The Dollmaker's Daughters

by Dilly Court

  ‘What’s your name, girl?’

  ‘Rosetta Capretti, Miss.’

  ‘You call me Madame. I am Madame Smithsova and you do like I say. I will not have girls in my troupe who do not give one hundred per cent of themselves to their art.’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’ Rosetta glanced at the girls who were openly grinning at her, obviously enjoying seeing someone else get the rough end of Madame’s tongue for a change. They were all wearing short dresses with net skirts, pink cotton tights and ballet shoes; Rosetta felt overdressed and as conspicuous as a bluebottle on an iced bun.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ Madame said, striking the floor with her ebony cane. ‘Don’t waste time, girl. You are holding up the rehearsal.’

  Feeling her face glow with embarrassment, there was nothing Rosetta could do but obey and she peeled off her outer clothes until she stood barefoot and shivering in her shift and bloomers. Whispers and giggling from the girls stopped abruptly as Madame rapped her cane on the floor. ‘Silence. I will not have this bad behaviour in my class. Rosetta, go to the end of the barre and follow what the others do.’

  Rosetta went to stand behind a pretty girl with flaming red hair and freckles.

  ‘Just watch me, love,’ she said, with a sympathetic smile. ‘Me name’s Tilly, by the way.’

  Madame rapped her cane on the floor. ‘The four positions, girls, followed by rond de jambe à terre and pliés. And one, and two and three and four. Keep your back straight, Rosetta. Watch Tilly. And one, and two …’

  By the end of the morning Rosetta was aching all over and almost dropping with exhaustion.

  ‘That was terrible. You are clumsy elephants, all of you.’ Madame emphasised her words by poking those nearest her with her cane. ‘You are not fit for the circus, let alone the chorus at the Falstaff. You may have a ten minute break and then we will practise your dance routines.’ She sailed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Everyone began to talk at once, slumping down on the floor, massaging their aching leg muscles and rubbing their sore feet.

  ‘Anyone would think we was in the corps de bleeding ballet,’ grumbled Tilly.

  ‘I never thought we’d have to go through all this,’ Rosetta whispered. ‘Is it like this every day?’

  Tilly nodded. ‘Today she’s in a good mood. Watch out for her when she’s in a bad ’un.’

  ‘Wish I’d got a pair of bloomers like yours.’ A bold-looking girl with suspiciously brassy blonde hair sauntered over to them, looking down her nose at Rosetta. ‘What’s your talent then? Selling ice cream from a barrow?’

  ‘Aw, leave her be, Aggie,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Pardon me for breathing,’ Aggie said, tossing her head. ‘Best lend your little Eyetie friend a pair of tights, Tilly, afore we all kills ourselves laughing.’

  Rosetta jumped to her feet. ‘I ain’t ashamed of being half Italian but I’m a Londoner born and bred. You keep your smart remarks to yourself, or I’ll fetch you a smack on the kisser.’

  Aggie’s brown eyes flashed. ‘Just try it.’

  ‘Stop, stop,’ cried Tilly, scrambling up and placing herself between them. ‘Ain’t it bad enough us being shouted at by Madame without you two carrying on something chronic?’

  ‘She started it,’ Aggie said, backing away.

  ‘No I never.’ Rosetta couldn’t let that pass and for a moment it looked as though Aggie was about to retaliate.

  ‘Scrap,’ someone shouted and the girls crowded round, seeming to have forgotten their aching limbs, their faces alight with anticipation of a fight. Aggie squared up to Rosetta, who stood her ground, and it might have ended in a hair-pulling, face-scratching match had not the door opened at that moment.

  ‘Hey, Rosetta!’ Billy Noakes stood in the doorway, his thumbs tucked in his wide leather belt, and his hazel eyes gleaming with undisguised admiration as he glanced at the scantily clad girls. ‘Morning, ladies.’ He doffed his cap with a flourish, bowing from the waist, which drew a giggling response and a general flutter of excitement.

  Rosetta felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment at being caught in her underwear, and she crossed her arms over the expanse of breast not covered by her shift. No man, not even Poppa or Joe, had seen her in her undergarments. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her as Billy eyed her up and down, with an appreciative grin and a twinkle in his eyes that made her heart thump even faster.

  ‘Well, hello,’ said Aggie, sidling over to Billy. ‘What’s your moniker, dearie?’

