by Val Wood
‘A few more minutes,’ Mr Fellowes said. ‘Not everyone is here. Dr James said he would come if he could. Your neighbours said they would follow us. Do they have their own carriage?’
‘I don’t believe they do,’ Rosalie said vaguely. ‘I have never seen one.’
‘Mm.’ Mr Fellowes gazed out of the window. ‘There are two cabs waiting; hired, I think. Yes.’ He peered closer to the glass. ‘Your neighbours are coming out of the house. Ah! Here’s Dr James arriving. Well.’ He took his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and examined it. ‘Perhaps we could collect ourselves and go to the door.’
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Mrs Fellowes asked Rosalie solicitously. ‘If you should feel unwell at all just say. I have some sal volatile in my bag. It’s very effective,’ she added. ‘I always carry it.’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. But she wasn’t. She could feel her body starting to shake and her lips trembled when she spoke.
They climbed into the carriage and the horses skittered as the driver shook the reins. It had been snowing again, but now the snow was turning to icy sleet. Mr Fellowes had arranged for both the carriage and the service at the Northern General Cemetery and Rosalie was very grateful to him, for she wouldn’t have known how to go about such things. I must send him a letter of thanks, she told herself, or perhaps Papa will do so when he comes home. Everything will be all right then. Oh, I know he can’t bring Mama back, but he’ll look after me. He’ll tell me what is to be done.
They drove along Spring Bank towards the cemetery and Rosalie noticed that men in the streets paused as the carriage passed and doffed their hats or caps. The sight brought a painful, tearful lump to her throat. How considerate of them, she thought, and they don’t even know Mama.
The horses, already travelling at a slow pace, slowed even more. ‘What’s happening?’ Rosalie said. ‘Why are we stopping?’
Mr Fellowes put down the window, letting in a blast of cold air, and Mrs Fellowes tutted and pulled her fur collar further up her neck. Her husband put his head out of the window. ‘We’re not stopping,’ he called back to Rosalie. ‘There’s a funeral cart in front and we can’t overtake it.’
‘Surely you mean a carriage, Mr Fellowes?’ Rosalie said. ‘Not a cart.’
‘No, m’dear.’ He put up the window again and gave a little shudder before pulling the blanket which he was sharing with his wife over his knees. ‘It’s a funeral cart. Ah, there we are, they’ve pulled over to let us pass.’
Rosalie turned to the window as they drew level with the cart. The coffin was in the back but there were no flowers as on her mother’s. Just a rather incongruous hat. An old woman hobbled along as if her feet ached, and immediately behind the cart was a young girl wearing a shabby shawl over her head, and a man walking beside her.
Who are they, I wonder, Rosalie thought. Could that be a son and daughter saying goodbye to their mother as I am doing? She turned her head discreetly as they passed and the man looked up. His hair was dark and long beneath his top hat. He gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement and she did the same.
Mrs Fellowes followed her gaze. ‘Poor people,’ she breathed in a morbid tone. ‘Paupers. They’ll be going to the paupers’ corner.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘I can’t pay you all ’rent,’ Polly told the rent collector. ‘Have you a smaller room for less money?’
He was a middle-aged man with warts on his long nose and one eye that looked down on it. ‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘Where’s your ma? Skulking under ’bed?’
Polly glared at him, her mouth set. ‘She’s dead. Died last week. That’s why I can’t pay. I’m not earning enough.’
He sighed. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nearly seventeen. Why?’
‘You’ll have to leave.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from his battered case and scribbled something on it, then handed it to Polly.
‘What’s this?’ She looked down at his scrawl, so badly written she could hardly read it.
‘Notice to quit. Mr Clowes won’t rent to anybody under twenty.’
‘Wh-what am I supposed to do?’ Polly stared at him. Could he just turn her out?
‘I don’t know. It’s not my concern. I’m onny here to collect ‘rent.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ll have to get another job wi’ better pay.’ He turned his head to look at her with his good eye. ‘You’ll have to be out by next Sat’day.’
