The Flower Girl

by Maggie Ford

  ‘He’s bin married,’ Lizzie reminded her at one stage, to which she returned huffily,

  ‘Anyone his age is bound to have been married. I said his wife was dead.’

  ‘That’s what he told you,’ Lizzie warned.

  ‘I believe him.’

  ‘Some men can get yer ter believe anything.’

  Emma felt her back go up. She didn’t know what she wanted from Lizzie. Certainly not advice to keep away from him or be told she was being a fool, nor even to be told to carry on seeing him. What she needed was to talk about it. Keeping this secret was tying her in knots. ‘Me mum or Ben must never know. Ben would kill me. He thinks it’s his job ter keep an eye on me, like as if he was me dad.’

  What she didn’t know was that Ben already had his eye on her, was watching her like a hawk.

  More in defiance of what Lizzie had said than anything, the following evening on her way home Emma made a quick detour to see how Mr Barrington was. As the door closed, the furtive shadow at the far end of the alley materialised into the large figure of a man. Hugging the wall, he flitted towards his goal with an agility at odds with his well-muscled frame. At the door, he paused and surveyed it balefully as though expecting the wood itself to cringe before his gaze.

  ‘Caught yer, my gel!’ he hissed. ‘Creeping inter a geezer’s ’ouse. If it’s the same bloke what Reg saw, he’s got me ter reckon wiv now.’

  He’d catch them red-handed and bust the geezer’s boko for him. He’d been in the Swan and had caught a glimpse of her passing by, just the head and shoulders above the frosted glass of the lower half. He’d leaped up from the pint he’d been drinking, and without pausing to tell his mates what he was up to, had barged out in time to see her go out of sight under the dark railway arch. Following, he’d seen her go in through this door. How long, he wondered testily, before she came out again.

  He’d intended to wait and confront her but now he wasn’t so sure. The beer he’d been enjoying had been from his own bloody round and he was buggered if he was going miss out on the next bloke’s call by hanging about here in the cold. There’d be plenty of other times to catch ’em at it.

  ‘I’ll bide me time,’ he muttered to the door. ‘Give ’em enough rope and the pair of ’em will ’ang themselves wiv it.’

  Letting out an contemptuous hiss, he turned on his heel and trudged back the way he’d come, hands in his trouser pockets, his chin jutting out in his decision to bust that geezer’s nose for him, later. At the moment the uppermost thing in his mind was the beer he’d left and the free one to come.

  Having let her in, the young man went and stood by the table, looking to Barrington to do the introductions.

  ‘Amelia, my dear,’ obliged Barrington, though he didn’t smile, in fact looked ill at ease and glowering. ‘This is Martin Page, my one-time assistant before I gave up my profession as a magician. Martin, this is Amelia Beech, who so kindly helped me home when I was taken desperately ill. I consider her a most kind- hearted young girl.’

  As Page nodded, Emma said, ‘Me name’s really Emily. Most people call me Emma, or Em.’

  She heard Barrington cough, not from illness because he was looking much better, but a short and sharp one to bring Page back to whatever he had been talking about. Emma glanced from one to the other and now saw that neither seemed at ease. In fact there was hostility in the air, making her wish she hadn’t come in here. She found herself ignored as Page turned abruptly to Barrington.

  ‘Listen, Theo, you can’t go on like this.’ He spread his arms to encompass the miserable room. ‘Not even a decent fire in the grate. There’s nothing to eat. And where the hell do you wash? The place stinks. The whole district stinks! I can’t believe you’ve let yourself sink this low. It’s taken me nearly a year to find you. You simply slipped out of sight. I know it’s been bad for you, but to disappear without a trace.’

  ‘He’s been ill,’ Emma ventured.

  Page glanced at her. ‘So I noticed,’ he said, using a gentler tone towards her. He turned back to Barrington.

  ‘You were such a damned good teacher, Theo. I enjoyed being your assistant.’

  ‘I can well imagine you did!’ Barrington muttered slowly, the depth of sarcasm in the remark making Emma frown, but if Page noticed, he gave no sign.

