Climbing down, she put the table back in its place with the oil lamp in the middle of it and surveyed her work. She was tired and hungry and thirsty, she had nothing to eat or drink and she was covered in splashes of whitewash and had no water in which to wash, but she was satisfied. Yes, she was satisfied. Tomorrow she would buy a bucket so she could carry water from the yard up here for drinking, cooking and washing herself, but tonight she was too exhausted to do more than sit on the floorboards in front of the fire and wait for Arnold to deliver her things.
The rest of the house seemed to be asleep when Arnold came, although Sophy suspected they couldn’t have remained so with the noise Dolly’s son made on his three journeys up and down the stairs, cheerfully cursing and swearing about her rooftop abode. But he was kind, staying to put up the curtains on the piece of wire he had thoughtfully decided to bring, along with nails and a hammer, before clattering down the stairs for the last time, whistling tunelessly as he went.
Once he had gone, Sophy set about making her bed by the flickering light of the oil lamp, and when she had finished she stood admiring the first place she had ever really called home. The battered old brass coal-scuttle was reflecting the glow from the fire, the patterned hearthrug and curtains provided bright splashes of colour, along with the red flocked cushions on the hardbacked chairs, and her bed, topped by its faded pink eiderdown, looked warm and cosy. She gave a quiet, heartfelt prayer of thanks for Patience’s quick thinking. But for her cousin she would have left Sunderland without a penny in her pocket, and even if she had sold her clothes and Miss Bainbridge’s ballerina brooch, they wouldn’t have provided sufficient funds for her train ticket to London, let alone anything else.
She would write to Patience one day. Not yet, perhaps not for a long time, but one day . . .
She sank down on her bed, staring at her whitewash-covered hands as a flood of mixed emotions stormed her breast. And then, for the first time since her aunt had screamed the truth about her beginnings at her, she let the tears come.
Chapter 10
It was Sophy’s fifth week in London. She had written to umpteen theatrical managers asking for an interview, waited outside stage doors and in draughty vestibules hoping to catch someone who could help her, and spent a portion of her precious money having the cheapest cards possible printed with her details which she left at the theatres. She had quickly learned that the only way into the theatre was by the personal introduction and patronage of one of the actor-managers, and this often came by way of the acting classes some of the would-be actresses took. There was no drama training as such, these lessons came from working actresses and actors in their living rooms which doubled as the auditorium and stage for the purposes of the lesson, but the lessons cost money. Money she didn’t have. Likewise, she had heard about an acting academy, the first in the country, which guaranteed successful students their first job in one of the touring companies owned by the founder, but it could have been on the moon for all the chance she had of finding the fees.
It had been during her second week, whilst waiting in one of the foyers of a theatre hoping to catch the manager when he left, that his assistant had indicated he might be able to help her. He had taken her into a side room, and when she had found out the price of this ‘help’ she had slapped his face and walked out, crying all the way home. It was then that Dolly had given her a little talk on what she called ‘the birds and the bees’, finishing with the warning that actresses – even young novices such as herself – were considered sexually sophisticated in the eyes of most men and therefore fair game.
Sophy had been embarrassed and horrified – as much from Dolly’s candid account of what went on between a man and a woman as the assistant’s designs on her, which apparently was only to be expected if she followed her chosen career – but the little talk stood her in good stead for the next time a man tried his luck, which was only a day or two later, as it happened.
None of this discouraged her, however. What did alarm her was the dwindling of her remaining money. Due to the years spent in Kitty’s kitchen, she knew how to cook a sustaining broth with scrag ends and vegetables, and other such inexpensive meals, but having no oven she had to buy shop-baked bread at tuppence a pound loaf, and even dripping – butter or magarine was quite out of the question – was thruppence a half-pound. Then there was coal and candles – she had decided lamp oil was too expensive – and of course, Dolly’s two-shillings-a-week rent.
She sat on her bed one morning, a snow flurry outside the window emphasising the unwelcome fact that the bad weather was far from over and spring was still a couple of months away, and contemplated the holes in the soles of her boots. She couldn’t afford to get them mended. She had four shillings left and the rent was due. The last of the coal was burning on the fire and it was essential she got a another sack today, for not only did the fire provide warmth but it was her only source of cooking and making a hot drink. Since the four ounces of tea had run out which she had bought the first morning after moving in, foregoing the luxury of milk and sugar, she had been making do with half a teaspoonful of raw oatmeal in a mug of hot water to thaw her out when she had come in frozen from tramping from one theatre to another all day.
She shouldn’t have bought the hearthrug and curtains and cushions, she could have managed without them. She bit on her lower lip, anxiety flooding her. But one thing was clear. She had to put the ambition of becoming an actress to one side for the time being and find work of some kind. But what could she do? She wasn’t trained for anything.
And then she remembered the notice in the window of a little restaurant she’d passed the day before, advertising the position of waitress. The restaurant was in one of the streets west of the Gaiety Theatre; she hoped she could find it again. She tended to get her bearings more by the theatres than the myriad of street names, which were confusing.
