pain and screamed at her.

  The younger man came forward, looked at Eloise with the pan, and stayed out of her reach.

  Worm climbed to his feet.

  “I don’t need your help,” Eloise said, addressing Squeaky, but still keeping an eye on both of the other men.

  “They’ll kill you!” Squeaky protested.

  “No, they won’t,” she said with conviction. “They want something I’ve got, something my father told me about, and they won’t hurt me until I’ve given it to them.”

  “And then what?” Squeaky said derisively. “They’re going to let you leave?” His total disbelief was heavy in his voice.

  “Now, listen here,” began the older man. “This has nothing to do with you. It’s between us and the woman.”

  “Yes,” Eloise said calmly, answering Squeaky as if the other man hadn’t spoken. “I’ll tell them where it is, and by the time they get it, I’ll be long gone.”

  “That’s what you think,” snapped the younger man.

  “I don’t trust them and I’m not stupid. Now get out before this gets ugly,” Eloise told Squeaky.

  It was well past ugly, in Squeaky’s mind. “Come on.” He put his hand on Worm’s shoulder, gripping his hand. “We have to go.”

  Worm resisted him for a moment, then could see that it was no use and gave in.

  They went back along the dirty passage and through the door to the street again. The wind had risen and was even colder, but it was not yet properly raining. Squeaky found himself shivering as they started to walk along the street toward the main road, where they could catch an omnibus west.

  For a long time Worm did not say anything. He was turning what had happened over and over in his mind, trying to get it right. It couldn’t be the way it seemed, could it? She wanted to stay in that drab, dirty house with those men? No, she had to. Why? She belonged somewhere clean and light, and warm all through. He and Squeaky would have taken her to the clinic. She would have been safe there, because everybody was. And she would have had enough to eat, every day!

  She looked so different from the women who usually came to the clinic, the sort of person who would never be with men like that if she didn’t have to. They were cruel. It was in their faces, and in what they said, and in the way they said it. He tried to remember and was certain that she was frightened. Why would you stay with people who frightened you?

  Had Squeaky taken Worm away because he was frightened they would hurt him? Or both of them?

  “Is that why you came?” Worm finally asked.

  “Is what?” Squeaky might have known what Worm was talking about, but he wasn’t going to admit it.

  “In case they hurt us?” Worm said patiently.

  “She doesn’t want to leave them, Worm. You’ve got to face that. She’s there because she wants to be. She don’t have to explain it to us. Who are we? Two people she doesn’t know who saw her in the street and got the wrong end of the stick.”

  Worm looked at Squeaky’s face and saw a shadow of sadness in it, as if he, too, had wanted it to be different. Why would he not admit it? Did he think that Worm would think he was silly?

  No, of course not. Squeaky wouldn’t care what Worm thought of him. Why should either of them feel sad because Eloise did not need them?

  “Are you going to get Christmas stuff?” Worm asked. If Squeaky wanted to do it, then perhaps they should.

  Squeaky looked straight ahead of them and kept walking. “Yes, I know where we can get some red ribbons. And cheap. Might get some other things, too.”

  “What things?”

  “All kinds of things. Be quiet, and save your breath for walking!”

  Worm fell silent. Squeaky was feeling bad, too, sort of…disappointed. It was as if they were going to give Eloise a present, and she didn’t want it.

  * * *

  The next morning, Squeaky had bookkeeping to do with all the papers in his office, and Worm was glad, because every time he looked at Squeaky he thought of Eloise and those two men he was still sure she was frightened of. He should do something else. Think of something else. Claudine had already been out and bought the two geese they were going to eat, and they were hanging in the pantry. With four days to go until Christmas, there were lots of nice things in there: currants and spices, lots of butter and sugar and flour, and something that looked like bits of orange peel, all covered with tiny crystals of sugar. And more sugar, and brown sugar, and syrup, golden syrup. And other things, too, in brown paper bags. Claudine had told him he would be in everlasting trouble if he touched any of them. They were standing in the kitchen when she said it. She was smiling, but she looked as if she really meant it. Worm was pretty good at telling when people meant what they said.

  She looked at him a moment or two longer. “You’re very quiet, Worm. Are you all right?”

  He wanted to say that, no, he wasn’t. He felt hollow and lonely inside. He had thought for a moment he could really help the lady with the sun in her hair, but she had turned out to be an ordinary woman who actually wanted to be with the horrible men who had taken her in the first place, when Worm had seen her reluctant and frightened. They were dirty men. Outside dirt you couldn’t help, but inside was different. That was your own fault.

  She had not wanted either Worm or Squeaky to help her. But he was only nine years old. Didn’t matter. He was far too big to cry over something like that.

