Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  But she was. Apparently inescapably, she was.

  Miserably, and without bothering to take off the hateful scarlet dress that seemed to her to be the badge of her enslavement she threw herself onto the stinking, unmade bed, drew her knees to her chin and prayed for sleep that she knew would not come.

  Such utter misery, however, could not last. She was young, she was healthy, and in the way of such things as the days moved on she found if no kind of contentment at least some acceptance of her situation, and gradually, at last, her spirit and good sense began to reassert themselves. As she became more used to the work she made fewer mistakes and was therefore subject to less abuse and mockery, and given her stubborn refusal to rise to their jibes the girls of the Rooms grew at last bored with her lack of response and tormented her less. Then, one night, during her stint behind the long bar, stung to retaliation by a particularly coarse taunt, she found her tongue at last and, encouraged by Pol’s approving eye, gave an account of herself that brought grins to the faces of her surprised and discomfited victim’s companions. After that life became easier, as she discovered a hitherto unknown talent for defensive and acid retaliation; and if her vituperative tongue did not make her popular it kept the customers at a disinterested arm’s length and that was all she asked – for it had been a very few days indeed before Pol’s reticence regarding the velvet-draped door by the stage was explained. Beyond the door was a steep flight of dark stairs, at the top of which were half a dozen ill-furnished bedrooms – ‘for private entertainment’ was the euphemism used. If Smith’s Song and Supper Rooms was not exactly a brothel, in the sense that The House was, it seemed to Kitty to come close.

  But Pol dismissed her first fearful questions with a wave of her hand. ‘Honest, love, you won’t ’ave ter worry. Midge – she won’t ’ave ’er girls forced. Moses? – yes, I’d put nothin’ past that bastard. But Midge is no meat-merchant. You want ter use the rooms – yer use ’em, an’ yer pays yer dues, ter Midge an’ ter Moses. But – yer don’t? – that’s all right too. I tell yer – I’ve never known a girl forced. Not ’ere. What goes on up at the ’Ouse – ’oo knows? But not ’ere. You got ter face it, Kit’ – Pol’s good natured face was unusually sober – ‘you could ’a done a lot worse. Yer want to ask Lottie what can ’appen to a girl what doesn’t know when she’s well off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Pol shrugged. ‘Couple o’ years back the silly little sod took it into ’er ’ead that she was too good fer poor old Stepney. Went off up West, she did.’ She grinned, sardonically. ‘Lookin’ fer fame an’ fortune. Joined an ’ouse in the ’Aymarket – all silks an’ satins an’ French perfume, know what I mean? Entertainin’ the gentry.’ She made a swift, coarsely explicit gesture. ‘Well, I tell yer – she was back ’ere before yer could say “Jack Robinson”. An’ carryin’ a few scars, too.’ She leaned towards Kitty, wagging her finger. ‘At least round ’ere if a girl gets a good beatin’ it’s ’cos ’er feller’s drunk, or mad at ’er. ’E don’t string ’er up an’ do it fer pleasure, with ’is mates watchin’ an’ ’is trousers round ’is ankles! I should coco. I’d ’a’ bleedin’ brained ’im meself, title or no title. So just think on – there’s worse things in this world than waitin’ on tables at Smith’s. An’ worse things that can ’appen to a girl than what goes on upstairs, an’ all. In the ’ouse Lottie was in they ’ad these peep’oles – oh, all right, me lady, I’ll shut me mouth. I’m just tellin’ yer, that’s all—’

  That Pol herself was not averse to using the draped door Kitty knew and accepted as being none of her business; the first time she saw her brother slip through it with a pretty sharp-faced girl called Biddie in tow she was ready to skin him alive. He took her castigation philosophically, and on his first free evening headed straight back to Smith’s, Biddie, and the draped door. Kitty, wisely, gave up. She had problems enough of her own to worry about.

  One of them was Lottie.

