Page 21 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

London may have been the centre of the world – noisy, full of life, colour and drama, with all sorts of wonderful shops and markets that sold anything and everything imaginable – but it was also filthy. And smelly. London stank. I’d begun to keep a scented kerchief with me to press against my nose when I went outside.

And yet, as I wrote to Phil, despite all this, I loved it. I missed Dublin, its clatter and pong, but I loved the clop of the horses’ hooves as carriages rolled along The Strand. I loved the cries of the newspaper boys, flower sellers and milkmaids each morn and evening. The sing-song chant of the vendors, the cheeky winks and impudence of the entertainers in the vast market at the end of the street. There were jugglers, sword-swallowers, singers, puppeteers, people standing atop fruit crates proclaiming the end of the world or that Jesus saves. Some were more political, chastising the prime minister, Mr Disraeli, or lamenting the offspring of Queen Victoria as ne’er-do-wells. These people weren’t confined to the market either, but appeared on street corners. Stepping outside was like entering an outdoor theatre. I couldn’t help but think of the character Jacques from Shakespeare’s As You Like It, proclaiming that all the world was a stage. The world might not be, but London felt like one.

I adored the quirkiness of the knocker-uppers, paid to wake people by rapping on windows and doors at a set time. If I rose early enough, I’d see them with their long bamboo sticks or mallets. The chimney sweeps’ sooty faces became familiar sights as they strolled up and down the street, long brushes over their shoulders, kerchiefs hanging out of their pockets. The young ones trotting along beside them with their vacant eyes and moist coughs were stark reminders that, for all the beauty, there was also great ugliness here. The drunken lads and lasses, the whores who paraded around the market and surrounding streets come nightfall, the toothless crones begging for coin, the barely dressed children pleading for a scrap of food. Not a day went by without an act of terrible violence being reported in the newspapers. I was warned never to venture to Covent Garden without George, Emma or Mrs Daw. Fortunately, they were always willing, which was just as well, because Bram was rarely home.

Each day he was gone by mid-morning, and I sometimes didn’t see him again until the following one. I’d hear him return at three, four of the clock, sometimes just before dawn. He didn’t deliberately disturb me, but I was still adjusting to being alone in bed after sharing with Phil all my life, so often woke. On the odd day he managed to be home for dinner or took a few hours off to relax, attend to correspondence, or pay some of the bills I was accruing, he’d be summoned back to Mr Irving’s side courtesy of a note delivered by courier. Not even Sundays were sacrosanct.

Twice one Sunday – before luncheon – messages arrived. I was still trying to grasp that a new note had appeared within the space of a couple of hours, when Bram, cursing slightly as he tossed it on the second-hand sideboard, went in search of his hat and an umbrella (the heavens had opened).

George and I regarded each other in disbelief.

‘Surely, that’s not another summons?’ I scooped it up. George lowered his newspaper.

‘What is it this time?’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Iron my shirt? Pick up a loaf of bread?’ He rolled his eyes.

‘I need two fivers for a ten-pound note. H.’ I threw it down in disgust.

‘Irving wants change?’ said George incredulously.

‘More to the point, he wants Bram to find him some.’ I clicked in annoyance. ‘Can’t the man do anything for himself? It’s Sunday.’

George returned to his paper, shaking his head. ‘What’s Irving about, treating Bram like his lackey.’ He flashed me a sympathetic smile. ‘I think you can forget your promenade around Covent Garden today, Florrie.’

‘I think the weather had already cancelled that.’ Rivulets dribbled down the window.

‘That’s beside the point,’ said George.

He was right. ‘Could you say something to Bram? About the notes?’

‘Me?’ George scoffed. ‘I’m only his brother.’

‘Ha! I’m only the Wife. Anyhow, you’ve known him years longer than me.’

‘Aye, but I don’t kiss him, do I?’

‘If you say so,’ I began, grinning. ‘Though you are very close …’

‘I’ll give you close, you hallion —’ began George, rolling the newspaper as if to thwack me with it.

Bram chose that moment to return. George abruptly tucked the roll under his arm. I gave him a pressing look. ‘Ah, er, Bram …’ began George. ‘Florrie has something she wants to say to you.’

I glared at him.

‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said, heaving himself out of the chair. ‘I’m expected at White’s.’

Coward, I mouthed. He winked.

Waiting until the door closed and I’d heard George bid Emma farewell, I held up the note. ‘Bram, surely, this can wait,’ I said gently. ‘It doesn’t need to be dealt with right now.’

Bram put on his coat. ‘I can’t simply ignore it, Florrie.’

‘I’m not asking you to ignore it. I’m suggesting you act on what Mr Irving asks later. When it suits you.’

Bram blinked. ‘It suits me now.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Really? It’s the second message he’s sent just this morning. The first had you racing to the theatre mid-breakfast to check you’d reserved seats for Mr Irving’s wife.’

‘It was important.’