Trapped in 1895
Chapter 8

The next morning, an excited Cheryl sat on her bed, waiting for Gregory. It was four in the morning. Of course, she had been to these markets in the twenty-first century, but she was keen to see the original. She jumped at the sound of a stone hitting her window and she rushed to open it, only to have her heart flutter at the sight of Gregory standing under the gaslight. He waved his arm, signalling her to come down, and she swiftly hurried to the door, walking carefully so as not to disturb the sleepers.

Once outside, she hurried into Gregory’s arms, covering him with kisses.

“It feels like a century has passed since I saw you last,” said Cheryl.

Gregory laughed.

“It was last night but... Yes, it feels like a century,” he replied.

“I’m looking forward to this, but why so early?”

Gregory guided her to the cab and helped her in.

“The markets open at five and are at the busiest and most exciting. We will have breakfast later, around nine.”

Gregory gave orders to the driver and half an hour later stopped at the end of Garrick Street. Cheryl stared at the long line of carts and wagons and of people carrying bags and boxes of vegetables. As she followed Gregory into the street, her senses were overwhelmed with the smell of dozens of unwashed bodies and huge piles of horse manure mingled with the fresh scent of vegetables and flowers. Porters, men and women, were shouting, laughing and cursing as they carried their huge loads. Her vision was crowded by people, wagons, and horses. She could barely see through the crowd. So intent was she watching a small skinny man, carrying a huge net bag of cabbages on his shoulders, slide through the crowd and she bumped into the back of an enormous woman with a box of carrots on her head. The box fell onto the road, followed by a huge volume of curses Cheryl could not understand.

“Shit. Oh, please forgive me,” she said as she scrambled around, picking up carrots. The huge woman just unleashed more curses on her head.

“Come, Cheryl,” said Gregory, “leave it be. It happens sometimes. There’s nothing you can do.”

He gently took her arm and led her off to King Street.

King Street was even more crowded, but the throng had formed two streams. It reminded Cheryl of a picnic many years ago, as a child. She watched a stream of ants coming and going from a carcass of a field mouse magically avoiding each other.

“Not long to go now, darling. St Paul’s church is just ahead,” said Gregory.

Gregory seemed to glide through the crowd easily, but Cheryl was slowed down, dodging porters coming towards her or pushed aside by those rushing past her. She thought Gregory had forgotten about her when she was startled by a loud neighing from a large horse next to her. It reared on his hind legs, lifting the boy hanging on to it, whose job was to look after the horse.

“Whoa, Samson,” yelled the boy, “whoa, calm down. It’s only a rat.”

This news caused Cheryl to lift her skirt and dance around looking for the rat.

“’ere girl,” said a voice near her, “steady on. You’ll knock me load orf.”

This startled Cheryl into looking for Gregory but he was not in sight. Then the pressure of all the people, carts and tall dark buildings lining this small street began to close in on her and panic rose in her breast. At that moment a man’s voice behind her said, “You better keep moving, miss, or you will be trampled into the pavement.”

Yes, she thought, keep moving. Move towards the church. Blindly she moved on then a hand grasped her shoulder, pulling her out of the crowd.

“FUCK,” she yelled but nobody noticed amongst all the other cursing going on around her.

“Cheryl, it’s me, Gregory,” said a familiar voice.

“Where the hell did you go?” asked Cheryl.

“Sorry, I was daydreaming about something and I forgot you were behind me.”

With her eyes blazing with anger, she said, “You idiot. I could have gotten lost. God knows what would have happened to me.”

“Please forgive me. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Mollified, Cheryl hooked her arm through Greg’s, determined not to lose him again. A few minutes later, they were standing at the entrance to the markets.

Cheryl was now presented with another sight. The purpose full activity of picking up and delivering goods was replaced by a mulling crowd of people moving amongst carts and stalls piled high with vegetables. Nothing in her twenty-first century mind could match the scene in front of her. Directly ahead were mounds of cabbages and vegetables and, by peering between them, lay even larger piles of potatoes. As Gregory led her in, amongst the crowd looking around, she could see brightly coloured wagons fringing the entire area. Men and women, balancing many baskets on their heads, threaded their way to the wagons.

