When she got to the pub, she rapped on the door, and within seconds a burly, ruddy-faced man with a big walrus mustache was ushering her in.
“You’re ’ere quick,” Ralph Jackson said. “Only just sent that boy off after you.”
“Yes, sir,” Fiona said, smiling, hoping to make a good impression. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.” The truth was she didn’t want to keep Joe waiting, but what Mr. Jackson didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
“Good, I like that in me workers. So, you think you’re up to the job, then?” he asked. “It’s not easy work. And it’s not pleasant. Takes lots of elbow grease to get a boozer clean.”
“Oh, aye, Mr. Jackson. I can manage it. I’ll do a first-rate job for you.” I’ll wash the windows until they sparkle, I’ll scrub the floor until it gleams, she thought. I’ll wash the glasses and polish the bar, and kiss your big hairy arse, too. Just give me the bloody job!
“It’s three evenings a week, plus Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. The rate’s two and an ’alfpence an hour, plus a meal and a pint of whatever you like when you’re finished.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Jackson chewed his lip, ran his eyes over her as if he were sizing up a plowhorse, then gave her the nod. “All right, then. Scrub brush and bucket are be’ind the door. Bar needs polishing, too, but you’ll need to get the dirty glasses off it first.”
Fiona blinked. “You mean right now?”
“Yes, of course right now. Something wrong with that? I said the hours included Sunday mornings and today’s Sunday.”
She wouldn’t get to see Joe. He was waiting for her. He’d sent her the fare. They were going to talk and he’d hold her and make things better. She pictured him standing at the bus stop, searching for her face as bus after bus stopped to discharge its passengers. Not finding her. Giving up and going home.
“It’s just… I was going … I didn’t think the job would start right away …” Fiona said.
“Look, lass, I just lost me charlady,” Mr. Jackson said impatiently. “She was expecting and dropped the sprog early. I need me pub cleaned. Makes no difference to me who cleans it. If you don’t want the job, I’ll give it to the next one who does.”
“Oh, no, I do want the job,” she said hastily, forcing herself to smile. “I’m grateful to you for remembering me and I’ll get right to work.”
As soon as she was out of his sight, Fiona allowed her fake smile to drop. Bitter tears stung behind her eyes and slipped down her cheeks; she couldn’t hold them in. She was so desperate to see Joe, to make it up with him. Now it all seemed hopeless again. Why did the job have to come through now? This very day? She had no way of telling him what had happened. He’d be standing there waiting for her and she wouldn’t come.
But there was no other choice. It had taken weeks to get the job. If she turned it down, it would be ages until something else came up and she didn’t have ages. She needed Joe, but her family needed money. She would just have to write him and explain what happened. She could use the money he sent to do it. She’d tell him she was sorry about the other day, too. And that she loved him and wanted to see him just as soon as he could manage it. And hopefully, he’d understand.
She filled up the wooden bucket with soap and water, grateful that she was alone in the pub, that Mr. Jackson had things to attend to in his office. She rolled up her sleeves, knotted her skirt and got down on her hands and knees. She dunked the brush into the water and began to scrub, her tears mingling with the soapy water on the dirty, beer-soaked floor.
Chapter 15
“Glass of punch, sir?”
“No. No, thank you,” Joe said quickly. His head already felt as if it were floating on a string. “I’ll ’ave a lemonade, please.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter said, turning crisply on his heel to fetch it.
Joe was finished with the punch. He wasn’t used to hard liquor and the two cups he’d had already had made him tipsy. He wanted to stay clearheaded. Tommy had been squiring him about all evening, introducing him to one nob after another. He’d met the head buyers for Fortnum’s and Harrods, various chefs and maitre d’s from the bigger hotels, restaurateurs, and countless wives and sons and daughters and it had taken all his concentration to keep their names straight.
The party was fun and boisterous, not at all the stuffy affair he’d expected. Spirits were high. All the guests truly seemed to be enjoying themselves. But how could they not? Everything was exceptional – the staggering amount of food, the drink, the music, the house all decorated with flowers, the yard aglow with torches and candles. It was a dazzling sight and he wished Fiona were there to share it with him. Fiona. His heart ached at the thought of her.
