When an apprehensive Kitty first entered the place in company with Pol her impression was of a dark world so totally alien to anything she had ever known that it might have been the jungles of the Amazon or the harsh fastness of the desert.
‘S’all right, love.’ Kindly Pol, with sure instinct, divined the reason for her hesitation. ‘You’ll soon get used to it. Come on – I’ll take yer to Midge—’ Halfway across the hall, weaving expertly between tables and chairs in the half-darkness, she stopped. ‘Word in yer ear before yer meet ’er—’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s’ – Pol hesitated – ‘a bit of a rough diamond, our Midge.’ She grimaced a little. ‘Not to be picky about it, she can be a right bitch, though ’er ’eart’s in the right place if yer can find it. Thing is – well – she don’t ’old with airs an’ graces in ’er girls. Know what I mean?’
Kitty had already been the recipient of enough spiteful mockery to know exactly what she meant. ‘I can’t help the way I am,’ she said, woodenly, ‘or the way I speak. It doesn’t affect my work or my strength. It’s no one’s business but my own.’
Pol watched her for a moment longer, reflectively. ‘Suit yerself, gel. Can’t say I didn’t try. Come on.’
Midge Corelli was everything that might have been expected of a woman who could run such an establishment in such a district with neither trouble nor interference from either the rough customers who were her neighbours or the arguably rougher customers that were her clientele. Though Kitty managed not to betray it, the woman terrified her from the moment she fixed her with a sharp unfriendly eye and snapped to Pol, ‘Jesus! Where did Moses pick this one up from?’
‘She’s stoppin’ at the Market Row lodgin’s with us. ’Er brother’s the new dipper.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The gaze became if anything even chiller. ‘I’ve ’eard about ’im. Sounds like a bunch o’ young trouble ter me.’ The eyes narrowed unpleasantly. ‘Cocky little bastard from all accounts. Runs in the family, does it?’
Kitty jumped. Her cheeks were suddenly scarlet. ‘I – no.’
‘Well, it better ’adn’t. Or I’ll skin yer, straight. An’ that’s a promise.’
Kitty believed her.
Her new employer eyed her for a moment longer with undisguised disdain before turning back to Pol with a dismissive gesture. ‘Fer Gawd’s sake get ’er down to ’Arry’s place an’ tog ’er up. She looks like a bleedin’ moultin’ crow at a funeral. I’ll leave ’er with you. Show ’er the ropes. Any trouble, report to me.’
‘Yes, Midge.’
Midge barely glanced at Kitty. ‘Cash for the togs’ll be stopped from yer wages.’
Kitty said nothing.
‘Get orf.’ As the girls reached the door she stopped them with a sharp word. ‘Pol?’
The girl turned.
‘’Ow’s that good-fer-nothin’ Lottie?’
Pol shrugged. ‘Bit better today. She’ll be all right.’
Midge nodded. ‘Silly little bitch. Tell ’er Luke was askin’ after ’er last night. An’ tell ’er ’Arry’s got a good bit o’ blue velvet down the shop. She can ’ave it ii she gets back on ’er feet, stupid little cow.’
‘I’ll tell ’er.’
Outside the door Pol grinned widely at Kitty. ‘Midge ’as got a real soft spot fer Lottie.’
‘She has?’ Kitty’s voice was doubtful.
Pol laughed outright. ‘Come on – I’ll show yer round ’ere first, an’ tell yer what’s what. Then we’ll make tracks fer ’Arry’s place. We ain’t got much time.’ She waved a hand. ‘Waitin’ at tables is the main thing, though we all takes our turn at servin’ be’ind the bar—’
Bemused, Kitty trailed around behind her, her confused brain only taking in half of what she was being told. ‘Meals and drinks – especially drinks – more profit, y’see – smile at the customers – don’t keep ’em waiting – don’t be cheeky and keep out of trouble. Trouble starts, you call fer Midge or fer Bobs. Watch the table customers – they’re spendin’ more, they expect service. An’ whatever else you don’t do, watch the big table by the stage. Moses’ own, and you’d better just jump if he’s there. Another thing – Moses don’t drink the same rubbish ’e serves to the payin’ customers. ’E an’ Luke Peveral ’ave their own private supply downstairs.’
An ice of misery seemed to have encased Kitty’s heart. She couldn’t work here. She could not.
