by Dilly Court
‘Very well. I can see I won’t get rid of you unless I pay up.’ He took two silver sixpences from his pocket and dropped them into her outstretched hand. ‘But I can always find another flower-maker.’
‘Not as good as me, you won’t.’ Rosa winked at Stella. ‘My blossoms look more real than any you’ll find in one of those big stores up West.’
Stella had taken an instant liking to pretty fair-haired Rosa and she sprang to her defence. ‘I think your rose petals are lovely. They must take a lot of time and skill to make.’
Rosa tucked the money into her bodice. ‘Thank you, Miss . . . what do they call you?’
‘I’m Stella Barry.’
‘How do you do, Stella?’ Rosa shook her hand. ‘As you might have guessed, my name is Rosa Rivenhall. I make paper flowers and wreaths for the funeral parlour.’
Ronald thrust the basket at Spike. ‘Take this to the back room, boy. Don’t stand there gawping at Miss Rivenhall. Get on with your work.’
‘Don’t be so hard on him, Mr Clifford,’ Rosa said, blowing a kiss to Spike, who coloured up to the roots of his mouse-brown hair and scuttled crabwise into the workshop. ‘He’s a good boy,’ she added defiantly.
‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’ Ronald opened the door. ‘Come along, Miss Barry. I haven’t got all day.’
‘It was nice meeting you, Stella.’ Rosa hurried into the street, matching her pace to Stella’s.
‘You’re very kind.’ Stella eyed her curiously, wondering what a well-dressed young lady was doing in a run-down area like Artillery Street. Rosa Rivenhall looked and sounded as though she was used to better things, and yet here she was, selling paper flowers to someone like Ronald Clifford.
‘Come along,’ Ronald said impatiently as he set off in the direction of the workhouse at the far end of the road. ‘Chop-chop. Don’t dawdle.’
Rosa fell into step beside Stella as he strode ahead of them. ‘What business have you with old snake-eyes?’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘He’s not related to you, is he?’
‘Only by marriage,’ Stella said, wincing as she felt one of the blisters on her heel burst as she tried to keep up with Ronald’s long strides. ‘His stepmother is my mother’s great-aunt. I’m not sure how that relates to me, but I’m going to see her now.’
‘You look a bit lost, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re not from round here, are you?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘And I love a good tale.’ Rosa smiled and her cheeks dimpled. ‘I live in Fleur-de-Lis Street, not too far from here. Number six. Do come and call on me. We get so few visitors these days.’
‘Hurry up, Miss Barry. As I said before, I haven’t got all day.’ Ronald had stopped outside a butcher’s shop. The dead bodies of rabbits, hares and wood pigeons dangled from vicious-looking hooks, swaying in the wind so that they seemed to perform a macabre dance of death. Even after living in the country and learning how to skin, pluck and prepare game for the table, Stella could not quite repress a shudder of revulsion. Ronald swatted off a cloud of flies and beckoned to her. ‘I’ll take you up to see her but then I must get back to business.’ He glared at Rosa. ‘And you have another order to fulfil, which I want by the end of the day or I’ll dock your wages. It’s lilies this time, remember.’ He opened a door at the side of the shop and disappeared into the dark passageway.
Rosa held out her mittened hand. ‘It was so nice to make your acquaintance, Stella. I may call you that, mayn’t I?’
‘Of course.’ Stella shook her hand. ‘I’m not sure if I will be able to take you up on your invitation to call, Rosa. I’m only here for a short while and then I will have to move on.’
Rosa’s smile faded. ‘How disappointing.’ She brightened instantly. ‘But you still might just manage to come for a cup of tea and a slice of cake. I’ll be at home all afternoon working on the lilies, and it would be so diverting to have someone close to my own age to talk to. I love Kit dearly, but he’s very little to say for himself these days.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ Rosa said with a gurgle of laughter. ‘Christopher Rivenhall is my brother.’ She turned and walked back the way they had just come. ‘Fleur-de-Lis Street,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Number six. It’s not far at all.’
Ronald put his head round the door. ‘Are you coming or not?’
