by Dilly Court
With a triumphant roar, Sid threw himself down, catching hold of her ankles, his hands sliding up her bare legs and his fingers digging into her cold flesh. Kitty kicked out with all her strength. Freeing one foot, she lashed out and felt it connect with something so hard that she heard a bone crack. Sid howled with pain and let her go, giving her just enough time to scramble to her feet. She screamed for help but her voice was lost in the thick pea-souper. Dodging Sid’s outstretched hand, she did an about-face and tore off along the quay wall in the direction of home. She could hear Sid’s footsteps coming up behind her; he was gaining on her. Kitty sobbed with pain as her muscles cramped and went into spasm, and the fog filled her nose and mouth, suffocating her with its noxious fumes. She stumbled, falling to her knees. Curling herself into a ball, she waited for the inevitable blows from Sid’s fist, but he cannoned into her, knocking her flat on her face. She heard him grunt as he fell, followed by a splash, then total silence, broken only by the muted moan of a foghorn downriver and the lapping and sucking sounds of the river as it swallowed everything that fell into its greedy maw.
Dragging herself to the edge of the quay wall, Kitty peered down into the dark, roiling water; the tide had begun to ebb, carrying the flotsam and jetsam down to the sea.
Chapter Eleven
Placing advertisements in shop windows had been Maria’s idea. Handwritten cards inscribed with Betty’s name and ‘Dressmaker to ladies of fashion’ with the address clearly printed and a recommendation from ‘A Lady, wife of a prominent Member of Parliament’, seemed to do the trick and a flood of orders for gowns poured in from wealthy merchants’ wives who hitherto had only ordered the odd blouse or skirt. Betty did the cutting and Maria and Maggie sat up night after night, sewing seams until their fingers bled and their eyes were red-rimmed and sore. A sewing machine would make life easier but it was going to take months to save up enough money to purchase one. Sewing by hand was slow work and the merchants’ wives often kept them waiting for their money; in the meantime, they had to rely on Bella’s wages from the music hall.
After a successful first week, Bert, the manager, a leery old cove, with wandering hands and a partiality for blondes, had been pleased enough to keep Bella on. So far she had managed to hold off his amorous advances by playing up to him. She suffered a bit of cuddling and pawing, just enough to keep him happy, with the unspoken promise of further favours that she had no intention of fulfilling. It made Bella physically sick to encourage the old goat, but they were relying on her at home, and if she lost her job they would all go hungry.
In order to help with the household bills, Kitty had found herself work in the blacking factory, leaving at crack of dawn and coming home late, stinking of boot polish and covered from head to foot in sticky black dust. Bella had grown to love Kitty like a sister and she had tried to talk her out of factory work, but Kitty was as stubborn as she was loyal. She had ignored Bella’s warnings about the people driven mad by working with phosphorus in the match factory, their faces deformed by phossy jaw, or flour packers coughing up blood, their lungs destroyed by the dust. There was little to choose between labouring in a laundry and suffering chronic bronchitis, or slaving in the sweatshops on scandalously low wages.
Singing and dancing in the Palace of Varieties paid comparatively well and Bella had learned at an early age how to hold an audience. There was the buzz of excitement and a flutter of stage fright before each performance, and the intoxicating thrill of hearing the applause and cheers as she took her final bow. Rackham had often told her that greasepaint was in her blood and she had hotly denied it, but at least here, in the East End, she had nothing to prove except her talent as an entertainer. She was not on trial every minute of the day as she had been as Desmond’s wife, his embarrassing misalliance, with society watching and waiting for her to make a faux pas in speech or manners.
‘Miss Lane, five minutes, please.’ The call boy rapped on her dressing room door.
Bella dropped her powder puff and scrambled to her feet, smoothing down the creases in her pink taffeta gown, dragging herself back to reality. Checking her appearance in the mirror, she added a dash of rouge to her cheeks and curved her lips into a smile. Snatching up her parasol, she left the dressing room and made her way to the wings, waiting for her cue. She was second from bottom of the bill now, and in her tenth week at the Palace of Varieties. She could see Bert leering at her from the wings on the far side of the stage. As the orchestra struck up the opening bars of her intro, she blew him a kiss and danced out on the stage.
