by Dilly Court
Throwing herself against the heavy oak door, Rosetta managed to stop it slamming in her face. ‘Hello,’ she called, stepping into the cavernous entrance hall. Her voice echoed eerily down the dark passageways, bouncing back off the high ceilings. ‘Aunt Lottie, are you there?’
‘Who calls?’
Looking upwards to the first floor landing, Rosetta saw a pale face, framed in mad grey hair, hovering above the banisters. ‘It’s me, Rosetta.’
‘Don’t loiter, girl. Come on up.’ The head disappeared and Rosetta navigated the stairs, taking care not to catch her feet in the gaping holes that pockmarked the carpet as she followed Lottie into her sitting room. Directly opposite the door, a four-poster bed draped in faded silk curtains took up most of one wall. A heavily carved wardrobe was crammed against a washstand. Next to it stood a side table littered with framed photographs of Lottie in her heyday and a jumble of bric-a-brac.
At the far end of the room, two chintz-covered armchairs flanked a blazing fire and Lottie lowered herself into one of them. ‘So, run away from home, have you?’
Rosetta edged towards the fire. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Look at the state of you. Take those wet things off before you catch your death of cold.’
Rosetta peeled off her bonnet and shawl, dropping them onto a piano stool abandoned in the middle of the room, although there was no piano in sight.
‘Don’t drip on me carpet, girl.’
‘Sorry, Auntie.’
‘And don’t call me Auntie. You know I hate it.’ Picking up a stone bottle from a table by her chair, Lottie half filled a tumbler with clear liquid and took a mouthful, swallowing it with a satisfied sigh.
Wrinkling her nose at the unmistakeable whiff of gin fumes, Rosetta moved closer to the fireplace. They never had fires like this at home, but then Mum always said that Lottie was an extravagant cow and that was why she had ended up like she had.
‘Sit down, Rosetta. You making the place untidy.’
‘I give up me job at Bronski’s.’ Rosetta pulled up a footstool and sat down. ‘I got a job in the chorus at the Falstaff theatre, starting tomorrow, and I thought as how you might let me stay here.’
Lottie’s face cracked into a crazy paving of lines as she threw back her head and laughed. ‘Good for you. You done right, cara; you was wasting your life working in that sweatshop. You got looks, Rosetta, and good legs. You can go a long way with a shapely leg and a pretty pair of titties. I’d love to have seen your momma’s face when you told her.’
Rosetta felt the blood rush to her cheeks and it wasn’t just due to the heat of the fire. ‘I never told Mum about the theatre. She don’t approve of …’ Rosetta broke off, biting her lip, stopping herself just in time from saying that Mum didn’t approve of the theatre, nor did she approve of her sister-in-law, for that matter, not in any way, shape or form.
‘You don’t have to tell me. I know what your momma thinks of me, but you going to be the new dark sheep of the family now, Rosetta.’ Chuckling, Lottie swigged her drink.
‘You mean black sheep, I think.’
‘You going to be famous like me,’ Lottie said, raising a bony hand and patting her hair, which must once have been her crowning glory, a mass of tumbling Titian curls, although now it flew about her head in a wild tangle of pepper-and-salt frizz. ‘I was the queen of the music halls.’
‘You think I could be like that?’ Wrapping her arms around her knees, Rosetta searched Lottie’s face for an answer. ‘I want to better meself. I want nice clothes and a half-decent life. I don’t want to end up old before me time.’
‘You took the first step. Now you got to be tough.’
‘No one at home understands how I feel, not even Ruby.’
Lottie cocked her head on one side, watching Rosetta like a blackbird eyeing a juicy worm. A slow smile curved her lips. ‘I see myself in you, Rosetta, twenty, maybe thirty years ago. I had gentlemen fighting over me, showering me with gifts.’
‘You had lovers?’
Lottie poured herself another generous slug of gin. ‘More than I can remember. All of them crazy in love with me. Even the Prince of Wales himself.’
‘So it is true?’
‘It’s true. I was beautiful then and my lovers give me expensive presents: diamonds, gold, a racehorse or two.’
‘But,’ Rosetta said, frowning as she glanced around at the shabby room, ‘where did it all go? Surely you couldn’t have lost it all gambling like Mum says?’
