A Very Unusual Pursuit Read Free Page A

Street Ragged School, which Birdie attended whenever she could. There was also a pump-well around the corner, and a water-closet next door.
    Birdie knew that she was very fortunate. She slept alone, on a straw palliasse, instead of sharing a bed with five others. She had her own stool, plate, cup and knife. She didn’t have to fetch coals, and rarely had to carry water. Sometimes, after a successful day, Alfred would give her twopence to spend as she wished. In return, she had to cook and clean, mend the clothes, lay the fire, buy the food, and help kill as many bogles as they could find.
    She was never beaten or ill-used. Alfred had once or twice boxed her ears when she was very young, because she had let her thoughts wander. But she had quickly learned not to daydream at work, since a moment’s inattention could be fatal. And Alfred was not vicious. He was a morose man who liked to brood on his troubles, instead of lashing out with his fists or his tongue. So while his moods could darken their little room for hours on end, Birdie never had to dodge a blow.
    Luckily, he was in excellent spirits the day after his visit to Mrs Plumeridge’s house. Thanks to Ellen’s six shillings, he and Birdie had supped like kings on pease pudding and salt beef. He had also filled his brandy flask and tobacco pouch. Smoking a fresh pipe after dinner, he had even offered Birdie twopence for ‘a good job o’ work’, adding that he had another job coming up that would help pay for their lamp oil.
    Birdie was about to remind him that she needed new shoes when there was a knock at the door. As Birdie jumped to her feet, Alfred frowned.
    ‘Who’s there?’ he barked.
    The answer came in a high, cracked, wheedling voice. ‘Is that Fred Bunce?’
    ‘It is,’ growled Alfred. ‘And who might you be?’
    ‘Only yer old pal Sally Pickles, come to pay a call.’ Before Birdie could do more than gasp, the woman continued, ‘Here on business, Fred . Mayn’t I please sit down for a spell?’
    Birdie gazed at Alfred, a question in her eyes. She wanted to know if she should open the door to Sarah Pickles, whose reputation was poor even by the standards of Bethnal Green. Widely known as ‘the Matron’, Sarah ran her own gang of pickpockets, most of them under twelve years old. She had twice offered to hire Birdie for begging and lookout work, at a rate of five shillings a day – or so Alfred claimed. Birdie had never spoken to Sarah herself. Though they had passed in the street often enough, they hadn’t been formally introduced.
    Alfred had made sure of that.
    ‘What’s yer business, Sally?’ he asked. ‘If it’s a child you’re wanting, I’ve none to spare.’
    ‘The child I’m a-wanting ain’t yer own, Fred. I’ve had three go missing in as many weeks. Summat’s wrong.’ A pause. ‘It ain’t natural.’
    Alfred puffed on his pipe for a moment, his brow creased, his expression glum. Then he stood up and went to the door.
    Sarah Pickles was a fat woman with a face like a withered apple. She wore an old-fashioned coalscuttle bonnet on her wispy grey hair, and had wrapped her shapeless bulk in layers of grubby, tattered shawls. With her was her son Charlie, a thin, pale, ferret-faced youth who didn’t take off his hat when he crossed the threshold.
    ‘Well, now, and ain’t this a fine crib!’ Sarah exclaimed, her little dark eyes darting from corner to corner. ‘Dry as a nut, and not a chink in the boards! I never knowed you was so comfortable, Fred. A toffken like this ’un – why, it must be let for five shillings a week!’
    ‘Three,’ Birdie corrected, then fell silent as Alfred glared at her.
    ‘And here’s little Birdie,’ Sarah remarked, with an indulgent smile that made Birdie’s blood run cold. ‘She’s growing up, Fred. She’ll be a fine young woman soon, and then what’s to be done with her?’
    ‘None o’ yer business,’ Alfred replied shortly. ‘And speaking o’ business . . .’
    The woman