Dreams That Veil

by Dominic Luke

  ‘No,’ said Dorothea. ‘No.’ But then she paused. A faraway look came into her eyes. ‘I remember the smell of gin. . . .’

  ‘Oh, lor, don’t talk to me about gin! They were terrible on it, the pair of ’em. Fought like cats and dogs, they did, after they’d been down the Swan of an evening.’

  Dorothea shook her head. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘No.’

  ‘You can’t have forgotten how it was, Dotty! I can remember and I was only a nipper. My old mum, she was a demon on the gin and there was no hiding from her. Mickey got it more than me or you but it was Frankie who bore the brunt. Not that he wasn’t above dishing it out himself – though he never laid a finger on you, Dotty. He thought the world of you. But he wasn’t a big man and he often came off worst when it was him and Mum. He often had a black eye or a split lip or—’

  ‘But that’s not how it was! That’s not how it was at all!’

  ‘Ah, well, Dotty, it’s probably slipped your mind, what with you living the genteel life and all.’ Flossie glanced at Dorothea with something that seemed to Eliza like pity but then she turned away, held out her glass, said to Stan, ‘I’ll have a drop more of that stuff, ducks, if you don’t mind. Slips down nicely, that does.’

  As Flossie resumed her story (story?), talking of a time when Frank Ryan, Madge Phillips and their children had lived together in the room off Stepnall Street, Eliza wondered how she remembered it all, when by her own admission she’d only been five or so even at the end, when Frank Ryan took off. Eliza tried to think what she could remember of being four or five. The nursery. Dorothea. Nanny. There’d been a different nursery maid before Daisy, a different one again before that: Daisy’s older sister, the one who wrote letters from Coventry. It was all very hazy in Eliza’s mind. She was not sure what came earlier and what came later. But perhaps if she’d lived in one room, perhaps if she’d worn rags and gone hungry, perhaps if she’d had a mother who drank gin and hit her: perhaps she might then have had more cause to remember things clearly.

  Flossie, still talking, had moved on. She’d moved to a time when Frank Ryan had gone away taking Dorothea with him. Madge Phillips had been left to scrimp and save and make ends meet. ‘She was making matchboxes back then, tuppence-farthing a gross. It paid for the room but not much else – and that was working dawn till dusk.’ Flossie paused, eyeing the brandy bottle on the table. Stan assiduously avoided her eye. Flossie sighed, continued: ‘When Mum got sick the first time, I had to take on the matchboxes. I weren’t much good at it, all fingers and thumbs: I was only a kid. We’d have starved if it hadn’t been for Mickey. He was eleven or twelve by then, he could do a man’s work. Not that he was much better at keeping his positions than Frankie’d been. It weren’t the booze with Mickey, it was the fighting. He’d fight his own shadow, would Mickey. He was light-fingered, too, but that was a blessing in a way because it kept us going. We were living on scraps, so every little helped.’ Flossie paused again. Brazen now, she leaned forward, poured herself more brandy, staring at Stan, daring him to object. Sitting back, smacking her lips, she went on. ‘Things started looking up. Mum got better. She found a new lodger. It was just the three of us by then, with the lodger: Mickey had gone away and—’

  ‘Gone where?’ asked Dorothea. ‘How is Mickey? I should like to see him again. He used to look out for me when we were children.’

  ‘Didn’t he just. Everyone’s favourite, you were, Dotty.’ For a second there was a flash of something in Flossie’s eyes – anger? resentment? – but then it was gone, as if a veil had been drawn. ‘I don’t rightly know where he is. I did hear once that he’d got a job out Romford way, then again someone told me he landed in the Scrubs, which wouldn’t surprise me. You lose track, Dotty, when there’s other things to worry about.’

  Eliza looked at Flossie with surprise. Mickey was Flossie’s brother and yet she showed little interest in where he might be or what had happened to him. Imagine losing your brother! Imagine losing Roderick! It was unthinkable!

  Flossie picked up the threads of her tale. ‘As I said, it was the three of us. Mum was working in a sweatshop, I’d got to be a dab hand with the matchboxes, and we had the lodger’s money and all. I say lodger, but he were her fancy man really, the lodgers always were. But he paid his way, which was all that mattered, and so we lived like royalty for a time, fried fish twice a week and meat on Sunday. Then Mum got ill again. Scarlet fever it was this time. She was dead of it within a week and that was that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorothea. ‘She . . . she was like a mother to me, really. The nearest I ever had, anyway.’

