Her father glanced up. ‘So you’ve written this letter, have you? To this Michael Bennley? Best let me see it.’
‘Why?’ She laughed good-naturedly. ‘You can’t spell for toffee, Pa. You know you can’t. You tell everyone that spelling’s a waste of time and effort.’ She ran the cold tap and rubbed at the plates with a cloth, then did the same with the cutlery, the saucepan and lastly the frying pan. ‘And it’s Marcus, not Michael.’
‘What does it matter if you’re not going?’
In fact, Rose had not written the letter and she didn’t know why. Every time she thought about the lost opportunity, her mind rebelled. She wanted to go ahead but she knew her father had a point. Climbing into a taxi with a strange man was risky. And Mr Bennley was slightly odd. In a decent man that would be acceptable but in a stranger, being odd was not. It increased the chances of him being ‘a wrong ’un’.
Her father had closed his eyes and was already preparing to doze off. An unlovely sight, she thought as she spread two worn blankets on the table and added a worn sheet. The irons were heating in front of the fire and it was already stifling hot in the small living room. To one side, high up, there was a water tank. There were four upright chairs and a sofa which sometimes acted as an extra bed. At the moment it supported a wooden tub full of Mrs Braithwaite’s laundry – two sheets, two pillowslips, a shirt, a pair of trousers, a blouse, a skirt, a pair of pyjamas, a sprigged nightdress and a wrap-around pinafore. Mrs Braithwaite lived in the end house of the terrace and her husband had a job with the railway which meant she could afford, from time to time, to have her washing ironed. It also allowed her to put on airs and graces.
Rose folded the first sheet to make ironing it easier and took up the first flat iron. As she ironed, she tried to decide what she would write to Mr Bennley and how she would spell the words.
‘Dear Sir, I have chainged my mind . . .’
No, that was no good. She would invent a better reason.
‘Dear Sir, I canot come to your sisters party because . . . my father has taken a turn for the wurst . . .’
But she hadn’t told Mr Bennley that her father was ill and he would smell a rat – not that it mattered if she was never going to see him again.
Alan Paton began to snore and Rose began to feel hard done to. Why couldn’t she go to the party and earn herself half a guinea? It was unfair of Pa to expect her to give up such a chance. A party with food and drink. There might be champagne. And she looked so pretty in her costume. And they would all admire her singing and the men might wink at her. She would probably be the star of the evening and Marie would be dazzled by her.
Rose finished the first sheet and prepared the second and the idea came to her out of the blue. She would write the letter but she wouldn’t actually post it and her father would never know. Rose would tell him it must have got lost in the post . . . and then the taxi would arrive and her father would have to give in. She would have her costume ready, of course, and off they would go. Afterwards, when she arrived home safe and sound, she would buy her father some tobacco for his pipe and maybe a big bag of pear drops, which he loved.
Later that afternoon the letter was finished and her father made her read it out.
Rose cleared her throat.
Dear Sir, My father has been taken very poorly and I fear a chainge for the wurst. So I canot come to your party and am very sorry. Yours faithfully Miss Rosie Lamore. Pee Ess. I hope you have a lovely time.
He frowned. ‘Pee Ess? What’s all that?’
‘I don’t really know but it’s when you think of something you’ve forgotten.’
‘Well, you’ve done that letter a treat, Rosie. Now get off to the pillar box before it’s too late.’
Dutifully she hurried off but as soon as she was out of sight of home she tore both letter and envelope into shreds and dropped them into the first dustbin she came to.
On her way back she was shocked to discover that her conscience was not pricking her and she thought that promising.
Half an hour after Rose had left for her Saturday night spot at The White Horse, there were three slow knocks on the door of number twenty-three Albert Street and Alan struggled to his feet and limped along the passage to open the door.
Through the letterbox a voice said, ‘It’s me, Baby.’
Alan nodded. He already knew who it would be – his friend Baby Price. He was small and shapeless with a large beer belly and today bulging pockets added to his ungainly bulk. Rose had often wondered how he managed to balance on his small feet. According to the laws of gravity, she thought, he should keep toppling over.
