by Dilly Court
‘Of course. You’ll be most welcome,’ Rose said, beaming. ‘It was good of you to take the trouble to see us off.’
His gaze never left Cora, who had seated herself in the corner of the cab and was adjusting her skirts. ‘I’ll see you soon, Miss Cora.’
‘I hope so.’ She blushed prettily.
Fancello tapped the roof with his cane. ‘Drive on, cabby.’
Their new home, as Rose soon discovered, was in a poverty-stricken area close to the London Docks, and a short walk from the Tower and the Royal Mint. With the Destitute Sailors’ Asylum and the Sailors’ Home nearby in Well Street, it was not the sort of place that she would have chosen to live, but Fancello had assured her that it was cheap, and the house just large enough to accommodate them all.
The first thing Rose noticed as she climbed down from the cab in Shorter’s Rents was the almost overpowering aroma of chocolate. It was not what she had expected. The stench of the river mud at low tide, mingled with sewage, horse dung, soot and industrial effluent was, for a brief moment, blotted out by the sickly-sweet smell.
‘It’s the Peek Brothers and Winch cocoa factory,’ Fancello said knowingly. ‘I was surprised by it myself when I first came to Shorter’s Rents, but I suppose one can get used to anything. It’s better than most of the odours emanating from the docks.’
Cora joined Rose on the pavement. She thrust the cat basket into her sister’s hands. ‘Take the miserable creature. He put his paw out and tried to scratch me.’ She glanced up and down the filthy, litter-strewn alley. ‘So this is where we have to live. Heaven help us.’
Fancello paid the cabby. ‘Come along, ladies. Come inside and see your new home.’ He marched into the house.
‘I suppose anything is better than sleeping in a shop doorway,’ Cora said, looking round nervously. ‘Although, I’m not too sure about this place. It looks like a slum, Rose.’
Rose glanced at the crowd of small ragged boys who had gathered on the opposite side of the street. She smiled at them, but their pale, dirt-streaked faces remained set in expressions that varied from sheer indifference to overtly hostile and calculating. Several slatternly women had emerged from doorways, some of them with babes at their breasts, while others leaned against the wall with clay pipes stuck in the corners of their mouths. None of them looked particularly welcoming. A feral dog, covered in scabby sores, rushed at them yapping, which silenced Spartacus. Rose could feel the cat trembling inside his wicker prison. She had no way of knowing whether it was from fear or anger, and she hurried into the narrow hallway and slammed the door. She found Cora in the front room standing amidst a chaotic jumble of furniture and boxes that had been left higgledy-piggledy, wherever the carter had found a space.
Rose covered her mouth and nose with her hand. ‘What is that awful stench?’
‘I don’t know, but it smells as if something has died in here and been left to rot.’ Cora’s cheeks paled and she sank down on a tea chest.
‘I’ll open a window.’ Rose attempted to lift the sash, but the window was wedged shut, and the panes were caked with mud on the outside and a thick layer of grime on the inside. The remains of dead flies covered the sill, and the yellowed net curtain crumbled to her touch. ‘Whoever lived here previously was not very house-proud,’ she said in an attempt at levity, but it was no laughing matter. The house, which was tiny by comparison with the one in Old Street, was in a truly disgusting state of neglect. She left Cora sitting disconsolately in the middle of the room and went to find Polly.
Cobwebs festooned the hallway and the floorboards were carpeted in straw, rodent droppings and carapaces of dead cockroaches. She found Polly and Fancello in the back room, where Ethel was attempting to light a fire. A sudden fall of soot crashed into the grate and smoke billowed out in a suffocating cloud. Fancello rushed to open the back door.
‘This is a frightful place.’ Polly blinked and mopped her streaming eyes. ‘The chimney can’t have been swept for years, and there’s filth everywhere. I refuse to live like this, Sandro. How could you bring us here?’
Fancello’s lips trembled and his moustache drooped. ‘It was the only residence we could afford, cara mia.’
‘There are only two bedrooms,’ Polly continued angrily. ‘The attic is barely large enough for a mattress, let alone a proper bed.’
