Dilly Court - The Button Box

Clara sighed and shook her head. Betsy was right, of course, but there was no point in dwelling on the past. What happened now was more important. She followed her sister through the shop and out into the street. She was about to lock the door when Betsy uttered a gasp and bent down to pluck something from the snowy pavement.

‘Look what I found.’ She held out her mittened hand and a tiny silver button winked in the light of the gas lamp. ‘I’ll swear this is from Luke’s waistcoat.’

Clara took it from her. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is. It must have come off when he saw me home. I’m certain he would have noticed if it was missing in the restaurant.’

Betsy pointed to a dark stain on the churned-up snow. ‘That looks like blood.’

‘It’s your imagination,’ Clara said sharply. ‘You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for work.’

‘Maybe he slipped and fell,’ Betsy insisted. ‘You should go round to his lodgings and make sure he’s all right.’

‘Luke can take care of himself.’ Clara stepped back into the shop and closed the door, but her knees were trembling and the button seemed to burn into the palm of her hand. She hesitated for a moment and then reached under the counter for the button box. It would be safe there, and buttons came off easily enough. She would make sure it was sewn on more securely when she returned it to Luke.

‘Clara, are you there?’ Jane’s voice brought her down to earth with a bump. It was silly to worry about a lost button, and the stain on the snow might be anything. Even if it were blood that didn’t mean to say it was Luke’s. Betsy was over-imaginative at the best of times. Clara hurried into the parlour.

‘I’m here. I just saw Betsy off to work.’

‘She’s forgotten to take the hat I finished off,’ Jane said anxiously. ‘She’ll be in trouble again.’

Clara thought quickly. It was still only half-past seven, and there was no point in opening the shop before nine. ‘I’ll take it to her, if you don’t mind being left alone again.’

‘Of course not. I feel quite safe here, and thanks to Luke I can make some toast for my breakfast. There’s butter and jam – it feels like Christmas.’

‘I’ll open up when I get back. There probably won’t be any customers until later this morning. It’s still freezing outside.’ Clara took her cloak from the peg and slipped it on. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ She picked up the bandbox containing the hat, blew Jane a kiss and set off after Betsy.

Knowing her sister only too well, Clara had guessed correctly. Betsy did not know the meaning of the word ‘hurry’. She caught her up as she meandered along the Strand in the direction of Miss Lavelle’s shop.

‘You left this behind,’ Clara said breathlessly. ‘And you’re going to be late as it is.’

Betsy glared at the hat box as if it were to blame for her employer’s faults. ‘Thank you.’

‘Hurry up, slowcoach.’

‘I will if you promise to go and see Luke. I’m worried about him.’

‘Anyone would think he was your beau, Betsy. I’m going there now, if you must know. Now please, run the last few yards so that at least it looks as if you’ve tried to get to work on time.’

Betsy rolled her eyes and turned away, but she did walk a little faster than usual, and Clara waited until she saw her enter the premises. She could sympathise with her sister, but they needed the money, little though it might be. One day Betsy would be a fully qualified milliner and able to command a high price for her creations – until then she would have to put up with Miss Lavelle’s idiosyncrasies and foul moods. There was no escape for working girls, other than a suitable marriage, and even then that was not necessarily a recipe for a happy ending. Life was not a fairy tale. Clara set off for Luke’s lodging house in Hanging Sword Alley. It was a long way down Fleet Street, she had only been this way once before and that was in Luke’s company. She put her head down, ignoring the comments from passing draymen and carters, all of whom offered to give her a lift in return for favours not expressed in words, but their meaning was obvious.

She reached the lodging house in the narrow alleyway off Whitefriars Street, and knocked on the door. A feral cat shot past with a dead rat in its mouth and a mangy dog in hot pursuit. She knocked again and this time the door was opened just a crack.

‘What d’yer want?’ The woman’s voice was gruff and the words were slurred with drink although it was still early morning. The smell of gin fumes curled upwards in a plume of bad breath as it evaporated into the cold atmosphere.

‘I want to speak to Mr Foyle.’

‘He ain’t here. Never come home last night, according to the slut I pay to empty the slops. Best try the brothels, love. That’s where they usually end up.’ She slammed the door in Clara’s face.

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