Mermaids Singing (23 page)

Maria glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘Leave it to me. I know what colours suit Bella the best. If I hurry I can just catch the market before they pack up for the night.’

‘We’ll feed the nippers and then put them straight to bed,’ Betty said, rolling up her sleeves in a businesslike manner. ‘Heaven knows, they all need a bath and clean clothes, but I think they’ve had enough upset for today. But tomorrow, Kitty, we’ll put the tin bath in front of the fire and give them a good scrub.’

Nodding her head, Kitty’s heart swelled with love and pride as she struggled to find the words to thank Betty for her generosity and to praise her courage, but she realised then that sometimes words were simply not enough, and she gave Betty a hug.

The kitchen table disappeared beneath yards of pink taffeta. Betty cut the material with a skilful hand, and Maria, Bella and Kitty sat up all night, tacking and sewing seams until their eyes watered and their fingers were sore. By early morning they had fitted, altered and stitched the basic shape of a dress that clung to Bella’s shapely body, emphasising her tiny waist and accentuating her breasts, with the aid of a few ruffles sewn into the lining. Bella was sent upstairs to bed so that she would be fresh for the evening performance, while Kitty and Maria put the finishing touches to the gown. When Bella came downstairs, refreshed after her nap, Kitty was thrilled to see a bit of the old sparkle as Bella tried on the rustling pink gown. Showing it off, she did a succession of twirls and Kitty sensed that the real Bella would go out on stage and charm the audience just as she had in the past.

In the late afternoon, Bella and Maria set off for Aldgate with the dress stowed into a bolster case. Kitty stood in the doorway, watching them striding purposefully along the street. A thick fog was swirling in on the tide, gobbling them up even before they reached the corner. They were gone, Kitty thought, like two small soldiers, gallant fighters, marching to war in the battle for survival.

Closing the door against the chilling, smoke-laden fog, Kitty could hear the children’s protests as Betty carried out her threat to bath them before she allowed them to sleep one more night in her clean beds. The howls and screams rose to an ear-splitting crescendo as Kitty opened the kitchen door. Naked and shivering, Frankie and Charlie were huddled in the tin bath in front of the range, protesting loudly as Betty sluiced them down with jugs of fast-cooling water. The room was cloudy with steam, laced with the odour of carbolic soap.

‘Don’t be a baby, Frankie Cable,’ Betty said, as Frankie screamed that there was soap in his eyes. She scooped another jug of water from the pan on the range and tipped it over his head. ‘Give me a hand, Kitty, and rub soap into young Charlie’s hair.’

Chuckling and ignoring Frankie’s pleas for help, Kitty set to work scrubbing Charlie while Betty dragged a fine-tooth comb through Frankie’s hair. Having already undergone the torture, Billy, Violet and Harry huddled together on a chair. Wrapped in towels, they watched wide-eyed as their brothers suffered the indignity of being bathed and deloused. Violet’s long hair had been shorn and it stuck up in spikes giving her the appearance of a baby hedgehog. She sat sucking her thumb and hugging a doll.

‘You gave Polly’s doll to our Violet?’ Kitty said, tipping the last of the warm water over Charlie’s head.

Betty jumped backwards as Frankie leapt from the bath, shaking himself and sending spray everywhere. Laughing, she tossed a towel at him. ‘Yes, it was Poll’s but I know she would want Violet to have it.’

‘I wants me clothes,’ Frankie said, sticking out his chin. ‘You got no right to pinch ’em, lady.’

Kitty took him by the shoulders, gave him a shake, and then kissed him on the cheek, laughing as he pulled away, making a face. ‘Where’s your manners? It’s Mrs Scully to you.’

‘Your clothes are in the washhouse and tomorrow they’ll be boiled in the copper,’ Betty said, picking a pile of shirts from the dresser. ‘These belonged to my son Jem who is a sailor now, just like his pa. Put these on and maybe I’ll tell you some of the sea stories that my Herbert used to tell Jem.’

Violet unplugged her thumb from her mouth. ‘Did he see mermaids?’

‘Don’t talk soft,’ Frankie said. ‘That’s girls’ stuff.’

Betty hooked a shirt over his head and ruffled his damp hair. ‘I expect pirates and sea monsters are more your cup of tea then, Frankie.’

‘I expects they might be,’ Frankie said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Then I might just have a story that would suit you all,’ Betty said, taking Violet on her knee and slipping a cotton nightie over her head.

Kitty guessed that the nightdress had belonged to Polly, but she kept her own counsel as she dragged a shirt over Billy’s wet head.

