Her father and her Uncle Roddy had provided the finishing touch – a navy velvet wide-brimmed hat and two red milliner’s roses. She’d come in late from work on Friday evening and found them sitting on the table, in her place. Her da had his face behind a newspaper, as always, and her Uncle Roddy was pouring himself some porter. Charlie and Seamie were at the table. Kate was at the stove. Fiona looked, wide-eyed, from the hat to her mother.
“From your da,” her mam had said. “And your Uncle Roddy.”
She’d picked up the hat. It was secondhand and there was a little fray in the velvet on one side where some trimming had come off, but it was nothing the roses wouldn’t hide. She knew her mam had picked them out and that her father and Roddy had paid for them. She tried to say thank you, but her throat was tight and her eyes were glistening.
“Don’t you like them, lass?” Roddy asked, concerned.
“Oh, yes, Uncle Roddy!” she said, finding her voice. “I love them! Thank you ever so much. Thank you, Da!”
Roddy smiled. “Picked them flowers out meself,” he said.
Paddy snorted.
Fiona gave Roddy a hug, then got between her father and his newspaper and gave him one, too. “You shouldn’t ’ave, Da. Thank you.”
“It’s only a little somet’ing,” he said gruffly. “You enjoy yourself tomorrow. And tell Bristow he’d better take care of you or he’ll be answering to me.”
Still holding the hat, Fiona ran her hand over its soft velvet brim. Just when she thought her tears would certainly spill over, Charlie produced a pair of navy kid gloves and they did.
“Aw, don’t be so daft,” he said, embarrassed. “They ain’t nothing grand. Bought ’em second ’and. Just don’t want you looking like a dosser.”
Later that night, Fiona bathed and Kate washed her hair for her. Then she ironed her skirt, blouse, and jacket while her mother stitched the roses to her hat. She thought she’d never sleep, but she did and was up early. She washed her face, combed her hair out and pinned it up with her mother’s help. Then she dressed, tried her hat on, took it off, then tried it on again, her mother protesting all the while that she would ruin her hair if she didn’t stop. Finally, she was ready.
“Oh, just look at ’er, Paddy,” Kate had said wistfully, pinning the borrowed brooch onto her lapel. “Our first is all grown up. And just as bonny as a June rose.”
Charlie, sitting at the table wolfing his breakfast, made a gagging noise. Paddy, buttoning his shirt for work, looked at his girl and smiled. “Aye, she’s a fine lass. Takes after her mam.”
Fiona stole a shy glance in the small mirror on top of the kitchen mantel and was pleased. Her mam had done a nice job with her hair and the jacket looked crisp and smart.
She didn’t have long to admire herself, for there was a knock on the door and then she was running down the hall to meet Joe. His eyes widened when he saw her and he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her. “You look smashing,” he whispered. “Bonnier than I even remembered.” Fiona was so happy to see him; it had only been two weeks since he’d left, but it felt like months. He looked different – his hair was longer, he’d lost weight. She couldn’t wait to have him all to herself, but first, he’d have to chat with her parents. He came into the kitchen, had a cup of tea, and told them all about his new job.
When her father started holding forth on the union, Fiona decided it was time to go. They headed off to Commercial Street, where they would pick up a city bus. But first, Joe made a detour. At the end of Montague Street, he pulled her into an alley and kissed her long and hard. “Blimey, but I missed you,” he said, standing back for a few seconds to look at her face. Then, before she could tell him she’d missed him too, he pulled her close and kissed her again. Finally he took her hand and said, “Come on, stop mauling me. We’ve got a bus to catch.”
He told her more about Covent Garden as they walked to the bus stop, about the chefs from Claridge’s and the Café Royal and the St. James’s gentlemen’s clubs who wrinkled their noses at everything, about the market porters who carried their baskets stacked on their heads, and the loud and bawdy ladies who made their living shelling peas and walnuts. The bus came, drawn by a team of horses. Joe helped Fiona on and paid their fares, then they climbed to the top deck. It was a fair September day, not too chilly, and they’d be able to see all of London from there.