Having decided to try, she lost no time in getting ready. The only food she had was the stale end of a loaf, but undeterred she toasted it in front of the glowing fire and spread the last of the dripping on it. She was even out of the oatmeal, so a mug of hot water had to suffice, but she felt better for having something inside her as she set out twenty minutes later, her feet soaked through within seconds.
She found the restaurant without any trouble. It was sandwiched between a Roman Catholic church and a small row of houses at the back of the Vaudeville and Adelphi theatres. She made a mental note of the street name. Maiden Lane. Perhaps that was a good omen? The next few minutes would tell.
She’d taken special care with her hair, drawing it neatly into a shining chignon, and her coat – bought especially to the requirements Miss Bainbridge laid down for her students – was of good quality. Fortunately no one could guess about the holes in her boots, she thought wryly, as she squelched into the restaurant which was quite full, considering it was only eight o’clock. There were no women among the customers, since respectable ladies dined in their own homes unless escorted by a gentleman, and most of these customers were clearly having breakfast before they went to work.
She stood just inside the door, uncertain of how to proceed and embarrassingly aware of the covert – and not so covert – glances of several of the men.
A small fat man with an harassed expression appeared from a door at the back of the restaurant and on seeing her paused for a moment. Then he came towards her, a pair of shrewd black eyes surveying her from head to foot. Even before he spoke, Sophy felt herself bristling. There was something in his face . . .
‘Don’t tell me. You’ve come about the job as waitress.’
She stared at him, wondering what she had done to arouse such hostility. ‘Yes. Yes I have.’
He put down the coffeepot he was holding, nodding slowly as he crossed his arms over his fat stomach. ‘And why is that?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why do you want to come here and work as a waitress?’
Sophy knew she had gone as red as a beetroot
; she could feel her ears burning. ‘Are you the proprietor?’
That seemed to amuse him for some reason. He nodded. ‘Yep, I’m the proprietor, my dear.’ He emphasised the word proprietor. ‘And I repeat, why do you want to come and work for me? No, don’t tell me.’
She hadn’t been about to.
‘You want to go on the stage, and Mater and Pater have thrown you out in horror. Am I right? So you’ve decided to play at something else for a while.’
The strange feeling of aloneness which had been with Sophy all her life, even when she was in the midst of company, rose up at his aggressiveness, threatening to choke her. She wanted nothing more than to turn tail and leave, but she was blowed if she was going to give this nasty individual the satisfaction. Aware that everyone was listening, she glared at him, but her voice was crisp and without heat when she said, very clearly, ‘I am not surprised you are looking for a waitress. I can’t imagine anyone would suffer you for more than a day or two.’
‘Is that so?’
At least he had stopped smirking, Sophy thought, but it was a pity about the job.
‘Well, let me tell you I’ve seen plenty of your type, my girl. Born with a silver spoon in your mouth and—’
‘That’s enough, Horace.’ One of the customers who had been sitting at a table by the window spoke, his voice deep and low as he stood up. ‘I fear you got what you asked for, old chap, and it’s really not the way to speak to a lady, is it? Let me explain, my dear,’ he added, looking straight at Sophy now. ‘Our friend here has been caught twice in the last six months by young ladies who take the wonderful job as a waitress in this prestigious establishment, only to leave without notice when they get the offer of work in the theatre. Can you imagine that? Leaving this oasis of delight and the engaging company of Horace? It’s hard to believe, I know.’
The other occupants of the restaurant were laughing openly now, and a man sitting a couple of tables away, called out, ‘You always were a miserable blighter, Horace. If it wasn’t for your wife’s superb cooking you’d close this place within the month just by the look on your face.’
Sophy was surprised to see that Horace himself was smiling, albeit sheepishly when she glanced at him, but then her attention was brought back to her rescuer, when he said quietly, ‘Please let me buy you a cup of coffee, my dear. It’s cold outside.’
The smell of the coffee was intoxicating but Sophy took a step backwards away from him, a thread of alarm in her voice when she said, exactly as Miss Bainbridge had taught her girls when it was necessary to refuse an invitation but without giving offence, ‘That’s most kind of you, but I have a prior engagement.’
Kane Gregory knew exactly what was going through this lovely – and plainly terrified – young woman’s mind, his voice quieter still when he said, ‘An engagement that won’t let you sit down for a few moments and warm yourself? You are quite safe, Miss . . .’
‘Hutton. Sophy Hutton.’
‘How do you do? My name is Kane Gregory.’
He was very smartly dressed, Sophy thought, hesitating. Obviously a gentleman. His frockcoat was of the best quality, and a gold watch gleamed on his waistcoat. And he had smiling eyes. They were smiling at her now as he murmured, ‘I hate to eat breakfast alone, Miss Hutton. You would be doing me a great favour if you joined me.’ He could see she was still on the verge of flying out of the door, and throwing caution to the wind he took her arm, leading her over to the small table by the window. There was a slight resistance at first but then she allowed him to pull out a chair for her, but she still sat perched on the edge of it as though poised for flight.
‘I am about to indulge in one of Horace’s wife’s superb breakfasts. May I order two?’
