Trapped in 1895

She woke up, right on time Saturday morning, expecting Mrs Cole to storm in, then realised it was Saturday. Cheryl groaned as she realised she couldn’t go back to sleep, so she got up and checked her bottom. The pain was gone and the red welts had degenerated to large bruises. She dressed and went down to the kitchen.

“My, you’re up early,” said Mrs Cole. Cheryl poured herself some tea and pinched a bit of Mrs Coles’ breakfast.

“If you want some, just ask,” said Mrs. Cole as she pulled the plate back towards herself.

“Don’t you ever stop, Mrs Cole.”

“Somebody’s gotta keep this house going while you are running all over the place.”

This had the desired effect of making Cheryl feel guilty until she remembered she shouldn’t be here at all.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me today,” said Cheryl, deciding to go out for a walk in the park while she waited for Harry.

When Cheryl entered the park, she noticed a group of people shouting and cheering by the frozen pond. A group of children of all ages, size and sex were racing each other, skating on the icy pond. She took up a position on the edge of the pond and noticed that a small boy, about nine or ten, was leading the group on what appeared to be the last lap. The group of adults all yelled and cheered for their favourite.

The small boy slowly pulled from the group, but a large girl came from the outside and overtook him. When she got near, she gave him a huge shove and the small boy hurtled towards Cheryl, out of control. His skates struck the edge, launching him straight towards Cheryl. He head butted her on the chest and she was thrown backwards with the boy on top.

Cheryl lay there gasping for breath when a woman’s voice said, “Georgie, Georgie. Are you all right?”

She pulled him to his feet, ignoring the prostate Cheryl.

“I’m ok, mum. That lady saved me.”

For the first time, she noticed Cheryl and helped her to her feet. Cheryl felt her chest.

My right boob is going to have an enormous bruise, she thought.

“Are you ok?” she asked, fussing over Cheryl.

“Yes, yes, but aren’t you going to complain?”

“Not likely. That bitch made me ten quid.”

“Surely you didn’t bet against your son,” said Cheryl.

“Look at him. He didn’t have a chance of winning,” she said, beaming at her son. “I’m proud of you, boy.”

The boy didn’t take the slightest offence and stood there grinning.

“The name is Mrs Penny Hill. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, but thank you.”

“Are you a working girl?”

Cheryl was not sure how to take that, but proudly answered, “I’m a scullery maid.”

“I was a scullery maid once. Horrible job. Scrubbing pots, pans and kitchen floors. Being insulted by the cook. Look, you’re a nice-looking girl. I own the Black Stallion pub on the other side of the park. I own the building, Mr. Hill has the licence. I’m always looking for a nice looking barmaid. I’ll give you a job if you want. Pays good and I give you time orf. Not like other Publicans who work you till you drop.”

“I’m happy where I am, thanks. I have to go now.”

Unsettled by the job offer Cheryl hurried off to meet Harry.

Cheryl waited on steps and it wasn’t long before Harry appeared. No romantic little Hansom Cab driven by a well-groomed mare but a bare work-cart pulled by a gigantic Clydesdale that dropped huge smelly droppings. Harry leapt off.

“Fantastic, isn’t it? Mr. Kelly lets me borrow it occasionally.”

In one motion, he swept Cheryl up and deposited her in the passenger’s seat then jumped up.

“Hold on, we’re off.”

As if a switch had been pushed, the giant horse moved forward, surprising Cheryl, who tumbled backward into bags of flour.

“Ahh, help,” she yelled as her bloomer clad legs flew up in the air and her dress fell around her head. As she scrambled back onto the seat, onlookers burst into cheers and laughter.

“Thanks a lot,” she complained.

“Sorry, but my hands were full. You spooked the horse.”

After she settled down on the seat, she appreciated her position. It was much better than sitting in a Hansom cab. The streets thronged with the sight and sound of horse-drawn carriages. There were even some drawn by mules and she was fascinated by a team of eight oxen pulling the largest wagon she ever saw. It was packed with a covered load high over the driver and bulging over the sides. The oaths that came from the driver’s mouth as he urged the oxen for even more effort turned the air blue. Hansom cabs and other carriages flew past carrying well-dressed, pretty ladies and handsome men while carts carrying coal with coal men, black as midnight, rumbled past. Sacks of flowers, vegetables for the markets, even furniture, but all the drivers gave them a hearty wave and called out greetings to Harry. One mustn’t forget the horses, of all types and the greatest threat to London’s existence, the ever-growing mountain of horse dung or the pedestrians who would suddenly cross in front of them or wander, usually drunk, along the street miraculously avoiding death by trampling. Her heart nearly stopped as an urchin boy, or maybe a girl, as it’s hard to tell, darted out in front of them and scooped up the dung dropped by the horse in front.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Street urchin. Earning a penny for scooping up horse dung.”

