All That Glitters (4 page)

‘When did you arrange all this?’

‘When I took Haydn into High Street.’

‘Can we afford it?’

‘Have to welcome the star home. And as he’ll be working every night next week, tonight seems to be the logical choice.’

‘That was kind of you, but you don’t have to keep trying quite so hard with my family. They’ll come round in their own good time.’

‘For purely selfish reasons, like your peace of mind, I’d prefer “their own good time” to be sooner rather than later.’ He left his chair, and held out his hands. She took them, and he helped her to her feet.

‘I love you, Mrs John.’ He kissed her on the lips.

‘I love you too, Doctor John.’

‘Now we’ve cleared that up, let’s forget Haydn for five minutes and go to bed.’

‘Here’s where you sleep. It’s clean. I made sure the last girl left it as she found it.’

Panting from the exertion of climbing three flights of stairs, Mrs Bletchett opened the door to the small attic bedroom. It was undeniably clean. Clean and bare except for a rickety wooden chair and a metal-framed bed. The mattress was stuffed with horsehair; Jane knew because brown fibres oozed from the side seams. A pair of threadbare sheets and a single thin, grey blanket lay folded on top. The floor had been scrubbed almost white, the boards dried and bleached by successive applications of washing soda and water. Jane could smell the soda: a dry, astringent odour that caught the back of her throat and reminded her of the workhouse.

‘I’ll expect you to wash the sheets when you wash the lodgers’ bedding. There’s a chair for your spare dress.’

Jane obediently laid her bundle on the seat. At the head of the bed was a small uncurtained window. She glanced through it. She was higher than she’d thought. Below her stretched an undulating sea of slate roofs and smoking chimney pots.

‘Now you’ve seen where you’ll sleep, you can start earning your keep.’

The lodging house was vast. Larger than it looked from the outside, and it had appeared daunting then. Crushed to learn she was the only ‘help’, Jane followed her new mistress down warrens of corridors into dormitories that reeked of male sweat, soiled clothes and stale air. Washrooms and toilets flooded with pools of foul-smelling water were situated at the end of every passage, and everything she was shown looked as though it hadn’t been given a thorough cleaning in years.

The ground floor was little better. An ill-ventilated, smoky kitchen, filled to capacity by an enormous table and dresser that might have been made for the ogre in Jack and the Beanstalk opened into a dingy bar furnished with round tables and rickety chairs. A counter was set at one end, barrels of beer and cider ranged behind it, the gleaming china handles of the pumps polished – no doubt by the previous skivvy.

‘You served beer?’ Mr Bletchett demanded.

Jane shook her head.

‘I’ve yet to meet a workhouse girl who’s good for anything besides scrubbing floors,’ his wife sneered. ‘Well, we’ve no time to teach you how to pull a pint now. Into that kitchen and peel all the potatoes in the basket. You have peeled potatoes before?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’

‘You’re the last person I expected to see here.’

‘Why’s that. Eddie Powell? Think I’m not good enough for the New Inn?’ Jenny Griffiths flirted provocatively.

‘Of course not,’ he apologised, anxious not to upset her. She certainly looked different to the everyday Jenny who served behind the counter in her father’s shop. Her long, blonde hair had been crisply waved and styled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing a shiny blue dress that showed the creamy skin on her neck and arms to fine advantage. He found himself wishing they were alone.

‘You here to celebrate your Haydn’s homecoming?’

Eddie’s hopes of making any headway with her were dashed as they glanced over to where his brother was holding court at the head of the table that Andrew John had booked. The look in Jenny’s eye told him everything he would have been happier not to know. She had been Haydn’s girl before she had been briefly – very briefly – his. And she couldn’t have made it any plainer that she still carried a torch for Haydn if she had screamed it from the band’s microphone.

Oblivious to everyone who wasn’t sitting at his table, Haydn’s laughter echoed around the room, cutting Eddie to the quick. Although Eddie would sooner have died than admit it to anyone, he loved his brother. But standing next to Jenny Griffiths he wished Haydn a million miles away, or at least back in London.

‘Do you want to talk to him?’ he enquired tersely. ‘I could take you over if you like.’

