‘I will ask my mother to take note of any complaints from the readers of her books, Father Beale – after all, they are the best judges, I think.’
‘No, they are not! Not by a long chalk!’ Poor Father Beale’s face was still a kaleidoscope of the colours of vegetables and fruit. I had to admit it had been a difficult discussion for him. And just when I’d thought I was rid of him, he said: ‘There is one other matter, Miss Sparrow!’
‘What?’ I really felt I had enough on my plate for that one Sunday.
‘It seems you sent some sort of medical bill, “endorsed” by me, on behalf of your mother, to the Vatican Bank. It has of course been returned to sender – and, as you well know, Miss Sparrow, I did not endorse or send anything of the kind. I wonder, Miss Sparrow, what inspired you to do such a thing. I presume it was the night of the “rabid” possum scratch! Why, Miss Sparrow, did you do it?’
‘They could afford it and we could not, Father Beale.’
And it seemed he was unable to find a suitable answer other than to tell me how embarrassing it had been for him. He then mumbled something about not wanting to be late for his preparation for Mass, and something about altar boys and measles.
He ping-ponged away to distribute holiness and doubt, and invitations to the church’s ‘white elephant stall’ to pay for pew repairs, before he ended his day at the steamy window of the laundry . . . Scritch, scritch to make a peephole.
*
‘Did I hear voices, love?’
‘It was Father Beale. He’d come to complain.’
‘What on earth about?’
‘That we were corrupting minds with our books, in particular Mr Biddle’s. What was the last book you lent him?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘I think it must have had homosexual content!’
‘Oh, really, love. Perhaps it was our dear Oscar W.’
‘And I think he wants you to read the Bible to Tom Gardiner.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that. It’s all violence and death. It would upset Mr Gardiner far too much.’
Rosy eventually came out of our cell, blinking and heavy-eyed like a mole from a hole. She was bent over slightly, and held her bedsheet close to her, scrunched into a ball.
‘Could I have another hot tea now, Aria? Oh, hello, Mother.’
‘Rosy, love. You’ve been asleep for such a long time, I missed you. And you’re very pale. Let me look at you.’
And she did – very closely.
‘You’re not well, Rosy. Are you having a heavy period, love?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I think there’s something different about it, isn’t there?’
‘What do you mean? Why do you ask?’
‘Did you have to go to a doctor for it, love? I didn’t think it was a party, Rosy. I think it was something much more important than that. You just didn’t want to worry us, love, am I right?’
She knew! That sparrow could have knocked me over with a feather.
‘Yes. I mean, no . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother, but I’m feeling better already.’
‘I just hope you were safe, love.’
‘Of course I was safe.’ Rosy and Hanora regarded each other and read each other’s eyes. ‘Do you think I’ve had an abortion? Is that what you think?’ Rosy began to cry.
‘Don’t cry, love. A mother’s instinct, I suppose.’
‘I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry!’
‘I think you’re saying sorry to the wrong being. But these things unfortunately happen. I think you probably made the right decision. You should rest as much as you can.’
‘I was on my way to the laundry.’
‘We’ll attend to your laundry, Rosy. After your tea, go and lie down again, love.’
But guess who will really do the laundry. I doled out tea like someone in a soup kitchen – silent and listening, and unbelievably struck dumb for the moment. Hanora, I decided, was indeed a sparrow wise and quick. I only had to grow a little older to be the same, I expected.
‘You will say if you need to go to the medical centre, love?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘It’s an awful thing that’s happened to you, love, but we’ll get through it – like everything else. You must have been very frightened.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything. About how it happened . . . Who it was.’
‘I don’t want to know who it was, Rosy, but of course I do know how these things happen.’
‘Thank you.’ Rosy kissed Hanora. ‘You’ve just had so much to worry about. I’m ashamed.’