  * * *

  The root of Kitty’s problem with the girl lay buried deeply in Lottie’s jealously possessive character. From the first she had shown antipathy towards Kitty, but from the moment kindly Pol had befriended the newcomer openly, it was obvious that Lottie had set her face firmly against her, an attitude that became more open and more obviously hostile as the sick girl began to regain her strength. Frail, lovely, oddly spoiled, Lottie had a stubborn streak in an otherwise rather unstable character that made her cling like a limpet to those upon whom she depended, and defend with fury against any threat, real or imagined, to her own position. Kitty she marked as an enemy from the first time Pol smiled at her, and there seemed to be little that Kitty could do about it. At first, sympathetic to the girl’s ill-health and insecurity she had, despite snubs and scornful rejections, gone out of her way to be pleasant and to try to allay the other girl’s fears and suspicions, but to no avail. Lottie – intense, emotional, vulnerable, indulged – would have none of her friendly overtures. And so Kitty at last found herself shrugging and leaving well alone. Lottie’s irrational fears and jealousies were not of her making, whatever the other girl might think.

  ‘Leave ’er be, Kitty.’ Pol was gentle. ‘She’s a queer fish sometimes. She’ll come round.’ Kitty, smiling, said nothing. But aware of the naked hostility in Lottie’s lovely eyes when she looked at her, she knew better. Yet in truth, Lottie’s fears about what she saw as Kitty’s intrusion between herself and Pol were utterly groundless. Pol and Lottie were the very closest of friends and Kitty’s coming made no difference to that. It seemed to Kitty that pretty, dependent Lottie was everything to Pol – friend, sister, darling, spoiled daughter. She petted and scolded her, watched over her, reassured her. Within days of meeting them Kitty became aware that on only one issue were those two utterly divided – and perhaps unsurprisingly, that issue was a man.

  Kitty knew of Luke Peveral by reputation for some time before she saw him. It seemed that everyone at the Song and Supper Rooms was ready and eager to illustrate his or her intimacy with Moses Smith’s most illustrious customer with a story, often patently exaggerated and tinged, according to the teller, with admiration, envy, sycophancy or – in the case of most women – that faint, defensive derision that bespoke strong physical attraction. Luke Peveral, it appeared, was the Supper Rooms’ idea of a gentleman. He was also a master thief – one of an aristocracy of crime whose contacts in the world beyond the stinking midden-slums of the East End gave him access to the kind of ill-gotten spoils of which most of the habitués of Smith’s only dreamed.

  One successful assault, so it was said, by Luke Peveral and his sidekick, a tiny ex-jockey called Spider Murphy, upon the bastions of wealth and privilege and the Whitechapel fences could close their doors for a fortnight. He was run by no one – not even Moses – though word was that a few had tried, to their own eventual regret. The double tongue of gossip worked its usual confusion over the man – Peveral, said some, was ruthless, tight-fisted, unfriendly and arrogant – yet others would have him easy-going, generous, unassuming as a girl. Upon one point only did all tales tally – Luke Peveral was a womanizer. Upon which grounds alone, Amos Isherwood hovering at her shoulder, Kitty disliked him before she ever had laid eyes upon him. But she could not deny a certain curiosity, for from none of the contradictory stories did any clear picture emerge, and the contradictions were personified in the attitudes of Pol and Lottie. Pol clearly disliked the man – it would not be too strong indeed to say that she hated him. Lottie, on the other hand, jumped to his defence always with a passion that spoke for itself.

  For the first couple of weeks that Kitty was at Smith’s Luke Peveral was ‘away on business’. With any other of Midge’s patrons Kitty had very soon learned that this would have but one interpretation. Not so, it seemed, however, with Luke Peveral. ‘No such luck, love.’ This, disgustedly, from Pol. ‘’E’s too fly fer the bloody coppers. ’E’s probably in the country somewhere, enjoyin’ the ’ospitality of whatever poor bugger ’e’s next goin’ t
er rob blind. Champagne an’ caviare an’ lah-di-dah chit-chat, then bang! The ’ouse-guest’s gone, an’ so’s most of ’is Lordship’s family heirlooms.’

  ‘He really does that?’ Kitty remembered Sir Percy’s companions at the Grange, and the idea did not seem so far-fetched.

  ‘’E really does that,’ Pol’s voice was unimpressed. ‘So can a monkey climb a tree. It don’t make ’im clever.’

  ‘So he must make a lot of money?’

  ‘So it’s said.’

  ‘Then – why on earth does he live round here?’ With her own and only burning desire being to get away, Kitty could not for her life understand anyone staying of their own accord.