Jenny looked at the others seated at Haydn’s table. The Johns, Andrew and Bethan, Dr Trevor Lewis and his wife Laura, Eddie’s father Evan, Phyllis Harry, Diana, William, Charlie and his wife Alma – there were too many people. She wanted to meet Haydn Powell again, more than she wanted anything else in life, but not now, not like this. She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to break in on a family party.’ When she saw Haydn again she intended there to be only the two of them, so she could tell him all the things she’d dreamed of and stored in her memory through the long winter months that had frozen her emotions as well as her body. ‘I’m here with my mother and my aunt and uncle,’ she explained. ‘It’s my aunt’s birthday. Why don’t you come and meet them? Then, after we’ve eaten, if you want to and the band’s playing, I’ll go to the ballroom with you.’

‘For the last waltz?’

She found it difficult to look at anyone except Haydn. Her heart was pounding so erratically it was a wonder Eddie couldn’t hear it. Six months of absence hadn’t diminished her feelings for Haydn in the slightest. One look had been enough for her to know that she still loved him, and would always love him. But after that last awful row she also knew he wouldn’t come to her. She’d have to be the one to make the first move. And what better way than on his brother’s arm? Jealousy just might be the way to accomplish what loving endearments couldn’t.

‘Tell you what, Eddie,’ she touched his arm gently, her breath blowing warm as she whispered in his ear. ‘As you asked nicely I’ll give you all the waltzes. Including the last.’

Eddie glowed with pleasure as he walked her to her table before returning to his own. Haydn might be the big success on stage, with a whole revue of gorgeous showgirls waiting in the wings, but he could still show big brother a thing or two when it came to picking the cream of the Pontypridd girls.

*……*……*

Jane’s Sunday afternoon was a marathon of drudgery. In between peeling potatoes and scraping and boiling tripe for a supper that was served to the lodgers in the upstairs dining room, necessitating several trips up and down stairs with heavy trays, she cleared up messes of spilt beer in the bar, washed glasses, boiled dishcloths and cleaned out the stove chimney to prevent any more soot falling into the tripe.

Going into the bar was the worst. It soon became evident that the men knew she wasn’t wearing underclothes. She turned more than once to catch one of them lifting the back hem of her skirt with the poker from the bar-room fire. Temper rising, she emptied a bucket of slop water she’d used to mop beer dregs over one persistent lecher, earning herself a tongue lashing from Mrs Bletchett with the promise of more to come.

At midnight she was still on her feet washing glasses in the kitchen. Mrs Bletchett’s final order to her husband before retiring for the night had been to make sure that ‘the girl’ cleaned both the bar and the kitchen before going to bed. Although Jane heard her she didn’t dare set foot in the bar. Mr Bletchett was still there, talking to the man who’d lifted her skirt.

She felt spent and weary enough to cry. Exhausted and ravenously hungry, she bitterly regretted not taking Eira Williams’s advice. Life in the workhouse had been grim, but not as grim as this. In the institutions she had been able to cling to a routine of sorts. Regular mealtimes with food of indifferent quality and varying quantity, but nevertheless food. And although she had served both tea and supper to the lodgers, there had been no mention of her eating anything; nor had there been any leftovers for her to scavenge.

At one o’clock when she could find nothing more to do in the kitchen she steeled herself and pushed open the connecting door to the bar. Mr Bletchett was sitting alone counting the night’s takings into a leather bag.

‘I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen. Can I leave the bar until morning, sir?’

‘You’ve banked the fire down?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The potatoes are done for tomorrow’s dinner?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the table laid upstairs for the lodgers’ breakfast?’

Jane nodded wearily.

‘Then I suppose you can go. But mind you’re up early to square this room before my wife sees it. You can take up that stub of candle. Light it in the kitchen. Mind you blow it out as soon as you get into bed. Well stand no waste in this house.’

Jane took the saucer which held a pool of melted wax and a thread of blackened wick. Uneasy as she was in her employer’s company, some demon made her press her diminishing luck. ‘In the workhouse I was told I’d be paid something above my board and keep. When will I get it?’

