THE SUGAR HOUSE OF BURN STREET — an extract

CHAPTER 1

Ottilie can’t breathe.

      Squashed between the shifting hordes, she’s swept up the gangplank, feet barely touching the ground, hearing porters’ shouts and cartwheels on cobblestones. 

      A fierce wind catches her throat. Someone stamps on her dress and its silk trim rips. 

      She tugs it away — too late.

      She cranes her neck to see ahead. They’re boarding a tender. Above, iron skies are sooty with imminent rain. Her heart beats like a crazy horse. Any moment surely, she will be challenged, an official with a list, beady eyes ready to catch a young woman out? No sign yet, thank God. Instead, she spies a doughy Frau resplendent in purple, arms flailing, herding her children: Eins, zwei … funf, sechs. 

      Ottilie presses close, follows the Frau as she sweeps forth. ‘Ja, these are my seven Kinder —  tick us off, the name is Hessler —  can’t you count, man?’ 

      Yes, here is a sailor with a list. Ottilie, as small and neat as the eldest daughter, squeezes behind and sparkles a smile. The young man flushes, waves them through. ‘Entschuldigen Sie Frau.’ He bows. ‘Frauleins.’

       ‘Danke.’ Ottilie had prepared for the worst, to be challenged, but —

      It has been so easy.  

      Now, high on the tender’s deck, she focuses on the distant Deutschland, a beast of a steamer, riding off shore. Ottilie tacks away from Frau Hessler, tentatively inhales. The briny air is mixed with soot and unwashed bodies. Pressing against the rail, she looks back to the spider’s web streets of Bremerhaven, scurrying passengers and carts of coal, a kaleidoscope of graphite and scarlet. 

      The train that ferried them to the port still squats close to the gangplank. 

      It’s empty, she knows, but for one or two.

      She looks away sharply. She won’t think of that. Heinrich. It’s not long until she’ll be stepping aboard The Deutschland, and then she’ll find him. She enjoys a frisson of excitement, or is it only the tender, thrumming below her leather boots, laced too tightly this morning? Pressed on all sides by humanity, Ottilie holds fast to the rail with velvet-gloved hands. Below her, the leaden water shifts and rolls. 

      She isn’t afraid. 

      Weather permitting, they’ll sail at five, and she’s eager to depart.

      The sailors are calling raucously. Now, a sharp jolt and they’re gliding from the port. Ottilie watches as the bystanders telescope to the size of Mutti’s pegs on laundry day. Beyond the Bremerhaven rooftops, she spies the distant flatlands flushing dusky mauve with heather, the silhouettes of so many church spires.

      Her heart beats faster than it’s ever done before.

      Around her, passengers are calling to loved-ones, handkerchiefs aloft. Ottilie pushes to the opposite side, almost slipping on the teak slats, her nose jammed with the stink of bratwurst and tar. Within minutes, they’re abreast the towering bulk of the Deutschland. Ottilie has imagined this moment for weeks! She rejoins Frau Hessler, and, following the children, steps boldly onto the gangplank.  

      Her prayers have been answered - she’s unchallenged a second time.  

      As if it’s meant to be.

      On board, she’s caught in a human maelstrom. There are so many people, reeking of fear and excitement, pressing too close! Ottilie pulls her coat tight, narrows her shoulders to separate herself from the mass. She’s already memorized Heinrich’s ticket voucher: ‘Upper Deck, Second Class, Cabin E’. It’s a comfort, but even so —  

      Breathe, she incants, lungs constricting. In on one Papa, out on three …

      Heinrich will be somewhere and then —

      Well, then everything will be exemplary.

      Won’t it?

Ottilie lurches sideways with the crowds and spies Frau Hessler’s ample behind ascending to First Class. She grabs for the balustrade and hauls her body out. 

      Here on deck, gasping thin February air, she scans anonymous faces, hoping to see —  

      ‘Heinrich?’ She tests the word quietly.