  ‘Because it’s safe, stupid,’ Lottie said. ‘’Ow many coppers ’ave you seen fingerin’ people’s collars around ’ere? Luke’s among friends ’ere. Where else would ’e go? ’E knows where ’e’s well off.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You see nothing.’ The other girl’s voice was flatly contemptuous. ‘Come on, Pol – you promised you’d give me an ’and with the blue—’

  The only other information that Kitty picked up about the mysterious Peveral was that he lived in or around the derelict church that could be seen on the other side of the canal, but that no one appeared to know exactly where, and he guarded that privacy with a blunt intransigence that daunted the most persistent of curious souls. He might, Kitty thought sardonically, stay in Whitechapel as Lottie said because he was amongst friends – but he seemed ready to go to some lengths to prevent those friends from coming too close. If Luke wanted company he came to the Rooms, if he did not he stayed at home, and was disturbed at peril. Not even Lottie, who quite clearly had more than a passing acquaintance with the man, knew exactly where he lived.

  Her first meeting with the man about whom there was so much speculation occurred one evening in September, and it was not particularly auspicious.

  It was a cold evening, and raining – a threatening harbinger of a hard winter that the weather had turned so early. From the moment that she arrived at the Rooms she was aware of an extra bustle in the air, an odd edge of excitement. For the first time Kitty could remember the large round table that was always set ready upon a low, curved platform that abutted the stage was occupied. One of the occupants was Moses Smith, his bulk encompassed by an enormous chair especially constructed for the purpose.

  ‘Gawd, gel!’ Pol was uncharacteristically flustered. ‘Where yer bin? She’s spittin’ rivets—!’

  She was interrupted by Midge who bore down on them like a man o’ the line, all guns blazing. ‘Where yer bin, yer lazy cow? What time d’yer call this? Two bob docked fer Friday. Think I pay yer ter keep lady’s hours, yer idle slut? Now, stir yer stumps before I chop ’em off. Pol – get be’ind the bar before there’s a riot. You’ – she glared at the quailing Kitty – ‘take over the tables ’ere. Luke wants Lottie ter sing. An’ ’e’s spendin’ ’ard ternight, so what ’e says goes. Move!’

  Pol swung away. ‘Keep yer eye on the big table. Keep ’em ’appy. Lot’ll ’elp.’

  For the next ten minutes Kitty was rushed off her feet. The place was full, the customers hungry and possessed of their usual prodigious thirst. At seven the lights were dimmed, the primitive footlights flared smokily and the din quietened a little as the small, nondescript pianist whose name Kitty had never learned slid across the stage and took his place upon the stool and George Milton, a fine figure still, despite advancing years, in his cutaway black tail coat and frilled shirt, his fine mutton-chop whiskers as grey and luxuriant as his hair, took the stage. Though his best performances were undoubtedly behind him he was a popular figure, and an impressive one. As he stood, and bowed, from the audience came a roar of encouragement, and then comparative quiet. Kitty glanced nervously towards the big table. Lottie, she saw, stood attentively beside Moses’ huge chair. Reassured, she scurried to the bar to fill the order for another table. George’s voice lifted, ‘I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair—’ Somewhere in the crowd a drunken voice was raised in conversation, and was furiously hissed to silence. ‘I see her tripping where the bright streams play—’ Kitty stood for a moment, watching and listening, half-smiling, the music filling her mind, lighting and warming her unhappy soul like sunshine on a winter’s day. ‘Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour—’

  A long, claw-like hand gripped her arm painfully. ‘What in ’ell’s name d’yer think you’re doin’, Madam?’ Midge’s low voice grated with fury. ‘There’s empty bottles on Mr Smith’s table! Get on over there!’

  ‘But – Lottie’s there—’

  ‘Lottie’s with Luke ternight. Get going.’

  Panic-stricken, she stumbled through the crowd to the table where a scowling Moses awaited her, pudgy fingers beating an ominous tattoo on the table top. ‘And about time too. More champagne.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’ With barely a glance at the other occupants of the table, but hotly aware of Lottie’s maliciously amused eyes upon her, she turned and nearly tripped down the step, saving herself awkwardly. Lottie laughed, very softly, very spitefully. The applause for George had died, and he stood clearing his throat for his next song.

  ‘I haven’t seen that one before.’ A light, pleasant voice, idly conversational. ‘New?’

  ‘New and stupid,’ Moses said, sourly, and Kitty knew that the words were for her. The other man laughed, and Lottie’s laughter chimed with his.