“Are you hungry?” asked Gregory.

“I am a bit.”

They weaved between the carts and people to a little table against a pillar. Spread out on the table were some tea, bread and butter. A young woman, a girl really, stood beside it with a hopeful look.

“Something for the lady, mister,” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she reached out with grubby hands and lifted a chunk of bread in one hand and a dirty knife in the other. She spread huge chunks of butter over it, then poured some tea into two mugs.

“That’ll be a penny, mister.”

Without a glance at the grubby hands, Gregory took the bread, tore it into two and took a huge bite, followed by a big swig of tea. Cheryl looked in amazement as Gregory swallowed the bread. She half expected him to drop dead with food poisoning, but he merely said, “Delicious, nothing like fresh bread. Come on, eat up.”

Against her will, Cheryl raised the suspect bread to her lips and bit it. She was surprised at how good it tasted and how hungry she was.

It was now six in the morning and porters were carrying huge piles of baskets on their heads to various carts and wagons and Cheryl had to take extra care not to bump them.

“Come,” said Gregory, “let me buy you a flower.”

Gregory led the way through the throng to the steps of St Paul’s church. Against each of the pillars and over all the steps sat women and children, carefully guarding baskets of flowers. Leave any basket unattended and it would silently disappear.

“Let’s try that flower seller over there,” said Gregory. They made their way to a young woman and a small girl sitting in front of one of the pillars, both of whom looked as though they owned the spot.

“Buy a pretty button flower or a nosegay for your lady friend, sir.” she asked Gerald. She’s just my age, thought Cheryl. I wonder if that could have been me. The young woman’s clothes were old and worn, but clean. Her toes showed through one boot she wore. The little girl’s dress was much too big for her and just as worn. She had no shoes and her feet were covered in the grime of London’s streets.

“Is this your daughter, miss?”

“Aye,” she replied, “this is me eldest, Sylvia. Have two young’uns back home. A little boy and girl. Ma man is lookin’ after them. He can’t work on account he lost his leg when a wagon rolled over him. He was dead drunk at the time. He helps by putting the bunches of flowers together.”

Cheryl peered at the basket full of flowers.

It was full of primroses, violets, wall-flowers, and stocks. Roses of different sorts, pinks, and carnations, mixed flowers, and lilies of the valley. The strong, fragrant scent overpowered the smell of the market.

“How much are they, miss?” asked Cheryl.

“Penny a bunch, ma’am” replied the flower seller.

“Please Gregory. Buy two bunches and give her three-pence.”

Reluctantly, Gregory parted with the money and picked roses and violets for Cheryl.

This is a first, she thought, nobody has bought her flowers like this before.

As they made their way amongst the other flower sellers the hustle and bustle in the courtyard began to subside and the crowd changed slowly as they made their way to the fruit sellers. The public began to mingle with the traders and porters carrying goods for well dressed ladies to their carriages instead of wagons. The quantity and variety of fruits was astounding. Beautiful oranges from California. Apples from Tasmania mixed with rosy red apples from the orchards of England. Strawberries grown under glass and many other types of food. Piercing through the scent and colour of all these fruits was the Barra boys’ cry of ‘a shilling a pound for delicious green gooseberries’ mixed with others shouting about apples, blueberries and bananas.

“Here boy. How much for an apple?” asked Gregory over the din. In front of a cart, piled high with boxes of apples stood a youth, about fifteen.

Before the boy could reply, a voice behind Cheryl said, “I wouldn’t buy any of them apples, miss.”

When Cheryl turned she came face to face with Mrs. Worthington, a tall dismal looking woman in a black dress with a black bonnet. Mrs. Worthington was a housekeeper, a friend of Mrs Cole.

“They’re all rotten,” she said, “they came off a ship from Australia and held up in Port for two weeks.Look at this.”

She pulled a little knife from her basket and cut an apple open. Its core had gone rotten and brown.

“’ere, missus,” cried the boy, “that’ll cost you a penny.”

