by Maggie Ford
‘Have you spoken with young Ellie Jay this evening?’ he demanded, paying no more interest in the kitchen maid. Although most of Chambers’ time had been taken up serving at table, after dinner had been cleared away she would have gone down into the kitchen while he and his guests had relaxed for the remainder of the evening.
‘No, Doctor Lowe,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve not seen her at all.’
‘Then Mrs Jenkins?’ But before he could turn away, Rose spoke up in her slow voice.
‘Sir, I did see Miss Jay, only for a moment. Cook had gone off to her parlour, leaving me to wash up the last of the pots and pans. Nine o’clock I think it was, or maybe half past nine – I’m not sure. She went out the back carrying two bags full of stuff. Heavy, they looked. She said they was old clothes what you said to give to the poor. I didn’t take much notice of it, sir. I didn’t see her come back. I was only too glad to go on up to me own bed. I said goodnight to Cook and I asked if there was anything else to do before I went up, and she said no, so I went. I didn’t think to tell her about seeing Miss Jay.’
His mind now in complete confusion as he listened, one thought was that she had gone outside quite innocently and been seized by someone – a slip of a girl, gullible, pretty, alluring enough to give thoughts to a passing rogue. Minutes later that fear had been swept away: she’d been carrying two heavy bags, had told Rose a lie. Why would she run off, unless it was to meet Michael Deel? But he hadn’t turned up. Why then had she not sneaked back here? Where else on earth could she go?
There was one place. ‘Very well,’ he said brusquely, trying not to look too eager. ‘You can go back to bed.’
He didn’t think it likely she would have gone to Michael Deel’s home. She wouldn’t have belittled herself; she was made of sterner stuff than that. But she might have gone back to her old haunt. That neighbour of hers – he couldn’t recall the name, but if the family still lived there, would she not have gone to seek shelter? All the while his mind kept asking the same question: why had she not come back here if she had been let down by the man she had hoped to elope with, and if she hadn’t, what had possessed her to leave? She’d been happy here. He’d done everything in his power to make her so. He loved her like a daughter, had given her everything – all she wanted: comfort, good food, people to care for her. Why then had she left?
All this filled his thoughts as he made his way towards where Ellie had once lived. He walked briskly, seeing not one unoccupied cab, and it wasn’t so far to Bethnal Green Road; he was soon turning into the alley-like place grandly named Gales Gardens, with its soot-begrimed house walls and shabby doors that opened directly from living rooms on to the narrow, uneven pavement.
The number of the house he wanted eluded him for a moment, but the recollection of his visit to the house where she’d once lived brought him to a stop at the correct one. But on which side of it did the family reside? Gone eleven o’clock, none of this unbroken row of houses had lights showing in the windows. But he had to find out if Ellie had come here.
Choosing the street door, he rapped with his knuckles, there being no knocker. He waited as the minutes ticked by, growing sure that this must be the wrong house. What a fool he was. Then suddenly he recalled the name: Sharp – that was it.
Ellie was still lying awake when the knock came. She started up.
Mrs Sharp had said Ronnie would come in the back way, and anyway, he’d have a key. But someone knocking so late: she instinctively guessed the person.
A second rap on the door had her up from the couch and tiptoeing through to the back room where the stairs led up to the two bedrooms.
‘Mrs Sharp! Someone’s at the front door,’ she called up in a hoarse whisper. ‘Mrs Sharp!’
‘Who is it?’ came the stupid, sleepy question.
‘I can’t answer it. It’s not my house. You’ll have to come down.’ As the woman, sighing and grumbling at the hour, came down clad in a well-creased, off-white, flannelette nightgown, her greying hair hanging loose, Ellie caught her arm. ‘If it’s someone asking after me, please don’t tell them I’m here.’
‘Who’d be asking after you?’ came the retort. ‘I’ll kill ’em, whoever they are, knocking at this blooming hour.’
‘Then don’t anwer it. It could be anybody.’
‘I can’t ’ave people banging on me door this time of night, waking all me neighbours up.’
‘Then ask who it is first.’
Mrs Sharp went to stand behind the door. ‘What d’yer want?’ she queried, short of temper at the intrusion on her sleep. ‘Are you Mrs Sharp?’ came the reply.