It was Friday night and she could feel the goodwill of the audience rising up on a waft of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. They were out for a good time and had responded noisily to the quips of the master of ceremonies. They had roared their approval of the tumblers, who had just come off stage after their energetic first act. Elated by the fizz of excitement skittering through her veins, Bella sashayed to the middle of the stage, blowing kisses in answer to the whistles and cheers. She went straight into a comedy song that soon had them tapping their feet in time to the music and laughing appreciatively at the risqué, cockney humour. She went through her lively dance routine, swaying seductively and then slowing down as the music changed from major to minor. Now she had them in the palm of her hand, ready for the sad ballad that would wring the hearts of the hardest and most cynical members of the audience. Coming to a dramatic halt centre stage, clasping her hands together against the exposed curves of her bosom, Bella raised her eyes to the gallery. With a tremulous smile, she swept her glance across the dress circle to the boxes on either side. She faltered as she saw him sitting there, nonchalantly leaning over the gilded parapet of the box. Rackham!
Bella missed her cue and, rapping his baton on the music stand, the conductor signalled the orchestra to repeat her intro. Somehow Bella managed to come in on the right note. The break in her voice, as she sang the heart-rending words, was so genuine that it held the audience rapt, until she finished on a sob of emotion. There was a moment of utter silence and then the whole theatre erupted in tumultuous applause. Bella took her bow with tears streaming down her cheeks to sympathetic murmurs and cheers, but they were tears of anger, and she was shaking with rage as she fled to her dressing room.
Almost immediately, the door was flung open and Bert erupted into the room, wrapping his arms around her and breathing stale beer in her face.
‘My little canary! What a performance!’
There was no room to manoeuvre or to escape his groping, pork-sausage hands, but Bella was too furious to play along with him this time. She slapped his hand away.
‘Leave me be.’
Bert’s jaw dropped and he began to gobble like a turkey. ‘Hold on, that’s not nice, girlie. You’d best remember who pays your wages. Songbirds like you are ten a penny so don’t get all hoity-toity with me.’
‘Is this man annoying you, my dear?’ Rackham demanded, leaning lazily against the doorjamb.
Bert’s face turned puce and he rounded on Rackham, stopping short at the sight of a gentleman, whose clothes and manner belonged so obviously to the gentry. ‘I’m the manager of this establishment, Sir.’
‘Then kindly go off and manage something,’ Rackham said, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off Bert’s lapel with his white kid gloves. ‘Miss Lane and I are good friends.’
Bert deflated like a pricked balloon, backing out of the dressing room, mumbling an apology.
‘No we’re not,’ Bella spat at him as the door closed. ‘You can get out of here too.’
‘My pet, that’s not very nice.’
‘Nice? Nice?’ Bella curled her fingers around her hand mirror, tempted to hit his smug face and rearrange his smile. ‘You bastard! You watched them take my baby away from me and then you disappeared. How dare you turn up as though nothing has happened.’
Rackham’s smile faded. ‘I’m sorry about Leonie. I truly am sorry.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ Bella snapped, dropping th
e mirror in disgust. ‘You went away again and left me. What was it this time? Fleeing your creditors or a wager that you couldn’t refuse?’
Rackham’s hand shot out, gripping Bella’s wrist so tightly that she yelped with pain. ‘Look at me, damn you. Do you really think I’m that much of a cad, Bella?’
His molten stare burned into Bella’s eyes and she found she couldn’t look away, but she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Yes, that’s just what I think. Where have you been all these months?’
Uncurling his fingers, Rackham released her with a casual shrug of his shoulders and a cynical smile. ‘I was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, if you must know.’