  He looked up at Claudine. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he replied. “Are you going to like Christmas?” She should smile and say yes to that. Squeaky said everybody liked Christmas, but especially women, because they got to do all the preparing. Worm was not sure that women liked preparing all that much. It was pretty well what they did every day. That, and clean and clear away, and clean again.

  Claudine looked at him closely. “I will like Christmas very much, if everyone else does. Christmas is not a good time to be alone. We must make sure everybody is included.”

  Funny, that was more or less what Squeaky had said, but Worm was not certain Claudine would like it if he told her so. He had made a few mistakes like that. There was sometimes a sadness inside Claudine, too, although she never said so. “I’ll help you,” he said instead.

  “That would be very nice, thank you,” she accepted. “We’ll start by putting up some of these ribbons Squeaky got for us. For heaven’s sake, he got enough for us to tie up the whole house.”

  Worm did not really understand, but she seemed to be pleased, so he smiled as well.

  * * *

  It was the middle of the afternoon before they finished. Claudine made the most beautiful bows, with big, fat, bright top pieces and long trailing ends. Every one was even, and the ribbon was shiny. Then she and Worm had fun deciding where to put them. It was three o’clock, not so long before it would get dark, when Worm finally excused himself. He had an idea. He had seen how Claudine liked the ribbons and how red espec
ially made her smile. He had several pennies he had saved up, a bit here, a bit there. Some of it was in ha’pennies and farthings, but it was still money. He would go and buy her a present. Now that they had put up the ribbons, he knew what he was going to get her, and also how and where to find it.

  Once, for a very short time, he had worked for a kidsman. And he had had the fright of his life. Kidsmen taught small children how to steal things, like silk handkerchiefs, sometimes lace ones. They were so light people did not feel them go, if it was done right. Worm knew how to do it right, but once he had been caught, picked up like a little animal and shaken until his teeth rattled.

  Someone had misunderstood and thought he was being wrongly beaten, and in the ensuing tussle he had escaped and never gone back to that street, or to that kidsman.

  But he knew where to find him. He would not steal anything for Claudine. Even if she never knew, Worm would know, and that was enough. But if he could find the kidsman, he would buy a kerchief or a fichu for Claudine, one that she would really like. And he would know he had bought it with his own money. She would know he was telling the truth, because she always knew.

  First, he must find the kidsman. He had a special area he used to work, down Mile End way. It was the area Worm had grown up in, and he knew a bit about it. That was not very far from where Eloise had gone, but there were thousands of people around there, and Worm knew how not to be noticed, especially in the shadows of late afternoon and early evening.

  He would take an omnibus there. It was too far to walk and get there before the day was really dark. The fare would cost a little bit of his money, but there was no help for it.

  He was lucky with buses, but it still was more than an hour later, and definitely completely dark, when he got to Mile End. Worm went to Old Montague Street, running the same way as the Whitechapel Road but a block farther away from the river. He was looking for Pockets George. He knew George was still around, and he remembered where he lived. This was one of the shortest days of the year and dark, but not too cold. George might be out and about, but more likely he would come home soon. He was called Pockets because he used to be one of the best pickpockets in London, before the rheumatism got to him and he started using children to do the work for him.

  He would be getting well organized before Christmas now, before a real cold snap came. “Days get longer, weather gets stronger,” he used to say. And it was true. Weather got worse after the shortest day. If it was going to be ice, black ice you couldn’t see and people—and sometimes even buses and whole carts—slipped on, then most people stayed in. Wasn’t a good time to pick silk handkerchiefs. People kept their hands in their pockets.

  The streetlamps were lit now. Worm liked streetlamps; he liked the shape of them. They might have been a square, except they were bigger at the top, much bigger, and they had an extra piece on the very top. They had a yellow light, as if it were warm. If it was foggy, they had a ring of light around them.

  There were still lots of people about, even on Old Montague Street. He walked along, staying in the shadows, with his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. It took him a few attempts before he got the right place; then he knocked on the door. He thought Pockets must be at home because there was smoke coming out of the chimney. He could just see it in the wisps where it crossed the light of the nearest streetlamp.

  Pockets came to the door. “Yes?” he said, squinting a little to make out who it was.

  “Worm,” Worm said. “I come to buy something.”

  “Ha! You got money?”

  “ ’Course I have,” Worm said indignantly.

  “ ’Ow much?”

  Worm had been caught that way before.

  “Show me what you got. You always have the best hankies an’ such.”

  “And since when did you want a fine handkerchief?”

  “Since I’ve got to give something to a nice lady wot gives me Christmas dinner and a nice place to sleep.”

  “Oh! Indeed! Then I’d better be sure you don’t give her back one of her own, hadn’t I?” Pockets said with a sneer.

  Worm began to feel uncomfortable. This wasn’t working out the way he had meant it to. “Ain’t you got none, then?” he challenged.

