by Dilly Court
Next morning, as soon as the first pale grey light appeared in the sky, Tilly was out of bed and getting dressed. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, she left her old clothes piled neatly on the washstand and crept down the stairs. She could hear vague stirrings below stairs but she managed to get out of the house before Wilson surfaced to light the fires. It was a bitterly cold morning with a wild March wind rampaging across the city from the east, tossing pot-bellied clouds around the sky and hurling spiteful showers of sleet at the people hurrying to work. Tilly went first to Barney’s lodgings and stood for a good quarter of an hour on the doorstep waiting for someone to answer the bell. Eventually the door opened and a man in a bowler hat with leather patches on his elbows pushed past her.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
He paused, peering at her with a puzzled expression. ‘Who? Me?’
‘I’m looking for Mr Barney Palgrave.’
‘You and half of London, I should think.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Go away, young lady. Nice girls shouldn’t mix with libertines like Mr Palgrave.’ Hurrying down the steps, he made for the alleyway but Tilly jumped the steps and ran after him.
‘Please, sir. Who is looking for him and where has he gone?’
The man stopped and turned to Tilly with an exasperated sigh. ‘The bailiffs for one and the police for another; if he’s any sense at all he’ll be on the next boat for the Continent. If you’ve got any sense you’ll forget all about him.’ Shaking off Tilly’s hand, he hurried off, disappearing into the gaping maw of the alley.
Staring after him, Tilly decided that he must be mad or simply held a grudge against Barney. It was absurd to think that a man of his importance would be on the run from the authorities. She set off for Hay Yard, walking briskly, determined to discover the truth.
Bootle looked up from his desk, his round eyes popping out of his head at the sight of Tilly.
‘Miss Tilly, you shouldn’t be here.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Bootle, I ain’t come to cause trouble. I just want a quick word with Mr Barney.’
Climbing down from his stool, Bootle closed the office door. ‘There’s been some trouble, miss. A matter of unpaid bills, apparently. Mr Barney’s creditors have called in his debts and I believe he’s seen fit to take a holiday, so to speak.’
‘But he can’t have gone away.’
‘I’m afraid he has, miss.’
Desperate now, Tilly clutched Bootle’s arm. ‘Could I see Mr Clarence, just for a moment? He might know where I can contact Mr Barney.’
‘Heavens above, no! Mr Clarence has washed his hands of the whole affair. He won’t have anything to do with such a scandal. He can’t, not in his position.’
‘This is terrible. But maybe you know where I can find Miss Harriet and the Reverend Palgrave?’
Bootle shook his head. ‘The last I heard they were in lodgings in Bunbury Fields. I’m sorry, Miss Tilly, but I can’t help. You really must leave the premises before Mr Jenks catches you here.’
‘I ain’t afraid of him or Bragg.’
‘Maybe not, but my Ethel has put it about that the police are looking for you and they’d be delighted to turn you in, so you’d best go, miss.’
‘Your Ethel is a spiteful cow, Mr Bootle, and I’m sorry for you.’ Instantly ashamed of herself, Tilly bit her lip as Bootle’s round baby face puckered up with distress. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bootle, I shouldn’t have said that. You been good to me and you can’t help having a bitch for a daughter.’ Patting his shoulder, Tilly marched out of the office.
Outside in the cold, her anger dissolved into a feeling of near panic. What would she do now and where would she go? Without references it was impossible to get a job in an office or even in service; without money she could not begin to look for alternative accommodation. She could not face going home and having to admit that her imagination had got the better of her yet again; that she did not know where to find Miss Harriet and the Reverend and that Mr Barney had absconded, abandoning her to the care of a brothel keeper. Sitting on a bench in Lincoln’s Inn Fields she watched the sparrows pecking in the dirt and the pigeons hopefully crowding round her importuning for titbits. For a wild moment, she thought of Clem. He had been appalled at the thought of her lodging with Jessie and he had helped her once before; but that was a mad idea and she must be desperate to even think of asking a Tuffin for help.