  ‘Billy Noakes, costermonger and man of business. I’d give you me card but I’m waiting for a fresh supply from me printers.’

  ‘Come and see the show tonight, Billy Noakes,’ Aggie said, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Aggie Brown is always open to offers of a pie and mash supper with a good-looking fella, and afterwards I could show you a good time, like.’

  Forgetting her embarrassment, Rosetta darted forward, her hands itching to slap Aggie’s brazen face, but she stopped short as Madame Smithsova marched into the room, bristling like a hedgehog. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ She poked Billy in the ribs with her cane. ‘No gentlemen are allowed in my rehearsal rooms. Is this your doing, Miss Capretti?’

  ‘Don’t blame her, missis,’ Billy said, flashing her a smile that would melt bricks. ‘Begging your pardon for interrupting, but I comes with a message from her poor, sick father and I can see that you’re a lady what understands the importance of family life.’

  Madame’s eyebrows knotted together like two snakes mating, but her thin lips quivered into something like a smile. ‘It’s against the rules, but …’

  Billy grabbed her round her plump waist and kissed her rouged cheek. ‘I knew you for a good ’un, missis. I won’t keep Miss Capretti more than a couple of ticks.’ He grabbed Rosetta by the arm and dragged her out into the corridor.

  ‘Wh-what d’you mean by coming here, Billy? How did you find me?’ Rosetta’s teeth chattered with cold, so that she could barely speak.

  Billy took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘You’ll catch your death, prancing round half naked.’

  The jacket was warm from his body and the scent of him lingered in the cloth: the sooty smell of the London peculiar, Macassar oil and leather; a tangy mix that was his alone. Rosetta dragged her mind back to the present. ‘What d’you want, Billy?’

  ‘I brung that daft girl back to Raven Street on me cart. Found her bawling her eyes out on the pavement outside your place. I just managed to get her name out of her and where she lived.’

  ‘I sent her to collect me things from home. I ain’t got nothing decent to wear.’

  Billy grinned. ‘You look good to me just as you are, girl.’

  ‘Don’t be coarse,’ Rosetta said, hugging the jacket round her and trying to look mortified, even though worms of excitement wriggled in her stomach at the warmth in his tone and the hot look in his eyes. ‘Did she fetch me duds or didn’t she? And how come you was at ours anyway?’

  ‘I got to thinking about them dollies that your old man couldn’t sell to the wholesalers. What with Christmas coming up and then that business with Father Brennan, I guessed things might be a bit tight and I know Ruby was worried sick about the whole thing.’

  ‘Rosetta.’ Tilly stuck her head round the door of the rehearsal room. ‘Madame says come back this instant or you’ll be out of a job.’

  ‘Coming,’ Rosetta said, handing Billy his jacket. ‘I’d say it was none of your business and what d’you care anyway?’

  Billy shrugged on his jacket. ‘Suit yourself.’

  He turned to go but Rosetta caught him by the sleeve. ‘Don’t mess me about, Billy. Did Elsie get my stuff or not?’

  ‘You’re a prize one, you are. Don’t you never think of no one but yourself?’

  ‘Hurry up, do,’ Tilly said, beckoning furiously.

  ‘If you come just to have a laugh at my expense, you can sling your hook.’ Rosetta tossed her head, turning away. �
�Ruby will sort it out for me.’

  ‘No need to go off in a sulk,’ Billy said. ‘What time d’you finish here?’

  ‘Five o’clock,’ Tilly said, dragging Rosetta into the rehearsal room. ‘Sooner if you don’t make yourself scarce.’

  If Rosetta had found the practice session hard, then the rehearsals that went on all afternoon were even more gruelling. The rest of the troupe knew the steps but Madame made them go over and over each routine like a drill sergeant, until they were perfectly in time. In the brief rest periods, Rosetta was laced into whalebone stays that threatened to stop her breathing altogether, and fitted out with several different costumes by the wardrobe mistress.

  ‘Back here by six sharp,’ Tilly said as they struggled into their own clothes at the end of the afternoon. ‘Don’t be late for Gawd’s sake and don’t eat nothing heavy or you’ll throw up all over the front row.’

  Rosetta giggled in spite of the pain in her cramped muscles and the blisters on her sore feet. ‘I’m fagged out. I don’t think I’ll make it back to me digs, let alone give a performance tonight.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Tilly said, wrapping a woollen shawl around her head and shoulders. ‘I just hope it ain’t snowing. Me chilblains is playing up something chronic.’