      A woman, fur-collared, and a man, top hat firmly grasped, turn to stare.  Ottilie scolds herself. Don’t draw attention. And yet, in her feathered hat and navy coat, with its nipped-in waist, how could she not? She knows the power of good clothes. She holds the woman’s gaze. ‘Liebe Frau, I’m nauseous, where can I sit?’

      The woman points towards the Ladies Saloon: ‘If you are sick now — God help you. The English Channel is merciless.’

      But Ottilie isn’t nauseous. She scrambles away, yanks her skirt. The wind knocks her sideways. ‘Mein Gott!’ She shouts it. ‘Heinrich — wo bist du?’ 

      She hardens her voice: ‘Heinrich! Wo bist du?’

      But up here, everyone is pressed against the rails, fighting for the finest view.  Ottilie spins her charm, smiles as Mutti has taught her, weaves through a phalanx of gentlemen. Just like them, she spreads her elbows on the rail. Leans forward, imagines the thrill of a new coastline — the one she’ll spy in twenty-four hours. She’s never been so high, so far from solid land.

      A hand grazes her shoulder. ‘Heinrich!’ But excitement dissolves in seconds — it’s a stranger, a young man with a wolfish twinkle. He bows, apologizes. For the first time, deep in her stomach, a red-hot poker of worry. Perhaps she really is nauseous? And especially after what she’s done. What she’s just —

      No. She won’t think of Mutti. Not now.

Ottilie pushes across to starboard, notes the vicious swell of the open sea. Steam is billowing from the funnels. She touches her face then inspects her fingers, she’s afraid her cheeks are splattered with soot. There’s a hand on her waist. At last!  But it’s momentary hope, dashed to bitter shreds. Only Frau Hessler, wagging a finger. ‘Join me in the Ladies Saloon. You’ll be safe there.’  

       ‘You’re too kind.’   

      Ottilie’s gaze, though, remains fixed on the horizon, Papa’s voice in her ear:

      ‘I loved my business trips to London. Say after me –’

      It’s as if he is right here with her. 

      ‘Good afternoon Madam, how do you do?’ Ottilie nods her head politely. 

      Waits a moment. ‘I am very well, thank you.’

      She raises her voice against the howling wind.

      ‘Good evening Sir, may I ask the way to Buckingham Palace?’

      There is such crystal beauty in these words. In Ottilie’s mouth, they feel as crisp and sparkling as the decanter that glitters on the cherrywood sideboard at home. Yes, she wants to speak this language, adopt it as her own. She’s promised Papa —

      Mutti’s face swims into her thoughts. If only Ottilie could have left with her blessings. Now, a walnut of terror squeezes in her stomach. The reality of abandoning her mother, the vast anonymous ship she’s on now, the fact that she hasn’t as yet located Heinrich — it’s overwhelming. Despite her warm wool coat, Ottilie trembles. Bitter rain splashes her cheeks. Her only belongings are in this small carpetbag. 

      She looks over the edge. It’s a long way down.  

      But she can’t allow wobbles. She will retreat to the Saloon. The sky is darkening and the steamer growls, a vast and hungry animal. Which spot would Heinrich choose? Ottilie recalls his love of late-night brandy, the way he sparkles at the musical soirees they attend. He’ll be in the bar — where she cannot go alone. 

      Focus Ottilie. She pictures his confident swagger.  

      Her eyes turn to the bridge above. She sees a knot of gentlemen, frock coats flattened hard against their thighs. Surely — he will be up there?

She ascends to the bridge. And now she sees him: that unmistakable tall, slender silhouette. The steamer vibrates with fresh urgency and the gangplank cranks upwards with a clatter. ‘A storm brewing!’ someone shouts. Ottilie pictures her mother opening the letter. She would know, even before she read the words, that her only child has done something unforgiveable. She will stride to the quayside, quivering with anger, a frail widow in black.

