The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Read online

  Her mother was gone.

  The shell cracked wide open. The world came crashing in on her. The stink of Lysol and the freezing cold. The footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  She screamed.

  Cousin Lettice appeared in the doorway, breathless and frightened.

  Still screaming, Madeleine pushed past her.

  She ran down the stairs and out of the house and through the snow-covered garden and onto the beach.

  The chill wind buffeted her screams back to her. The grey seals slipped off the rocks and disappeared beneath the pewter sea.

  Part Two

  Chapter Eight

  London, March 1894 – ten years later

  Ben should of never gone near that shop. If he hadn’t, his whole bloody life would of been different. And Robbie’s too.

  But it’s half after six and they’re up the Portland Road prossing about in that fog, and it’s freezing cold and the black smuts are raining down like dirty snow, and there’s bugger all to click – so what’s he to do? Here’s this nice little empty shop, door unlocked, gas on low, like the shopkeeper just nipped out. Rennard & Co, it says in the window, P-h-o-t-o-g-something-or-other. So in they go. And that’s his first big mistake.

  Queer kind of shop it is, and all. Golden chairs, and this plaster column with red velvet hanging over. ‘Lovely,’ says Robbie, stroking it. He’s always been one for the colours. Last year Ben took him up the Paragon, play about soldiers, penny a go in the gallery. Robbie loved it. All the glittery lights and the colours and that.

  But right now Ben’s got an eye for a click, and straight off he spots this box, and inside it this little Box Brownie. Get a bob for that at the coffee-house down Endell Street. But then he spots the bowl of apples on the counter, and that’s his second big mistake. Should of just clicked the sodding Brownie and cut the lucky out of there.

  So him and Robbie are stuffing their pockets with apples when all of a sudden this nobby voice goes, ‘Stop thief!’ and there’s this bint behind the counter with a rifle, sodding rifle, pointed straight at him. And then this second bint, a little one, pops up beside her.

  Ben’s never seen a gun before except up the Paragon, so him and Robbie stay put. Next big mistake.

  ‘What have you got in your pockets?’ says the bint with the rifle. She’s a pretty bit of muslin, nineteen or twenty, cloudy black hair and big black eyes, and a curvy red mouth like a plum; like it’d be juicy if you took a bite. But she puts Ben in mind of his big sister Kate, and that gives him a pain something horrible in his chest, cos Kate’s dead, and he swore he’d never think of her again. So now he can’t click the sodding Brownie, can he? It’d be like clicking from Kate.

  ‘What have you got in your pockets?’ goes Black-hair again.

  So him and Robbie put the apples on the counter. Well, she’s got the gun, and all.

  She frowns. ‘What were you going to do with those?’

  ‘Eat them,’ snaps Ben. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘But they’re rotten. We were going to throw them away.’

  ‘Shows how much you know,’ he goes.

  Something flickers in her face, like he’s hit a nerve. Then she darts a look at the little bint, who’s well twitchety, and the little bint gets out this big paper bag and pours out these new apples and pears. ‘They’re props,’ she mumbles. ‘We use them for photographs.’

  She’s ten or so, with long yellow hair. She’s nothing like Black-hair, but he can tell straight off that they’re sisters. They got that way of talking without talking.

  ‘Take some,’ Black-hair tells him. ‘Go on. We can buy some more.’

  That’s when he knows she’s not going to shoot; she never was. She’s scared of him. Shows some sense, that does.

  So now there’s nothing to stop him cutting the lucky, except that Robbie’s pounced on the apples, and chomping away. His ugly little mug’s all scrumpled up, and the bints are staring at him with their mouths open. Well, he’s a bit of a sight, is Robbie, with his carrotty hair and his greasy old jacket stretched over his hump, and his kicksies that peter out at the shins, and his scabby black feet.

  ‘How old is he?’ Black-hair asks Ben.

  ‘Seven,’ he growls, ‘and he can speak for hisself.’ Just because Robbie’s one button short of a row, it don’t mean he’s a sodding idiot.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I dunno. Thirteen? What’s it to you?’

  He can’t make her out. Why don’t she just chuck them out or call the bluebottles? What’s she after? She curious? Some nobs are. They get a taste for the dirt and the smell and that.

