Starring Adele Astaire, page 17
He had five sisters, along with an older brother, which explained why he seemed to understand me as a woman so well.
There was something easy about Charlie that I’d never found with any other man. He made me feel . . . safe. With my feelings, my desires, my dreams. I could tell him anything, and perhaps sometimes I told him too much.
I was going to miss him when I boarded the train and eventually the ship. An ocean to cross was too much, and this winter, when he promised to visit me in New York, so very far away.
Yet I didn’t want to give up Smiles. Performing at Ziegfeld’s was the icing on the cake when it came to my career. And if things happened to head in the direction I was hoping, then the show might be my last, and I’d be back in London before I knew it, having gone out with a bang. If dreams came true, that is.
“I would like that,” I said to Charlie, and I genuinely meant it. “I’ll show you around the city.”
“Then I won’t disappoint you.”
No words more magical could have been uttered to a girl who’d just dumped a man who disappointed her left and right.
Paris took on a whole new meaning for me then. Paris meant falling in love.
Chapter Fourteen
Violet
The Limelight
Looks like Miss Violet Wood is moving up in the world. Spotted in Mayfair coming and going from a recently rented flat, Wood appears to be the newest resident of the swanky address, along with her roommate, Miss Caty Mirren. But fresh digs aren’t the only thing the West End’s current favorite has that’s new; she’s also been sporting designer clothing courtesy of the designers themselves . . .
Late July 1929
There were those in life who seemed to have all the luck. Who flashed a smile, waved a hand, tapped a toe, and all the gifts the world had to offer fell in neat little rows at their feet.
That had not been the case for Violet.
Good luck for her always felt like a glass of water after inhaling a mouthful of ash, or finding a shilling in a crack in the sidewalk, only to trip and break a finger. Good luck was usually paired with bad, canceling each other out most of the time.
But today was different. She’d decided while in Paris that she would join Adele in New York City for the new show. In her new Hermès bag, she had gifts for Pris and her mum, hoping the treats would make up for the disappointment they’d surely feel at her going to America, not that Mum wanted anything to do with her. Caty would be doubly disappointed, and likely have to find a new flatmate, which was bittersweet given all they’d been through together.
The journey from Paris to London had been easy, and though they were all exhausted from their whirlwind holiday on the heels of hundreds of performances, they’d spent the hours on the boat and train carousing. The sun had barely risen as they pulled into London. Violet stumbled onto the platform, grateful for the early hour, which meant it wasn’t crowded. She made her way toward the Tube station for the train to Hoxton. She’d splurged on gifts of macarons and French perfume for Mum. For Pris, she had a new Sunday dress, wrapped in tissue. It’d been so long since she’d seen her family, and despite her mum, she’d found she missed them, and was determined to see them this morning. Mum couldn’t turn her away, not this time.
By the time she turned onto Drysdale Street, her shoulder ached from the weight of her bag, making her wish she’d dropped the extra coin for a cab. She’d been able to save a lot while on the circuit, opting to remain in the flat thus far with Caty so that they could both set aside sizeable nest eggs. One that would now help her set up residence in America.
Violet knew all too well the consequences of being poor, and she didn’t want to ever be in that situation again.
The sun was fully up now, beaming down through the usual London haze to illuminate the filth on the East End street, a cue that she was no longer on the good side of the city. Strangely, there seemed to be fewer people rushing about, as if the city had yet to awaken. Extremely odd for a workday. Puzzled, she picked up her pace.
The first sign of something gone wrong was the old man missing from his post on the stoop of her building. Not even a stray mug or blanket to show he’d gotten up only for a minute to go relieve himself somewhere. Just gone. She bent and touched the place where he usually sat, still chilly from a night without the sun’s warmth.
She straightened up and looked around. Maybe after twenty-odd years he’d decided to find another stoop to sit on. But he was nowhere in sight, and it made her throat tight to think that he might have departed for good.
With a frown, she turned back to her old building and glanced up, for a second wondering if in her exhaustion she’d gone down the wrong street. But there, at the top of the ancient boardinghouse, was the shingle hanging by a thread. It had been that way before she’d left, clinging with everything it had to stay in place.
Like most of the people here. Clinging to life, one small gust from ruination. What a surprise to see it still held on.
Violet hurried up the stairs and into the building, the familiar scents stinging her nose, along with something else. A new sourness that was sharp and unnerving. As she reached the first floor, a door below closed quietly and footsteps hurried up behind her. Violet turned to see the boardinghouse’s landlady, Mrs. Beech, her brows drawn as usual, but there was something else in the usual twist of her lips. Sadness mixed with her unfailing disappointment.
“Good morning, Mrs. Beech.” Violet tried not to let her exhaustion and irritation shine through. The last thing she wanted when she’d had too little sleep was a confrontation with the busybody landlady.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” the woman said, pointing out the obvious.
“Yes, ma’am.” Violet stopped short of explaining herself; it was none of this woman’s business.
“Well.” Mrs. Beech twisted her hands in front of her in a clear sign of nerves, which Violet in all her years had never seen. “There was a sickness tha’ passed through while you were away.”
