Miss Marley: A Christmas ghost story - a prequel to A Christmas Carol

Miss Marley: A Christmas ghost story - a prequel to A Christmas Carol Rebecca Mascull Vanessa Lafaye ‘Exquisite’ Veronica HenryBefore A Christmas Carol there was… Miss MarleyA seasonal tale of kindness and goodwillOrphans Clara and Jacob Marley live by their wits, scavenging for scraps in the poorest alleyways of London, in the shadow of the workhouse. Every night, Jake promises his little sister ‘tomorrow will be better’ and when the chance to escape poverty comes their way, he seizes it despite the terrible price.And so Jacob Marley is set on a path that leads to his infamous partnership with Ebenezer Scrooge. As Jacob builds a fortress of wealth to keep the world out, only Clara can warn him of the hideous fate that awaits him if he refuses to let love and kindness into his heart…In Miss Marley, Vanessa Lafaye weaves a spellbinding Dickensian tale of ghosts, goodwill and hope – a perfect prequel to A Christmas Carol.Praise for Miss Marley:‘Exquisite’ Veronica Henry, author of The Forever House and A Family Recipe‘A beautiful, warm, rich hug of a story and bittersweet reminder to embrace life and enrich others as you go.’  Liz Fenwick‘The beauty of this book is not only in the gorgeous story, the attention to detail, the flowing prose, and the tribute to the original A Christmas Carol, but in the legacy that it is.  Just perfect.’ Louise Beech‘Miss Marley has a fable-like quality that beautifully echoes the original with a directness that is both poignant and powerful.’ Rachel Malik‘Miss Marley magically captures the true spirit of Christmas. A delightful stocking filler to melt the hardest heart.’  Martine Bailey‘A warm return to some of Dickens’ greatest characters – delivered with care, confidence and a vibrant heart, but most of all, with love.’ Jason Hewitt‘An absolute gem of a story… vivid and emotional on so many levels. It deserves to be in everyone’s Christmas stocking.’ Juliet West, author of Before the Fall‘Love, disappointment, kindness and greed all play their parts in this delightful companion piece to Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.’ Woman & Home VANESSA LAFAYE was born in Florida and studied in North Carolina. She moved to the UK in 1999 (having been deported once) and is the author of two novels, Summertime and At First Light. Her debut Summertime was chosen for the Richard and Judy Book Club in 2015 and was shortlisted for the Historical Writers Award. Vanessa passed away in February 2018. Copyright (#ulink_c618d60b-43c3-5531-9f13-435a98bbb774) An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Vanessa Lafaye 2018 Vanessa Lafaye asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008306120 Author’s Note (#ulink_e29cb357-2299-5a5f-ad95-c30d65620003) This story is one of pure invention. I have long been fascinated by Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, finding new meaning and new dimensions with every version that I have studied. However, the one character who intrigued me the most, the one on whom the whole tale seems to hang, appears in only three brief scenes: Jacob Marley. Doomed to drag his chains across the earth for all eternity, yet determined to help Scrooge avoid his fate, Marley seems to me an extremely complex character. I wondered what Marley had done to deserve his desperately severe punishment. Surely, I thought, it would take more than what he quotes to Scrooge – the fact that he neglected his fellow man and never left the counting house? Since Dickens chose to deny us any more insight into this enigmatic figure, I started to wonder about Marley’s life story, an exercise which gradually consumed my imagination. I wanted to understand the events which shaped him, which led him to be the man he is as Scrooge’s partner – and then to regret this so bitterly that he returns from the grave to put things right. I have invented a sister, Clara Belle Marley, to give us the answers to these questions. I confess that the idea of inhabiting Marley himself felt too much like trespassing. Through the eyes of Clara, a character purely of my own creation, I can tell my invented story freely. That said, I was so conscious of the love and reverence felt for the original, that it was almost impossible not to be paralysed by self-consciousness as I wrote this. I hope that other devotees of A Christmas Carol, and Dickens’ work in general, will grant me license to explore Marley and his unseen, yet pivotal, role in this classic tale. Vanessa Lafaye, February 2018 Contents Cover (#ulink_30318620-940f-5fe7-b33b-b2e21b2c5a46) About the Author (#u1ffe39da-27fa-5478-9058-1fdc4edd000a) Title Page (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#ulink_9c73de1e-6963-537d-99a9-e61b8d6e50c8) Author’s Note (#ulink_f60ad30c-9a70-51a3-b65c-8d6692fd9b76) PART I: The Beginning (#ulink_ccf25596-a5f7-5f8c-bc61-e28365609bad) Chapter 1 (#ulink_42e3464b-b0b6-564a-b500-5a8369984b88) Chapter 2 (#ulink_b1389bec-f99e-5145-ba54-1f40a67747f9) Chapter 3 (#ulink_86bc4f67-2be8-5827-a47a-c62e8654ffd6) PART II: The Middle (#ulink_2f325e73-50cc-5935-a36d-7dc8ec3e0e90) Chapter 4 (#ulink_884a670a-41ee-53ca-abba-5856f24249de) Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) PART III: The End (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Afterword (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PART I: THE BEGINNING (#ulink_2c7a9c93-99ea-50fc-8b86-b60d167326d2) Chapter 1 (#ulink_70f9d568-553d-5fa6-95df-89221b708ae6) Clara Belle Marley