The Tiger in the Well

"Mr Katz has told me of your history. A man called Parrish has claimed that you are his wife, and that he is the father of your child. Is that correct?"

  "Yes - but who is Mr Katz? And how does he know about me? Miss Robbins, I don't understand -"

  "No doubt Mr Katz will explain when he sees you tomorrow. For the moment, you need nightclothes for yourself and for your child. Susan will show you to a bedroom in a minute or two. You would like to wash, I don't doubt. You are welcome to remain here as long as you need, but you will have to help. I understand that you are a professional business woman?"

  "I am a financial consultant," said Sally. "That is, I was. But I - today I found out that. . . What I'm trying to say is that I haven't any money, Miss Robbins, none at all."

  "You can work. You're strong and healthy. Pitch in and make beds. Cook. Help Dr Turner. Do whatever needs doing."

  Sally nodded. "Yes. Anything. Perhaps I could help with the accounts. . ."

  "That would take ten seconds. You're not a socialist, by any chance?"

  "No. . . Why?"

  "Just curious. Don't worry, we won't try to convert you. I'll call Susan and she'll show you upstairs."

  She rang a bell and then turned back to her papers, ignoring Sally. When the woman knocked and came in, Miss Robbins told her to put Sally in the guest bedroom and find some nightclothes, and then wished Sally a brusque goodnight.

  Sally followed the woman upstairs and into a narrow little room, where she lit a stump of candle and turned down the covers on the one small bed.

  "I'll see if I can find you a hot-water bottle, miss," she said. "There's towels in the cupboard. Bathroom's next door."

  She left, and reappeared a minute later with an earthenware hot-water bottle, almost too hot to touch, and two thin cotton nightgowns, one for her and one child-size. Sally took them gratefully. The woman was taciturn, and didn't want to stay and talk, so Sally was able to concentrate on getting Harriet undressed. The child was cross and flushed with sleep and fretfulness, but she let herself be washed and dried without doing more than grizzling and shivering. Sally had wrapped the small nightgown around the hot-water bottle; it hadn't been aired, and there was a smell of damp about it.

  "We're going to be sharing the bed, little one," she said. "Like we did last night in Villiers Street."

  Was it only last night? This had been almost the longest day of her life. She tucked Harriet in, kissed her, sang a nursery rhyme or two, watched her eyes close and the thumb go into her mouth, stroked her strong hair back off her forehead (haven't got a brush; must buy one tomorrow. What with?) and sat by her till she was sure she was asleep.

  Then she yawned. She felt it coming from a long way off, this yawn, and when it arrived it held her jaw open so wide she thought she'd never close it again. When it had subsided she sat with her elbows on her knees, drained of everything except exhaustion.

  And she might have fallen asleep there and then, but there was a disturbance in the corridor. Someone was shouting; something was banging the floor. . . She jumped up and looked out.

  A third woman, whom Sally hadn't seen before, was dealing with a drunken woman whose head was bleeding profusely - trying to pull her along to the bathroom, by the look of it. She saw Sally standing there and called out, "I say - lend a hand, will you? Light the gas in the bathroom. . ."

  Sally hurried out and did that, and then came back to help with the drunk woman. She was shouting incoherently and struggling, and she smelt vile.

  "Let's get her in there - clean up that wound - come on, Mary, there's a good girl - no sense in struggling - here we are, now let's have look at you."

  The nurse, if that was what she was, kicked a stool smartly into the back of Mary's knees so that she sat down, and then laid hold of her head with two strong hands and looked at the wound. Sally could see even through the woman's tangled hair that her scalp was alive with insects.

  "She needs a bath," said the nurse. "We'll have to disinfect the bed if she sleeps in it in this state. Can you help?"

  She was a brisk, red-faced woman a little older than Sally, with a cheerful manner and a cultured voice. She was already running the water.

  "Well - yes, of course," said Sally.

  She helped the nurse undress Mary, who was still struggling but more weakly now, and who resorted to slumping suddenly to the floor and then springing up again. Sally learnt, in between the struggles and curses, that Mary had almost certainly earned the money she'd drunk from prostitution; and that she was suffering from syphilis. Sally stood back hastily.