“The Devil it will,” replied Mrs Worthington, “I wouldn’t give this to a horse.”

She contemptuously threw the rotten apple at the boy’s feet and steered the couple to another barrow. The owner of this barrow was a young man with a crooked leg but much cleaner and dressed in clean work clothes.

“Now these apples here are honest to god English apples picked a day or two ago.”

Gregory happily parted with his penny and Cheryl took a large bite out of the delicious apple. She never failed to be amazed at the fresh taste of food in the nineteenth century, so different from the genetically modified food of the twenty-first.

“I have to get on with my shopping but try out the strawberries before you leave. They’ve never been more delicious,” she said as she disappeared into the crowd.

Standing in front of the strawberry cart was a young woman arguing with the barrow man.

“That last box you gave me was all rotten. I wants me money back.”

“Get out of here, you little slut. I ain’t giving you nothing.”

The young woman drew herself up to her full height and said, “I ain’t no slut mister. I’m an honest woman trying to make a living and cheating, thieving barrow boys like you don’t make it easy.”

The man stepped towards the woman and was about to strike her when Gregory grabbed his wrist.

“Enough,” he said, “There is no need to hit her.”

The barrow boy pulled away from Gregory and said, “No little slut calls me a thief.”

The woman moved forward with the intention of scratching his eyes out but Cheryl stepped in front of her.

“That won’t help,” she said.

“He sold me rotten strawberries. I can’t sell them now. I’m broke and I can’t buy more,” she said and started crying.

Gregory confronted the barrow boy demanding to know if he had sold her rotten strawberries.

“Look mister. I don’t open every box. If I had to give the money back for every rotten box I’d go broke.”

“So you should,” another voice said. A gnarled old man appeared from behind the cart.

“He buys up all the old strawberries from the other carts and pretends they’re new. He’s a crook, he is.”

“Keep your mouth shut, old man,” said the barrow boy. The old man was not going to be intimidated and advanced on the barrow boy.

“Or what. I’m not scared of you.”

A little group had gathered around them and a couple of men began to urge the old man on.

“Give him a good hiding grandad.”

“Crack his skull.”

The old man started dancing around on the balls of his feet with surprising agility with his fists raised in a classic boxing position. The barrow boy began to advance on the old man with a grim look on his face when a voice rang out.

“Wots going on here then?”

A burly, official looking person, that Cheryl took to be a policeman, got between the men.

“This man sold this woman a box of rotten strawberries,” volunteered Gregory.

“Is that right,” said the policeman. Turning to the barrow boy he said, “Up to your old tricks again, Charlie.”

“It’s no crime to sell rotten strawberries, sor. She should take more care.”

“What does that sign say, Charlie?” he asked pointing to a painted white board above the strawberries.

“Fresh strawberries, sor.”

Turning to the young woman he asked, “Was that sign there yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give her a fresh box or I’ll run you in for thievery.”

Grumbling and cursing, the barrow boy went round the back and returned with a new box. The young woman grabbed it and ran off.

“Alright, go about your business now,” said the policeman. When the old man went off and the barrow boy returned to his barrow the crowd dispersed.

A sudden burst of laughter caught Cheryl’s attention. In a corner of the yard where a huge pile of cabbages had stood in the early morning a little crowd had gathered. Over the head of the crowd she could see a little structure with puppets inside.

“Oh my god,” cried Cheryl, “a Punch and Judy show. Come on, Gregory. I must see this.”

They hurried over to join the small crowd and were greeted by a shriek from Punch as he whacked Judy with his stick. The little crowd roared with laughter and the bottler banged his drum. Judy in her turn whacks Punch with her stick causing Punch to retaliate by throwing the baby at her. This caused the crowd to burst out laughing and the bottler used the moment to collect donations from the crowd.

“Thank you ma’am. Thank you sir,” he said as he popped the coins into his bottle.

To add to all the noise a police puppet appears hitting everyone with his baton. This really amused the crowd but Cheryl’s attention was suddenly diverted by a ragged youth stealthily moving through the crowd passing near her. In amazement she watched his hand slip into a woman’s bag and, instinctively, she reached out and gripped the youths wrist. The pair froze and the woman moved away unaware anything was amiss. Startled, Gregory turned.