‘I’ve slept in worse.’ Ethel scrambled to her feet. ‘It ain’t too bad, missis. All it needs is a bit of elbow grease.’
‘There’s no tap.’ Polly moved to the back door and peered out. ‘Not even a pump.’
‘I saw one at the end of the alley.’ Rose picked up two wooden buckets. ‘If you can get the fire going, Ethel, I’ll fetch some water.’
Fancello snatched the pails from her hands. ‘Allow me.’ He hurried from the room.
Rose suspected that his gallant gesture was motivated by a desire to escape Polly’s simmering wrath, but with one person less in the room she was able to have a good look round. It was small, and without a range it would be impossible to cook a proper meal, but when the fire was lit they would be able to boil a kettle.
‘I’ll start unpacking,’ she said, making an effort to sound positive. ‘We’ll need brooms and scrubbing brushes, and we’ll have to pile the rubbish in the yard for the dustmen to collect.’
‘It looks as though we have to share our privy with the neighbours,’ Polly said, shuddering. ‘How low have we sunk?’
Rose heaved a chair from beneath a pile of boxes. ‘Sit down, Aunt. Leave everything to us. We’ll soon make this house into a home.’ She hoped she sounded more convincing than she was feeling.
Polly was about to sit when a loud howl from Spartacus made them all jump. ‘My poor boy,’ she cried. ‘Where is he, Rose? I’d almost forgotten him.’
Rose fetched the basket and an indignant Spartacus was let loose in the house. Outer doors were kept closed, and as it was impossible to open any of the windows there was little chance of him running away. Oddly enough, he seemed to like his new quarters and he stalked about, examining each room in turn. He was busy exploring the upstairs when Maisie fled from the attic and arrived in the kitchen, pale-faced and trembling. It took some minutes to calm her down enough to tell them that she had seen something large and furry creeping about beneath the eaves, with yellow eyes shining in the darkness. ‘It were the devil himself,’ she whispered.
Just at that moment Spartacus strolled into the room with a large rat dangling from his mouth, which he presented to Polly, who shrieked in horror. Ethel picked up the dead rodent by its tail and threw it out onto the dust heap.
‘There’s your devil,’ Rose said, chuckling. ‘Don’t tell him off, Aunt Polly. Spartacus is doing a fine job. We’ll soon be free from vermin and we’ll have him to thank for that. He’s found his true calling at last.’
Spartacus rubbed himself against her legs, purring loudly.
‘Well, I ain’t sleeping up there,’ Maisie said, tossing her head so that her mobcap tilted over one eye. She righted it with a dusty hand. ‘I’ll help get it cleaned up ready for Ethel and Sukey, but I’ll sleep on the floor in here if needs be. There’s barely room for two to stretch out side by side in the attic anyway.’
‘I’m sure we’ll sort everything out in time,’ Rose said hopefully. ‘I’ll get Cora to help me make up the beds, and then we’ll have to think about food. I think I saw a grocer’s shop in Glasshouse Street.’
‘We’ll be living on pies and bread and cheese.’ Polly shook her head. ‘Even Ethel couldn’t make a hot meal with just a small fire and a trivet.’
Ethel sat back on her heels as the flames began to lick around the kindling. ‘You’d be surprised, missis. Given time I can make a good stew or a pan of broth. We won’t starve.’
‘We will if Sandro can’t find work for us,’ Polly said gloomily.
Rose delved into a basket they had brought from the old house and produced a bottle of brandy. She poured a generous tot into a teacup and handed it to her aunt
. ‘Drink this, Aunt Polly. We’ll get your room ready first and you can have a lie-down. It’s been a very trying day for you, but we’ll make it better, you’ll see.’
Polly drank the brandy in one gulp. ‘You’re living in a dream world, dear. We’ve sunk as low as we possibly can. We’re doomed to end our days in the workhouse.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
An hour later they were still waiting for Fancello to return with the water. Rose had gone out to look for him on a couple of occasions, but he was nowhere in sight. Polly was agitated and growing more irritable with each passing minute.
‘He’s been murdered,’ she said, clasping her hands to her bosom. ‘I feel it in here. What will we do without him?’