  "Oh, it's all right," said the nurse cheerfully, soaping Mary's filthy head and shoving it under the water to rinse it. "You won't catch it. My goodness, if that's all she's got, I'll be surprised. She won't -" lowering her voice while vigorously soaping Mary's ears - "she won't last long. This time next year, she'll be dead. Alcoholic poisoning - that's my bet though half a dozen other things would do it. That's a nasty cut on her head, but I bet whoever gave it to her came off worse. I don't think she'll die from violence. . ."

  Mary, dazed perhaps by the hot water and the vigorous washing, was nearly unconscious. Sally helped her out and dried her as best she could, while the nurse swiftly applied a sticking-plaster to her forehead.

  "Put her clothes in a heap," she told Sally. "We'll wash 'em and bake 'em and then she can have 'em back. Who are you, anyway?"

  "Sally Lockhart. Miss Lockhart. But I hardly know . . . I mean, what is this place? Are you a nurse?"

  "Name's Turner, and as a matter of fact, I'm a doctor," said the other. Sally blushed. She knew that there were qualified women doctors now, but to find herself, of all people, assuming that a woman doing a medical job must be a nurse. . . But Dr Turner didn't seem to mind. She went on, while helping Mary into a nightgown: "And this is a Mission. Not a religious one, though. We're not here to save souls. Don't know what a soul is, actually. Enough to do saving bodies. Socialist, you know. Miss Robbins is President of the East London Socialist Women's League. I'm just here to mop up the blood and dish out the pills and potions. What brings you here?"

  "A man called Katz," said Sally, trying to ease Mary's arm into a sleeve. "But to tell the truth, I don't know why. I mean I'm very grateful, but . . . I was going to sleep out. I just didn't know what to do. . ."

  She found herself pathetically near to tears. Dr Turner looked at her curiously, and then at her obviously expensive clothes, and decided to say nothing.

  "Let's get Mary to bed," she said. "She'll sleep like a log. Come on, Mary - beddy-byes - up the wooden hill to blanket fair. . ."

  This large loud cheeriness was exactly right, Sally thought. Dr Turner was the sort of hearty Englishwoman who in other circumstances would have ridden to hounds or explored the upper reaches of the Zambezi. It was hard to imagine anyone more capable of dealing with the East End. Sally helped her get Mary to bed (in a narrow room where two other beds were already occupied) and then carried her filthy clothes down to a scullery behind the kitchen.

  "Leave 'em in the corner," said Dr Turner. "With a bit of luck, they'll have walked out by the morning. Better cut along now and wash your hands."

  Sally did, and then found herself yawning again. Who was this Dr Turner? Who was Miss Robbins? Who, above all, was Katz? Can't think now; can't write my diary. Find out in the morning. Harriet's here. Safe for the moment. Move up, baby, move up. Let Mama sleep.

  Among the rows of filthy tenements, squalid courts and malodorous alleys of the East End were some corners of elegance and beauty: a row or a whole street of tall old brick houses built for the Huguenot silk weavers, who'd fled to London from the French persecutions, at a time when builders couldn't put up an ugly house if they tried.

  One of these corners of Spitalfields (only a stone's throw from the Mission) was called Fournier Square. The nineteenth century had hardly touched it. Clear that hansom cab out of the way, shoo that butcher's boy out of sight, take down that placard advertising the merits of Brand's Essence of Beef,
and you could people it with perukes and swords and three-cornered hats and sedan chairs, and if the great Dr Johnson came back to dine, as he'd once done at Number 12, Fournier Square, he'd never know the difference.

  Number 12 was busy. Lights blazed at most of the windows; a clutter of dishes, a fragrance of smoky steam, came from the basement kitchen and floated up the area steps; the figures of servants could be seen moving to and fro inside the rooms, carrying lamps, drawing curtains, arranging furniture.

  Outside, a large coach had just unloaded its passenger. Grooms were busy folding some large metal apparatus back underneath it, and signalling to the coachman to move away. One of them swung the coach door shut: wider by far than the door of a normal carriage, as the vehicle itself was larger and more massive. It was the coach that Jacob Liebermann had seen in Riga, that Bill and Goldberg had seen in Amsterdam, and it had brought the Tzaddik to this house in London.

  Inside the hall, a valet was deftly removing the dark rug from around his master's legs. A footman lifted the top-hat off the man's head with a swift and apprehensive flick, and then, watching every second, unfastened his cloak and lifted it away. The reason for his apprehension was the little malevolent shadow, the dybbuk, which had so frightened the few people who'd seen it. It sat in plain view on the invalid's right shoulder, clinging with sharp little fingers to his hair and his ear, and chattering malevolently. It was a grey monkey.

