Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Pamela Oldfield from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Recent Titles by Pamela Oldfield from Severn House
The Heron Saga
BETROTHED
THE GILDED LAND
LOWERING SKIES
THE BRIGHT DAWNING
ALL OUR TOMORROWS
EARLY ONE MORNING
RIDING THE STORM
CHANGING FORTUNES
NEW BEGINNINGS
MATTERS OF TRUST
DANGEROUS SECRETS
INTRICATE LIAISONS
TURNING LEAVES
HENRY’S WOMEN
SUMMER LIGHTNING
JACK’S SHADOW
FULL CIRCLE
LOVING AND LOSING
FATEFUL VOYAGE
THE LONGEST ROAD
THE FAIRFAX LEGACY
TRUTH WILL OUT
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
Pamela Oldfield
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2009
in Great Britain and 2010 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2009 by Pamela Oldfield.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Oldfield, Pamela.
The Birthday Present.
1. Women singers–Fiction. 2. Tuberculosis–Patients–
Fiction.
I. Title
823.9'14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-239-9 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6839-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-207-9 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
One
Friday 6th June, 1890
Outside the rear door of The White Horse, just after ten p.m., a small bedraggled crowd waited to see the so-called ‘stars’ as they left to go home – second-rate performers who were billed as star attractions. Those waiting clutched autograph books, others not so fortunate waved the flimsy leaflets that told would-be customers how they might be entertained while they downed their choice of drinks. The performers could hardly be considered sophisticated but they sometimes brightened dreary lives and some went as far as to ask for a signature.
The night air was tinged a dismal yellow as a thin, smoky mist drifted through the narrow streets of Stoke Newington and robbed the gas light of its power. As the nearby church clock struck the quarter the waiting group shuffled impatiently, books and pencils at the ready. There were three young women eager to see Harry Hampson, who advertised himself as ‘the monologue man’ and who was young and almost handsome. There were also two older women, one with a husband in tow, who wanted to add the comedian’s name to their collection of autographs – and there was a very young, very shabby pickpocket in boots that were too large for him. He was lurking among them, trying to look innocent but failing miserably.
At the back of these people, and slightly apart from them, was a tall, slim man of indeterminate age, with an intense expression on his face. He looked out of place and embarrassed, which he was, but he was determined to stay there until he achieved his aim. An elderly dog wandered up, the result of very mixed parentage. It sniffed enquiringly at his trouser turn-ups and he pushed it away irritably but not unkindly.
The door opened at last and the monologue man emerged to excited cries and, smiling broadly at each of the three younger women, he signed his name with the flourish he had perfected over the years.
One of the women said, ‘Ooh, thanks ever so, Mr Hampson!’
Her friend said, ‘My ma calls you Mr Handsome!’ and was rewarded with a wink.
Not to be outdone, the third asked him if he had written the monologues himself.
‘’Fraid not, my dear,’ he told her. ‘I’m a performer, not a writer.’
They watched him stride away, his rolled umbrella held jauntily over his shoulder. Then, giggling like conspirators, they hurried away in the other direction.
The comedian came out next but he was no longer in a mood to make anyone laugh, thinking only of the hot mutton pie he would buy at the stall on his way home and the bottle of beer which waited beside the sink in his tiny attic room. He snatched up whatever was held out to him, scribbled something illegible and walked quickly away. He hadn’t said a word.
The women muttered, making no attempt to hide their irritation, and followed him at a distance until at the corner their ways divided. Only the pickpocket remained. Marcus Bennley eyed him sternly. ‘Don’t you dare!’ he warned.
‘What?’ The tone was full of offended innocence as he peered out from beneath the ragged brim of his greasy cap. ‘I never done nothing!’
‘Then hop it!’
‘It’s a free country!’ He shrugged his thin shoulders.
At that moment a police constable appeared at the end of the road and walked stolidly towards them, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was a credit to the force with his helmet properly secured by its chin strap, his buttons and belt gleaming and his boots well polished.
‘This toerag bothering you, sir?’ he asked when he was within speaking distance. The constable was tall, ruddy-faced and clean-shaven but not particularly brawny.
‘No–o. I think he was just leaving.’ Marcus gave the boy a warning glance and he took the hint and ambled away, followed by the dog which reappeared from nowhere and attached itself to him.
Now the policeman rubbed his hands together and settled for a chat. ‘Weather turned a bit cooler, sir. Hardly summery, is it?’ He frowned at the unhealthy air. ‘Muggy, I call it. Bad for the lungs.’
‘Yes. Not very pleasant, I agree.’
‘Waiting for Miss Lamore, are you? She’s always last.’
‘Er . . . Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘Miss Love. That’s what it means. Lamore.’ He pointed to the printed poster on the door. The words ‘Also starring Miss Lamore’ had been added in ink. He smiled, proud of his knowledge of French.
‘Then it’s not spelled correctly. It should be L’ a, m, o, u, r.’