  ‘Since you vanished, I’ve been at a loose end. My father insists I work with him in his business as managing director, but I can’t settle. The stage got into my blood because of you. And then you go and walk out on me.’

  ‘P’raps I should go,’ Emma ventured awkwardly, and again the young man turned his eyes to her.

  They were wide set and dark velvety brown. His hair was dark and glossy with a slight wave to it. He wore a good quality, single-breasted ulster, open to reveal a casual, dark brown tweed lounge suit. On the table beside him lay a brown bowler hat. What she most noticed, with a small shock, was the way he was regarding her so that she turned away quickly to avoid blushing.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said to Barrington. ‘I only came ter see if you was all right.’

  ‘Well, my dear, you see I am.’

  It was terse, rude, and she felt her cheeks colour. She’d already avoided a blush at the young man’s scrutiny, but this was from anger. How dare he brush her off like this? She’d done nothing to upset him apart from coming, and he hadn’t seemed to mind. It was then that she noticed the tight-lipped way he was regarding Page. Perhaps he’d seen the look Page had given her and was feeling protective towards her. He needn’t have worried. She could take care of herself well enough.

  Page had turned back to him. ‘So why didn’t you let me know where you were? I know full well why you took off, but not to say you were going.’

  ‘Why should it concern you?’

  Barrington’s tone was harsh. Both seemed to have forgotten her but she could hardly leave without observing the common formalities of leaving.

  ‘I was hardly six months with you,’ Page was saying.

  ‘And in that time I taught you well,’ Barrington sighed. ‘You were the best assistant I’d ever had. You had talent beyond my expectations. I have to admit, it was because of you that my act became second to none.’

  ‘Then why dismiss me? I know you were grieving, but why didn’t you tell me where you were?’

  ‘What I decided had nothing to do with you. I had my reasons. You were handsomely paid off at the time.’

  ‘Who cares!’ Page exploded. ‘When I heard what happened, I visited you in hospital, but I didn’t come to pester you for the money.’

  Barrington glared. ‘I suppose your father provides well for you now.’

  ‘Indeed. He merely disapproved of my wish to go my own way, I was a disappointment to him and could sing for my allowance, but I didn’t need his help while I was with you. Then one day I came to visit you in the hospital and you’d gone. Not a word. What was I supposed to do?’

  Barrington’s manner melted a little. ‘I am sorry, Martin, I wasn’t in my right mind. My wife, the incident, it built up in me. I wasn’t sure myself what I was doing. I simply could not go back to my old life.’

  ‘So you let yourself go completely downhill. Look at this place. You had money, fame, influential friends, a fine house – I was proud to be your assistant, proud of the trouble and patience it took you to teach me. You and Eleanor.’

  Barrington’s ill humour returned like a stroke of lightning. The vivid blue eyes seemed to blaze.

  ‘I would thank you not to speak of my wife in front of me! Do not even utter her name!’

  Page’s brown eyes flared too. ‘I know what you think, Theo. But your jealousy wasn’t justified. She was friendly and …’

  ‘Friendly! Is that what you called it?’

  ‘Yes, friendly, and helpful. I respected her, but we never …’ He broke off, apparently thinking better of it, and for a moment or two they fell silent.

  Emma was about to make her excuses and leave when Page spoke again. ‘If you
had to become a recluse, Theo, why didn’t you go off and hide yourself in that fine house of yours?’

  Barrington seemed to wilt a little. ‘Because people would visit and pester me, as you are doing now, and I didn’t want that.’

  Emma had been switching her gaze from one to the other. Now she focused it on Barrington with a hard stare. Not because he’d been offhand with her after all she’d done for him, but that her sympathy and attempts to help him had proved to be a waste.

  The man had money. He owned property, according to Page. Ever since those coins had spilled out on to the floor, she’d felt something wasn’t quite right. These boxes of magician’s props – why was he hanging on to them?

  ‘What ‘appened to your house, Mr Barrington?’ she asked

  He merely shrugged, but it was Page who spoke, in a monotone. ‘Empty – deserted – almost every window broken and cracked – paintwork peeling – garden unattended – weeds waist high. It’s now as sad as he is!’

