Rosie Hogarth

by Alexander Baron

  “We could trust him.”

  “I say, no. He’d tell his girl, she’d tell her mother, and her mother would tell the whole street. No, no, no, no! Our mum didn’t keep her secrets for us to advertise them. And as for myself, I’m not a free agent, and you know it.”

  “But he’s like our brother.”

  “Not mine!”

  Nancy shrugged her shoulders. “All right, dear. I won’t argue if it’s no use.”

  Rose put an arm round her sister’s shoulders. “Come again, dear. I feel so good when you’re here. It’s the only time I can relax.”

  “You come round to us. This Sunday. Make a day of it.”

  Rose made a tired gesture. “I don’t know. I’m so busy. There’s one thing after another. I’d love to, though. It’s so nice with you, and Tom, and playing with the baby. It’s like another world. I’ll try to come one Sunday another week, dear. I’ll let you know beforehand.” She accompanied Nancy down to the street, put her, despite her objections, into a cab, held her in a long parting embrace, and gave the driver a ten-shilling note for his fare.

  Chapter Seven

  “Girls!” The proprietress of Madame Sophie’s Salon stood at the foot of a dingy staircase and screamed, “Come down and look at the bride!”

  The Salon, where Joyce worked, was in a side street off Tottenham Court Road. Geographically, at least, her mother’s description of her as ‘a West End saleslady’ was therefore accurate. Madame Sophie and Joyce looked after the shop. In the workroom above, Maureen reigned as ‘forelady’ over half-a-dozen pallid young girls. A Maltese family of seven occupied the second floor. Of the two rooms on the top floor, one was tenanted by an elderly waiter who rarely appeared during the girls’ working hours, the other by a genial middle-aged prostitute whom everybody called Black Bess, and who usually, when she rose at three in the afternoon, came downstairs for a chat and a cup of tea with the girls before beginning her comings and goings.

  The girls ceased the shrill, jerky chant in which they had been informing the world that “If a man could do continually, what he only does spasmodically, A man could be, indubitably, A wonderful, wonderful thing.” A noise broke loose upon the stairway as if a flock of escaped parrots had caused a panic among a troupe of drunken tap-dancers and Madame Sophie, who had returned to the fitting-room, said complacently, “Ah, here they come.”

  It was the day after Jack’s visit to the hospital. Joyce was in the tiny fitting-room behind the shop, having the third and penultimate fitting of her wedding dress. She stood in the electric glare before a tall mirror while Maureen assembled strips of white satin and puffs of tulle, pinning them about her until they took on the shape of the wedding dress.

  The girls pushed into the room and crowded the doorway, uttering oohs and aahs of ecstasy. Joyce bridled with pride, turning back her hands and looking at the extended fingertips. One of the girls ran upstairs calling, “Bess! Bess! Maddalena! Come down and see the bride!”

  “Oh!” Madame Sophie struck her breast with both fists. “A beauty! A duchess! So lovely! Such a figure! Pull your belly in, young lady.” She beamed at the girls. “An artist our Maureen is, on my life! A nice broad flounce there, and no-one will see the belly!” Madame Sophie, swarthy, frizzy-haired and adorned with many bangles, looked like a fat old white-slaver, but although she was a merciless business woman she was a kindly employer, and had given Maureen time off to work on the dress.

  Maureen, who loved making dresses more than anything else in life, spent not only part of her daily time but most of her evenings working on the dress. It was like a dream materialised to her. Its forty yards of tulle were covered with flower patterns of mother-of-pearl sequins — “Fourteen thousand,” she muttered through a mouthful of pins, “and don’t ask me how I know, ’cause I sewed ’em all on by hand, every one of ’em. Stop fidgeting!” Her whole family watched with pride the progress of the dress. Every evening she talked to them passionately about it for hours. She had bought her boyfriend an enormous jigsaw puzzle to keep him occupied till the dress was finished. It was less for Joyce’s sake than for her own that she looked forward to the wedding day. Her work of art would be on exhibition, and she had already invited a large contingent of her friends to the church to see it.