He dropped the coins he was counting and stared at her.

‘I was just wondering,’ she ventured hesitantly.

‘Wonder no more, you’ll get a shilling a week after your board and keep, and that’s what your washing will come to.’

‘Washing?’

‘The sheets on your bed, and your dress. I don’t know what you’re used to, girl, but in this house we expect you to wash yourself and your clothes.’

‘Then there’ll be no wages?’

‘There’ll be a shilling a week, which will cover your washing. Now upstairs with you. The lodgers on early shift will expect their breakfast on the table at five, and this room will have to be cleaned and the fire and stove lit before that. You’ll need to be up, dressed and in the kitchen by four to get everything done on time.’

Jane took a home-made newspaper roll taper from the jar on the mantelpiece. She lit the stub of candle and ascended the stairs, burning with indignation, determined to leave the first minute she could.

The back staircase had doors that opened out on every one of the four floors, but the stairs from the third to the attic floor were half the width of the others. When Mrs Bletchett had taken her up them earlier, she had looked at the narrow margin between her employer’s hips and the wall, amusing herself with thoughts of Mrs Bletchett getting stuck half-way, just here, where the staircase bent back on itself.

A floorboard creaked overhead and she froze, waiting for the sound to be repeated. After a full minute she breathed out. She’d spent her whole life sleeping in dormitories and was nervous of being alone, that was all. And the dosshouse was old. Old houses creaked. She had read that somewhere; probably in one of the Dickens volumes in the homes. There’d been no books, or time for reading in the workhouse. And she only had to look at the doors and rotting window-frames of this place to see that it was bound to give rise to odd noises.

Gripping the candle firmly she climbed the last few steps. The first thing she saw as her head rose level with the floor was the light. A candle, fatter and more efficient than hers, illuminated a pair of feet next to her bed: men’s feet, encased in muddy working boots and tartan socks. Caked mud had fallen out of the treads, and lay in great dirty clumps on the scrubbed floorboards.

‘You’re taking your time to climb those stairs, Missy.’ It was the great brute of a man she’d tipped water over earlier.

Shrinking back against the wall, she held the saucer with its stub of candle in front of her like a shield. ‘Get out of here this minute or I’ll scream the house down,’ she hissed.

‘You do, and I’ll tell everyone you invited me up here to earn yourself a shilling.’ He walked out of her room. Standing on the top step, he reached down and grabbed her wrist between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. She took a step backwards and fell. He released his hold as she clattered down the stairs, still struggling to keep a grip on the candle that scuttered out before she reached the third-floor landing.

Cursing, he followed. She sensed him standing over her in the blackness, his breath panting in ragged, uneven gasps. When no sound came from the rest of the house he thrust the bolt across the inside of the door, sealing them off from the corridor that led to the dormitories.

‘Back up those stairs.’

‘No.’ She took another step downwards.

He grabbed at her dress. Holding her close, he squeezed her small breasts painfully through the covering of thick flannel. ‘You don’t, and I’ll start shouting you’re not giving me value for money. There’s over a hundred and twenty men living in this house. How do you fancy servicing all of them?’ His rancid beer and tripe-laden breath filled the claustrophobic atmosphere.

‘I’m going.’ Quicker than him, she stepped over the shattered saucer and lumps of hot wax and darted back up the stairs. Running into her room she sat on the bed, fear crawling over her skin as she clutched the bundle of pennies hidden beneath her dress as though it was a talisman.

‘We’ll have this off for a start.’ He lumbered towards her and tugged at the hem of her dress.

‘Not until you pay me.’ She clamped the dress to her knees with her fists, and swung her legs over the bed away from him.

‘You already on the game?’ She recognised disappointment and anger in his voice. He’d obviously hoped to find a sweet little workhouse virgin. Like the last one?

‘What did you expect?’ She forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘I may have been born in the workhouse and trained for nothing better than skivvying, but that doesn’t mean I’m not ambitious.’ She held out her hand. ‘Half-crown.’

‘Half a bloody crown!’

The patients in the clinic were glad to pay me. They thought I was worth every penny.’

‘What clinic?’

The VD clinic. There’s no other clinic that I know of in the Graig.’

