‘Yes, we share a house Lucy and I,’ she answered.
‘So she tells me. Nice girl…’ Jake said pointedly. Looking into Rosie’s eyes he saw nothing but warning.
‘She is and – she’s not of Romany descent, Jake.’
Rosie saw he’d taken her point with a nod of his head.
‘Shame, she’ll make someone a good wife,’ Jake ventured.
‘Indeed, but not you.’ Rosie turned away from him and called to her friend who was chatting with the other members of the kumpania.
With a wave to the camp, the two girls began their walk back to Upper Marshall Street.
Twenty-five
Bill Mitchell and his sons, Frank and John, were happily negotiating the locks and waterways when Rosie’s message reached them. Bill felt a little sad that the girl was no longer travelling with his parents, but at least he knew where she was and that she was safe.
As the ‘Two Hearts’ chugged along, he wondered if it would be seen as inappropriate to call on her. Then again, she was his employer so he could always use it as an excuse to update her on the boat’s performance.
He had spared Sarah, his wife, hardly a thought since she had left the boat. However, he had had Rosie on his mind a lot lately.
Bill smiled as he watched his sons laughing together as they worked the boat between them. He was proud of them; they had grown into strong young men. They had taken to the canal work like they were born to it. He hoped when they married, they would choose wives who would not be like their mother and force them back to the land.
His mind swung back to Rosie and he made his decision. He and the boys were going to visit. He smiled at his sons’ reaction to being told of their destination. Whoops of delight sounded across the canal and Bill burst into laughter.
Mooring up, boat secured and fees paid, the three set off for Upper Marshall Street. Bill could barely contain his excitement at seeing Rosie again. He just hoped she was at home when they arrived.
Meanwhile Margy Mitchell called back her thanks to the woman who yelled, ‘Rosie ’arris, number two, Upper Marshall Street, Birmingham.’
‘Abner, our Rosie’s found herself somewhere to live!’ Margy said over tea in the cabin.
‘Where’s her at?’ her husband asked.
Relaying the message Margy added, ‘Next time we’m in Brumagum we can call on her.’
‘I’m sure her’d love to see us,’ Abner replied, ‘I’ll see if I can get us a load to go to Birmingham then, shall I?’
Margy kissed the top of his head in answer as she began to prepare their meal.
Abner listened to his wife sing as she worked. It had been many years since he’d heard her lovely voice. His wife had waited a long time to see her son and grandsons, and with a new friend in Rosie, she was finally happy again. He prayed nothing would happen to spoil it.
*
Sarah Mitchell, in the meantime, had somehow managed to land herself a job. She was taken on as kitchen maid in a large house in Beckett Street at the other side of the Allotment Gardens. These gardens were set out like a small park where people could stroll around and enjoy the flowers and trees.
Desperation had forced Sarah to knock on doors asking for employment which was how she had secured the post. With a small bag and the clothes she stood up in, she had moved into her tiny room at the top of the house straight away.
Changing into the uniform provided for her, she relived the scene of a few hours ago. She had gone to the servants’ door at the back of the house and knocked loudly. A scullion had answered and had called for Mrs Poole, the cook.
‘Work you say?’ the cook had asked. ‘Well the mistress is looking for a kitchen maid that I do know.’
Sarah had been dragged inside and taken to Mrs Daventry, the lady of the house, who had sat in the parlour upstairs.
‘Ma’am, somebody ‘ere about the job.’ Mrs Poole had pushed Sarah forward.
‘Thank you, Mrs Poole, that will be all.’ Turning to Sarah she’d asked who she was, what work she could do and then said if she was happy with the wages she could start that day. Eileen Daventry finished with, ‘You will be responsible to Cook.’
Going down the back stairs to the kitchen, Sarah introduced herself.
‘I’m Mrs Poole the cook and I’m in charge down ’ere until they get a butler. This ’ere is “dopey” Dora, the scullion. It’s ’er job to fetch in the coal and water, clean the floors and grates and anything else I set ’er to do. The Daventrys ain’t got an upstairs maid as yet either, so you’ll ’ave to double up. That means you ’elp me in ’ere and you answer ’er ladyship’s calls as well as the front door. Any questions?’
