Ragged Rose

by Dilly Court

  I can sympathise with stage-struck Rose – I was much the same as a child and attended ballet classes for seven years. My parents used to take me regularly to the East Ham Palace in East London, which was a variety theatre until it was knocked down in the late 1950s, and I think this inspired me as much as anything. I always fancied being in a singing and dancing sister act, but the trouble was I didn’t have a sister and I couldn’t sing.

  But I did have one brief period of being on the stage – when I was 12 my dancing school provided a chorus line (six of us to be exact) to appear in a semi-professional pantomime. I remember one snowy January at a church hall in Peckham Rye, south of the river, when the explosive charge timed to go off when Widow Twanky’s washing machine blew up, went off with such force that the metal plug shot through the ceiling. Our dressing room was filled with smoke and we were hurried on to the stage. There wasn’t much attention paid to health and safety in those days – but I did get five shillings (25p in today’s money) for a letter I sent to Girl comic, describing the experience. That was the start of my writing career.

  I do hope you enjoyed Ragged Rose as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  With my very best wishes

  Read on for an exclusive extract from Dilly Court’s gripping new novel

  coming in summer 2016

  Chapter One

  Cheapside, London, 1854

  ‘Lottie, you wretched girl, where are you?’ Mrs Filby’s strident voice echoed round the galleries of The Swan with Two Necks, and the ancient building seemed to shake on its foundations.

  Lottie was in the stable yard of the coaching inn, and had been emptying chamberpots on to the dung heap as it lay festering in the heat of the late summer sun. She had been up since five o’clock that morning and had not yet had breakfast, but the rooms had to be serviced, and the guests had to be looked after. Their needs came before those of the inn servants, and the mail coach from Exeter would be arriving at any moment.

  ‘Lottie, answer me at once.’ Prudence Filby leaned over the balustrade of the first floor gallery, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. ‘Is that you down there in the horse muck?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Lottie had hoped that the short-sighted landlady might not see her, but it seemed that her luck was out. It was better to answer, and receive a tirade of abuse, than to hide, only to be accused later of every shortcoming and misdemeanour that came to Mrs Filby’s mind.

  ‘That’s where you belong, you idle slut, but I have need of you in the dining parlour. Come in at once, and wash your filthy hands.’

  ‘Coming, ma’am.’ Lottie hurried indoors, leaving the chamberpots in the scullery to be scoured clean when she could find the time. She washed her hands in the stone sink and was about to dry them on her apron, when she realised that this would leave a wet mark, and that would be enough to earn a swift clout around the head from her employer. Mrs Filby had a right hook that would be the envy of champion bare-knuckle fighters, and had been seen to wrestle a drunk to the ground on many an occasion. Her husband, who was by no means a small man, treated her with due deference, and spent most of his time in the taproom, drinking ale with his customers.

  Lottie hitched up her skirts and raced across the cobblestones to the kitchen on the far side of the stable yard. The heat from the range hit her with the force of a cannonball, and the smell of rancid bacon fat and the bullock’s head being boiled for soup made her feel sick.

  She acknowledged the cook with a nod, and hurried on until she reached the dining parlour, where she came to a halt, peering at her hazy reflection in a fly-spotted mirror on the wall. Strands of fair hair had escaped from the knot at the nape of her neck, and she tucked them under her frilled mobcap. She straightened her apron, braced her shoulders and entered the room.

  Prudence Filby stood, arms akimbo, by the sideboard. She glowered at Lottie. ‘You took your time,’ she hissed. ‘Clear the plates and don’t offer them more coffee. The Exeter mail coach is due any minute, and I want this lot out of here.’

  ‘More bread, girl.’ A portly man clicked his fingers. ‘And a slab of butter. I paid good money for my breakfast.’

  Lottie hurried to his side. ‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’

  ‘You’ll do more than that. Bring me bread and butter, and a pot of jam wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Is there jam?’ A woman seated with her husband at the next table, leaned over to tug at Lottie’s skirt. ‘Why didn’t we get any jam? I don’t like dry bread, and I’ll swear the flour had chalk added to it. My mouth is full of grit.’