  Outside it was raining steadily, a drenching downpour that hit the pavements and bounced straight up again in tiny dancing fountains. Rosetta paused in the doorway bracing herself for the inevitable cold shower, putting off the moment, wondering whether it might be best to hang around the theatre for an hour rather than get soaked to the skin. She barely looked up as the rumble of cartwheels approached, slowed down and stopped in front of her and she was about to turn back into the theatre when she heard Billy calling her name. She hesitated for a moment and then, picking up her skirts, she ran across the pavement, splashing through deep puddles. Billy held out his hand and pulled her up onto the seat beside him, giving her an umbrella to hold. He flicked the reins and his old horse plodded obediently forward.

  ‘I never thought you’d come,’ Rosetta said, huddling down in the shelter of the umbrella.

  ‘Said I would, didn’t I?’ Billy said, not looking at her as he concentrated on driving through the crowd of carts, hackney carriages and hansom cabs that thronged Old Street.

  ‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Billy, just because I let you drive me home. I’m dead set on making me way in the theatre and I ain’t got time for spooning.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

  ‘So why are you putting yourself out for me and my family? What’s in it for you?’

  ‘Maybe nothing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. There’s always something in it for Billy Noakes.’

  Billy turned his head and grinned at her. ‘It’s nearly Christmas, ain’t that good enough reason?’

  Rosetta stared at him, but he had turned his attention back to the road, the driving made more difficult by people pouring out of shops, threading their way in and out between moving vehicles, and dazzling reflections of naphtha flares from market stalls with ragged puddles of gas light fraying out on the wet cobbles. Rosetta couldn’t quite get the measure of Billy Noakes. He was a chancer and no doubt mixed up in all sorts of funny business; it was probably best not to think too hard about the way he made his money. Flashing him a covert glance from beneath the umbrella, Rosetta studied his profile as he concentrated on the road ahead. He was good-looking, in a flashy sort of way, and she sensed that beneath the charm and soft soap there lurked a will as strong her own.

  ‘Now then,’ Billy said, flicking the reins so that the horse drew to a halt at the corner of Spivey Street and Tobacco Court. ‘D’you want to go in and see your folks?’

  ‘No, just get me things for me, there’s a sport, Billy.’

  ‘Don’t you even want to see your dad?’

  ‘Are you going in there or not?’

  Billy stared at her, his eyebrows raised, and then he laughed. ‘I never met no one as selfish as you, Rosetta. Me own self excepted, that is.’

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ Rosetta said stiffly. ‘Now are you going to get me things for me, or do I have to go in there and upset everyone all over again?’

  Chapter Three

  Early on the morning of Christmas Eve, Ruby arrived at Bronski’s sweatshop in Henchard Alley, off Whitechapel Road. The wholesalers’ refusal to take the dolls had been a bitter blow, and, in typical fashion, Rosetta had forfeited her wages by walking out of her job. Reluctantly, Ruby had come to the conclusion that there was only one way out of a desperate situation. Wearing Rosetta’s red shawl and with her hair bunched up on top, tied with a scrap of red ribbon, Ruby knew she could pass for her sister as long as she kept her mouth shut. They might be identical in looks, but their voices were as dissimilar as those of a lark and a dove. Rosetta had the Italian love of music in her soul and the singing voice to go with it; even in ordinary conversation, her voice rose and fell in fluid arpeggios. Ruby was painfully aware that her own voice, although soft and low, had none of those magical qualities, and would give her away as soon as she uttered a word.

  She stood in line with the other workers waiting to be let into the single-storey brick building that had once been a smithy but now housed Bronski’s clothing empire. Women and girls of all ages queued in the bitter cold predawn, blinking sleep from their eyes, yawning and shuffling their feet. Ruby knew them all by name as Rosetta, who was a born mimic, had made everyone at home fall about laughing with her spirited impersonations. First there was Jacob Bronski, the exiled Russian Jew, who made his living by extorting the last ounce of effort from his workers with a mixture of bullying and pleading. Then there were the women who sat, hour on hour, working the treadle machines: fat Nan, dotty Dora, little Winnie and Mad Mabel. Ruby knew she would be able to recognise the supervisor, Vinegar Lil, by her needle-sharp features and her thin, dun-coloured hair scraped back into a bun. Then there were the cutters, who worked the band-saw machine, slicing through great wodges of cloth and occasionally losing a finger or two in the process. The youngest girls, some as young as seven or eight, picked up the threads, swept the floors and did the fetching and carrying. The woman mountain standing beside Ruby had to be Big Biddy, who slaved away in the steam heat using the gas-jet iron; she was easily identifiable not only by her size, but by her muscular forearms, knotted and scarred like rope with old and fresh burns.