jostled among the other children for a spot in front of Mr Quoit’s toy shop window. The small boy with the crutch was the only one to whom she gave quarter. The rest got sharp elbows and a hard stare. Her ankles were sunk in melting snow, and she had wet snowflakes on her shoulders, but she did not care. For a few spare moments, this was her place of escape. Her eyes swept over the painted boats, the toy soldiers, the porcelain-faced dolls with their unblinking stares, the rocking horse with real leather reins, the spinners and hooters and trumpets. For pride of place was taken by a doll’s house. But not just any doll’s house. With its blue slate roof, white rendered walls, and red front door, it was the image in miniature of all they had lost. Hampstead House had been a happy, comfortable home, which the doll’s house replicated in every detail. The furnishings were sumptuous, just as Mama loved, with swagged and tasselled curtains, and colourful rugs on the floor. It caused her special pain to see the figures of two adults, plus a boy and girl child, seated at a wooden table with a tiny, delicate tea set. It was at this time of the afternoon that they always took tea, served by Dorothy. That was before. She forced herself to study every detail, not to look away even when the sadness threatened to overwhelm her, all the while surrounded by the excited gabbling of the other children. The golden light spilling from the window gave their upturned faces a glow, smoothing away pallor, dirt, and bruises. Several were street children like her and Jake, but some still had families, judging from the scarves tightly wound around little necks, and carefully mended jackets. More than anything, Clara wanted to be part of a family again. Jake pushed his way through the crowd to her side to pull roughly at her sleeve. ‘Come on, Clara! There’ll be none left if we don’t hurry!’ Every Friday afternoon, the butcher threw scraps from his back door to the hungry street children, but all the best morsels went to bigger boys and vicious stray dogs. Clara reminded herself again, as the snow sloshed into her thin shoes, of the before time. There had been spiced punch and sugared chestnuts, roast turkey and gravy, berry-studded garlands sparkling with baubles, and Mother and Father beaming as they opened their presents. Every window blazed with light and warmth. She muttered the words under her breath like a rosary. It wasn’t always like this. In the butcher’s yard, a bigger boy, a map of scars across his face, pushed her to the ground, but Jake was there. With one punch, the other boy went down and Jake howled in triumph, prize clutched in his fist: a pig’s trotter, only partially gnawed by a dog. She recognised the other boy from the workhouse but didn’t know his name. The workhouse, so dreaded before they passed through its huge iron gates, seemed like a dream now. ‘Let’s go.’ Jake steered her away from the growling dogs. ‘There’s nothing left worth fighting for here.’ She blew on her frozen fingers. Indeed, between the children and the dogs, the butcher’s yard was spotless. The man himself stood in a rectangle of golden light at the back door in his bloodied apron on this dark winter’s afternoon, sharpening a cleaver, watching the drama unfold but never interfering. His wife had more of a kind spirit. Sometimes she ladled out some leftover broth, when her husband wasn’t there to see, the steam sticking her coarse grey curls to her face. Around the corner of the next alley, in their special spot behind the draper’s, they stopped to survey their haul. In addition to the pig’s foot, they had some turnip tops, a half-rotten potato, and some cabbage leaves with only a little mould. Jake dumped it all into their pot – just a metal tin with no handle – and went in search of water. Among the ordure of the alley, Clara shuffled for paper and sticks to make a fire, already imagining its warmth in her bony fingers. She pulled the shreds of her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stamped her numb feet. Jake returned just as the twigs caught the flame. He held the pot above the fire until it started to bubble, scratching his lice bites with the other hand, his eyes alight with hunger that she knew was mirrored in her own. Hunger was their constant companion, sharing every moment of every day, like one of the mange-ridden dogs which shadowed their steps. It was there to greet them at sunrise, there all during the long day as they searched for food, until they curled up together against the cold, damp wall in their corner, stomachs growling with emptiness. In the fire’s glow, Jake’s face, once so smooth and boyish, was all sharp angles and harsh lines. And this at only twelve years old. The smell of pork and vegetables tickled her nose and she became fearful, lest someone be attracted to the odour and steal their hard-won meal. There were other street children to be wary of, sometimes more dangerous than adults. They would snatch even the smallest morsel from between one’s teeth, or yank the bread from your fingers. So she and Jake huddled together over the pot, shoving the food into their mouths as fast as the heat allowed. A shuffling sound alerted her to the presence of Martha, one of the Crawlers. They were no threat. Too weak even to beg, too weak to do anything more than crawl along the ground, they were the lowest of the low. Martha acknowledged Clara with a nod, and crawled off into the shadows. Food safely in their bellies, she leaned against Jake, where he rested