  ‘She was a hard woman, I’ll say that for her.’ Flossie, sipping brandy, showed no grief. She too was hard, thought Eliza. The smile, the friendly manner – even her youth: it was like moss on a stone, easily scraped away.

  ‘So there I was,’ said Flossie, ‘thirteen years old and on my own, no Mum, no Mickey and only what I got for the matchboxes, which wasn’t more than a pittance. I decided to get a job, a proper job. I went for respectable positions at first, the ones that paid well. Then I tried for the ones that didn’t pay so well. But no one would have me, not even for a scrubbing maid. I’d no particulars, you see. No one would take me without particulars. And then the lodger – he was still around – the lodger said he might be able to help. He knew just the trade I was cut out for. Offered to get me started. I’d earn good money, he said, the way I looked and being so young and all. Now I was only thirteen, Dotty, but I weren’t as green as all that: I don’t want you to think as I was. But what choice did I have? What else could I have done? I was up a creek and over a barrel and no mistake. And so – well, there’s no harm in telling you; you’ve guessed already, I’m sure. But that’s how I got started as a working girl.’

  Eliza frowned, puzzled. What was so terrible about being a working girl? Hadn’t Flossie been working all along? Wasn’t making matchboxes work? But Dorothea took hold of Flossie’s hand and stroked it and said it was terrible and she was sorry and she wished she’d come back long ago. ‘I could easily have ended up in your shoes, dear Flossie, if Papa hadn’t taken me to Clifton, if Uncle Albert and Aunt Eloise hadn’t looked after me all these years. I was lucky, that’s all it was.’

  ‘And I’m glad of it, Dotty. You deserved it. You was always the best one out of all of us.’

  ‘That’s not true, Flossie. We were all the same. We grew up together. You and Mickey were like a brother and sister to me.’

  ‘Not just like, maybe,’ said Flossie cryptically, gulping brandy and looking at Dorothea sidelong. ‘I’ve often wondered, Dotty, who my dad was. Mum would never say. All I know is that I was born after that day by the bridge – after Mum met Frankie.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Dorothea slowly. ‘That’s true. I’ve never thought of it before. And . . . and your name is Florence, which was my mother’s name. Papa always cherished mother’s memory. Just think, just imagine, you might have been named after her!’

  Eliza experienced a sense of panic. She felt that Dorothea was suddenly slipping away from her, being drawn back into the terrible world of Stepnall Street. She’d always felt that she had a greater claim on Dorothea than anyone, being her cousin. But if Flossie was Dorothea’s sister. . . . It couldn’t be true! It couldn’t be! But what if it was?

  What did Flossie want? Not just bread-and-butter and brandy, that was for sure.

  The sense of panic threatened for a moment to overwhelm her, fragile as she was after her ordeal the other day. But as she fought against it, something utterly unexpected happened. The door crashed open. A dark figure loomed up. Eliza cowered in terror. Was this the world breaking in, the horrible, cruel, brutal world that she’d been trying so hard to keep at bay?

  It wasn’t the world. It wasn’t even a stranger. Eyes blazing, sweeping into the room like a whirlwind, throwing aside his bag, hat and coat, ferociously angry, it was Roderick, her very own brother Roderick.

  What in hell’s name did the
y think they were doing, he demanded: had they any idea how worried Mother had been? Taking off without a word and only one measly telegram as an explanation: it was beyond belief! He’d thought Dorothea had more sense, he’d thought she would know better.

  ‘As for you—’ Roderick swung round to glare at Stan. ‘As for you, sitting there as if you own the place—’

  Poor Stan! Eliza’s heart bled for him. He was a disgrace, an absolute disgrace, absconding with the best motor: it was tantamount to stealing. He deserved to get the sack. In fact, he was sacked. He could leave immediately, right now, this very minute: goodbye and good riddance.

  There was pandemonium. Stan was on his feet, Flossie too, and Dorothea faced Roderick in the middle of the room.

