The Mistletoe Seller

The narrow courts and alleys were unlit, but in the distance she could see a pool of light. Emerging from the darkness was like entering heaven – she could hear voices and the scent of fruit and flowers filled the air. Her feet barely seemed to touch the cobbled streets as she ran towards this oasis in the darkness of the wicked city. She came to a halt in a square where wagons were being unloaded by porters, who balanced baskets filled with produce on their heads. They added one on top of the other until their burdens reached improbable heights, but somehow they managed to deliver the fruit and vegetables to the stall owners without dropping a single apple. Angel watched, fascinated and excited by the bustling activity. She might have been invisible, for all the notice anyone took of her, and that was oddly comforting after the terrifying moments in Clare Market. Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, she made her way between the carts and barrows to the far side of the square and comparative safety beneath the portico of St Paul’s Church. She huddled in a corner and fell asleep.

She awakened to bright sunshine and a cacophony of noise. Cart wheels rumbled over the cobblestones and the clip-clop of heavy horses’ hoofs echoed off the surrounding buildings. The shouts of the traders bargaining for fruit and vegetables vied with the cries of the flower girls and the raucous laughter and chatter of the porters.

‘What are you doing here? This ain’t no place for the likes of you.’

Angel shielded her eyes from the sunlight and found herself looking up at an older girl with a freckled face and a mop of carroty curls escaping from a straw bonnet. ‘Who are you?’

‘I asked first. You ain’t one of us, so what d’you think you’re doing taking my pitch?’

Angel scrambled to her feet. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What place is this?’

‘Are you a bit of a simpleton? This here is Covent Garden Market. Where have you been all your life?’

Angel eyed her warily. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Hoity-toity, ain’t yer? And you wearing duds what must have cost a pretty penny. Come on then, tell us who you are and what you’re doing here.’

‘To tell you the truth I’m lost. My name is Angel Winter and I ran away from the workhouse last night.’

‘You was in the workhouse?’

‘Only for a few hours. I told you, I ran away. I wasn’t going to stay in a place like that. Mr Galloway left me there, but he was supposed to take me to a family in Essex. I have to get to Maddox Street and tell my aunt what he did. She thinks he’s a nice man, but he isn’t. He’s bad and he’s cruel, and I worry about Aunt Cordelia.’ Angel’s voice broke on a sob and she turned her head away. She didn’t want this strange creature to see her cry.

‘Seems to me you’ve had a run of bad luck, nipper.’ The girl laid her hand on Angel’s shoulder. ‘I’m Dolly Chapman and I sell flowers, when I can get hold of ’em.’

Angel looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Flowers cost money, stupid. I have to sell buttonholes and such to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I ain’t got no money to pay them hawkers what they ask.’

Dolly’s snub-nosed face seemed to fade away and Angel closed her eyes.

‘Here, don’t pass out on me, nipper.’ Dolly gave her a shake. ‘You don’t look too good. Are you hungry?’

‘I think so. My tummy hurts.’

‘You’re a baby,’ Dolly said scornfully. ‘Sit there and I’ll see what I can do. I’m a bit peckish meself, as it happens.’ She sashayed off in the direction of a coffee stall and returned minutes later carrying a steaming mug and two bread rolls. She handed one to Angel. ‘Get that down yer and you can share my coffee.’

‘I’m not allowed coffee,’ Angel said before she could stop herself.

‘Hark at you, miss. I dunno where you come from, but it weren’t from round here. You’ll put up with coffee or you’ll have to go and find a horse trough and drink the water them big brutes have slobbered in.’

Angel swallowed a mouthful of buttered roll. ‘I’m sorry. I’d be grateful for a sip of your coffee, please, Dolly.’

Dolly handed her the mug. ‘I dunno how a young lady like you ended up in the workhouse, but it’ll make a good tale to tell the others of a night when we’re warming ourselves round the watchman’s brazier.’

‘Are there more of you?’

‘Lord love you, my duck. You might have dropped out of the sky like a real angel, for all I knows. Eat your grub and I’ll show you how to snatch some blooms, but you’ll have to look out for yourself. Them as come from east of Clare Market are the ones to watch – spiteful little cats, all of ’em. They’d do their own mothers down to pay for a tot of blue ruin.’

‘Blue ruin?’

‘Gin, my duck. Don’t you know nothing?’

Angel took a sip of coffee. It was hot and sweet with an overlying hint of bitterness, but it warmed her stomach. ‘I’m a quick learner,’ she said hastily. ‘Thank you very much for the bread, and the coffee.’