      Ottilie swallows hard. 

      She’s about to greet Heinrich when a stranger gets there first. He’s a foot shorter and thickset; he claps Heinrich on the back. Heinrich whirls around and hesitates; they shake hands. The man’s body language is more fluid and his sentences last longer. But the discussion ends abruptly. Ottilie sees Heinrich’s shoulders rise, return to their broad alignment.  

      She steps into the space beside him, hope glowing inside.

      ‘Heinrich.’ Her voice is too low and he doesn’t hear.  

      ‘Heinrich. It’s me.’ Shouts it.

      These last few weeks, she’s lain in bed, replayed this scene so many times. 

      She has imagined Heinrich’s delight, and her own laughing tears — once he’s got over the shock, there will be plans, so many plans. Hasty, yes, and a little muddled, but plans — sure-footed and glowing!

      She grabs at Heinrich’s coat, and he jerks around.  

      His sharp movement is replaced by stillness. His water-blue eyes glitter in the gloom and she searches them for love. She’s been so certain of his welcome, pictured how he’ll reach for her, say her name, as lovingly as he’s repeated it these last six months, unfurling promises of love. But there is no welcome in his eyes.

      He steps back. Ottilie’s legs are braced on the deck, but Heinrich is on the move, as if she’s burnt him. 

      ‘What are you doing here? How did you get on board?’

      She hears no lightness of tone.

      ‘I’m coming with you Heinrich!’

      She takes a step, but he’s grabbing at her waist, quick-marching, talking fast.  

      ‘Don’t you realize we’re about to sail? We must get you off —’

      She smiles cheekily. Humour will bring him round.

      ‘I managed to slip on. You know me —’

      Heinrich leans forward, almost steps on her dress.

      ‘No. You can’t travel without permission —’

      But the steamer is pulling away, the funnels shrieking. Rain slants sideways. Below, the passengers clot the decks four layers deep. Someone prays aloud, and others join in. Ottilie shakes off Heinrich’s grasp, and this time, she steps back.

      ‘I’ve planned it all Heinrich. Say you’re pleased?’

      She fixes his gaze, willing him to oust anger, return to the charming, easy man she knows. Persuasion is what he needs. She half pulls off her left glove, her trump card. In the gloom of the ships’ lamps, there is no mistaking it: a thin, yellow-gold circle, on the fourth finger of her left hand. 

      A finger to her lips, salt-coated: ‘Our secret!’

      ‘How dare you Ottie? How could you?’

      Trick him? Ottilie’s cheeks are burning. She replaces her glove. Of course she’s waited until the last moment to find Heinrich, so there could be no chance she’d be escorted off the boat. Of course …

      But her subterfuge has not worked. Heinrich steps away a few feet — a yawning gap. It’s not the daydream she’s planned. The steamer lurches. They both look; an eerie silence falls as the passengers watch the Fatherland slip from view. For these souls, Ottilie is aware, this is the first leg of their trans-Atlantic voyage to New York, economic emigrants who will never return. She and Heinrich will be among the few that alight at Southampton. 

      Heinrich faces Ottilie, begins to speak. Against the blaring wind, she sees his lips moving, but she cannot catch the words. Up above, blackened clouds race. She draws closer, hoping for his comfort. But he turns his back, says no more.

      She pictures Mutti, sleeping where she left her on the train. She’ll have read the letter, eyes burning, furious at what her headstrong daughter has done. Too late now! Ottilie has her own piece of paper burning in her pocket. Mutti’s distant cousin, Dr Karl Metz, lives in London. Ottilie has secretly transcribed his address from her mother’s notebook. He will be delighted to know of all her plans.

      The wind barrels at full force and Ottilie almost falls, grabs the rail, arches upwards to the sky. She wants the fierce sleet to shock her, full in the face. She won’t cry. Oh no. If Heinrich can turn his back, so can she. 