‘You better come an’ see the kitchens. Mornin’, Belle—’ If Pol noticed her companion’s unhappy silence she gave no sign. Her greeting was to an enormous woman who was standing at a stained, dripping sink peeling a small mountain of potatoes with filthy hands. The kitchen smelled foul and looked as if no one within a mile of it had ever heard of soap and water. Belle grunted bad-temperedly, hardly glancing at Kitty. Kitty blinked away visions of the huge, warm old kitchen at the Grange with its appetizing smells and rows of gleaming brass and copper utensils and allowed herself to be towed back to the darkness of the Rooms. Pol was still talking. ‘There’s two performances a night. Reg’lar, that is. Sometimes there’s more. Depends.’ She stepped up onto the low stage, with its draped velvet curtains and battered upright piano. ‘George Milton’s our regular at the moment – watch ’im, ’e’s a nice enough bloke, but ’e’s got more ’ands than an octopus – mind you,’ she grinned, not unkindly, ‘’e probably won’t bother you. Likes ’em with a bit o’ meat on ’em does George. Somethin’ ter get ’old of. An’ Potty Masters is the other – Gawd, ’e can be funny that lad, when ’e’s ’ad a few. Mind you, ’e’s fallen flat on ’is stupid face a coupl’a times lately. Don’t know ’ow much longer ’e’ll be with us. Moses don’t take kindly ter riots, an’ when the customers start ter throw things it ain’t far off.’ She grinned cheerfully again. ‘Lot sings sometimes. Pretty little voice she’s got.’
Dumbly Kitty followed her onto the stage. Standing next to the piano, very slowly she extended a finger and touched the battered, closed lid.
‘Don’t know ’ow she does it meself.’ Pol had planted herself in the centre of the stage, hands on hips, and was surveying the huge, empty hall. ‘Scare the piss out of me, it would. You play that thing?’
Kitty jumped, snatched her hand from the piano as if it had been burned. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Right – well – think that’s the lot. Apart from—’ Pol stopped. Kitty, suddenly aware of a touch of awkwardness in the other girl’s manner, waited. Pol was looking at a door set in the wall beside the stage and hung with tawdry velvet. Then, saying nothing, she turned abruptly. ‘Come on. Let’s go see ’Arry.’
She led the way into the street, exchanged obscene pleasantries with the two bruisers who guarded the door. At the end of the lane they turned into a broad, busy thoroughfare lined with tall brick buildings grimy with soot and the dust of the street. Sweatshops, warehouses, tenements and factories stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the world through the blank, dirty eyes of their narrow windows. Kitty still felt overwhelmed by these city streets with their noisy, laden traffic, their pale, scurrying pedestrians, their filthy gutters and littered pavements, the squalor glimpsed through arch and doorway behind the façade of commerce. She followed Pol, pulling her skirts from the grasp of a half-naked beggar-child, almost falling over the outstretched legs of a man who huddled in a doorway, a gin bottle clutched to his breast. She drew a quick, shocked breath at sight of his face – the suffering of the damned could surely bring no more despair than she glimpsed in the ravaged eyes? So many times this same countenance could be seen, in every doorway, on every street corner – desperate, forsaken, perishing by slow inches and no hope of salvation. Such sights almost paralyzed her with terror; always she was aware that this was only one short step down from where she and her brother stood. Almost running, she hurried after Pol, followed her into a narrow lane and through an archway into a cobbled courtyard, two sides of which were formed by derelict stable buildings and the third by a wall of smoke-blackened brick in w
hich was set a door; above this hung the three brass balls that were the sign of the pawnbroker.
As Pol pushed the door open somewhere at the back of the shop a bell rang.
‘’Arry? It’s Pol. Got a customer for yer.’
There came a rustling from the shadows, and Kitty jumped as a voice close at hand said ill-temperedly, ‘Nae need to shout, girl.’ A tall, pale, stooping man with a lugubrious face and a head of thinning sandy hair shuffled towards them. He wore carpet slippers, crumpled trousers, a collarless shirt and a shabby, ill-fitting jacket that hung upon him like rags upon a scarecrow.
‘Got somethin’ pretty for a new girl?’ Pol asked cheerfully.