Lottie pulled a face. ‘My one little weakness, cara. I couldn’t resist the gaming tables or a little flutter at the racetracks. All I have now is what you see here, this house and my little mementoes. All the rest, sadly, gone to pay my debts, but I don’t regret one bit of it. I lived my life, cara Rosetta. You got to live yours too, the way you want to.’
‘And I can stay here for a bit?’
‘You can stay here as long as you like. I don’t know if we have a room free; I leave all that to your Uncle Sly. He’s my man of business now. He looks after the paying guests.’
‘I was nearly knocked down on the steps by one of them. A queer-looking geezer, all in black, like a crow.’
‘That would be our Mr Wilby, the professional mourner. I only take in professional gents. This is a respectable lodging house, contrary to what your momma thinks.’ Lottie lay back in her chair, closing her eyes. ‘I’m tired. Go and find Sly. He’ll sort you out a room and some food.’
‘Yes, Auntie. I mean, Lottie.’
Lottie opened one eye. ‘And get out of those wet things. Take what you need from my wardrobe. I don’t suppose you brought nothing with you.’ Waving her hand in the direction of the wardrobe, she closed her eyes and turned her head away. ‘You so like me, Rosetta, so like me.’
Going over to the wardrobe, Rosetta opened the door and gasped as the pungent smell of mothballs took her breath away. The garments were terribly old-fashioned, but she managed to find a silk blouse, a black satin Spanish shawl, embroidered with scarlet roses, and a plain black bombazine skirt, which might have fitted Lottie ten or fifteen years ago, but certainly would not fit her now.
Leaving Lottie snoozing by the fire, Rosetta went in search of Uncle Silas. She found him in the steam heat of the basement kitchen where he stood by the range, stirring the contents of a large saucepan. The appetising aroma of vegetable soup made Rosetta’s mouth water, reminding her that she had eaten nothing since a slice of bread at breakfast.
‘Hello, ducks.’ Sly’s face split in a toothless grin, wobbling the fag end hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘Didn’t expect a visit from you in this bleeding awful weather.’
Dropping the clothes on a chair, Rosetta went to give him a dutiful peck on the cheek. Sly smelt of tobacco, onions and sweat and she pulled away, wrinkling her nose. ‘I come to stay if you’ll have me, Uncle Sly. Lottie says you might be able to find me somewhere to sleep.’
Sly took the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and tossed it into the fire. ‘As it happens I got a room in the attic going spare, but we ain’t running a charity, I expect you to pay your way.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Rosetta said hastily. ‘I got a job and I’ll pay you at the end of the week if it’s all right with you.’
‘Just so long as we understand each other, Rose. I’ll sort you out some bedding when you’ve had a bite to eat.’
‘Ta, Uncle Sly.’
Taking a greasy ladle from a hook over the fire, Sly plunged it into the soup. ‘Grub’s extra, by the way.’
The attic room wasn’t very clean and Rosetta looked round in distaste at the bare floorboards, crusty with mouse droppings, and the festoons of cobwebs hanging like dirty lace handkerchiefs from the rafters. Furnished sparsely with a single iron bedstead standing on a frayed oblong of drugget, and a three-drawer chest with a candlestick and a willow pattern washbowl on its top, the room was cold and unwelcoming. Used to Mum’s strict standard of cleanliness, Rosetta felt a lump constricting her throat.
She had always shared a room with Ruby and Granny Mole and this would be the first time in her life she had slept on her own; she would miss Ruby, was already missing her. Squaring her shoulders, Rosetta fought down the wave of homesickness; she simply mustn’t give in now. Wandering over to the window, she wiped a clean patch in the middle of one of the small panes, peering out at the rooftops opposite and the street far below. Outside everything looked grey, fogged by swirling snowflakes. Rosetta went to pull the curtains but they disintegrated into tatters in her hands. Turning away from the window, she opened a cupboard and the smell of stale beer hit her as a jumble of empty bottles tumbled out onto her feet.
This was not how it was meant to be, she thought, kicking the bottles back into the cupboard and slamming the door. A wave of homesickness washed over her but she braced her shoulders; she mustn’t give in. This was just the beginning and she would make things change for the better. Shivering as the icy temperature in the room gnawed at her bones, Rosetta knew that she had to get out of her wet things or freeze to death. She had just started undressing when a loud rapping on the door made her turn with a start.