Fiona, who’d never ridden on a bus, was beside herself. “Are you sure it’s not too dear?” she whispered, worried. “Are you sure you can afford it?” Joe shushed her. The bus took them toward the City, London’s center of commerce, and he pointed out the offices of various merchants. She clutched his hand tightly, excited by all the new things she was seeing. One building, taller and grander than the rest, caught her attention. “That’s Burton’s,” he said. “Renovations cost the earth, I’m told. I don’t think your father should count on ’is union squeezing an increase out of that bloke anytime soon.”
Now, as they walked down the Brompton Road away from Harrods, Fiona could not keep her eyes off Joe. He was talking about Peterson’s again, but stopped suddenly when he realized she was looking at him, and smiling, and not hearing a word he was saying.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I just like looking at you, that’s all. You’ve been away. And now ’ere you are – the same but different. All excited about new things and new people.”
“Well, stop it. You’re embarrassing me. If I’m excited, I’m excited for us. For our shop. I’m learning so much, Fee, so much more than I would’ve if I’d stayed on with me dad, and I’m getting paid well, too. Remember our cocoa tin?”
“Aye. I’ve money to give you for it.”
“Wait till you see ’ow much is in there.”
“ ’Ow much?”
“You’ll see.”
“Tell me!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I ’ave to ’ave something to tempt you to me room with, don’t I?” he said, smiling slyly. “Some way of getting you to me lair.”
“So I can meet your mate? ’Arry?” Fiona asked, purposely misunderstanding him.
“ ’E’s gone out for the day.”
“Really? What a coincidence.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Why would you want me in your room, then?” she asked, trying not to giggle.
“Because it needs cleaning and I can’t afford a charlady.”
“You bleeder!”
Fiona and Joe paused at Hyde Park to watch the fine ladies and gentlemen on horseback. When they got to the end of Knightsbridge, they stole a quick look at Buckingham Palace – Fiona wanted to see where the Queen lived – then continued up Piccadilly toward Bond.
There they looked in the windows of Garrard’s, jewelers to the royal family; Mappin & Webb, silver- and goldsmiths; and Liberty’s, where all the fashionable people shopped. They passed fabric stores with bolts of silk, damask, and velvet; shoe stores with boots of the softest kid. Fiona was amazed by the colors – red, pink, pale blue. She had only ever seen boots in black or brown. There were windows full of laces and trim, silk flowers for hats, pretty handkerchiefs, lace gloves, beaded purses. There were soap and scent shops, bookshops, flower shops filled with hothouse blooms, and shops that sold gorgeous cakes, biscuits, and candies in pretty boxes.
Fiona wanted to buy something to take home for her family and agonized over what it would be. She only had a shilling. She wanted a lace handkerchief for her mam, but that wouldn’t leave much to get something for her father and brothers and Uncle Roddy. And if she bought the fancy cigarettes she’d seen for her da, what would she do about her mother? With Joe’s help, she decided on a pretty tin of cream toffees. Everyone could enjoy those except the baby, but she was too little to care so that was all right.
Their eyes roved over everything, storing every scrap of knowledge for future use. At the high-class grocer’s they noted how th
e apples were stacked, how each was wrapped in a square of blue tissue. They read ads on buildings and buses. They argued over what was a nicer way to wrap candy – in a white box with a pink satin ribbon or a navy box with a cream one.
And just when Fiona thought she had seen everything beautiful in the entire city, that the day could hold no more surprises, they found themselves outside of Fortnum & Mason’s. A uniformed doorman held the door open. Joe motioned for her to go in.
“What? In ’ere?” she whispered, uncertain.
“Aye, go on, will you?”
“But Joe, it’s awfully grand …”
The doorman cleared his throat.
“Go on, Fee, will you? You’re blocking the door.” With a nudge, he got her inside.
“Blimey, but it’s first-rate, isn’t it?” she whispered, looking at the high arched ceilings, the glass cases, the intricately tiled floors. “What are we going to do ’ere?”
“We’re ’aving tea. It’s a treat. My surprise. Come on.”