‘Sorry, bird,’ Tilly said, addressing the pigeon who was the boldest and had waddled up to peck at her boot. ‘If I had any grub I’d share it with you, but I’m probably just as hungry as you are.’ Wearily, she got to her feet and began the long walk back to Blossom Court. Was it just her pride that was keeping her from going home? Tilly had to admit that pride was part of it, but the tiny house was already overcrowded and now Emily was back at home, at least until she tied the knot with Bert. The thought of endless arguments with Emily and having to watch her throw herself away on an animal like Bert was horrible in the extreme. Reluctantly, Tilly returned to Blossom Court. Just one more night, she thought, as she rang the doorbell, one more night here and I’ll start looking for work tomorrow.
Lying on her iron bed, Tilly gazed up at the stars through the roof window. Small flecks of snow landed on the glass, sparkling ice-diamonds until they melted, mixed with the sooty grime and trickled in snail trails down to the guttering. She had managed to avoid Jessie all day, dreading telling her that Barney had fled the country. Pulling the coverlet up to her chin, Tilly curled up in a ball trying to get warm. She had not liked to ask Wilson to light a fire in her room and it must be close to freezing up here under the roof. She was hungry too, not having had any supper; she was afraid to take any more of Jessie’s hospitality, knowing the price she might be expected to pay.
The door opened and flew back, hitting the wall. ‘So you turned up again.’ Jessie stood in the doorway, her voluptuous body silhouetted against the light in the passage. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised, but what changed your mind this time?’
‘I just went out for a bit. There’s no law against that, is there?’ Jerking to a sitting position, Tilly held the coverlet up to her chin.
‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady. I’m just doing Barney a favour in looking after you. I ain’t a charitable institution and I’ll tell him so when he deigns to turn up to collect you.’
‘So you don’t know?’
‘Don’t know what?’
‘He’s done a bunk. Gone abroad to escape from the law, so Mr Bootle said.’
‘Bloody typical. I’ve got a court case pending and the bastard has sloped off leaving me stuck with you. Where the bleeding hell am I going to find another crooked lawyer?’
‘I’m sure he’ll come back. He’s a gent.’
Jessie’s harsh laughter echoed off the sloping ceilings. ‘Don’t make me laugh. Barney Palgrave may have come out of a thoroughbred stable but he’s a mule. He’s a bastard, dearie, a gold-plated bastard with a heart of solid brass.’ Pacing the floor beside Tilly’s bed, Jessie stopped and whisked the bed covers off her, dropping them onto the floor. ‘This puts a different complexion on things. Get up, missy. You’re going to have to earn your bread from now on.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Alarmed by the sudden change in Jessie’s voice, Tilly curled her knees up to her chin.
‘You’ll get all dolled up and you’ll entertain the punters downstairs.’ With a vicious tug, Jessie tipped Tilly onto the bare floorboards. ‘I ain’t messing about, dearie. Business is business.’
‘I won’t do it,’ Tilly said, scrambling to her feet. ‘You can’t make me.’
‘But I can have you thrown out onto the street and don’t think I wouldn’t do it.’ Hooking her arm through Tilly’s, Jessie dragged her out of the room. ‘I ain’t asking you to go the whole way; just go downstairs and be sociable. You can watch the other girls and see how they play the old fools along. It’s that or the street, I don’t particularly care which.’
With surpri
sing strength, she twisted Tilly’s arm behind her back, pushing her along the corridor and down the first flight of steps. Wriggling and kicking out with her feet, Tilly tried to get away but Jessie simply put more pressure on her arm, making her yelp with pain. Opening a door on the next landing, Jessie shoved Tilly into the room, closing the door behind them and leaning against it, breathing heavily.
Stumbling, Tilly clutched a chair back to prevent herself from falling. Even if she had not seen her sitting on the edge of her bed, rolling on a silk stocking, Tilly would have known it was Dolly’s room from the dense pall of cigarette smoke.
‘Gawd’s strewth, Jessie, you almost give me a heart attack barging in like that.’ With a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, Dolly squinted at Tilly through a spiral of smoke. ‘What’s she done?’
‘Nothing yet, that’s the trouble. Find her something to wear, tart her up a bit and bring her downstairs.’
‘I told you I won’t do it,’ Tilly shouted, her voice cracking with fear. ‘I’d rather risk the streets than end up in a knocking-shop.’
‘See to her, Dolly.’ Jessie slammed out of the room.