  Maddalena, a shrivelled little Maltese woman, wriggled in through the crush, clutching her latest baby to her. Bess followed, ushering two more of Maddalena’s young. “There y’are,” she said to them, “look at the pretty lady! Ain’t she pretty? Now then, keep your jammy hands off, or you won’t get your pennies from Auntie Bess.” She smiled at Joyce. “Bless you, girl! You know what I wish you!” Maddalena screwed up her face and began to cry, rocking her baby violently against her breast. “Gawd!” she blubbered. “Like a poor-a leetle lamb! Jesu- Giusepp’-e-Mari’! He lucky the bugger he get a girl like that, ain’ ’e?”

  A fifteen-year-old workgirl began to sniffle in sympathy. “I always cry when I see brides,” she sobbed, “I can’t help it!”

  “Lucky’s the word, all right,” Bess declared. She looked commandingly about her and boomed into the wailing and chattering that filled the little room, “Look what they get for seven-and-sixpence! And they don’t appreciate it, none of ’em!”

  “Lucky?” Madame Sophie screamed. “I should say so! Look at that backside! Look at that bosom! A bargain he’s getting! Two for the price of one!”

  “I’m not fat,”Joyce protested.

  “Fat?” Sophie screeched. “Who says fat? Did I say fat? Did anybody hear me say fat? Is a swan fat? Is a firm red apple fat? Is a nice horse fat? Handsome, you are! Handsome!”

  “Don’t you fret, girl,” Bess added loudly, “They like a nice arse. Mine’s money in the bank to me.”

  Joyce looked down modestly and murmured, in friendly disapproval, “Oh, you are vulgar, Bess!”

  Maureen went on working absorbedly, taking no notice of the commotion. “Keep still!” She smacked Joyce’s hand. “Leave it alone! You can touch it when it’s yours.”

  “Ooh,” one of the girls moaned, “you do look lovely. I bet I’ve seen more brides than anyone. I’ve seen hundreds. Every week I go to see the brides. Miles I go sometimes. Two or three in a day, more than once. And you’re the prettiest.” She giggled. “I bet you ain’ ’alf excited. You excited, Joycie?”

  “Course not,” Joyce answered, looking haughty. She was madly excited. She was flushed and fuddled by the heat of the room. The gross praises of Bess and Sophie shocked and inflamed her. Her senses fed on the noisy adulation of the workgirls crowded around her, on the sight of Maddalena’s face worshippingly upturned, and on her awareness of Maureen kneeling at her feet. She posed proudly and felt supreme.

  “What’s he like?” a new girl squealed. The others, who had seen Jack’s photograph, broke out into a shrill babble of praise. Joy befogged Joyce’s mind and pressed down on her chest like a great weight. The thrilling inside her was so unbearable that she wondered how she would be able to live through the even greater excitement of her wedding day. “Is he like Gregory Peck?” the new girl asked.

  “No,” Joyce said, “he’s more the Spencer Tracy type.” She had spoken without thinking. The words were a flash of revelation to her. Of course, that was it! The Spencer Tracy type, stocky and reliable! They always went back to Spencer Tracy after the better-looking ones had been found wanting! How stupid she had been, always to look at him with a sinking heart! Now that she could see him as Spencer Tracy, all his deficiencies were magically transformed into merits. He was tough, he was silent, he was heroic! Her voice burst forth, “Oh, he’s wonderful! He was ever so brave in the war. He got all medals. They wanted him to be a captain, but he wouldn’t leave his pals. He knows ever so much. He’s ever so clever. He can’t half kiss” — she tried to swallow what felt like a chip of ice in her throat — “oh, you know, an’ all that. It makes you feel all, you know, oh” — she paused for breath again, and plunged on recklessly — “like all funny when he kisses
you. You want to faint.” She believed it. “And he doesn’t say a lot. He just, like, he just whispers all lovely things. And his hair’s all wavy and thick, and he’s so strong, he’s got great huge shoulders. He could make a fortune boxing, only I won’t let him. I said, ‘No,’ and he said, ‘All right, my love, your word will always be my law.’ He bought me this dress. I mean, what girl ever has a wedding dress like this? He’s got hundreds of pounds in the bank. Throws it about like water, he does. Of course, he can, he earns such a lot. He’s in a big firm, shopfitters, all men under him. He’s the boss’s right-hand man, he runs the place really. Oh, I mean, if you knew what he earned every week! Only I mustn’t tell you. He’d be cross.”