  “I ’ave. Come in and see.” Pockets turned and led the way to another room, where there were three chests of drawers. “How old is this lady?”

  “Middling old. Not very,” Worm replied.

  “Gray hair?”

  “No. Not that old.”

  Pockets considered for a moment. He was clearly thinking hard. “ ’Ow ’bout this?” he said eventually. “It’s the prettiest I got.” He opened one drawer a bit and pulled out a long silk scarf that was so light it seemed to float in the air. It was soft, all made of pinks and reds and golds. As he let it drift to the ground, Worm could see it was actually pictures of roses, big ones with dozens and dozens of petals, all just about melting into each other. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He bent to touch it and was not sure whether he really did or not, it was so soft.

  “Like it?” Pockets asked gently, his voice mimicking the touch of the silk.

  Worm did not even look at him. He knew something dreadful was coming. Pockets never gave anything for less than he could get for it. The scarf was probably worth gold.

  There was no point in lying. Pockets would see right through that. As if anyone would not like it. In his imagination, Worm could already see Claudine’s face when she saw it.

  “I haven’t got that much money,” he said.

  “I can give you a cheaper one.” He did not mean give, he still meant sell. He brought another out of the drawer. If Worm had not seen the roses, he would have thought it good. But not now. He couldn’t give that to Claudine with any pleasure. She would say she liked it, but he would always know how she would have liked the roses, as he had. And Pockets knew it, too.

  “So?” Pockets said. “Which one do you want, then? I can give you the second one for…say…one shilling and sixpence. The first one is worth a lot more, twenty times as much.”

  Worm stared at him. “I ain’t stealing.”

  “Nobody asked you to steal. You’re not that good at it, anyway. You’d only get caught, and that’s no use to anyone. I want you to go on an errand for me, then I’ll give you the scarf for payment.”

  “When I’ve run the errand, how do I know you’ll give me the scarf?”

  “Getting smart, aren’t you! ’Cos you don’t tell me what I want to know till I do give you the scarf. If you don’t tell me then, you know what I’ll do to you.”

  Worm shivered. It was as good a bargain as he was going to get. He accepted. “A’right, what do I have to do?”

  Pockets described to him exactly the place he was to go, a small, crowded, dirty public house less than half a mile away. There he was to wait until two men came, separately, and fell into conversation. One of them was very easy to recognize. He was called Ginger, because he had a mass of ginger-colored hair and a beard to match. In the summer, you could see the ginger hair on his arms, but at this time of year he favored a ragged peacoat that was once navy blue and now had no particular color at all.

  “Then what?” Worm asked.

  “He’s going to meet a woman I know called Pie, ’cos she always looks like she’s drunk—pie-eyed—except she’s as sober as a judge, underneath it. And Pie’s going to ask him some questions and bring me back the answers. Only Pie is going to lie to me, and I want you to listen real hard and bring me back the truth. If you do, the scarf with the roses is yours. If you don’t, I’ll put you in the river with the scarf tied around your neck. Then everyone’ll say I strangled you with a scarf o’ roses. Understand?”

  Worm swallowed hard and nodded.

  “And if you just run off, I’ll find you. London ain’t big enough to hide in. Not any
part as you can find, anyway. Get it?”

  “Then you’ll give me the roses? I got friends, too. What are very nice if they like you, but take it real rotten if you tread on them, on their toes.”

  “Oh, yeah? And are you one of them toes, like?”

  “Yes, I am!” Worm raised his eyes and looked at Pockets squarely. He was surprised to see amusement there, rather than anger.

  “Right. Don’t stand there like a weed growing out of the floor. Get going!” Pockets replied.

  Worm did as he was told. The prize of the scarf with roses was worth working for. He found the public house easily enough and stepped inside without anyone bothering him. He could pretend he was hungry, actually not much of a pretense needed, and would collect dirty glasses and carry them to the kitchen for a sandwich later on.

  It was half an hour before he saw the big man with the mass of ginger hair. He would have been hard to miss. It wasn’t long after that when a woman, apparently drunk, staggered up and sat down in the chair next to him.

  Worm made himself as small as possible. He must remember every word he heard. The scarf with the roses depended on it.

  * * *

  When he got back to Pockets, it was far later than he had meant to be out. They would be wondering where he was at the clinic. He might catch the rough side of Squeaky’s tongue, although Squeaky would lie to Claudine, not to defend Worm but to stop her from worrying.

  “Well?” Pockets demanded as soon as Worm was through the door. There was no “Are you all right?” No hot cup of tea.

  “They came.” Worm tried to concentrate and think of nothing else except what he had heard, before he forgot any of it. “Ginger was there, and after a few minutes Pie came in. She was falling over on her feet, until she sat down. But when she spoke, she was like you said, sober as a judge.”

  “Yes! Yes, so what did she say?” Pockets demanded.