The Flower Girl

by Maggie Ford

  ‘Because you’d have stopped me.’ It was time to make a clean breast of things. Desperately she quickly related how she’d met Barrington, how she’d helped him regain confidence in himself; that he’d once been a famous magician on the stage, repeating his name to give it even more significance.

  ‘Never heard of ’im!’ The sneering remark from Ben was silenced with a look from Mum as Emma hurried on to say that he had in mind for her to be his assistant when he returned to doing theatre performances.

  ‘And that money?’ queried her mother.

  ‘It’s sort of wages. I earned it honestly.’

  ‘What money?’ queried Ben, his eyes widening with interest.

  He was ignored. ‘No man gives a gel that kind of money fer nothink.’

  ‘What money?’ Ben asked again, his eyes roaming the room.

  ‘None of your business,’ snapped his mother, but Ben wasn’t done.

  ‘Been giving ’er money, ’as he? Pay’s fer it, do he? What is he? Some old goat what likes ’em ’ardly out of the cradle?’

  His dirty chuckle went right through Emma. She pointed a vicious finger at him. ‘You can talk. All them tarts you and yer mates pick up. Yer come home stinking of cheap scent, that and beer.’

  Ben went over to his tankard, lifting it off the shelf to pour the dregs from an opened pint bottle of stout he’d taken from one frayed pocket of his jacket. His leering eye on her, he drained the tankard, a drop of brown liquid slopping down each side of his mouth on to his shirt. Holding the tankard away, he brushed his shirt with the back of his other hand then wiped his mouth, the movements loose and uncontrolled.

  Her eyes lingering contemptuously on Ben, Emma addressed her mother, fine talk forgotten. ‘He drinks away what little he does earn. He comes ’ome throwing ’is weight about and you never say a word. I work ’ard to bring in regular money, to ’elp keep us, and this is all you think of me?’

  ‘But we know what yer doin’ fer money,’ Ben said, grinning slyly.

  ‘You keep your dirty mind to yerself!’ Emma flared at him.

  She turned back to her mother. What she saw in those faded hazel eyes shocked her to her very soul. ‘You can’t believe I’ve been doing them sort of things.’

  ‘I don’t know what yer get up to.’ That comment was the last straw.

  ‘Then yer can think what yer like, Mum. I’ve kept meself decent. I’ve stood out in all weathers ter help keep us going. But if you think I’ve been doing other things, then I’d better leave. You and Ben can torment the life out of each other. He can drink away what ’e earns and you can go out and sell yer own flowers. But without me, Mum, yer’ll end up in the workhouse before six months is up.’

  Her outburst was met with silence and she turned on Ben. ‘This is all your doing, spying on me, coming ’ome telling tales. I know, because I saw yer this evening, watching me.’

  His grin was lazy. ‘Why should I want ter spy on yer? I don’t need to because yer’ve just condemned yerself.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing of the sort!’ She turned back to her mother in abject appeal. ‘I told yer the truth, Mum.’

  ‘I wish I could believe it,’ came the saddened reply.

  ‘All he’s given me is from what he earns doing his magic and me helping.’

  ‘Helping! Huh!’ Ben sniggered, lifting his tankard to his lips though he’d drunk what was there. ‘I just bet he enjoys every bit of yer ’elping ’im!’

  White rage surged up inside Emma. Without warning she leaped at him, her fist catching him on the side of the head. He let out a roar, his free hand trying to catch her flailing arms. She half saw the tankard raised above her head, and ducked. But her mother saw it and ran to part them.

  It was she who took the downward swipe of his arm, its force throwing her to the floor. In that instant Emma left her assault on him in an effort to catch her and stop her fall. The next thing, a dull thud, like the heavy kick from a horse, caught her on the back of her head, making her brain whirl.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emma came to herself lying on the sofa with Mum bending over her. Ben was nowhere in sight.

  Slowly recollection came back, she going for him, her mother intervening and being knocked sideways by a blow meant for herself, running to help Mum, swearing at Ben for the bully he was. She vaguely remembered yelling at him to see what he’d done and to apologise when something hit her head causing her to black out.