  Biddy nudged Ruby in the ribs. ‘Oy, you might have told us you was taking time off. We’ve had to say you was took sick.’

  Ruby smiled, pointing to her throat and speaking in a hoarse whisper. ‘Lost me voice.’

  ‘It’s a wonder any of us can speak, let alone breathe proper.’ The woman in front of Ruby, who couldn’t be anybody other than fat Nan, hawked and spat on the pavement. ‘Me lungs is so full of fluff that I could cough up a woolly hat.’

  A tiny woman, with the figure of a child and the face of a wizened monkey, slipped her hand into Ruby’s, giving it a squeeze. ‘What’ll we do without Rose to give us a giggle?’

  Ruby smiled down at her; this must be little Winnie. She was beginning to put faces to names.

  ‘Get on inside and stop gassing.’ Vinegar Lil marched up from behind them to unlock the workshop door. ‘Get a move on or you’ll make up the wasted time at the end of the day.’

  ‘Day,’ muttered fat Nan, ‘it’s bloody nighttime when we finish.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Lil said, glaring at Nan as she waddled into the dark interior of the workshop. As Ruby hurried past, Lil prodded her in the shoulder. ‘Nice of you to turn up for work, my lady. What’s up with you then, Rose? Cat got your tongue today?’

  ‘More like a frog in the throat,’ Biddy said, grinning and barging past Lil, who jumped clear.

  Ruby was quick to notice that Lil didn’t take Biddy on, but that was hardly surprising as Biddy was head and shoulders taller than any of the other women and beefy as an all-in wrestler; more like a man in a woman’s frock.
Ruby hesitated in the doorway, peering into the gloom. The smell of the forge still lingered in the smoke-blackened brick and timber, mixing with the rancid odour of damp wool and sweat. The air was thick with dust and lint, making Ruby want to retch, although the others seemed not to notice and hurried to their workstations. There was only one place left and that was at a treadle machine in the corner of the room. Ruby went to it and sat down. No wonder Rosetta walked out of here, she thought, watching the others carefully and copying their actions as best she could. The light was poor, even when Lil lit the gas lamp that hung in the centre of the room; Ruby’s corner was in such deep shadow that she couldn’t see how to thread the machine.

  ‘Here,’ said Winnie, leaning over the table. ‘You still feeling poorly, Rose?’

  Ruby nodded.

  ‘Let me.’ Winnie moved across and had the machine threaded before Vinegar Lil had realised that the two machines in the corner were not whirring away with the rest.

  ‘Ta,’ whispered Ruby, watching Winnie set to work with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Everyone was busy. The youngest girls scuttled to and fro like small, spider crabs, in response to Lil’s rapid-fire orders. The older women had their heads down, their hands guiding the material and their feet working the treadles like an army marching at the double. Concentrating hard, Ruby tried to copy them but was pounced upon by Vinegar Lil. Her work was held up and ridiculed and Lil clipped her round the ear for good measure. Humiliated, and with her ear stinging painfully, Ruby studied Winnie’s expert handling of the sewing machine and made an effort to copy her deft movements. By the end of the morning Ruby had almost mastered the temperamental treadle. Her back ached, her eyes were sore and her fingers blistered and bleeding from catching them on the pins, but she was determined to persevere. How long she would be able to stand working in this living hell, she didn’t know, but if she could just keep going until Poppa recovered then she could go back to helping him in the arches. Making dolls was not something she had ever wanted to do, but someone had to help Poppa. With Joe apprenticed to a respectable trade, and Rosetta being too flighty, there had been no choice. Ruby had gone into it willingly enough, setting aside her dream of studying nursing at the London Hospital, but ambition still burned deep within her like an unquenchable fire. She knew that it was almost impossible for a girl of her class to become a qualified nurse, but that did not stop her devouring the second-hand medical books that she bought for a penny or twopence in Spitalfields market.