“Does he get a penny for every scoop?”

“Good heavens no. He has to work all day for that.”

“What do they do with it all?”

“Farmers buy it. As fertiliser.”

Harry pulled the cart into a vacant lot. Homeless people, mostly children, scattered from among the rubbish and Harry caught one by the collar.

“Stop. I will not hurt you. I’ll give you a sixpence if you watch the cart. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours.”

“Cor, ok mister.”

“Better be nothing missing.”

“There won’t,” said the boy as he pulled a vicious looking instrument from his waist.

“Come on,” he said to Cheryl, “it’s only a short walk from here.”

She could hear the hum of people before she even saw them. Petticoat Lane was filled with little shops and street vendors. Clothing of all types hung from poles and ropes. Street vendors sold pots, pans and plates, jugglers juggled with the plates showing not only their skill but how robust the plates were. Cheryl was marvelling about the delicate porcelain doves a vendor was selling when she heard a voice.

“Cheryl, dearest.”

She turned around to greet Mary.

“Whatever are you doing here?” she said to Mary.

“Buying a new dress.”

“But I thought you only shopped in town.”

“Nonsense. I’m only a housemaid, with a housemaid’s wages. It’s pretty good but I like to spend the money on the theatre and trips to the seaside. You can get very nice dresses here. Come, I’ll show you ”

Then she seemed to notice Harry.

“Is this your gentleman friend,” she asked.

“This is Harry. Actually, I don’t know your last name.”

“Coleman,” he replied.

“How did you two meet?” asked Mary.

“She was having a bath,” said Harry before Cheryl could think of an alternative.

“Oh,” said Mary, looking at Cheryl knowingly.

“A perfectly respectable bath,” replied Cheryl, determined not to reveal the disgusting black water she had been sitting in.

“Oh look,” said Mavis, “more food.”

By the side of the lane was a street vendor with a sign “Jellied-eel pies. Two pence.”

“Allow me,” said Harry.

Cheryl declined. The misery of four days was still fresh in her mind.

“Oh, of course,” said Harry, “we are having lunch at the Lion Heart.”

“My, one of the most expensive pubs in the district. You must have high hopes, Harry.”

To Cheryl’s amazement, Harry turned a bright red.

“No...please... Honest...I didn’t.”

“I’m just teasing you, Harry. I’m sure you won’t mind escorting two young ladies about the markets.”

Harry walked off with a young lady on each arm.

Many years ago, Jewish immigrants moved into the area around Petticoat Lane bringing with them their skills in cloth making. Jewish men with long beards and hats and Jewish women crowded the lane, occasionally pushed aside by large loaded carts, laboriously making their way through the crowd.

“Watch out,” cried Harry, grabbing Cheryl’s arm, pulling her out of the way. No sooner had they avoided this obstacle when greasy, noisy bargainers took its place trying to push their wares onto the helpless trio.

Cheryl had become nervous. This long, narrow, filthy lane had many bends and many little alleys and yards, all filled with the smell of musty old clothes and shoe leather. Sinister looking men stood around in these lanes staring at her. As she looked about, she was amazed at the abundance of small shops of all kinds of goods. Clothes shops, butchers, bakers, coffee houses and public houses. She gave a gasp.

“Is that a pork shop selling pork sausages in a Jewish area?”

Harry laughed.

“It is but nobody in their right mind would buy one.”

They reached a group of tables whose minders descended on them, trying to sell many goods. One thrusted an old rusted musket into Harry’s hand at ‘a very reasonable price, guv.’ Another thrust a cracked chamber pot into Cheryl’s hands who almost dropped it in disgust.

“Look at this,” yelled Mary and held up an elegant evening gown that had seen better days only to have it snatched out of her hands by a large woman. Mary was about to round on the woman but Cheryl tugged her arm and led her off.

“It smelled anyway,” said Mary, then Harry called out, “Look at this,” holding up a satin green dress.

“My Harry. Don’t you look good in that dress?”

“No but really. This would look good on Miss Brown.”

“Oh please, call me Cheryl and yes, I would look good in that.”

A little woman with a shawl over her head appeared.

“That will be ten shillings, sir.”

“Rubbish,” said Mary, “we will give you a shilling.”