  ‘What ’appened?’ she managed. ‘Where’s Ben?’

  ‘Sodded off out in a temper,’ came the reply. ‘And at this time of night. I don’t suppose he’ll come back ’ome till tomorrer now.’

  She screwed up her face at the pain in her head. ‘He hit me.’

  ‘With that tankard. I don’t think he meant ter knock you out. But yer did go for ’im. He was defending ’imself.’

  With a tankard, against a girl. Emma’s lip curled. And even now Mum was taking his side against hers. She sat up, wary of the thumping in her head.

  ‘Are you orright, Em?’

  ‘How can I be, with you and ’im going on at me for something I ain’t done.’

  Her mother stood up from her. ‘Can yer blame me? Yer only sixteen.’

  ‘Seventeen end of February,’ Emma reminded. Her mother uttered an irritated huff.

  ‘Still sixteen. Not old enough ter know what men ’ave got on their minds when they see some pretty girl.’

  Of course she knew. Theo was different. ‘He’s not like that,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know he’s not got yer on a bit of string, spinning yer a tale. All this rubbish about magic.’

  Despite her thumping head, Emma gave a hard laugh, ‘All concerned for me now, are we? A little while ago you said yer didn’t want me sleeping next to yer. I was too disgusting.’

  This was met with silence and she could sense just a touch of doubt. She went on in a kinder voice. ‘Perhaps if he came to see you to explain what he does. He was a famous magician. He was in all the big theatres right across the country.’ Speaking of him seemed to improve her diction as if he stood there right behind her. ‘You must have heard of the Great Theodore?’

  ‘No I ain’t,’ came the sharp reply. ‘What time or money ’ave I ever ’ad, ter go off ter posh theatres, even when yer dad was alive, me bringing up the kids, and ’im working every hour he could get?’

  ‘But if you just agreed to meet him. If I ask him to come and see you to explain what he has in mind, would you listen to him?’

  ‘I don’t want no truck with some dirty old man what’s old enough ter be yer father.’

  She’d been wrong, there had been no elements of doubt at all in her mother’s mind, faint or otherwise.

  ‘It’s not like that.’ She swung her legs to the floor, wincing at the pain it caused, and sat on the edge of the sofa. ‘How can you condemn him when you’ve not even met him?’

  Her mother interrupted her. ‘And what’s all this fancy talk?’ She was regarding Emma as though she’d been mouthing a string of vile oaths. ‘Yer sound like some fancy man’s trollop, talking like that.’

  Emma was on the verge of losing her temper. She fought to control it.

  ‘He’s planning a mind-reading act, and when I’m on the stage I have to speak nice … nicely.’

  ‘On the stage!’ Mum was glaring down at her. ‘No daughter of mine’s going on the stage. Them sort ain’t no better than they should be. No, me gel, you ain’t goin’ on no stage.’

  Mum moved away from her as if to enforce her decision. ‘I’ve never ’eard such stuff. I’ve brought you up ter be good an’ clean, and I ain’t ’aving yer showin’ yer legs and things to a lot of gawping eyes what see yer as no better than a common tart.’

  ‘What about the fine actresses we’ve got?’ Emma struck back. ‘Like Ethel Barrymore and Sarah Bernhardt? They’re well respected. Everyone looks up to ’em.’

  ‘I still ain’t going ter let yer show me up by making yerself look cheap in fr
ont of people.’

  ‘Do yer think standing in the kerb selling flowers ain’t making meself look cheap?’

  Her temper swinging out of control, all her nice accent fell about her in shreds. ‘Do yer think it’s all so special standing ’olding out a flower ter people passing by, begging ’em ter buy one and have meself ignored, or me ’and shoved aside, or if someone stops, do yer think I feel special when they drop a penny in me ’and with that look of pity and thank God my daughter don’t ’ave ter do this, and me ’aving ter be grateful for their bloody pennies? I know what they’re thinking. And I hate it. What I can get working for Mr Barrington will get me more than I get in one year selling paper flowers.’

  She stopped and waited but her mother was silent.

  ‘Don’t yer see, Mum?’ she went on. ‘You saw what I’ve earned so far, just by helping Mr Barrington in his work, and it’s not come from ’aving ter beg people to buy from me. It’s real earnings, from proper entertaining.’

