Mermaids Singing

by Dilly Court

  ‘I want me dinner.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Kitty reached into the bread crock, taking out the stale crust of yesterday’s loaf. She could feel Sid watching her as she sliced the bread, scraping on dripping with a shaking hand. Just lately, even when he was comparatively sober, Sid had been looking at her funny, and last week he’d made her sit on his knee. She’d been too scared to refuse, even when he put his hand under her skirt, running his fingers up the inside of her leg. Maggie had come into the room just then and Sid had pitched Kitty onto the floor, saying it was just a game. Kitty knew it wasn’t a game and she had desperately wanted to tell Maggie, but somehow she couldn’t. What he’d done was wrong, she knew that, but her shame was mixed with terrible guilt.

  Sensing that Sid was looking at her, Kitty glanced up nervously. His gaze was fixed on her chest at the exact spot where the top button was missing off her blouse. Her hand flew to her neck, clutching the material together, as she gave him his supper.

  Dashing the tin plate from her hand, Sid caught her by the wrist, dragging her towards him. ‘You’re a good girl really, Kitty,’ he said in a strange, thick voice. ‘And you’re growing up fast.’

  Finding strength in desperation, Kitty wrenched herself free. ‘You’ll be wanting a cup of tea,’ she said, backing towards the door. ‘I’ll go and see if Mrs Harman has got a drop of hot water to make a brew.’

  ‘Come here and don’t be a silly little girl,’ Sid said, baring his teeth in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’ll not hurt you, Kitty.’

  Kitty made a dive for the door but Sid was too quick for her and, pinning her against the wooden panels, he caught her by the throat. ‘You be nice to me, Kitty, or you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Let go of me.’ Kitty’s voice shook and she was trembling, but she raised her chin, glaring at him.

  ‘Didn’t know you had it in you, girl,’ Sid said, with a feral snarl. ‘I like a bit of spirit.’

  Kitty spat in his face.

  ‘Bitch.’ Sid slapped her cheek, snapping her head back against the door panel. Kitty opened her mouth to scream but Sid shoved his shoulder against her face, pinning her to the door as he ripped her blouse open to the waist. His work-roughened hand groped beneath her skirt, raking his fingers up her thigh, probing into the soft, secret place between her legs with savage thrusts that sent daggers of pain shooting through her body.

  Kicking and struggling, Kitty gasped for air. ‘Get off me.’

  ‘Shut up, whore. You know you want it.’ Sid struck her across the mouth.

  Tasting blood, Kitty thought for a moment that she was going to faint but Sid was forcing her legs apart. She could feel him fumbling with the buttons on his trousers; the bristles on his chin scraped down her neck and his tongue rasped the soft flesh of her breasts. Rage and revulsion replaced terror and, acting purely on instinct, she drew up her knee and caught him hard between his legs. Sid let out a howl of agony and doubled up on the floor, groaning. Harry was bawling but Kitty was too panic-stricken to go to him and, wrenching the door open, she fled down the stairs.

  Stumbling blindly out of the building, Kitty was grabbed by the scruff of the neck. Sobbing and clutching the torn shreds of her blouse in a feeble attempt to cover her naked breasts, Kitty found herself looking into Mrs Harman’s pale, coffee-coloured eyes. Mrs Harman barked an order at the eldest boy to keep an eye on the younger ones and half dragged, half carried Kitty into her own living room.

  ‘I could see it coming,’ Mrs Harman said, slapping a wet rag over Kitty’s blackened eye. ‘I tried to warn Maggie but she wouldn’t have none of it.’

  Shivering uncontrollably, Kitty couldn’t stop crying; couldn’t speak for pain and shame.

  Mrs Harman cocked her head on one side, listening. ‘Let’s hope that’s your sister coming. I got a few words to say to her.’ She marched to the door and wrenched it open. ‘Maggie! Come in here!’

  ‘What’s up?’

  Mrs Harman stood aside, jerking her head in Kitty’s direction. ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Kitty! My Gawd, who done this to you?’ Maggie cried, dropping her packages on the floor as she ran to Kitty, falling on her knees beside her.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Maggie Cable,’ Mrs Harman said, closing the door with a bang. ‘You know very well who done it.’

  Maggie turned on her. ‘I dunno what you mean.’

