Y. Lee: The body at the Tower

"I understand," he was saying, "that you're short-handed at the moment. I shall try to find a man to assist you this week, but it is your responsibility to engage a new member for your gang."

The workman he addressed – a tall, powerfully built man in his middle thirties – glowered with frustration. "Don't I know it! But it takes time, that. We're missing an experienced bricklayer, not some useless apprentice."

A muscle jumped under Harkness's left eye. "I know," he said in a placating tone. "As I said, I shall do my best."

The foreman pushed his way out of the crowd, his face dark with anger. "'I shall do my best,'" he simpered, imitating Harkness's tones. "Bloody useless son of a-" His eyes met Mary's and flared with temper. "What the hell you staring at, boy?"

She quickly averted her eyes and edged deeper into the pack. So that man had been Wick's workmate. She wondered if they'd been friends.

It took a long time for Harkness to give each labourer his directions. When Mary finally presented herself, he stared at her for a long moment with red-rimmed eyes. "Who?"

Had she not spoken clearly enough? "Mark Quinn, sir. I'm to begin today as an errand boy, if you please."

The twitch came again, and he pressed a weary hand to his disobedient eye. "As a general errand boy?"

Mary tried to look confident. "Yes, sir." What could have gone wrong? Had someone failed to organize the position? Did she – her stomach plunged at the idea – did she not look the part? A few men nearby had stopped and looked at her curiously as soon as she'd addressed Harkness. Perhaps they could tell, somehow…

Harkness scrubbed his face abruptly with one hand. "And how old are you – what did you say your name was?"

"Quinn, sir. I'm twelve."

"Quinn. Twelve. And you want work as an errand boy."

"Yes, sir." Mary was beginning to think Harkness very slow indeed.

"Hmph." He eyed her speculatively. "Nicely spoken…"

Damn it all. She'd worked so hard to make her voice gruff and diffident, to get the accent just right, but she'd compromised the role from the start by using the wrong vocabulary. What sort of boy would say "begin" instead of "start", or "if you please" instead of simply "please"? Five seconds into the job and she'd already made her first blunder.

Harkness fumbled in his inner coat pocket and pulled out a battered sheaf of papers. "Read that."

Burning with shame, Mary took the bundle and read blankly, automatically, from the top. "'The recasting of the bell by the Whitechapel Foundry is merely the first-'"

The papers were snatched from her grasp. "Bless me, you can read."

Of course she could – and Harkness's realization made her feel sick. Mary Quinn read fluently, but "Mark" Quinn wouldn't read or write; he'd be fortunate to sign his own name. And she, of all people, ought to have known that. But she'd been so busy kicking herself for the first mistake that she'd compounded it with a second – perhaps even greater – error. Her pulse thudded and her cheeks were flushed. She was furious with herself, yet terrified of making a third and even greater faux pas. What was wrong with her? No wonder the labourers nearby stared at her.

Harkness fixed her with another shrewd look. "I ask you again: why are you here as an errand boy?"

There was nothing to do but to brazen it out. "Sir?"

"You make a bad job of playing the fool, Quinn."

He was right. But she'd try, nevertheless. Mary thrust her hands into her pockets and stared at the ground. "I can't do anything else, sir. There's no money for school fees or to buy an apprenticeship."

Harkness folded his arms and looked interested for the first time. "For a bright boy like you?"

"No, sir."

"No Christian charity willing to educate you?"

"No, sir."

"Hm."

There was a long pause, during which Mary concentrated hard on the toes of her new-but-old boots. Her responses to this personal line of questioning wouldn't stand up for long. The last thing she needed was for a kindly employer to research her story. Finally, she looked up. Her face was warm with tension, but Harkness must have seen what he was looking for.

"Never be ashamed to admit want, if it is not your fault," he said quietly.

Mary nodded slightly. "Yes, sir." Where was this conversation leading?

"I have nothing better for you at the moment, Quinn."

Mary frowned. "Nothing better…?"

"Than a post as general errand boy. Not right now."

"That's all I want, sir," she stammered, trying to salvage her role. "I just need…"

But Harkness was shaking his head. "I don't know when something more suited to your abilities will come along. But do your best and prove yourself, and we'll see. He shall provide."

"'He', Mr Harkness?"

"The Lord, child."

"Of course, the Lord." She ought to have guessed.

"You'll work under the bricklayers, assisting with any tasks they set you. Their foreman's named Keenan. You'll also be in charge of making tea in time for elevenses. One of the other boys, Jenkins, will show you the routine. Mine is a teetotal building site, Quinn, so if the men send you for spirits, you're not to oblige. Hot tea is all that's required to sustain the soul, not the offerings of the public house."

Mary nodded. She wasn't sure about souls, but she now had a good idea about Harkness's popularity among the men.

"And – er – since you are better educated than the average errand boy, Quinn, you may find that the others – well, they may not take to you as quickly as they might to someone of their own class. In those instances, remember, child, to turn the other cheek, and also that from those to whom much is given…" Harkness paused expectantly.

"Much is expected," mumbled Mary. The look of gratification on Harkness's face was familiar. "May I go, sir?"

Twitch. "Yes, yes, run along."

She was only too relieved to flee. Three minutes and two colossal mistakes. At this rate, she'd not last the hour. After all that work – cutting her hair, Felicity's coaching – she had failed the very first challenge. Even more humiliating, the role of a poor working child was not unfamiliar to her: after her mother's death, she had indeed been poor, uneducated and desperate. She'd been homeless, at times. She'd gone hungry. She'd passed as a boy to avoid rape. But today's abysmal performance showed how deeply she'd lost touch with that part of her childhood. It came as a profound and unwelcome shock. Five

Mary circled the building site, looking for a stack of bricks and men with trowels. It was a good opportunity to walk the site and explore its corners. It was a cramped, untidy place to work, with a great number of labourers moving awkwardly about the large tower at its centre. St Stephen's Tower was the last element of the Palace to be built. With the Houses of Parliament in daily use and densely built-up streets all around, there was little space to store building materials and equipment except in the construction zone. Wherever the workers stood, the Palace loomed over them, making a pinched space feel even smaller.

All the same, Mary wondered if there might be a more efficient way of doing things. She felt her ignorance here. If she knew more about building practices, she'd be better able to assess Harkness's efficiency as an engineer in charge. Not for the first time since accepting this assignment, she thought of James Easton. She would have given much for his assessment of the site, and the job. But this was an entirely theoretical temptation: James was in India, and she'd never see him again.

Eventually, she noticed a fair-haired man, whistling as he slapped some mortar onto a mortar board. "'Scuse me – you Mr Keenan?" Mary kept her diction indistinct, a little reluctant. She could try to blur her accent a bit more, but the fact remained that she'd already set herself apart. It was too late to change things.