Bleeding hell! Dear little Rosy! Not a soul knew about mine! Now, there you have it! It’s out at last! Mine would have been a disgrace, or simply pure bloody stupidity. Rosy’s abortion had become an angel’s triumph over unspeakable violation, and a virgin’s downfall of heavenly proportions. She could easily have set herself up as the holy star in a Christmas play. Nativity scenes everywhere should have a Rosy!
‘We’ll all be out of this place soon, love,’ Hanora said to Rosy. ‘Aria is to see the Minister in the next few days, and we’ll be able to live normal lives. You’ll see – our Aria will fix things.’
And this part of the Sparrow play is even bloodier than you, Rosy – but there you are, Rosy! No problems! The family anti-Christ is to be sacrificed at the earliest. I am to wear low-cut pink and white and be a young and shining sparrow with pulsating breast feathers. No trouble, Rosy, as long as you’re safe. In the Minister’s office I’ll try to disguise a very sharp beak and the truth behind my big, brown sparrow eyes. I’ll try to stop my feathers flying, just for you, Rosy!
*
The sheet was not too badly stained. It was a relief.
In the laundry, where nothing of a material nature is missed, and all souls are bared, a washerwoman decorated with pinny and pegs said: ‘Had a bit of trouble with the monthly?’
‘No, not me. My sister.’
‘I used to flood now and then. A bloody nuisance! Why isn’t she washing it out herself, Aria?’
‘I’ve got undies to do anyway.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said the washerwoman – and did I see her tap her nose?
‘What are you modelling at the moment, darling?’ said another.
And I told them the good news.
‘I can’t wait to parade down a catwalk. I’m very excited.’
‘Will you let us know when you’re on? I’d like to watch you.’
‘Me too.’
‘Me too.’
And were those Father Beale’s eyes stuck to the steamy scritch in the glass?
‘Him too!’ said another woman, pointing with her thumb, and the laundry laughed.
*
I wasn’t quite sure what my work schedule was for the week, so after I’d washed the clothes and sheet I rang Leon from the ’phone box.
‘I’m glad you rang, Aria. It’s a bugger not being able to contact you.’
‘What’s up?’
‘The Weekly wants you tomorrow, and I want you in the morning, and there’s a charity parade on Tuesday night.’
‘The Lord be praised! What time do you want me tomorrow?’
‘Early.’
‘Eight-thirty?’
‘See you then.’
‘Leon . . .’
‘What?’
‘Thanks a million!’
In 19B Edward I cleared the ironing board. There were dresses to be pressed. Shoes to be cleaned. Hair to be washed. Tanning lotion ready in the bathroom – everything ready for an early start. I would be quiet. I didn’t want to disturb the violated and downfallen in their cells. I hoped that didn’t sound cruel, but if it did I’m not sorry.
Mr Booth at the Weekly wanted me to have fallen from a palm tree, scratched and ragged and almost dead. Coming, as I had, from a corrugated-iron Camp of madness, sadness and other misfortunes, I found this new request not in the least difficult. Once again Mr Booth congratulated me on
my ability to fall so easily into the part.
‘You should take up acting – truly!’
‘Thank you. It would be nice, but I can’t afford it.’
‘A pity,’ he said.
‘And you should be a true painter,’ I said. ‘You’re as good, if not better, than any other true painter.’
‘A pity,’ he said.
The Studio
Back at the studio it was cold cream to be ‘loved’, with window cleaner as an encore. Leon gave me the address of the Tuesday charity parade. It was a private home, but never mind; it was to be a real-life parade down a runway, and let no one spit on it!
‘You’re to be there at seven,’ said Leon. ‘The clothes will be there waiting. There’ll be three other girls working with you.’
I expected that during that week I would make a decent wage. I thought seriously about what was expected of me at my first true parade.
