by Maggie Ford
‘I said I’m too tired,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked myself to a standstill.’
She received no sympathy. ‘You’ve no time to feel tired when a golden future could be staring you in the face. Perhaps after the exhibition. Even then demand could grow, though I would recommend we keep them wanting by holding back a little. That way your work will become even more sought-after, with buyers ready to pay whatever we ask.’
He spoke as if he shared her talent. ‘To make the exhibition work we must have more than these three.’
‘That’s all you’re going to get!’ Ellie flashed at him, exhausted to the point of showing her anger. ‘I’m worn out.’ Hearing her raised, desperate cry, Dora came to put her arms around her and Ellie was glad to lean against her. ‘I can’t do any more,’ she sighed.
For a moment, Hunnard regarded the two girls, perhaps noting for the first time how pale and washed-out Ellie was; then he quietly took hold of a chair and, with Dora helping, eased her down on to it.
‘I do apologize,’ he said, ‘for my brusqueness. I, too, am weary from the work entailed by setting this exhibition up. I don’t wish it to fail.’
Ellie looked up, alarmed. ‘Do you think it could?’ All her hard work!
‘No.’ He smiled, whispering the word with reassurance. His stem lips behind the trim beard could look quite pleasant when he smiled.
‘This exhibition will be a roaring success,’ he went on. ‘Every one of my invitations has been eagerly accepted and all know they will be viewing an exceptional talent with an entirely new concept.’
Weariness fell from Ellie like a cloak. ‘When will the exhibition be?’ she asked, her gaze on the paintings he’d propped against the table. She asked with no sense of enthusiasm for the event, which mildly surprised her: all she wanted was for it to be over, leaving her at last free to visit the Sharps, hopefully finding Ronnie there.
She would say sorry to him for having let him down that Sunday and hope he would understand. Surely he would, after she’d explained the reason.
He was always on her mind lately. The more time painting had taken up, the more she thought of him, wanted to see him. It was almost like an obsession, the best of reasons for her to work even harder so as to be able to go and see him.
To her delight and relief came the words, ‘A fortnight from now.’ Hunnard was apparently taking her question as a sign of impatience. ‘Then you may relax, Ellie, for a while at least.’
She couldn’t ever remember him using her first name before and she looked sharply at him. He was smiling benignly – a smile she’d seen on his lips before, and she hastily looked away.
When she looked back, the smile had gone.
* * *
The exhibition was proving a huge success, the place full of people almost immediately the gallery opened. Hunnard had done a good job, seeming to have lots of contacts.
For Ellie, unused to such attention, it all had a dream-like quality, everything happening as if in a mist. She tried to keep out of the way, but Hunnard kept dragging her out from whatever corner she was hiding in to introduce her to this and that person – they with their educated manner of speech making her own, even though she’d learned to talk nicely, sound flat and uncouth.
All wore expensive clothes. At Hunnard’s request she had bought herself a well-tailored dove-grey costume with a smoothly flowing skirt and double-breasted jacket, the high neck of her pin-tucked blouse being fastened with an art-nouveau brooch in silver with blue enamel that he had bought her to celebrate her coming-out, as it were. She had protested, secretly fearing he might be trying to buy her favours. But he waved away her protests and that oily smile was absent.
Nicely dressed as she was, she felt a fish out of water. These people weren’t her kind. This wasn’t her world. She loved painting, but having to do it to order wasn’t what she’d looked for. She was grateful for Dora’s support today and the company of Felix and Jock, though they seemed to prefer to keep to themselves, happier with each other’s company.
Hunnard was dominating her and she began to acquire an awful premonition that from now on he would start to dominate her in all she did, a father figure, taking over almost as her guardian, as Bertram Lowe had done, and whatever else might ensue from that. He hardly left her side, guiding her about, his hand on her elbow, until she almost felt stifled.
It was an immense relief when the day was over. She hadn’t enjoyed being dragged about the gallery, introduced to this one and that one as the newest discovery in the world of art.
The next few days saw her being wined and dined, paraded around by Hunnard, who indeed seemed to be taking over her life.