  This last was said with some venom and there was bitterness in his expression. ‘This, would you believe,’ he continued, extending a dramatic arm towards the older man, ‘is the most talented illusionist you ever saw. And he threw it all away.’

  In this stance he looked every inch the theatrical pro. Slim, handsome, upright, young, he was about five or six years older than her. Emma felt a small thrill run through her. ‘He probably ’ad ’is reason,’ she said in Barrington’s defence, needing to say something, anything, to smother the sensation.

  ‘Many people hit a bad spot in life,’ said Page as though he’d been on earth sixty years instead of twenty. ‘They pick themselves up and carry on.’

  Yes, her mother had done exactly that, even now struggled to make ends meet, sometimes at her wits’ end to do so.

  ‘The show must go on,’ Page said. ‘Yet this one walks off the stage in the middle of his act because a few drunks harass him. That’s no excuse for anyone to leave the stage.’

  Barrington stiffened. ‘Now look here, Martin …’

  ‘And now he’s lying here, making himself ill, feeling sorry for himself and giving up on everything.’

  ‘You would too,’ she leaped in, ‘if you’d lost your wife.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Well then,’ she pointed out succinctly, and again there descended a short silence.

  Martin Page glared at Barrington for a moment, then drew a wallet and pencil from the inside pocket of his ulster, fished out a piece of paper and using the wallet as a rest, scribbled something on it. He held the paper out to Barrington, not taking his eyes off him as he replaced the wallet.

  ‘I’m staying with my people. My address, if you wish to get in touch. I’ve had enough of being stuck in an office, my father calling the tunes.’

  Barrington ignored the piece of paper. ‘Then this visit is purely for selfish reasons.’

  ‘Not at all. I just hate to see you wasting yourself like this.’

  ‘What I do is no concern of yours, Martin. If you need so desperately to get back into the theatre, then get back into it. You don’t need me. There are plenty of magicians out there looking for an assistant.’

  ‘No one like you. I told you, you were the best.’

  Barrington flicked a dismissive hand. ‘If you are worth your salt and long for the stage so much, you will find someone else. But stop bothering me.’

  ‘I’ve never bothered you before.’

  A mocking smile made the other man’s moustache twitch. ‘Having found me, I suppose you will be plaguing me endlessly.’

  ‘All I want is for you to come to your senses. No one could touch your illusions, not even Devant, and he’s one of the best magicians around, and that mind-reading act of yours was unique.’

  Again Barrington smiled, this time at the flattery, the threatened row being smoothed away. ‘Thanks to you and your fine memory,’ he conceded. ‘I couldn’t have done it as well without you.’

  But Page was still angry. ‘Then get yourself out of this place and let’s get back together again and make some money.’

  The offer was met with a shake of the head. ‘I’ve no interest in money. This is what I am now.’

  ‘So why are you hanging on to all this?’ Page swept an arm towards the boxes. ‘If you don’t intend going back on the stage, why keep them?’ His challenge met with silence; he let out an exasperated breath. ‘You’re lying to yourself, you know that, Theo. Very well, sink into your stupid morass of despondency. If that’s what you want. I don’t care.’

  Barrington’s temper rose. His spine straightening, he glared at his visitor, Emma entirely forgotten.

  ‘I never asked you to come here, Martin. I have not asked for your opinion, your help or sympathy or even your anger, so please, kindly go.’

  ‘If that’s the way you feel,’ Martin shot back at him, ‘then do what you like to yourself. But you might as well take this.’

  He flung the piece of paper on to the floor and grabbing up his hat, crammed it on his head.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to hear all this,’ he said in a milder tone as he eased past Emma to get to the door. Then he was gone. Emma was left gazing anxiously at the man who once more slumped on the bed.

  ‘You all right, Mr Barrington?’ was all she could think to say. When he didn’t reply, she retrieved the piece of paper from the floor and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it, she laid it down beside him on the bed.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she mumbled. ‘Is there anything yer want? I could go and get yer something to eat or some more medicine if yer like.’