against the crusty wall. His arm went around her shoulders and he kissed the top of her head. ‘A plum pudding now, I reckon,’ he said, already drifting off to sleep. The fire’s glow warmed her feet. It would soon go out, and they would have only each other for warmth through the long night. Fire attracted attention, which was never welcome. ‘Mother’s plum pudding,’ she said, mouth watering again at the memory of crystallised fruits, steamed puddings and custard – a huge jug of which only the beefy arms of the cook, Dorothy, could handle. And then she was back there again, in the tall white house on Hampstead Street. It seemed to be as far away as India, not just across the Thames from them, but it might as well have been on the moon; the heartless moon whose cold, silver light trickled down between the rooftops. A clear night, with no cloud, would be a cold night. She snuggled in closer to Jake, his bony ribs against hers. ‘And Father will make a toast and light the brandy,’ he said, ‘and we will sing, God Rest Ye—’ Clara took up the tune in her high, breathy voice, ‘Let nothing you dismay.’ But then a coughing fit took her, which ended with tears. ‘Clara Belle,’ Jake pulled her closer. ‘Don’t cry, my Clara Belle. Tomorrow will be better.’ It was what he said every night. ‘We’ll find a way to get you some medicine.’ ‘But how? With no money?’ The coughing wracked her until she was limp. ‘I will find a way,’ he said. ‘Make me the promise,’ she sniffed. And so he said the words he had said every night for the past nine months, since they were forced to leave Hampstead Street for the workhouse. ‘I promise that we will have a good life again. And I will always keep you safe. And those who have wronged us will live to regret it.’ This last was an addition to the promise, and she turned her face up to his. ‘Uncle Robert?’ Jake nodded. ‘And others.’ She shivered as she recalled the day, the wretched day, when Uncle Robert visited them in Hampstead Street, the house all decked in black crepe. He had always seemed so amiable, but now he eyed up the furnishings, and Mother and Father’s treasured possessions, with the critical look of a professional auctioneer. ‘Of course, you understand,’ he had said, in a much more businesslike tone than she remembered, ‘you cannot remain here. Tragic as it is to lose both parents, you are still too young and, unfortunately, my brother’s only legacy to you is his debts.’ Dorothy hovered in the doorway, red-nosed from crying, twisting a dishcloth. ‘I could look after ’em here, Master Marley. They’re like my own—’ ‘Impossible,’ pronounced Uncle Robert. ‘As I said, my brother has not left the means to sustain this,’ and here his eyes roved over Mother’s pale blue silk curtains with the silver tassels, ‘lifestyle. This house must be sold to recoup some of the shortfall.’ ‘Well, where shall the mites go to live, beggin’ your pardon, sir? And who shall look after them?’ Here Uncle Robert narrowed his eyes. ‘Dorothy, I was expecting some tea.’ ‘Right away, Master Marley.’ Dorothy scuttled back to the kitchen, wiping her eyes with the dishcloth. Uncle Robert stroked the damask upholstery which matched the curtains. Clara had been with Mama when she chose it, just after they moved in. The same colour as her eyes, the clear, liquid blue of a winter sky. She recalled Mother’s delight at the way the material danced in the sunlight which poured through the large bay window. That was only six months before the pox took her. Six months of undiluted joy was what Clara had to remember, what she clung to now, in the freezing filth of the alley. After Mother’s death, things changed with the dizzying speed of a carnival ride. The Inspector of Nuisances arrived the next day to inform them that the pox rendered their house uninhabitable until it had been cleansed top to bottom with sulphur, along with all their possessions. The public disinfectors would arrive in the morning, he said, and the Marleys would need to vacate the premises until they had completed their task. Red-eyed with shock and grief, Father had simply nodded and said, ‘Of course. Of course, at once.’ Uncle Robert had been so kind then, taking them all in to his more modest house, sitting up late every night with Father. They all simply existed in a frozen cocoon of grief. Father’s answer to everything, without question or reflection, was, ‘Of course, at once.’ So when Uncle Robert proposed some business investments, as a way for Father to get back on his feet, his reply was the same. Clara did not understand the nature of these investments, but it wasn’t long before loud arguments could be heard between Father and Uncle Robert, emanating from behind Robert’s study door. They were back living in the sulphurous house on Hampden Street, minus many of the furnishings which Uncle Robert had kindly sold for them, when a police constable arrived one day, asking for Father. Dorothy explained that he was at work, but the constable informed them that he had not been at his place of business for almost a month. It appeared that the constable’s duty was to take Father to the Coldbath Fields Prison, where he was to be incarcerated as a debtor. The constable returned later that day, demeanour entirely changed, clenching his cap in his hands. When Dorothy answered the door, he said, ‘I’m very sorry to tell you that we have located a … person whom we believe to be Mr Edmund Marley.’ And he produced Father’s top hat, stained with river mud. Dorothy fainted right there on the brass doorstep that she polished every day. It seemed that he had drowned somewhere near Putney Bridge. Some mudlarks, out early to meet the low tide, had found him. What made Clara cry longest and hardest was the image of him, flailing in the foamy brown water, still wearing that hat. He was never without that hat. She had to think of him falling, not jumping. The inquest, perhaps out of kindness to his two white-faced orphans, returned an open verdict. She sniffled again now, and felt Jake stroke her hair. She sought the comfort of the dream, as she did every night. In her old bed, in the room with the white lilac wallpaper, Mother is sitting beside her on the counterpane, stroking her hair, humming a tuneless lullaby. The pillow is soft under her head, a copper bed-warmer toasty on the sheet by her feet. She is content. Safe and content. A commotion around a bend in the alley shattered her into wakefulness. Jake was already on his feet, running towards the direction of the sound, blade in hand. When she caught up to him, panting and blurry with sleep, Jake was standing over the man slumped against the wall. The red of the blood splashing onto the white cravat at his neck matched his garnet waistcoat and britches. In the flickering lamplight from the street, he reached out a hand. ‘Help me,’ he gurgled. Hand to her throat, she exclaimed in horror, ‘Jake, what did you do?’ ‘Quiet. I did nothing, I found him like this. Those who done it are gone, I saw them scarper, that way.’ His blade was clean but his eyes were wild. She knelt beside the man, whose plump cheeks were already losing their ruddy sheen. Blood pumped steadily from the wound in his neck. There had been a series of garrottings in the neighbourhood. A special police squad had even been formed to try to deal with them. ‘Help me,’ the man repeated, a bloodied hand on her arm. His eyes, unseeing, swept her face. ‘We need to sound the alarm!’ she said. There was so much blood, but not enough light to see where it was coming from. It pooled at her feet, glossy black. Jake knelt beside her and shook the man’s shoulder. ‘What’ll you give us?’ ‘They took—’ gasped the man. ‘They took my purse. Please, I—’ Pity vied with disgust in Clara’s mind. He was as fat as a Christmas turkey, his bulging waistcoat stained with gravy and port. His rattling breath was rich with it. He was obviously on his way home after a fine dinner when he was attacked. The taste of pig’s foot and rotten vegetables rose in her throat. ‘You have another one, don’t cha?’ said Jake. ‘Quick now, give it to me, and help is on the way. Come on, not much time left.’ The man scrabbled vaguely at his crotch. Clara scuttled backwards, but Jake undid the man’s belt and fished around in his underclothes until his hand emerged clutching a purse. Butter-yellow leather, it bulged with coins which clinked softly. ‘Ha!’ Jake kept his voice low, eyes flitting in all directions. ‘I knew it. Let’s go.’ And he pulled Clara roughly to her feet. ‘But what about—?’ ‘Nothing to be done for him’ Jake said, with a wave of his hand. ‘He is a goner. And besides,’ he said, as he pulled her along, ‘he’d have stepped over our dead bodies to get to his carriage.’ The man made a gurgling sound, and Clara turned her back. So began their new life. Chapter 2 (#ulink_9364d315-5368-5cbc-9625-5f70415756b5) Their first room was hardly more than a cupboard. It smelled of damp, and the winter gales sent icy fingers to rattle the window frame, but there was a small coal fire and a bed. Clara had her first wash in nine months from the cracked jug on its stand in the corner, and felt like a princess. The landlady, a Scot called Mrs Clayburn, clearly had grave reservations about even allowing them over the threshold, but when Jake held out a palm full of coins, she had a change of heart, muttering, ‘I’m a martyr to my charitable nature.’ She reminded Clara of a pigeon; totally grey, from her unwashed bonnet to her puffy bosom and down to her dingy slippers, glittering black eyes like shards of flint. After a room and a wash, their next mission was a meal. They found a pub nearby, the Ox and Plough, where they made a similar impression on the landlord. Only when Jake produced more coins were they allowed entry. There they had stringy beef and vegetables boiled to mush and they mopped every drop of gravy from the plates with hunks of stale bread, washed down with mugs of bitter ale. The other diners, huddled over their food in the smoky gloom, paid them no mind at all. Tucked up in bed that night, stomach complaining at the unaccustomed bounty instead of cramped with emptiness, Clara didn’t notice the coarseness of the sheets or the suspicious stains on the pillows, or feel the rough floorboards against her feet. They had a home again, a roof and four walls. With an address, they could get work. ‘Tomorrow will be better,’ murmured Jake with a satisfied belch, teetering on the edge of sleep. Clara tried to stifle the cough, so as not to disturb him, but it overcame her in waves that left her gasping. He held her close. ‘And we shall get you something for that.’ In the morning, after a breakfast of tea with milk, and bread with butter (butter!), they joined the thronging streets. The crisp winter air smelled of roasting chestnuts, horse manure, coal smoke and holly. The sharp scent of pine rose from the bowers that decked every corner. Blurred sunlight was making some headway against the choking fog which had lain across the city for days. A biting wind blew a few wisps of snow which caught in Clara’s eyelashes. She pulled the shawl tighter around her neck. Jake shouldered his way through the hawkers and vendors, the coffee merchants and flower-sellers, the boot-blacks and card tricksters to the street doctor with his tray of wares. They waited for an old woman to leave with her paper parcel, then Jake asked, ‘How much for the cough drops?’ The street doctor eyed him and Clara with interest. ‘Depends on what type of cough you got: dry or wet, chesty or wheezy, bloody or not.’ At that, Clara erupted in a spasm which had her clutching at Jake’s arm. ‘Dry and chesty,’ pronounced the doctor, ‘that’ll be a shilling.’ He extracted some lozenges from his tray and wrapped them in a twist of paper. Clara’s eyes widened at the price. The poorest, who couldn’t afford proper doctors, sought the street doctors’ remedies. But this was not cheap. ‘What’s in ’em?’ asked Jake. ‘Mouse foot, herring bone, some parsley and rose water.’ He showed his teeth to Clara. Then he guffawed at Jake’s expression. ‘Don’t be alarmed, my boy. I can’t be giving away my secret formula, now can I?’ He clapped his shoulder with a wink. ‘And this works?’ ‘Yes, my boy, never had any complaints, now if you don’t mind—’ His eyes focused on an old man with a giant boil on his nose. Jake moved off, muttering, ‘Never had any complaints because they’re all dead.’ Clara tugged at his sleeve. Around the corner, she popped one of the lozenges into her mouth. It was revolting, like mint-flavoured tar, and she almost spat it out, but it had been so costly that she persevered. She felt a slow warming in her chest, a gentle easing of her lungs. ‘If you’re ready,’ said Jake, ‘we’ll now find work.’ Clara took his hand. Jake always had a plan. He was so determined that they would regain a good life that she thought he might bring it about through the sheer power of his will. In the end, it took a week for them both to find situations, neither of which were ideal. But it was a start. Clara was helping out on a second-hand clothes stall, where she was at least able to replace her rags. It meant standing on her feet all day, trying to entice the passers-by, who mostly wanted to sell rather than acquire. Mrs Turner, who recognised Clara’s commercial potential, dressed her hair in ribbons, and costumed her in the best wares to attract customers. It almost made Clara feel like a lady again. Jake had started on a fish stall, gutting and skinning all day. He reeked of it when he returned, stumbling with exhaustion. ‘Tomorrow will be better,’ he would gasp, before collapsing in their only chair. At the end of their first month, they sat on the bed in the glow of the candle, counting their earnings. The fire belched smoke with each gust of wind that shook the panes, but thanks to the street doctor’s remedy and the relative warmth of the room, Clara’s cough was now just a slight wheeze. Jake kept all their coins in the yellow leather purse, tied around his neck. It never left his person, not even while he slept. Now it was open on the bed, coppers and even a few gold coins gleaming in the light. He pushed his hands through the pile with a giggle of pure boyish delight which softened the hard line of his jaw, and then returned it to the purse and tucked it into his shirt. ‘This is our future. We shall never, ever be poor again. You have my promise.’ That night, as Clara dozed against Jake’s shoulder, it was the first time that a new life felt within her reach. Although she had never doubted Jake when he said things would get better, it had been such a long time since Hampstead Street, and Mother and Father and Dorothy, that it had started to take on the dimensions of a dream, indistinct and unreal. She wondered what Uncle Robert would make of them, if he could see them now. He would pass them by on the street without recognition, she was sure of it. So quick was he to wash his hands of them, it had seemed mere days between Father’s funeral and Uncle Robert leading them through the workhouse gates. After the first month there, hands bleeding from the carbolic of the laundry room, stomachs griping from the terrible food, feet frozen when bigger children stole their shoes, Jake determined that anything else would be preferable. He watched, and waited, and noticed that the driver of the milk wagon sometimes neglected to shut the gates properly when he made his dawn delivery. They slipped out one frosty spring morning, with nowhere to go. It was frightening to flee across the crunchy grass, hand in hand, but also exhilarating after the past month of unceasing labour and casual beatings from the staff and other children. The trees were budding, and warmer weather was on the way, but it was still a shock, an enormous shock, to huddle under railway arches and in stinking alleys. As Jake said every night, when Clara cried and her cough became worse and worse, ‘At least we are free. And things will get better. I promise you, I will find a way.’ His words were her anchor, the only safe thing in the storm around them. Clara heard the noise first. The room was in darkness, but the thin curtains allowed a seam of moonlight to spill across the bed. Jake was breathing softly beside her alongside the window. At first she thought it was another rat. Some of them were as big as terriers. But then a shadow blocked the moonlight and whoever it was began patting all over Jake’s person. ‘Wha—?’ He woke with a gasp. ‘Where is it?’ said a Scottish voice. ‘I know it’s here somewhere. I’ve looked everywhere else. Give it up, my boy.’ With a cluck of triumph, Mrs Clayburn snipped the purse from Jake’s neck and turned to the window to inspect her prize. ‘Now where’d a couple of snipes like you be gettin’ a sum like this? Not cleanin’ fish, I’ll wager.’ Jake went to snatch it from her, but for a large woman she was surprisingly quick. ‘Give it back!’ he shouted, and made a lunge, which left him tumbled on the floor. ‘You thief! I’ll call the police!’ ‘Police, you say?’ She turned to him, silhouetted against the curtains. ‘Would you not think they’d be interested in finding the rightful owner of this fine purse, hmm? No, my boy,’ she said with a satisfied sigh, and tucked the purse into her bodice, ‘I’ll keep it safe. Be grateful it was me. A couple like you, spending money the way you have around here, attracts all the wrong sort. Could have had your pretty throat cut.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘You have until breakfast to get out.’ And with that, she was gone. Clara was too shocked even to cry. Jake just stared at the window and the distant, uncaring moon. They were back on the street again. With no address, they could not work. She would end up like Martha, crawling among the beggars, hoping for a few tea leaves. But when Jake turned to her, his expression was not one of rage or grief, but of granite-hard determination. ‘What is it?’ Clara managed to whisper, afraid of the answer. He rummaged in the front of his britches for a moment and she turned away. ‘Look,’ he said, and extracted another purse, much smaller than the yellow leather one but still healthily plump. ‘I have learned that a canny gentleman will always carry two.’ She covered her mouth to stifle the shout of glee. They could get another room … somewhere with a lock on the door. ‘I can go back to the fish market,’ he said, ‘and you to the clothes stall, but only for a short while. We will earn enough to get a better room, and then we will find better situations for both of us. It will take some time, but we will be back where we belong. Eventually.’ Clara considered this vision of the future. She would be an old maid by the time they became respectable. She thought back to Hampstead Street, and all they had taken for granted there. She thought of the prosperous visitors, and the dinners filled with laughter and wine and candlelight. And she thought, There must be a better way. ‘Jake,’ she said, ‘back home, who were the richest of Father’s friends?’ ‘Why, the bankers, of course,’ he said, leaning back, hands behind his head. ‘Well, why should we not follow their example?’ He sat forward, eyes sharp. ‘What do you mean? We cannot set up a bank.’ ‘No, we cannot. But we know plenty of people who need to borrow money, whom the banks will not serve, whom even the Jews will not serve, because they are too poor.’ ‘Money-lending?’ he said, with a grimace. ‘You suggest we lend money? To poor people? They’ll never be able to pay it back!’ ‘We’ll lend to people like us, working people, who just need a hand. You and I could repay a small loan, if the interest were low enough. Is it not worth some consideration?’ He was leaning back again, staring at the ceiling. She could almost hear the gears in his mind working. All he said was, ‘Hmm, I shall sleep on it.’ She took her place beside him, tingling with a hopeful trepidation. Chapter 3 (#ulink_226516b3-0365-5372-b72e-e6e1ab7ff0bd) ‘Housewives, who’d have thought it?’ Two months later, and Jake was counting their takings for the day. True enough, and contrary to what Clara had expected, almost all of their customers were women, desperate for housekeeping money. The condition was that they leave an item of value – a pocket watch, a locket, a silver comb – returned when they repaid the loan. Their new room on Shelby Street (complete with lock on the door) was becoming cluttered with the collateral, and their landlord, Mr Teckman, had already decreed that they must find a place of business or vacate the room. Given the nature of their clientele, it made most sense for Clara to front the operation, with Jake keeping the books. At first, people couldn’t believe that such young people were able to run a business, and they had a few unfriendly exchanges with the established competition. They were robbed twice, but then hired protection in the form of Max, a former boxer, and were left in peace. ‘Mrs Ketteridge is late. Their loan was due last week,’ said Jake with a yawn, tired eyes blinking at the ledger. He still put in a full day’s work on the fish stall. ‘She needs a visit.’ ‘Oh, Jake, but it’s nearly Christmas.’ She put aside the sock that she was darning. Both of them wore socks that were more hole than sock and their feet were always freezing. Clara’s idea of paradise was warm feet. The fire sputtered but she daren’t put on more coal until morning. ‘Can’t we leave her until New Year? Her baby is ill and—’ Jake looked up sharply and put aside his quill. ‘Christmas? Do we get a day off? No, we do not. Then why should our customers get to make merry at our expense? We lent them the money in good faith. The least they can do is repay us in kind. And on time.’ He shut the ledger and rubbed his eyes, smearing his cheek with ink. ‘You mustn’t get involved with them and their problems. Mark me, they will drag you down.’ It gave him the look of a small boy again, and she smudged the ink away with her handkerchief. But he was becoming a man. A businessman, and a good one. All his energy, body and soul, was devoted to the goal of bettering themselves. He was doing it for her, for both of them, so they would never be hungry or cold again. She knew that and appreciated how hard it was. But still, there were times when it seemed that his heart had turned to copper. This is temporary. The struggle is so hard. When things get easier, he’ll turn back into the warm, caring individual than I know so well. I am sure of it. ‘I will visit her tomorrow. Now sleep, brother.’ ‘Max will go with you. It’s not safe on your own.’ Clara set off in heavy rain the next morning with the hulking, snuffling figure of Max by her side. As wide as he was tall, he cleared a path for her through the crowds. The snow had turned to dirty slush, which splashed her legs every time a carriage drove past. A sandwich board man passed her, advertising soap. Their steps turned off into the cramped, filthy alleys of the slums. Here were no fine carriages, no hawkers of sweets; just the smell of sewage and cabbage, the flutter of dingy washing overhead, and the sound of crying babies. Clara didn’t dare share with Jake that she not only was involved with their customers’ problems, but she knew them intimately. Mrs Gilvin had terrible gout that forced her to give up work as a flower-seller, with six mouths to feed, including a perpetually drunken husband. Mrs Bainbridge’s husband had worked on one of the river barges. He drowned one night when he was drunk, after running up debts with a very nasty money-lender known for smashing the kneecaps of his delinquent clients. Mrs Lee had had three children in four years, all of whom developed the whooping cough, yet she had no money for the doctor. And then there was Mrs Ketteridge. Three of her four children had died of malnutrition, and it looked like the last one was going the same way. Her house had been flooded again by the annual Thames overflow. They had nowhere else to go, so were living in the damp, mouldy remains of the house. Clara had not told Jake that Mrs Ketteridge had left no item of collateral for her loan. Clara stepped over an open sewer, the corner of her shawl over her nose, to arrive at her door during a welcome break in the downpour. ‘Wait outside,’ she instructed Max. Mrs Ketteridge – Lila – was sweeping the floor, with her baby, Elsie, swaddled in a dirty blanket in her arm. The walls of the house were stained to a height of two feet from the flooding. When she saw Clara, her lined face went the colour of Elsie’s blanket. She leaned the broom against the wall, just as it started to rain again. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said. The smell of river mud and decay was overwhelming. Little light penetrated the filmy windows, whose frames were all stuffed with wads of paper. The sputtering fire in the corner created more steam than heat. A rapid series of sneezes emanated from Elsie’s blanket. ‘There, little one,’ cooed Lila. ‘That’s better, ain’t it?’ ‘How are things, Lila?’ Clara asked, dreading the answer. ‘Has Dick managed to find work?’ Lila’s husband had been nearly blinded in a foundry accident six months previously. Since then, he had struggled to stay with anything for long. ‘There’s word of needing vegetable porters in the market.’ These sturdy fellows carried heavy baskets of produce on their heads. It was hard to imagine little Dick Ketteridge managing one of those, but he was game for anything. This was why, despite the lack of collateral, Clara had agreed the loan. Dick and Lila were fighters. Despite the awful hand they had been dealt, they were not giving up. Dick was sober. Lila did the best she could to make a home. They deserved a break. And here she was, about to pull the rug from under them. This could so easily have been me and Jake. Had we not found that dying man in the alley that night, everything could have been different. Money changes all. And we will never be without it again. ‘You know why I am here …’ she began, making a determined effort to be the businesswoman Jake needed her to be. Dick came in then, feeling his way around the familiar contours of the room. ‘Lila,’ he said, ‘do we have a visitor?’ ‘It’s Clara Marley,’ she said without emotion, ‘come about the loan.’ Elsie started to sneeze again. ‘Lila tells me there might be work for you in the market,’ said Clara, trying to find some shred of hope to discuss. ‘Aye,’ he said with a sigh, resting beside the fire. ‘I reckon so. Pass me the wee one, Lila, let me warm her.’ And he took Elsie in his arms. ‘Should be able to pay you back in full next week.’ ‘Next week?’ ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I reckon so. With a bit of luck. How’s my lucky girl?’ He kissed Elsie’s forehead. Clara did a rapid calculation of the extra interest they would need to charge for that week. And what Jake would say about the delay. ‘You know, the loan came due last week. There will be more interest to pay.’ She kneaded her cold fingers. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just business.’ Lila looked helplessly from her to Dick. ‘You’ll have it all next week,’ said Dick, raising his filmy eyes. ‘Dick Ketteridge pays his debts. I’m asking you to believe me, which I know isn’t how things work in your business. I’m asking you to trust me. Can you do that? For another week?’ Max poked his head in the door with an enquiring glance but Clara shook her head and he withdrew. Dick wasn’t begging, and he wasn’t pleading. He was making a statement of fact. Clara found herself completely undone by his simple dignity in such awful circumstances. Whatever work he got, she knew, the money would go towards paying back the loan, rather than on food for Elsie, now asleep in her father’s arms. She felt like a slug at the bottom of a drain. She and Jake were better off in comparison, but they had nothing to spare these people. Jake had warned her not to get involved, and now she understood why. Her heart was breaking, just when she needed to harden it. ‘Next week, then.’ She rose and fled out into the rain, Max scurrying on his short legs to keep up. How on earth will I tell Jake? she wondered. His reaction was utterly predictable. ‘You agreed what?’ Tired, his feet aching, and stinking of fish, he slumped down beside the fire and glared at Clara. She poured him a cup of stewed tea, without milk. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re right, but—’ ‘I am right. You are putting us at risk with your sentimentality. We are not running a charity for destitute women. The sooner you realise that, the better. Or we will find ourselves right back in the gutter.’ She had never heard such coldness in his voice before. ‘Yes, Jacob.’ She rarely used his full name, but he suddenly seemed much older. By the candlelight, she had a vision of how he would look in middle age. Unsettled and close to tears, she said, ‘What shall we do?’ ‘We shall collect the payment in full next week and never lend to them again. That is a new rule. No one ever gave us a second chance, and we shall give none to others. Everyone knows where they stand. That’s good business.’ ‘But, Jacob, what about kindness? Shouldn’t we care about what happens to others worse off than ourselves? What about … humanity?’ Her words sounded silly and empty, when they were in a struggle for sheer survival. Maybe such things were luxuries, to be afforded only when one had a full belly, clean sheets, and warm feet. Her own were wet and freezing. She pushed them closer to the fire, but it was giving out more light than heat. ‘I ask you, when did anyone ever show that to us? We would have died in that workhouse, like so many others, and no one would have shed one tear. You see those fine ladies and gentlemen hold their noses and step over the starving. What about the kindness and humanity for two orphaned children? No, Clara. Your feeling is misplaced. Everyone in this world looks after themselves, and none other. That is what it takes to survive. And I mean for us to survive.’ ‘But,’ she said, worn down by the weight of his arguments, ‘what about at Christmas time? Is that not a special time, when people come together to share what they have? The one time of the year when we can care for others, whatever our own struggles … and whatever our wounds from the past?’ He said nothing for a moment, but if anything, his face grew even harder. ‘Christmas. Don’t talk to me about Christmas. Religious nonsense dressed up in sentiment. Humbug, I say. Pure humbug.’ PART II: THE MIDDLE (#ulink_6dabd3a4-4e55-568b-9707-2a5eb58f3045) Chapter 4 (#ulink_3b19c1d4-0f49-5f7f-a0c9-d81bdc8ff7e0) Clara stood in the street and eyed her handiwork with satisfaction. The window of Mr Quoit’s toy shop glowed. There was barely any space between the jumble of carved boats, the bucket of tin whistles and the stand of wooden swords, yet all gave way to the magnificence of the doll’s house which took centre stage in the display. Now that she handled the window displays, Clara could indulge her study of the doll’s house, the same as before. Now, instead of a blinding pain, the sight of it produced a dull, persistent ache in her heart. Despite the hefty price tag, it had sold many times over, and Mr Quoit always ensured that the carpenter provided a new one in time for Christmas every year. Her dream was to own it one day. There were moments when she wished that some genie would shrink her to mouse size, so she could live in it with Mama and Papa again – and Jacob, of course. He was so busy these days, having taken over the running of the lending business from her, that they only saw each other at breakfast. It was their hectic time of year. As Christmas approached, many of their debtors spent too much – mostly on drink – and worked too little, recovering from it. Jacob worked even harder as the holiday drew near. She worried for him, as he often took dinner at the Lion’s Head and then carried on working into the night. He was so thin, compared to the solid little boy he had been. She felt it was time to give up the lending business. The competition had become more intense recently. Even with protection, they could expect to be threatened and even robbed on a regular basis. And she could no longer stomach the visits to customers, taking money from those less well off than themselves. Jacob would say, ‘The reason they’re less well off is that they’re not willing to do the things necessary to get on in this world.’ Although she knew he was right, she sensed that he was ready to move on too. There was a new weariness in his gait, a stoop in his shoulders from hours spent over the ledgers. Now that they could afford two rooms, at a better address just above the toy shop, more things became possible. They had come so far in only a matter of years; their time as beggars was like a terrible nightmare, and the time before that – at their childhood home – like a beautiful dream. Now she was a working woman, both times seemed as insubstantial to Clara as a will-o’-the-wisp. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/rebecca-mascull/miss-marley-a-christmas-ghost-story-a-prequel-to-a-christm/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.