      He’ll come round, she’s certain. She feels excited, not afraid.  

      England — next stop. Southampton. London.  

      In her head, she’s already arrived.  

CHAPTER 2

Ottilie lies spread-eagled on the bed, eyes to the ceiling. Boots on, coat buttoned, she’s like a bratwurst tight in its skin. Outside, the street racket is unholy.  Weak winter sunshine speckles the rose-sprigged walls but the windows whistle with chill. From here she sees tall London houses in a row, proportions grand, roofs flat. It’s reassuring to know Heinrich is as wealthy as he’s promised; it is comfortable here. 33 Doughty Street, WC1. And yet —  

      The sheets smell of coal. The stink of her vomit is worse.

      Of course she’d vomited. How could she not? The crossing was as bad as the woman had warned. Heinrich had tried to help, suggested they stay on deck, watch the horizon. She’d been grateful for his tenderness, his anger, thank goodness, put to one side. But in the end, he’d supported her to the Ladies’ Saloon. Frau Hessler spied her, lay her on the blue velvet banquette, dabbing cologne. 

      The wedding ring was still in place.

      Recalling this, Ottilie is nauseous again. Below her, the steamer still roils. 

      But she hasn’t come all the way to London to hide.

      She rolls onto her side, stamps her muddied boots on the floor. If Mutti were here, she’d scold. But Mutti isn’t here.  

      It is four o’clock and downstairs Heinrich and Mrs Trotter, the landlady, will be waiting. English afternoon tea has been promised! Ottilie sits at the dressing table, shakes loose her hair, pins it fast. It is tricky without a maid. And yet —

      She rather likes this new, rakish look. Her wedding ring glitters in the firelight. Ottilie presses her lips tight. It hadn’t been her plan to take it from the late

      Frau Fischer’s bedroom, when she and Mutti helped Clara, her daughter, to clear it.

      Its removal had been an impetuous act. She’s not a thief. She has told Heinrich it was a gift from Clara and now she believes the lie herself. Soon they will purchase a new ring. A German church, a pastor, and a witness — that’s all they need —  also a house, two maids. She and Heinrich will set up home and then —  

      Well, everything will be perfect.

Each wooden stair creaks beneath her boots. She’d like to get to the drawing room first. But as Ottilie pushes the door, Heinrich is already seated. The air smells of hyacinths. His trunks have been sent on ahead and he is wearing fresh clothes: he looks so handsome in his single-breasted coat and scarlet cravat. But he winces as he drinks his tea. Ottilie adds milk to cool it, sees his hand is shaking.  

      ‘Are you rested, Heinrich?’

‘Of course,’ he says, eyes travelling to the windows.  

      The door opens. Mrs Trotter is here with the maid and there is food on the tray. Ottilie is so hungry. But she cannot eat, because —

      Mrs Trotter eyes her carefully. Heinrich has told her Ottilie was unwell, the reason they need two bedrooms. She passes her a plate with a large slice of cake.

      ‘I hope you are better, Frau Neumann?’

      Her English is swift; it’s so much harder to understand than when practicing it aloud, with Papa, at home. Yet Heinrich is fluent as an Englishman.

      ‘Good afternoon! I am very well, thank you. How do you do?’

      It’s from her textbook. But what to say next, mind scrambling, the words will not come? Ottilie takes a sip of tea, almost spits it. Like dishwater! She crumbles the cake until Heinrich frowns a reminder she is sick. Tiny bites only. And at last, oh the relief, when Mrs Trotter rises to leave them alone.

      The silence between she and Heinrich, it’s thick like treacle.

      ‘Are you rested, Liebe?’ Heinrich stares without smiling. ‘I hope your room is comfortable? The room I should have had.’

      ‘Come, Heinrich, be kind!’