Polly stood watching him as he knocked on other doors. She’d had a miserable week since the funeral and at midnight on New Year’s Eve she had sat by the window listening to the church bells ringing and revellers merrymaking, and wept.
Mrs Walters hadn’t made it as far as the cemetery. She’d called out to Polly that she’d have to turn back as her legs were killing her, so only she and Sonny stood by the graveside.
The parson was old and mumbled into his muffler and they couldn’t hear what he was saying. The weather had worsened, the sleet falling like icy daggers which cut into her face and hands, and she felt the cleric was anxious to be off before he succumbed to pneumonia. He brought her no comfort at all.
When the man had finished and scurried away, she’d looked across to the other side of the cemetery. It would be lovely there in summer, she thought; the trees and shrubs were stark and leafless now but come spring would be covered in fresh green growth. Flowers, she had thought. I bet there’ll be flowers growing there in summer. Here, in the corner where her mother now lay, was simply bare earth.
The carriage which had passed them on the road was on the other side. Polly had seen another clergyman come out of the chapel followed by a man and a woman and a girl, who seemed to be the chief mourners, although there were other people too. Then she saw Dr James. He stood for a moment and then glanced at his pocket watch. He bent his head to speak to the girl before touching his top hat and hurrying away to his waiting carriage.
‘Going to see somebody else who’s sick,’ she’d murmured.
‘What?’ Sonny was preoccupied.
‘Dr James.’ She pointed to the departing brougham. ‘That’s him just leaving. He came to see my ma, but couldn’t save her.’ He said he couldn’t help another woman either that night, she remembered, after I’d accused him of going to see somebody well off first. She looked more attentively towards the group of mourners. They were talking to the girl and she was nodding her head in response, but didn’t appear to be speaking.
‘I wonder who’s died?’ Polly murmured, half to herself.
Sonny hadn’t answered, but had taken her arm. ‘Come on,’ he’d said. ‘Let’s be off. We’re in for some more bad weather. I’ll see you home.’
They’d walked in silence for most of the way until Sonny said, ‘I’ve been thinking, Polly. Maybe you should try for live-in work. Laundry or scullery maid. The pay wouldn’t be good but you wouldn’t have to worry about the rent and you’d get regular meals.’
She’d looked up at him. ‘Where? How do you know?’
He’d shrugged. ‘Plenty of big houses in Hull, and some not so big who still want staff. Tradesmen’s wives and so on.’
He’d put the thought into her head and it wasn’t until after he’d left her at her door that she realized he hadn’t said how he knew about such things. You’re a dark horse, Sonny Blake, she’d thought. There’s a lot you’re not telling me.
She deliberated on his suggestion now as she stood in the court and wondered what she might do. The foreman’s vague promise of extra work hadn’t materialized and she was very short of money. How would I find a job like that? Do I knock on doors? It’s true what Sonny said, there are some big houses in Hull, even some in High Street. Some belong to shipping merchants who haven’t left to live in ’country. Then there’s Parliament Street. She was thinking of the houses in the old town a stone’s throw from her own room, where rich and poor lived cheek by jowl, although some of the rich were moving out to splendid mansions in the country now, or so she’d h
eard. And not only the country: she recalled the houses they had passed on the way to the cemetery. More and more substantial properties were being built on the outskirts as the town expanded.
But why would they tek me? I’ve no experience. I’ve onny ever cleaned out this room, though Ma allus said I scrubbed ’floor better than she did. And that’s what I’ll have to do if I’ve to move out. She blinked hard. A week, I’ve got, and then ‘home I’ve shared wi’ Ma all this time won’t be mine any more.
***
I almost gave the game away. Sonny heaved a breath as he left Polly at her door. He’d given her a kiss on her cheek and promised he would see her again soon. And he would. He meant to stay in Hull for a little while. He must buckle down to some work and earn his keep. Deep in thought, he headed towards Charlotte Street. It wasn’t exactly home but it was the place where he lived and worked when he wasn’t travelling.