  When he shook his head, she quietly let herself out. After all, he and his peculiar need to punish himself was none of her business, was it?

  Chapter Six

  Emma hurried back home, seething with indignation, hardly aware of the cold for the anger she felt with Barrington, and with herself. How could she have been such a fool?

  Had it not been for that Martin Page she’d never have even known about Barrington’s house. He’d have gone on letting her think that all he had in the world was the money she’d seen in that tin box. Having the wool pulled over one’s eyes was enough to make a saint’s blood boil. How dare he act as though he hardly had a penny to bless himself with. She had come to a decision – she would never go back there again.

  Still incensed, she pushed open the main door to where she lived without even noticing that the door to the downstairs room was open. As she made to go upstairs, a woman’s rough voice hailed her.

  ‘’Scuse me, luv, if yer don’ mind. Can I ’ave a minute?’

  Glancing towards it, Emma saw the gross figure of Mrs Lovell, who occupied the room, standing in the doorway. Emma had met her once or twice, the woman going out as she was coming in, or the other way around, nodding the time of day to each other. She’d usually have a babe in arms, a boy, pasty-faced, wrapped in a grubby shawl. Very often a waif-like little girl no more than three years old would be clinging to her skirt. Emma would hurry by them, overwhelmed by a sour body odour. Now, with that same smell assailing her, the woman was calling to her, compelling her to pause.

  Rolls of fat trembled under her chin. It hung from her arms exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of a stained, striped blouse whose bodice strained against a huge and sagging bosom. A bit of sacking covered the black skirt, though still unable to hide the immense belly and hips. This time she had her young daughter in her arms while just behind her, lying in a wooden drawer on the floor beside a splay-legged kitchen chair, was the baby, covered by a few bits of linen. On the other side of the chair was a chipped enamel basin. Having caught her attention the woman bent sideways and picked it up, holding it out to Emma.

  ‘Couldn’t get me a drop o’water, could yer, love? I’ve got me ’ands full. Me kiddie’s being sick and I can’t leave ’er an’ get it meself.’

  Unable to ignore the plea, Emma moved towards the room to be met by the smell of vomit and urine. Holding her breath she took
the basin.

  ‘Thanks, luv. Yer a good gel.’

  Yes, wasn’t she? Running about for everyone else but herself. That rogue, Barrington, had said she was a good girl after she’d given him half of Ben’s beer before trotting all the way back to Commercial Road in a snow shower to get that medicine for him. True, he’d given her money for going, and rewarded or not, she never minded helping people, but with him she felt cheated.

  Emma gave the woman a brief nod and hurried off with the basin to fill it from a tap in the back yard where tenants got their water for washing and cooking. The tap could sometimes be a mere dribble. Other times it came out in a gush, soaking those using it. Tonight it was behaving itself.

  Trying not to slop the contents, Emma returned with the basin. It was an effort not to heave as she put the basin on a bare wooden table by the wall, above which hung two lines of washing. Mrs Lovell took in other’s washing, so Mum said, but none came even quarter-way to Mum’s whiteness. Perhaps those Mrs Lovell did for couldn’t afford enough to be fussy.

  Emma tried not to ask if she could do anything else for her, longing to escape this all-pervading odour. The child might have a catching illness and the last thing Emma wanted was to be ill and unable to sell Mum’s flowers. Mum would have to go out in her stead on top of having to make them. But there was no fire in the rusty iron grate.

  ‘You ain’t got no fire,’ she said, stating the obvious.

  ‘Can’t get out ter find no wood,’ came the reply.

  ‘Shall I try and find yer some?’ Warning bells rang in Emma’s head. She’d really let herself in for it when all she wanted to do was get out of here and flee upstairs to her own rooms, smelling so fresh and clean as only Mum could get them. But the sick child needed warmth of some sort.

  There was an open yard down the road where people would fling their unwanted rubbish. There might be a few sticks of wood if others hadn’t got there first. She’d get a fire going, then leave. Mum would be wondering where she was and getting anxious.