Sarah shook her head. Her once overwhelming confidence had drained away at finding herself at someone else’s beck and call.
‘Right then, you crack on peeling them potatoes. Dopey, fetch a pail of water and get the dishes washed. I’ve got a pie to make,’ Mrs Poole said sternly.
Sarah scraped the potatoes thinking the cook was very unkind calling Dora ‘dopey’. She wondered if the young girl was indeed slow, or whether it was the setting of the pecking order below stairs. No doubt she would find out soon enough.
As she worked, Sarah was at least grateful she would eat well despite having to work hard for it. She also realised the virago of a cook would be taking her temper out on Dora and not herself. It brought little comfort as her thoughts turned to her boys. She knew they would be safe with their father, but she missed them dreadfully.
With a sniff, Sarah tried to settle into her new life as kitchen maid.
Over their evening meal, Sarah ran the gauntlet of prying questions from the cook. Where did she originate from? How come her husband left her? Did he have another woman?
Sarah spilled her story as well as her tears. Mrs Poole sniffed haughtily saying she would never have stood for half of what Sarah had.
Dora was sympathetic but was severely put in her place by Cook and told to shut up. Not knowing who to feel sorrier for – herself or Dora – Sarah lapsed into silence.
The tiny bell in the kitchen tinkled and the cook nodded to Sarah.
‘The mistress will be wanting ’er tea,’ she said.
Sarah loaded the tray and quietly left the room. Once upstairs she tapped on the parlour door whilst balancing the tray on her other hand.
‘Ah Sarah, put the tea here on the table,’ Eileen Daventry said. ‘Good, now tell me – how are you settling in downstairs?’
‘Fine thank you – ma’am.’ Sarah felt awkward having to address this woman as ma’am.
‘Mr Daventry owns the Atlas Bedstead works and is often away on business, and I do a lot of charity work with the poor so I host many meetings. I’m sure Mrs Poole will advise you of my good works.’ Eileen Daventry gave a tight smile.
There’s nothing like blowing your own trumpet! Sarah thought as her eyes found those of Mr Daventry who was peeping over the top of his newspaper. He rolled them to the ceiling before raising the paper once more. From that one gesture Sarah deduced the pair didn’t get along too well. She gleaned Mr put up with Mrs for a quiet life.
‘I will expect you to be courteous and polite to my meeting guests and…’ looking Sarah up and down added, ‘I will call in my dressmaker. You will need a new uniform – that one is a disgrace. All right, you are dismissed.’
Sarah could not find it in herself to curtsy so she turned and walked from the room.
‘What did the mistress want of you, Sarah? You was gone a long time,’ Dora asked in a tiny voice, her eyes avoiding Cook’s glare at beating her to the question.
‘I’m to have a new uniform.’
‘Ooh lucky you!’ Dora said excitedly.
Sitting at the table, Sarah felt sad for the girl smiling at her; the girl whose life was so drab she fawned over the idea of a new working outfit.
Sarah nodded and yawned.
‘Tired are we?’ Mrs Poole asked sarcastically.
‘I am a little,’ Sar
ah answered with another yawn.
‘Well you won’t be seeing yer bed anytime soon. The mistress ’as a meeting tomorrow so there’s cakes to be made, a ham to boil for sandwiches and the best china and cutlery to clean,’ the cook said as she got to her feet wearily.
It was after midnight when Sarah was finally allowed to retire. Dragging herself up the back stairs to her box room, she stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed. Too tired to wash or brush her hair out she closed her eyes and before long she was fast asleep, tired to the bone after her first ever day of work.
*
That same evening Rosie sat watching Lucy add fine detail to her sketches of the gypsy vardos.
‘You’re so talented,’ she said as she moved to make tea. ‘I don’t know how you can see something then draw it.’
‘I ’ave an eye for detail or so I’ve been told by the students at the Artists’ Gallery. It’s like the picture of what I see stays in me mind until I get it down on paper,’ Lucy replied.
