Dreams That Veil

by Dominic Luke

  Eliza in the servants’ hall stared out across the barren surface of the deal table. She did not know what to think about Stepnall Street. She would rather not have thought about it at all. But that was easier said than done. In broad daylight, on this long, slow afternoon with the sounds of the street coming faintly down to the basement, she could keep her thoughts under control. But at night. . . . At night she relived in her head every moment of the first day of the quest, tramping the streets as if trapped in an endless maze. Her nights were haunted by all manner of dreams and dark thoughts. The kitten was never far away. She remembered all too clearly its sightless eyes and soundless mewing. She remembered the crunch of its head against the brickwork. She thought of Pandora back home at Clifton. She thought of Pandora’s kittens, of little Whisky, the kitten they had kept. What if those boys had got hold of Whisky?

  She shuddered. Mr Antipov had talked about heaven on earth but what existed on earth was not heaven, it was just the opposite, hell. She had seen it. She would never forget. And that was why she couldn’t play at servants any more. She couldn’t play at anything.

  A bell jangled.

  She sat bolt upright, eyes wide, listening. She must have imagined it. But no, there it was again, harsh, insistent.

  For a split second she thought it must be someone upstairs ringing for attention. She had a terrifying vision in which the world had turned upside down, tipping her into Daisy’s shoes, as if the game of servants had become horribly real.

  But then she remembered that there was nobody else in the entire house except the dead bluebottle. And looking up at the rack of bells on the wall she saw it was the front doorbell that was ringing.

  There was someone at the door.

  Dare she answer it? But the jangling bell was impossible to ignore. She was on her way up the stairs before she realized.

  There was a girl or young woman on the doorstep: Eliza could not at first glance guess at her exact age. The girl had half turned as if about to leave. Her clothes were brightly coloured, florid even. They looked rather frayed around the edges. Her hat, laden with fake cherries, had seen better days.

  Eliza stared. Momentarily she had lost her voice.

  ‘This is the right address, miss, ain’t it?’ the girl said. Her accent was the same as the pickpocketing boy, as the women in the court off Stepnall Street: chopped-up words with sharp edges. It was an accent that seemed very out-of-place in the sedate surroundings of Essex Square. ‘This is number twenty-eight, ain’t it?’

  Eliza nodded.

  The girl wrinkled her nose. After a pause she said, ‘I was told that someone had been asking after my mother. I was told it might be to my advantage if I came here. I was told wrong, seemingly.’

  She took a step back, making her mind up to leave. In a moment’s time she’d be gone, lost forever.

  Something clicked in Eliza’s head. She blurted out, ‘Is your mother Mrs Browning?’ It was the name Dorothea had used, the name of the woman with whom she and her papa had lived in Stepnall Street. Finding Mrs Browning, Dorothea had said, would be a big step on the way to finding her papa.

  Eliza’s heart beat fast. Here at last was something she could do for Dorothea. She must keep hold of this girl at all costs.

  This sense of purpose gave her a modicum of courage. ‘Won’t you come in? There’s only me here just now but Doro – my cousin Miss Ryan – will be back soon. She would very much like to meet you.’

  She gave the girl no time to think, all but dragging her into the hallway. She closed the front door with relief. The first hurdle was over, the girl netted.

  Upstairs in the drawing room, they stood and faced each other by the mantelpiece. Eliza could feel the blood throbbing in her cheeks. The girl fiddled with the buttons on her frock.

  ‘I can’t stay long, miss. Ten minutes at most. I’ve . . . I’ve an appointment.’

  There was no appointment. Somehow Eliza knew this. But knowing that the girl was lying did not help in keeping her until Dorothea got back. They couldn’t just stand there staring at each other. What would Mama do? Mama never got flustered or embarrassed. Mama was a match for any situation.

  Eliza pointed to the settee. ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss . . . er . . . Miss. . . ?’

  ‘Oh, call me Flossie, ducks: everyone does.’ The girl sat gingerly on the settee as if she thought it might be dangerous; but when she looked up a glint came into her eyes as if she had reached the conclusion that dangerous was something Eliza most certainly wasn’t.