Why had everything become so bloody difficult between them? He’d hooked himself a good job in hopes of getting them their shop sooner than they’d planned. So they could be together. And now they were coming apart.
He’d sent her money to come to him at Covent Garden over a week ago and she hadn’t – without any explanation at all. She could’ve at least written to him to say why. She must still be angry. Maybe she hated him and never wanted to see him again. Maybe she’d found someone else.
The last time he’d seen her, the day they’d fought, she was so distracted he couldn’t even talk to her. And then, like a clod, he’d told her that she made him feel guilty. He shouldn’t have said that – she was very proud and his words had cut her – but the truth was, he did feel guilty.
Some of his guilt, he knew he deserved for hurting her feelings at the Old Stairs. But there was a deeper, larger guilt – one that he struggled against. It came from not being there for her after her father’s death. From not being able to take care of her. He wanted to rescue her, but how? She couldn’t leave her family, she’d told him as much. And he couldn’t take them all on. If he did, they’d never get their shop.
Was it selfish to not want these burdens? He wasn’t prepared to shoulder a family man’s worries yet, but he was doing just that. He worried every minute about Fiona: Was she walking home too late at night? Did she have enough to eat? Did her family have enough money? He’d brought them food when he visited. And he’d slipped four shillings into their money tin when no one was looking. He knew it wasn’t enough, but he didn’t know what else to do.
He was young; he was going somewhere. His boss liked him, respected him, even. He didn’t want all these worries. He wanted, just for a bit, the young man’s freedom to work at his job, to learn it and excel at it. To hear that he was smart and talented from someone like Tommy and to bask in the glow of that praise. Just for a bit. But he even felt guilty for wanting that. Christ, it was all too much. A big, overwhelming burden. One he couldn’t resolve no matter how many times he went over it in his mind.
The waiter reappeared. Joe took his drink and walked from the living room out onto the balcony to get some air. The November night was crisp and clear. From his vantage point he could see the bonfire blazing in Tommy’s enormous backyard. Girlish laughter attracted his attention. He knew that laughter; it was Millie’s. Now there was a girl who had no burdens and never would. She was always laughing, always merry. His eyes searched the groups of people clustered around the bonfire and found her. She was hard to miss for she was wearing a spectacular dress. He didn’t know the first thing about dresses, but he knew expensive when he saw it. It was a shimmering midnight-blue silk cut low and fitted to her every curve. But the most dazzling thing about it was the fireworks motif embroidered onto it. Thousands upon thousands of tiny iridescent glass beads had been stitched onto the skirt to form one large colorful burst with several smaller ones around it. It looked just like real fireworks exploding in a night sky. The dress was the talk of the party and Millie was the center of attention in it.
She was with her father and a lad who worked for him at his Spitalfields pitch. The lad had obviously said something entertaining; Millie and her father were laughing uproariously. Watching them, Joe felt
a sudden stab of jealousy, of possessiveness. But over whom? Tommy? Millie? Tommy had his hand on the lad’s back and Joe resented it. Is he as good as I am? he wondered. Better? Looking at Millie standing next to her father, he knew that whoever got her got the family business. Officially, the word was that Harry would take over the firm, but Joe knew better. Harry had purchased a ticket to India and would depart next month. If this lad won Millie’s heart and married her, he would become Peterson’s son. And what of it? Joe asked himself, watching as Peterson broke away from the group and headed for the house. Why did he suddenly care? He was only in this until he could strike out on his own. He turned away and helped himself to a smoked oyster on a toast point from a passing waiter’s tray.
“There you are, Bristow! I’ve been looking all over for you!”
It was Tommy. He placed his hands on the balcony and smiled. “Smashing party, if I say so myself,” he said, observing his guests. A waiter scurried up and asked what he could get him. “Scotch. A double. And the same for my young friend here.”