‘It ain’t bedtime,’ Frankie said, folding his arms across his chest. ‘We don’t go to bed until our mam does.’

‘Frankie, be quiet.’ Kitty said, frowning. ‘Maggie is sick in bed and you’ve got to be a good boy.’

‘Is our mam going to die?’ asked Charlie, his bottom lip quivering.

‘Of course not,’ Betty said, setting Violet down on the floor. ‘But she needs rest and quiet. If you all creep upstairs like little mice, you can sleep in the big bed in my best bedroom and I’ll tell you a story about mermaids, sea monsters and pirates too.’ Taking Harry and Violet by the hand, Betty winked at Kitty as she led the children out of the kitchen.

‘Be good for Mrs Scully,’ Kitty called, as she heard their scampering steps on the stairs and muffled laughter. After what they had been through it seemed almost miraculous that they could still laugh and play about like ordinary children. At least now they were safe under one roof, she thought, as she began to tidy up the kitchen.

With five more mouths to feed she would have to find employment, even if it meant working long hours for low pay, in the match or glue factory. Her dream of working up West in a dress shop seemed to be slipping further and further away. Kitty sighed, as she emptied the tin bath, jug by jug, pouring the dirty water speckled with dead fleas and lice into the clay sink, she would achieve her ambition one day; it would just take a bit longer, that was all.

The sound of someone crashing on the iron door-knocker made her drop the enamel jug into the tin bath, splashing water all over her skirt. Kitty’s hand flew to her throat as she recognised Sid’s voice, shouting for Maggie. She ran into the hall and stood by the door, trembling violently as each vicious clout from Sid’s fists shook the timbers.

‘Open up! I know she’s in there. I’ll not budge without Maggie and the kids.’

‘Get away from here,’ Kitty screamed. ‘Go away before I call for a copper.’

The door shuddered as if Sid had put his shoulder to the wood. ‘I might have guessed you was to blame for this, bitch.’

‘You’ll never see Maggie or the nippers again,’ Kitty cried, backing towards the stairs.

‘Just wait till I gets me hands on you,’ Sid roared, kicking the door.

Kitty watched the timbers shiver and shake, screaming as the toe of Sid’s boot broke through a rotting door panel. Her throat constricted with terror at the thought of what he would do if he managed to get into the house. She had to get help before it was too late, but that meant leaving the house and finding a bobby on the beat. Sid was kicking the door in and there was no time to think of her own safety. Praying that Betty, Maggie and the children would not hear the racket and be terrified, Kitty ran through the kitchen, out of the back door and into the yard. Yanking at the rusty bolt on the back gate, she ran into the alley that divided the back-to-back buildings.

It led into Tanner’s Passage, just a few doors away from Betty’s house. As she reached the street Kitty paused, gasping for breath. She peeped around the corner and saw Sid slamming his fist against the door of number seven. Curtains twitched at windows in the street, doors opened but were quickly closed again. No one came out to find out who was shouting and roaring like a madman. Almost as if he sensed her presence, Sid looked round just as she decided to make a run for it and, with a guttural snarl, he gave chase. She could hear his boots pounding on the cobbles, getting closer and closer, as she hurtled along the passage.

Reaching the main street, she turned instinctively towards the part of the river that she knew best, running until her heart and lungs felt as though they were about to burst. Was the pounding in her head the muffled sound of Sid’s footsteps or the laboured drumming of her heartbeat? Even though Kitty knew every inch of the wharf and the fish dock, she was lost and disorientated by the fog that muffled all sound, dimming lights and making it impossible to see the edge of the quay wall. She didn’t spot the bollard until it was too late and, leaping aside to miss it, Kitty caught her foot in a coiled rope and sprawled headlong on the ground. Winded and gasping to catch her breath, she tried to raise herself, clutching at nothing. Immediately below her, the black water of the Thames, veiled in swirling fog, sucked greedily at the stanchions.

With a triumphant roar, Sid threw himself down, catching hold of her ankles, his hands sliding up her bare legs and his fingers digging into her cold flesh. Kitty kicked out with all her strength. Freeing one foot, she lashed out and felt it connect with something so hard that she heard a bone crack. Sid howled with pain and let her go, giving her just enough time to scramble to her feet. She screamed for help but her voice was lost in the thick pea-souper. Dodging Sid’s outstretched hand, she did an about-face and tore off along the quay wall in the direction of home. She could hear Sid’s footsteps coming up behind her; he was gaining on her. Kitty sobbed with pain as her muscles cramped and went into spasm, and the fog filled her nose and mouth, suffocating her with its noxious fumes. She stumbled, falling to her knees. Curling herself into a ball, she waited for the inevitable blows from Sid’s fist, but he cannoned into her, knocking her flat on her face. She heard him grunt as he fell, followed by a splash, then total silence, broken only by the muted moan of a foghorn downriver and the lapping and sucking sounds of the river as it swallowed everything that fell into its greedy maw.