‘Come on then. Stir your stumps, Angel. We’ve got work to do. You’ll need some brass to pay for a night’s lodging, otherwise you’ll be sleeping here again. It ain’t easy to survive on the streets.’ Dolly led the way across the cobblestones to the floral hall where the perfume of garden flowers mingled with that of more exotic blooms, and the explosion of colour made Angel gasp with delight. Despite her recent traumatic experiences she was transported to a world where peace and beauty abounded – but not for long. Dolly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her outside to where the blooms were being unpacked. A sea of heads and flailing arms, flying skirts and cat-like howls accompanied the frenzied actions of the women and girls who were snatching the fallen blossoms from the dusty ground. Dolly dived in head first.

Angel could only stand and stare, but in a heartbeat it was all over and the crowd dispersed, each of the women clutching handfuls of flower heads and sprigs of greenery. Dolly faced up to an older woman who attempted to snatch a rosebud from her grasp. Their colourful language made Angel recoil in a mixture of horror and admiration. She had heard costermongers and draymen swearing at each other, but the expletives used by these two would have made a sailor blush.

Dolly surged towards her. ‘Don’t tangle with Smutty Sue. She’s a nasty bitch and she once bit a porter’s finger off when he tried to stop a fight.’

Angel shot a wary glance in Smutty Sue’s direction and she was convinced. The woman had long pointed teeth that looked like fangs, and straggly grey hair that barely hid the scars on her cheek and neck. Smutty Sue hawked and spat, sending a pool of tobacco juice onto the cobblestones.

‘She scares me,’ Angel whispered.

‘Rightly so.’ Dolly jerked her head in the direction of a group of younger girls who were now seated cross-legged outside the floral hall. ‘They’re all right, so long as you don’t pinch their flowers or their men. C’mon, Angel. I’ll show you how to make buttonholes.’

Angel shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I really ought to go and find my aunt. Do you know where Maddox Street is?’

‘It’s up West somewhere. Not my territory, duck. Go if you want to, but from what you told me I doubt if the old girl will be able to help. She’s either sweet on your Mr Galloway, or she’s scared of him, and if he holds the purse strings she’ll do what he wants.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Angel said, frowning. ‘She really loved Uncle Joseph and I’m sure she only did what Mr Galloway said because she was scared. He pretended to be nice and kind, but he was putting it on.’

‘Men are all the same. They’re like puppeteers and women are the ones dancing on strings. But not me. I seen many women beaten and driven to an early grave by their fellers and no man is going to do that to me.’

‘I hadn’t thought about it like that. I suppose Aunt Cordelia did do exactly what Uncle Joseph said. It’s just the way things are.’

‘Not here it ain’t.’ Dolly winked and tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger. ‘We suit ourselves.’

‘I suppose I’d better go and find a few flowers then,’ Angel said reluctantly. ‘Smutty Sue won’t mind, will she?’

‘Sue don’t run our lives. Anyway, she’s got what she wanted. You go and see what you can rescue.’

Angel made her way back to the floral hall, keeping an eye out for anyone who might take exception to her. Lumpy Lil would give Smutty Sue a run for her money, but the memory of Lil brought tears to Angel’s eyes. She must not cry or the flower girls would laugh at her. She took a deep breath, turning her attention to finding anything that the others had missed. A waft of sweet scent reminded her of her aunt’s linen press, where crisp Egyptian cotton sheets were strewn with sprigs of lavender, and she stopped at the stall where the plant was on sale.

‘What’s a young lady like you doing in a place like this?’ The stallholder eyed her curiously.

‘Why do you ask, sir?’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, well, so you are indeed a well-bred girl and not of the normal sort who fight and scrap and swear like troopers. I thought perhaps you’d stolen those fine duds, but it seems I was wrong.’

‘I’m looking for broken flowers, sir. I hope to sell them to pay for my lodgings.’

‘Where are your parents, or have you run away from home?’

‘No, sir. I’m an orphan.’

‘Do you have a name, Miss Orphan?’ His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and his grin was infectious.

Despite her fear that he might realise that she was a runaway and call a constable, Angel found herself returning his smile. ‘My name is Angel, sir.’

‘An Angel – aptly named, I’m sure.’ He plucked a few sprigs of lavender from a container and handed them to her. ‘Take these. You’ll find the sweet-smelling flowers go best. Pinks, carnations and stocks are popular.’ He leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. ‘But take care. Some of those girls are bad ’uns. Don’t be led astray.’

Angel bobbed a curtsey. ‘I won’t, sir. Thank you.’

