Rose arrived home and, noticing none of the defects, let herself into the narrow hallway. She was greeted by the familiar sound of a dripping tap in the scullery, her father’s snoring and the stale smell of fried onions mixed with damp wallpaper and dust. She tossed her shoes on to a chair in the front room and found her father asleep in the ancient rocking chair in the living room – the chair that had once belonged to Annie, his wife, but which he had now claimed as his.
Alan Paton was small and thin and Annie had often compared him to a whippet. She had cast her daughter as a curly white poodle and herself as an overweight spaniel. She had been dead for nearly two years but Rose still missed her and so did Alan but somehow they muddled on without her and Rose did her best to keep her father cheerful. He had been forcibly retired from his job as a docker after an accident had damaged his hip and rendered him unable to perform the heavy lifting work. He had partially recovered from the accident but was now forced to earn when and where he could which currently meant a few hours each week behind the bar of The White Horse, pulling pints and earning a pittance for his efforts.
This, with his occasional win on the horses, plus the money Rose earned with her singing, and occasional ironing, was all they had to live on but she had learned frugal ways from her mother. They fancied themselves a little better off than some of their neighbours since they had rarely been forced to rely on the pawnbroker and had so far managed to keep the bailiffs at bay.
Her father’s mouth was open and he was snoring and Rose let him sleep on while she searched the cupboard for something to make into a sandwich for their late supper. Slicing thin Cheddar cheese and spreading pickles, she made a pot of tea and finally woke him.
‘So how’d it go, Rosie?’ he asked automatically, already anticipating her usual answer – a reluctant ‘Fine, Pa’ followed by a few small grumbles.
‘Fine, Pa.’ Settling herself on the floor beside his chair she demanded, ‘Guess what?’
‘No idea.’
‘Take a guess, Pa.’
He shook his head, still heavy with sleep. ‘I give up!’ and took a bite of the sandwich she had thrust into his hand.
‘Take a guess!’ She glared at him, determined to make the most of her dramatic news.
‘You saw the man in the moon!’ He chuckled at his own joke.
‘Pa! You always say that!’ She turned to look up at him, her eyes shining. ‘This posh bloke was waiting for me outside the stage door and he’s asked me to go to this posh place in Kensington and sing for his daughter’s party because she’s ill and can’t get out and about. He’s going to pay me half a guinea for my trouble and I can have some of the food and stuff so I’ll try and smuggle something out for you.’ Elated by his gasp of surprise, Rose also bit into the cheese and pickle.
‘Half a guinea? You’re pulling my leg, girl! No one’s going to—’
‘But he said he would and he gave me this.’ She handed him the card. ‘Marcus Bennley. That’s what it says and that’s his name.’
‘Michael Bennley?’
‘Marcus, not Michael.’
Alan had never been any good at reading and he was thoroughly confused by the small print. ‘If you say so, Rosie, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I mean, half a guinea for a few songs and you’re not even famous. You’re not even nearly famous. I mean of course you’re good but you only sing in a public house, not a real theatre or a music hall.’
‘But I will, Pa. I’m not famous yet, I grant you, but I’m only young.’
‘That’s as may be but believe you me, Rosie, there’s some very dodgy men around and this one luring you with money sounds fishy. You want to watch it. That’s my advice.’ He took another bite and chewed noisily. He was coming round from his doze and now looked marginally more alive than dead. ‘Give it a bit more thought, Rosie.’
‘There’s nothing to think about! It’s an offer of work and . . . and it might get me some more private work. Don’t you want me to earn a half guinea?’
‘Depends how you earn it.’
She should have known, she thought irritably, half convinced by his argument. Whoever would believe that someone would promise someone like her half a guinea? That was two weeks’ wages for some men. But Mr Bennley had promised it. She had the card to prove it. But on the other hand a man could say anything and not really mean it. The first real doubt slithered into her mind.
Her father said, ‘Any more where that came from?’ meaning the sandwich.
Rose shook her head. ‘But we’ll be eating cake next week, Pa!’ If Mr Bennley was genuine. ‘He sounds genuine. He’s sending a taxi to collect me and take me to the house.’