Backing away, Tilly made a dive for the door.
‘You won’t get far, love.’ Dolly flicked her cigarette into the washbasin; the burning tobacco went out with a hiss as it hit the water. ‘And I wouldn’t let her turn you out, if I was you; not if you ain’t got a place to go.’
‘I ain’t a whore,’ Tilly said, clutching the doorknob. ‘I’m a type-writer and I work in an office.’
‘Yes, of course you do.’ Getting off the bed, Dolly went to a chair that was piled high with a rainbow selection of gowns. ‘What shall I wear tonight, then? The pink taffeta or the yellow silk? Which do you think?’
‘What do I care?’ Turning the handle, Tilly prepared to escape.
‘Look, love,’ Dolly said, stepping into the yellow silk and heaving it over her generous curves. ‘You could land yourself in an even worse mess if you take to the streets. Know what I mean?’
‘Of course I do. I ain’t stupid.’
‘Do me up, there’s a pal.’ As Tilly fumbled with the tiny silk-covered buttons, Dolly gave her a sideways look. ‘Have you got a family what’ll take care of you?’
‘I’m an orphan.’ Tilly didn’t want to discuss her family with Dolly.
‘And Mr Barney? He brought you here and Jessie thinks the sun shines out of his arse, so what went wrong?’ Studying her reflection in a long cheval mirror, Dolly twisted and turned, primping and fiddling with the frills until she was satisfied with her appearance.
‘He’s gone. Done a bunk and Jessie’s fuming.’
‘That explains it.’ Dragging her gaze from the mirror, Dolly picked up the pink taffeta and handed it to Tilly. ‘Take a tip from me, ducky, play along with her, just for tonight. Jessie’s all right if you keep her sweet but she’s a mean bitch if you cross her.’
The gown was more beautiful than anything Tilly had ever seen. She had a vision of herself wearing it to a ball and dancing in the arms of a tall, dark-haired man with eyes the colour of molten honey; but the bastard had probably left the country and this was all his fault. I hate you, Barney Palgrave, she thought, crushing the material in her hands; you got me into this mess.
‘No need to take it out on the frock, love.’ Prising the gown from Tilly’s clenched hands, Dolly slipped it over her head. ‘There, that suits you a treat. Let me do your hair for you and put a bit of slap on your face. I’ll keep an eye on you downstairs. All you got to do is laugh at the old codgers’ jokes and keep smiling.’
Reluctantly following Dolly downstairs, Tilly looked longingly at the front door but a burly doorman, comically dressed in a theatrical imitation of a footman’s livery, barred her escape. His broken nose and cauliflower ear suggested that he had spent years in the boxing ring, and his dour expression confirmed that it had not been too successful.
Pausing outside the parlour door, Dolly turned to Tilly. ‘Just watch what I do and speak when you’re spoken to.’ Hitching the pink taffeta gown up at the shoulders, Dolly adjusted the rolled up stockings that she had used to enhance Tilly’s small breasts. ‘And for Gawd’s sake don’t bend down or you’ll lose your titties.’
‘I look ridiculous like this.’
‘You look fine. Just remember not to let the old goats put their hands down your front or they’ll get more than they bargained for.’ Thrusting the door open, Dolly sailed inside. ‘Shut the door,’ she hissed out of the corner of her mouth, as Tilly stood motionless in the doorway.
In her mind’s eye, Tilly had expected to see a scene of unrivalled debauchery with young women cavorting half-naked in front of leering, drunken men. The scene that met her eyes was like one of Mrs Blessed’s tea parties, where everyone sat around dressed in their Sunday best, making polite conversation and being ever so refined. Jessie stood in the centre of the room chatting to a tall gentleman wearing evening dress, who sported a monocle and was sipping a glass of sherry. Florrie, resplendent in ivory satin and pearls, reclined on a sofa looking more like a duchess than a tart, and beside her sat an elderly man with old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers and a walrus moustache. Tilly could see tiny red veins standing out on his cheeks as he leaned towards Florrie; she could not hear what he was saying but the pink tip of his tongue licked his lips as though he was anticipating a tasty meat and two veg supper. Hiding behind Dolly, Tilly could only hazard a guess at what was on the menu but it was almost certainly Florrie. Two girls whom Tilly had not yet met sat primly on sofas beside their clients, their painted faces and daringly low cut gowns strangely at odds with their demure behaviour.
