“Is that what that pipe is?” she asked, gesturing to the one that crossed the deep gash in the earth about fifteen feet down, going diagonally on a quite different track from the cutting.
Sutton smiled. “No, Miss ’Ester, that’s gas fer lights an’ things in there. I’m talkin’ about the sort o’ gas that collects up under the ground ’cos o’ wot sewers is for carryin’. Gives off methane, it does, an’ if the air or water don’t carry it away, it’s enough ter suffocate a man. Or if some fool lights a spark, with a tinder or a steel boot on stone, then whoomph!” He jerked his hands apart violently, fingers spread to indicate an explosion. “Or there’s the choke-damp wot yer gets in coal mines an’ the like. That’ll kill yer, too.”
Again she said nothing, trying to imagine what it would be like to have no skill except one that obliged you to labor in such conditions. And yet she had known navvies before, in the Crimea, and a braver, harder-working group of men she had never seen. They had built a railway for the soldiers across wild, almost uncharted terrain, in the depth of winter, in a time most others had considered totally outside any possibility. And an excellent railway it was, too. But that had been aboveground.
The great steam engine was still pounding away, shaking the earth with its strength, hauling as men and beasts never could. Foot by foot were forming the sewers that would make London clean, safe from the epidemics of typhoid and cholera that had carried away so many in appalling deaths.
“It’s that damn great thing wot worries me,” Sutton said, staring at the steam engine. “There’s other ones like that, even bigger, wot I can’t show yer, ’cos o’ where they are. Everyone’s in an ’urry an’ they in’t takin’ care like they should. A wheel gets away from yer, chain breaks loose on one o’ them things, an’ before yer knows it, a man’s arm’s ripped out, or a beam o’ wood’s broke wot’s ’oldin’ up ’alf the roof o’ somethin’.”
“They’re in a hurry because of the threat of typhoid and cholera such as we had in the Great Stink,” she said quietly.
“I know. But ’cos they’re tryin’ ter beat each other an’ get the next order, too,” he added. “An’ no one says nothin’ ’cos they don’t want ter lose their jobs, or ’ave other folks think they’re scared.”
“And are they scared?”
“Course they are.” He looked at her ruefully. “Yer must be froze. I’ll take yer to see someone not a mile from ’ere oo’ll give us a decent cup o’ tea. C’mon.” And without waiting for her to accept, or possibly not, he turned and began walking back from the crevasse the way they had come, through the rubble and piles of timber, much of it rotted. As always, the little dog was beside him, jumping over the stones, his tail wagging.
Hester followed after him, having to hurry to catch up. She did not resent his pace; she knew it came from the emotion driving him, the fear that a tragedy might occur before he could do anything to stop even the smallest part of it.
They did not talk in the half hour it took them to weave their way through the narrow streets and alleys, but it was a companionable silence. He was very careful to keep step with her and now and then to warn her of a particularly rough or slippery stretch of road or of the steepness of the step up to an occasional pavement.
She wondered if this was where he had grown up. During the brief space they had known each other, there had been no time for talk of such things, even had either of them wished to. Before today she had not known that his father was a tosher. But hunting the sewers for accidentally flushed treasures and keeping down the worst of the vast rat population that emerged from that underworld were closely allied trades, though rat-catching was the superior. The tosher would have been proud of his son. He should have been even prouder of his courage and humanity.
The streets were busy. A coal cart trundled over the cobbles. A costermonger was selling fruit and vegetables on the corner where they crossed. A peddler of buttons brought to her mind the need to replenish her sewing basket, but not now. She hurried to keep up with Sutton’s swift pace. Women passed them carrying pails of water, bundles of clothes, or groceries. They skirted around half a dozen children playing games—tossing knucklebones or skipping rope. For an instant she ached to be able to do something for them—food, boots, anything. She dismissed it from her mind with force. Cats and dogs and even a couple of pigs foraged around hopefully. It was still appallingly cold.
The door where Sutton finally stopped was narrow, with peeling paint and no windows or letter box. In some places that would indicate that it was a façade placed to hide the fact that there was a railway behind it rather than a house, but here it was that no letters were expected. None of the other doors had knockers, either.
Sutton banged with the flat of his hand and stood back.
A few minutes later it was opened by a girl of about ten. Her hair was tied with a bright length of cloth and her face was clean, but she had no shoes on. Her dress was obviously cut down from a longer one, and left with room to fit her at least another couple of years.
“ ’Allo, Essie. Yer mam in?” Sutton asked.
She smiled at him shyly and nodded, turning to lead the way to the kitchen.
Hester and Sutton followed, driven as much by the promise of warmth as anything else.
Essie led them along a narrow passage that was cold and smelled of damp and old cooking, and into the one room in the house that had heat. The warmth came from a small black stove with a hob just large enough for one cauldron and a kettle. Her mother, a rawboned woman who must have been about forty but looked far older, was scraping the eyes and the dirt from a pile of potatoes. There were onions beside her, still to be prepared.
In the corner of the room nearest the stove sat a large man with an old coat on his knees. The way the folds of it fell, it was apparent that most of his right leg was missing. Hester was startled to see from his face that he was probably no more than forty either, if that.
Sutton ordered Snoot to sit, then he turned to the woman.
“Mrs. Collard,” he said warmly, “this is Mrs. Monk, ’oo nursed some of the men in the Crimea, an’ keeps a clinic for the poor in Portpool Lane.” He did not add specifically what kind of poor. “An’ this is Andrew Collard.” He turned to the man. “ ’E used ter work in the tunnels.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Collard, Mr. Collard,” Hester said formally. She had long ago decided to speak to all people in the same way rather than distinguish between one social class and another by adopting what she felt would be their own pattern of introduction. There was no need to wonder why Andrew Collard did not work in the tunnels anymore.
Collard nodded, answering with words almost indistinguishable. He was embarrassed—that was easy to see—and perhaps ashamed because he could not stand to welcome a lady into his own home, meager as it was.
Hester had no idea how to make him at ease. She ought to have been able to call on her experience with injured and mutilated soldiers. She had seen enough of them, and enough of those wasted by disease, racked with fever, or unable even to control their body’s functions. But this was different. She was not a nurse here, and these people had no idea why she had come. For an instant she was furious with Sutton for the imposition upon them, and upon her. She did not dare meet his eyes, or he would see it in her. She might then even lash out at him in words, and be bitterly sorry afterwards. She owed him more than that, whatever she felt.
As if aware of the rage and misery in the silence, Sutton spoke. “We just bin and looked at the diggin’,” he said to Andrew Collard. “Freezin’ at the moment, and not much rain, but it’s drippin’ quite a bit, all the same. ’Ow long d’yer reckon it’ll take some o’ that wood ter rot?”
Mrs. Collard glanced from one to the other of them, then told Essie to go outside and play.
“They’re movin’ too fast for it ter m
atter,” Collard answered. “In’t the wood rottin’ as is the trouble, it’s them bleedin’ great machines shakin’ everythin’ ter bits. Does it even more if they in’t tied down like they should be. Only Gawd ’isself knows what’s shiftin’ around underneath them bleedin’ great things.”