Chapter Three

Jane sat on her bed for a long time after the man had gone cursing and kicking down the stairs. She’d broken her one cardinal rule: she’d made an enemy. In the institutions she’d worked hard to keep her feelings under control, be nice to people, get on with everyone, even when it actually, physically hurt to wear a smile on her face and keep a pleasant tone in her voice.

She recalled every foul, filthy name the man had flung at her. He was the first. If she stayed there would be others. And they might not be so easily fooled or, even worse, they might be diseased themselves. She had to get out before he said something to the other lodgers or the Bletchetts. But where could she go?

She tried to remember the prices in the shop windows in town. How much would one and eleven pence buy? Would it be enough for a dress, and food and lodging until – until when? Of course she clutched desperately at the straw of hope. There was the job in the Town Hall. If, as the woman in the feathered hat had said, no decent girl would want it, then perhaps, just perhaps, she stood a chance.

She looked across at the bundle on the chair. Her sole possession, and she didn’t even own that. Workhouse dresses had to be returned, or paid for if they were kept. And who would willingly wear a workhouse dress if they had the choice? Judging by the stares she’d attracted walking through the town behind the Bletchetts, no one would employ a woman wearing one. If she was going to apply for the job she had to get out and find another dress – now, this minute, before someone woke and stopped her. But first, she looked down at her dirt-streaked hands and arms, she had to wash. Her head swam with an intoxicating mixture of exhaustion and panic. So many things to do. And the only way to tackle them was one at a time.

Creeping down the stairs, she bolted herself into a washroom on the first floor. There was a bath, but the soap in the dish was hard, cracked and yellow. It would give out no more lather than the ones in the workhouse. She stripped off and ran herself a four-inch bath. Although she’d only run the tap marked hot, the water was freezing. Well she’d had cold baths before, and at the height of winter. It would help her stay awake. She sat in the bath and picked up the scrubbing brush. Her arms and legs were soon pink, the water grey. Her hair wasn’t so easy: as the soap softened it stuck in thick waxy strands to her cropped head, and rinsing didn’t help. She looked around. The only towel hung grey, filthy and limp on a wooden rail. Her dress was cleaner. Nothing else for it.

She dried herself as best she could with the non-absorbent flannel, untied the string and put on her second dress. Lacking even a comb for her hair, she stared downhearted at her reflection in the brown spotted mirror. The yellow gaslight had turned her complexion sallow. She looked thin and sickly. Picking up a matted strand of hair she held it away from her face. No one would take her on, even to scrub floors, looking like this. Her one and eleven pence would have to stretch to cover a hat. She bundled her damp dress into the string. She’d return both dresses later – after she’d bought herself the outfit she needed.

Everything was about to change for the better. She’d soon have decent clothes, a new job and somewhere good to live. Her life was about to begin. All she had to do was believe it enough to make it happen.

Carrying her clogs and using her hands and feet to feel her way in the darkness, Jane stole barefoot down the back staircase into the kitchen. The gas lamp had been left burning low. Mindful of Mr Bletchett’s comments on waste, she peeped around the corner to make sure that the room was empty before venturing inside. The door that led to the street was locked. Setting her dress and clogs on the flagstones she slid back the bolts, jumping uneasily at the rasping sound of metal scraping over metal. Finally she turned the knob, picked up her belongings and stepped outside. The air was cool: fresh and clean after the fetid beer, cooking and sweat odours of the dosshouse. Street lamps burned, casting amber spotlights on to grey pavements and black roads. She hesitated and looked around in an attempt to get her bearings. Whichever way she turned terraces of houses stretched, long and winding into the distance. And on the horizon even more houses loomed, up – down – left – right – absolutely nothing in any direction struck her as familiar from her arrival. There was no indication as to which road led back into town. She studied the rooftops, hoping to see the spire of St Catherine’s church. She knew it was only one street away from Taff Street, but it eluded her.

A sense of urgency, or minutes ticking past, drove her to action. If she remained any longer she’d risk being seen and forced back into the dosshouse. Trusting to instinct, she turned right and walked on in her bare feet, still carrying her clogs lest their clatter betray her presence.