  ‘Roddy, how dare you—’

  But Roderick turned aside, fixing on Flossie. Who the devil was this? Who’d let her in the house? (Eliza quailed: what if someone told him it was her, that she’d let Flossie into the house?) He’d never seen such a specimen: she was pickled in brandy, she looked like a tramp, she stank.

  He grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Thank you for calling and all that but it’s time you were on your way. Off you go, shoo, shoo!’

  ‘No, Roddy, you mustn’t!’ Dorothea grabbed Flossie’s other arm.

  A bizarre tug-of-war ensued, Roderick trying to drag Flossie out into the corridor, Dorothea trying to keep her in the room. But Eliza felt it was she, not Flossie, who was being pulled this way and that, torn apart by the awful madness which had seized them all.

  Stan – sensible, dutiful Stan – tried to intervene. ‘Mr Roderick, sir—’

  ‘Don’t speak to me. I’ve sacked you.’

  ‘You can’t sack Stan!’ cried Dorothea.

  ‘I can. I have. He’s going. Gone.’

  ‘Will you please leave Flossie alone!’

  ‘She is going too.’

  Eliza jumped to her feet. She was aware of what she was doing, what she was saying, but she had no control over it, as if someone else had taken over her body.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it! I can’t bear it! Why must you be so horrible, all of you? You mustn’t, you mustn’t – the world is horrible enough – everything’s horrible – it’s all horrible, spoilt, ruined – oh, oh, oh—’

  Her legs moved of their own accord. She found herself running out of the room, running up the stairs. She went straight to her room and slammed the door.

  A last lingering sob was smothered by the pillow in which her face was buried. She shuddered and lay still. There was nothing left. Everything had poured out of her. She was left squashed and flat like a flower pressed between the pages of a book.

  She was not sure how long she’d lain there crying. She had a vivid image in her mind of everyone in the drawing room – Dorothea, Roderick, Stan, Flossie – standing and staring at her open-mouthed as she shouted and screamed and stamped her feet. She could almost imagine that she’d turned them all to stone by the force of her rage. Certainly she could hear nothing in the house now but silence. Even the noises of the street seemed muffled and distant.

  She slowly sat up like Sleeping Beauty waking after a sleep of ages. The bed was a proper bed now with sheets and a counterpane and two soft pillows: Dorothea herself had made it. But Eliza felt an odd, silly nostalgia for the bare mattress and the rug from the motor.

  She waited. After a long, long time, there came a tap on the door. It would be Dorothea, of course.

  But it wasn’t. It was Roderick.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. His dark eyes watched her, inscrutable. She felt shy of him after what had happened downstairs and avoided his gaze. His hand resting on the counterpane looked big and real and ruthless.

  ‘Well,’ he said at length: ‘have you recovered after your extraordinary outburst?’

  ‘I . . . I suppose everyone is laughing at me.’ Shame, bitterness, resignation swirled around inside her.

  ‘It is safe to say that no one is laughing.’

  ‘And have they gone, Stan and that girl?’

  ‘Smith is still here.’

  ‘But you sacked him.’

  ‘It proved necessary, as I value my life, to change my mind about that. I found he’s rather popular around here.’

  ‘He’s been wonderful, Roddy. I do like him. He rescued me.’

  ‘Rescued you from what? From all that I gather, the three of you have been roaming the streets of east London as if you were on the Grand Tour.’

  ‘Oh, Roddy, it was horrible . . . the kitten. . . .’

  ‘What kitten? What are you talking about?’

  But she couldn’t tell him. The words weren’t there.

  ‘There’s no need to look so glum, kiddo,’ he said, his voice growing gruffer as he tried to soften it. ‘You’ve just got things muddled in that head of yours as usual.’

  ‘Do . . . do you think that girl is really Doro’s sister?’

  ‘I don’t believe it for a minute. It was just a ploy, a confidence trick. She was trying to worm her way in, telling Doro what she wanted to hear. They don’t even look alike.’ Which was true, Dorothea with her kind, round face and dark curls, and Flossie thin and hard with lank mousey hair. ‘Anyway, she’s gone now. Taken to her heels.’

  ‘Is Doro angry?’

  ‘You know Doro: she never stays angry for long. She can see now that the girl couldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know.’