Still unhappy about the offer, he shook his head. ‘A taxi could take you anywhere, Rosie. You just watch out.’
Finishing her sandwich, she washed it down with the tea, but the harsh realities of life were beginning to depress her. Maybe her father was right and she had been taken for a mug. She knew the sort of things that went on in London. A pretty girl could be sold into slavery and smuggled out to far-off countries and never seen again. She didn’t want to be one of them.
She thought back to the moment she met him. ‘PC Stump was there, Pa. I mean, he wouldn’t dare say all that in front of a policeman, would he, if he wasn’t genuine, because if I disappeared PC Stump would remember him and he’d describe him to the detectives and they’d catch him.’
‘Wouldn’t do you much good, though, would it, if you was already stowed in the hold of a ship on the high seas or buried six feet under? Bit late for you then.’
Frowning, Rose tried to recall exactly what had happened outside the back door of The White Horse. The truth was, she realized with a jolt, that PC Stump had not heard Mr Bennley’s offer because she had asked him to move on and give them some privacy. How stupid she had been! All the constable could do was describe the man and Bennley would deny everything.
Climbing to her feet, she collected her father’s empty mug and took it, with her own, into the scullery to rinse them under the tap.
‘You stupid girl!’ she told herself crossly. It was vanity. Pure vanity, to believe that anyone thought she was worth half a guinea to dress up in a frilly little number, rouge her cheeks, redden her lips and sing a few songs. Serve her right. She had got her comeuppance! Coming to an instant decision, Rose marched back into the living room. ‘That’s it then, Pa. I’m not going. I don’t want his money. When the taxi comes I’ll send it back and say I’ve changed my mind . . . Or you can go out and tell the taxi driver I’m ill.’
Instead of being pleased, however, Alan now regarded her doubtfully. ‘Shouldn’t you let him know? He’ll be promising his daughter this lovely surprise and then she’ll be disappointed and everything.’
Rose groaned. ‘What, write him a letter? Oh Lord!’
‘Why not? You can write good enough and you’ve got the address on that bit of card. Tell you what – write that your pa won’t let you go. That’ll put an end to it.’
She nodded reluctantly, wishing that she had never met the wretched man and had never heard about his sick sister. ‘First thing in the morning,’ she promised and made her way upstairs to bed.
The first down to breakfast next morning in Victoria House in Belview Road was twenty-year-old Steven Bennley, who helped himself to eggs and bacon from the sideboard and sat in his usual seat facing the large windows and staring straight into the luxuriant leaves of the aspidistra which stood alone on a small highly polished table. He wore a loose fitting shirt tucked into his trousers and his feet were bare.
Steven pushed the food into his mouth without enjoying it because he had matters to worry about which weighed on his spirits. He had looked forward to the thought of leaving school and becoming independent but he was now realizing that having a good time meant having money to spend. Like his brother and two sisters, he received a small income from the money his grandparents had left them, but for Steven it was proving woefully inadequate.
H
alfway through his meal he was joined by his older brother Marcus who nodded in his direction but didn’t speak. While he helped himself to porridge and cream Steven watched him.
‘You were late back last night, Marcus,’ he said at last. ‘I heard you come in. Out with a young lady, were you?’ He grinned.
‘I was, actually. In a way.’ He sat down, poured himself a cup of tea, and Steven passed the sugar bowl.
‘You were?’
‘Yes.’
A woman appeared in the doorway and said, ‘Two pigs at the trough!’ Letitia was twenty-five, two years younger than Marcus – dark-haired with a permanently anxious expression.
Marcus ignored her.
Steven scowled. ‘Good morning, Letitia. Charming as ever!’
She sat down and poured herself a cup of tea but made no attempt to eat. ‘Doesn’t anyone want to know how the tennis match went yesterday?’
Steven put his knife and fork together and pushed his plate away. ‘No we don’t but I expect you’ll tell us.’
Her expression changed. ‘I was Bernard’s partner and we won!’ She glanced at Marcus.
