Chapter 1

Shoreditch, London, 1876

            “’Ere you are, gov’ner,” said the cabbie as he let the young man out of his cab and took his fare. “Mead Street. Watch yoursel’ now.”  He clucked to his horse and the cab moved on.

            The young man had known before he came that he would need to “watch himself,” and he took a firm grip on his walking stick. His position as a clerk to a solicitor often required that he find certain people, but never had he been in a neighbourhood as poor as this. He looked at his map again. Yes, Foundry Lane was just off Mead Street. He picked his way past the piles of rubbish that lay around the doorways—old boots, empty wine bottles, and rags—and tried not to stumble over the small children who were playing in the filthy gutter. The air in London was never what one could call pure, but the smells here were absolutely putrid.

It was a sunny day for January, and though the air was cold many of the dwellings had their doors open. This was to try to get rid of the “bad air” which everyone believed caused so much of the sickness in that district. He peeped into one or two of the open doors and saw rooms with nearly nothing in them. He walked the length of Mead Street twice without seeing a single sign to show him which of the alleys that led off the main street might be Foundry Lane.  He asked a few of the men who were lounging about in doorways if they knew the location of Foundry Lane, but they shook their heads.

            But it must be along here somewhere, he said to himself, and as he wondered who might be able to enlighten him, he saw a policeman.

            “Certainly, sir,” said the policeman when the question had been put to him. “But you won’t find it by asking for Foundry Lane—it’s known as Button-hole Row to those that live there.”

            “Ah. Well, do you know how to find Button-hole Row, then?”

            “Yes, sir. Do you recall seeing a pub called the Dog and Duck? Well, just beyond it is a little doorway that looks like it leads to nothing, but if you go in there you’ll soon find yourself in Button-hole Row.”

            “Thank you,” said the young man.

            “You will take care, sir, won’t you?” added the policeman. “It’s not the most law-abiding place in the district.”

            “I will, indeed.”

            The young man found the little doorway and discovered that it led into a kind of courtyard where ten or more brick houses were crammed together around a tiny central square. He took a paper from his pocket and looked at the name written there: Mrs. Amelia Miller. I suppose I must just ask if anyone knows her, he thought.

            A woman was sitting in the doorway of the house nearest to him, sewing on a small piece of cloth. Beside her, on another stool, was a girl of about nine who was sewing on a similar piece of cloth. Both glanced up at the stranger as he approached them, but then looked down at their work and kept their eyes on their sewing.

            “Pardon me,” the young man began, “Do you know of a Mrs. Amelia Miller who lives in Foundry Lane—or, I suppose, Button-hole Row?”

            “I do,” said the woman, “Or I did. She’s dead these two weeks.”

            “Dead!”

            “Died o’ consumption last Tuesday week, God rest ‘er.”

            “You’re certain?”

            A smile flickered over the woman’s face, though she still kept her eyes on her work.

            “Sure as anything. I saw ‘er buried.”

            “Well,” said the young man, “I suppose my task is finished, then. I’ll tell the solicitor that she’s not in need of money anymore.”

            “Money?” said the woman, looking up for a moment before dropping her eyes to her needle again.

            “She was a servant at one time, I believe,” said the young man. “Her former employer left her a small sum in his will, and it was my duty to find her and give her what was due her. Not now,” he added hastily, as he suddenly remembered that thieves were thick in these parts and might rob him for the money they thought he carried, “but after her identity could be proven.”

            The woman sighed. “She could ha’ done with a bit o’ money, poor soul. Many’s the time we’ve sat together sewing all night to get the rent money before it come due. She ‘ad no children to keep, but then, no children to help ‘er, either. Katie here earns two or three shillin’ a week.”

            The man looked at the girl and saw a smaller version of her mother. She also had the round shoulders that came with constant stooping, the dress well flecked with ends of cotton thread, and the swiftly moving fingers.

            “Does it take long to earn three shillings, then?” asked the man.

            The woman shrugged. “Three halfpence for button-holing a dozen collars is small pay. You see" –she went on, taking a fresh collar from her pocket to show him - "the holes is just raw cuts, an’ we have to stitch all round them an’ make the button-holes. A single button-hole don't look much, but there are three holes in every collar; that's thirty-six in the dozen—six holes to work for a farthing.  An’ we buy our own thread as well.” She finished the collar she was working on, laid it aside, and took another one out of her large apron pocket.

While she was speaking the young man had been mentally calculating the quantity of work required to earn the sum she had named. "Why, you must have to do one thousand four hundred and forty button-holes to earn even five shillings! How can you have time to eat or sleep?

The woman shrugged again. “I work fifteen hours a day, and Katie four or five.  She’s a minder for a baby when she’s not button-holing. We can earn ten shillings a week, which is more than most hereabouts.”

The man was about to exclaim again, but was prevented by the woman’s saying, “There you are, Neddy!” in a tone of gentleness.

Looking about him, the young man saw a little boy, about three or four years old, coming across the courtyard. The little boy was filthy and dressed in rags, but there was a sweet expression on his face.

“Are you hungry, luv?” said the woman, and when the boy nodded, she said, “Take ‘im into the house, Katie, and give ‘im a bun.”

“Is he yours as well?” asked the young man.

“No, no, I’ve only got Katie. Neddy’s nobody’s child.”

“Nobody’s child?”

“That’s right. No parents or family.”

“But where does he live?”

“Oh, he sleeps here and there—most o’ the women in the Row have a bit o’ kindness about them, and they lets him sleep on their floors and gives him a bite of food when he comes around.”

“But where did he come from?”

The woman shook her head. “I dunno. There’s lots of nobody’s children, and who’s to say how any of ‘em got here?”

“And what will happen to him?”

The woman shook her head again.

The young man was silent for a moment, watching the woman’s fingers swiftly pushing the needle in and out of the cloth. Katie had returned to her stool and was sewing just as rapidly as her mother. And the little boy Neddy was sitting on the floor between them, devouring his little brown bun.  Slowly the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a shilling.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “That’s to buy him some food.” And before the woman could thank him, he walked quickly away.