‘There’s mine,’ Dolly whispered, nodding her head towards an elderly man sitting by himself at the far end of the room. ‘He’s stone deaf, half blind and I has to lift him on and off, but he’s a decent old codger and very grateful.’ Dolly’s chuckle gurgled up from her deep bosom, but Jessie shot her a meaningful glance and Dolly clamped her hand over her mouth, turning the laugh into a cough. ‘Right then, I’m on duty. Good luck, kid.’ Giving Tilly an encouraging pat on the shoulder, Dolly teetered across the room in her high-heeled, satin slippers.
Tucking herself away in the wingback chair by the fire, Tilly sat with her hands folded on her lap praying that no one would notice her. Gradually, one by one, the couples got up and quietly left the room. Watching them go, Tilly couldn’t help wondering how Florrie would manage her exit without towering over her small partner. The old gentleman was fondling Florrie’s ankle, his gnarled fingers running up her leg beneath her skirt, which she seemed to bear patiently but without much enthusiasm.
‘I think it’s time for Sir K’s relaxation,’ Jessie said, frowning at Florrie and jerking her head in the direction of the door.
Tilly watched, fascinated, as Florrie slithered off the sofa, somehow managing to coil her long limbs around Sir K, helping him to his feet with a single, sinuous movement. Moulding herself to him so that their heads were on a level, Florrie glided from the room taking her teetering knight with her.
Turning to her companion, Jessie smiled sweetly up at him. ‘My girls are expert in ways to help gentlemen relax. If you are so inclined, Mr C, I have a young lady who would be most sympathetic to a man of your profession.’
Tilly’s heart jumped against her ribs, almost winding her; surely Jessie did not intend for her to be left alone with this stranger. With her hand tucked in the crook of the tall man’s arm, Jessie paused in front of Tilly and smiled at her.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, my dear.’
Tilly could have cried with relief as the door closed behind Jessie and the client and she was left alone in the parlour. Getting to her feet, she paced the room, angry and yet afraid; furious with Barney for putting her in this situation and yet praying for him to return, if only so that she could tell him what she thought of him. She could hear the doorbell jangling, the sound of voices in the entrance hall and footsteps. Every time some
one approached the parlour, she held her breath, clenching her hands so that her nails dug painfully into her palms and then almost crying with relief when the footsteps went past the door. If she could just survive tonight, then tomorrow she would leave this place; she would go home and tell Mum everything and she would never, never make up another story in her whole life.
The door opened and Jessie swept in. She went straight to a side table and poured two large brandies, handing one to Tilly. ‘You look like you seen a ghost. Drink up and you’ll feel better.’
‘I don’t want a drink. I want to go to me room and stay there. You can’t make me do this, Miss Jessie.’
‘Good grief, girl. I ain’t a monster.’ Jessie sat down on a sofa and patted the seat beside her. ‘Sit down, have a drink and stop looking like you was waiting for the hangman to string you up.’
Eyeing Jessie, Tilly sipped the brandy, wrinkling her nose at the strong taste. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘You won’t have to do anything you don’t want to, dearie, I promise. Now drink up.’
For a moment, Tilly believed her, or maybe she simply wanted to believe Jessie. Perhaps it was the brandy that was making her feel pleasantly muzzy and relaxed. ‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate you giving me a roof over me head for a day or two, Jessie, but I made up me mind that tomorrow I’m going home to me mum.’
‘Really, dear? I thought you was an orphan.’ Smiling, Jessie topped up Tilly’s glass with brandy.
‘I am. I mean, me mum died when I was born and me dad married again. I don’t always see eye to eye with me stepmother. You see, she’s a proper lady. She was one of the Potter’s Pickles family and they disowned her when she married me dad.’
‘Potter’s Pickles. Ah, yes, very tasty. So why didn’t they like your dad?’
‘He’s an artist,’ Tilly said, warming to her story as the brandy began to take effect. ‘We live in a sail loft in Limehouse and he paints ever such lovely pictures, only they don’t sell very well, because he says that true genius ain’t never recognised until the artist is dead and gone.’