She followed him into the narrow corridor, wrinkling her nose at the smell of dried blood and rancid fat that seemed to permeate the whole building. Ahead of them was a flight of stairs, uncarpeted, with the treads worn in the centre from the passage of many pairs of feet for a century or more. Ronald took them two at a time, his long legs working like tailor’s shears until he reached the second landing. He opened a door at the far end and went in. Stella followed him, hesitating on the threshold as her eyes grew accustomed to the sunlight pouring in through a tall window. The air was stale and the odour of Maud’s elderly, unwashed body was almost more than she could bear, but Ronald did not seem to notice.
He strode over to the chair by the fireplace where his stepmother sat, wrapped in a crocheted shawl, a white mobcap pulled down over her eyes. A pair of steel-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, moving up and down with each stertorous breath. The toes of her boots peeped out beneath her linsey-woolsey skirts and a fragment of torn lace from her petticoat moved rhythmically with the rise and fall of her bosom. Gentle snores emanated from her open mouth, keeping almost perfect time with the purring of a large tabby cat curled up on her lap. It lifted its head and glared suspiciously at Ronald.
‘Wake up, Maud,’ Ronald bellowed. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’ He leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder, disturbing the animal, which leapt to the floor with an angry miaow. Ronald aimed a kick at it, narrowly missing, and the cat arched its back, spitting and hissing.
Maud opened her eyes with a start. ‘Oh, it’s you, Ronald. You’ve frightened poor Timmy.’
Ronald curled his lip. ‘I’ll do more than frighten the little brute if it scratches me again. He’ll end up on the butcher’s slab if he’s not careful.’
Maud clutched her hands to her breast. ‘Don’t say things like that. His feelings are easily hurt.’
‘She’s demented,’ Ronald said in a low voice. ‘I don’t think you’ll get much sense out of her today.’
‘Who is that?’ Maud pointed a shaking finger at Stella. ‘Is it Jacinta? Come closer, my dear, so that I can see you better.’
Stella shot an angry glance at Ronald. ‘She seems perfectly lucid to me.’
He headed for the doorway. ‘Try talking to her for more than two minutes and she’ll be off in the land of the elves and fairies. I’m going.’ He left the room, allowing the door to swing shut of its own accord. The slam of wood against wood made Maud jump up from her seat.
‘Who was that? Has someone come in? My eyes aren’t what they were, Jacinta.’
Stella hurried to her side. ‘Ronald just left, Aunt Maud. I’m Stella, Jacinta’s daughter.’
‘Stella?’ Maud sank back on her seat. ‘No, my dear. You can’t be Stella. She’s a little girl. You’re Jacinta, I know you are.’ She looked round the room, peering at the table with its yellowed and stained linen cloth. ‘Is it teatime yet? Where’s the maid? If she’s flirting with the butcher’s boy again I’ll have to dismiss her. You can’t get reliable staff these days.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Aunt Maud?’ Stella picked up the soot-blackened kettle from the trivet in front of the fire and found that it had boiled dry. ‘Where can I get water?’
‘From the pump in the yard of course, Jacinta. Have you forgotten already? You made me a cup of tea only this morning. Sukey wasn’t here then. That girl is never here. I don’t know what things are coming to.’
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ It was a relief to escape from the stuffy room. Stella hurried downstairs to the yard and filled the kettle at the pump. She tried to ignore the
flies that buzzed around a bin filled with fat waiting to be rendered into lard or tallow, but the smell of it was rank and the cobblestones were matted with dried blood. She hurried back into the building and climbed the stairs to Maud’s dingy room. The rays of sunshine that somehow managed to penetrate the grimy windowpanes revealed damp stains on the wallpaper and moth holes in the curtains. On closer inspection she saw that one of the chairs at the table had a broken leg and the cupboard door hung by a single hinge. She made a pot of tea and poured some of it into the only cup she could find, which was cracked and stained. ‘There’s no milk, Aunt Maud.’
‘No, dear. I sent the girl for some but she hasn’t returned yet. I’ll take it as it is with a lump of sugar.’
Stella looked in the cupboard and found nothing but mouse droppings and a couple of cockroaches. ‘There isn’t anything here, Aunt. Who does your shopping for you?’