“What’s going on here?”

“Leave me be, missus. I ain’t done nothing wrong,” said the boy.

“You were stealing from that ladies bag,” replied Cheryl. Gregory, promptly, gripped the lads collar.

“Let’s find a policeman,” he said. He started marching the lad off when their way was blocked by three men. The man in the middle was an old man, bent over and leaning on a heavy thick walking cane. One eye was covered with a patch and his mouth was full of broken rotting teeth which he displayed to anyone unfortunate enough to look.

The one on his left was enormous, the biggest man Cheryl had ever seen. He had a bald head and a huge scar, from his forehead to the back of his neck. The one on the right was thin and well dressed but had a very evil face.

“What have we here?” said the middle man.

“They’ve nicked me, mister. Taking me to the coppers.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to do, sir,” said the man addressing Gregory, “the poor lad was just trying to earn a living, trying to keep body and soul together.”

Taking a firmer grip Gregory said, “He was stealing and now he will pay for it.”

The large man moved forward, gripped Cheryl’s arm and pressed a knife to her throat and the thin man moved in front of Gregory.

“Now, now. Let’s be reasonable. Is turning the lad over to the law worth your ladies’ throat.”

Gregory looked at Cheryl’s face, frozen in terror and loosened his grip on the boy who struggled free and went to run off but was caught by the thin man. The large man lowered his knife and let Cheryl go free, who immediately ran to Gregory.

“Nice to meet you sir. Don’t worry about the boy, I’ll teach him the error of his ways and not get caught the next time.”

The two men grabbed the boy’s arms, lifting him off his feet and marched away.

Gregory held the trembling Cheryl in a tight embrace then separated, holding her lightly trembling hands.

“Are you ok? Do you want to go home?”

Cheryl took a deep breath then said, “I’m alright. Let’s go and look at the flowers.”

They made their way to the flower markets and Cheryl was overcome by the scent and colour of the flowers and exotic plants. She sorely missed her smartphone and camera. Her Facebook friends would love pictures of these flowers, many of which no longer existed.

Gerald left her for a moment then returned with a beautiful, single red rose. Cheryl had never seen anything like it.

“I really don’t know which is the most beautiful, you or this rose,” said Gregory.

“It would have to be the rose,” said Cheryl, sniffing the flower, “but I forgive you anyway.”

Gregory took Cheryl by the hand and led her to a corner of the market.

“This is my favourite spot,” he said. Cheryl stared in wonder at dozens of baskets full of beautiful sweet smelling flowers she didn’t recognise.

“I come here because it reminds me of my childhood. Our farm was mainly a dairy farm but one year my mother decided to plant and sell flowers. She chose these and planted about an acre.

“My brothers, sisters and I would help mum each day. First thing in the morning, before school, we would be pulling up weeds in the plot. We watched in delight as the flowers grew and bloomed. Honestly, I don’t know why mum bothered. The money she would have made was a fraction of what we get for our milk but she was proud of it.

“It was truly a vision, an acre of beautiful heaven. You couldn’t stand in the centre for long without becoming giddy from the scent and thousands of bees were constantly buzzing around.”

He stopped and Cheryl looked at him as his eyes were staring into the past.

“What happened?” Asked Cheryl.

Gregory came back to the present and with a sigh said, “I left the gate open and the cows got in. They ate every single flower.”

Cheryl, guiltily, suppressed a little giggle and said, “How awful. Did you get into trouble?”

Gregory smiled.

“When I looked at my father’s face I thought I was in for a mighty thrashing but the real pain I felt was when I looked at my mother’s face. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. At that moment I wished God would pick me up and cast me into hell. Instead mum put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me to her. Then she said, the milk will smell nice now. Not another word was ever said about the incident.”

They fell silent with the sound of the market surrounding them. Cheryl took Gregory’s hand and said, “Buy me some.”

The happy couple went off to find a cab, returning to a nice lunch prepared by Mrs Cole

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