‘It’s Ronnie!’ Her eyes turned in panic towards Ellie. ‘Somethink’s ’appened to him. It’s the police come ter tell me!’
But Ellie had recognized Doctor Lowe’s high tone. ‘It’s my employer,’ she hissed.
Mrs Sharp glanced at her. Ellie was shaking her head, one hand motioning negatively. To her relief, Mrs Sharp nodded reassurance and turned back to the door. ‘What d’yer want?’
‘I want to know if Miss Jay is there with you.’
‘You mean the girl what used ter live next door? No, she ain’t ’ere. Sorry. Ain’t seen nothink of ’er. Who are yer?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ came the lowered reply. ‘I apologize for having bothered you.’
‘I should think so – strangers waking us up this time of night!’
‘I do beg your pardon.’
‘What’s yer name anyway?’
Ellie’s hand was waving frantically: no, please let him go.
‘It’s of no consequence,’ came the voice, followed by silence as the owner walked away.
‘He’s gorn,’ Mrs Sharp said unnecessarily.
Ellie looked at her as she moved past to go back to bed. ‘Thank you for not betraying me. I feel so guilty coming here disturbing everyone. I shall be gone as soon as it’s daylight.’
‘You’ll ’ave a bit of breakfast with us ’fore yer go.’ The woman eyed her. ‘One thing yer got from that employer of yours: nice, polite manners; and yer’ve learnt ter speak nice too. Beats me why yer want ter leave there. Unless yer’ve got somewhere much nicer to go.’
‘I have,’ Ellie lied. There was no point telling her that she had no idea where to go. She would find somewhere. She’d have enough money come Monday and in her bags were some small paintings. She already knew what she’d do: sell them if she could and, on the strength of that, plan her life.
She didn’t hear Ronnie come in. She only awoke as someone came down the stairs, the battered little clock on the mantelshelf showing it to be nine fifteen. She had never slept so long, not even on a Sunday morning.
Leaping off the couch, embarrassed to be seen still lying there, though she had slept more or less fully dressed, Ellie pushed stockinged feet into her boots, frantically trying to do up the buttons along the outside of them.
She was sitting on the edge of the couch, the cover neatly folded and the cushion in an upright position, when Ronnie strode into the room one hand holding a steaming mug of tea from which he was sipping, the other hand holding out a similar mug to her.
‘Mum told me you was ’ere,’ he said as she gratefully took the tea, the brew as strong as ever. His voice, when it had broken, had been a deep one. Now it sounded deeper than ever, sending a little thrill through her. But it was all too late, Ronnie now courting and Michael still sitting painfully in her heart.
She’d tried not to think about what she and Michael had done. Why had she let it happen? But she’d been so sure of him – that they would run off together, be married; that their unforeseen moment of passion would be one of many moments. Hours later he had let her down.
She would never forgive him for that. She had even had a premonition after what they had done, but had bmshed it away, foolishly believing every word he’d said.
‘I never knew you was ’ere till this morning,’ Ronnie went on, his broad smile coming sudden and charming. ‘Good job I didn’t walk in
on you in the middle of the night. We’d of both got a shock.’
Ellie didn’t make such a good job of her answering smile, was even relieved to have Mrs Sharp come into the room.
‘I’ve made you a bit of breakfast,’ she said. ‘No one else is up yet. Ronnie’s sister’s only too glad to get a lie-in, going ter work so early the rest of the week, and the other two kids just ’ate school, so they make the most of Sundays too. The ol’ man, of course, don’t hardly ever get up most days of the week. It’s only Ronnie what’s always up with the lark. Anyway, you said you wanted ter be off early so I made yer some breakfast – a bit of bacon and toast, orright?’
‘I don’t want to take your food, Mrs Sharp,’ Ellie burst out, following her out to the kitchen, where the appetizing smell of bacon met her.
‘Oh, we don’t do so bad,’ laughed Mrs Sharp. She nodded towards Ronnie following behind. ‘That one brings in a nice little wage these days, a training reporter now. And my gel don’t do so bad in factory work. They make up for what the old man don’t bring in, lazy old bugger! No, we can afford a bit of bacon for a guest.’