Maud gave her a pitying look. ‘I told you, dear. The girl does everything for me, when she’s here. I must tell her off when she puts in an appearance. I don’t think I’ve had breakfast yet.’
Stella placed the cup and saucer in Maud’s gnarled hand. The clock on the mantelshelf had stopped at half past six, and whether that had been morning or evening it was impossible to tell. Judging by the height of the sun in the sky it was mid-afternoon, and Maud seemed not to have eaten since the previous evening, if then. Stella picked up her reticule. She would have to be careful with her meagre funds, but she could not allow Maud to starve, and she was quite certain that the errant maid was a figment of the old lady’s imagination. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat all day, Aunt Maud. I’m just going to the shops to buy some provisions but I’ll be back very soon.’
‘I would appreciate a drop of milk, Jacinta. And perhaps a slice of bread and butter. The girl should be back soon.’
‘I’ll see if I can find her. Don’t worry. I won’t be long.’
‘You always were a kind girl, Jacinta. I could never understand why that oaf my sister married wouldn’t have anything to do with you.’
‘I think you’re referring to my grandmother, Aunt Maud. She was Sanchia Romero, the Spanish lady. My mother was as English as I am.’
‘Am I getting confused again, Jacinta? Ronald is always telling me that I’ll end up in Colney Hatch.’
Stella laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘No one is going to send you to a lunatic asylum, Aunt Maud. You just need someone to look after you.’
‘You will stay, won’t you, Jacinta?’ Maud peered at her cat as it rubbed itself against Stella’s skirts, purring loudly. ‘Timmy likes you, and he is a good judge of character. He hates Ronald, and I don’t blame him. I treated that little boy as if he were my own child, and this is how he repays me.’ Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her lined cheeks.
Stella gave her a brief hug. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Auntie. I’m going out to get some milk and something for you to eat. I think your cat is trying to tell me that he’s hungry too.’
Maud brightened visibly. ‘He is partial to a fish head or two, my dear. Sprats are Timmy’s favourite but he’s not fussy.’
At the mention of his name, Timmy leapt onto Maud’s lap and made himself comfortable.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Stella left them to comfort each other. She had seen a fishmonger’s shop on the corner and there was a dairy a little further down the street. She made her purchases and it was only when she was on her way back to Maud’s dingy accommodation that she realised she had not asked the pertinent question. But as she climbed the two flights of stairs she knew that she had a difficult task on her hands. Maud’s grasp on reality seemed fragile and her memories were confused. She was unlikely to glean any useful information on this visit, but perhaps given time and with patient questioning Maud might remember something that would help her find her mother, Freddie and Belinda.
She entered the fuggy room and found Maud dozing off with Timmy in his usual place on her lap. The cat looked up and blinked in apparent recognition but when Maud opened her eyes she gave a start. ‘Who are you? You’re not Sukey. Where is my maid?’
It took Stella several minutes to calm Maud’s fears, but a fresh pot of tea laced with both milk and sugar seemed to revive the old lady to the point where she was almost rational. She ate a slice of the meat pie that Stella had purchased from a vendor who had been touting his wares in the next street, and Timmy fell on a raw sprat, gnawing it and making appreciative growling noises in his throat. Stella cut a slice of bread from the loaf she had bought in the bakery and spread it generously with butter. Her stomach rumbled and her mouth watered, but she could not bring herself to eat anything. She wrapped up the remainder of the pie and placed it in the cupboard, hiding it from the resident vermin beneath a soup plate. At least Maud would have some supper that night and she could finish the rest of the bread and butter for breakfast.
Stella perched on a stool, watching Maud finish off the last crumb with a sigh of satisfaction. Spots of colour had appeared on her ashen cheeks and a smile wreathed her thin lips. ‘That was delicious, my dear.’ She adjusted her spectacles, peering closely at Stella. ‘But you’re not Sukey, are you?’
‘No, Aunt Maud. I’m Stella.’
‘But Stella is only a child. I remember you now, Jacinta. You’re teasing me, I know. You are Jacinta, aren’t you?’
There seemed to be little to gain by upsetting her again and Stella nodded. ‘Yes, Aunt Maud. I’m Jacinta.’