She covered a mile before she realised she was moving away from the town. When she had followed the Bletchetts they had walked the distance between the café and the dosshouse in minutes. Pale haloes of light were already forming and growing in intensity above the rooftops. She didn’t dare risk returning along the same street. There was no way of telling what time it was. She might already be missed. The Bletchetts could have alerted the constables. They could be out, now, combing the streets for her, wanting to return her to the workhouse or, even worse, the dosshouse. Either way she’d miss the interview.

She tried to cheer herself by recalling every detail of the uniform the usherettes had worn in the Town Hall when they’d shown her and the other orphans to their seats. A plain black dress. Smart and elegant. A white cap and apron, and torches slung at their belts. Tomorrow that would be her. And she’d find somewhere to live. A nice room in a warm house, with furniture like the pieces in the
Anne of Green Gables
picture she’d seen at the Christmas showing in the White Palace: a padded chair with arms and cushions, and a soft bed and plump pillows covered by a brightly-coloured patchwork quilt. And when she had her wages she’d be able to buy a glass vase for flowers similar to the one that had stood on the windowsill of the Master’s house. A table with a pretty cloth edged with lace …

She halted abruptly as reality intruded into her daydream. The darkness had melted, the sky was light grey and a bridge stretched in front of her spanning a river that flowed far below street level. She ran to the centre and looked over the parapet. Upriver there were trees and a row of houses that disappeared into a band of dense woodland. Downriver, terraces of imposing villas wound high above the steep banks that followed the flow of water. If she crossed the bridge and walked downriver, sooner or later she had to reach the town. Even if the road was longer, she would run less risk of discovery than returning the way she’d come.

Dropping the clogs to the ground she slid her dirty feet into them and crossed the bridge. For the first time she noticed birdsong in the air and a hint of warmth in the cold morning light. A magnificent house with mullioned windows and beautiful gardens stood high on a rise in front of her. She gazed at it, trying to imagine what it would be like to live within its walls. When the curtain moved in an upstairs room she began to run. One day she intended to find out about that kind of life, but she’d never get the chance if she wasted time fantasising now.

‘She’s gone.’

‘Don’t be stupid woman, where would she go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Bletchett replied, furious at being called stupid on top of being faced with making and serving the lodgers’ breakfasts herself.

‘You haven’t looked properly. You never do.’ He sat up in the bed and scratched his armpits.

‘I’ve been everywhere. The kitchen, the dining room, the bar, the attic …’

‘The bathrooms?’

‘I’ve knocked on all the doors. There’s lodgers in every one.’

‘Get me a cup of tea then I’ll -’

‘Don’t you cup of tea me! There’s no time for that this morning. You get out of that bed and see that the lodgers’ breakfasts are put on the table before they start holding back their money. Then you walk up the Graig Hill, report the slut missing and pick out a replacement.’

‘I’ll bring back the one you wanted,’ he grunted, in an attempt to mollify her.

‘You and your skinny ones. I saw through her from the start. Whore and slut. Just like the last one you chose, and the one you insisted on giving house room to before that.’

‘None of them are our problem any more. Not even this one.’ He left the bed and pulled his trousers on over his long johns. ‘When she’s picked up the guardians will see she’s taken back to the workhouse.’

‘And she stays there. Do you understand me? I’ll see her rot in hell before I allow her over this doorstep again.’

Jane saw the old bridge and her step quickened. She was on the right road. The old stone footbridge that arched alongside the flat, serviceable modern bridge that connected the town to Merthyr Road was the one landmark in Pontypridd everyone recognised. She even knew the story of how it had been built by William Edwards nearly two hundred years before. He’d watched his first attempt wash away in a flood, his second collapse on the bed of the river, and, undaunted by failure, he’d designed and built a third that still stood for all to see. Her Standard One teacher had told the class that William Edwards’s courage had spawned the saying ‘Three tries a Welshman’ and that all of them should follow the builder’s example and refuse to be disheartened by life, no matter what problems it presented.

As she drew closer to the steps that rose to the summit of the arch she changed direction. On impulse she ran up the bridge. If one man could build this, then she could get a job. It was simply a matter of perseverance and effort, just like the teacher had said.

