Who Buries the Dead

Chapter 34

“The thing ye gots t’ understand,” said the costermonger, leaning against the side of a donkey cart piled high with whole, fresh fish still glistening and wet from the market, “is that not ev’rybody sellin’ on the streets is a coster.”

“Oh?” said Hero, intrigued by the costermongers’ determination to hold themselves apart from all other street sellers.

“Course not,” said the coster. He was a big man named Mica McDougal, with beefy arms and a wind-reddened face and dark hair covered by a small cap. “Why, the Dutch buy-a-broom girls, the Jew old-clothes men, the pea soup and bread ’n’ butter sellers, the wooden-spoon makers-ain’t none of ’em proper costermongers.”

“So what makes one a ‘proper’ costermonger?”

“Proper costermongers sell stock we buys at the fruit and vegetable and fish markets. Some of us ’as stalls or stands in the streets, and some of us makes rounds with a barrow or donkey cart. But you’ll never find a costermonger sellin’ tatted ’air nets or wooden clothes pins.” He wrinkled his nose in disdain.

“How far do you travel on your daily rounds?”

“Oh, usually nine or ten miles.”

“That’s quite a distance to walk every day.”

“Nah. Sometimes in the summer, Liz ’n’ me’ll go on country rounds for as much as twenty-five miles.”

“Liz?”

The coster grinned and shifted to lay an affectionate arm across his donkey’s withers. “Liz.”

The donkey peeled its lips away from its long teeth and let out a loud hee-haw.

“Do you live around here?” Hero asked.

“Ah, no; we lives off Fish Street Hill, m’lady. You’ll find most costermongers what deals in fish lives thereabouts, so’s we’re close t’ Billingsgate Market.”

“You have children?”

“I got three: two boys and a girl. ’Twere five, but two o’ the little ones died o’ fever afore Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

The costermonger twitched one shoulder and swallowed hard.

Hero said, “Do you think your children will grow up to be costermongers?”

He swiped a meaty hand down over his whisker-stubbled face. “Sure then, we’re already sendin’ them out to sell nuts and oranges and watercress. The streets teaches ’em what they needs to know. Why, they’re as sharp as terriers, little as they are. They ’as t’ be; they know better’n t’ come ’ome if they ain’t done well.”

Hero was careful to keep her instinctive reaction to his words from showing on her face. “How old are they?”

“The girl’s eight, and the boys is five and seven.”

“Your wife is a costermonger as well?”

“Aye. She works Fleet Street. This time o’ year she sells flowers all a-growin’. But come June she’ll switch t’ peas and beans, then cherries and strawberries in July.”

Remembering what Mattie Robinson had told her, Hero was tempted to ask if his “wife” actually was his wedded wife. Instead, she said, “Was your father a costermonger?”

“Oh, aye; and ’is father afore ’im. You’ll find most costermongers proper was born into the business. The ones I feel sorry for is the mechanics and laborers what’ve lost their jobs and try turnin’ their ’and t’ sellin’ in the streets. They think it looks easy, but it ain’t, and they almost never do well.”

“Why not?”

“Ain’t up t’ the dodges, ye see. The problem is, they go out into the streets with fear in ’ere-” He thumped one meaty fist against his chest. “They don’t know ’ow to bargain and they ain’t good salesmen. Poor buggers-beggin’ yer pardon, yer ladyship-I mean, poor fellows, they almost always end up losin’ everything.” He shook his head sadly. “For them, it’s just another way o’ starvin’.”

The donkey shifted its weight and shook its head, rattling the harness.

“I gots t’ move on, m’lady. Liz ’ere is gettin’ restless.”

“Thank you for your time,” said Hero, handing the costermonger his shillings.

The money disappeared into one of his coat’s deep, flapped pockets. “Ye really gonna write about the costers?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because no one ever has.”

But Mica McDougal simply shook his head, as if the ways of the Quality were beyond his comprehension.