  She all but ran to the kitchen. ‘Champagne for Mr Smith!’ A few moments later, two unopened bottles balanced precariously upon a tarnished silver-gilt tray, she wove her way carefully back to the table.

  George was in good voice. Now, with feeling and enormous volume he was inviting Maud to come into the garden. Kitty hovered nervously at Moses’ shoulder with the champagne. He was watching the singer, a benign smile upon his face. He clicked his fingers impatiently at Kitty, not looking at her. ‘Open it.’

  The heavy green bottles shook, very slightly, on the tray. Kitty had never in her life opened a bottle of champagne. ‘I—’

  ‘Allow me.’ A long dark hand reached and wrapped itself about the neck of one of the bottles. ‘One of my very few real talents.’

  She found herself looking into a pair of narrow eyes, night-black and fringed with a tangle of dark lashes that almost obscured the mocking gleam beneath them. Almost, but not quite. Kitty stiffened, hearing the echo of his unkind laughter, an odd spurt of antagonism spurring temper. She put the tray with the other bottle on it firmly upon the table. Too firmly. Moses glanced at her, frowning. Lottie smiled. The dark eyes mocked further. The only other person at the table – a tiny, wizened man with a face wrinkled as a walnut who sat a little distance removed – noticed nothing. His eyes were fixed on the champagne bottle as they might be on his hope of heaven.

  ‘That will do, Kitty. But watch, next time. I am not used to waiting for service in my own establishment.’ The silky voice always seemed to Kitty just half a note from threat.

  ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’

  ‘And try not to fall down the step.’ The voice was falsely solicitous, as were the narrow eyes. This, Kitty suddenly knew, was Luke Peveral. With no further ado, mentally she ranged herself with Pol.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, as coolly as she dared, and was rewarded by the quick flash of surprise that crossed a face as dark as a gypsy’s, and hawk-nosed. To be honest she could not deny his attraction. The man’s impact was almost physical.

  Amos chuckled at her shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  He sensed her antagonism, and it amused him. Lottie, on the other hand, had suddenly ceased to be amused. She had stilled, ice-cold and wary, watching.

  Composedly Kitty walked away from them. Biddy, Matt’s light o’ love, tripped past with a jug of rum and a couple of mugs. None too gently, Kitty caught at her arm. ‘Do me a favour?’

  Biddy cocked a suspicious eye. She was under no misapprehension at all as to Matt’s sis
ter’s opinion of her. ‘What?’

  ‘Take over these tables – the ones in the corner and the big one? I’ll—’ She had been about to offer a bribe. In time, at the expression on the sharp-featured little face, she stopped.

  ‘Luke Peveral’s table? Gawd, not ’alf. ’Ere’ – she shoved the jug and mugs into Kitty’s hands – ‘these are for the Jack Tars over there. Watch ’em, they’re all ’ands—’ and Biddy was off, patting her hair and smoothing her bright, swinging skirt over her hips like a girl who had just sighted her lover.

  Kitty served the seamen, deflected their drunken amorous advances, and busied herself with the other customers. On stage now Potty Masters was aiming his act almost exclusively at the group about Moses’ table, his swift patter a dextrous mixture of sly ingratiation and acid-sharp humour. In this vein he could not be bettered. He had, Kitty knew, consumed the best part of a bottle of gin in the half-hour before taking to the boards, and his performance was correspondingly good; one day, she thought, he’ll fall off that stage and break his neck, and laughter will be his epitaph. Luke was smiling at Potty’s story of a gentleman cracksman who met his match at the hands of one of the more unscrupulous of the fair sex. Kitty found herself studying him. He was, she judged, about thirty years old, tall and leanly built, his skin dark, his thick, longish hair black as the berries she remembered from the autumn hedges of Suffolk. Unusually, at a time when beards and moustaches were fashionable and prevalent, he was clean shaven, but long dark sideburns sharpened an uncompromising line of jaw. He sat easily, his body relaxed to utter stillness, long hands resting unmoving on the table. At that moment, as if sensing her regard, he turned his head, swiftly. The narrow, guarded eyes were shielded by dark, lowered lids and tangled lashes, but he smiled, amused and mocking, to catch her eyes upon him. Furious with herself she turned quickly away.

  ‘Pint o’ porter, love, please. A man’d die o’ thirst around ’ere an’ no one any the wiser.’