  ‘Only one man went up them stairs and it weren’t the tallyman. Your Sid half killed the girl, by the looks of her.’

  ‘My Sid’s got a weakness for the drink but he’d never lay a finger on Kitty or the nippers.’

  ‘And I suppose she done that to herself, did she?’

  Maggie caught hold of Kitty by the shoulders. ‘Tell me who done this to you. It weren’t Sid. You tell her, Kitty.’

  ‘He done it,’ Kitty said, and began to retch.

  ‘She don’t know what she’s saying,’ Maggie said, jumping to her feet. ‘You tell me the truth now, you wicked girl.’

  ‘Hey, there,’ Mrs Harman said, grabbing Maggie’s arm. ‘Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s telling the truth? Why are you standing up for him, Maggie, when you know he’s a drunken sot?’

  ‘I ain’t got no choice.’ Maggie broke away from her, trembling visibly as she snatched up the brown paper packets. ‘If they put Sid in the clink, me and the nippers will end up in the workhouse.’

  ‘Maggie!’ Kitty struggled to her feet, but a wave of dizziness swept them from beneath her, and she slumped back on the stool, holding her head in her hands. ‘I never did nothing wrong, I swear it.’

  ‘You was the youngest,’ Maggie cried, tears welling in her eyes. ‘You don’t remember, but I seen our five little brothers taken off by want and sickness afore they was out of petticoats. They’re lying in the churchyard, buried alongside our mum and dad, with not even a headstone to mark their graves. I’ll not let that happen to my babies.’

  ‘It won’t,’ cried Kitty. ‘I’ll help. Don’t send me away.’

  Maggie backed towards the door, clutching the packets to her chest. ‘You can’t never come home, Kitty. I done my best by you but you’re almost growed up now and you got to make your own way.’

  ‘I thought better of you, Maggie,’ Mrs Harman said, hooking her arm around Kitty’s quivering shoulders. ‘What’s to become of the poor little cow if you throw her out on the street?’

  ‘I c-can’t help it. I can’t risk having her under my roof a moment longer. I’m sorry, Kitty.’ Maggie ran from the room and her footsteps echoed up the staircase, followed by the thud of the door slamming behind her.

  The sound echoed in Kitty’s head, every bone in her body ached, and the room was spinning around her. If Maggie had stuck a knife into her heart it couldn’t have hurt more. This couldn’t be happening, it was a nightmare, and any moment she would wake up on the crowded mattress with the children snuggled up beside her.

  ‘Kitty, d’you hear me?’

  Mrs Harman was shaking her, heaving her up off the stool and wrapping something warm and tickly around her shoulders.

  ‘You can’t stay here, ducks, and you can’t go home.’

  Kitty opened one eye but the other remained stubbornly closed. There was someone moving about the room and she was in a strange bed. Jack-knifing into a sitting position, Kitty opened her mouth to scream as the terrifying events of the previous evening came back to punch her in the belly.

  ‘Hush now, you’re all right, ducks.’

  Wrapped in a motherly hug, Kitty was vaguely aware of the comforting scent of Sunlight soap, tea and hot buttered toast. ‘Betty?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ Betty said, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘You’re safe here in my house. I won’t let no one hurt you.’

  ‘He’ll come and get me,’ Kitty whispered.

  ‘He won’t dare. You got to put it all out of your head now.’

  ‘It weren’t my fault, but Maggie said it was.’

  ‘Maggie knows what’s wh
at, she just don’t want to admit it.’ Betty stood up, dropping a kiss on Kitty’s forehead. ‘Don’t cry, love, you’ll waken Polly.’

  For the first time, Kitty realised that she was sharing the bed with Polly, who lay on her back, snoring gently. ‘You give up your bed for me?’

  Pouring water from a jug into a flower-patterned bowl on the washstand, Betty smiled. ‘You was in such a sorry state, I thought you’d sleep best in the big bed. Now you get yourself cleaned up and don’t disturb Poll, or I’ll never finish getting my commercial gentlemen off to business.’

  Kitty nodded, her lips were still swollen and her jaw ached, making it almost impossible to speak, but somehow she managed to slither off the bed and hobble to the washstand.

  ‘You’ll need something to wear,’ Betty said, bustling over to a chest and opening a drawer. ‘I had to burn those rags you came in. They was alive, God bless you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be no trouble.’