Too many catwalk parades remind me of a flock of store dummies, brought to some sort of exquisite half-life for the job. I decided that I would try to be different – be amusing, a personality of sorts, an actor if you like. I decided to give life to the clothes I wore – flirt a little, so that the men would enjoy themselves and not mind their wives opening their wallets. After all, everything I did was for money – my money, the charity money, the caterer’s money, the leisure wear–maker’s money. Everyone I dealt with was no better or worse than a prostitute.
‘Will you be nervous?’ Leon asked.
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
‘Will you be there?’
‘No, darling. It’s by invitation and twenty-five pounds a head.’
‘Bloody hell! What sort of a place is this?’
‘You’ll see. Try not to faint.’
*
I did try not to faint, Leon. But great balls of fire! The house was white marble and pink stone as far as the eye could see. It was like an hotel by an Italian lake, with curves and columns and a sweeping stepway down to the harbour. It was not a million miles away from where father Sparrow had once lived. I’d always thought of that place as a fairly decent stack of timber, but in fact, father Sparrow’s family house could have been the tool shed at the back of this one – if it had done itself up first.
Janine, Lorraine and Angela were the three girls I was to work with that night. Janine was tall and blonde, with cheekbones that could have sliced bread, and Lorraine and Angela were just as chiselled, but a little shorter. Lorraine’s hair was the colour of dark honey and wound in a knot on top of her head, like a ballet dancer. They were closer to coathanger material than anyone I’d worked with. They had the height, the three girls, but they didn’t have anything like my currencies. We were taken into a dressing room, and given our clothes and our instructions by a sophisticated representative of the manufacturer who was to conduct the parade.
‘There’ll be about two hundred here. They’ve opened up two reception rooms and the terrace,’ she said. ‘It’s a beautiful night, so just relax, girls, and enjoy yourselves. Remember, a happy mannequin means happy sales.’
I was covered in gooseflesh from excitement.
‘I apologise for this room.’ A beautifully groomed middle-aged woman was peeping around the doorway. She wore beaded cream silk and a choker of black pearls. ‘It is a bit cramped, I’m afraid. I hope you will manage.’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ said Janine. Janine had a slight overbite that did her looks no harm at all.
‘We’ll manage perfectly well,’ said Angela.
‘It’s all absolutely beautiful!’ I said, and I thought, Good grief! This room is bigger than the whole of 19B Edward.
I was not at all nervous. I floated on air. I just wished Leon could have been there, and Hanora, and even Rosy.
The charity parade was a success. Judging from the applause and the closing speech, I think a great deal of money was raised. The girls looked beautiful. Lorraine, Janine and Angela sailed up and down as gracefully as floats on water. But I didn’t think I had done too badly for a first time. I finished my strut on the catwalk with a Betty Grable pose. I posed for a moment with my back to the audience, hands on hips, and looked over my shoulder and winked and smiled at no one in particular. Legs, bottom and tits – never failed.
The clothes had been auctioned, and I had no idea which charity benefitted. I was sorry about that. Too full of myself, I expect, and maybe there had been a little nervousness – suppressed of course. I would never have admitted to it.
Back in the dressing room, preparing to leave, Janine said: ‘You’re not bad, kid.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
Praise indeed, coming from a true coathanger.
We were paid and offered taxi fares. I accepted, of course, but I didn’t tell them how far it was – or what it was. It was a long ride home. It was a long time before my coach had a chance to be a pumpkin again.
‘How much further?’ The driver asked, like a child’s Are we there yet?
‘Not much.’ But suddenly I didn’t want to be anywhere near the Camp. I wished I could have asked him to turn around and go back where there was music and where the lights shone on the water. But it was too late.
‘You live here?!’ The taxi driver remarked, fairly rudely, I thought, when we eventually arrived at the Camp. Couldn’t blame him, I suppose.
‘I’ve taken a vow of poverty,’ I said with great modesty. ‘May the Lord guide you safely home. Good night.’ I had enough to give him a tip. It was well past midnight.