She bustled about while the two young people sat at the cloth-covered kitchen table. ‘Though when Ronnie gets married, I shall miss his money; but then I don’t ’ave ter feed him or wash ’is stuff, do I?’
Teapot in hand she paused to look at Ellie. ‘So where’re yer going to stay on a Sunday? Friends, is it? Got a young man, have yer?’
As Ellie looked blankly at her, she seemed to deduce that her reply to all of it would be negative. She gave a sigh and, concentrating on topping up her son’s half-drunk mug of tea, said, ‘Then ’ave yer got any money?’
This time Ellie could answer. ‘Not today I haven’t. It’s all in my bank account. I’ll have to wait until they open tomorrow morning.’
Mrs Sharp gazed at her. ‘Bank account, eh? Huh! But yer ain’t got ’ardly a penny in ready cash ter bless yer name with now, ’ave yer?’
Ellie shrugged. ‘So what yer goin’ ter do till Monday?’ she was asked.
‘I don’t know.’ She had picked up a few pence she had about her when she’d left the Lowes’, but that wouldn’t go far. She hadn’t really thought, had she?
‘Then yer best stay ’ere another night till this bank of yours opens. ’Ope yer don’t mind the couch again.’
‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘No trouble.’ Mrs Sharp plonked another slice of fried bacon on Ellie’s plate and turned to her son with a piece hanging off the fork she held. ‘D’you want a bit more?’
‘No, I’m full.’ He grinned at Ellie. ‘I don’t eat a terrible lot. In my job, all the racing about I do, sometimes I don’t get time to eat at all.’
Ellie smiled briefly back at him and turned her eyes to his mother. ‘I will pay you back for the food.’
‘Blimey! Don’t come over all high’n’mighty, love. It’s Sunday. We’ve got a shoulder of lamb. Surely one more mouth ain’t goin’ ter make a dent in that. And there’s shrimps and winkles fer tea and a cake I made yesterday. I don’t suppose what you eat would fill a fly, there’s ’ardly any flesh on you at all. Like yer mother you are – thin an’ wiry she was, bless ’er soul.’
That reminded Ellie. ‘Have you heard anything of my father? Do you happen to know where he might be?’
Mrs Sharp pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘Not seen ’air nor ’ide of him since yer mother went. I see Charlie about sometimes. He’s living in Corfield Street, I think. Seems to ’ave got himself a proper gel. I often see ’em up the Bethnal Green Road of an evening when I’m there buying a few bits and pieces orf the stalls. Have you seen ’im lately then?’
Ellie shook her head. ‘About my father: I do need to get in touch with him, but I don’t know where he is.’
‘Perhaps I can ’elp there,’ Ronnie put in. ‘You know, connected with the press an’ all that, I might be able to pull a few strings, see ’ow we go.’
‘Would you?’ Ellie felt a rush of gratitude.
‘Of course, I can’t promise nothing. But I’ll ’ave a try.’
She watched him get up from the table, downing the rest of the strong tea. ‘Me an’ Alice is off ter see one of ’er friends this morning. We’ll be back fer dinner, then we’re out again, so we won’t be ’aving tea. See yer later then,’ he said with a broad smile at Ellie.
It was a long morning. Ellie helped Mrs Sharp wash up the breakfast things, her husband coming down to his breakfast requiring more bacon to be fried, and then wandering off to wherever he was bent on a Sunday morning. A little later Ronnie’s fifteen-year-old sister appeared, requiring more bacon and toast to be got. Once a friend to Ellie, she now seemed awkward, her smile shy, as if not knowing how to treat her, and she was soon off out. Last to come down were the two youngest, required to make do before disappearing out to play in the street.
Mrs Sharp went up to make the beds, leaving Ellie to amuse herself reading some of the several-days-old newspapers lying around. The place was a mess, but she could hardly start tidying up in case her host thought she was hinting.
Dinner found the family squashed around the big table with a need to make a place for her and Ronnie’s fiancée. The afternoon was spent listening to Mrs Sharp’s account of her life since Ellie had left. Tea was a little less crowded with Ronnie and his girl not there – though Ellie was put on her guard as Mr Sharp came sufficiently to life to ask what she saw as awkward questions about what she’d been up to since leaving Gales Gardens.