Uh-oh, Joe thought. He was already half pissed. He’d have to dump some out when Tommy wasn’t looking or he’d be legless. The waiter was back in an instant, handing him a glass. He took a swallow and winced. It packed a kick.
“I’ve got news,” Peterson said, licking whiskey from his lips. “Just before I left the office tonight, I received an inquiry from Buck Palace. Can you believe it, Joe? I don’t even dare hope,” he said, flapping his hand as if it didn’t matter, but he couldn’t keep the gleam out of his eyes. “If they liked our goods, if we got the nod, it could lead to a Royal Warrant on the Peterson sign. Never in my wildest dreams did I see that. Wouldn’t it be something?”
“I’ll say it would,” Joe replied, just as excited as his boss was about a crack at a warrant – the right to display the royal crest and proclaim to all the world that “the Queen shops here.” He was already envisioning ways to convince the palace to buy. “We could send them samples of our best produce arranged in baskets on the good wagon, the one that just got painted. We could get Billy Nevins to drive it in uniform. ’E’s a good-looking lad, clean and neat. Before they ask, I mean. Bring the goods to them so they don’t ’ave to come to us.”
“Good idea …” Peterson said, signaling for the waiter. He’d finished his drink and was ready for another. He looked at Joe, who’d only gotten halfway through his. “You ready?”
Joe knocked more of his whiskey back and said he was. “We should give them a ridiculous price, cut it way down …” he continued, as the waiter handed him a fresh drink. “… doesn’t matter if we only break even. Or if we lose money. The new business we’d get from the warrant would more than make up for lost profits on the palace …” He saw Peterson frown and wondered if he’d gone too far. After all, it was Peterson’s profits he was offering to cut. “That is, if you agree, sir.”
“Of course I agree,” Tommy said. “I was just wondering why none of my senior men came up with these ideas. I guess it takes a young bloke to suggest that we lose money in order to make some. Let’s go over your ideas again tomorrow morning. The reason I came over here in the first place was to give you this” – he reached into his jacket, produced an envelope and handed it to him – “and to be the first to congratulate my new head buyer.”
Joe was stunned. He’d hoped for the promotion, thought he might have a shot at it, but he’d never assumed the job was his. Now it was. He was Peterson’s head buyer. A grin spread across his face. “Thank you, Mr. Peterson, sir. I… I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything, lad. You’ve earned it.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to your future with Peterson’s. You’re a bright young man. Always thinking on behalf of the business and I appreciate it.”
Joe clinked his glass against Tommy’s, then took another swallow. Tommy, a little maudlin now, put an arm around him and launched into the story of how he began his business. Joe, smiling and nodding, appeared to be entranced by the tale, when really he was barely listening.
He simply could not believe his good fortune. Once, he could not even convince his own father to rent another barrow and put fruit on one and vegetables on the other. Now he was head buyer for one of London’s biggest fruit-and-veg men. He had the talent and the drive to make it in this world. He’d proved it. He was the guv’nor. Well, not the guv’nor, he thought, let’s not get carried away … but a guv’nor, anyway. And he was still only nineteen. He’d have a raise in wages and had what was bound to be a nice bonus in his back pocket, too. He took another swallow of whiskey; it was going down a lot smoother now. He felt like a million quid. Everything was smashing. This party, the food, the whiskey. Just fucking smashing!
“Oh, Dad, you’re not boring poor Joe with those old stories, are you?”
Millie had joined them. Peterson put his other arm around his daughter. “Certainly not,” he said, swaying slightly. “Joe loves to hear about the business.” He pronounced it “bishnesh.” “Don’t you, lad?”
“I do indeed, sir,” Joe said righteously. He pronounced it “shir.”
Millie looked from her father to Joe and giggled. He wondered if they looked drunk. He felt drunk.
“Well, I don’t,” she said, tossing her head. “There’s too much talk of business. Let’s talk of bonfires. And Guys. Like the one your faithful employees are marching about the yard right now, Dad. The one that looks just like you.”
She was laughing again. Silly Millie, Joe thought. Always laughing. Eyes sparkling. Big round bosoms about to burst out of her dress. A beautiful, giggling girl.