  ‘What about the quest, Doro’s papa?’

  ‘That girl had no more idea where Frank Ryan is than we have.’

  ‘The . . . the way she talked about him: he sounded horrible!’

  ‘He was a bit of a wastrel by all accounts and something of a drunkard. Father had no time for him.’

  ‘How could a man like that be Doro’s papa?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s ancient history. It happened years ago, in Coventry, before Mother and Father were married, before they’d even met. You do know, I suppose that Father came from Coventry – that he lived in Coventry until he married Mother? That’s where Doro’s mother lived, too. Doro’s mother was Father’s sister. She would have been our aunt if we’d ever known her: Aunt Florence.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I don’t know the details but from what I understand Frank Ryan worked for Father. Father back then had just set up his bicycle business (the motors came later, as you know). Frank Ryan was one of the first people he employed. That was how they met, Frank and Aunt Florence. Frank turned Florence’s head. He was a lot older, you must remember: nine years.’

  ‘Is it bad, then, to be older? Wasn’t Daddy older than Mama?’

  ‘Well, yes, he was. But Mother’s not someone ever likely to lose her head. Aunt Florence was just the opposite. She allowed herself to be talked into running away. They eloped, Florence and Frank Ryan: they ran away to get married. They lived in London afterwards: at least, that was where they ended up. That was where Doro was born and where her mother died. Her mother died in childbirth.’

  ‘What does that mean, Roddy?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. It’s women’s affairs. I suppose she wasn’t strong enough or there were complications: it can happen that way, I believe.’

  ‘So Doro’s mama died. What happened next?’

  ‘Frank Ryan tried to raise Doro on his own but found he couldn’t manage it (he was a wastrel, remember). And so he brought Doro to Clifton – to us.’

  ‘I’m glad. I’m glad he did. But he can’t have been all bad if he did that.’

  ‘I suppose you have a point. We have him to thank for giving us Doro. But that doesn’t make him a saint. He had his faults which Doro, being Doro, tends to overlook.’

  ‘Roddy?’

  ‘What is it, kiddo?’

  ‘Do . . . do you think he’s still alive?’

  Roderick shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. We’ll probably never know.’

  Eliza shivered. ‘Just think if he hadn’t brought us Doro! Just think! Doro herself said that she would ha
ve turned out just like that girl Flossie!’

  ‘No!’ said Roderick fiercely. ‘Doro would never have been like that! No matter where she lived, Doro would never have been less than herself!’

  He looked so angry that Eliza was a little afraid of him: afraid of his strength and the way he trampled people. But oddly enough this fear reassured her, made her feel safe: he was her brother, her protector, a bastion against the nameless horror which had been haunting her these last few days.

  Acting on impulse, she got to her knees and threw her arms round him as he sat there, hugging him tightly. ‘Oh Roddy, I do love you!’

  ‘Do you, indeed! That’s a turn-up for the books.’ He patted her back a little awkwardly but then, after a moment, he seemed to relax a little. He said almost gently, ‘I don’t suppose this means you’ll behave yourself in future and do as you’re told?’

  She smiled into his shoulder. ‘I don’t suppose it does.’

  He ruffled her hair. ‘You’re hopeless. But I’ve no other kid sister to pester and plague me so I suppose I must make do with you.’ He carefully disentangled himself. ‘Come on. Tidy yourself up then come downstairs. The chauffeur has turned chef. We are to be treated to some kind of sumptuous repast.’

  When Roderick had gone, Eliza took up her hairbrush and crossed to the mirror. Her eyes were swollen, her hair tangled; she’d been wearing the same frock for days and it was all crumpled. Slowly she ran the brush through her long locks. Her hair was fair, the same as Mama but so different from Roderick, who was dark. Dorothea too had black hair. What colour hair did Dorothea’s papa have? And the dead Aunt Florence? It was all so odd, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers: they shared so many traits and yet could be so different. What did it all mean?

  She flinched suddenly. She thought she’d seen in the mirror out of the corner of her eye something move: a flicker, a shadow. But when she turned to look there was nothing there.

  She flung her brush aside, pulled her frock straight, and ran out into the corridor, leaving her doubts and fears to whisper alone in the empty room.