‘You were in jail? But your landlady told me you’d gone abroad.’ Rubbing her wrist, Bella stared at him in disbelief.
‘Your beloved husband pressed charges and the judge, in his wisdom, sent me down for six months. A bit of a harsh sentence for bopping Sir Desmond on the nose, don’t you think?’
‘That’s awful. I – I knew the police had arrested you, but that woman said you’d gone away and I believed her.’ Bella reached out and grasped his hand. ‘I am so sorry I misjudged you, Giles.’
He was silent for a moment, staring at their intertwined fingers. ‘No, you didn’t misjudge me, my pet,’ he said with a harsh laugh. ‘You know me only too well. I’m a scoundrel and a blackguard, but on this occasion I really didn’t mean to let you down.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘I knew you didn’t have any money and that the great and good Sir Desmond Mableton would rather see you starve in the gutter than to help you. I guessed that you’d be forced back to the old way of life, and I’ve spent the past couple of weeks touring the East End music halls. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Why would you care what happens to me, Giles?’
‘Maybe I have a sentimental streak, my love.’
‘Or perhaps that fat trollop who runs the gaming house isn’t so free with her favours these days?’
‘I’ve told you before, Bella, Sal Slater is a good friend with a big heart.’
‘And she hides it in an enormous chest,’ Bella said, snatching her hand away. ‘If you’re feeling lonely I suggest you go and seek refuge in her arms. I’m not for sale now or ever again.’
With a rueful smile, Rackham lifted her chin with his forefinger and brushed her lips with a kiss. ‘I don’t suppose you would believe that my motives for seeking you out were purely unselfish?’
‘Not in a million years! Go away, Rackham, I can manage well enough without you.’
‘I’m going,’ Rackham hesitated in the doorway, turning his head to give her a penetrating look. ‘Are you still in love with him, Bella?’
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘Edward will come back to me as soon as the war in South Africa is over. By that time I’m sure that Desmond will have divorced me and there’ll be nothing to stand in our way.’
‘I hope the gallant captain doesn’t let you down, my dear.’
‘Please leave, Giles. I’m on again after the intermission and I need to rest.’
‘At least allow me to see you safely home after the show.’
‘If you insist; just go now.’
Rackham handed Bella out of the cab in Tanner’s Passage. ‘My God, Bella,’ he said, frowning. ‘This is no place for you.’
‘It suits me fine,’ Bella said, pushing past him and rapping on the front door.
‘We’d have been living in the gutter if it hadn’t been for Betty Scully’s kindness.’
‘Even so, this is a dangerous place to live.’ Rackham caught her by the arm. ‘Come to Half Moon Street, and share my lodgings, until I can find somewhere that’s more suitable for you.’
Bella shook off his hand with a scornful laugh. ‘Thank you, but I feel safer with the sewer rats than with you.’
Maria opened the door, scowling when she saw Rackham. ‘So you’ve turned up again. You’re a bloody bad penny if ever there was one.’
‘And if you took me in, Giles dear,’ Bella said, chuckling, ‘you’d have to take my mother, Kitty and her sister, plus five small children. Goodnight, and thank you for the cab ride home.’
Early next morning, Bella set off for Dover Street in the pouring rain. Picking her way around the deep puddles, she could feel the damp soaking through the cardboard that she had used to pack the holes in her boots. The feathers on her hat clung damply round her face, sending trickles of water running down her neck. What had begun as an April shower had turned into a deluge and she could feel the rainwater running down her neck, soaking her to the skin. She quickened her pace, clutching the parcel wrapped in a scrap of oilcloth under her arm. Inside was the present for Leonie’s fourth birthday, a wooden doll with jointed arms and legs and hair painted glossy black, like a raven’s wing. For weeks, Bella had been saving the odd farthing or halfpenny by cutting short her omnibus ride and walking to the theatre. She was soaked to the skin by the time she boarded the omnibus in Cheapside, but she didn’t care; this was a special day and she was determined to see Leonie.
