Adele Varens 3

 Well, I can't say such complete indifference to a new story is usual. I'm glad I wrote this as it demanded to be written, but I presume nobody else likes it. 

Chapter 3

 

Reader, it was easy.

I spent the night in a cheap hotel when I got to London, and looked through the newspapers they had in the foyer, as hotels do.  I found lodgings advertised in a place called Henrietta Street.  It was a pretty name, so I thought it sounded worthwhile. I was a little less sanguine when I discovered it was near the back of Covent Garden; but then, there seemed to be all sorts of people.

I knocked at the door.

“I believe you have a room?” I asked.

The concierge stared at me.

“Well, I don’t suppose you’d be causing trouble late at night,” she said. “No followers, no noise after eleven at night, no cooking on premises.”

“Where am I supposed to eat?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“There’s street food, and eating places,” she said. “I’ll cook you an evening meal for an extra three-and-six a week; the room is seven bob. Buy your own coal and candles.”

“I’ll take it,” I said.

“I’ll let you have a week’s coal for four bob,” she said. “You’ll freeze else.”

I was probably being had; but I agreed.

I had little choice. And having one meal a day provided would be useful.  I could look for a coal merchant later. It was extremely cold, and snow lay about, even in the city. I could pay my way, but I wanted a job.

And more blankets for my meagre bed,

It was a dingy place, with an iron framed bed in one corner, an easy chair, a hard chair, and a table, and a chest of drawers with a flyblown mirror on it. The advantage was a flushing toilet on the floor below mine, for which one had to spend a penny to access it, like those in railway stations.

I went out and wandered the district to get my bearings, and came upon a shop advertising pawnbroking and second-hand clothing store. A card in the window was asking for rag-pickers.

It sounded a pretty horrible job, but it would give me the opportunity of getting disguises.

I went in.

The bell clanged mournfully, and I looked into the sharp, dark, twinkling eyes of the proprietor who was not much taller than me.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?” he asked.

“I was looking into the job about rag-picking,” I said.

“A shilling a day, piecework, bonuses available for anything special,” he said. “I’m Samuel Cohen.”

It wasn’t going to cover my expenses, but I did have other ideas.

“What do I have to do?” I asked.

“I buy up old clothing, wholesale,” he said. “Usually from the families of someone who died, who don’t want to be bothered sorting through their loved ones’ effects. I need to have the clean sorted from the dirty, and the re-saleable sorted from the true rags. It’s a stinking, thankless job, but if there’s anything in the pockets, there are bonuses in it, and you get first refusal on any clothes. Here, I’ve a shawl to keep you a bit warmer, you can’t move in that heavy coat, and a blanket to wrap around yourself as well, and take home if you need it. You have to take off your gloves to feel it, and if your hands are cold, you can’t feel properly.”

The shawl was old and motheaten but it had once been cashmere, and it was warm.

He was right about the smell.

The state in which people thought it suitable to send clothes for resale was quite disgusting. There were undergarments with… stains… on them. He laughed at my disgust.[1]

“That’s as bad as it usually gets, if that’s any consolation,” he said.

“Fine,” I said. “I can handle it. Wash pile?”

“Yes, and if it disintegrates, then it goes in rag,” said Mr. Cohen. “Now, I’m not going to quibble over you putting aside some for yourself, my rule is, don’t get greedy. Check the pockets; if I was you, I’d turn them inside-out rather than reaching into them. What people have in their pockets can beggar belief, and you don’t want to cut yourself on an old knife or tools, or worse.”

I was as amazed about what I found in pockets as I was about the lack of care for clothing.  Apparently, a lot of people never bothered to empty the pockets of loved ones when they died. I retrieved wallets full of money, pieces of jewellery, cough sweets, plugs of tobacco for chewing, pouches of tobacco for smoking, betting slips, letters, rusty nails, tools, dance cards, and in one, a notebook full of what looked like blackmail material.

I slid that into my own pocket; I was not sure about using it, but you never know when knowing something about people comes in handy. That pocket also had a lump of lead and a few tools in it.

I put my finds on a tray, and Mr. Cohen came to inspect it.

He sniffed the tobacco, and emptied it into a jar, labelled with some fanciful make or other, discarded the cough sweets, read the letters and discarded them, sorted out the better tools, and then added up the money.

I added it up as he did; and he divided it scrupulously into three piles, pushing one of them to me.

“This is why people work rag picking,” he said. “The extras. If you had found no money at all, I’d have said you weren’t suitable; I appreciate honesty, and pay for it.”

He put another third in a tin.

I later found out that this went to the nearest orphan asylum.

He nodded to what was left.

“The odd things, those are your perks. Worn purses and wallets, the odd tool or knife,  ribbons.  That snuff-box is worth two guineas, so I owe you thirteen shillings on it for your third. You’ve done well with a good hoard, it isn’t always as good as today, but we’ve got the clothing from an apothecary, who is nominally a gentleman, as well as from a plumber, and a servant girl.”