‘Is Rose in?’ Baby asked cautiously.
‘No. She’s off singing, bless her. Come on in, Baby!’ said Alan. ‘And scrape the mud off your shoes. Last time I got it in the ear from Rose for the mess you traipsed in.’
His visitor obeyed, then wiped his shabby shoes with exaggerated care on the worn mat before following Alan along the hall and into the living room. He lowered himself carefully on to a hard-backed chair and waited. Despite the limp, Alan then climbed on a chair to retrieve the rolled up sack which he kept hidden on top of the water tank where his daughter would never notice it.
‘Got much?’ Alan asked. The usual question.
Baby shook his head mournfully. His round, cherubic face and innocent blue eyes had earned him the nickname which made it hard for strangers to believe anything bad about him. Alan – his friend and erstwhile accomplice in a large number of burglaries – watched as Baby emptied his jacket pockets, setting each object on the table with an unhappy shake of his head.
‘Wallet – not half bad,’ he said, ‘but the ruddy thing’s got initials on it . . . pearl earrings left behind in a pub . . . a couple of silver tea spoons, don’t ask . . .’ He grinned as he produced a ring, set with a delicate opal. ‘Old Chalky, remember him? This is his wife’s, no less! He said she was always losing it, so now she’s lost it for good! Poor cow’s probably looking everywhere for the damned thing!’
Both men laughed while Baby felt in his trouser pocket and produced the last item – a silver snuff box decorated with gold leaf. ‘Know that big house at the end of Elm Tree Avenue? We done it once before a few years back.’
Alan nodded, turning the box over in his hands. Of course he remembered. He remembered every job he’d ever done. ‘Number thirty-one, Elm Tree Avenue . . . that was a piece of cake!’ He smiled wistfully. He’d got in through a back window and let Baby in at the back door. No way the fat Baby could ever get through a window! They’d done well from that house – candlesticks, a miniature, several leather-bound books and a clock. In and out in less than ten minutes! They were good together, him and Baby. No doubt about that, until the missus got wind of their antics and put her foot down. Women! Not that it stopped them but it cramped their style . . . and then they were nicked and that was it. Alan sighed as he ran his fingers over the carefully wrought design. A lovely snuff box. Worth a bit, that was.
Now Baby worked alone. Had to force the locks. Didn’t trust anyone else. Still it was a partnership in one way. Baby did the thieving and Alan hid the stuff for him until it was safe to sell on. Hopefully, once Rose was fixed up with a bloke, Alan could get back to work.
Baby said, ‘I done the place again. Reckoned they wouldn’t expect a return visit!’ He laughed. ‘I bet that took the smile off the colonel’s face!’
Colonel Brian Fossett, recently returned to civilian life after a successful career fighting on several fronts and being decorated twice for gallantry. Alan and Baby called him ‘The Big Cheese’. Alan recalled the fuss the colonel had made after the first robbery and the way the police had rallied their resources because Colonel Fossett’s brother was a magistrate. Not that they’d caught anyone.
Alan grinned. Exciting times! He caught Baby’s eyes and the fat man shook his head.
‘It’s not the same without you, Al.’
‘Don’t I know it!’ Carefully he placed the new st
uff in the sack and rolled it up, climbed up and, balancing precariously on the armchair, returned it to its hiding place.
Baby slipped a couple of notes into his hand. ‘There you are! Two quid.’
‘Thanks.’ His share was 20 per cent and he was worth it. If suspicion ever fell on Baby, which it sometimes did, the police could search his digs and find nothing incriminating. Alan trusted Baby. He had to.
‘You’re welcome.’
Alan would tell Rose the usual story about the win on the gee-gees. He didn’t know if she believed him but she didn’t ask any awkward questions so he was prepared to let sleeping dogs lie.
Baby heaved himself to his feet. ‘Coming for a pint?’
‘Not arf!’
‘The Queen’s Head?’
‘Anywhere but The White bloomin’ Horse!’