  She had withdrawn into herself. The gasps and broken cries of delight that filled the room when she stopped speaking, and the chatter that followed, meant nothing to her; and she had no eyes for anything but her own image in the mirror. Was this really Joyce Wakerell, this proud body smoothly sheathed in gleaming satin, veiled in clouds of gossamer tulle? In the last few weeks, as her marriage had crept nearer, a silent, secret madness had been born in her. Some mysterious climax of transformation had reversed her attitude to life. Bodily love, which she had thought of a year ago as the price of marriage, now appeared as its principal reward. She was more frightened than ever, but fright and eagerness had dissolved inseparably into the single beautiful torment that filled her day and night. She had tried to signal her feelings to Jack, and she felt dismayed and confused by his failure to respond. She knew that he wanted her, for had he not — she shivered at her own cowardice in having refused — previously entreated her to yield? She could only conclude that it was because he was a respectable chap. She was beside herself with curiosity about what lay ahead. She knew little about it, and she spent hours with Maureen whispering in frightened and eager surmise.

  Madame Sophie shepherded the girls back to their work. Maddalena followed with her smaller flock. Bess said, “Ah, well, duty calls,” and went off on her beat.

  When Sophie returned, Joyce said, “Oh, it’s no use, Soph, I can’t stay any more today. Let me go home early. Please, dear! I’m so excited, I’m afraid I’ll be sick.”

  Sophie agreed and Joyce hurried home, humming a song to herself. She wondered, on the way, if waiting was as hard for Jack as it was for her. She could not tell from his behaviour. He was affectionate but strangely docile and contented. She made a little grimace with her lower lip as she compared him with the picture she had painted to the girls. He was ceremoniously attentive to her, but he seemed lately to be living within himself, more quiet and thoughtful than she had thought it in his character to be. Perhaps it was the strain; or the weather. Perhaps she had offended him last weekend by shouting at Barmy. But she had apologised, and he had said that he understood. Brrr! That Barmy! Never mind! Good old Jack! She thought of his big shoulders and his ruddy, hard-hewn face. He respected her. Ah, well, he wouldn’t have to respect her when they were married, and then it would be all right!

  Jack would be home late this evening, for he was away on an outside job at Barnet, doing his first full day’s work of the week. She decided to surprise him by changing into one of her weekend dresses. He would come home tired and grimy, and she would be waiting for him, at her best. She would give him his supper, produce a bottle of his favourite brown ale, warm his towel and have his slippers ready. She would light a fire in the parlour and they would go there afterward, to sprawl on the sofa, warm and lazy in the glow. If she embraced him he must surely feel all that was throbbing in her. She felt as if fingernails were scratching at her insides. She wanted to run and skip in the streets, to lock her fingertips round a lamppost and swing at arms’ length. She squealed aloud with exaltation, and people looked at her. Self-conscious, she composed her face and walked home with prim, rapid steps.

  When she entered the house her mother said, “You’re early. What’s up? Aren’t you well?”

  “I’m O.K.,” Joyce answered gaily, “I had the most wonderful, glorious fitting. Oh, mum, the dress is the most marvellous thing on earth! You must come next time. The girls went mad. And I didn’t feel like doing any more, so Sophie let me off.”

  “Good, you’ll have time to wring out the washing. Here, where are you off to?”

  Joyce, whirling out through the door like a dancer going offstage, paused and half-sang, “Put the bath on. No wringing today.” She ran thunderously upstairs.

  “What’s come over the girl?” Mrs. Wakerell muttered. “First time she’s ever said no to me in her life.” She followed to the door and shouted, “There’s a letter come. In a big envelope. I put it on the front room table. It’s addressed to Jackie.”

  “I suppose it’s from the bank. He asked them for a statement of the account,” Joyce called, as she leaned over the bath. She was astonished at the ease with which she had refused to obey an order of her mother’s, rapturous at the discovery that her own individuality was strong enough to burst out of its chrysalis. Life was a wonderful sunlight in which to soar freely. She surrendered herself to the enervating warmth of the bath, sliding into a lucent world of overheated dream, released from her body yet voluptuously aware of it as the soft weight of the water pressed upon her flesh and, answering her languid movements, caressed her flanks with underwater eddies.