  ‘Flossie. How nice. A nice name.’ Eliza tried to copy Mama’s tone, to ape Mama’s smile, to be the Perfect Hostess. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no, ducks. I’m gasping if the truth be told. And you wouldn’t have some bread and butter, would you? Not a morsel’s passed my lips this livelong day. I’m fair famished.’

  Eliza was already reaching for the bell cord when she remembered there was no one downstairs. She would have to make the tea herself.

  ‘Do excuse me for a moment.’ She gave a smile and a nod, trying not to trip over her feet as she backed towards the door. Mama made it look so easy, entertaining guests. How did she do it?

  Eliza dashed down the back stairs and set about making tea. She was all fingers and thumbs. She spilled the tea leaves, dropped the spoons, scattered ash as she stoked the fire, and when she sliced the loaf she ended up with either great doorsteps, or slices so thin they petered out halfway down. The kettle took an age to boil. She hopped from one foot to the other. Afternoon tea at Clifton required sandwiches without crusts and several kinds of cake but here she had nothing to put in sandwiches and no cake at all. Bread and butter would have to do. And what else? Sugar, milk – there was sure to be something she had forgotten! A simple cup of tea required more effort than she would ever have guessed.

  She piled everything onto a tray and set off. It was impossible to hurry. Even taking it slowly she nearly came to grief. The tray tilted first one way then the other. Milk slopped out of the jug. The cups and saucers slid around. Why had she not shown Flossie into the morning room? The drawing room on the first floor required an extra set of stairs. She couldn’t begin to imagine how the servants managed. And yet they were so quick and efficient. Trays arrived in the blink of an eye, all in order and not a drop spilt.

  She pushed the door open with her bottom and shuffled into the drawing room. Flossie was by the cabinet. One hand held a cigarette; the other was rummaging in a drawer.

  ‘Some pretty things you have here.’ She stepped away from the cabinet. ‘I was looking for an ashtray.’

  Snooping, thought Eliza as she lowered the tray onto the table. She tried to muster a Perfect Hostess smile. ‘Milk? Sugar? Lemon?’ Lemon was a slip of the tongue. There was none. But oddly it made her feel better, saying it. It was what Mama would have said and Mama was not someone ever likely to be daunted by a mere cup of tea.

  Flossie pinched the end of her cigarette, put it in her pocket, sat back on the settee, accepted her cup of tea. She must be, Eliza guessed looking at her, about seventeen. With a cigarette in her hand she’d looked older.

  ‘So who is she, ducks, this cousin of yours who’s so keen to see me?’

  ‘Miss Ryan.’

  ‘I don’t know nobody by that name.’ Flossie leant forward, helped herself to more sugar, helped herself as well to two slices of bread and butter.

  ‘I call her Doro,’ said Eliza. ‘Her name is Dorothea.’

  ‘Dorothea?’ Flossie sipped her tea, sucking it into her mouth. ‘Well, ain’t that queer. I’m sharing lodgings just now with a girl named Dorothea: she’s called Dolly for short. I was saying to her just the other day: I said, “Funny you being called Dorothea. I’ve only ever known two Dorotheas. One is you and the other was. . . .”’ Flossie’s words dried up. Her eyes widened over the top of her cup. ‘Surely it can’t be . . . you don’t mean to say . . . it’s never old Dotty, is it, this Miss Ryan of yours? Get away! It can’
t be! I ain’t seen her in years, wouldn’t recognize her now if I did. I was only five or so when she upped and left with her old dad. It can’t be the same girl, not after all this time. She wouldn’t be living in a place like this, for one thing. Tell me, ducks, who is she? Who is Miss Ryan?’

  Eliza didn’t know where to begin. She was reluctant to begin at all. There was something about Flossie – something sly, sharp, worldly – that made her want to distance herself. She didn’t want her dear, familiar Doro to have anything to do with Flossie’s ‘old Dotty’. Nobody called Dorothea Dotty: nobody except her father. That was why she was known as Doro, because Dotty was sacred.