  As she paused, running out of ideas, there came her mother’s disparaging voice. ‘Ill-gotten gains. And I can guess what else yer’ll be expected ter do.’

  The suggestion seared into her brain, rationality flung aside. ‘I don’t bloody care!’ she burst out. ‘If that’s what you think, I don’t bloody care.’

  ‘Don’t swear.’ Her mother was holding on tightly to herself.

  ‘Is that all yer can say?’ Emma continued. ‘Yer practically tell me I’m no better than a prostitute, then calmly tell me not ter swear?’

  Her head was hurting. Dizzy, she felt a sudden need to sit down, so much anger coursing through her veins that she could hardly breathe. She stayed on her feet.

  ‘Yer tell me yer don’t want me next to yer in bed, and I can sleep under that table instead? Well, I ain’t going to. If Ben comes ’ome tonight, me hearing ’im pissing in his pot and me not three feet away from him, no thanks, Mum. I’d rather leave this place right now.’ But Mum was also in a temper.

  ‘Where d’yer think yer’d go at this time of night? To ’im, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, if I have to! He’s going back to his work and taking me with ’im. I could be well off and get us all out of this squalor. But you’d rather scrape along ’ere because you think making yer flowers ter sell is more respectable.’ Her voice had risen to a shriek. ‘Yer’d rather work yerself ter death rather than me getting yer out of this place. It suits yer ter play the bloody martyr. I think you enjoy us living like we do in this stinking hole.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ yelled her mother. ‘I won’t ’ave yer talking like this.’

  ‘Why not?’ Emma yelled back. ‘I’ve a right to my …’

  There came a mighty thumping on the floor above them, their raised voices disturbing the couple living up there. A man’s muffled shout came faintly through the floorboards.

  ‘Shurrup down there! We’re tryin’ ter sleep. Yer know what time it is?’

  Mum’s turned her thin face to the ceiling. ‘You can shut up too!’

  ‘I’ll come down there and tell yer who’s ter shut up!’

  ‘Go on then!’ she yelled back. ‘You don’t pay the rent fer the ole ’ouse. I can shout if I want in me own rooms!’ Her eyes were searching for the broom to bash back at the ceiling with the handle end, no doubt merely bringing down a piece of already flaking plaster on her own head.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ returned the voice. ‘I’m comin’ down and I’ll bang on yer door, that’s what I gonna do if yer don’t quieten down. Us bein’ woke up not ’alf an hour ago by yer fighting, and now woken up again.’

  Mum’s mouth opened to scream a retort but Emma caught her arm. ‘Mum, don’t! We could get thrown out.’

  Her mother closed her mouth and glared at her. ‘Much you care,’ she said, lowering her voice. The thumping stopped abruptly. They could hear the bedsprings creak above their head as they did every night.

  For a while they stood without speaking. Mum shrugged off Emma’s hand and went to her kitchen chair to sit down as though all her energy had deserted her. Emma regarded her for a moment, her own anger subsiding.

  ‘Are yer going to let me sleep in our bed ternight then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’ Emma heard her own voice harden. ‘Then I’ll have to leave.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Her mother’s tone sounded full of defeat.

  ‘If I go, Mum,’ Emma said quietly, ‘I’ll never set foot in this house again.’

  ‘What house?’ murmured her mother, gazing slowly around herself at the shabby room. She said no more and Emma knew she was thinking of earlier times, better times, even though they too had been a struggle.

  But she wasn’t going to be persuaded by pity. She had been wronged. She’d tried to do her best by her mother, and what thanks had there been?

  ‘I’ll go then,’ she said ineptly.

  ‘Yes, go,’ came the weary reply.

  Theodore awoke from a deep and satisfied sleep to the sound of someone tapping on his door.

  He had gone to bed at rights with the world. He hadn’t yet told Amelia about Jack Simmons’s telegram saying he’d got a spot for him, admittedly at the end of the bill, and admittedly in a seedy music hall, but it was a start. He was on his way.