‘Well done.’ He gave her a brief smile.
‘Then we picnicked on their lawn – champagne, cold lobster, everything perfect. The da Silvas really know how to entertain.’
Casually Steven asked, ‘Was Janetta there?’
‘Yes she was. She came with her friend Jack. They seemed very close.’ She turned to him. ‘If you hadn’t been such a boor last time, you might have been included. Then you’d have seen Janetta again. It’s your own fault.’
‘And if you weren’t such a spiteful cat you wouldn’t remind me! I got a bit tiddly, that’s all.’ He raked his fingers through his smooth blond hair. ‘It’s not a crime, for God’s sake!’
Steven’s handsome face was spoilt by his expression and Letitia gloated. ‘I must say she looked relieved when they said you hadn’t been invited. And of course you’re not much good at tennis, are you? You don’t take it seriously. I keep telling you it’s not a game, it’s a sport.’
‘I can play a decent game when I’m in the mood. Not that it’s a patch on cricket. That’s a game with some depth requiring hand to eye coordination, not to mention team spirit and a certain style. Anyone can hit a ball over a net.’
‘Except you, obviously!’
Growing tired of the exchange, Marcus said, ‘I’ve invited someone to Marie’s party. It’s a surprise for her.’
They stopped sniping and stared at him.
Letitia said, ‘You’ve done what?’
He went on, ‘She sings. Popular ballads. Rosie Lamore. That’s her name.’
Steven laughed. ‘L’amour as in ‘love’? She sounds more like a harlot than a singer!’
‘Well she’s not a harlot!’
‘You’d recognize one, would you, Marcus?’
Letitia’s mouth tightened disapprovingly. ‘Who said you could invite her, Marcus?’
‘I don’t see a need to ask permission. To make it simple – Rosie Lamore and her songs are my birthday present to Marie.’
There was a stunned silence.
Steven said, ‘But who . . . that is, how did you discover this Lamore woman?’
‘I heard a man talking about her on the train last week and asked him for details. He said how good she was and lively . . . and funny. “A breath of fresh air!” That’s how he described her.’
‘Oh my God!’ Steven rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve always thought you were a little mad but now I’m certain of it! Asking her here because of some Herbert you met on a train!’
Steven and Letitia exchanged worried glances. Marcus closeted in the study working, busy with his stage designs, was one thing. That they understood. He was talented and he earned reasonable money with which to supplement his small income. They were used to their brother’s hermit-like existence. Shy, awkward Marcus taking the initiative like this was a new phenomenon.
Steven recovered first. ‘So you wrote to her – is that it?’
‘No. I waited for her outside The White Horse in Stoke Newington. I asked and she said “Yes”. She’s very pretty and cheerful – and while we were talking a boy stole my wallet. I had to report it at the police station.’
‘Ah! So that’s why you were late home!’ Steven felt vaguely relieved. His brother had reverted to type, he thought. Being robbed of his wallet was much more in character.
Marcus nodded.
Letitia also rallied. Too late to protest, she decided – it was a fait accompli. Not that she wanted to object. In fact, she wished she had thought of the idea. Marie would be delighted. She smiled grudgingly at her brother. ‘Well done, Marcus!’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Steven asked how much he had lost with the theft of his wallet.
‘Three pounds, eleven shillings and threepence. It doesn’t matter.’ Marcus shrugged.
His brother frowned. ‘What do you know about this person, Marcus? She could be anyone. She could be a fraud. I hope you haven’t given her any money in advance.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘I bet you’ve overpaid her!’
‘That’s my business.’
‘I bet you’ve given her the fare.’
‘No. I shall fetch her by taxi and I shall tell Marie she’s coming because that way she will have something to look forward to as well as enjoying the actual performance.’
‘How is she getting home?’ Letitia asked. ‘It will be late by the time the party ends. Sure to be past midnight.’
Disconcerted, it was Marcus’s turn to frown. ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘At a pinch she could sleep in the spare bedroom, couldn’t she?’