Dragging herself to the edge of the quay wall, Kitty peered down into the dark, roiling water; the tide had begun to ebb, carrying the flotsam and jetsam down to the sea.

Placing advertisements in shop windows had been Maria’s idea. Handwritten cards inscribed with Betty’s name and ‘Dressmaker to ladies of fashion’ with the address clearly printed and a recommendation from ‘A Lady, wife of a prominent Member of Parliament’, seemed to do the trick and a flood of orders for gowns poured in from wealthy merchants’ wives who hitherto had only ordered the odd blouse or skirt. Betty did the cutting and Maria and Maggie sat up night after night, sewing seams until their fingers bled and their eyes were red-rimmed and sore. A sewing machine would make life easier but it was going to take months to save up enough money to purchase one. Sewing by hand was slow work and the merchants’ wives often kept them waiting for their money; in the meantime, they had to rely on Bella’s wages from the music hall.

After a successful first week, Bert, the manager, a leery old cove, with wandering hands and a partiality for blondes, had been pleased enough to keep Bella on. So far she had managed to hold off his amorous advances by playing up to him. She suffered a bit of cuddling and pawing, just enough to keep him happy, with the unspoken promise of further favours that she had no intention of fulfilling. It made Bella physically sick to encourage the old goat, but they were relying on her at home, and if she lost her job they would all go hungry.

In order to help with the household bills, Kitty had found herself work in the blacking factory, leaving at crack of dawn and coming home late, stinking of boot polish and covered from head to foot in sticky black dust. Bella had grown to love Kitty like a sister and she had tried to talk her out of factory work, but Kitty was as stubborn as she was loyal. She had ignored Bella’s warnings about the people driven mad by working with phosphorus in the match factory, their faces deformed by phossy jaw, or flour packers coughing up blood, their lungs destroyed by the dust. There was little to choose between labouring in a laundry and suffering chronic bronchitis, or slaving in the sweatshops on scandalously low wages.

Singing and dancing in the Palace of Varieties paid comparatively well and Bella had learned at an early age how to hold an audience. There was the buzz of excitement and a flutter of stage fright before each performance, and the intoxicating thrill of hearing the applause and cheers as she took her final bow. Rackham had often told her that greasepaint was in her blood and she had hotly denied it, but at least here, in the East End, she had nothing to prove except her talent as an entertainer. She was not on trial every minute of the day as she had been as Desmond’s wife, his embarrassing misalliance, with society watching and waiting for her to make a
faux pas
in speech or manners.

‘Miss Lane, five minutes, please.’ The call boy rapped on her dressing room door.

Bella dropped her powder puff and scrambled to her feet, smoothing down the creases in her pink taffeta gown, dragging herself back to reality. Checking her appearance in the mirror, she added a dash of rouge to her cheeks and curved her lips into a smile. Snatching up her parasol, she left the dressing room and made her way to the wings, waiting for her cue. She was second from bottom of the bill now, and in her tenth week at the Palace of Varieties. She could see Bert leering at her from the wings on the far side of the stage. As the orchestra struck up the opening bars of her intro, she blew him a kiss and danced out on the stage.

It was Friday night and she could feel the goodwill of the audience rising up on a waft of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. They were out for a good time and had responded noisily to the quips of the master of ceremonies. They had roared their approval of the tumblers, who had just come off stage after their energetic first act. Elated by the fizz of excitement skittering through her veins, Bella sashayed to the middle of the stage, blowing kisses in answer to the whistles and cheers. She went straight into a comedy song that soon had them tapping their feet in time to the music and laughing appreciatively at the risqué, cockney humour. She went through her lively dance routine, swaying seductively and then slowing down as the music changed from major to minor. Now she had them in the palm of her hand, ready for the sad ballad that would wring the hearts of the hardest and most cynical members of the audience. Coming to a dramatic halt centre stage, clasping her hands together against the exposed curves of her bosom, Bella raised her eyes to the gallery. With a tremulous smile, she swept her glance across the dress circle to the boxes on either side. She faltered as she saw him sitting there, nonchalantly leaning over the gilded parapet of the box. Rackham!