‘I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,’ Rose said, glancing anxiously at the clock, which had been unpacked and stood alone on the slate mantelshelf. She tried to sound positive but she was beginning to worry, and was just about to go out again when the door opened and Fancello breezed in as if nothing had happened. He dumped the buckets on the floor, slopping water over the filthy floorboards.
‘I have some wonderful news, Paloma.’
‘You stupid man. Where have you been? I was worried sick.’
‘I’m sorry, cara. I didn’t think I would be gone for so long.’
‘I don’t know why you are looking so pleased with yourself,’ Polly said angrily. ‘Look what you’ve brought us to.’
He went down on his knees in front of her, regardless of the muddy floor. ‘I didn’t mention it before, cara mia. I didn’t want to raise your hopes, but the main reason I came to this area was because of business.’
She pushed him away. ‘What sort of business? Do you want me and the girls to go on the streets to entertain drunken sailors and stevedores?’
‘No, of course not.’ Fancello raised himself to his feet.
Rose heard his bones creaking as he did so and was instantly sorry for him. He had tried his best, of that she was certain, but his efforts had not come up to expectations. ‘Let him speak, Aunt Polly,’ she said gently. ‘He has something he wants to tell us.’
‘Quite so.’ Fancello shot her a grateful glance. ‘I’m sure you have all heard of Wilton’s Music Hall?’
‘I ain’t.’ Ethel tossed a lump of coal on the fire. ‘We need some more of this stuff if we’re going to heat the water. That’s all we got.’
‘Never mind that,’ Fancello said impatiently. ‘We will have money to buy all the coal and kindling we need when we start work.’
‘Work? What sort of work?’ Rose asked curiously.
‘At Wilton’s Music Hall, of course. When I came here to inspect the property I called in to see the manager. Charming fellow, a little addicted to drink and laudanum, I suspect, but perhaps I caught him on an off day.’
‘Do get to the point, Sandro,’ Polly said, frowning. ‘What are you saying?’
‘We have auditions, cara mia. You and I and the Sunshine Sisters. Luckily the fellow had seen the girls performing at the Grecian and he liked them. He also remembers you, Paloma, dearest. But then who could forget you and your golden voice?’
‘It’s not so golden now. Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place? Why did you allow me to suffer so?’
‘I’m sorry, but it was not certain until this morning. I called in at the theatre when I went to fetch the water, although, come to think of it, I must have presented an odd sight carrying two pails. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we have auditions tomorrow afternoon. If successful we will be on the bill from Saturday for an indefinite period, depending upon box office receipts.’
Polly’s face blanched and then a dull flush crept up from her neck to flood her cheeks with colour. She stood up and embraced Fancello. ‘You are a darling man, but I could still flay you alive for putting me through this torment.’
‘Cara mia.’ Fancello kissed her soundly on the lips.
Rose retreated to the front room to pass the good news on to Cora, who was attempting to unpack a box of ornaments.
Wilton’s Music Hall in Grace’s Alley was to be their new venue. The auditions had gone well. Polly and Fancello and the Sunshine Sisters had been booked to appear on Saturday evening, and the whole of the following week, with the possibility of more work should they attract a large audience. They were to share the bill with a magician, a group of tumblers, a solo artiste known as the Canary, from Cheapside, and a sword swallower. Rose and Cora had two numbers, one in each half of the show. Polly and Fancello were to appear as the third act, which greatly offended Polly, who had been used to having top billing. She threatened to walk out, but Fancello managed to talk her round, and in the end she was persuaded that it was more important to put food on the table than to nurse her wounded pride.
They had only one day to brush up their acts, which had made Rose panic at first, but then she decided perhaps it was better that way. Cora was very nervous, but Polly and Fancello took everything in their stride like old troupers. They had to leave Ethel, Sukey and Maisie to make the house habitable, but the thought of being back in the limelight had taken Polly’s mind off the discomfort they were enduring at home.