The colour which had begun to subside flooded Sophy’s face again. This was the sort of thing Dolly had warned her about; only bad girls allowed themselves to be picked up by strange gentlemen who always expected payment for anything they gave.
‘Miss Hutton?’ He had leaned forward, his voice so low no one else could hear. ‘Please don’t be frightened of me. I am sure you have encountered gentlemen who tried to take advantage of you, but I can promise you I am not one of them. I would simply like to share a meal with you, that is all.’
That wasn’t quite true, Kane Gregory acknowledged to himself as he watched the slender shoulders relax slightly. He wanted to know how this enchanting girl came to be in Horace’s restaurant looking for work. She spoke well, she held herself well and her clothes, although quite severely plain, were not inexpensive. He agreed with Horace, she clearly was the product of a middle-class upbringing.
‘Th-thank you.’ She had to swallow before she could speak, the smell of food was making her mouth water. Terrified at the way her money had drained away and desperate to keep a little by so she knew she could pay the rent, she had only eaten bread and dripping for the last week, and not much of that, filling up on hot water when the gnawing hunger pains became too uncomfortable. ‘You are very kind.’
When Horace appeared at their table in the next moment, Sophy didn’t dare to raise her eyes, sure she would read condemnation in the proprietor’s face. She could imagine what the other customers were thinking too. And then the spirit which had carried her out of her aunt’s house rose up. It didn’t matter what they thought. She knew she wasn’t bad. She listened to Mr Gregory ordering the food and when he said, ‘I trust that is to your liking?’ before Horace moved away, she looked at him and said politely. ‘It sounds lovely, thank you.’
Horace had poured them two coffees, and when they were alone again, Kane gestured at the milk and sugar. ‘I take mine black, but please help yourself.’
Again Sophy murmured, ‘Thank you.’
‘So . . .’ Kane settled back in his chair. ‘May I ask why you want to work as a waitress, Miss Hutton?’
For a moment she wondered if he was laughing at her, but the somewhat rugged male face gave no sign of it. He had the sort of face which made it impossible to determine how old he was, but she thought around the middle thirties. He was tall and well-built, and his hair was thick and dark, almost black, but his eyes were a bright blue. His complexion was severely pock-marked, but for that, he might have been considered good-looking. Aware that she was staring, she said quickly and with transparent honesty, ‘I don’t want to work as a waitress, I need to.’
‘Ah.’
She poured milk into her coffee, adding two teaspoonfuls of sugar – a luxury – before she added, ‘The proprietor was partly right, as it happens.’
‘Call him Horace. Everyone does.’
‘I – I do want to be an actress but I don’t have wealthy parents as he suggested.’
‘No?’
Her tongue was running away with her. It was the warmth and smell of food and not least the easy way Mr Gregory had with him. But he was a man, a stranger, and she shouldn’t be talking so freely. She bowed her head, sipping at her coffee which tasted wonderful, and feeling uneasy again.
It was a moment or two before Kane went on, ‘What have you done about furthering your desire to work in the theatre, Miss Hutton?’
Feeling this was safer ground, she told him of her efforts over the last weeks without mentioning when she had arrived in London or anything more about her personal circumstances. Their meal came, two large plates of ham, devilled kidneys, steak and eggs with a side plate of warm rolls and small slabs of butter. Sophy had to restrain herself from falling on the food, but somehow she managed to pick up her knife and fork and eat in a manner Miss Bainbridge would have approved of.
Nevertheless, as Kane watched her while appearing to concentrate only on his own breakfast, he thought, She’s hungry. Damn it all, the girl was ravenous. What the dickens was going on?
It was towards the end of the meal, when Sophy had all but cleared her plate, that he spoke again. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being impertinent, Miss Hutton, but you mentioned that your parents are not wealthy. Do they know you are here today?�
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The question took her by surprise. Now her stomach was full for the first time in weeks, she was wondering how on earth she could have been so foolish as to put herself in this position. She should have walked straight out of the restaurant after the altercation with Horace, but it was too late now. Panic made her throat dry, and she took a sip of coffee. ‘My parents died not long after I was born,’ she said carefully. It was the story she had decided to tell if anyone asked. ‘My aunt and uncle – my mother’s brother – brought me up. They weren’t in favour of my becoming an actress so I am at present in lodgings.’
‘I see.’ Not as much as he wanted to, but it was a start. He would guess she was roughly seventeen or eighteen, maybe a trifle younger, but the mantle of innocence that sat on her made him wonder how she had survived thus far. He could think of a handful of men on the fringe of the entertainment business who would snap her up if they got the chance, and for purposes other than putting her on the stage. She was tailor-made for one of the high-class brothels. Such men were like leeches, hanging round the theatres hoping to snare ingénues like this one, their naivety and freshness their downfall. And this girl was extraordinarily lovely.
His mind made up, he said, ‘Forgive me for saying this, Miss Hutton, but I am assuming you are now outside the protection of your family and therefore in something of a delicate position.’ As Sophy went to speak, he held up his hand. ‘I’m sure you are quite capable of looking after yourself in the normal way of things, but if – as I surmise – you are all alone in a strange city with limited funds, I think we could both agree that is not ideal.’
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