Joe led her from the front of Fortnum’s, past all manner of expensive delicacies, toward the tearoom. The hostess seated them in two tufted chairs that faced each other across a low table, and Fiona was so taken by the beauty of the room, and the people in it, that she forgot to be nervous about the expense. The tearoom was a revelation to her. She had no idea things like this existed – this pretty, perfect world where people had nothing better to do than sip tea and nibble cakes. She looked around, her eyes shining, taking it all in, carefully stowing each image away to memory as if she were putting jewels in a safe: the room, done in pale pinks and greens with snowy linens and real roses on the tables; the handsome men and stylish women. The soft music from a piano, snatches of conversation, silky laughter. And best of all, Joe, right across the table from her. It was a beautiful dream, this day, and she wished she could stay in this lovely world and not go back to Whitechapel to be without him again. But she wouldn’t think about that now, it would only ruin things. It wasn’t Monday yet. She still had him for the rest of today and tomorrow as well, as he was coming back to Whitechapel to spend the night with his family.
It was nearly half past four when they left Fortnum’s, stuffed with finger sandwiches, scones, and cake. The dusk was coming down and the air had turned nippy. They walked for a little ways, then caught a bus. Fiona leaned her head on Joe’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Before long, they arrived at Covent Garden; his flat was only two streets from the stop. It took him a few seconds of fumbling with the key to get the door open. Once inside, he lit the gas lamps and made a fire in the stove. While the room was warming, she inspected the flat.
“This is all yours?” she asked, walking around.
“Aye, mine and ’Arry’s. We’ve each got our own bed. Couldn’t get used to it at first. Too comfortable, too much room. No little brother to kick you all night.”
“And you’ve a loo? Right inside?”
Joe laughed. “Aye. Go take a look. It’s a wonder.”
When she returned, he had her sit down in front of the stove – its door was wide open and a fire was blazing brightly inside it. Her eyes roved over the mantel. There were masculine odds and ends on it: razors, a clasp knife, a whiskey flask engraved with “H. E.,” and a pretty silk purse.
“Is that your purse or ’Arry’s?” she jokingly asked.
“What?” Joe asked, following her gaze. “Oh. That’s … um … that’s probably Millie’s.”
“Millie! Millie Peterson?”
“Aye,” he said, giving the coals a shove with a poker.
“What’s Millie’s purse doing ’ere?” she asked indignantly.
“Well… she comes to visit ’Arry …”
“ ’Ow often?”
“I don’t know! Last Sunday. A few times during the week. And it looks like she came today, too.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?” he asked, still prodding the coals.
“She doesn’t come to visit ’Arry, she comes to visit you.”
“Oh, Fiona,” he groaned. “Don’t start this again.”
Fiona was livid. Millie Peterson came here every weekend. She got to see Joe during the week, too – the cunning little bitch! – while she herself hadn’t seen him in a fortnight.
“What do you do when she comes to visit?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, really.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Well, we talk, all of us, or take a stroll. Fiona, don’t look at me like that. Millie’s a nice, chattery girl. It gets boring being all on me own. And spending a few hours with Millie and ’Arry takes me mind off it. All right? ’Arry’s a good bloke and Millie’s ’is cousin. She comes to visit ’im. So will you please give over now and not wreck our nice day?”
“Why didn’t you tell me she’s been ’anging about?” Fiona asked reproachfully.
“Because I knew you’d raise ’ell over nothing, like you are now. I didn’t take Millie out on the town, did I? And it’s not Millie I’m sitting with now, is it?”
“No,” she admitted. She realized she was behaving foolishly again, that her jealousy was getting the better of her. Joe wasn’t to blame because Millie came to the flat, but he just didn’t understand: Millie would sell her soul to get him. Well, she wouldn’t argue the point. Not today; today was too special. But because she decided to behave didn’t mean she would close her eyes to Millie’s scheming ways. That purse was a calling card. She was pursuing Joe as eagerly as ever.