“You were testing me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re a good worker; come back again.  There’s soap and water to wash your hands.”

I was glad of it.

I was also glad to go home to a cooked meal. It was mutton stew with more vegetables than mutton, but plentiful fresh bread-and-butter to go with it, and it was hot and flavoursome.

I started collecting myself bits and pieces for different disguises, and because Mr. Cohen dealt fairly with me, I did not steal from him, though I could have done. I bought some clothing from him, claiming a large family. A quilt and more blankets would make me more comfortable, too.

“None of my business why you want it,” he said.

 

Being so close to Covent Garden also gave me the idea of watching when the scrub women went in.

I joined them on Saturday morning, scarf around my head, pail and scrubbing brush in my hand, and I managed to search through the dressing rooms for pieces of greasepaint to replace the horribly drying pastel dust. I can’t say I did much cleaning, but then, I wasn’t being paid to clean, so I felt no qualms over avoiding a chore I have always hated. I merely wanted some theatrical supplies.

Subsequently, I found a shop selling theatrical supplies to purchase my needs, but I learned a lot about how to use them, and which brands I liked, in the meantime. Some greasepaint smells more than others; and being given away by smelling of the theatre is not a good idea. Basically, the more it costs, the less noticeable it is, in any respect, smell, graininess, colour or whatever.  And when I started buying it, it was worth buying the best, and a top grade cold cream to remove it. This was where old towels which Cohen could not use became valuable perks, to remove the paint, and then be burned in my grate. Something which would be harder in summer when the heat could be considerable.

 

Consequently, I was back for the Saturday matinee, dressed as a small boy, selling handbills, to which I had also helped myself.

Helping myself to Diana’s discarded cash right under her nose had taught me a few things, and I did pretty well as a pickpocket.  Doing this after my day’s work at Cohen’s was tiring, but profitable. I have a good memory for faces, and I learned which families went regularly to the theatre. I started following some of them home, and kept scrupulous notes.

Then I took several days off to consolidate my notes and make plans.

I was paid up in front for my boarding house, so I had somewhere to sleep, a daily meal apart from any street food I bought, a respectable persona, a lax enough concierge to take no notice of comings and goings, as long as they were quiet, and I paid the musician in the basement apartment to look the other way if I used his entrance onto the street via the area. He was badly enough paid to be grateful.

“Will I be in trouble with the police?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said. “Sh! I work for them.”

This mendacity satisfied him perfectly, and he let me take a copy of his keys.

Even with this bribe, I could afford to spend some days earning nothing. The rest was nice, and it gave me a chance to think about my next moves. I had the advantage of a sum of money behind me, which many people do not, but I did not want to rely on it.

 

I watched the beggars in the street before I attempted that persona. I noticed that they all put a few low-denomination copper coins in their hats or whatever they used for collection, before settling into their pitches. A silver thruppenny piece was about the largest, but it did encourage some people to give sixpence. I noticed that all larger denomination coins, and excess coppers, were rapidly transferred into pockets. Anyone doing too well was ignored by those giving money.

I also noticed that pitches were jealously guarded, and that nobody took another’s pitch without the other beggars coming to make a fight of it.

It sounds callous, but I watched one old man, who was busy coughing up his lungs, until he expired, one particularly cold day, and the police took his body away.

I hoped that the cold would kill any evil miasmas left behind him, and moved in on his pitch, as a crippled old woman.

My take was very good, begging near the theatre in the evening after working all day at Cohen’s.

I could have made a very healthy living out of begging alone, but it was a tedious business, and perishing cold, even sitting on piles of sacking. But I gained more knowledge about some of the families I had noted as an urchin selling play bills, and I had the habits of a dozen or so of them mapped out very well.

I knew exactly when they would be out of their houses, and planned meticulously for my first foray into a bit of burglary. 

And yes, my first attempt was an ignominious and farcical failure.

I had reconnoitred the houses I was going to target with great thoroughness; not merely from the front, but also after dark, in the back gardens, slipping past the stable blocks or mews at the far end of the gardens. Those with continuous blocks, where the only way through was through the mews, I discarded.

I also purchased a good broom to hide my footprints, by brushing them out behind me; disturbed snow probably would not be noticed, and put down to an earlier attempt to clear a path; clear footprints would be noticed.

And the first house I chose to break into had a large cat-flap in the back door, presumably for the kitchen cat.

I made my way to the back door, brushing out my prints as I went in, as well. A skinny twelve-year-old could get through some very narrow spaces, and I was confident that I could make it through that outsize cat-flap.

What I had not reckoned on, however, was that it was not a cat-flap for a particularly obese cat, but was a dog-flap for the kitchen bulldog.

I retreated, hurriedly.

I had armed myself with aniseed balls in case of pet dogs, and thrust a handful of crushed sweetie at the growling dog as I fled.

Well, that was a failure; but there were other places to try.

 

 

 

 

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[1] I’ve sorted clothes for jumble sales and charity shops. Some of what is sent in is… indescribably horrible.