Before she had a chance to call out, the door opened and Uncle Sly poked his head into the room. ‘Are you decent, ducks?’
Without waiting for an answer, he sidled into the room. Opening her mouth to protest, Rosetta shut it again when she saw that he carried not only a pile of blankets and a pair of tatty-looking sheets, but also a bucket smoking with glowing coals.
‘There you are, ducks. That’ll warm the room a treat when it gets going. I’ll send the girl up with another bucketful later. Fire’s extra, by the way.’ He dropped the blankets onto the bed and went over to the fireplace, where he tipped the coal into the grate. Taking a roll-up from behind his ear, he picked up a glowing ember with the tongs and lit the cigarette, dragging the smoke into his lungs with a cough and a grin. ‘I’d lock your door tonight if I was you,’ he said, as he shambled from the room.
The fire didn’t make much difference at first, but its feeble glow made things look a bit more cheerful. Once she had the dry clothes on and flames began to lick up the fireback making glow-fairies in the soot, Rosetta began to feel more positive. A new pair of curtains at the window would make the room seem brighter and perhaps she could persuade the servant girl to give everything a bit of a clean. Tomorrow she would start rehearsals at the theatre and then she would be earning her own money. She would spend every spare penny of it on new clothes.
It took Rosetta a long time to fall asleep in the strange room, lying on the lumpy mattress, without the comfort of Ruby’s warm body at her side. It seemed as though she had only just dozed off when a loud crash and the sound of raised voices made her snap upright in bed. The room was dark, the fire having gone out hours ago, and she could only just make out the pale rectangle of the window. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was and she pulled the blankets up to her chin as the cold struck her to the marrow. The voices grew louder and she could hear heavy footsteps lumbering up the uncarpeted staircase. Slurred speech, singing and swearing were all familiar sounds; she had heard them often enough coming from the Nag’s Head on the corner of Spivey Street after closing time. Someone rattled the handle of her door and it shook as if a shoulder had barged against it. Rosetta stifled a scream by stuffing the sheet into her mouth and held her breath, her heart hammering so loudly against her ribcage that she was sure they could hear it through the partition wall. Someone uttered a string of oaths and the rattling stopped; the footsteps moved on. More sounds of laughter and slamming doors and then everything went quiet. Rosetta curled up in a ball and hid her head beneath the bedclothes.
When she questioned Uncle Sly next morning, he shrugged his shoulders, moved the fag end from one corner of his mouth to the other, and repeated his advice to keep her door locked at night. He dumped a pile of dirty plates in the stone sink, splashing greasy water all over the small girl who had to stand on an upturned bucket in order to wash the dishes. She shot him a resentful look but said nothing.
‘There’s tea in the pot,’ Sly said, jerking his head in the direction of the range. ‘The gents has eaten all the bread but I’ll send Elsie down the baker’s when she’s done.’
Rosetta glanced at Elsie’s thin shoulders hunched over the pile of washing up; she couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve and her shoulder blades stuck out beneath her thin cotton blouse like buds of angel’s wings. Rosetta felt a twinge of pity for the scrawny little girl who obviously had quite enough to do without being sent to the bakery. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, hoping that Sly couldn’t hear her stomach rumbling. ‘I ain’t hungry, Uncle.’
‘That’s just as well then. You got to be quick in this drum or you don’t get nothing to eat,’ Sly said, slumping down in a chair by the range. ‘Greedy beggars don’t leave nothing on their plates. Bloody gannets, that’s what they are.’
Rosetta poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it, wrinkling her nose. It was stewed, bitter and thick as tar. ‘What sort of gents lodges here, Uncle Sly?’
‘All sorts. Best not ask. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.’ Sly winked and tapped his nose. ‘As long as they pays their rent I don’t ask no questions.’
‘They was all well sozzled last night,’ Elsie observed, more to herself than to anyone in particular. ‘Come crashing through the kitchen, scaring the life out of me.’
‘Button your lip, girl,’ Sly said, scowling. ‘It were just high spirits, Rose. Don’t take no notice of Elsie, she’s a bit touched.’ He leaned towards Rosetta, lowering his voice. ‘Got beat up regular by her old man. It done something to her brains like.’