      It’s not like him. Since she has known him, and oh, it would have been the best time had it not been for Papa, he’s always been kind. But since their arrival in London she’s already noticed a difference. Heinrich is perched on the edge of the armchair, his neck so tall above the starched collar, like a swan on a lake, elegantly paddling, but with its feet stuck in weed.  

      She glances at the ring. On the Southampton to London train they had squabbled, but she’s managed to persuade him that for propriety, they must pretend to be married. It is only for a few days. She had expected he would wish to discuss her surprise arrival — she was so ready to explain it! But instead he had slept and then told her gently to be quiet.

      Now, Heinrich is rising and he smoothes his pin-stripe trousers.  

      ‘I am going out. Stay here and rest. Tomorrow I have a visit.’

      She knows of the appointment at the refinery. Herr Bloch’s welcome letter was waiting on a small, silver tray.

      ‘Shall I accompany you?’ She can’t resist a small smile. ‘As your wife?’

      Silence. He is pacing the floor.

      ‘Heinrich. Did you hear what I said? You know I will come.’

      Only now does he catch her eye; he nods gratefully, eyes earnest.

      ‘What you have done is not a joke, Liebe. But yes — I’d like to you come.’

When they arrive at Burn Street, Whitechapel, Ottilie knows she’s made a mistake. The clattering and shouting are deafening as she steps from the hansom cab. She tries not to breathe in the sweet, toxic fumes; she feels her ribs contract.  Heinrich takes her hand. She grasps it but his skin is a clammy as hers.

      She has not visited a refinery since Papa succumbed. The world tilts and stirs.

      But she is here now, and must do her duty. Papa’s refinery in Hanover was exactly like this: a bulky warehouse, cistern house and offices dominating the street.

      Heinrich strides forth.  

      ‘Herr Bloch wrote about the Manager’s Office. It’ll be straight ahead.’

      But he is making for the brick-built sugarhouse, not the office. Ottilie fights the urge to correct him. She knows he won’t ask directions. Even so, she doesn’t want him to appear a fool.  

      ‘I think you should –’

      But Herr Bloch is already bustling forth.

      ‘Welcome Herr Neumann! And the new Frau Neumann, if your note advised correctly?’ He kisses her hand. ‘Ottie, you were a girl when we last met.’

      ‘Heinrich and I are delighted to be here.’ 

      Ottilie hopes her blush will subside. Her lie is out —  and alive. She’s thankful Herr Bloch ushers them straight into his office. He’s older than she recalls, this old colleague of Papa’s. No wonder he’s seeking a young, intelligent gentleman to train, a man to whom he might pass ownership. ‘In time,’ Mutti had said. ‘Heinrich must earn trust as a manager first.’ 

      In the office, Heinrich glances at Ottilie. His jaw is set tight.

      ‘First, a tour,’ announces Bloch. ‘The boiling house has seven floors, the warehouse five. It will be familiar to you, Ottie, but a first time for Heinrich, eh?’

      ‘Naturlich.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      They speak at the same time. Herr Bloch looks thoughtful.  

      ‘I have been remiss not writing to your mother,’ he says. ‘I will remedy it tonight.’ 

      ‘She’s unwell.’ Ottilie speaks quickly. ‘Don’t write yet.’  

      Her voice peters out.

       ‘As you wish.’ 

      She does wish. Ottilie is not a liar, but these last forty-eight hours she’s feeling the pressure of her untruths, can almost see their threads wrapping around her and Heinrich. She licks her lips. They are coated with air-borne sugar, prompting an aching memory of Papa.  

In near darkness, Ottilie follows Herr Bloch and Heinrich to the cellar. She is already perspiring. A dozen men, stripped to the waist, are tending copper pans. Some are stirring while others transfer molten sugar into buckets, scurrying to tip the liquid into basins turning on chains.

      ‘And which is this process?’ Heinrich’s brow is shiny. ‘Remind me?’  

I      t is good he is asking questions. Ottilie nods encouragement in the gloom.  