He rented a loft above a stable which used to be home to a groom, for this was a mews area where the wealthy of Hull had once kept their horses and carriages. Since these worthy citizens had started to move out of town, not all the stables were required any longer and several of them were empty. Here in his loft, Sonny had a single bed, a comfy chair, a table where he could eat, and most important of all a large window overlooking a narrow courtyard, where he had set up his easel and another table to hold his paints and brushes. His canvases, some blank and some completed, were stacked against the wall.
It wasn’t that he wanted his occupation to be kept secret, but he preferred not to be questioned by those who would not understand his need or desire to express himself in art. Only his fellow painters knew of his hidden lair and they respected his privacy as he did theirs. And Ida had known.
He had explained to Polly how he had met her mother at the park. He’d been slightly intoxicated as he and his friends had flitted between inn and hostelry in celebration of his birthday. The day had started well when his aunt Ettie, or Henrietta as he called her when he wanted to tease, had told him that from that day on she was halving his allowance.
‘You must stand on your own feet now, dear boy,’ she’d said. ‘You have the talent to paint, though whether or not you will ever make a living from it remains to be seen. But the only way you will find out is to buckle down, and that begins today.’ She’d reached across to a side table to pick up an envelope. ‘Here are ten guineas. You may celebrate as you will, but out of it you’ll pay the rent on a studio in Charlotte Street Mews in Hull. I’ve already reserved it for you and paid the first week’s rent.’
She had smiled as he kissed the top of her head. ‘But you must say whether or not it is suitable, the light and so on. I don’t know about such things, but if it is, then you can buy whatever you need to furnish it and obtain your painting materials.’ She’d given a big sigh. ‘I hope I’ve done my best for you, Sebastian. I’ve done what I could, at any rate.’
He’d put his hand on her shoulder. ‘No one could have done better,’ he said. He was quite choked with emotion. He couldn’t remember what his mother looked like, but he could clearly recall the day when she had brought him to the house in Hessle and said she was leaving him with her sister, his aunt Ettie.
Aunt Ettie had crooked her finger at this three-year-old and said, ‘Come here, sonny. Let me take a look at you.’
He had tottered towards her and put up his arms. She had picked him up and put him on her lap. ‘Go,’ she had said to his mother. ‘And don’t come back until you’ve sorted out your life.’
His childhood was happy with Aunt Ettie which it hadn’t been before. He had moved from place to place with his mother, and no sooner were they settled than they would move on again. With Ettie he was secure and loved. She had never married but devoted her life to him and they had never seen his mother again.
Before he met his friends on that birthday he had gone to look at the mews studio. The sun was streaming through the window and the loft was full of light. He’d looked out from the top of the steps and seen that he was in the midst of real life. There were people living within walking distance who were poor but hard-working; there were churches where he could sketch, museums and reading rooms where he could study, theatres and music halls where he could be entertained. In short he was thrilled with the opportunity and his newfound freedom. This was the best day of his life, and then he’d met Ida.
She’d smiled at him and he’d smiled back and winked at the small girl by her side. They’d chatted and she’d told him their names. No, she’d said when he asked, she didn’t have a husband and she didn’t want one. She was several years older than him but he’d felt very grown up as they’d talked. He had told her that his name was Sonny Blake. They parted company but later that evening he’d met her again in one of the bars in town where she was working. He began to see her regularly and eventually he plucked up the courage to ask her if she’d sit for him.
‘I can’t afford to pay much,’ he’d told her. ‘I’m only a poor student.’
She’d shrugged. ‘Pay as much as you can afford,’ she’d said. ‘I know what it’s like to be poor.’
Ida had sat on his bed and looked over his shoulder, gazing into the distance, and he thought she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. It was true that he hadn’t met many up to now, but even when he had, later, he thought there were few who could match her natural unadorned beauty.
Inevitably they became lovers. She was the first for him and she calmed his youthful passion, curbing his eagerness and teaching him to give pleasure as well as take it.