19B Edward was in darkness. I turned the key as quietly as possible. Hanora and Rosy were fast asleep. I curled up in the bed in my cell and hardly slept a wink. The night had been too enchanting – too exciting. I knew I had to ‘love’ toothpaste the next morning, and I knew I was bound to be ‘puffy’. I hoped Leon might agree to me closing my ‘night before’ eyes while I squeezed the tube.
*
‘Rosy? How are you?’
I blinked into the bathroom. I had dozed at the wrong time, and had missed the early bus. In the main cell, Rosy was making breakfast! Rosy was making tea?! And cooking something that smelled like bacon. Bacon?!
‘Bit of a shock, Rosy, seeing you slaving over a hot stove. Where did the bacon come from?’
‘I bought it. You’ll have time for some, I hope. There are eggs too, if you want them.’
‘Rosy?’
‘What?’
‘We know you don’t earn enough for bacon and eggs.’
‘Well, I do now.’
‘You’ve been promoted, have you? Where’s Hanora?’
‘She went to the laundry. She’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Where did you get the money, Rose?’
‘I earned it. Every penny of it.’
‘I bet you did. Did the man who knocked you up give you money?’
‘If you must know – yes! Quite a lot, as a matter of fact.’
‘Rosy!’
‘I see nothing wrong with that. I deserved compensation.’
‘Is that what it’s called now? He’s married, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a bastard! What on earth attracted you to him?’ I had a fleeting picture of Eli Boston trembling and paying for silence.
‘Please let it be, Aria. I never want to talk about it again. Have some breakfast before you go.’
‘Well, I suppose eating pig bought with the proceeds from another makes sense. I feel a bit like a cannibal.’
I grabbed a rasher of bacon and a slice of dry bread, checked my make-up case, had a quick all-over wash, dressed and ran.
‘Say goodbye to Hanora for me.’
The Studio
‘You’re nearly an hour late!’ Leon said. ‘It’s put everything back.’
‘I’m sorry. There wasn’t time to make a call. Don’t be cross with me.’
Leon, after a sleepless night, or an uncomfortable night with his partner, Max, had sometimes taken the shine off a mo
rning – but somehow this was different. I sensed something different.
‘We have a tight schedule here – you can’t muck about on catwalks and roll in late with rings under your eyes.’
‘I’m not under contract to Boston’s, Leon.’
‘No – but I don’t think you’d like to lose us, would you? There’s plenty more where you came from.’
‘Leon! You’ve never spoken to me like that before.’ Of course he had, in a way, but not like this. ‘What is it, really?’
A silent and irritated pause. He could have been the mute woman, fussing about with equipment. He stamped about and tripped over a cable and made himself cough.
‘Well, if you want to know, I’m bloody well fed up with everything. I have a headache. I’ve been here since seven. I send you off to a posh job and I’m stuck here waiting an hour for you to turn up for bloody toothpaste! What sort of thanks is that?’
‘Leon – I love you and everything you’ve done for me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’m really sorry I was late. I missed the bus. Don’t be angry.’ There was no sense in my telling him about the tin shed of sparrows with bloodied feathers I’d left behind.
‘There’s a message for you in the office – with bloody flowers!’
‘You’re not jealous, are you? I can’t believe you’d think I’d betrayed you simply because I was late.’
‘Look! Can we get started? You’re not the only job I’ve got today.’
He is jealous, I thought. What Leon wants are top coathangers and Paris and everything I’ve dreamt about. I’ve never really thought how he might hate soap and scrubbers and shampoo and powders as much as I do. I’d never thought. Never!
‘I won’t be a minute.’ I went into the hole in the wall that was my change room. ‘You’re wasted here, anyway, Leon,’ I called. The remark was badly timed – too obvious, I knew, and all he said was: ‘Too right, I am!’
‘You’re a great photographer. You should have your own studio and exhibitions in galleries. There must be a million things you’d rather be shooting.’
The Sparrows of Edward Street Page 19