‘Your fame will grow,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll see to that. No more scrimping and scraping for Ellie Jay. Elizabeth Jay will be lauded among the famous of today’s artists.’
Odd how those words suddenly terrified her. That she now had a rapidly growing bank balance of several hundred pounds in her name, able to be withdrawn as and when she fancied, with no guardian to take charge, was strangely no comfort. She still couldn’t quite take in this change of fortune, didn’t even know what she could do with that kind of money. There was still this quest to find her father, but strangely it seemed to be taking a back seat.
She stood at the window, alone for the moment, Dora sitting on the bed reading a penny dreadful, contented in knowing she too would benefit from her sister’s good fortune. It was all too sudden. She felt unprepared.
‘I shall procure a fine studio for you,’ Hunnard had said when the exhibition had finished and she realized she was a moderately wealthy woman, destined to become wealthier as he handled the work she produced. ‘Separate living quarters, of course. I’ll start looking for suitable accommodation within the next few days.’
She didn’t want him arranging where she should live. She didn’t even know herself what she wanted. She stared down at the street below. It was Sunday again, the street quiet. She thought of the times she had had to struggle off to Bayswater Road with her efforts. Felix still did so.
She determined that she would attempt to offer him and his Jock a little of her new-found wealth, if they weren’t too proud to accept it. Felix had done so much for her – befriending her, helping her when she’d lost heart.
She’d be sad to move away from him – from here even. She’d become attached to this squalid room with its broken, second-hand furniture, the landlord with his skinny hand held out for his weekly rent. Could she ever keep in with the group she’d come to know and like, or would she drift away, expected to mix with people of standing, moneyed people, people she felt she could never become part of, would always feel awkward with? Or would she eventually rise to their heights, her nose turned up at the lowlier sort? Would she forget her humble beginnings?
That thought turned her mind to her father, to her original plan to take her revenge on him, to belittle him, to see him squirm before her. She could do that now. But did she still want to, wherever he was?
And there was Ronnie. Would he want to associate with her: the artist who had made good, the grand lady? As she would feel outclassed by those in society circles, so he would feel outclassed by her. She’d give him her new address when she moved; but would he feel too embarrassed to visit it?
Still gazing down at the quiet street below, beginning to feel quite desolate about this new future looming before her, she found the view swimming through sudden moisture collecting in her eyes.
A knock on the door interrupted her reverie, disconcerting her for a moment. But it might be Felix. Turning from the window, she went to answer the knock, hurriedly wiping the tears from her eyes as she went.
Opening the door, Ellie gasped. There stood the very man she’d been thinking about.
‘Ellie! I think I’ve got some good news for you,’ he burst out without even greeting her, ‘about yer dad! Sorry it took so long ter find anything out. I even thought I’d come to a dead end, but… Look, can I come in?’
She felt no shame in him seeing the state of the place where she lived. His home wasn’t much better. But that wasn’t what occupied her thoughts at the moment. Her heart had begun beating rapidly with heavy, sickening thuds at mention of her dad.
Ronnie gave her no chance to speak. Without a glance around the room he carried straight on talking. ‘After all this time I think I’ve traced yer dad’s whereabouts. Got it through the newspaper I work for. What I did was ter put advertisements in from time to time. Then the other day someone answered – said they knew of ’im; so I thought I ought ter come and let you know.’
Ellie wanted to hug him, not because of his news – that held nothing to lighten her heart, but with the joy of seeing him. But to throw herself into his arms and probably alarm him wasn’t proper, even though her heart was now racing with delight, pushing aside that first heavy beat at news of her dad.
She made herself calm a little and asked as evenly as she could, ‘Did they give any address?’ though what she would do when she saw him she had no idea. It had been such a shock, coming out of the blue like that.
Ronnie was frowning. He seemed reluctant to oblige.
‘Is it a long way away?’ she queried.
‘No, not far,’ came the reply: ‘Whitechapel – but it might be better if I take you meself.’