He was always careful, as she had taught him to be, for she had told him that she mustn’t get pregnant. After a few years, when they had outgrown their passion for each other, they remained good friends and she often sat for him. He sold some of his paintings, signing as Sebastian, and with the money decided to travel to improve his knowledge of art. He left for Paris and Florence and whilst he was away she sat for an artist friend Bertram, who was able to pay more than he could. And it was Bertram, he suspected, who might have been the father of her unborn child and therefore instrumental in her early death.
He did little work that week. The light wasn’t good. The sky was heavy with snow and sleet, and besides he kept thinking of Ida in the cold earth and knew that if he did paint, it would be something dark. He thought too of Polly and wondered how he could help her. Somehow, he didn’t think that she would knock on doors asking for work, but he was sure that living in somewhere would be the answer for her. On the Friday morning he put on his coat and went out.
He went first of all to call on Bertram, who had a room in Percy Street. He found him stretched out on his sofa. His room was very dark and lit by a dim oil lamp.
‘Can’t work, old chap,’ Bertram greeted him. ‘I keep thinking I’ll up sticks and go abroad where the light is better. I’ve got to earn some money somehow.’
‘Did you hear about Ida?’ Sonny asked him.
Bertram rolled off the sofa. ‘No. What’s the darling girl been up to?’
‘She died.’ Sonny said flatly. ‘She was pregnant, seemingly – and she died.’
‘No!’ Bertram breathed. ‘Not the lovely Ida!’
‘Was it yours?’ Sonny asked abruptly. ‘The child?’
‘No.’ Bertram shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen her in months. She stopped coming. Said she could earn more money working in inns than she could sitting for me. Poor Ida! What about her daughter? What’s she going to do?’
‘That’s why I’ve come,’ Sonny said. ‘Do you know anybody who’d employ her?’
‘As a model?’
‘No. As a servant.’
But he didn’t, and Sonny went on his way. He cut through into Albion Street intending to go to the museum. He wanted to take a closer look at the shark in the glass case. When he’d told Polly he had been fishing, it was partly true. He had been on a fishing expedition, but to paint and not to fish. A trawler owner had offered him the trip but he’d spent most of the time lyin
g face down in his bunk trying to stave off waves of seasickness. By the time he had recovered they were heading back for the Humber. He had since decided that if he was going to paint the sea he would do it from imagination and memory rather than risk another voyage, but he was keen to look at the shark again to get the proportions right.
He walked down Albion Street, glancing up at the windows, for he was a keen observer, and then down into the basement area where the kitchens were. A woman dressed as a cook in a white apron and cap was giving instructions to another, who was wearing a grey dress and a white apron and a maid’s cap on her head.
‘No, put it higher,’ he heard the cook say. ‘Nobody’ll see it there.’
The maid reached up on her toes and stuck a card at the top of the window, pushing it into a gap in the frame. ‘There,’ she puffed. ‘Somebody’ll see it there all right. I just hope we’re doing right and don’t get into bother.’
‘Pah!’ the cook said. ‘It’s me as has to manage, not her upstairs.’
Sonny paused curiously. He couldn’t see what was written on the card, but was fairly sure it was a situation vacant sign. Mm, he thought. I’ll have a look at that on my way back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I’ve got to have somebody,’ Cook groused. ‘It’s no use Miss Rosalie saying we’ll wait until her pa gets home. He might not come for weeks.’
Martha looked anxious. ‘She’s probably worried that she’ll choose somebody unsuitable.’
‘Tell her I’ll interview ’em,’ Cook said. ‘I’m ‘one who’ll have to tell ’em what to do and when to do it. There’s no need for her to even see ’scullery maid.’
But when Martha put it to Miss Rosalie again, she was told that she couldn’t attend to the matter just now as she had more pressing things to do.
‘We can see to it, miss,’ Martha said. ‘Cook knows who she wants.’
Rosalie took a breath. How very tiresome servants were sometimes. What was the point of hiring someone new if she were not staying here? Her father might want to pack up and leave. She was, though, becoming increasingly worried as she had still not heard from him. He must be abroad, she thought. How dreadful for him when he does return and learns the news of my mother’s death.