“Well, we’ll have to see about that,” Tommy said, pretending to be offended. He put his whiskey down and straightened his tie. “We’ll sort that bunch out. And you, young man …,” he added, pointing at Joe, “… you are not to talk about fruit and vegetables anymore tonight. Millie’s right. Young people ought to be enjoying themselves at a party, not talking shop.” He waved his hands at them, shooing them off the balcony and back into the house. “Millie, show Joe around. Get him something to eat. Get him a drink.”
“Yes, Dad,” she said. As soon as he’d disappeared down the balcony stairs into the yard, she turned to Joe and said, “I hope he doesn’t trip and break his neck. He’s pissed as a newt.” She threaded her arm through his and led him from the living room. “Come on, I’ll show you the house.”
Joe let himself be led. It was the easiest course of action. Tommy wasn’t the only one who was pissed as a newt. He’d have to pull himself together. Hopefully, Millie hadn’t noticed how bad he was. He didn’t want her telling her father he’d gotten himself blind drunk.
People looked at them and smiled as they walked from room to room. Joe smiled back; he enjoyed the attention. They must know I’m the new head buyer, he thought giddily. Women whispered and nodded approvingly. Harry waved from a corner. Everyone was so nice. This house was nice. Millie was nice. He stubbed his toe on the carpet and almost tripped, which set her giggling again. Why couldn’t he make his feet work right? Another glass of Scotch appeared and she put it into his hand. He took a sip, just to be polite.
Millie showed him the parlor, which she said she planned to do over á la Japonaise, whatever that meant. She showed him her father’s study, with its immense mahogany desk, rich rugs, and heavy draperies, and she showed him the kitchen, which was vast and swarming with an army of cooks and waiters. And then she led him to the stairway. Halfway up, he knew he was in trouble. His head had started to spin.
Millie noticed his discomfort. To his relief, she wasn’t angry. “Poor duck,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you a place to rest until it wears off.”
They walked past door after door, but she wasn’t showing him any more rooms, she was leading him down the hall to a room at the end. He felt very bad. He was swaying back and forth like a sailor who hadn’t got his land legs. Millie opened the door to the last room and ushered him in. There was a bed, soft and inviting, and he
sat down on it, expecting her to leave him to his devices. Instead, she sat down next to him and started to remove his jacket. He protested, telling her he’d be fine, he just needed to sit for a minute, but she shushed him, saying he’d be much more comfortable this way. She took his jacket from him, loosened his tie, then pushed him back on the bed, telling him to lie still and close his eyes, in that sweet, soft voice of hers.
He did as he was told. Breathing deeply, he willed his brain to stop doing somersaults. Little by little, the spinning feeling eased.
He still felt very drunk, almost as if he were outside of his body, but at least he wasn’t so dizzy anymore. He was dimly aware of Millie moving about the room; he heard her skirts rustling. He opened his eyes. It was dark. She must’ve doused the lamp. He focused on a pile of pillows at his left. They were lacy and embroidered. They smelled of lilacs. Millie always smelled of lilacs. He closed his eyes again. This must be her bedroom, he thought uneasily. He shouldn’t be here. But it was so easy to lie here and so hard to get up.
“Millie?”
“What is it?”
“I better go back downstairs. Your father wouldn’t like this.”
“How will he find out?” she asked, her voice closer now. “I won’t tell him.” She sat on the bed beside him. The smell of lilacs was stronger. Joe felt something brush his lips. His eyes flew open. It was Millie, she’d kissed him. She raised her head, smiling at him, and he realized she no longer had her dress on. She was wearing only a camisole and petticoat. As he stared at her, she began unbuttoning her top, exposing more and more of herself. He could not tear his eyes away from her. Her breasts were beautiful and lush, with small pink nipples that hardened in the cool air of the room. He let out a groan at the sudden, deep ache in his groin. She shrugged the camisole off her shoulders, took his hand and pressed it against herself. She leaned over him and kissed him again, flicking her tongue over his lips.
The Tea Rose Page 18