Jane walked quickly down Taff Street, sticking to the shadows of the shuttered shops. A clock chimed. She stopped and listened, but it couldn’t have been the hour because there was only one peal. A tantalising smell of roasting meat wafted in the air, teasing her taste buds and knotting her empty stomach into tight, hungry spasms. She clutched her handkerchief until the edges of the coins bit into her palm. A penny or two spent on food wouldn’t make that much difference, and she couldn’t very well go to an interview starving. What if she fainted?

A sign over a shop alongside the fountain proclaimed CHARLIE’S COOKED MEATS. It was the only one in the row with a light burning in its windows. She crept closer. It was definitely the source of the mouthwatering smell. The window was steamed up, but through the mist she could make out the counter, and behind it trays of food. Hunger overcoming wariness, she lingered for only a few seconds then pushed open the door, jumping nervously as the bell above it shrilled loudly.

‘Good morning.’ A young man stood behind the counter. Skilfully wielding a fish slice, he whisked steaming hot pasties into china display trays at bewildering speed. ‘You’re an early bird.’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘You after something? Most of our meats are still cooking and won’t be ready for slicing for another hour.’

‘How much are those?’ She pointed at the pasties.

‘Well, seeing as how you’re our first customer of the day …’ Used to serving the ladies of the town, Eddie Powell didn’t even think about what he was saying any more, let alone consider the effect his banter might have on a workhouse girl. ‘... I can let them go for two shillings a dozen. But if you want just one, it’ll be two pence halfpenny’

‘Two pence halfpenny. But if I took a dozen they’d be two pence each,’ she protested indignantly.

‘Everything comes cheaper by the dozen.’

‘Sixpence on a dozen pasties is downright criminal.’

‘All right, tell you what I’ll do,’ he gave her the benefit of his most dazzling smile. ‘I’ll give you six for a shilling.’

Jane was hungry enough to eat six, but there was no way she was going to part with more than half of her life savings. She was also beginning to worry about the cost of an outfit. If one pasty cost two pence halfpenny, what was a second-hand dress going to set her back? And that was without a hat, shoes, stockings and underclothes.

‘I only want one.’

‘To eat now?’

She nodded.

‘Well why didn’t you say so? You can have this one.’ He scooped one from the end of the tray on to a paper bag, and handed it to her.

Her mouth was already watering, but she held back to ask, ‘How much?’

‘It’s misshapen,’ he lied, glad that Charlie who owned the shop was down at the slaughterhouse, and Charlie’s wife Alma was upstairs seeing to her mother who’d managed to catch bronchitis at the first sign of spring. ‘We wouldn’t be able to sell that one. The crimping on the edge is all crooked.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It would go in the bin.’

She halved it with her first bite.

‘You working round here then?’ he asked, setting the fish slice to work again.

She shook her head, her mouth too full to talk. She swallowed the last mouthful and ran her tongue around her teeth in search of crumbs. ‘I hope to, though. I’m going to apply for a job in the Town Hall this morning.’

‘The usherette’s position?’ He emptied one tray and turned to another. She was ambitious, he’d give her that much. But in those clogs and that grey flannel dress she didn’t stand a chance.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’ She set about the other half of the pasty.

‘Do you now?’

‘You think no one will take me on looking the way I do? Well, I’ve money.’ She lifted the handkerchief containing her precious pennies close to her flat chest. ‘Enough to buy a dress, shoes and a hat before I apply for the position. When I’m all dressed up I’ll look different. Then they’ll give it to me. You’ll see.’

‘Don’t mind me asking, but how much have you got?’

‘What do you want to know for?’ she asked, suspiciously grasping the handkerchief even tighter.

‘My brother used to work in the second-hand clothes trade. His old boss might be able to organise you a good deal.’

‘You’re not pulling my leg?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Why would you want to help me?’ This boy was a lot handsomer than the man who had tried to put his hand under her skirt and climb into her bed last night, but the one thing she had learned from the women in the workhouse was that sooner or later payment was demanded for every favour a man offered a woman.