‘Be gone with you, and if you come and find me tomorrow I’ll see that you have something to sell.’ He proffered his hand. ‘Jack Wicks.’

She shook his hand. ‘Angel Winter. Much obliged to you, sir.’

The girls were chatting and giggling as their nimble fingers turned the discarded blooms into pretty nosegays and buttonholes. Dolly made room for Angel.

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ she said, whistling through her teeth. ‘How did you get hold of all that lavender?’

‘A kind man gave it to me.’

Angel’s words were received with hoots of laughter.

‘What did you do to earn that, nipper?’ One of the older girls chortled with laughter and nudged her neighbour. ‘Did he put his hand up your skirt, love?’

‘No, of course not,’ Angel said, horrified by the suggestion. ‘He’s a nice man.’

‘There’s no such thing. They’re all out for what they can get.’

‘That ain’t true, Nelly.’ One of the smaller girls spoke up. ‘My pa was ever so nice. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ She began to snivel. ‘He were drownded when his lighter got mowed down in the dark by a steamer.’

‘Pay no attention to her,’ Dolly said hastily. ‘Nelly’s had a bad time, haven’t you, Nell?’

That seemed to open the floodgates and before Nelly had a chance to tell her story they were all swapping experiences they had had at home and on the streets. Angel was shocked and alarmed by what she heard, but Dolly seemed to understand and she gave her a hug. ‘You just have to learn to be careful, my duck. Jack Wicks is all right, so you don’t have to be afraid of him, but be wary because they ain’t all like him.’ Dolly picked up a stem of pinks, discarding those blossoms that were crushed. ‘Now, watch what I do to make these into a buttonhole, and copy me. Then I’ll take you out on the streets and see how you do.’

‘Why are you helping me?’ Angel asked, bewildered by Dolly’s kindness.

‘I had a younger sister once.’ Dolly’s nimble fingers twisted the pinks into shape, adding a sprig of baby’s breath. ‘She was fair-haired like you and she had big blue eyes. Grace was always smiling, even though she was mortal sick. She were only ten when she went down with the fever that took Ma and me three brothers, all within days of each other. Dunno why I was spared, but here I am, and here you are, so let’s make the best of things and get on with our business.’

‘I know what you say is true,’ Angel said slowly, ‘but I must see my aunt again, and Lumpy Lil. I’m very grateful to you for helping me, Dolly, but I have to find them or die in the attempt.’

Chapter Four

Angel kept close to Dolly all day and she soon realised that she was in the hands of an expert when it came to persuading a reluctant public to part with its money. Dolly combined bare-faced cheek with friendly banter, which worked better with men than with women. By the end of the afternoon Angel had earned threepence, but that was not enough to pay for a night in the dosshouse used by many of the flower girls.

‘Don’t worry, my duck,’ Dolly said cheerfully. ‘I’ll help you out this once, but tomorrow you’ve got to stand on your own two feet. We’ll get to the market early and see what we can scrape off the floor, but you must make your own buttonholes and nosegays and you’ll have to find your own pitch.’

‘You mean I’ll have to go out on my own?’

‘You can do it, Angel. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you could use them big blue eyes to your advantage. Choose the older gents; they’ll be more likely to feel generous to a poor little orphan. The younger coves are a bit chancy. They might have other ideas, if you get my meaning.’

‘I think I do, but what about the girls? How do I know if I’m trespassing on someone’s pitch?’

‘You’ll have to use your loaf, and take my tip and talk a bit more like the rest of us. You talk like a toff and you dress like one too. We ought to get you some duds from a dolly shop, but that costs money. Anyway, we’ll worry about that tomorrow. The main thing now is to get something to eat and pay for a night’s snooze in Mother Jolly’s palace.’

‘A real palace?’

Dolly sighed. ‘It’s a joke, Angel. You’ve got a lot to learn, my duck.’ She examined the contents of her pockets. ‘Sixpence – not a bad day. It costs fourpence a night at Mother Jolly’s, sixpence if we shares a bed. So if you add your threepence to my sixpence that comes to …’ Dolly started adding up on her fingers.

‘Ninepence,’ Angel said eagerly. ‘That leaves threepence for our supper.’

‘You’re a quick one, ain’t yer? You did that in your head.’ Dolly gazed at her with genuine admiration. ‘I wish I had more learning.’

‘You seem to do very well without it.’ Angel handed her three pennies. ‘What will we get for that?’

‘A pint of pea soup costs a ha’penny and a ha’penny for a mug of cocoa. That leaves us tuppence for breakfast. We can get by on that, but you’ll need to earn more tomorrow, nipper.’