  ‘No wonder this place is half empty.’ Her husband turned his head to stare at Mrs Filby. ‘This is your establishment, madam. Why have we been deprived of jam?’

  Mrs Filby folded her arms across her ample bosom and advanced on him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. ‘You paid for bed and breakfast, sir. No one never mentioned jam. Jam costs extra.’

  ‘Don’t make a fuss, Nathaniel.’ The man’s wife reached out across the table to touch his hand. ‘Suddenly I’ve lost my appetite.’

  The City gentlemen at a table by the window had been listening attentively, and they too started demanding more coffee, and bread and butter: one went so far as to ask for marmalade.

  Mrs Filby answered their requests by dragging Lottie from the parlour. She closed the door, and boxed Lottie’s ears. ‘That’s what you get for nothing – see what you get for something. I’ve told you time and time again that bread, butter, coffee and the like should be given sparingly. We’re here to make money, and you must wait until the last minute before the coach arrives to serve the coffee or soup. It has to be so hot that the customers have to leave it.’ She caught Lottie by the ear. ‘What happens then, girl? Do you remember anything you’ve been taught?’

  ‘It goes back in the pot, ma’am.’

  Mrs Filby released her, wiping her hands on her skirt. ‘That’s right. Then we can sell it twice over and we make more money. You do know, so why don’t you carry out my orders?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Go and fetch hot coffee, and make sure the bread is straight from the oven. I heard the post horn. This miserable lot of complainers will be leaving in the time it takes to change horses and turn the coach around.’

  ‘What about jam?’

  ‘Jam?’ Mrs Filby’s voice rose to a screech.

  Lottie fled to the kitchen.

  The next mail coach arrived just as the disgruntled passengers from the dining parlour were boarding the one that was about to leave. The lady who had been refused marmalade climbed into the coach declaring that they would be travelling by train next time. Her husband followed her, saying nothing.

  Lottie stood to attention, waiting to show the new arrivals to the dining room. London might be the end of the journey for some, but others would want to rest and refresh themselves before travelling on. It was a never-ending cycle of weary travellers arriving and departing, with only minutes to achieve a swift turn around. The ostlers worked with impressive speed and dexterity, and Jem, the potboy, raced about doing the jobs that no one else wanted to do. He nudged Lottie as he went to offload the luggage.

  ‘Save us a slice of bacon,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m starving.’

  She nodded. ‘I will, if I can.’

  He dashed forward to catch a carpet bag thrown from the roof by the guard, resplendent in his livery of scarlet and gold. Trotter was a regular on this route, and Lottie had observed that he liked to show off his strength in front of an appreciative audience. She looked up, and sure enough, the other chambermaids, May and Ruth, were leaning over the balustrade on the top floor, waving their cleaning cloths in an attempt to attract his attention.

  Jem followed her gaze. ‘You’re an old goat, Trotter,’ he said, chuckling. ‘How do you do it, mate?’

  Trotter’s answer was to hurl a leather valise at Jem, which almost brought him to his knees. ‘Cheeky devil.’ Trotter flexed his muscles. ‘You could lear
n a thing or two from me, son.’ He turned and waved at the maids before leaping to the ground, and swaggering off in the direction of the taproom.

  ‘You’d best get that lot indoors before Mrs Filby sees you,’ Lottie said hastily. ‘She’s already given me a clout round the head that made me see stars.’

  Jem tucked two smaller cases under his arms and then lifted the heavier bags, one in each hand. ‘She’d have to stand on a box to reach my head, but she punched me in the bread-basket last time I made her mad. She’s a nasty piece of work, and that’s the truth, but we’re better than her, Lottie. Keep that in mind, my girl.’ He strolled off, whistling.

  Lottie looked up but May and Ruth had vanished, and a quick glance over her shoulder revealed the cause. Mrs Filby was standing in the doorway, glaring at her. ‘Don’t loaf around doing nothing, you lazy little slut. Get on with your work.’

  ‘How does she do it?’ Lottie muttered as she hurried into the scullery to take up where she had left off. ‘She’s got eyes in the back of her head.’