  No one spoke. All these well-rehearsed movements were carried out in silence. When the master's rug and cloak and hat had been put away, a footman opened a double door into a cloakroom, where a basin of hot water and scented soap were laid out ready. The valet wheeled the chair through and washed his master's face and hands, drying them tenderly on warm towels, and then pressed a bell. The monkey watched from the towel-rail, its fierce little eyes never leaving the hands of the valet.

  The door opened, and a footman wheeled the chair through the hall again and into a warm, glittering dining room. As soon as they were near the table, the monkey sprang off its master's shoulder and stalked through the dishes and glasses, rounding the silver epergne and the crystal salt-cellar, brushing the candelabrum with its uplifted tail and seizing an apple from the great bowl before running with it to the place next to its master's and devouring it with small busy nibbles.

  The master laughed. The butler was pouring wine, the valet at the sideboard putting turtle soup into a plate from a silver tureen.

  "The lift," said the master. His voice was deep and oddly accented.

  "Yes, Mr Lee," said the butler at once. "It is installed, and working perfectly. We tested it yesterday, sir."

  "Good. You may go; Michelet will serve me."

  The butler bowed. The valet, a plump man with a small, red-lipped, pursed mouth, placed the soup in front of him, and broke a bread roll into small pieces. The monkey put down the apple.

  Mr Lee made a soft chittering with his tongue, and the monkey seized one of the pieces of bread, dipped it messily in the soup, and conveyed it to its master's mouth.

  He ate, and as soon as he'd swallowed it, another sopping morsel was thrust in with those hard, black-nailed little hands.

  "Michelet, you have not been quick enough with the napkin," observed Mr Lee quietly to the valet, and the man paled and shook out a stiff white cloth at once, dabbing his master's chin solicitously before tucking it around his neck. Meanwhile, the monkey had splashed another piece of bread in the soup and was pushing it into Mr Lee's mouth, swift, rough, abrupt.

  After half a dozen mouthfuls, Mr Lee said, "Eat, Miranda."

  The monkey thrust the next morsel into its own mouth, chewing with quick, vicious little bites as it crouched on the table by his plate, its tail dangling over the edge.

  The valet removed the plate and substituted a dish, on which some pieces of turbot in a cream sauce had been arranged. The monkey followed the same procedure, thrusting the pieces home with an urgent fierceness, and the valet stood poised, ready to wipe Mr Lee's chin when a drop or two of sauce didn't reach his mouth. That didn't often happen, for Miranda was too quick to drop much. The valet himself conveyed the wine to his master's mouth.

  After the fish, a saddle of lamb, cut up small for the monkey's paws, with vegetables similarly treated; and then some melon; and then a Scotch woodcock - anchovies and scrambled eggs on toast. The monkey ate a mouthful or two of everything but the anchovies.

  After the meal, a glass of port, and some nuts cracked by the valet and delivered by the monkey; and then Mr Lee said, "Enough. Take me to the drawing room."

  Miranda heard, and leapt from the table at once, clinging to his lapels; and then remembered the apple, sprang back to fetch it, and came back to his bosom, where she nestled, chewing and nibbling fiercely as the valet wheeled the chair out and into the drawing room. When he was positioned at a comfortable distance from the fire, when coffee and brandy had been poured, when the monkey was curled up asleep in his waistcoat, Mr Lee spoke again.

  "You may show the secretary in," he said, his soft voice rumbling and making the monkey click her tongue in her sleep.

  The valet bowed and left, and a minute later came back with a tall man with blond hair cut short and brushed upwards in the Prussian style. He put a briefcase down beside him, clicked his heels and bowed slightly.

  "Welcome back, Mr Lee," he said. "I hope you had a good journey."

  "Good evening, Winterhalter. Yes, thank you, it was enjoyable. Please sit down."

  Coffee and brandy were offered, and the valet withdrew.

  The strange voice had woken the monkey, which now sat on Mr Lee's shoulder, darting glances of hatred at the visitor. He took no notice; he sat upright, and occasionally, at Mr Lee's request, lifted the coffee cup or the brandy glass to his employer's lips. The monkey watched his hand every inch of the way.

  "Well now, Winterhalter. How much has Parrish collected for me?" said Mr Lee.