The longing to see her child was a permanent ache in her heart; Leonie might even have forgotten her by now or, worse still, think that Mama had left her because she didn’t love her. Bella bit her bottom lip to stop herself from crying, staring out of the grimy window with unfocused eyes.
The horse-drawn omnibus trundled through the City, stopping to put passengers down and pick up new ones. Bella had done this journey many times over the past few months, even though she was tired after late nights at the Palace of Varieties. She sighed and closed her eyes.
How many hours had she spent watching the house in Dover Street, waiting for the new nanny to take Leonie for a walk to the park just so that she could get a glimpse of her baby? Her whole life centred on her determination to get Leonie back, but first she had to provide her with a secure and stable home. The rough and tumble of Tanner’s Passage was not for Leonie; she would be brought up in a decent house, in a respectable district, far away from the slums of the East End. Leonie’s lungs would not be polluted with the stench of industrial waste and sewage that contaminated the river. She would not play in the street with lice-ridden, barefoot urchins who used the language of the gutter. Leonie’s youth and innocence would not be taken away from her before she had reached womanhood. Bella wriggled her toes inside her wet boots and shivered. Her daughter would not be sold to a man old enough to be her father; Leonie would marry for love. Bella heaved another sigh as she stared out of the window at the city streets. She would claw her way back to top billing in the West End, or die in the attempt. And if that meant allowing lecherous old men like Bert to give her a quick fondle every now and again, then that was just the way things were.
She arrived in Dover Street just in time to see the nanny walking down the street holding Leonie by the hand. Bella’s heart did a somersault and her eyes misted over at the sight of Leonie’s sturdy little legs working hard to keep time with the nanny’s brisk steps. Following at a discreet distance, Bella had to stop herself from running up to them and snatching Leonie up in her arms. She had toyed with the idea of abducting her own daughter, but Desmond had the law on his side and she didn’t; it was as simple as that. If she could just let Leonie see her, speak to her now and then, reassure her that Mama loved her and wanted her, the waiting would be worthwhile. She would never give up, never.
The nanny, a big woman sailing along like a tea clipper under full canvas, whose corsets must be creaking like ropes stretched taut as the wind filled the sails, crossed Piccadilly, heading for Green Park. Closing the gap between them, Bella could hear Leonie’s high-pitched voice complaining that her legs ached. The nanny ignored Leonie’s pleas to be picked up and carried.
Callous bitch, Bella thought, I’d like to give her a piece of my mind. It was torture to have to walk behind them as though nothing mattered, but somehow she forced herself to do it.
When they reached the park, the walks were crowded
with nannies pushing perambulators. Leonie’s nanny moored herself to a park bench near the bandstand and began chatting to another of her calling, as if they were old acquaintances. Set free from the iron hand, Leonie bounded off to play beneath the trees with a group of small children. The sun had fought its way through a featherbed of grey clouds and Bella stood watching with tears in her eyes as Leonie danced around on the grass beneath the candlestick blossoms of horse chestnut trees.
When she was certain that the women were too deeply engrossed in conversation to notice, Bella moved stealthily towards Leonie, as if she were stalking a wild woodland creature. When she was close enough, she knelt down on the damp grass and called softly. Leonie stopped gyrating and stared, plugging her thumb into her mouth.
‘Leonie, darling! It’s Mama. Don’t you recognise me, sweetheart?’
Leonie hesitated for a moment and then shook her head, backing away.
‘Don’t be afraid, dear. I’ve brought you a birthday present.’ Bella tore the oilcloth wrapping from the doll and held it out towards Leonie.
‘My mama is in heaven with the angels,’ Leonie said, eyeing the doll doubtfully.
Bella caught her breath on a muffled sob. How could Desmond be so cruel as to tell the child that she was dead? He had threatened he would but she hadn’t thought him evil enough to carry it through. She edged a little closer, shuffling on her knees. ‘No, Leonie! Mama had to go away for a while but I’m here now, just to wish you a happy birthday, darling.’