  ‘Talking to yourself, are you? That’s the first sign of madness.’ Ruth edged past her, carrying two dangerously full chamberpots. ‘You’d think the horses had pissed in these. I was all for emptying them over the balustrade, but May stopped me just in time.’

  ‘That would have taken Trotter down a peg or two,’ Lottie said, laughing. ‘He wouldn’t have been so cocky then.’

  Ruth backed out into the yard, taking care not to spill a drop. ‘Maybe I’ll be in time to have a few words with him before the coach leaves. It’s me he fancies, not May.’

  ‘I expect he’s got a wife and half a dozen nippers at home. I’d watch out for him if I were you, Ruth.’

  ‘I will, don’t you fret, ducks.’ Ruth stepped outside, leaving Lottie to finish her unenviable task.

  That done, she returned to the bedrooms, and made them ready for the next occupants. When she was satisfied that Mrs Filby could find nothing to criticise of her work, she went downstairs to help Cook prepare the midday meal.

  Jezebel Pretty did not live up to her name. She was tall, raw-boned and ungainly with a lean, mean face and a fiery temperament. She had served a two-year sentence in Coldbath Fields prison, commonly known as ‘The Steel’, for inflicting grievous bodily harm on her former lover, and had been employed at the inn for almost a year. Lottie, Ruth and May had often spoken about her in the privacy of the attic room where they lay their heads at night, but it was not the fact that the Filbys had taken on an ex-convict that shocked them. What they found hard to believe was that anyone as patently ugly as Jezebel could have found a man who fancied her in the first place, or one who was foolish enough to take on a woman whose volatile temper simmered beneath the surface, erupting every now and then like a volcano.

  Even so, Lottie had discovered a different side of Jezebel. Not long after the cook had started work at the inn, a small mongrel terrier had got in the way of one of the mail coach horses. The poor creature had been flung up in the air and had landed on the cobblestones in a pathetic heap. Jezebel had happened to be in the yard, smoking her clay pipe, when the accident occurred and Lottie had seen her rush to the animal’s aid. She had picked it up and, cradling it in her arms like a baby, carried it into the kitchen. Lottie had followed, offering to help and had watched Jezebel examining the tiny body for broken bones with the skill of an experienced surgeon, and the tenderness of a mother caring for her child.

  Despite two broken ribs and several deep cuts, Lad, as Jezebel named him, survived and they became inseparable, despite Mrs Filby’s attempts to banish the dog from the kitchen or any part of the building other than the stables. Lad, quite naturally, had developed a deep distrust of horses and he refused to be parted from his saviour. Jezebel, who was a good cook and worked for next to nothing, was the one person Mrs Filby treated with a certain amount of restraint and respect, and Lad was allowed to stay.

  Lottie entered the kitchen and received an enthusiastic greeting from the small dog, who seemed to remember that she was one of the first people who had shown him any kindness. Having been flea-ridden and undernourished when he first arrived he was now plump and lively with a shiny white coat and comical brown patches over one eye and the tip of one ear.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Jezebel demanded. ‘The bullock’s head is done and the meat needs to be taken off the bone, and the vegetables need preparing to go in the stew. I’ve been run off me feet. I was better off in The Steel than I am here.’

  ‘I would have come sooner, but I had to wait on in the dining parlour and I hadn’t finished the bedchambers, but I’m here now.’

  ‘And where are those two flibbertigibbets? I suppose they’re making sheep’s eyes at that fellow Trotter. My Bill was just like him, until I spoilt his beauty with my chiv. Trotter had best look out, that’s all I can say.’

  Lottie lifted the heavy saucepan off the range. She knew better than to argue the point with Jezebel. It was easier and safer to keep her mouth shut and get on with her work; that way the long days passed without unpleasantness and everyone was happy in their own way. She had learned long ago that it was pointless to bemoan the fate that had brought her to The Swan with Two Necks. Born into an army family, Lottie’s early years had been spent in India and when her mother died of a fever, which also took Lottie’s younger brothers and sister, she had been sent to England with a family who were returning on leave, and left with her Uncle Sefton in Clerkenwell. A confirmed bachelor, he had little time for children and Lottie had been packed off to boarding school, although her uncle had made it plain that he considered educating females to be a total waste of money.