The old woman feigned shock and cried, “I will starve at that price, five shillings.”

“Two shillings and sixpence.”

“I won’t be able to feed my family,” she moaned, putting the coins into her bag then turning and ignoring them.

The trio carried on through the lane and came upon a girl tending a table full of cheap jewellery. There was not a piece of gold or silver in sight. Cheryl looked over the table contents, then exclaimed, “Look. A peacock brooch. Just like the one my grandmother left me.”

When Chery was twelve, her grandmother, who she loved, died and in her few possessions she left Cheryl the Peacock brooch. Made of gold and inlaid with tiny semi-precious stones. Two months later, her father lost it in a card game. The one she was holding was made of tin wire and coloured pebbles from the beach, but she felt the same sentiments.

“How much? She asked the young girl.

“One shilling, ma-am.”

She didn’t have the money. With a thud, she realised she was so poor she couldn’t even buy a cheap broach. Mary was about to bargain, but Harry stopped her. He pulled out his purse and handed the girl a coin. He took the broach and stood in front of Cheryl, whose brown eyes were filled with tears. With tenderness and more than a hint of love, he pinned the broach on her chest.

“It belongs there,” he said. Cheryl wrapped her arms around him and wept quietly. They continued strolling hand in hand along the lane.

By mid-afternoon, Cheryl had returned to the professor’s house and Harry lifted her down from the cart.

‘Would it be improper, Miss Brown, if I kissed you?’

My, thought Cheryl, no boy has ever asked permission before. They usually just grab her and plant one on her lips.

“I think it would be perfectly proper, Mr. Coleman,” she replied, smiling into his soft brown eyes.

Sunday arrived and Cheryl slid under the blankets, enjoying the warmth of the bed when she was hit with a blast of cold air.

“What the f... ” swore Cheryl.

“Up you get, missy. You’re going to church.”

“But it’s Sunday, my day off and I want to spend it in bed,” moaned Cheryl.

“I will have no idleness in my house. If you’re not working on a Sunday, you should be in church. If you hurry, I might make you breakfast.”

Moaning and groaning, Cheryl dragged herself up into the freezing room and pulled the chamber pot out. Half an hour later, she entered the kitchen to be greeted by the smell of sizzling bacon and sausages.

“Let me have a look at you.”

“Why?”

“I need to make sure you are dressed respectably, suitable for church and you have washed behind your ears.”

Cheryl ignored this slight on her hygiene instead said, “It’s hard to be dressed anything other than respectable in this century.”

Cheryl actually selected the right clothes, to Mrs. Cole’s amazement.

“You’ll pass. By the way, what are you?”

Cheryl gave Mrs. Cole a puzzled look.

“Are you Church of England or Roman Catholic? Please say you’re not Jewish.”

Cheryl thought then said, “Do you know, I don’t know. I think I am a Church of England. I seem to remember going to Sunday School as a very little girl.”

“Good, that’s a relief. We can go to the same church together. Now put your outside clothes on and we have to walk three miles. Now get a move on.”

Just then, the professor wandered in for his breakfast and sat down, beginning to read the morning paper.

“Professor, Mrs. Cole is making me go to church,” she whined, hoping the professor would take pity on her.

“That is an excellent idea. Give the pastor my regards,” he said, without even looking up. Cheryl gave up and went to put her outdoor clothes on.

They trudged the three miles to the church. Mrs. Cole refused to pay the street sweepers, so Cheryl had to jump to avoid the bigger horse-droppings. She was surprised at how nervous she was as she climbed the steps with Mrs.Cole. It was a tiny church and just as she entered the church, a voice said, “Excuse me.”

She spun around, thinking she had done something wrong, and a man thrust a sheet of paper in her hand. It was a program. Gripping it nervously, they entered the church. People gradually filled up the pews. The vicar mounted the pew, and they all sang a few hymns. As the singing ended, the vicar held his hand up for silence.

“Members of the congregation, as you know, I am retiring, and this is my last sermon. The person taking over is a young vicar who has been preaching in the north. May I introduce the Vicar Clerk?”

A handsome vicar took the pew and there was an audible gasp from Mrs. Cole, drawing Cheryl’s attention to her.

“Mrs. Cole, you have gone all white.”

Mrs Cole stood up, grasped Cheryl’s arm and hauled her out the church. Cheryl was astounded.

“Do you know him, Mrs Cole?”

In a low growl, Mrs. Cole said, “If you mention this to anyone, you will scrub the outhouse till you go back to the future.”

Cheryl made a note of this.