  To her dismay, Eliza suddenly realized that she was thinking aloud, that she was telling Flossie all sorts of things about Dorothea that she had not meant to say. She felt she’d been tricked into it. Mama would not have fallen into such a trap. Mama controlled conversations, she didn’t have rings run round her. Being a perfect hostess was obviously just as difficult a job as being a maid-servant. Eliza knew she was no good at either. She felt like a fledgling that had fallen out of its nest, unable to get back, unable to fly.

  She’d quite lost track of time. She had no idea how long she and Flossie had been sitting there. She heard now – at last – the faint sound of the front door. Relief flooded through her. Rescue was at hand.

  A moment later, Dorothea came into the room unbuttoning her coat. When she caught sight of Flossie she froze, staring. Stan appeared in the doorway behind her. He regarded the visitor through narrowed eyes.

  Flossie was on her feet in an instant, all smiles. ‘Well, and you must be Dotty – Miss Ryan, I should say. I don’t suppose you remember me, Flossie Phillips. I was knee-high to a grasshopper last time you saw me. Fancy you popping up again after all this time!’ Flossie’s eyes slid round to take in Stan. ‘And who’s this? Your husband, is it?’

  Dorothea, still frozen in the act of undoing her buttons, said automatically, ‘I have no husband. I’m not married. This is Mr Smith, a friend.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Smith.’ Flossie looked Stan up and down, raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you just,’ she added archly.

  To Eliza’s surprise, Stan did not make a disarming and down-to-earth remark. He simply turned crimson and said nothing.

  ‘Flossie,’ said Dorothea at last, letting the name linger on her tongue. ‘Flossie. . . .’

  As if released from a spell, she finished undoing her buttons and took off her coat, putting it aside. She asked Flossie to please sit down, sat on the settee beside her, smiling and making her welcome. Stan was dispatched to make tea (more tea) and Dorothea pressed Flossie to help herself to another slice of bread and butter. Eliza retreated to her customary place in the window-seat.

  It was typical of Dorothea that she should remember her manners and ask all about Flossie first. There had to be a hundred and one questions piled up inside her but she listened patiently as Flossie rattled on. Flossie’s smile never wavered, she was very eager to make herself agreeable, but Eliza looking on sensed a certain sharpness beneath like an unblinking eye that missed nothing.

  ‘I get by, Dotty – mustn’t grumble – got my health, that’s the main thing. I share lodgings just now with a girl named Dolly. A good girl, Dolly. A good friend. Funny she should have the same name as you, Dotty.’

  ‘We shared a room once, you and me,’ said Dorothea, edging towards her purpose.

  ‘You, me and the rest: five of us, all told. Do you remember that old bit of curtain we had pinned up to keep us separate at night? You, me and Mickey one side, Mum and Frankie the other.’

  ‘You still remember Frank, then: you still remember my papa?’

  ‘Course I do! I ain’t likely to forget old Frankie. Mum had a real soft spot for him. She often used to talk about him after he’d gone.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Well, now, let me see.’ Flossie tapped her chin. There was an expression on her face that reminded Eliza of Mrs Keech the carpenter’s wife, known round the village for being ‘as sharp as a razor’: it was not meant entirely as a compliment. ‘To tell the truth,’ said Flossie slowly (and one had to tell the truth when it was Dorothea), ‘I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since he upped and left all those years ago, taking you with him.’

  Disappointment showed in Dorothea’s face. Eliza could see it; she could feel it too. She hugged her knees in the window-seat, watching and listening. Dorothea and Flossie were turned towards each other on the settee.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help, Dotty, but we never did know what had become of you both. One day you was there, the next you’d gone. Where did you go, Dotty? Where did Frankie take you? Where have you been living all this time?’

  ‘In Northamptonshire with my aunt and uncle, a house in the country. Papa took me there twelve years ago. He took me there and went away. I haven’t seen him since. But now I’m searching for him. I’m searching as I should have searched years ago. That’s why I wanted to find Mrs Browning. I thought she might know where Papa is.’

  ‘Mrs how much?’

  ‘Mrs Browning. Your mother.’