Violet drew in a slow breath, shifting her satchel on her shoulder from the painful place where it pinched. Was that what had happened to the old man? “What sickness?”
“Another flu.” Mrs. Beech kept flicking her eyes back and forth between Violet’s gaze and the wall, unable to make steady eye contact.
Violet’s mind whirled back to the Spanish flu that had struck after the Great War. Her father, who’d made it home from battle, had caught the illness and passed. Mum had lost one of her babies. The whole of the East End—in fact, the world—had been struck by the raging pandemic. Now anytime anyone had a sniffle Violet panicked.
“Were you ill?” Violet reached for the collar of her dress to tug it over her mouth, afraid that the disease was still in the building.
Mrs. Beech shook her head, and Violet couldn’t help the ugly thought that went through her head: Of course, not even a viral epidemic would get the old goat down.
“Bu’ your mum . . .”
“Oh, my God.” The words barely edged past her quickly closing throat. Not bothering to hear more of what Mrs. Beech had to say, Violet turned on her heel and ran the rest of the way up the stairs to her family’s rented rooms.
She burst through the closed door, slapped first by the stench and then by the utter silence. God, no. The small flat was empty of life.
Mrs. Beech was right behind her, panting from having run to keep up.
“Where are they?” Violet asked, whirling around, her heart in her throat, her vision blurring.
“Priscilla is downstairs, in my fla’.”
“Where is my mum?” Violet faced Mrs. Beech fully then, willing the older woman to stop her dallying and give her an answer. Violet grabbed hold of her landlady’s shoulders, prepared to shake her if she didn’t respond.
Mrs. Beech gently removed Violet’s hands from her shoulders and clutched them in her surprisingly strong grasp, conveying in her touch how sorry she was. “As I said, Priscilla is in my fla’. She’s doing fine. Sleeping s’ill.”
“You’re no’ answering the question. Why?” Violet’s voice had gone shrill with panic, some of the Cockney she’d banished from her tongue sneaking back.
Mrs. Beech’s iron rod of a spine seemed to snap then, the way metal did when too great a weight had been resting on one end. “Your mum’s gone to the Lord.”
All the air left Violet in a whoosh. Her grip on the old woman’s hands dropped and her body felt as though she’d been struck by a lorry. Her bag dropped to the floor, and she dully registered the sound.
The news was too much for Violet. Her knees crumpled, and she sank to the floor, stunned. All this time away, they’d never reconciled, and now her mum was gone. Died. And she’d never get the chance . . .
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Beech knelt in front of her. “I’m so sorry this is the news you ’ad to come ’ome to.” The older woman made a clucking noise with her tongue and patted Violet on the shoulder. “I’ll pu’ a ke’le on downstairs. Come when you’re ready.”
Violet nodded absently as the landlady disappeared. She shifted onto her knees, staring into the small space that had been her home for so long. Once bustling with Pris’s boisterous behavior. Now all was quiet.
The flat echoed now only in distant memory, which was fading faster than she could grasp it. Laundry still hung on ropes tied from one wall to the other. The teakettle was on the small stove, and a cup and saucer waited on the table to be filled. A few plates with crusts of toast and decayed apples littered the table.
A tremble started in her hands and great stabs of guilt shredded her insides. If only she’d been able to convince her mother to let her back into their lives. Violet had tried. She’d sent money, even came knocking once, but her mother wasn’t home. Violet had written letters, said they could find a better place to live, together, now that she’d been making a better salary. But all her inquiries went unanswered.
If she’d been here instead of flitting about Paris like the upstart her mum said she was, she might have been able to take them out of the tenement building to a safer place, a hotel, where they could avoid the germs. Every scenario that ended in her saving her mum played in her mind, followed by the crushing defeat of knowing that her selfishness had not even afforded her the opportunity.
Violet was a failure. And now there was no way to make up the loss.
A scraping sound in the hallway pulled her momentarily from her torment, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. There was someone who still needed her. The least she could do was be there for Pris. Never again would Violet let her sister down, let selfishness stand in the way of caring for those who needed her.
And Pris needed her now more than ever.
Violet pulled herself together, searching for a strength she wasn’t certain she had, and headed downstairs to retrieve her sister. Today would be the first day of their new lives. Pris had only Violet to look after her. There would be no going to New York now. She couldn’t leave Pris behind, and she certainly couldn’t take her sister to a new city in a new country. There would be no one there to look after her, and Pris wasn’t quite old enough to do the looking herself.
Violet lifted her hand to knock on Mrs. Beech’s door, but the landlady swung it open before Violet could get in the first thump, presumably having heard her approach.
Beside Mrs. Beech, Pris stood, shoulders squared, chin thrust out. At twelve years old, she already looked ready to fight battles. Her face mirrored the one that Violet herself had worn so often. They would figure this out together.
“Pris.” Violet was proud her voice hadn’t cracked, even though her throat felt ready to collapse.
“I’m glad you weren’ ’ere.” There was a quiver in Pris’s chin, but her lips were pressed into a thin line.
“I wish I had been.” Violet wanted to tug her small sister into her arms.
“If you’d ’ave been ’ere then you’d be dead, too,” Pris said. “So, I’m glad you weren’. And you can’ make me change my mind.”