The evening dragged, Mr Sharp having run out of steam by then. Mrs Sharp, too, seemed to have run out of words, engrossed in darning socks or stitching away at seams that had come apart on anything from shirts and nightgowns to skirts and underclothing, all by the light of a large, ornate oil lamp she’d said earlier had been her mother’s.
The two youngest children went off to bed at seven, protesting until their father gave an angry shout, making Ellie jump and them scurry upstairs. It was the only time he’d opened his mouth; otherwise his head was buried in a newspaper as he puffed away at a foul-smelling pipe. Finally he put the paper over his face and dozed off, filling the room with stentorian snores.
Ronnie’s sister hardly looked up from reading her penny dreadful, and didn’t speak at all. Knowing how they’d been only a year ago, Ellie was made ill at ease, the girl wary and distant. Perhaps it was the way she now spoke. She knew she had changed. Her life had moved on. It didn’t seem possible that they had once all played together in the street.
She was glad when it was time for bed, delayed by having to wait until everyone retired before she could. As before, she slept with her clothes on, unable to wait for morning, when she could be off. She felt in need of a good wash. Her only wash the whole time she’d been here was to sluice her face at the scullery sink where everyone’s ablutions were carried out. No bath, of course; the outside WC in the yard was a cobwebby place with a stained toilet from which she’d had to hurriedly avert her eyes the first time of using it, not caring to see the permanent stains of nature. Mum had been so clean.
Lying on the couch trying to sleep, Ellie listened to the sounds outside and inside the house: Mr Sharp’s snores, seeming to shake the place; from the scullery the drip of a water tap into the battered, galvanized basin in the sink; the wavering yowl of cats, then a muffled shout; somewhere a dog barking.
Ellie turned her mind inwards, trying to seek sleep.
One thing she’d need to do would be to keep in touch with Ronnie’s mother, for who knew? – he might come up with the whereabouts of her father and her quest would be over. But again came the question: when she was able to trace him, what precisely was she going to do?
One thing was certain: she had no intention of seeing him get away lightly with what he’d done to her and Mum.
Twenty-One
It seemed to Ellie that she’d been living on her own for ever.
So far it had not yet been a week. It felt so much longer. She ha
d never truly known loneliness before, not real loneliness. When Mum had died she’d felt alone, cast adrift, but Dora had been there, and her neighbours, and there had been the hope of Charlie coming back, perhaps even her father, and two days later she had been taken in by Doctor Lowe. But this – this was isolation completely and utterly.
She sat on the hard, broken-backed chair in this attic room in a back street not far from Euston Station. It had come to her that she should be where other artists were and she had been told it was mostly around Camden Town these days. But she knew no one. Sitting here gazing at paint dabs on the walls and floor, she’d been told by the landlord that the room had previously been rented to an artist; but, unable to pay his rent, he’d been required to leave.
‘I hope you can pay,’ came the low warning when she’d handed over a week’s advance payment. ‘I like my rent regular, in advance and on time.’
Ellie had nodded with a show of confidence and prayed, knowing she hardly had money left from what Ronnie had given her even to buy food for the next few days or coal for warmth, let alone pay a regular rent.
With the few sticks of smouldering firewood in the tiny grate scarcely sending out enough heat to combat the November cold creeping in through the ill-fitting window and skylight, Ellie shivered under the blanket draped around her shoulders. They let in plenty of daylight, which had probably suited the previous tenant, but plenty of draughts too. December a few days off, she couldn’t remember ever feeling so cold. Still, with no means of paying the following week’s rent she might be out of the place hardly having settled in.
Something she hadn’t anticipated: having gone to the bank on the Monday morning after saying goodbye to Mrs Sharp, she had found that she would have to have Doctor Lowe’s permission before she could draw out a single penny.
Alone in the room, Ellie offered up silent thanks to Ronnie for the half-crown he’d stealthily slipped into her hand as she’d left that Monday morning. Two shillings and sixpence was a lot of money. As soon as she’d felt the coin, she’d protested that soon she would have plenty of money; but he’d held her hand closed – how warm his had felt – and refused to let her open it until finally her protests had died away.
