August, 1933.
It rained that Sunday.
Tom stood in a queue with the other orphans, dressed in their pitiable best, eager to leave church but hesitant to greet the storm. People trickled out like raindrops down the painted windows, umbrellas aloft, purses and bibles clutched protectively at their sides as they cast strained smiles and furtive glances at the orphans who, despite being good servants of the lord, were still the hungriest of the lot.
A young woman, modish but modest, relinquished her bright yellow umbrella to Sandra, one of the older girls, all smiles to Sandra's stammered thank you's as she strode outside. Tom watched as Sandra clicked open the umbrella with evident relief; despite her peculiar favour for gloomy weather, even she'd become anxious about it after little Jennifer got snatched away in a rainstorm last month.
Huddled together, they were ushered into the street, closely following Mrs. Cole, who muttered a prayer under her breath. Tom hung by the side, trying not to get soaked, casting around for any lurking stranger or sympathetic shopkeeper but finding none due to the harsh cold. He kicked at pebbles and nicked stray pennies off the pavement, hesitating at the cracked stone front of the orphanage when they arrived; he was afraid of catching a fever, but the other children were always more irritating after church, snappish and eager to expend their boredom — so he dallied by the entrance, shielded slightly from the overcast sky by a protruding window. A mangy cat wound around some banisters nearby, tail twisting and swaying as it pawed at a patch of dark green moss.
He'd been there for nary a minute when a hassled voice called his name. Sandra appeared seconds later, a ribbon of wet blond hair plastered to her cheek.
"What are you out here for, Tom?" she hissed, dragging him inside by the arm. "Go on, dry up, 'fore you end up sick!"
Tom shook off her hands and, scowling, slowly climbed the crumbling stairs. Sandra did not have to watch his progress for Mrs. Cole summoned her to her office. She whisked past him up the stairs, her starched skirt brushing his face, smelling of rain and smoke. Tom, having little else to do, crept after her.
"... enough for the necessary repairs," rang Mrs. Cole in the dingy hallway where Tom stood, masked by the shadows. Curiosity piqued, he dared to press an ear to the door. "Flint's of the wealthy sort, naturally, so everybody ought to be dressed proper. Sandy, you and Martha will get the children ready ... Jack, fetch us some lemons from the market ... and take Elise with you, she'll get something for Rosey. Poor dear's been quite unwell recently."
There was a short silence, characterised only by the stacking and turning of pages. Then Sandra spoke, too quietly for Tom to hear.
"You can tell the bishop," came Mrs. Cole's voice like a slap, so that Tom flinched from the door, "I'm responsible only for my charges' well-being! Flint's doings are hardly of my concern."
"You're quite right, Mrs. Cole," placated Elise immediately. "I think it's wonderful what Mr. Flint's doing — and Sandy does so too — so I was wondering if we might ..."
His interest petered off after that, as the discussion turned to dinner, the encroaching winter, and then to little Mindy's sore tooth. Tom slinked away and up the stairs, pondering on what he'd overheard and paying no mind to the other children's babbles and games, hastening to his bedroom before Billy Stubbs or any of the other brutes could see him.
He sat cross-legged under the cracked window, rolling his stolen pennies across splintering floorboards, in the shadows of raindrops and prayers.
*
"Smile, please."
The photographer, a lanky man in a tweed suit and red scarf, sent a pointed glance Tom's way as his fingers folded down from three. Two. One. Click. Tom refrained from blinking, smile slipping off as soon as the flash receded.
"Lovely!" he declared, at which Sandra immediately released Tom's shoulders and the children dispersed. The photo would be printed in tomorrow's paper, with Tom, Sandra, baby Julie, and their generous benefactor Mr. Flint as central subjects. Mrs. Cole, not being quite as pleasing to the eye, had been pushed slightly to the left.
"Wonderful, wonderful," proclaimed Flint, seemingly to himself, jostling Julie about as she sucked on her fist. Sandra nodded fervently, inching ever so slightly closer to him, much to Tom's disgust. Flint turned then to Tom, subjecting him to a brilliant smile which Tom forced himself to return. His eyes, slate grey and hooded, held a knowing; Tom, who had already taken a cynical view of the cheery businessman, became immediately suspicious of him. According to Sandra however, Flint was a fine gentleman running an important trade, and also belonged to one of London's oldest, wealthiest families — from what Tom could gather, he'd smuggled profuse amounts of alcohol into the United States during prohibition. How he'd managed such a feat, no one seemed to know.
"You should smile more, dear boy." The children started at Flint's resonant voice, a taunting smirk creeping onto Billy Stubbs's face. "You'll have plenty to look forward to in life." He ruffled Tom's hair, awarded a swooning Sandra with a grin and squirming Julie, then went to talk to a reporter. Tom glared at his besuited back, imagining the expensive fabric erupting into flames.