Two
Monday night was always dull at The White Horse but Rose fancied that those who did turn up came because they wanted to hear her sing. Basically it was a public house which wanted to be something more – something closer to the supper rooms which provided entertainment with their meals. The White Horse, however, did not serve food but did offer the occasional entertainment. This took place on a small dais situated in one corner of the room and entirely lacking in drapes, lights or any kind of decoration. Alongside it was a piano in need of tuning, and much of the so-called entertainment took place to a background of chatter and laughter from a mainly indifferent audience.
Rose, however, chose to imagine that her songs brought a little spark of gaiety and a touch of glamour to the evening. The comedian and the monologue man only appeared on Fridays, Saturdays and Bank Holidays. Rose did Mondays as well but, unlike the rest of the days, she wasn’t paid for her ten-minute spot, relying on the tips she collected in her frilly pink purse as she made her round of the customers, smiling brightly, after each performance.
As she waited beside the improvised stage she held her new parasol – white silk with a pink fringe – which was intended to add atmosphere to the new song she had written. She was afraid to sing some of the better known songs from the music hall because she feared the comparisons the audience might make. Instead she wrote her own songs and dreamed up a tune to go with each new ditty. The latest was entitled ‘Keep Away The Freckles’.
Keep away the freckles, darlings,
Keep them right away!
Use your parasols, my darlings,
On the hottest day.
Gents like pale princesses, darlings,
White as curds and whey
So keep away the freckles, darling,
That’s the only way!
It might never catch on, she knew, because it wasn’t really saucy like some of the popular songs but it gave Rose the chance to peep coquettishly from beneath the pink fringe which she had discovered flattered her enormously. She had also invented a mime to accompany the song. She began with the rolled up parasol hooked over her arm, then glanced up at the non-existent sky. Opening up the parasol, she fanned herself with her left hand to indicate the heat of the day. For the second half of the song she tripped daintily across the tiny ‘stage’ and pointed to her pale complexion, then ended by twirling the parasol coquettishly while she spun round so that her skirt flared out to reveal her legs.
There was no written music for the song but she had hummed the tune to young Harry, the pianist, and he liked it and soon picked it up.
Now she kept her eye on Harry and when he nodded she stepped forward and he played a short but boisterous introduction which alerted the customers that she was on stage and about to perform. One or two people turned from the bar to watch her, others continued their conversations.
Rosie’s voice was not strong but it was sweet and she sang at the top of her voice. Harry had urged her to ‘Belt it out!’ and she was grateful for his advice.
Gratified, she saw that a few people were actually listening and nodding in time to the music. An elderly woman was tapping her foot and a small mongrel dog leaped to its feet and began to bark excitedly. When she sang it through for the second time Harry sang with her and by the time she came to the end and peeped out from under the pink fringe she earned a short round of applause for her efforts.
Harry stood up and said loudly, ‘Words and music by Miss Rosie Lamore!’ and there was a half-hearted cheer and a red-nosed regular cried, ‘Well done, lassie!’
Inspired by the reception, Rosie sang another melody and then, catching the manager’s eye, reluctantly took the hint and ended the performance. She could have gone on for longer, loving every moment, for she revelled in the knowledge that for a few brief moments she was the centre of attention. Rose thrived on the adrenalin rush that came with performing.
Stepping down regretfully, she made a circuit of the room, flirting with the men and winking at the women – making the tour last as long as she dared. She collected two shillings and threepence. As always she offered to share it with Harry but he refused, insisting that he was paid for his piano playing whichever day of the week it was.
Rose slipped on her coat and changed her shoes and was on her way out when she caught sight of a well-known face – Colonel Fossett. He was known as Colonel Brian Fossett, retired. People in the streets around Elm Tree Avenue felt that by living in a big house, he added a touch of class to the area, and they had invented a heroic service in the army for him, much of which might be true. A nice old boy, Rose thought. He was in the saloon bar but he had put his head round the door and now beckoned to her.
‘You’ve got a nice little voice, my dear.’ He slipped a sixpence into her hand. ‘You need an agent. That’s the way it’s done. I’ll keep my ear to the ground.’