  ‘Lord love you, ducks. I’m only doing what any right-minded person would do.’ Betty riffled through the neatly folded garments and, taking out a faded cotton frock, she laid it on the bed. ‘This is one of Polly’s and it might be a bit short on you but it’ll have to do for the moment. D’you think you can manage to dress yourself?’

  Kitty nodded, too choked by tears to answer. Betty’s motherly kindness was almost over-whelming, but it couldn’t erase the memory of the nightmare events of yesterday.

  Betty gave her a hug. ‘Don’t take on so, Kitty.’

  ‘S-sorry,’ Kitty said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘I c-can’t stop c-crying and y-you’ve been so k-kind to me.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense, ducks! I love you like one of my own.’ Betty fumbled in the pocket of her apron and brought out a clean cotton hankie, handing it to Kitty. ‘Dry your eyes and you get yourself dressed while I go downstairs and make the breakfasts for my gentlemen.’

  For the first few days, Kitty jumped at the slightest sound, hiding under the bed every time someone knocked at the front door in case it was Sid, come to get her. She kept well away from Betty’s commercial gentlemen; the mere sound of a male voice was enough to make her tremble from head to foot. Her cut lips made eating difficult but she had little or no appetite and Maggie’s furious, frightened face haunted her dreams. Above all, Kitty missed the children and somehow she couldn’t stop blaming herself for what had happened. Maggie had said it was her fault and she was lost in a pea-souper of guilt and shame. Betty had promised she would sort everything out but Kitty couldn’t see how things were ever going to come right again. She had lost her home and her family. Her sister might have a sharp tongue and a quick fist, but Maggie had brought her up like a mother, and now she must hate her. The future was a terrifying place, full of shadows and loneliness. Although Kitty’s bruises had begun to fade and her body was healing, no amount of kindness from Betty, or unspoken sympathy from Polly, could take the pain from her heart. Added to all this, her inability to contribute any money to the household made Kitty feel that she was a financial burden on Betty.

  Fear of Sid kept Kitty housebound. Working as a mudlark was out of the question, but she tried to repay Betty by helping with the household chores. In the evenings, she struggled by candlelight, learning to sew a straight seam. Betty’s true trade was that of seamstress but, without the money to purchase a sewing machine, and with hands gnarled with rheumatics, she could barely make enough from dressmaking to feed herself and Polly, let alone pay the doctor’s bills. Taking in commercial travellers helped to keep food on the table, but with Kitty now sleeping in the attic room, Betty had only two letting rooms. Even allowing for Jem’s allotment from the New Zealand Shipping Company, money was tight. It hurt Kitty to know this, and her heart ached to see Betty sitting at the kitchen table night after night, straining her tired eyes, as she attempted to balance her household accounts. Life in Tanner’s Passage was hard enough, but far removed from the grinding poverty of Sugar Yard. Kitty knew that she could not live off Betty’s charity for much longer. She would have to find work, even if it meant selling matches or bootlaces in the street.

  Curled up on the window seat, Kitty snipped the thread as she finished sewing buttons on an afternoon dress for one of Betty’s clients, the wife of a prosperous silversmith who lived in Shoreditch. The sensual feel of the grey tussore beneath her fingers sent thrills of pleasure rippling through her veins. It was the most beautiful garment that Kitty had ever seen and she rubbed it against her cheek. One day she would work in a dress shop up West, even if she had to sleep beneath the counter at night and spend the day picking up pins and bits of cotton thread. Up West, bright lights twinkled like boiled sweets; everyone wore shoes or boots, and ladies smelt of perfume and powder. Up West, people didn’t scratch all day from fleas and lice; rats kept to the sewers below the streets and you didn’t stumble across stiffs frozen to death in back alleys and shop doorways.

  Glancing at Polly, just to make sure she was still sleeping peacefully on the sofa, Kitty allowed her gaze to wander down below to the bustling crowds in Tanner’s Passage; sailors, stevedores, costermongers, beggars and street urchins jostled each other as they went about their business. It was almost dusk, too early for the drunks and street women, but high time that Betty returned home. She had gone out earlier on one of her mysterious errands and, with a sigh of relief, Kitty spotted her familiar figure scurrying home.