It was all she wanted to hear: Ronnie going with her, walking beside her, perhaps letting her hold his arm.
‘I wouldn’t want you dashing off there on yer own,’ he was saying. ‘It’s a bit squalid where he’s living. I say squalid: it’s a dump.’
Ellie bit her lip, grew serious. This wasn’t what she’d expected. She didn’t quite know what she’d expected – her father perhaps living it up with that woman he’d left her mother for, he dressed up to the nines, her with paint on her face and common as muck.
‘When I say dump…’ Ronnie paused to scratch the side of his head as if giving himself time to say what he had to. ‘To be truthful, according ter what the person said who answered me ad, I think it might be a dosser – a doss house. Not a fit place for a young lady to wander into on ’er own. I’ll ’ave ter come with you, Ellie. You don’t mind, do yer?’
Did she mind? Not only did she want to have him with her, it seemed she needed to have him with her.
‘Should we go now?’ she asked.
‘If yer want to.’
‘I do.’ Dora was standing by, looking anxious. Ellie turned to her. ‘Stay here, Dora. I shan’t be long. I just need to speak to him, then I’ll be back. I don’t think it wise for us all to go barging in wherever your dad is.’
Dora nodded dumbly. Ellie didn’t think she, having heard the conversation, would have wanted to come along anyway. She herself was feeling a little sick, wondering what would confront her. Her father was obviously down on his luck for the moment – as he’d been many times before; but he had always bounced back. In a way, it did make it easier to say what she planned to say.
While Ronnie waited for her outside the door, she changed into the expensive dove-grey costume and fashionable matching hat she’d worn at the exhibition, bought with the money Hunnard had advanced her.
Ronnie looked at her with rapt amazement as she came out of her room, making her feel she’d dressed too smartly for him, especially when he took her by the hand to help her down the stairs as if she were a real lady, incapable of negotiating their steep descent without assistance. In the street he threaded her arm through his; and now he even seemed proud of being her escort.
‘I’m afraid we’ll ’ave ter catch a tram,’ he said as if excusing himself.
‘That’s fine, I don’t go any other way,’ she told him, happy to lie.
It had been raining hard this morning and, though it had now stopped, the interior of the horse tram still smelled of damp clothing – wet umbrellas brushed against skirts and trousers and dripping forlornly on to the fluted boards.
Beside her, Ronnie was talking brightly about his recent promotion and wages rise and how he intended to get on in the world. She said nothing about the money coming from the exhibition of her paintings. Best he didn’t know just yet. It might turn him off and she dared to foster high hopes of resuming their friendship of so long ago, this time more seriously.
At the same time she couldn’t stop thinking of where they were going. Her tummy kept going over as she thought about it. Now it came to it, what could she find to say to her father? It was making her feel sick.
The sun was peeping through the parting clouds as they got off the tram. They turned in the direction Ronnie indicated, he now holding tightly to her arm. It felt wonderful.
Whitechapel was much like the rest of East London, with cheap shops, busy main roads, poorly clad shoppers absorbed in finding the cheapest food for the table. Whitechapel had its alleys, too, and it was into one of these off a dreary, run-down side street that Ronnie led her.
It was narrower even than Gales Gardens; the pockmarked nameplate on one wall read ‘Spectacle Alley’. Ronnie paused. He seemed embarrassed and anxious as if the state of the place was his fault.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘I ought to have warned yer.’
‘You did.’
‘But I should ’ave made it more plain – I mean, where they said yer dad is supposed ter be staying.’
Even Ronnie, where he was living and where she’d once lived, found this place disgusting.
Rubbish of all sorts littered the broken pavement, the walls being blackened by years of soot. There were two or three tiny, dingy shop fronts, signs dangling over brown-stained doorways advertising wares such as cigarettes, beer, Colman’s starch, matches, and above that windows set deep into the brickwork.
None seemed to be doing any trade and only two people passed them as she and Ronnie made their way down the alley, he consulting a piece of paper, the name on which he hadn’t let her read.