‘Like my “readings”,’ Rosie mused.
‘Well this will be the last cos I ain’t got no more paper.’ Lucy sat back to look at her sketch. The scene on the page showed the vardos in a circle and the gypsy folk sitting around their small camp fires. Children were depicted mid-stride as they ran around laughing. The light and shade made it almost come to life, and the perspective was superb. Rosie thought if it had been in colour it would have been like watching the camp as she had seen it many times.
Rosie passed over a cup of tea and thought it would be nice to buy Lucy a new book. She decided she’d visit the printers tomorrow, maybe they would have some offcuts of paper she could buy.
Early the following morning, Rosie walked the length of Suffolk Street to the printing works which abutted the canal. In exchange for a ‘reading’, Rosie was given a wad of different sized offcuts of paper. She also purchased a thick sketchbook and returned home to present it all to Lucy.
Unwrapping the parcel, an excited Lucy squealed with delight.
‘Oh Rosie, thank you!’ the girl exclaimed.
‘Now you can do some more drawing.’ Rosie smiled.
It was then they heard a loud hammering on Fanny’s front door.
‘Someone is insistent,’ Rosie said as she peered through the window.
The girls looked at each other as they heard shouting. Nosiness getting the better of them they scurried outside and saw Fanny and another woman yelling at each other.
‘You can just bugger off!’ Fanny exploded.
‘I’m entitled—’ the other woman said heatedly.
‘You ain’t entitled to nothing!’ Fanny cut across the woman’s words. ‘First you entice my old man away and now you ’ave the audacity to come looking for an ’andout! Well you ain’t getting it!’ Fanny was shaking with fury.
Rosie determined from the conversation that this woman had been the one to run away with Fanny’s husband.
‘Charlie told me afore he died to come and claim number two,’ the woman insisted.
‘Did ’e now? Let me tell you summat, Molly Mountford, these ’ouses belong to me! Charlie ’ad no right to tell yer that in the first place. He lied to you, probably not for the first time either. That man was so crooked ’e couldn’t lie straight in bed!’ Fanny let out a laugh at her own quip.
Rosie glanced at Lucy as they watched the contretemps. She wanted to intervene and tell both women to discuss the problem quietly indoors, but it was none of her business. She realised however that her prediction had come true yet again. A death – Fanny’s husband, a man she would not mourn. An argument – the other woman in Charlie Bright’s life, here now shouting the odds.
Rosie watched Molly Mountford set her hands on her hips in an unrelenting stance. Her titian hair blazed in the sunlight which matched her temper. She looked frowzy in her old clothes which had clearly seen better days.
‘It ain’t no use you standing there like that, yer’ll get nothing from me!’ Fanny yelled then stepped back into her house and slammed the door shut.
Rosie felt uncomfortable as Molly’s eyes turned to her. Ushering Lucy indoors she closed the door quietly.
‘Blimey! Talk about a show-down!’ Lucy muttered.
Rosie went again to the window and peeped out. She watched as Molly Mountford wandered away, her head bowed deep onto her chest.
‘I’ve never seen women go at it like that before,’ Lucy said as Rosie joined her at the table.
Rosie said nothing but her mind took her back in years to when the gypsy women would come to blows over some man or other. The men who would fall out of the ale houses drunk as lords and proceed to pick a fight with an unsuspecting bystander.
She smiled inwardly as she remembered for all that, the travellers were not work shy. The women trudged the streets in all weathers selling their wares. The men would do a mending job in exchange for a few coppers or a bit of food to take back to the camp. Unfortunately some were prone to cheat or rob, which caused ructions in the town and saw them run off.
Rosie set the kettle to boil knowing it wouldn’t be long before Fanny graced them with her presence to regale them with the tale of Molly Mountford and her claim on number two Upper Marshall Street. Two minutes later she was proved right as Fanny barged in through the back door.
Twenty-six
‘I’ll bet that won’t be the last we see of Molly Mountford!’ Fanny said, bitterness tainting her words. Then at the sound of a knock to Rosie’s door added, ‘If that’s ’er you tell her in no uncertain terms to bugger off!’