       ‘Bleaching the raw brown sugar,’ shouts Herr Bloch. ‘See that heap? The dried product — from here, it’s taken upstairs. Follow me.’

      Ottilie knows better than to touch the walls; they will be tacky with crystallized sugar. She ascends the stairs deftly, keeping her body taut. Before she can stop him, Heinrich clutches the handrail, jerks away. She watches anxiously as he tries to wipe the sticky mess from his palm, trips on the step and curses. She should have warned him! He’s a fastidious man, relishes clothes, books —  the pleasures of an intellectual life. She’s too far away to whisper instructions. Upstairs, she must stand closer. Her throat tightens; it’s the hot sugar, no? So much depends on Heinrich grasping the task ahead, taking charge of his new career. She’ll need to help him. In recent months, he’s talked so enthusiastically of the refinery — the money most of all. 

      They step onto the next floor. In the steamy atmosphere, Ottilie smells vomit; she’s tried to clean her coat but to no avail. She covers her mouth with a linen handkerchief sprinkled with Mutti’s perfume. Above it, her eyes meet Heinrich’s. 

      ‘Here we have the sugar-loaf moulds, turned upside down to drain.’

      Ottilie wishes to experience the scene as if she were Heinrich: the overpowering sweet-sour odour, the labourers, stripped half-naked, torsos gleaming. But he sees her looking, seems displeased, so she casts eyes to the floor. Herr Bloch is making for the next staircase. 

      Heinrich steps close, nostrils flaring, dabbing his brow. 

      ‘This is no place for a lady. I won’t allow it!’

      Her hands fly to her hips. He must understand.

      ‘I’ve seen it before Heinrich. Don’t worry about me.’

      She sets her boot onto the stair. Papa taught her, years ago, how to navigate the dangers of a refinery. She knows where to walk, where to stop.

      ‘The filling department!’ Herr Bloch shouts it.  

      Ottilie inches a little closer. Heinrich is standing soldier straight, a frozen stance so unlike his normal, confident swagger. Oh, how she wishes she might give him comfort. She’s certain he’ll be more than capable of managing the factory. Even so, she’s aware the labourers are watching him suspiciously. A few are staring at her, and Heinrich notes that, too. Ottilie has never felt self-conscious before. But those boring eyes, the half-naked bodies — it’s unsettling. 

      Herr Bloch continues:  

      ‘We employ 50 men. My foreman is my asset.’ He waves to a figure across the floor. ‘Arne Bauer? Kommen Sie her!’

      The entire work force is German. It’s a tough job and the English labourers aren’t up to the gruelling hours, the scorching heat, Ottilie knows this. Now the man steps forwards, but he takes his easy time. He has broad shoulders and a rolling gait. His face is glossed with sweat. 

      ‘Hier sind Sie ja!’ Bloch slaps his back. ‘Any questions, Bauer’s your man.’ Ottilie stands in the shadows. It is Heinrich’s moment to shine.

      But he hesitates, as if unsure whether to take on his mantle of Manager. It’s the foreman who takes the lead and extends his hand. Heinrich cuts the more graceful figure: Bauer is no gentleman. Herr Bloch turns away, calls for Heinrich to follow; they descend downstairs, deep in conversation. Ottilie waits a moment, adjusts her skirts. Oh, she needs to gasp fresh air! From behind, in English, Bauer speaks:

      ‘If I may make so bold and greet the new Manager’s wife?’

      Ottilie turns but almost slips on a puddle. In the gloom, Bauer’s eyes twinkle smoky blue. She straightens up.

       ‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’ Mutti was always civil with Papa’s workers. ‘Good Morning Herr Bauer.’

      He returns her nod politely. ‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’  

      Ottilie is surprised: his surname suggests peasant origin but his English is better than hers! 

      ‘Welcome to London, Mrs Newman.’ 

      Mrs Newman? Yes, she is happy to be here in London.

      Bauer’s words are music to her ears.