Chapter Twenty-Seven
OVER THEIR PROTESTS, MURDOCH left Ed and Tim in the cell and set out with Olivia. As they hurried along Wilton Street toward River Street, the widow’s veil rippled behind her, like an ominous black sail on a pirate ship.
The second-hand clothes shop Olivia took him to was run by a “sheeny man.” Shop was giving the place too dignified a name, as it was a derelict stable in a laneway off Sumach. Empty lots flanked it on either side and the house to which it had once belonged was boarded up. There was no sign and the door was closed, but Olivia didn’t hesitate. She opened the door just wide enough for them to enter and Murdoch followed her inside. The place was dark and reeked of old manure and old clothes. There was only one oil lamp and in its dim light, Murdoch could just make out the old trousers, shirts, socks that were piled on rickety tables or hung on hooks on the walls. There were so many, Murdoch wondered if half the poorer population of the city had sold their clothes. He hoped nobody he’d ever nabbed came in while he was here. They’d think he’d got the shoot and gloat.
At the rear a man, wrapped in a shawl, was sitting on a high stool. He was hunched over an open brazier and barely made any acknowledgement of their presence. The rest of the shop was empty.
Murdoch recognized him. He’d often seen him trudging the streets with his cart, ringing his bell and calling out for bones, bottles, and rags. He was small, thin, and wiry, probably younger than he first appeared with his long, dark hair and a full, ragged beard.
“Afternoon, Mr. Gold,” said Olivia and she threw back her veil, gazed around, and like a swimmer embarking on a refreshing dip, she dived into the chaos, Murdoch following helplessly behind her. Within minutes, she pulled out a pair of worn corduroy trousers from one heap. “These should fit.”
Gold said in his hoarse, accented voice. “Everything’s been fumigated, missus. No need worry.”
Murdoch eyed the trousers doubtfully. “They look as if they belonged to a teamster.”
Olivia snorted a friendly contempt. “You ain’t lived on charity before, have you? You takes what you can get and make ’em fit. If they’re too long, roll ’em up. Tighten them with your belt.” She shoved aside some greasy-looking trousers to make room on the table for her find, then moved on to a rack of jackets and suits. A quick sort and she held up a brown-and-white check jacket that must have been owned by a player in a summer vaudeville show. The beer stains down the front were visible even from two feet away. “Here’s a coat’ll go nice with that brown.”
Murdoch was about to protest but thought better of it. He wasn’t outfitting himself to make a court appearance.
“How much?” she asked Gold.
“Take trousers and jacket both, yours for one dollar.”
“One dollar! Don’t make me laugh. I could buy new ones for that.”
“Feel coat cloth, missus. What’s wrong with you? That’s best worsted, only been worn once.”
Perhaps he meant that the previous owner had never taken it off, thought Murdoch.
“It’s not worth thirty cents,” said Olivia and she flung the jacket away in disgust. She scrutinized Murdoch. “Let’s see. Perhaps you don’t need a jacket. You could get away with wearing that old sealskin coat, it’s shabby enough.”
Murdoch winced. That coat had stood him in good stead for a long time.
“We should change the fedora,” added Olivia.
“I’ve got excellent stock of hats. Very low prices,” Gold interjected. “I can’t make a living to sell at these prices but for you …”
He got down from his stool and squeezed around one of the tables. There was hardly room to move in the small space. He lifted a black felt hat from a lopsided shelf and blew the dust off it. “Here, missus. This one English made. Best quality fur felt.”
Olivia took the hat and inspected it. The trim around the crown had long gone and the inside sweatband was dark from use. Murdoch removed his fedora and tried on the new one. It was tight.
“That’ll do,” Olivia said.
Murdoch adjusted the hat slightly. It had an unpleasant sticky feel to it.
“What have you got in the way of flannel shirts?” Olivia asked Mr. Gold.
“Flannel shirts? Who ever sells me flannel shirts? I’ve got good linen from gentlemen. Hardly worn. Look here.” He poked at a pile of clothes on a nearby table.
Olivia did a rapid and experienced sort of the shirts that were heaped together but none of them satisfied her. Then she picked up a heavy woollen jersey, the kind typically worn in outdoor athletics. Mr. Gold might have been telling the truth about fumigation but he certainly hadn’t bothered to clean the goods. This sweater was caked in dried mud, as if its previous owner had come directly off the soccer field.
Olivia beamed. “We’ll take this one.”
She added it to the pile she was building and continued her exploration, Murdoch trailing behind her feeling peculiarly childlike. Mr. Gold shuffled round the tables, sometimes swooping in to show her a very fine cravat, or a pair of kashimir socks. All the time the two of them wrangled with each other about the price, or the quality. Olivia was utterly unmoved by Gold’s moans.
“Twenty cents for a pair of threadbare combinations like this! I’ll give you a dime and that’s being generous.”
She took three pairs of socks and at Murdoch’s questioning, she whispered, “One pair for your feet, one for your hands, one pair for Ed. You don’t mind, do you? They’re only two cents each.”
Finally, they were done and all that remained was to find a pair of boots. There were three shelves at the back of the shop displaying dozens of boots, all of which retained the shape of their previous owner’s feet so that Murdoch felt as if he were looking at the disembodied remains of a defeated army.
Gold glanced at Murdoch’s shoes, then picked a pair of scuffed brown boots from the shelf. “These just came in today. Very fine, very fine. See leather lining, keep you warm all winter. For you, forty cents.”
Olivia inverted the boots, which were bent up at the toe and worn at the heels.
“Fifteen cents and not a penny more.”
“You’re ruining me, missus. Twenty or nothing.”
“Sold!”
“Shouldn’t I make sure they fit first?” asked Murdoch.
She shook her head. “Beggars can’t be choosers. You’ll have to get used to them.”
She went back to the hook where she’d found the check jacket. “If you throw in this, I’ll give you a dollar thirty for the lot.”
Gold frowned. “Missus, I have wife, five little children. How can I face their sweet hungry faces if I come home with only one dollar and thirty cents? When they say, Poppa, how much you earn today since six o’clock this morning? How I tell them that it was only one dollar and thirty cents? And my wife, she has such pain in her teeth. I must take her to dentist but on one dollar and thirty cents, I cannot do it.”
“I thought you told me you had four children?”
“Four, five, what’s difference? They all have to eat.”
Olivia held up her hand. “One dollar and forty-one cents, for your children’s sake.”
“Fifty-one cents for my wife’s teeth.”
“All right. But that’s the limit.”
Perhaps, Murdoch thought, teeth were her weak spot.
The sale made, Gold gathered the goods to parcel them up.
Murdoch gave the money to Olivia, who in turn handed it over. Murdoch hoped he’d be reimbursed by the inspector, who was apt to fuss about expenses he hadn’t authorized in advance.
Gold handed him the brown paper parcel. “Good luck to you, mister, whatever you doing. I hope it’s legal.”
Murdoch followed Olivia out of the shop into the laneway where the air felt blessedly fresh.
“We have to hurry,” she said. “If you’re going to get into the workhouse, you’ve got to be there by five o’clock. If there are too many casuals they’ll turn you away.”
“I’ll change at the police station,” said Murdoch. “You and Ed can go on ahead so nobody sees us together.
I’ll arrange for the police matron to look after Tim.”
“He can come with me, I won’t do a bunk.”
“Olivia, I’m not going to put temptation in your way. Tim stays.”
“Mr. Murdoch, when you die and they cut you open, they’re going to find you don’t have a real heart of flesh and blood, they’ll find something all black and shrivelled up.”