Birds of a Feather

She reached into her purse and handed Smiley a shining half-crown.

“Very nice pair of glasses, too. Now then let me see.” Smiley tapped the side of his head. “This is where I’ve got to rack ’em, you know, the old brain cells.” He looked at the photograph, brought it closer to his eyes, and squinted again. “Never forget a dial. Got a photographic memory, I’ve been told. Now then”—Smiley paused—“she looks a bit different nah, don’t she?”

“You’ve seen her?”

“I’m not one ’undred percent. It’s me eyes again.”

Maisie handed him a florin.

“Yeah. Dahn the soup kitchen. Only been there a coupl’a days, but I’ve seen ’er comin’ and goin’. She weren’t all dolled up like this though.”

“Which soup kitchen? Where?”

“Not the one run by the Quakers, the other one, on Tanner Street, just along from the old workhouse—” Smiley gave directions.

“Thank you, Mr. Rackham.”

Smiley’s eye’s sparkled. “O’ course my name ain’t Rackham.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nah! My surname’s Pointer. They call me Smiley Rack’em cos that’s what I do.” He tapped the side of his head. “But now I won’t ’ave to do anythin’ for a day or two, thanks to you, Miss Dobbs.” Smiley rattled the coins as Maisie waved and went on her way.

She stood for a while just inside the door of the soup kitchen, in the shadows, where she would be able to observe without being seen. There was one large room lined with trestle tables, all covered with clean white cloths. The staff were working hard to maintain the dignity of people who had lost so much in a depression that was affecting every stratum of life. And at the lowest end there was little or no comfort. Men, women, and children queued for a bowl of soup and a crust of bread, then filed to the tables to find a place among known faces, perhaps calling out to a friend, “Awright, then?” or making a joke, even starting a song going for others to join in. Maisie saw that there was something here that money could not buy: Spirit. As she watched, one man at the front of the line began to shuffle his feet in a dance, then clapped out a tune. Everyone started to sing as they waited, so that even in her anxiety to find Charlotte, Maisie smiled. Boiled beef and carrots,

Boiled beef and carrots,

That’s the stuff for your Darby Kel,

Makes you fat and it keeps you well.

Don’t live like vegetarians,

On food they give to parrots,

From morn till night blow out your kite

On boiled beef and carrots.

Then she saw Charlotte.

It was a different woman whom Maisie watched moving back and forth between the kitchen and the tables, talking to other workers, smiling at the children, leaning over to tousle the hair of a mischievous boy or stop a fight over a toy. Two days. She’s been here only two days and people are looking up to her. Maisie shook her head as she watched Charlotte help another worker. And no one knows who she is. There was something in the way that Charlotte moved and spoke with the people that reminded Maisie of someone. A natural and decisive leader. Charlotte Waite was her father’s daughter.

Maisie made her move. “Miss Waite.” She touched Charlotte’s sleeve as she was returning to the kitchen with an empty cauldron.

“Oh!”

Maisie reached for the pot just in time, and together they placed it safely on a table.

“How did you find me here?”

“That’s not important.You wanted to speak to me?”

“Look—” Charlotte glanced around her. “I can’t talk here, you know. Meet me when I’ve finished. I’m on duty until seven, then I go back to my digs.”

Maisie shook her head. “No, Miss Waite. I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ll stay here until you finish. Find me an apron, and I’ll help out.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew wider.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Miss Waite, I’m no stranger to a bit of elbow grease!”

Charlotte took Maisie’s coat, and when she returned they began to work together while another refrain from the hungry Londoners echoed up into the rafters.I like pickled onions,

I like piccalilli.

Pickled cabbage is all right

With a bit of cold meat on Sunday night.

I can go termartoes,

But what I do prefer,

Is a little bit of cu-cum-cu-cum-cu-cum,

A little bit of cucumber.

The women left the soup kitchen together at half past seven. Charlotte led the way through dusky streets to a decrepit three-storey house that was probably once the home of a wealthy merchant, but now, a couple of centuries on, had been divided into flats and bed-sitting rooms. Charlotte’s room on the top floor was small, with angled ceilings so that both women had to stoop to avoid collision with the beams. Despite being confident in her soup kitchen role, Charlotte was now nervous and immediately excused herself to use the lavatory at the end of a damp and dreary landing. Maisie so mistrusted her charge that she waited on the landing, watching the lavatory door. In those few moments alone she prepared her mind for the conversation with Charlotte. She breathed deeply, and with eyes still closed she visualized a white light shining down on her head, flooding her body with compassion, with understanding, and with spoken words that would support Charlotte as she struggled to unburden herself. May I not sit in judgment. May I be open to hearing and accepting the truth of what I am told. May my decisions be for the good of all concerned. May my work bring peace. . . .

Charlotte returned and, stooping, they entered her room again. It was then that Maisie saw a framed prayer on the wall, most probably brought from Camden Abbey to her Bermondsey refuge.In your mercy, Lord, give them rest.

When you come to judge the living and thedead, give them rest.Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord,

And let perpetual light shine upon them; inyour mercy, Lord.Give them