It was hard to imagine a father that could do that to his kid. Rosetta felt a lump rising in her throat as she thought of Poppa. A fleeting vision of his loving smile and the way he tugged at her curls when he was teasing her made her feel suddenly guilty. Why did Poppa have to get sick just as she decided to leave home? ‘It’s not fair,’ she said out loud.
‘Don’t waste your pity on the likes of her,’ Sly said, apparently misunderstanding her meaning. ‘She’s well fed and got a bed by the fire every night. She don’t get beat, even when she’s done something bad. Not that she don’t need a cuff round the lughole every so often, just to remind her to keep her place.’
It wasn’t what she had meant at all, but Rosetta was not going to admit that to Sly. Even so, she felt an almost overwhelming surge of pity for Elsie. No one at home had ever lifted a finger to her or Ruby, and if her brother Joe had ever had a good hiding from Mum, then it was because Joe chanced his arm something horrible. Before he’d got himself apprenticed to a printer in Fleet Street, he’d been in and out of trouble, nicking things, dipping and mixing with the Spivey Street boys. Granny Mole always said he’d inherited the Capretti bad streak.
Sly got up from his seat, picked up the teapot and strode over to Elsie, lifting her bodily off the bucket. ‘You can finish that later. Time you took Madam’s breakfast up to her room.’ He emptied the contents of the teapot into the sink and made a fresh brew.
Elsie darted him a look beneath her long white eyelashes and scuttled into the larder, coming out with a tray set with a plate of thinly cut bread and butter, a pot of jam and some sliced meat.
Sly put the teapot onto the tray and the weight made Elsie’s knees buckle, but she staggered out of the kitchen carrying it, with her bony elbows stuck out at right angles.
‘You’d best be off to the Falstaff, then,’ Sly said, sitting down again and putting his feet up on the brass rail of the range. ‘We’ll sort out your bed and board when you get your wages.’
Rosetta bit her lip, she was hungry, and seeing the breakfast set out for Aunt Lottie had made her own stomach rumble like rainwater pouring down a drain. ‘I need me duds from home, Uncle. Can I send Elsie round for them?’
Sly reached in his pocket for a packet of Woodbines, taking out the last one and lighting it with a spill from the fire. ‘She c
an go if you gives her the price of a packet of Woods. Can’t get through the day without me fags.’
Rosetta caught Elsie as she came stumbling down the staircase, rubbing her ear that looked suspiciously red. She blinked like a scared rabbit when given instructions to go to Tobacco Court. She was to ask the lady who came to the door to seek out a bag of Rosetta’s clothes that she had hidden under Granny Mole’s bed. Rosetta was not certain that Elsie had fully understood, and she repeated it all over again, pressing two pennies into Elsie’s work-roughened hand. ‘That’s for ten Will’s Woodbines for Mr Silas, d’you understand?’
Elsie stared dumbly at the coins.
Glancing at the long-case clock in the hall, Rosetta realised that she would be late for the theatre if she didn’t leave for Old Street right away. She seized her shawl, still a bit damp, and her bonnet, still a bit limp, from the rickety hallstand and put them on. Feeling in her pocket she found a farthing and pressed it into Elsie’s hand. ‘That’s for going. Buy yourself some sweets, Elsie.’
Elsie stared at her blankly for a moment, and then two large tears welled up in the corners of eyes that were so pale blue that they seemed almost colourless, like sheep’s eyes. ‘For us?’
Rosetta closed her fingers over the coins. ‘The pennies is for Woods for Mr Silas and the farthing is for you. You bring me duds back here like I told you and I’ll give you another farthing.’
*
Rosetta arrived at the theatre ten minutes late, her shoes and the hem of her skirt soaked by the piles of slush on the pavements. A pale yellow sun had fought its way through a blanket of grey clouds and a spiteful east wind had chilled her to the bone. In the rehearsal room, the rest of the chorus were limbering up at the barre under the eagle eye of a small, dark-haired woman dressed in black. She turned on Rosetta, her dark eyebrows meeting over the bridge of her aquiline nose. ‘You’re late.’
The other girls sniggered and Rosetta felt hot colour flood to her cheeks. She stood awkwardly, knotting her hands behind her back, knowing that all eyes were upon her and well aware that she must look a sight with her old, much-darned clothes clinging damply to her legs.
