The Mistletoe Seller. Dilly Court

Dolly?’

      ‘How would I know? She owes me for last night, and so do you. If I haven’t got the money by midday you’ll have to find another dosshouse.’

      ‘I will pay,’ Angel said urgently. ‘I’ve got mistletoe to sell. I’ll have plenty of money but maybe not until later on. Has Dolly gone to the market? She’s not …?’ Angel could not bring herself to speak the word.

      ‘Dead?’ Mother Jolly cackled with laughter. ‘She was well enough to get dressed and go out in the snow. Although who knows what’s happened to her since seven o’clock this morning. She might be frozen solid on the foreshore or floating down the Thames towards the sea.’

      Angel turned her back on her landlady and took the stairs two at a time.

      She found Dolly, barefoot and shivering, in Covent Garden market. She was slumped against the wall in the floral hall, surrounded by a collection of bruised and broken carnations and chrysanthemum petals.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ Angel was relieved to find her, but Dolly’s pallor was alarming. Her flame-red hair seemed to have sucked every last scrap of colour from her face and there were bruise-like shadows under her green eyes. ‘You’re not well, Dolly.’

      ‘I got no money to pay Mother Jolly. You never came back last night and I thought I might earn a penny or two here.’

      Angel took off her shawl and wrapped it around Dolly’s thin shoulders. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold, sitting here on the bare stone. Can you get up?’

      ‘I can’t walk another step. Me feet are so numb I don’t think I can stand.’

      Angel sat down beside her and took off her boots. ‘Put these on. They leak but they’re better than nothing.’

      Dolly’s eyes widened in horror. ‘I can’t take your boots. How will you manage?’

      ‘I’ve got some money,’ Angel said, crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘I’ll get another pair at the dolly shop, so don’t worry about me. We’ve got to get you back to the warmth.’

      Dolly was too weak to offer much resistance, and eventually Angel managed to get her to her feet. They made their way slowly back to Mother Jolly’s, Dolly dragging her feet and Angel trying hard to ignore the pain of being barefoot in the snow. She helped Dolly into bed but it was only a few degrees warmer in the dormitory than outside, and Mother Jolly’s worn blankets offered little protection from the cold. Having made sure that Dolly was comfortable, Angel put on her boots and went out to find a coffee stall. She returned minutes later with a hot drink and a ham roll, but Dolly complained feebly that her throat was too sore to allow her to eat. She sipped the coffee and collapsed back onto the lumpy mattress.

      ‘It’s no good, she’ll turn me out on the street, Angel. I’m done for.’

      ‘Don’t say that. I’ve got plenty of mistletoe and I’m going out to sell it right away. I’ll earn enough to pay Mother Jolly for both of us. Keep warm and try to sleep. I’ll be back later, I promise and I’ll bring you some nice hot cocoa. You like that.’ She picked up the sack and slung it over her shoulder.

      Trade was slow. The threat of more snow to come seemed to have kept many people indoors, and those who were out on the street were intent on getting to their destinations as quickly as possible. Even so, by the end of the afternoon, Angel had earned enough to pay Mother Jolly with some left over, which would pay for a pint of pea soup, a bread roll and, more importantly, a pennyworth of laudanum to ease Dolly’s aches and pains. Better still, there was enough mistletoe in the sack for another day’s trading. That night Angel crawled into bed beside Dolly with a feeling of achievement. Gradually their shared warmth lulled her to sleep, despite Maisie’s loud snoring and the scrabbling of vermin behind the skirting boards.

      Next day the snow that had fallen during the night lay thick on the ground, although its pristine whiteness was rapidly degrading into slush as people walked to their places of employment. Angel made her way eastwards along the Strand towards Fleet Street, pausing occasionally to linger outside shop windows and peer longingly at the festive food. The sight of crusty pork pies, snowy iced cakes, mince pies and Christmas puddings, stuffed with dried fruit, made her mouth water. Costermongers’ barrows were decorated with sprigs of berried holly and piled high with rosy red applies, dimpled oranges, bunches of black and green grapes and heaps of crinkled walnuts. It seemed like another life when such food had been plentiful, and the scent of chestnuts roasting on a brazier at the roadside made her stomach growl with hunger. She quickened her pace, heading towards the City where she hoped to sell the remainder of the mistletoe before noon, and that would enable her to go round the street markets in the hope of finding a fresh supply at a reasonable price. Up West she could make more on each sprig than she could in the East End, and every farthing counted. She stood on the steps of St Paul’s barefoot and shivering, having had to discard her boots when the uppers finally parted from the soles. Her feet and legs were blue with cold, but oddly enough she felt no pain from the blisters that she had incurred during the long walk to and from Hackney. If she could just earn enough pennies she could buy herself a good stout second-hand pair of boots, and some woollen stockings would be a bonus. She cried her wares, hoping to attract the sympathy of City gentlemen who might take pity on a ragged girl in the season of peace and goodwill.

      By mid-afternoon the light was fading and her purse was satisfyingly heavy. She had one last bunch of mistletoe to sell as she started on the walk back to her lodgings, but on Ludgate Hill she came across a group of ragged boys who taunted her and threw pebbles at her. She quickened her pace, but they followed and when she broke into a run, they caught her up and she was surrounded.

      ‘Give us yer money, nipper.’ The biggest boy grabbed her by the neck and another boy snatched the purse from her hand.

      Laughing, they raced off, leaving Angel shaken and angry, but unhurt. All her work had been for nothing, and now she could not pay for their lodgings and she and Dolly would go hungry. She glanced down at her left hand and realised that she was still clutching the last bunch of mistletoe. One of the boys stopped to look back and for a moment she was afraid that he was going to return. The single bunch of mistletoe meant the difference between sleeping in the dosshouse and being cast out into the night. To someone in Dolly’s condition it would be a death sentence, and Angel was not prepared to allow that to happen. She dodged into Naked Boy Court, but discovered to her dismay that the narrow alley was a dead end with no way of escape. She flattened herself against an iron-studded door, hoping that her tormentors would not see her. The sound of their raucous voices taunting her grew closer with each passing second, and she held her breath, praying that the youths would not find her. The cold iron hinges pressed into her back and she was trembling with fear, but just as she thought all was lost the door swung open.

      She found herself gazing into the snow-covered courtyard of a large house with mullioned windows and a portico over the front entrance. A tall gentleman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and black overcoat was about to place a bowl of scraps on the ground for two greyhounds. The dogs, clad in blue woollen coats, were better dressed for the snowy weather than Angel herself, and she found herself envying the animals. She knew it was wrong to spy on the gentleman and his pets, but the gentleness of his tone as he spoke to the dogs brought tears to her eyes. Overcome by a feeling of loneliness, she choked back a sob and the dogs sprang to attention, alerting their master to her presence.

      Angel wanted to run but somehow her tired limbs would not obey the command of her equally exhausted brain. Lack of food and the intense cold had turned her temporarily to stone and she could not move a muscle. The gentleman straightened up and walked towards her, flanked by his faithful hounds. Angel could only stand and stare. He was handsome in a forbidding way, with dark eyes beneath heavy brows and a full moustache that reached to his chin. Over his arm he carried a red woollen blanket and in his hand he clutched a hunting whip with a long white thong. He advanced on Angel like the god of wrath and she knew she was in trouble, but she could hear the boys shouting insults, daring her to come out and face them, and she had nowhere else to go.

      ‘Well, what have