  And she’s a nob all right. Fancy white blouse with big puffy sleeves. Copper-colour skirt with all black braid and a fancy belt. Nobby as hell. And so clean. He wonders if she’s been got into yet, and thinks probably not. Though she could charge the earth, with a figure like that.

  He goes, ‘You never work in a shop, you’re too posh.’

  ‘This is just a hobby,’ she says. ‘I help out from time to time but I don’t get paid. Mr Rennard couldn’t afford it. And besides, it wouldn’t be respectable for a lady to get paid.’ That mouth of hers twists in a smile, like she thinks that’s rum.

  ‘Bit early for helping,’ he goes. ‘Seven in the morning.’

  ‘Sometimes I take my own photographs before we open.’

  ‘And sometimes,’ chimes in Yellow-hair, ‘as a special treat, Maddy lets me come along too.’

  Crikey, thinks Ben, that her idea of a treat?

  Yellow-hair’s not as pretty as her sister, but she’ll do – although them eyebrows spell trouble. Not curvy like Black-hair’s, but straight and dark. Watch out, they seem to say, or you’re in for a fight.

  She hasn’t been got into either, Ben can tell. Bet she’d be well narked if he asked. Funny what a fuss nobs make about it. Ben’s been getting into bints since he was eleven. So what?

  Yellow-hair’s got on this red and white stripy pinafore and black stockings and shiny black boots, and Ben wonders if they got studs on the bottom; he always wanted boots like that, so when you skid on the pavement you make sparks. He saw a kid do it once, it was the best thing ever.

  ‘You ought to go now,’ says Black-hair. ‘Mr Rennard will be here soon.’

  ‘Oh, not yet,’ goes Yellow-hair.

  ‘Sophie . . .’

  ‘Oh, please.’ She turns to Robbie, and points at his woolly dog that Ben clicked from the toyshop, and goes, ‘What’s his name?’

  Robbie looks well worried. He’s had the sodding thing a couple of years, but never thought to give it a name. ‘Dog?’ he mumbles.

  She nods. ‘Dog. Well I’m Sophie, and that’s Maddy – Madeleine, actually. Maddy chose my name when I was born, she got it off a book, but we never told Cousin Lettice.’

  Robbie’s got his mouth open, he can’t believe she’s talking to him like a proper person. And Black-hair’s watching him with this little half-smile; not sneery or nothing, just kind. Ben hates that. It makes him go all prickly and hot. So he decides to click the sodding Brownie after all. Just to prove that he can.

  ‘It was my birthday last week,’ goes Yellow-hair. She’s the talker, her sister’s the watcher. ‘I didn’t have a party, as we don’t know anyone. That’s why it’s so nice to meet you—’

  ‘Sophie, that’s enough—’ goes her sister.

  ‘– but Maddy gave me black beauty,’ goes Yellow-hair, regular chatter-basket, ‘it’s brilliant, I’ve read it twice already.’ She fetches this book from behind the counter.

  It’s got a horse on it in gold, and Ben goes, ‘They got the bridle wrong.’

  Yellow-hair’s impressed. ‘Do you know about horses?’

  Robbie pipes up. ‘Ben had this job once at Berner’s Mews, and—’

  ‘Shut it,’ goes Ben. He turns on Yellow-hair. ‘So you can read. So what?’

  She’s taken aback. ‘But everyone can read.’ Not sneery; just like she never thought about it befor
e.

  Black-hair seems to think that’s funny, but Yellow-hair puts her clean little hand to her mouth. ‘I’m most awfully sorry, I didn’t mean – um, can’t you read?’

  ‘I know my letters,’ snaps Ben. And he does, give or take. He went to school for a couple of weeks when they were giving out soup tickets, and he’s a quick learner, but he left before he learnt how to put every last letter together.

  ‘I do apologize,’ goes Yellow-hair, and then she’s off again ferreting behind the counter. Her sister looks down to see what she’s up to, and that’s when Ben whips off his cap and stows the Brownie inside, and clutches the cap to his belly like he’s just remembered his manners. Nobody sees nothing. Beautiful.

  Yellow-hair chucks a questioning look at her sister, and gets the nod, and goes pink and holds out this picture-book to Ben. ‘Maddy keeps a few books for clients’ children, to keep them amused. I thought you might care to have one. Then you’ll be able to read too.’

  He’s all hot and prickly again, and sick to his stomach. Who the sodding hell does she think she is? Giving him things? Who does she think she is?