  She’d be surprised and excited when he told her. Any girl would be, taken from the gutter and put into the limelight, even if that limelight was mere coloured flame and not electric, the audience standing for the most part in ragged rows instead of sitting in plush seats, women in cheap boas and second-hand hats, men in scruffy jackets and shapeless trousers, collarless shirts and frayed caps.

  He was starting again. Anyone starting again must put up with the rough before enjoying the smooth. But with her beside him he couldn’t go wrong. Amelia Beech, far more satisfactory than Emma. Innocent and sweet, she had charmed the common street crowds. Now she would charm the common music hall rabble. Before long she would be enchanting the rich and elegant. Who would have thought that a child of the East End would possess such a remarkably retentive memory? With his mind-reading act, they’d reach the heights and once more he would be the Great Theodore.

  When people asked where he’d been these past two years and a half, he would give a sly smile and leave them to continue to wonder. They would see it as mysterious, debate among themselves the reason for his sudden disappearance and just as sudden reappearance, like one of his famous tricks. Many would recall a similarly sudden disappearance – the mysterious and elusive man mostly known only by the name of Charlier who came on the scene around the 1870s and for thirteen years managed to astound audiences with his sleight of hand with the cards, only to disappear several years later without a trace. No one knew where Charlier came from or where he went. During the years, despite acclaim, he seemed to have lived in poverty, once discovered living in one room ten feet by eight.

  Theo smiled to himself. Rather like this room; and on that thought he dozed off to be awoken by tapping on his door.

  Shaking off sleep, he fumbled for matches, struck one, and turning the screw of the gas bracket on the wall, applied the match to the chalk fretwork of the mantle. In its sickly light, he opened the street door to find Amelia standing there, her face pale, her hazel eyes wide.

  ‘I’ve left home,’ she said, her voice trembling. She looked pale.

  Startled, all he could find to say was, ‘At this hour of the night?’ Collecting his wits, he turned his back, saying, ‘You had best come in.’

  His first thought as she followed him in was to draw his one chair up close for her to sit while he sat on the edge of the bed.

  Hands in her lap, her head bowed, she told him what had happened. Listening, he expected tears at some stage but though her eyes glistened when she lifted them to glance at him, there was no outburst of weeping. It prompted a depth of admiration in his heart. She looked far older than her sixteen years, more like eighteen. This was a girl who would not allow any sort of adversity to pull her down. He f
elt a surge of warmth for her that wasn’t exactly fatherly love.

  ‘You should have taken note of what your mother wanted,’ he said to allay the sensation.

  She looked at him, anger gleaming in her eyes. ‘She’s got no right to tell me what to do.’

  ‘You are still very young, and whilst under her roof, she has.’

  ‘Well, I’m not under her roof any more.’ There was bitterness in her tone. ‘Apparently I’m not too young to go standing in the gutter selling for her.’

  ‘Children younger than you are hawking and begging,’ he said. She remained silent, so he said, ‘Where do you intend to stay?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘You can’t stay here. You must go back home. Tell your mother you are sorry.’

  She shook her head, her expression set. He felt he had never seen such an unyielding look. This was a girl to be reckoned with. ‘You might still be able to persuade her to allow you to follow your course.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ came the stiff reply. ‘Me and Mum are alike. Neither of us has ever given way, and I have to go on, no matter what anyone says. Unless you tell me I can’t.’

  How could he go against such determination? But she couldn’t stay the night in the same room as he, especially the way he’d felt about her a little while ago.

  ‘I’m not going home,’ she said emphatically as he sat looking at her, knowing she was adamant about that. Nor could he send her away. He couldn’t allow her to walk the streets. He had a feeling that this was what she would do.

  ‘I suppose you’d better stay here until the morning,’ he said finally, apprehension driving out all the feelings he’d had a moment ago. ‘Then we shall discuss what we must do. I shall find somewhere else to stay tonight and return in the morning.’

  ‘You can’t.’ She was looking alarmed. ‘Where will you go?’

  Her concern made him smile. ‘As a man I am quite safe and it is no bother to me. There are many who must seek doors or archways to sleep in and it is not that cold at night, despite being near to Christmas. I shall be in good company,’ he ended wryly.