  "I've banked seven thousand, eight hundred and forty-six pounds seven shillings and threepence since your last visit, Mr Lee. That's in addition to the proceeds from the sale of the white goods to Argentina, which came to three thousand four hundred pounds. That's eleven thousand, two hundred and forty-six pounds seven and threepence. Expenses are a little higher this quarter, mainly on account of the police. Mr Parrish's contact, Inspector Allen, has been unfortunately removed from his duties, and--"

  "He won't talk, I take it."

  "We have taken care of that, sir."

  Mr Lee nodded. "Good," said the invalid. "Good. Now to other business. I had a useful journey to Russia. The possibilities are enormous, and I have begun to organize already. I am pleased with the application shown by this man Parrish. I am going to reward him with more responsibility. By the way - is his domestic matter proceeding well?"

  "There was a favourable judgment in the court only yesterday, Mr Lee. Favourable to Mr Parrish, that is. The matter should be resolved any time now. Oh - we have acquired this."

  He reached into the briefcase, and took out something small and soft. The monkey hissed with hatred, and Mr Lee chittered softly until she calmed down. Winterhalter set the object up beside the lamp. Harriet would have recognized it; it was her woolly bear, Bruin.

  "Ah," said Mr Lee, "we shall put that in a safe place. Miranda is jealous. Excellent work, Winterhalter. Excellent. Now, the Russian business. Attend closely, if you will, and feel free to take notes. It is a complex matter."

  The secretary flicked open a notebook, took out his silver pencil, and sat up attentively. The monkey caught the glint of silver; her hard black eyes followed every movement as the two men talked. She sprang from the armchair to the carpet, to the curtains, to the mantelpiece, never still for a moment. In the red firelight, she looked like an imp playing in the palace of the Prince of Darkness. Once she sprang up next to the woolly bear, but Mr Lee growled and Winterhalter lifted the toy out of her reach, for all the world as though they were saving it for later.

  Chapter Sixteen
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br />   PLAYING WITH BRICKS

  When Sally awoke she could hear voices and footsteps and the sounds of a busy house going on around her. She had no idea what time it was. Harriet was fast asleep, and still dry. Sally lay for a minute or so, collecting herself, and then got up and drew the thin curtains. There was a church tower at the end of the narrow street, and the clock said ten to eight.

  She woke Harriet and washed and dressed her, and they went downstairs and found their way to the kitchen, which seemed to be the centre of the house's life. Dr Turner was there, eating breakfast at a large table with six or seven other women in various stages of shabbiness. The maid who'd let her in the night before was cooking eggs at a range. Mary, the woman with the cut on her head, was not there. Dr Turner looked up and greeted her.

  "Ah! Miss Lockhart! Come and have some brekker. There's porridge and toast and there's some tea in the pot and - hello! What's your name?"

  Harriet was introduced, and they sat down. The other women looked at them curiously, but only for a moment or so. There was a democracy here that Sally was comfortable with: it reminded her of the old days in Burton Street. As they ate the watery porridge and the burnt toast, Dr Turner quietly explained a little more about the place.

  "Miss Robbins inherited a lot of money from her family's firm - they make chocolate, I think, or cocoa or something - and set up the Mission five years ago to spread progressive ideas through the East End - you know, socialism, secularism, what have you. Soon found out that that wasn't what they needed just yet. So she turned it into a shelter. A place for women to go when they've got nowhere else. As for me, I was going to be a missionary in Africa, would you believe. But I heard about Miss Robbins and came here to have a look, and here I still am. Not sure about God any more. Think he's turned his back. We've got to look after bodies, you know. Souls can take care of themselves. But this woman needs medicine now, and then she might be alive next week, and she can think about her soul then. Or that child: needs shelter tonight before his father kills him. When he's learned to trust an adult for more than a minute at a time, then someone can tell him about Jesus. Waste of time till then. That's what I think, anyway. Of course, this is a drop in the ocean. We don't do much good in comparison to what there is to be done. There are thousands - thousands out there, starving and. . ." She fell silent, and then shrugged. "You'll find Miss Robbins's bark pretty fearsome," she went on, "but she's fair. Don't give her cause to bite you, though, or you'll lose a limb. I think she said she had a job for you this morning. If you want to leave Harriet here, she'll be perfectly safe. Susan will look after her. I don't know what your situation is, but she'll be all right with us."