Harry surveyed Kitty doubtfully, sniffed, and with no word scuffed his way back through the cluttered shop to a curtained archway. Pol grinned and jerked her head, indicating that Kitty should follow. The room to which the man led them smelled abominably of that stale and nauseous odour peculiar to old and unwashed clothes. On two sides of the room long rails held every conceivable type of attire – men’s, women’s and children’s. A third was lined with deep shelves which held shoes, boots, hats, bags, gloves, belts and umbrellas. There were boxes of cheap jewellery, tumbled into tawdry heaps that gleamed garishly in the dim light. Scarves there were, and feathers and shawls. In the centre of the room stood a bare, dirty table and beside it a tall, fly-specked mirror. Harry looked again, dolefully, at Kitty. ‘I’ve not much’ll suit. She’s gey tall.’ He spoke with the reluctance and difficulty of a man who spent much time in his own silent company and preferred it to the garrulousness of others.
Pol skipped along the rails, twitching a skirt here, a sleeve there. ‘’Ere – try this. An’ that looks as if it might – no, ’Arry’s right – you are a bit lanky, ain’t yer? Ah, this looks more like—’ She pulled a dress of scarlet from the rack, shaking out the creases, threw it on the table. ‘You can wear red, I reckon, you bein’ dark – or green o’ course, green’d look good. ’Ow about this?’ She held up a dress of cheap emerald satin that shrieked in protest at the garish red of its trimming. ‘Gawd, don’t I remember this? Fanny ’Awkins, wasn’t it?’ She did not bother with the unlikely possibility of an answer from Harry. ‘She was tallish, as I remember it. Do you well, I reckon—’ She held the dress out to Kitty, who mutely shook her head. ‘Try it,’ Pol said, firmly, ‘it’ll be a bit short, but the customers don’t mind a bit of ankle, eh, ’Arry?’ She giggled. Harry sniffed.
Kitty picked up the abominable dress, and held it to her, looking in the mirror. It was cut so low as to have almost no bodice at all. The skirt finished, ludicrously, just below her knees.
Pol pulled a disappointed face. ‘P’raps not. Gawd, girl, ’ow tall are you? Try the red.’
Kitty picked up the scarlet dress. Its shoddy satin shone like new-shed blood, cheap glass beads edged the wide, low neck and small frilled sleeves, teardrops in the uncertain light.
‘Well, try it on.’ Pol was impatient. ‘We ain’t got all day. An’ at least it looks as if it’ll cover yer bloody knees.’
Embarrassed, Kitty clutched the dress to her, looking at the impassive Harry.
Pol shrieked with unconcerned laughter. ‘Oh, don’t mind ’im. ’E’s seen worse than you can show ’im, eh, ’Arry?’
‘Aye.’
‘An’ ’e’s not about ter leave us in ’ere alone, are yer, ’Arry?’
Harry shook his head.
‘Trustin’ bastard, aren’t yer?’ Pol asked, pleasantly. ‘Now, come on, Kit – do yer stuff. Time’s gettin’ on—’
Awkwardly Kitty turned her back on the watching man, fumbling with the buttons of her skirt. Stepping from it and clutching her blouse to her breasts she scrambled into the scarlet monstrosity, dragging it up over her ragged, grubby petticoats. Then, her fingers thumbs with embarrassment, she dropped the blouse and struggled to slip her arms into the scarlet sleeves.
Pol shouted again with exasperated laughter. ‘Good Gawd! Such maidenly modesty’s never been seen ’ere before, eh ’Arry? It’s no good, love – you’ll ’ave to take that bleedin’ thing off—’ And to Kitty’s horror she stepped towards her and with swift movements unlaced her bodice and stripped it from her, leaving her naked to the waist. Not altogether unkindly Pol laughed again. ‘Christ in ’eaven, what yer makin’ all the fuss about? You ain’t got that much to ’ide!’
Mortified, her cheeks of a colour with the awful dress, Kitty slipped her arms into the sleeves and stood as Pol buttoned her up and stood back. ‘There. Not bad. Not at all bad.’
Kitty stared aghast at her reflection. ‘I can’t wear this,’ she said, faintly.
‘’Course yer can. It looks a treat. Shame yer ’aven’t got a bit more on top – that was made fer a girl a bit more blessed than you—’ Pol twitched at the all-but-empty bodice with dirty fingers. ‘P’raps we could pad you out a bit? Anyway – like I said – the colour suits yer—’
‘It does not. It’s awful.’ Kitty hated the shaking desperation of her own voice. She swallowed noisily.