‘Ah!’ He hesitated, then nodded. ‘I thought so. Still, lovely little voice, so they say.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘You haven’t heard her, then? Sings a few popular ballads when she can leave her father. He’s in a bit of a state, so she tells me. Poor old boy. Lungs . . . or it might be legs. I forget. Or both. My wife says I’ll forget my own head one of these days!’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, my memor
y’s all right when it comes to villains. I never forget a face – leastways not a villain’s face. I’m known for it. And his walk. That’s another giveaway. If a known villain walked towards me with a sack over his head, I’d know him and he’d be down the nick in no time! Likewise the . . .’
‘I’m sure that’s useful in your line of work.’ The polite reply failed to hide a definite hint of indifference.
‘Certainly is, sir. Very useful.’ Disappointed, the constable changed the subject. ‘But Miss Lamore’s a nice little thing. She reminds me of my wife – same blonde hair. I usually see her part of the way home. Miss Lamore, that is, not my wife. It’s on my beat, you see, and this is hardly a salubrious area. Not in my nature to let a young woman wander the streets alone if I can be of help.’ He tried to look modest but in the deepening gloom it was a wasted effort.
‘Yes.’
‘Friend of hers, are you?’
‘No.’
‘After her autograph?’
‘Certainly not.’
The constable’s eyed narrowed. ‘Then why are you here, Mr . . .?’
‘Marcus Bennley.’
‘Well, Mr Bennley, it’s getting late. Odd time for a gentleman like you to be wandering these back streets without a good reason.’
‘It’s . . . private.’
‘Private, is it? In that case . . .’
The door opened and ‘Rosie Lamore – The Nation’s Favourite’ came out. From beneath the hem of her coat the pink satin frills and ribbons of her stage costume showed and the shoes that dangled from her right hand were pink satin with kitten heels and a buttoned ankle strap.
Rose glanced up and said, ‘PC Stump! How are you?’ She was disappointed that there were no giggling fans waiting for her autograph, but hid it behind a bright smile.
The constable beamed. ‘I’m fine, Miss Lamore. And your good self?’
‘I’ll survive!’ She looked at the man standing with the constable. ‘I hope he hasn’t arrested you! He’ll have you banged up in no time if you’ve stepped over the line! You pinch a hot pie off a window sill and he’ll have you!’ She drew an imaginary blade across her throat, laughing so that her fair curls danced around her pretty face. She watched the stranger to make sure he was taking notice of her charms. Youth, good looks and a passable voice were all she had to offer but she hoped she had made the most of them.
PC Stump beamed, pleased to be portrayed as a tough and ruthless upholder of the law, but the man hesitated. He had an earnest face, Rose thought, reasonably nice looking with brown hair, and he wore an expensive coat and smart shoes. He smelled expensive, she thought. Probably his shaving soap. Hardly the ‘stage door Johnny’ type, though. There was something odd about him but she couldn’t decide what it was – possibly his rather nervous manner. Starchy. Yes, that was it.
Rose told him, ‘PC Stump has a wife and baby and is expecting another baby any day now.’
The constable beamed. ‘I don’t know how I shall take to being a father twice over.’ He laughed self-consciously, then nodded towards the waiting man. ‘This is Mr Bennley. He’s waiting for you, Miss Lamore. Something private, he says.’
‘Really?’ She smiled at Marcus. ‘What is it?’ When he hesitated she added, ‘Do tell!’
He glanced pointedly at the constable who stood firm but Rose said, ‘Would you mind walking on a bit, PC Stump? I’ll catch you up in a bit.’
He rolled his eyes but gave a nod and strolled away at a leisurely pace, his hands clasped once more behind his back.
When he had gone about twenty yards she said, ‘Let’s get something straight right off, Mr Bentley. I’m not one of those girls in case you—’
‘No!’ His eyes widened in embarrassment. She had shocked him. ‘No. Of course not! And it’s Bennley, not Bentley.’
‘So–o?’
Recovering quickly, he said, ‘Look here, I’m Marcus Bennley. I have a younger sister, Marie, who is really quite ill but she has a birthday next week and will be seventeen. I want you to sing your songs at her birthday party to cheer her up because she’s not able to get out and about.’ The words came out in a rush and it sounded to Rose as if he had learned it by heart.
He had a nice voice, she noticed, and he spoke like a gentleman but Rose had heard the catch in his voice. ‘That’s bad luck, that is,’ she told him. ‘About your sister, I mean. Lungs, is it?’
‘Lungs? Yes.’