  ‘It’s about a cavalry horse in the Crimean War,’ she says, ‘I thought you might enjoy it, as you like horses.’

  He snatches it and shoves it in his pocket. ‘I’m not going to read it,’ he snarls. ‘I’m going to sell it.’

  She blinks. ‘Um. When you finish it, you can come back, and I’ll give you another.’

  ‘You cracked?’ he says. ‘Why would I come back?’

  That’s better. Now she looks like she’s going to cry. Light-brown eyes with little bits of gold in them, all swimming in tears.

  That’s when Black-hair shoots him this look. Plain as day it says to him: Don’t you dare go upsetting my sister, Ben Kelly, or I’ll have you catting up blood for a week. You understand?

  He glares back at her, but inside he thinks, well, fair enough. He’d of done a lot worse if it was Robbie. And it puts him in mind of Kate looking out for him when he was a nipper, and – just shut it about Kate, Ben Kelly. Just shut it right now.

  It’s high time they was off. ‘Come on, Robbie,’ he goes.

  But they’re just out the door when Black-hair knocks him for six. ‘You know, Ben Whatever-your-name-is, you’re not as sharp as you think you are.’ She hoists the rifle, and twists that mouth of hers in a grin. ‘It’s just a fake. Made of wood. Gentlemen like to be photographed with it, so that they can pretend that they’re lords on a grouse moor.’

  Quick as a flash Ben goes, ‘And you’re not as sharp as you think neither, my girl! Why’d you go blabbing about that to me? Now what’s to stop me thrashing the stuffing out of you?’

  Course he don’t do no such thing, he just cuts the lucky out of there. But it bothers him for weeks that she blabbed about that gun. It’s like she was trusting him or something.

  Serve her right about the Brownie. Serve her bloody well right.

  He tells hisself he’s had a lucky escape, but he don’t know what from.

  So what’s he do? He only goes and sees them again.

  It’s Robbie’s fault, as per usual. One day in August they’re up their place in Shelton Street, and Robbie’s patching over the window with bits of card to keep out the smell of some dead cab-horse down St Giles, and Ben’s on the bed, working his way through the last of the book.

  ‘Them posh bints,’ goes Robbie. He’s been on and on about them for months; keeping tabs on them and all. ‘I heard their old man went to smash.’

  Ben don’t say nothing; he’s on the last page. Now that the war’s over, Blacky the charger’s being sent back home, and Farmer Brown’s got this special meal ready for him.

  ‘Their old man,’ goes Robbie, ‘I heard he croaked and left them stony broke.’

  ‘So?’ growls Ben.

  ‘Can we go and see them? See if they’re all right?’

  ‘Shut it, Robbie.’

  Ben’s done all right with the book, except for words with s-h in them. He’s not sure what the s and the h are supposed to do to each other.

  He’s still wondering about that when he gives in to Robbie’s badgering and they set off west for Madeleine’s place. Just to prove to hisself that she’s not his sister or a friend or nothing.

  When they get to this Wyndham Street where she lives, and he sees how nobby it is, he gives Robbie a cuff that sends him flying. ‘You said they was broke,’ he snarls.

  Broke? In a street like this? Housemaids scrubbing the steps, and a bloke with a water-cart laying the dust? And Madeleine’s house has got these big columns, and railings painted green; steps up to a porch with blue and red tiles, and glassed-in window boxes with frilly plants, and this huge window with all coloured glass: birds and a sun and a wavy blue sea.

  But her basement gate’s wide open and the kitchen door’s ajar, and Ben’s shocked, just shocked. Anybody could walk in off the street. He’ll have to have a word with her about that.

  Robbie says they got no more money for domestics, and sure enough when they nip down the steps, there’s Madeleine standing at this big gas range, all in black with her sleeves rolled up, stirring this big stewpan and frowning at the thickest book Ben’s ever seen. And Sophie’s on the table swinging her legs and chattering nineteen to the dozen. Same pinafore dress as before, but dyed black, though Ben can still see the stripes.

  The food smell makes his belly twist something awful. And that kitchen! Gaslights and an indoor tap, and piles of stewpans that’d keep a tinker happy for a year. Stony broke, my arse.

  Him and Robbie go in, and Sophie gives them this big grin like they’re long lost friends. ‘Maddy, look! It’s Ben and Robbie!’