  ‘Oh, her, Mrs Browning.’ Flossie laughed: a rather stony sort of laugh. ‘She had so many different names, my mum, that I lose track. Mrs Cutler, she was, for a while; Mrs Maclean too. Always Mrs, it was. She used to make out as she was a widow but she weren’t no more of a widow than you or me.’ Flossie placed an intimate hand on Dorothea’s knee. ‘She weren’t never married at all, Dotty: that’s the truth of it.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s as likely down below as up above, if you ask me. Dead, Dotty: she’s dead. She’s been gone these three years.’

  ‘Oh Flossie – I’m so sorry—’

  They were interrupted at this point. Stan returned with the tray. He’d carried it up from the kitchen without slopping a single drop of milk, Eliza noted enviously. Was there nothing he couldn’t turn his hand to? Chauffeur, footman, friend, he was only nineteen but seemed so grown up. There was a lot more to him than met the eye: she knew that now. Was this true of all grown-ups? Of Flossie?

  Stan poured, bending over the low table. Flossie’s eyes repeatedly slid round to watch him. He seemed to be aware of it, his cheeks colouring up again.

  Dorothea didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy prompting Flossie to talk about Frank Ryan.

  ‘Old Frankie! He was a card!’ Flossie furrowed her brow as if thinking hard but her frown turned into a knowing smile as Stan handed her a cup of tea. ‘Thanks, ducks.’ She grabbed his hand before he could take it away. ‘You wouldn’t have anything a bit stronger, would you? I could do with a pick-me-up. It might help to jog my memory,’ she added, glancing at Dorothea.

  Stan snatched his hand away, shaking it as if he’d been stung. He looked to Dorothea for guidance. Dorothea gave a distracted nod.

  ‘Well, now . . .’ said Flossie, furrowing her brow again as she watched Stan leave the room. ‘What can I tell you about Frankie?’

  Dorothea, outwardly calm, waited for Flossie to continue. Eliza felt that in some sense Flossie was play-acting – playing a role in the same way that Eliza had played at being a servant. But what role Flossie was playing was impossible to fathom. And Dorothea, preoccupied with her own thoughts, seemed unaware.

  Flossie hummed and hawed, not saying anything of import until Stan came back with some brandy. It was the cooking brandy from the kitchen but Flossie didn’t seem to mind. As she sipped it, a beatific expression came over her face.

  ‘Well, Dotty, as I was saying, my old mum had a real soft spot for Frankie. They were together five year all told. She used to talk about him a lot near the end. Her darling Frankie, she called him. She used to tell me how’d they first met. You’d have thought it was Romeo and Juliet the way Mum used to tell it. They met the day the bridge opened, the big new bridge with the towers.’

  Flossie sipped her brandy as
she carried on talking. Her mother, known as Mrs Browning, Mrs Cutler and Mrs Maclean, had also been called Madge Phillips, which might or might not have been her real name. Madge Phillips when dying had returned again and again to the June day when she’d gone down to the river to watch the Prince of Wales open Tower Bridge. The river had been brimming with boats of every sort; the banks had been thronged with people. (Eliza wondered if Flossie’s mother had supplied all these details or if Flossie was someone else who possessed an overactive imagination.) Dorothea’s papa had been a part of the crowd that day. Dorothea had been there too. (What had Dorothea looked like as a girl of three or four? Had she been dressed in rags like the children in Stepnall Street?)

  ‘Frankie was down on his luck back then,’ said Flossie. ‘He’d lost his job o’work; he’d got behind with his rent; he’d been kicked out his lodgings. He’d been living on the streets for a week or more with no money and nothing to eat and a kid to care for.’ Flossie leaned forward confidingly. ‘That’s how it starts, Dotty: as simple as that, losing your bit of work. That’s how you start to slip down. It’s easy to slip down – don’t I know it! It’s much harder to climb up again. Many never make it. They lose heart. Frankie’d lost heart. It was Mum as saved him. That’s the way she told it, anyhow. Like I said, she had a soft spot for him; she liked the look of him from the very beginning. That’s why she took up with him. It certainly weren’t for the money ’cause most of the time he never had none. He never had no reg’lar work. A week on the docks, maybe, or a bit of dealing; but he never stuck at nuffin for long.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dorothea. ‘Why didn’t he stick at anything?’

  ‘It was the drink, Dotty: it was the drink that did for him every time.’