‘London lungs they call it. All the soot from the chimneys. There’s a lot of it about. Always is. My pa’s not so hot. Cough, cough, coughing. Can’t work. Not properly, just part-time, not to mention his wonky hip.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Rose did not think that he looked very sorry but, if the truth were told, she did sometimes wonder if Pa was swinging the lead. She said, ‘So you want me to come and sing to your sister? Well, I might be able to but . . .’ She thought about it, vaguely suspicious. You heard such dreadful things, sometimes. It could be a put-up job to lure her somewhere. She wavered, longing to accept but fearful. She had never been asked to perform privately before and was unsure about it. It was either a useful step up the ladder to fame . . . or else the top of the slippery slope which led gullible girls down into the gutter. ‘I’ve got other work booked, here and there . . .’ she said uncertainly.
He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll pay you half a guinea and you’ll have a taxi to take you there. There’ll be food and drink and you’ll be welcomed as my guest.’
Half a guinea! This was sounding better, she thought. All those lovely shillings! She could do a lot with half a guinea. Still, better act a bit dubious, she told herself. Mustn’t seem too eager. ‘Will your parents be there?’ she asked primly, by way of delaying tactics.
‘I doubt it. My parents divorced some years ago and—’
It was Rose’s turn to be shocked. A divorce! Heavens above! She stared at him, trying to hide her reaction. She had never met anyone who had been divorced and this man was related to such a couple.
‘And then he . . . my father, died. My mother married a second time. A French man. She lives with him in France.’
‘Ah!’ Mother lives with a foreigner, she thought warily. You could never trust them – or so her father insisted. Although, if she were to become an international star like Marie Lloyd she would have to travel abroad. To delay her decision she asked, ‘So where d’you live, Mr Bennley? I live with my pa in Albert Street, five minutes from here. My real name’s Rose Paton. I call myself Rosie Lamore because it sounds more glamorous. D’you think it sounds glamorous?’ She put her head on one side and gave him a saucy sideways glance which she believed enhanced her undoubted charms.
He appeared unmoved, however, and by way of answer, pulled a wallet from his coat pocket, selected a small card and held it out. Hiding her frustration, Rose took it and stepped closer to the street lamp to peer at the name and address. ‘Belview Road? Never heard of it!’
‘It’s in Kensington. The family home.’ He returned the wallet to his coat pocket. ‘It will be a small affair – myself, an older sister and Marie, of course. My younger brother Steven might be there.’
‘What about your wife?’ That, she thought, was a clever way of finding out this man’s situation. If he had a wife it would be easier to trust him.
‘I’m not married.’
Had she detected a hint of regret in the words, she wondered. She was finding him a rather tough nut to crack, she acknowledged, disappointed. She was accustomed to a better response to her feminine wiles but Mr Bennley seemed unaware of them. She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘And all I have to do is sing and I get to eat and drink and you give me half a guinea and a ride in a taxi? Cross your heart and hope to die?’
‘Exactly. Yes.’
At the corner of the road the constable waited, watching them.
‘All right. I’ll do it.’ She tossed her hair. Why not? It was worth the risk. ‘But I shall tell PC Stump where you live – just in case
there’s any funny business. He’ll know where to find you!’ She smiled to take the sting out of her words, and wondered if the policeman was jealous of their cosy little chat. PC Stump was a nice man, she thought wistfully. It was a shame he was married. Being married to a policeman would be a nice safe feeling. ‘Number twenty-three Albert Street,’ she reminded him. ‘You’d better write it down for the taxi man. When is this – and what time?’
‘Next Thursday at seven thirty. That’s the 12th. I’ve written it on the back of the card.’
She turned the card over and when she looked up again, he was halfway down the street without so much as a ‘Goodbye’!
Put out by his lack of manners she shouted ‘And goodnight to you, Mr Bennley!’
He swung round. ‘Oh! Yes. Sorry!’ He walked on.
Mortified, she stuck out her tongue at his retreating back. ‘Walk away. See if I care. Walk out of my life, why don’t you! Who gives a button!’ So what if he was rich and single? She didn’t fancy him. A pity. She sighed.
Turning back, she saw that a young lad with a mangy dog had suddenly appeared and he was grinning from ear to ear. He held up a wallet which she assumed belonged to Mr Bennley. ‘Nice work if you can get it!’ he said, poised for flight.
‘You artful little wretch!’ she cried and tried to grab him but he dodged her outstretched hands, stuck out his tongue and clattered off down the nearest alley pursued by the dog, and both were immediately lost to sight.
Albert Street was no worse and no better than any other in the area. It was narrow and lacked the young plane trees that adorned some better class streets and the terraced houses were small and depressingly similar, each with an apology for a front garden, and no gate. The brickwork was grimed with soot from London’s many chimneys and the bay windows were mostly hung with thick lace curtains to deter the curious passer-by. The window sills, however, and the front door steps were regularly scrubbed and the whitening block applied and some of the tenants took the trouble to polish the knockers. The door of number twenty-three was dark green but the paint was beginning to flake away and the small brass letterbox flap had not been cleaned since Rose’s mother died. There was a rain-sodden mat on the step and a scraper for mud which was rarely used.
Birthday Present Page 1