‘I’ll try, Dolly. I’ll try really hard.’

Mother Jolly’s lodging house in Monmouth Street was a four-storey building divided into a male section, on the top two floors, and a women’s section on the ground and first floors. Mother Jolly lived in the basement and put in an appearance only to take money or to throw an unruly tenant out onto the street. The women who paid fourpence for the privilege of sleeping in a wooden cot with a lumpy straw-filled mattress and a single blanket, regardless of the temperature outside, were mostly workers from Covent Garden market, but the male occupants were poor Irish migrant workers, and Angel’s first night was disturbed by the clumping of boots on the bare stair treads and even louder altercations. She huddled up against Dolly’s back and tried not to think of her old room in Spital Square and her comfortable feather bed. Perhaps this was all a bad dream, and when she awakened in the morning she would find herself at home with Lil grumbling as she drew back the curtains, and the aroma of the hot chocolate tempting her to sit up and drink from a bone-china cup.

But next morning Angel was awakened by Dolly giving her a shake, and the smell of unwashed bodies filled her nostrils. She tumbled out of bed.

‘What time is it?’

‘Time to get to work before the others wake up,’ Dolly whispered.

Angel had slept in her shift and she retrieved her clothes from the end of the bed. ‘I think I’ve got measles or something, Dolly. I’m itching all over.’

Dolly gave her a cursory look. ‘You ain’t sick, my duck. The bed bugs have been having a feast on you.’ Dolly pulled her ragged dress over her head and slipped her bare feet into her boots.

‘Bed bugs – that’s disgusting.’ Horrified, Angel stared at the red marks on her pale skin. ‘I’m not sleeping here again.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Dolly said casually. ‘Come on. We’ve got enough money for a cup of coffee and a bread roll.’ Dolly tiptoed from the room and Angel hurried after her. She could not wait to get away from the bug-infested dosshouse, and the thought of another night in such a place made her even more determined to find her aunt.

Dolly tried to dissuade her, but Angel would not be deterred. She made as many buttonholes as she could before the flower girls descended on the market like a flock of noisy seagulls, and kindly Jack Wicks loaned her a wicker basket.

‘You can return it to me in the morning,’ he said, adding a few sprigs of lavender for good measure. ‘Just steer clear of the other flower sellers. They won’t tolerate anyone they think is trying to steal their pitch.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ Angel said, nodding. ‘Can you direct me to Maddox Street, sir? My aunt is staying there and I need to find her.’

‘A well brought-up girl like you shouldn’t have to hawk buttonholes to all and sundry. I’d like to have a few words with that lady.’

‘Oh, no, sir. It’s not Aunt Cordelia’s fault. She thinks I’m safe in the country with a respectable family.’

Jack Wicks stared at her, frowning. ‘I don’t know your story, girl, but if I had a daughter I wouldn’t want her to roam the streets and mix with the likes of those flower girls.’ He took a pencil from behind his ear and drew a sketch map on a scrap of paper. ‘You can read, I suppose.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr Wicks. I’m much obliged to you.’

He shook his head. ‘I’d take you there myself if I didn’t have to look after my stall. Good luck, Angel. I hope you find your aunt.’

It was mid-morning by the time Angel reached Maddox Street. She had sold a couple of buttonholes, but most people were too busy going about their daily routine to be interested in purchasing such fripperies. She told herself it did not matter – she was going to find Aunt Cordelia and Lumpy Lil, and they would be reunited. Aunt Cordelia would realise that Mr Galloway was not to be trusted, and they would live happily ever after, just like in the storybooks. The only trouble was that she had no idea which house belonged to Mrs Adams, and the passers-by seemed reluctant to stop and answer her questions. Eventually, after waylaying an errand boy, she discovered that Mrs Adams owned a house in the middle of an elegant terrace.

Angel struggled to control her excitement as she knocked on the door. Aunt Cordelia was so close she could almost smell the gardenia-scented perfume she always wore. But it was a prim housemaid who opened the door.

‘No hawkers or traders.’

Angel put her foot over the threshold just in time to prevent the girl slamming the door in her face. ‘I’m not selling anything. I’ve come to see Mrs Wilding. I’m her niece, Angel Winter.’

The girl did not look convinced. ‘You might be the Angel Gabriel for all I know, but your aunt isn’t here.’

‘She must be,’ Angel insisted. ‘Mr Galloway brought her here the day before yesterday. He said she was to stay with Mrs Adams.’