  When she emerged from the bath she felt as if her own hands and eyes were those of her lover. She wiped steam from the mirror and looked with pride at herself. It gave her pleasure to touch herself, to feel the rough bite of the towel, to shimmy into her dress, to roll her stockings up her legs, and to comb her hair. Her joy increased, and with it an icy fright at her joy that only made the joy itself more piquant. She finished her lingering labours with cream, powder, scent and lipstick, and surveyed the results with satisfaction.

  She returned to the kitchen. Her mother said, “What’s all this in aid off? Going in for a beauty contest?”

  Joyce laughed, poured a cup of tea for herself and entered into a detailed account of what had taken place at the fitting. When she had finished, she said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll dust the front room for you. It won’t make me untidy, and I’m using the room tonight, anyway.”

  She went into the front room, noticed the big buff envelope on the table, put her duster down and tore at the thick manila paper. She extracted a bundle of papers, and glanced respectfully at the heading, with the name of the bank and a coat of arms impressively printed in blue, above the words, “In account with JOHN AGASS, ESQ.” She felt flattered at handling so official and important-looking a document. She looked down the columns of figures, frowning and biting her lower lip as she failed to make sense of them, lost interest and stuffed the papers back into the envelope.

  As she did so, a bundle of used cheques slid from between the folded sheets and scattered to the floor. She stooped to pick them up, looking idly at them. One of them caught her eye. She straightened her back and stood looking at the cheque for a long time. Her face became blank and impassive, as it always was when she was struggling to think. Her heart began to beat violently, and she could feel the lower part of her face quivering. She put the cheque into the pocket of her apron, took out her handkerchief and wiped her nose carefully. She folded her arms and stood for a long time by the table, her breathing long and powerful, her face heavy and unrevealing except for the nervous flickering of her eyes and the lights of purpose and recollection that flared and disappeared in them, damped down by thought.

  She went upstairs, her step heavy and deliberative, entered Jack’s bedroom and searched through the drawers of his dressing-table. She scrutinised every piece of paper that she found, opened his cheque book and turned over the stubs. She sat at the dressing-table for a while, sucking her lips. Then she strode downstairs, put on an overall, swept past her astonished mother into the scullery and began to work the mangle thunderously.

  Mrs. Wakerell stood in the doorway staring at her daughter. Joyce, her head bowed, her lowered lids giv
ing her a blind, stubborn expression, ignored her mother’s questions and drove the big wheel of the mangle round and round. The intermittent rumble answered for her, a roar of challenge, keeping her mother’s voice from her. Joyce looked up to find that she was alone. There was a liquid glitter in her eyes which she wiped away with the back of her hand. She went on with her work, forcing thick wads of sodden clothing between the rollers as if punishing them, grunting with anger and effort as she threw her whole weight upon the wheel handle. She turned the wheel with tireless vigour, seeming to generate strength in herself instead of expending it. The wheel slowed. The rumbling ceased. Joyce leaned forward in thought, resting her chin on the knuckles of her two hands grasping the handle. She took the overall off, wiped her hands and went back to the parlour. As she passed through the kitchen her mother asked, “What was the letter? Anything important?” Joyce spoke for the first time. “For Jack. It’s nothing.”

  She wandered about the room, dusting the furniture. She noticed in the mirror that her hair and make-up were spoiled, and tidied herself. Then, leaving the door open, she sat by the table and waited. Her father came in from work. She twitched a smile of recognition in answer to his greeting, but did not speak or move. She sat as still as a spider in the web, giving no sign of her feelings except for her carefully-controlled breathing. Twenty minutes later Jack came in.

  “Hallo, duck,” he said, “Here, you do look a treat! Are you courting?”

  She permitted herself a slight smile.

  “What you sitting in there for, in the cold?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. She had forgotten to light the fire. She did not feel cold. She indicated the letter, and said quietly, “This came for you.”

  He came into the room and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She could not help lifting her face slightly to his kiss; otherwise she remained still, her hands in her lap.

  “You’re freezing cold, girl. Your cheek’s like marble.”