  Madeleine shoots Ben a cool look and tells him to shut the door, and Sophie asks her sister if she can show them the morning-room. ‘There’s a stained-glass window which Maddy detests as it reminds her of Jamaica, but I think it’s stupendous, like in a church.’

  Ben’s never been in a church, so he takes her word for it.

  ‘No,’ says Madeleine over her shoulder, ‘they’re to stay down here or they’ll steal things.’

  Ben flashes a grin. ‘Now you’re learning.’

  Robbie’s gawping at Sophie, and she asks to see Dog, and they fall to chattering, or Sophie does – though she keeps darting little glances at Ben.

  He stays by the door. Says to Madeleine, ‘I heard your old man went all to smash.’

  ‘He was our cousin,’ she goes, still stirring. ‘After he died we learned that he’d been embezzling from the bank where he was a director.’ She says it matter-of-fact, like she’s not too surprised.

  Sophie pipes up. ‘Cousin Lettice is in a state of collapse, and has taken to her room.’

  ‘Cousin Lettice’, mutters Madeleine, ‘will outlive us all.’ She shuts the book with a thump, and catches him eyeing it, and twists that curvy red mouth of hers. ‘I had no idea how to cook or clean, so I thought I should learn. Lettice was horrified; she despises Mrs Beeton. Calls it “the Bible for parvenues who don’t know which fork to use”.’ She and Sophie swap one of their sister-looks that’s nearly a smile, then she tells Sophie to lay the table.

  Sophie sucks in her lips like she knows Ben’s watching, and hops to the dresser for bowls and that. Four of everything, he can’t help noticing. He gets that hot prickly feeling again, and stays by the door, so he can cut the lucky whenever he likes.

  He watches Robbie sitting at the table, and Sophie fetching a jug of milk keeping fresh in the sink, and Madeleine dishing out the soup. And all of a sudden he’s back at Sunday dinner in the old days, with Kate laying the table and yelling at him to run down the pump and sluice or I’ll tan your hide.

  His chest hurts. He’s got to get out of here. But he can’t. He watches Madeleine eating neatly like a cat, and Robbie slopping milk in his soup, and Sophie chatting for England. He never met a bint that talked as much as her. If she talked that much in Shelton Street she’d get beaten up.

  All
of a sudden she hikes her frock up to her knees and goes, ‘Look, Ben, I’ve got a bruise. I fell down the steps and banged my knee.’

  ‘Sophie . . .’ says Madeleine, but Sophie twists in her chair and peels back her black stocking to show the cleanest, smoothest knee Ben ever saw. She’s frowning and pointing to a faint pink swelling with one clean pink finger.

  ‘That’s no bruise,’ he sneers.

  ‘Yes it jolly well is,’ she flashes back, ‘and it hurts, too.’

  Crikey, he thinks. I was right about them eyebrows.

  The smell of the soup’s making him dizzy, so after a bit he sidles over and pulls up a chair where Madeleine’s set a bowl for him. It’s the best grub he’s ever had in his natural. Great big lumps of meat and onions and barley and stout.

  Robbie looks up, soup down his chin, and goes, ‘Ben clumped a geezer.’

  ‘Shut it,’ mumbles Ben.

  ‘This geezer calls me a charlie,’ goes Robbie, ‘and Ben goes I’ll get you, and the geezer laughs ’cos he’s a docker and big as a shed. But Ben waits and tips this barrel on him, and the geezer falls under a dray and the wheels go on his legs, and Ben goes, now who’s the cripple, eh?’ Robbie leans back and roars. Then he sees the bints aren’t laughing, and looks worried.

  Sophie’s staring at Ben with her big brown eyes. ‘Didn’t you get told off?’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Um. Your parents?’

  He snorts. ‘Dead and gone.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence, so are ours.’

  They go back to their soup. Then Sophie asks Robbie what their mother looked like, and he’s off.

  ‘She had red hair, like me, but Pa’s was black like Ben’s, and Pa knocked her about so she died. Then Ben took me away and Pa died too and Ben said good riddance. Ma used to send us hop-picking, that’s why Ben’s so strong, but I had to stop home on account of I was too little. And we had two whole rooms in East Street with a separate bed for the kids, and every Sunday Ben had to fetch the dinner from the bakehouse, brisket and batter pudding and spuds.’