London - Edward Rutherfurd [530]
“Ah!” cried Charlotte gratefully. “Here comes the meat.”
There were two ways to cross the River Thames at Wapping. The first was to take a wherry. With the numerous bridges now spanning the river upstream, the traditional occupation of the watermen in the City and the West End was rapidly disappearing; but down in the docks, apart from the many commercial activities which occupied them, watermen could still be hired to ferry a passenger across. So long, of course, as the passenger could pay. For those who could not, however, at Wapping there was another way to cross.
The Guv’nor’s uninvited guest descended slowly. At the ground level, the circular building with its big Georgian windows looked like a handsome though rather dingy classical mausoleum. As one descended from the light and airy entrance, the great circular pit grew sombre, then dark. Gas lights appeared in the walls, but their little flames only served to make the surrounding shadows deeper. Down at the bottom in the dismal, gaslit gloom, a pair of arched entrances appeared side by side, behind which two dank, forlorn roadways receded.
This was the Thames Tunnel. It had been designed, and its construction supervised by Brunel and his son – two of the greatest engineers England had ever known, although the father had actually come from France. Technically it was a masterpiece, boring through the deep, prehistoric Thames mud for a quarter of a mile, linking Wapping to Rotherhithe on the southern bank. Commercially though, it had been a failure. The carriageways leading down to the tunnel had never been built. Only the staircases for pedestrians were in use and it was a brave, or poor, person who ventured through it now, at risk of being robbed or assaulted by the vagabonds and footpads who lurked down there. But then the Guv’nor’s visitor had no money at all.
It was only by chance that she was approaching him – chance and a newspaper article. Few people in the Whitechapel street where she lived could read; but one man could, and it was he, one day, who had pointed out the Guv’nor’s name to her. “Lord Shaftsbury’s Society for Improving the Condition of the Labouring Classes,” he read out, “has received a most handsome donation from a gentleman residing at Blackheath.” There followed the Guv’nor’s name and address. “He must be a kindly old gentleman,” he remarked.
She was not quite sure who the Guv’nor was and she wondered if she should write to him. “I would write it out for you,” her friend offered. “I’ll pay for it too.” With the newly organized penny Post, even a poor person in Whitechapel could afford to send a letter. But after thinking about it for a week she had finally decided to go to see this kindly gentleman in person. The walk from Whitechapel to Blackheath, via the tunnel, was only about six miles. “Perhaps if he sees me he’ll help me,” she told her friend. “Worst he can do is say no.”
Lucy Dogget was pregnant.
Is there any smell in the world better than a joint of roast beef as it is being carved, piping hot, on the sideboard? Crispy brown outside, then a layer of rich fat, then the meat, rosy, a little bloody at the centre; the carving knife slips through it as though it were soft as butter, as the juice runs off. Not unless, perhaps, it is the spring chickens, the mutton cutlets à la