Shadows & Light - Part the Third - Wherein Reflections are Made with the Aid of Gin

“Good morning, ma’am.” The bank clerk gives me a polite smile through the bars.

“Good morning.” I reply, smiling back and sliding one of Cutter’s notes across the counter. “I’d like to cash this, please.”

“Of course.” The man takes the note and holds it up with a frown. “Just a moment, please.” He  steps back from the counter to put his head together with an older man. I am starting to get nervous, wondering what the problem is with the note. Part of me is curious though since if it was reported stolen he ought to be checking a list.

“I’m sorry.” He says stepping back. “We’ve been getting a lot of forged notes lately.” and I let my eyes widen in pretended shock. “Yours was fine.” The clerk says reassuringly as he records the bill in his ledger. A minute or so later, I depart with three sovereigns and four half sovereigns weighting my purse.

The gin palace is all gaslight and mirrors tonight. I blink for a moment as I step inside, letting my eyes adjust to the brightness. Cutter’s nowhere in sight so I step up to the bar and order myself a tot of gin; just another working girl stopping off for a tipple on her way home. My gin comes and I turn to watch the door, keeping track of the comings and goings.

A shabby little girl of not more than eight or so wanders in and peers over the bar on her tiptoes to get the barman’s attention. I turn a bit, checking to make sure my pocket is out of her reach.

“‘ello, Bessie.” The barman says, leaning over the bar with a grin. “‘’ere for yer mum’s pint?”

“Yes, sir.” the child pipes, her high pitched voice cuts through the noise of the place as she puts a shilling and fourpence on the bar. The barman scoops up the coins with a benevolent smile and hands her a pint bottle and a ham roll, both of which vanish into the pockets of her tattered skirt.

“Thanks!” she says, as she darts out the door and narrowly misses Cutter.

“One of yours?” I ask as he joins me at the bar.

“The girl? No, that’s Janie Alder’s oldest. Got a fruit and veg stand in Whitwell Place.” He grins and hold his hand up for a pair of gins. “Too respectable for me.”

I’d suspected as much, the girl hadn’t been nearly ragged enough to be one of Cutter’s gang of urchins. I look him up and down; he’s looking almost respectable tonight. Clean enough to be a young workman or tradesman’s apprentice.

“Bit queer seeing you in a dress.” He says with a bemused look on his face. I’d always worn boy’s clothes in the Rookery, easier for getting around in and safer. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.” I say, feeling a sudden need to change the subject. “I put those bits for you.

I pass the money to him, the coins neatly done up in a bit of brown paper. This may not be a truly bad patch like the Rookery, but ten pounds in gold is not something to be flashing about. His fingers linger on my hand a bit longer than necessary and I feel a bit of heat rising in my cheeks.

“It’s the gin.” I tell myself.

“Folks in the old patch been asking about you.” He says and the look on his face tells me this might not be a good thing.

“Well,” I say as lightly as I can, “so long as it’s not the peelers you can tell them I’m doing all right.”

“That big sergeant’s been asking around.” He says. “Wants to know where you’ve been, what you’re up to ...”

I wince.  The last thing I need is rozzers nosing around. Especially not now with a job in the works. “What’s he heard?”

“Not much, I’d guess, or he wouldn’t keep asking, would he?” Cutter shakes his head. “He’s probably just piffered you’ve gotten away from him.” He pauses to down his gin. “So what have you been working?”

“Nothing I can talk about.” I say firmly and finish my gin. Nine times out of ten when someone’s nicked it’s because they talk about a job and word gets back to the peelers. “Strict instructions.” I say, tapping the side of my nose. Which is no less than the truth, Mister Worth has been very insistent on us keeping our tater traps shut.

Cutter signals for another pair of gins and slides a ten shilling piece across the bar. The barman looks at it sourly and places the coin in the tester; grunting in surprise when it doesn’t bend.

“Been getting a lot of snide?” Cutter asks as the barman hands him a handful of silver in change.

“No more than usual.” the man replies with a disgusted shake of his head. “Banknotes now, lots o’ queer ones floating around.  Hardly dare take ‘em any more.”

I finish my gin and stand, pulling my shawl over my shoulders.

Cutter looks disappointed. “Not staying?”

“Can’t” I say with real regret, because I hardly get a chance to sit and talk anymore. “Working a rush job.” I lean over and give him a peck on the cheek as I leave, no more than any other girl would do for a chap who’s just treated her to a drink or two. “I’ll be around in few days.”

The omnibus sways and rattles over the cobbles. There’s a few trying to read by the oil lamps; but most sit quietly or doze, despite that being a good way to lose your purse to a dip’s fingers.

Cutter’s a nice enough lad, I think. Could do worse. And I miss having someone around, to tell the truth. But he’s on borrowed time; we all are, waiting for the heavy hand on your shoulder and the peeler’s voice telling you you’re nicked. Sooner or later someone will nose and then he’ll be doing a long stretch or taking a short walk to the gallows. That’s just heartbreak waiting to happen, I tell myself.

I’ve been out two years. Sooner or later my luck will run out and it will be hard time again. I’ve made it this long by being careful, by not talking, and by working alone. Now I’m breaking two of those rules and if this job goes wrong I’m looking at seven years at least; maybe ten, fifteen if they find out I’ve been lagged before.

“I want out.” I think, not for the first time. But then what? Living hand to mouth on fifty a year as a clerk or shop assistant until I can find a husband? And good luck getting a situation without references or influence. I’ll have two thousand or so after this job; enough to set myself up in business - pubs and pawn shops are almost traditional for retired thieves. Or enough to marry. There are plenty of men who wouldn’t be over particular about a wife who’d bring that to a marriage.

“Lower Wardour Street!” The cad’s bellow pulls me out of my thoughts.

I step down from the omnibus, dodging the steaming pile of dung the horses have left. I can see the tall shape of the beat constable, made taller by his helmet, approaching as I walk down the street toward my room.

“Evening.” The man touches the brim of his helmet as we pass and it occurs to that being “known to the police” may be the least of my worries. I know a lot about Mister Worth’s plans, maybe too much. Certainly enough to put him in the jug for life if I nosed. I was in or I was out; he couldn’t risk me being out. With that cheerful thought I turn the key to my stair and trudge up to a cold bed.