As they reached a sign saying ‘Good Beds – Single Men Only’, hanging from an ornate bracket over a black-painted door and window sill, Ronnie stopped.
He looked at Ellie, nibbling his lower lip. ‘This is the place. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. All I was given was the number.’
‘What is it?’ she asked, bewildered.
‘It’s… Well, it’s the place I told you about – a dosser.’ For a moment she was sure he’d got things wrong. She had been sure he’d been taking her to the wrong place ever since they’d got off the tram. In her mind she had seen her father living in moderate comfort at least.
He’d always been a gambler and, though not always lucky, he’d made money as well, a snappy dresser even though Mum had had to slave taking in work to try to make ends meet. True, he liked his drink: she and Mum had suffered the results of that, both of them in their separate ways; but the money he made gambling had adequately covered his spending on drink. Now Ronnie was saying he was living in a dosshouse, filthy and bug-ridden by the look of it, despite the sign grandly proclaiming ‘Good Beds’!
‘This can’t be right,’ she burst out. ‘They must have got it wrong, the people who gave this address.’
Ronnie looked at the piece of paper again. He seemed as devastated as she felt. ‘Perhaps we’d better go back home. Perhaps there is a mistake and this ain’t the right address.’
As they stood looking at the door, a man lurched out. On an impulse Ellie called to him. ‘Do you know of a Mr Albert Jay?’
The man paused, swaying a little, peered at her, then began pouring out a string of beery oaths, finally making some sense.
‘Ol’ Bert – ’im wot’s ill? Poor ol’ bugger ain’t long fer this world if yer asks me. Bloke wot runs this place wants ’im art – says ’e don’t keep no sick people wot ain’t even on the charity, and ’e don’t run ’is doss ’ouse on any charity neiver…’
His words faded away as he lurched off, while Ellie and Ronnie gazed after him, disappearing into the grog shop they’d just passed.
She looked at Ronnie, lifting her chin. ‘I�
�m going in anyway.’
‘You can’t,’ he cried. ‘It might not be the right Albert. And I’m not letting yer go in there. You could catch something.’
Without answering, Ellie pulled free of his arm and ran in through the half-open door. The smell of urine that met her almost knocked her back as she covered her mouth and nose with a navy-gloved hand.
The place was dim, the dirty windows giving hardly any light, but a thin shaft of weak sunshine, washed-out after the rain, coming through the doorway gave enough to distinguish a flight of bare, rickety stairs, a piece of candle burning low in its holder at the top.
As Ronnie followed her in, a door along a dark passage opened. ‘Yus, wha’ yer want?’ came a hoarse demand.
Ellie looked towards the voice, frightened by the sudden sound, but it was Ronnie who answered. ‘You’ve got a Mr Albert Jay staying here. I’ve just been told he’s ill. This is his daughter come to see him.’
From somewhere Ronnie suddenly became well spoken, perhaps to impress the owner of the uncouth voice or perhaps because he heard his own way of speaking being aped.
Maybe this was how he spoke at work, it being expected of him – only falling back into his slipshod ways when at home.
It sounded nice, hearing him speak like this, but the thought was swept away as the lodging-house owner emerged from his cubbyhole.
‘Oh, she do, do she? Well, tell ’er that ’er ol’ man owes me money fer the bed what ’e’s occupying and is she gonna pay me?’
‘If he’s her father,’ Ronnie replied, ‘she’ll pay you. If he ain’t, then she won’t. What room’s he in?’
‘Top o’ the stairs, turn right, second door along!’
The man went back into his room and Ellie mounted the stairs that creaked and shook to each step, the banisters dangerously wobbly. She was glad to have Ronnie hold her arm, not only supporting her physically, his touch immediately boosting the courage that had threatened to fail.
She had known for years just what she would say to her father. It was why she had put on her best clothes, so he would see that she’d risen above his humiliation of her. She had rehearsed the words so many times: what she thought of him over what he’d done, and for walking out on a dying woman. She would take delight in watching him squirm under her haughty contempt. But she hadn’t expected to find him in such a place as this, and apparently ill. Now her courage was failing her.