‘’Course it isn’t.’ Pol was just a little injured. ‘It’s just what the doctor ordered.’
Trembling, Kitty glared at the figure in the mirror, freckled, bony shoulders all but naked, small breasts bared almost to the nipples by the sagging neckline, the gaudy skirt, flounced and flared like garish tiers of flame about her long legs. ‘I look like a whore,’ she said, flatly and miserably.
There was a brief, edged silence. ‘’Ere.’ Pol picked up a worn black shawl and tossed it about her shoulders. ‘That better?’
Kitty clutched at it. ‘I still don’t like it. Isn’t there something else?’
Pol sighed, commendably patient. ‘If there is, ducks, we don’t ’ave time ter look for it. The Rooms open in ’alf-’our. If we ain’t there, Midge’ll ’ave both our guts fer garters. Got a pair of boots, ’Arry?’
It took a full ten minutes to find a pair of battered black leather buttoned boots that came anywhere near Kitty’s long, lean feet. ‘Thank Gawd fer that!’ Pol breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief when at last Kitty found something she could walk in that did not cripple her. ‘You sure they’re all right? I tell yer – yer feet are goin’ ter kill yer quite enough on their own account withaht yer boots givin’ ’em an ’elpin’ ’and.’
Kitty, aware of rough kindness, nodded. ‘They’re all right.’
‘Good. Put it on the slate, ’Arry, will yer? Midge’ll stump up. Kitty – you ain’t got time ter change – ’Arry – stuff ’er other gear in a bag, eh?’
A few short weeks before, Kitty would no more have contemplated walking through a crowded public place dressed so than she would have contemplated cutting her own throat.
She pulled the black shawl closer about her shoulders, took the paper bag from Harry’s hands with no word of thanks and followed Pol out into the street.
(ii)
Unsurprisingly Kitty at first found the work at the Song and Supper Rooms every bit as disagreeable as she had expected; what she had not bargained for, however, was the additional strain of a complete physical exhaustion that left her too tired to sleep. For the first week she lived in a miserable daze, lying each night desperately sleepless in her bed – when at last she reached it in the early hours of the morning – dreading the day that must follow, and with it the ordeal of facing once more Moses Smith’s villainous customers. It seemed to her that the place had deadened heart and brain – it was as if both her courage and her wit deserted her the minute she stepped across the threshold into that unnatural night. She was cursed for her clumsiness, ridiculed for her apparent obtuseness and bullied by just about everyone, including the other girls.
‘Stand up to ’em, love.’ Pol did her best, her heart touched by the other girl’s obvious unhappiness. ‘Give ’em a bit back. They’ll soon give over—’
‘I can’t, Pol, I can’t!’ Kitty shook her head wretchedly. ‘I’ll never get used to it—!’
Her new friend surveyed her
with worrying soberness. ‘You’d better. An’ quick. There’s a lot worse Moses could set you onto if ’e ’ad a mind.’
Kitty, who even in her present state had eyes in her head, could have no doubt as to the other girl’s meaning. Compared to some other establishments that Moses Smith ran – notably the brothel a little further down Blind Lane, known as The House – the Song and Supper Rooms was a lady’s tea party. When Pol left her she sat alone in the dismal room she still shared with her brother in Market Row, her face buried in her hands. Never could she remember feeling so utterly alone, or so terribly afraid. Matt she saw infrequently – in characteristic manner he had taken to the perilous life of a street arab as if born to it, had even found his way into the special if untrustworthy favour of Moses Smith – and he faced her intransigent unhappiness with a predictable and infuriating optimism; ‘You’ll get used to it, owd Kitty. ’Course you will. Tha’ss not so bad. An’ tha’ss not for long—’
‘How long?’ she had asked, for the dozenth time, ‘Matt – how long?’ And he had shrugged again, and laughed again, and turned the question with a joke again.
She took now a long, shaking breath. The sounds of the building came to her through the insubstantial walls. A dog yelped. Quarrelling voices were raised. A woman shrieked. A man’s voice growled a curse and there came the unmistakable sound of a blow. Somewhere a child was whimpering, dismally and with no pause for breath. With a quick, fierce movement Kitty stuffed her fingers in her ears, pressing them in painfully hard, making the blood roar in her head, screwing up her eyes as if to shut out forever this world that she so hated. She would not be part of such a place. Of such a life.
Sweet Songbird Page 18