Rose was up early on Friday morning. She had to share a bed with Cora, who was a restless sleeper, and Fancello’s loud snores penetrated the thin walls, drowning out the seemingly endless noise from the docks. The creaking of cranes, and the rumble of barrels being rolled over cobblestones had continued throughout the night, accompanied by hoots of steam whistles from the ships coming into port. Rose washed in the small amount of water they allowed themselves, dressed and went downstairs. She put her head round the door of the front room and saw Maisie, fast asleep and curled up on the chaise longue with Spartacus. Rose smiled as she closed the door. Spartacus had at last found his true calling as an accomplished rat catcher and was a reformed character. His tendency to bite and scratch was now reserved for rodents, and scaring off the feral dogs that lingered outside, looking for scraps.
The kitchen was reasonably clean after the energetic application of lye soap and tepid water and much scrubbing, but the bare walls were in desperate need of fresh paint, and, despite Ethel’s best efforts, the stone sink was stained with green slime. Rose picked up two buckets and left the house to walk to the end of the alley. It was quiet at this time in the morning and she was the only person at the pump. As the day went on she knew that queues would form, and the locals had been less than welcoming. During the years Rose had spent visiting the poor in her father’s parish, she had never been exposed to such abject poverty. It was a shock to realise that most of the two-up, two-down houses were occupied by several families, existing in almost unimaginable cramped conditions.
She filled the buckets and carried them back to the house, taking care not to slop the precious water onto the pavement. Fancello had gone out the previous evening and bought more fuel, and even though it was stiflingly hot they had to keep a fire going in order to boil a kettle. They had managed this far on cold food, but Ethel had promised to attempt a stew with dumplings. Rose’s mouth watered at the thought. Bread and cheese and pies bought from a street seller were all right in their way, but a tasty hot meal would be more than welcome. She managed to get the fire going at her first attempt, filled the kettle and set it on the trivet to boil. A quick sniff of the milk jug made her wrinkle her nose, but she remembered what Mrs Blunt had taught her about turning sour milk into cream cheese, and she set it aside to attend to later. If she wanted a cup of tea and some fresh bread she would have to venture out to the shop in Glasshouse Street. She put on her bonnet, took a clean jug from the cupboard, and let herself out of the house.
The alley had been relatively peaceful during the night, but it was beginning to come back to life. A queue was forming at the pump, mainly of ragged children, barefoot, and, Rose thought, probably running with fleas and lice. She realised that her clean grey poplin dress and straw bonnet made her stand out amongst the unwashed crowd, but she wished they woul
d not stare at her as if she were an alien who had landed in their midst. Some of the older girls giggled amongst themselves, muttering comments that Rose suspected were anything but flattering. It appeared that they had been detailed off to take care of the smaller children, although they seemed to take their responsibilities very lightly. Babies and toddlers grubbed around in the gutter, shoving anything remotely edible into their pink mouths. Rose was tempted to scoop up a baby who was playing with a dead mouse, but she managed to stop herself, and the infant’s mother detached herself from a group of women and older boys who were heading off to their places of employment. She boxed the ears of a girl who could not have been more than five, and thrust the baby into her arms.
‘If little Alfie comes to grief I know who’s to blame, and you’ll be for it.’ The mother rejoined the shuffling crowd and the small girl slumped down in a doorway with her baby brother clutched in her arms.
Rose was painfully aware that the women and boys would work a twelve- or fourteen-hour day for little more than a few pence, and, in the meantime, the children at home would be left to fend for themselves. She had been vaguely aware that such poverty still existed, but the reality was far more shocking. She wondered if any of the young children attended school on a regular basis. Ignorance and want were the real enemies, she thought sadly. She walked on, ignoring the jibes from the bolder children.
Glasshouse Street was thronged with horse-drawn wagons, brewers’ drays and carts. The grocer’s shop was busy, but she bought the necessities, and hurried back to Shorter’s Rents taking care not to spill any of the milk. She placed the pat of butter on the table together with the fresh loaf of bread. There was no money for jam or marmalade, but things would be different when they were earning. The kettle was boiling and she made a pot of tea and set it aside to brew while she cut a slice of bread, and scraped it with butter. It was a frugal meal, but she knew she would get nothing more until the evening, and there was much to do. She took a cup of tea to Cora.