They sat quietly for a few minutes, staring into the fire – Fiona in the chair, Joe on the floor beside her. She ran a conciliatory hand through his hair, playing with his curls. He leaned against her legs and closed his eyes. “Did you like your day out?” he asked her.
“Like it? It was the best day I ever ’ad – just like a dream! I don’t even think it’s all sunk in. I can’t wait to tell me mam about everything. It’s London, the same city I live in, but it’s a whole different world. ’Arrods, and all the shops, and tea at Fortnum’s. I barely catch my breath from one thing and something else is ’appening. So many surprises!”
“Well, there’s another one,” Joe said, getting to his feet.
Fiona watched him as he crossed the room to his bed, flipped up the mattress, and produced an old cocoa tin. “Our tin!” she exclaimed, sitting up in her chair. “Let’s see it! ’Ow much ’ave we got now? ’Ere, I’ve a shilling for it.”
Joe sat down by her feet again, smoothed her skirt over her knees, and dumped the contents of the can into her lap. He smiled as she excitedly counted their money. “Like a greedy squirrel with a pile of peanuts, you are …”
“Shush, Joe! Twelve pounds, twelve shillings, fourpence … twelve and fifteen … twelve and eighteen … nineteen …” she counted. She looked up at him in amazement. “Thirteen pounds?”
“Go on, there’s more …”
“Thirteen and six … fourteen and ten … fifteen … blimey! We’ve got nearly fifteen quid ’ere!” she cried. “Where’d it all come from? We only ’ad twelve and six when you left!”
“Peterson pays me sixteen shillings a week, Fiona. Same as ’e pays ’is own nephew,” Joe said. “And if I ’ave to make a delivery to an ’otel or a restaurant, I get a tip. My room is free. I spend a little on meals and the odd paper or a pint, and that’s it. The rest goes in the tin.”
“Joe, this is so much more than we thought we’d ’ave by now … you saved up so much … maybe we can ’ave our shop sooner,” she said breathlessly. “You said a year, but at this rate …” She was chattering so fast, so carried away by her visions of their shop, that she didn’t see him pull a small piece of tissue out of his waistcoat pocket, and hardly felt it as he took her left hand and pushed a thin gold band over her ring finger.
“Just one last little surprise,” he said softly.
She looked at the ring and gasped. “It’s for me?” she whispered.
“It ain’t for your mam.”
“Oh, Joe!�
�� She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “It’s lovely! The loveliest thing I’ve ever ’ad. What’s the stone?”
“Sapphire. Like your eyes. Remember the blue stone we found by the river? I told you I’d do better and I ’ave. It’s only second ’and, mind, but just you wait, one day you’ll ’ave a brand-new one from a fancy jeweler’s with a stone as big as a shilling.”
“I couldn’t like it any more than I like this one.” It was an impossibly thin gold band, with a tiny sapphire, just a chip. But to Fiona, it was breathtaking.
Joe said nothing as he took her hand and examined the ring, twisting it back and forth on her finger. After a minute or so, he cleared his throat. “You’re right about our savings. They’ll mount up faster now that I’m earning more money, and it looks like we’ll be ready to open our shop sooner than we thought. So …” he said, looking up at her, “… I want us to be courting now – all official-like.”
Fiona grinned ear-to-ear. “Courting? You mean, I’ll ’ave to tell me da? For real?”
“Yes, for real,” Joe said, smiling at her reaction. “If you’ll ’ave me, silly lass.”
“And I’ll ’ave to tell all me other suitors that they ’aven’t a chance anymore?”
“Oh, aye,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure they’ll all be ’eart-broken.”
“You had this planned all along, didn’t you?” she asked, still unable to take her eyes off her ring. “You knew you were going to do this all day and I ’adn’t a clue.”
Joe nodded, pleased with himself.
“Well, I ’aven’t made up my mind yet,” she teased, determined not to let him think he had the upper hand completely. “Why do you want to go courting with me?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Just … why?”
“Feel sorry for you. Plain girl like yourself, you’ll never find anybody else.”
“That’s not it, Joe.”
The Tea Rose Page 11