"Don't scowl, Tom," reprimanded Mrs. Cole, balancing a tray of watery lemonades. Tom barely registered her pushing a cool glass into his hands, so nettled was he by what the man had said; on one hand, what right did rich, savvy Mr. Flint have to tell Tom to anticipate favour in life? Yet somehow, Tom imagined the words came from a place of understanding.
*
Following the London Times's chronicling of Alexander Flint's almsgiving, Tom and the orphans spent September and October in some dreary flats owned by the man, right on the edges of Greater London, while the renovation of Wool's was under way. Before they'd set off from the bus station, Tom had slipped a garden snake into Evan Holland's shirt, resulting in a meltdown and Mrs. Cole bidding him to share a room with older, bookish Emerson which, while not ideal, was much preferable to rooming with the idiots his own age.
Tom spent much of this period weaving in and out of the streets in the evenings, taking whatever he could while doing his best to stay hidden. He'd had nearly two years of practise now and so considered himself well-versed in the art of casual thievery, with his current ambitions involving Jack (who was older and worked on the harbour) selling the stolen goods to arriving sailors.
Except summer steadily petering away meant people were quicker to retreat indoors and more watchful for pickpockets like himself. One quest went particularly awry, after Tom attempted to filch a pocket-watch from what he'd thought a sleeping drunkard, only for the man to grasp his arm and pull him close, shushing him under liquor-laden breath. Tom had tried to scream, but the man had slapped a be-ringed hand over his mouth and begun to drag him into a narrow alley.
Tom remembered clawing and kicking and biting until at last, a shock of white light struck the man and he ran, ran and ran until he saw the rat-infested flats, which had never looked more appealing. He remembered pockets heavy with pennies and pounds and such, jangling with every frenzied step. A vexed Emerson had opened the door to Tom sprinting straight past him into their bedroom, turning the lock and grinding teeth on the floor, very much the the child he wished not to be.
It took him a long while to notice the large, gleaming pocket watch in his grubby fist and when he did, Tom wiped his face, donned his tatty pyjamas and huddled under his moth-eaten blanket. Emerson found a polished golden pocket watch under his pillow that night; Tom found a bar of chocolate and ten pounds under his next morning.
Since then, Tom took shelter in their room, skipping meals and sleep and always wondering, wondering, while desperate hawkers knocked on doors and paper-boys rode from street to street and the sky turned more and more bleak. Mrs. Cole did not take them to church here, knowing that it was unsafe, never mind the dawning of yet another bitter winter. The lack of distraction left Tom quicker to anger than ever before, burns, bruises, and scrapes befalling whoever got in his way. The others stared after him, quiet with unease, the memory of a deliverance thoroughly failed lingering like a shadow in their chary, avoidant eyes. Emerson, usually out and about doing small jobs, cast wary glances at him, the dour-faced boy slipping into lightless places, a cautious worry tinting his gaze where usually there was only suspicion. Fortunately, before his room mate's concern could infect the matron, Mr. Flint arrived one November morning and announced that the renovation was finished, swung giggling Amy Benson in the air and ruffled a relieved Tom's hair, grinning when the gesture met no resistance.
When the group walked into Wool's newly fashioned entrance later that day, they found framed on the wall page two of the London Times of September 1st, featuring a large photograph of Good Samaritan Mr. Flint and the shabby residents of Wool's, Tom's own brittle smile leering at him through the page.
From left: Mrs. Judith Cole, matron of Wool's Orphanage and widowed by the Great War, and Alexander Flint, most recent benefactor, stand with the orphans outside the establishment, which was damaged during air raids and will undergo extensive, overdue repairs.
Though it was evident to everyone that Flint's recent slew of charity work was an attempt at salvaging his reputation after his "scandalous career," as unhelpfully described by The Economist (Tom was sure money had changed hands), none of them could summon much antipathy for the man.
"I see you didn't heed my advice," Flint remarked brightly as they followed Mrs. Cole outside, where a press photographer stood wiping his camera lens. He put a tanned hand on Tom's shoulder and Tom had to suppress a shudder to scowl at him instead. Flint only smiled wider, all shining teeth and glossy blond hair, long emerald coat emphasising those steely eyes. "Do smile for the picture, dear boy." Tom complied, staring into the black eye of the camera, imagining if some wealthy, powdered woman might see the photograph and think, oh, the poor dear does not deserve to live in such a place.
Flint laughed as the camera flashed and, against his every wish, heaved a glowering Tom into his arms before walking inside, starry-eyed Sandra and beaming Elise following in his wake. Tom willed himself not to curse the man to an eternity in Hell.