“I wouldn’t dare try.” Violet did reach for her then, pulling Pris into her embrace. How could her young sister ever understand that the vehemence and sentiment of her words were exactly what Violet needed to hear?
Pris clung tight, squeezing the breath from Violet, arms looped around her waist, face pressed to her chest. “I don’ want to be alone!” she cried.
Violet’s heart shattered then, and she choked on a sob.
“I won’t leave you alone.” Violet stared at Mrs. Beech over her sister’s head, and the woman, for once, had the sensitivity to look away, to step back into her flat and leave the two of them alone to grieve in private. “Why don’t you gather your things, and we’ll go back upstairs?”
“You talk funny. I don’ wan’ to go back there.”
Violet smiled into her sister’s hair. “I don’t want to either, Pris, but we ought to. The sooner we do, the sooner we can get back to normal.”
Pris’s head was bowed, and Violet had the impression she was trying to bury their family along with her gaze. “Wha’ is normal? There is no normal withou’ Mum. Why couldn’ I ’ave died, too?”
Violet throttled the sobs launching an attack on her aching throat. In a voice that was tight, and oddly distant, Violet managed to say, “It wasn’t your time. Nor mine.”
Pris jerked her head up then, eyes red, glistening, and angry. So much fury firing from a child’s eyes, as if she were ready to burn down the world.
“Who ge’s to decide those things?” Pris demanded in a crackling voice, slightly higher in pitch.
Violet was almost afraid to answer, but there was no use in hiding from the conversation her sister wanted to have. “You know it’s up to God.”
Pris humphed. “Well, I’m mad at ’im.”
The same anger churned in Violet’s gut. “Perhaps we should go and have a chat with him, then?”
Pris let go, chin jutting forward and deep divots replacing the smooth skin between her brows. “I don’ want to.”
Violet shrugged. “Neither do I, really. But it might help.”
Pris swiped angrily at her tears. “Fine.” Then she turned on her heel to gather her things. “But I’m no’ promising I’ll behave.”
Violet laughed softly, feeling like the obstinance in her sister was a step in the right direction. Pris had always been forthright with her feelings. “I suspect your impudence is one reason you’re still alive,” she murmured.
“I don’ know wha’ you mean.” Pris stuck out her lower lip.
“Come on, then.” Violet started to call out for their landlady to let her know they were retreating, when the woman appeared. In her hand she held a small satchel of Pris’s things, proof that she’d left them alone for a minute out of sight, but that she’d been listening in the entire time. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Mrs. Beech bobbed her head. “And also, dear, your mother did pay up the ren’ for the next month, so you’ll no’ need to worry about tha’ ye’.”
“Thank you, but we won’t be staying.” She hoped Caty wouldn’t mind Pris bunking with them. She’d figure out a new job soon now that she wasn’t going to New York; in the meantime her savings would suffice. When that ran out she’d pawn her Hermès and the sapphire brooch that one of her admirers had given her. But there was no way they were coming back here.
Silently they descended the stairs to the street, Pris taking Violet’s hand in hers. Violet glanced down at her younger sister, but Pris stared straight ahead. The determined set of her jaw relaying the effort to remain that way.
They walked down the street, past those bustling off to work or the market. A few children played jacks on the sidewalk and a dog rushed by chasing a cat.
Shoreditch Church wasn’t too far. Just down Kingsland, and then there it was, looming, its white steeple pushing up into the sky always looking too fancy for the neighborhood.
They headed up the stairs and through the great heavy doors, the quiet of the nave inside more shocking than the sounds outside the church. There were a few people inside, kneeling in pews, palms pressed together in prayer. Pris squeezed Violet’s hand harder as the reverend approached. They’d once been good about going to church on Sundays, but sometimes work and life got in the way. Mum always said that God understood if someone had to work rather than visit his house, and Violet truly believed that. As long as they said their prayers each night, and followed in his footsteps, they’d be forgiven for missing a sermon.
“My dears,” the reverend said, searching their faces and clearly trying to figure out their names.
“Violet and Priscilla Wood,” Violet said.
“Ah, yes. The Wood girls. I’m so sorry for your recent loss. Have you come to pay your respects?”
Violet nodded.
“Out this way.” He led them through the church and out to a neighboring burial ground. “Mrs. Beech made a donation, so you needn’t worry about that.”
Violet nodded gratefully, though she’d not even thought about a donation, let alone worried over it.
He led them to a grave, the turned earth with shoots of green grass sprouting signs of new life. There was no grave marker. Merely a wooden cross.
As Violet and Pris stood there, the reverend offered them a prayer before disappearing back into the church. The two of them stared at the grave so long that he eventually returned to see if they were all right.
Violet assured him they were, and when he’d disappeared once more she tapped Pris on the nose. “How about some fish and chips?”
Pris cocked her head, a slight, hungry lick of her lips showing that she liked that idea a lot. “From a pub or the chipper?”
Violet smiled. “Hmm. How about a pub? We’ll not make a habit of it.”
“I’ve never been to a pub,” Pris said.
“Well, it beats cabbage soup.”
“Everything bea’s cabbage soup.”