  She had received a basic education until the age of twelve, when she returned home to find that her uncle had married a rich widow. Lottie’s childhood had ended when her new aunt – acting supposedly with her best interests at heart – had sent Lottie to work for the Filbys. It was just another form of slavery: she worked from the moment she rose in the morning until late at night, when she fell into her bed.

  ‘Are you doing what I told you, or are you daydreaming again Lottie Lane? D’you want to feel the back of my hand, girl?’ Jezebel reared up in front of Lottie, bringing her back to the present with a start.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Get on with it, or you’ll get another clout round the head, and I ain’t as gentle as the missis.’ Jezebel stomped out into the yard, snatching up her pipe and tobacco pouch on the way. Lad trotted at her heels, growling and baring his teeth at the horses.

  Lottie set to work and dissected the head, taking care not to waste a scrap of meat. Mrs Filby would check the bones later and woe betide her if there was any waste. Parsimonious to the last, Prudence Filby ruled her empire with a rod of iron.

  Minutes later, Jezebel marched back into the room. ‘Where’s Jem? The butcher has delivered the mutton. I want the carcass boned and ready for the pot. Go and find him, girl.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished what I’m doing.’

  Jezebel moved with the speed of a snake striking its prey. The sound of the slap echoed round the beamed kitchen, and Lottie clutched her hand to her cheek. ‘The bullock’s going nowhere, but you are. Find the boy and tell him to get started or I’ll be after him.’

  Lottie found Jem in the taproom, serving ale to the newly-arrived male passengers, while Mrs Filby shepherded the ladies to the dining parlour where they would be plied with coffee, tea and toast, all of which were added onto the bill. Each day was the same, and everyone knew their part in the carefully choreographed routine designed to make the travellers part with their money in as short a time as possible. Jem had taken too long offloading the last coach and was now behind with his tasks. Normally cheerful and easy-going, he was looking flushed and flustered.

  ‘Cook wants you Jem.’ Lottie took the pint mug from his hand. ‘I’ll finish up in here. There’s only minutes before the coach leaves.’

  ‘I suppose she’s in a foul mood, as usual.’


  ‘You’ll soon find out if you don’t hurry up.’ Lottie passed the mug of ale to a man seated at the nearest table. She had just finished serving when the call came for the passengers to board, and she heard the clatter of hoofs and the rumble of wheels as yet another mail coach pulled into the stable yard. She was relieved by Shem Filby who escorted the new guests into the taproom, enabling her to hurry back to the kitchen to prepare the vegetables.

  Early mornings were always hectic and she was used to the rush, although by midday everyone was beginning to flag, but there was no time to rest. Private carriages made up most of their custom during the day. Filby was pleased to point out that some people preferred the convenience of being transported from door to door, a luxury not provided when travelling by train, and others feared that the speed reached by steam engines would have serious effects on their health. The railways, he said, would one day put them out of business, but that was a long way off – or so he hoped.

  Lottie did not have time to worry about such matters. She alternated between the kitchen, the dining room and the bedchambers, as did Ruth and May. They met briefly at mealtimes, with rare moments of free time during the afternoon lull, and then it was time for dinner to be prepared and served. After everything was cleared away and the dishes washed and dried, there were beds to be turned back and aired, using copper warming pans filled with live coals. The constant need to provide washing facilities necessitated regular trips from the kitchen to the bedrooms, carrying ewers of hot water, and there was always someone who wanted something extra. Lottie had been sent out to buy all manner of things, mainly for ladies on their travels who had forgotten to bring a hairbrush or a comb. Sometimes it was a bottle of laudanum for pain, or oil of cloves for toothache, and these were always needed as a matter of urgency. Lottie had once been sent out to purchase a gift for a man’s wife as he had forgotten her birthday. Sometimes guests tipped generously, while others gave nothing in return, not even a thank you.