  Minutes later Betty breezed into the sitting room, tossing her bonnet and shawl onto a chair and smiling. ‘Kitty, love, you’ll never guess where I’ve been. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘You’ve been to see Maggie and she wants me to go home?’ Kitty held her breath.

  Shaking her head, Betty came to sit beside her. ‘You can’t never go back there, ducks.’

  ‘She still blames me?’

  ‘No, she don’t. Maggie would have you back in a shot, if it weren’t for him, but she admits that Sid is a bad lot and you got to be kept well away from him.’

  Kitty’s heart jolted as though she’d missed a step on the stairs. ‘You’re sending me away too?’

  ‘You’ve always got a home here with me, but we got to be practical. Now Maggie and me got our heads together, and we think it’s best if you’re out of the way for a bit. Don’t cry, love. Just hear me out …’

  Leaving Polly in the capable hands of a neighbour from across the street who owed Betty several cups of sugar, not to mention half a loaf of bread, Kitty and Betty set out early next morning. In one of Betty’s old skirts, cut down so that it almost fitted, and a white cotton blouse, taken in a few inches, Kitty knew that she was not exactly dressed in the height of fashion, but at least she was clean and tidy. A knitted shawl and gloves finished off her outfit and Betty had given her a red ribbon with which to tie back her long, curly hair. The ribbon was so beautiful, soft and shiny, that Kitty had to keep putting up her hand and touching it, just to make sure it was still there.

  For economy’s sake, they walked most of the way, and took a hackney carriage from Temple Bar. Kitty was horrified at such extravagance, but Betty said it was a question of keeping up appearances. She wasn’t going to arrive at her old employer’s home looking like a pauper. The cabbie drove them to Mayfair, setting them down in Dover Street.

  ‘We’ve got ten minutes to spare,’ Betty said, shaking out the creases of her Sunday best black bombazine dress. ‘We’ll have to go in through the servants’ entrance at the back, but I wanted you to see what a fine house you’ll be working in.’

  Kitty stared around her in awe; Mayfair was so grand that it took her breath away. She had seen several big, shiny, horseless carriages weaving in and out between the horse-drawn vehicles that jostled chaotically in the busy streets around Piccadilly Circus. The people strolling along the pavements in St James’s were plump as partridges, and wore such fine clothes that she could hardly believe her eyes. The reality of being up West was better than the wildest of her dreams. In her excitement she had al
most forgotten that her feet were pinched and sore in a borrowed pair of Betty’s high-buttoned boots. Her heart was fluttering inside her ribcage and her stomach felt as though it had tied itself in a knot. She felt elated to be here in the world of her dreams, but she also felt out of place amongst the rich and beautiful people; she was bubbling with excitement and yet trembling with nerves. Her relief at being far away from Sugar Yard was being eaten up by the aching sadness of leaving Maggie, who really did love her, and the children, who must be missing her just as much as she missed them.

  Betty stopped suddenly, pointing to a double-fronted, five-storey Georgian mansion on the far side of the street. ‘That’s Sir Desmond Mableton’s house where me and your dear mother worked as housemaids, years ago. Ain’t it fine?’

  Lost for words, Kitty could only stare at the imposing building. A carriage drawn by two, finely matched chestnut horses had drawn up outside. A liveried footman ran down the steps to open the door, while a man in a black tailcoat waited under the portico.

  ‘That’s Mr Warner, the butler,’ Betty whispered. ‘He runs the household below stairs and it was him what arranged your interview with the housekeeper, Mrs Brewster. Look, Kitty, that’s Sir Desmond himself getting out of the carriage.’

  Sir Desmond, Kitty thought, looked very old and very grand in his frock coat and top hat, but he was totally eclipsed by the elegant young lady alighting from the carriage, aided by the footman.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Kitty said, breathless with admiration. ‘Is that his daughter?’

  Betty’s mouth formed a tight little circle as if she had just sucked a lemon. ‘Keep your voice down or they’ll hear you, and don’t stare. That’s Lady Arabella Mableton, Sir Desmond’s second wife. She’s no better than an actress.’

  ‘An actress?’

  ‘Worse!’ Betty said, with a disapproving sniff. ‘She performed in the music halls.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Most gentlemen of his station would have set her up in a nice suburban villa, but Sir Desmond went and married her.’ Betty grabbed Kitty’s hand. ‘Come on or we’ll be late.’