She loved the look of him – every inch the military man with his large but neatly clipped moustache, sun-bleached hair from his years of service in Africa, and the still steely blue eyes. If she had been a soldier under him, she’d have followed him into battle without the slightest hesitation. Of course he was long since retired but he still had that indefinable air of authority that Rose admired. He was old enough to be her father but she could still imagine herself married to him and living in the nice house in Elm Tree Avenue with his elderly sister and the yappy little Scottie dog whose name she could never remember.
It was natural for Rose to consider any reasonable man as a possible future husband and age was no barrier. When eventually she wanted to settle down she would look for someone kind with just enough money to live a modest but happy family life. He needn’t be handsome or rich or even talented, she told herself, but he must love her and the children. And he must be straight as a die. No crooks would be considered for the role. But all that was in the distant future. Before that time arrived she wanted to be famous.
Another man appeared in the doorway and greeted Rose. ‘Have you heard? The colonel’s been burgled again.’
‘No!’ cried Rose. ‘Oh, that’s awful!’ She turned to him. ‘That’s so unlucky, Colonel. Have they any idea who it was?’
‘None at all. I’m afraid after last time my faith in our local constabulary somewhat dwindled!’ He shrugged. ‘Not to worry! They didn’t get the good stuff, thank the Lord. That’s in the safe.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Now don’t give it another thought, Miss Lamore. That’s for me to worry about. You concentrate on your career, my dear. You get along home before it gets dark.’
Rose took his advice but as she walked home she thought about the burglary and all her childhood terrors returned as dark memories, to heap guilt upon her slim shoulders once again. When she was five her father had gone away for a long time and nobody would tell her where he had gone. Her mother and grandmother wept over his disappearance while assuring Rose that there was nothing to worry about and she must forget all about it and she was thoroughly confused and frightened. When Alan Paton finally came home life had changed in a way she didn’t understand but she somehow felt responsible. Much later, she was told by an interfering neighbour that he had gone to prison for ro
bbery, that it was a terrible stain on the family’s good name, and she warned Rose never to speak of it for fear of giving her mother a heart attack.
Halfway home, she realized that PC Stump had not put in an appearance and she finally caught up with another constable. He told her that PC Stump had been called to the hospital urgently because their baby was arriving early and there were complications. By the time she reached number twenty-three all her earlier excitement had faded and her father’s news that he had won two pounds on a horse in the five thirty failed to cheer her up.
Marcus finished his breakfast and left the dining room. He had eaten very little, plagued by anxiety about the coming party. It was Marie’s birthday and he was having doubts about the wisdom of introducing Rose Paton to his family. Marie would appreciate her but Letitia might be jealous of her looks and talent and Steven might flirt with her. His younger brother had a very flattering opinion of himself and rarely found it difficult to attract women. Janetta had so far proved a solitary disappointment to him but that may have been because Letitia had warned her friend that twenty-year-old Steven, like plenty of men of his age, was rather shallow, inclined to treat the fairer sex as brainless females.
Marcus made his way into the kitchen where the birthday cake stood in a place of honour on the dresser, carefully covered by a muslin cloth. It was being admired by Letitia who lifted one corner of the cloth to show it to her brother in all its glory.
‘Mrs Bray has made a cherry Madeira,’ she explained, ‘because we thought the fruit mixture might be too heavy for Marie to digest, and it will be covered with thick cream at the last moment and decorated with fresh rose petals. Not to eat, naturally, but they will look astonishing.’
Marcus ducked his head, inspected the big square cake and gave Mrs Bray a nod of approval. ‘Wonderful!’ he assured her.
Mrs Bray said, ‘I shall pick the roses as late as possible and choose them as small as possible, then arrange them in two rows along the top edge. They’ll be slightly overlapping and that way they’ll look like frills.’ Her mouth quivered. ‘Poor Marie, God bless her! I can’t believe . . . oh dear!’ She fumbled for her handkerchief.
The Birthday Present Page 3