‘I suppose so. You’ll have to ask Mrs Bray to make up the bed for her.’ Letitia turned to Steven and gave him a challenging look. ‘And you mustn’t spoil it by getting drunk.’
‘Get drunk? Me? As if I would do anything to let the side down! Let’s hope you don’t get drunk! That would be a shock for poor Bernard!’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ She rolled her eyes despairingly. ‘What are you giving Marie for her birthday?’
‘I . . . I haven’t quite made up my mind but I haven’t forgotten it.’ Guiltily Steven avoided her gaze.
She pounced triumphantly. ‘You fibber! You haven’t done anything about it because you only ever think about yourself!’
‘So? What have you done that’s so wonderful?’
‘I’ve invited four people from the tennis club because—’
‘Oh no!’ he cried, wrinkling his face with exaggerated dismay. ‘Not that toffee-nosed set! Why bring them into it?’
Letitia flushed. Her younger brother never missed an opportunity to tease her about her aspirations. Her engagement to Bernard da Silva, whose family connections placed them a little higher on the social scale, was a source of fierce pride to her. Ignoring the jibe she went on. ‘Because it mustn’t be just any old party. Not just the family. Bernard is coming, naturally. He’s bringing her an enormous box of chocolate violets which she adores and a bottle of champagne!’ Her smile returned. ‘His mother says a woman cannot drink too much champagne! It soothes the nerves and brightens the complexion.’
Steven spluttered with laughter. ‘Brightens the complexion? Has she got a red nose, this da Silva woman?’
Letitia gave him a withering look. ‘D’you know, Steven, I sometimes feel that you left school too early. You’re twenty but so immature! So depressingly gauche. No wonder Janetta isn’t interested in you. She doesn’t appreciate schoolboy humour. Jack is a year younger than you but much more sophisticated.’ While he struggled for a suitable reply, and failed, Letitia turned back to Marcus. ‘This time it has to be a real party with a special cake – Mrs Bray has made one and just has to decorate it . . . And dancing – Mrs Bray’s cousin is going to play for us.’
Steven frowned. ‘Will Marie be able to dance? She’s very weak.’
Marcus said, ‘I’ll carr
y her round – she’s as light as a feather. We’ll manage.’
Letitia ignored the interruption. ‘Marie must have real guests. Your singer will count as a guest, Marcus, and Mrs Bray’s daughter Cicely can come. Cicely’s about the same age as Marie so they’ll have lots in common . . . and Cicely can bring a friend. Marie must have a wonderful time. Something she can always remember and . . . oh!’ She clasped a hand over her mouth and regarded the others unhappily, stricken by the slip. Because they all knew the doctor’s verdict. Marie would have such a short time to live – such a very short time to remember anything at all.
That same day, Rose watched her father wipe his plate with what was left of his bread, and knew exactly what he would say.
He swallowed it, sat back and patted his stomach. ‘That’s better!’
Rose collected the plates and piled them in the sink. Sausage and mashed potatoes. Alan Paton loved them. He also loved ‘a bit of haddock’, a meat pie, mutton stew and shepherd’s pie. He didn’t like anything green such as cabbage, or what he called ‘fiddling things’ like peas or beans. So whatever he had was accompanied by mashed potatoes. It made life easier for Rose who had no complaints about their unimaginative diet.
Sundays they followed a familiar routine – Yorkshire pudding with gravy, meat and potatoes followed by Yorkshire pudding with jam. Unless it was a special occasion when she made a rice pudding and then they took turns to scrape the dish for the crispy bits along the rim. Rosie told herself that when, if, she ever married and left him alone he could manage not to starve. The pie man would call twice a week, the fish man once, and for a few pence, the lady next door would bring him a dinner.
Not that Rose had any immediate plans to marry for the simple reason that, although she had plenty of admirers, she had set her heart on a singing career and fancied becoming a success on the London stage. This was going to take up all her energies and there would be no time for a husband or a child. Eventually, of course, she would be wooed by someone exciting and the newspapers would be fighting for details of the romance.
The Birthday Present Page 2