Rosie sighed and went to answer the knock. Opening the door, she gasped in pure delight.
‘Bill!’
‘Hello, Rosie. The boys and I thought we’d pay a call on you. I hope you don’t mind.’ Bill grinned and Rosie’s heart leapt.
‘Of course not, come in. Hello Frank, John, nice to see you.’ She noted there was no sign of Sarah Mitchell.
Rosie showed them into the living room where she introduced everyone.
Bill and the boys had to sit on the peg rug on the floor and Rosie explained she’d had no time to acquire more furniture yet.
Lucy made tea under the admiring glances of John, and Rosie prepared a lunch of bread and cheese; the home-made pickle was courtesy of Fanny.
Conversation centred on the ‘Two Hearts’ and how well the Mitchells had been doing in their work on the canals.
Lucy showed off her sketches saying she was going over to the gypsy camp to do some more.
‘I’d love to see that,’ John muttered shyly.
‘Why don’t you two come with me?’
The twins looked to their father for permission.
‘A couple of hours only though, we can’t stay long.’ Bill nodded.
Lucy grabbed her things and along with the brothers, set out for the camp site.
Fanny made her excuses and left when she saw the admiring glances Bill was giving Rosie.
Alone together now, Bill and Rosie smiled in an uncomfortable silence.
‘We got your message yesterday,’ Bill said finally.
Rosie nodded.
‘I expect Mum and Dad will visit soon too,’ Bill added.
‘I’ll be glad to see them,’ Rosie smiled, her heart beating fast at being alone with the man she’d thought about constantly.
‘Rosie, I thought you should know… I put my wife off the boat in Bilston. I’ve seen a solicitor about a divorce.’
‘Oh Bill! I’m so sorry. Is there no way to reconcile with Sarah?’ Rosie was shocked at the news but something inside her gave her hope that he might feel for her as she did for him.
‘No. That part of my life is ended now. I just want to spend my time on the canals with my boys,’ Bill said.
That tiny spark of hope in her spluttered and died as she heard his words.
‘Then I wish you well,’ she said a little sadly.
Before he could speak again Rosie stood to answer yet another knock to the door. A moment later
she returned with Margy and Abner in tow. ‘You were right, Bill, look who’s here!’
‘We ’ad to come gel, once we ’eard where you was livin’,’ Margy answered.
‘Well I’m glad to see you, all of you,’ Rosie said with a smile.
Bill hugged his mother and father as Rosie disappeared into the kitchen, then food and tea provided, Rosie explained about Lucy and that she and the twins had only just gone over to see the gypsies.
A short while later, Lucy and the boys returned full of stories about the gypsies and their way of life, and before long it was time for the Mitchells to leave.
‘You can always leave us a message at the canal if yer need us,’ Margy said as she hugged Rosie tearfully.
Later when Rosie prepared for bed, she thought about what Bill had told her about his divorce. From the words spoken after that, she considered he had no interest in her whatsoever. She felt the bitter stab of disappointment but refused to allow herself the luxury of self-indulgent tears. No matter how much it hurt, she had to stay strong.
It was in the early hours when Rosie awoke in a sweat and gasping for air, a nightmare still fresh in her mind. Getting up quietly she went down to the kitchen to make a hot drink.
In her dream she had seen the picture-house in Stephenson Street; an excited child had come barrelling out in front of his parents and tumbled beneath the hooves of a horse pulling a carriage. She saw again the child lying unmoving in the street, his parents distraught and the driver bent over the boy shaking his head.
A shiver took hold of Rosie and she put her cup on the table for fear of spilling its contents. Her mind searched for clues as to when this accident might occur; maybe she could prevent it happening. She knew from her dream where it would take place but not exactly when. Closing her eyes, she focused hard on the picture-house but could see nothing more than she had already. All she could do would be to wait outside that building and watch. Having made the decision, she went back to bed yet knowing further sleep would evade her.
The following morning, she related her dream to Lucy, and Fanny who had dropped in for a breakfast cuppa.
The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children (A Black Country Novel) Page 19