‘Mrs Adams has gone to the country for the rest of the summer. She don’t like the heat of London.’

‘That can’t be true. Mr Galloway said—’

‘Get off the doorstep, girl, or I’ll call a constable. I told you, Mrs Adams and her guest have gone to the country.’

‘Did Miss Heavitree go too?’

‘If you mean that frightful creature who came with her – she was sent separate with the baggage and that stupid halfwit girl. They’ll be sacked for certain and left to find their own way back to London.’

Angel fought back tears of disappointment and frustration. ‘Where have they gone? Please tell me. I must find my aunt.’

‘I wouldn’t be allowed to say, even if I knew. Now go away and leave us in peace.’

‘Is there anyone in your household who might know my aunt’s whereabouts?’

‘There’s only me and the cleaning women here. The house is being shut up until the autumn, so come back then.’

‘Just a minute.’ Angel took the scrap of paper from her basket. Mr Wicks had written directions on the back of a receipt with his name printed in bold black letters and the number of his stall in Covent Garden. ‘Will you take this and give it to my aunt or Miss Heavitree when they return to London? It’s very important.’

The girl snatched it from Angel’s hand. ‘Anything, if you’ll just go away and leave me in peace. Now will you leave or do I call a copper?’

Angel sank down on the front step as the door closed. Her last hope had gone and she was alone in the great city, except for Dolly. How long she sat there she did not know, but eventually she rose to her feet and started retracing her steps, and after taking one apparently wrong turning after another, she found herself in Regent’s Circus, and was about to ask a gentleman the way to Covent Garden when the lady with him spotted the sprigs of lavender. With a cry of delight she plucked one from the basket.

‘Lavender, my favourite flower. It smells so sweet.’

The gentleman smiled down at her. ‘Just like you, my darling.’ He took a handful of small change from his pocket and dropped it into Angel’s basket. ‘I’ll take all the lavender.’

Angel gathered the sprigs into a bunch and handed them to him, hardly able to believe her luck. He presented them to his lady and she blushed and thanked him so prettily that Angel thought he was going to kiss her there and then, but he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and they walked away, arm in arm. Angel gathered up the coins – sevenpence ha’penny in all – slipped the money into her reticule and picked up a nosegay.

‘Flowers, lovely flowers. Buy a buttonhole for your lady, sir?’

By late afternoon Angel had sold every single flower in her basket and was the richer by elevenpence ha’penny. Compared to a meagre threepence the day before, it seemed like a small fortune. She made her way back to Covent Garden with a smile on her face for the first time since she had been wrested from her home. She found Dolly chatting to one of the other flower girls. They stopped talking when Angel approached them.

‘Did you find your aunt?’ Dolly asked.

Angel’s smile faded. ‘No, they’d gone away and the maid didn’t know where.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Dolly gave her a hug. ‘I suppose that means I’m stuck with you for a bit longer.’ She eyed the empty basket. ‘How much did you make today?’

‘Elevenpence ha’penny,’ Angel said proudly.

‘Crikey, you done well.’ Dolly turned to her friend. ‘How much did you take, Ivy?’

‘Sixpence, and I thought that was good. Maybe the nipper has something we ain’t got.’

‘Big blue eyes and a la-di-dah manner of speaking,’ Dolly said, chuckling. ‘Never mind, Angel. You can pay me back by buying me a ham roll and a cup of tea for supper.’

Angel smiled and nodded, but inwardly she was crying for her aunt and her old life, which was fading into nothing but a happy memory. The realisation that this was how she was going to scratch a living from now on hit her like a thunderbolt, and there seemed to be no escape.

Gradually, day by day, Angel became accustomed to life in Covent Garden market. She learned the tricks of the trade from the other girls and soon became as adept at turning broken blooms into buttonholes and nosegays as the very best of them. But it was far from an easy way to earn a living and she was out on the streets in all weathers. Summer turned into autumn, when the chill turned the leaves on the London plane trees to shades of copper, bronze and gold, and icy winds rattled the windows of Mother Jolly’s dosshouse. Angel’s fingers and toes were numbed with cold as she stood on street corners. She managed to save a few pennies to purchase a rather moth-eaten woollen shawl from a dolly shop in Shorts Gardens, but the soles of her boots were worn into holes and leaked when it rained. It would take months to earn enough to buy a second-hand pair, and winter was on its way. Angel knew that she was not suffering alone – it was the same for all the flower girls – but that was little comfort. As the nights grew frosty and the evenings drew in, Dolly developed a cough that dampened even her normally buoyant spirits.