‘You must go home to your family, my dear. Those delightful children will be wondering where you are, and they’ll want their tea. You must bring them to see me soon, dear.’ Maud leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, but I’m a bit sleepy now. I think I’ll take a nap.’
Stella rose from her seat and leaned over to drop a kiss on Maud’s forehead. ‘I’ll come tomorrow. That’s a promise.’ She glanced at the cat as it gnawed the fish bones, crunching them between pointed white teeth. ‘Look after her, Timmy.’
Outside in the street the March winds were buffeting the people going about their business, grabbing at their coat-tails and plucking hats from heads. A battered bowler bounced along the cobblestones with an irate man chasing after it. From his patched elbows and frayed cuffs, and the shiny places on his green-tinged suit, Stella guessed that he was a clerk from one of the small businesses that surrounded the railway station and the goods depot. He was certainly not in the mood to pass the time of day as he raced past her shouting at the hat to stop as if it possessed ears. She hesitated, wondering where to go next. It was late afternoon and she had nowhere to sleep for the night. She had not had a moment to think about her own situation since she arrived in London. She had vaguely supposed she would find a cheap lodging house and look for accommodation next day, but she had nursed a forlorn hope that someone in her family might invite her to stay. Such hopes had been dashed when she set eyes upon Ronald Clifford. She would rather sleep in the gutter than be beholden to a man like him. What sort of person would allow the stepmother who had raised him from an infant to dwindle into old age and burn out like a guttering candle? It was a question without an answer.
Her stomach rumbled and she felt sick with hunger and suddenly quite dizzy. She remembered Rosa’s invitation to take tea with her and she uttered a sigh of relief. Rosa would help her, of that she was certain. She had no reason for this, other than the fact that she had taken an instant liking to the flower-maker and she sensed that it was mutual. Stopping the first respectable-looking person she came across, she asked the way to Fleur-de-Lis Street.
The woman shook her head. ‘You don’t want to go there, love. It’s a rough area filled with doss houses, pubs and a couple of knocking-shops. Steer clear of that place, my duck. It’s not for the likes of you.’
Chapter Seven
STELLA HESITATED OUTSIDE the door of number six Fleur-de-Lis Street. As the stranger had warned her, it was not the most salubrious of areas. Slatternly women hung round in
doorways, touting for business, and there seemed to be plenty of men eager to sample their wares. Workmen, bank clerks, traders and even respectable-looking businessmen staggered out of the pubs and disappeared into doorways, lured by the show of a shapely ankle or a beckoning finger. Stella could only guess that many of the so-called fallen women had come upon hard times and been forced into prostitution as the only way they could earn their precarious living. The raucous laughter and voices raised in song emanating from the pubs contrasted savagely with cries of children and screams from inside the tenement buildings. This was life such as she had never seen, even in Limehouse. The wharves and dockyards of the city had their own dangers and evils, but this place was dark and sombre and seemingly without hope. She hammered on the iron knocker and waited, praying that no one would accost her. She could not help wondering if a similar fate had befallen her mother all those years ago, and she felt her heart contract with pain.
Just as she was beginning to think no one was at home the door opened and Rosa stood there, beaming at her. ‘Oh, Stella. How lovely to see you again. Do come in.’ She grabbed her by the hand and dragged her over the threshold, closing the door forcefully, as if by doing so she kept the grim world outside at bay. ‘I’m so pleased you came. Let me take your cloak and bonnet.’
Rendered speechless by this unexpectedly enthusiastic welcome, Stella took off her outer garments and handed them to Rosa, who tossed them onto a rickety hallstand, which swayed dangerously and then by some small miracle righted itself. ‘Come through to the kitchen. I’m afraid it’s the only warm room in the house. We don’t light the fire in the parlour until evening. Coal is so expensive, and we have limited means.’
Stella glanced round the hallway. The staircase rose steeply in front of her, its steep uncarpeted treads ending in a sharp bend and total darkness. As she followed Rosa down the narrow corridor she could not help noticing that the wallpaper was torn and the paintwork was peeling. What must once have been a smart town house, built for the burgeoning middle classes at the end of the previous century, was now little more than a battered shell. The pervasive smell of damp and dry rot was suffocating, and mingled unpleasantly with the odour of cheap tallow candles and paraffin.