An innkeeper’s directions have gone wrong and lead her to sights so macabre that she quite nearly turns back. Owen will strangle her if he learns of her strolling in this sparsely populated area, assaulted by the scent of blood amidst men in aprons and gaiters of raw hides. The tanners and their pits, the hide market, with its tens of thousands of soaking hides, is eerily quiet.
Ragged children share the weight of buckets of dog dung, for which the Bermondsey tanners pay up to ten pence a load. Nora stops a pair of them.
‘You, there.’
She is aghast to see the children’s faces and hands smeared with shit.
‘Wha?’
‘I seek Bermondsey Street.’
‘Ha! Not fer noffin yer don’t.’
She places tuppence on the ground in front of them. The urchins snatch them, laugh, and run away with the coin, leaving Nora none the wiser.
By some miracle she marches closer to Bermondsey Street, where the odour from the vinegar factory on Tanner Street moistens her eyes with its sting. Nora turns a corner and the street she seeks is suddenly underfoot. Her anger subsides for a heartbeat or two, replaced by, God forgive her, smugness. For the dismal street is so lacking in colour that it appears only in sepia tones. The houses crunch together, leaning in all directions, peeling plaster harshly covers their wooden frames.
Nora adds paint to the scene, turned out as she is for the West End in her purple ensemble. Her bonnet’s ribbons fly behind her, trailing past the shoemakers and cobblers, and finally her marker, the Watch House on the corner from where the parish constables keep watch on the graveyard. On the opposite side of the street is the house, end of terrace, where the shopfront is closed up and shuttered, where the black door protects the Fowlers. Nora’s ire returns.
There is no knocker, no invitation to call; she taps firmly with her fist. And again. On the third knock the door opens a crack and the servant girl’s face appears.
‘Mrs Mockett!’ Willa cries.
Before Willa can react further Nora pushes against the door, nearly knocking the girl over.
Rafe appears in all of his awkwardness. The sight of him sends her into a spin of longing and regret, and she cannot stop from charging, holding his shoulders firm, she shakes him.
‘Get it. Get it right now. Get the fever.’
He is wide-eyed and frightened and pulls away, but she is stronger.
‘How often do you do it? Do it now. Let me feel your head.’ Nora places one of her hands on his forehead, holding him fast with the other.
‘Here, here! Stop that, Nora Mockett.’ Finn appears and pulls Nora off Rafe.
Jonesy comes next and places his robed frame between Rafe and Nora.
‘Take him away, Jonesy,’ Finn orders.
‘I am sorry to witness such a display. You are not at all well, Mrs Mockett.’ The familiar voice, tinged with accent, causes Nora’s eyes to close in a blind rage. ‘Leave us,’ Clovis says to Finn and Willa, before turning back to Nora. ‘I have foreseen this day for years. You are predictable, Nora Mockett.’
‘How often does the fever come?’
‘It is of no business of yours … but I will tell you, not once since we have earned our tickets-of-leave.’
‘It is very much my business. I am here today to tell you this. If I have not become a member of your miraculous party in six months’ time, I will tell the world.’
Clovis laughs.
‘Oh, Mrs Mockett.’ She is genuinely amused. ‘You will not place your husband in danger.’
‘No, I will not, for he will be none of your business. You have no hold over him.’
Clovis changes her tack.
‘None of us knows when or if Rafe will have the fever again. But if he should happen to be overtaken with it, I will send for you. You will have to be content with that offer, I know of no better solution.’
‘Six months.’
‘If you would like to limit the time, then do so. There is no predicting it.’
‘Six months. Bring him to me. I shall not be “sent for”.’
‘Willa, see Mrs Mockett out.’
While Nora Mockett’s plum skirts trail away from the Fowlers’ house, Clovis continues to stare at the door, as if an imprint of the hysterical woman remained.
‘Finn! Come here.’
‘What now?’ Her husband runs his fingers through his hair, a sign that the encounter has unnerved him.
‘We are too long in Bermondsey Street, Finn.’
‘Out of the area, then?’
‘No, she would expect that. Wiser to stay near. There is a property on Magdalen Street.’ She turns to him, ‘See to it.’
Just before dark while those in the household are occupied with recovering from Nora’s visit, there is one who cannot be at peace. Mrs Mockett has rattled him so that Rafe feels he might die if he does not get out of the house. At fourteen, he is not afraid of stealing away into a London night; he has evaded detection before and tonight he means to do it again.
Outside, the streets are changing over from the business of the day, to the business of the night. He strides to London Bridge in no time and crosses its busy path with the stampede. A thick wad of upset in his stomach produces gritty tears. He has searched for Auntie Connie and Auntie Very before, but when his mother callously informed him of their deaths after his rescue from the Serpentine, his quest changed. He seeks their place of burial. St Anne’s graveyard pulls him towards Limehouse. Might they rest near their father?
An hour’s continuous walking is uneventful but for a faint feeling of being followed. Each time he looks back, he blames his nerves when he detects only shadows. Full dark brings him to Shadwell High Street. There are whores everywhere, trawling the pavement, parading in short nightgowns, cheap silk and bare heads. His father
