Keep on Dancing, page 13
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – halftruths are the blackest of lies – and they knew it. Oh, by Christ, they knew it.’
Choked at seeing her gran so upset, Rosie knelt beside her and squeezed her hands. ‘Come on, it’s all over… whatever they did, it’s over.’
‘Is it? I don’t think so,’ she cried. ‘I knew it would come back again, one day…’ She lifted her apron and dried her eyes. ‘You mustn’t see that young man again, Rosie.’
‘Why not?’
‘You mustn’t, that’s all. Let’s leave it at that. For my sake as well as your’n.’
‘No, Mum,’ Iris sat facing her mother. ‘That’s not fair. Half a story’s worse than none.’ She took a deep breath and silently counted to three. ‘Has this got something to do with you sharing the same name as his aunt?’
‘That’s it, Iris… set the ball rolling.’
‘It’s been rolling for years, you know it has. Come on…’
Lips pursed, slowly nodding, Harriet prepared herself. ‘She might fall for ’im. And it’s obvious he’s keen.’ She shook her head again and looked down at Rosie.
‘That young man… Rosie.’ She swallowed and then drew a breath. ‘He’s your cousin once removed, God ’elp us. His grandmother and your grandfather were brother and sister. That’s why he looks like Tommy. Have you got it now? Have I spelled it out enough for you?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Mortified, Iris gazed at Harriet. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Mary Birchfield, the young lady who took me in, was your dad’s sister, right? Mary got involved with a wealthy married man who set her up in a house in Bow. Robert Montague, Sir Robert Montague, whose wife was ill. He couldn’t leave her. Mary bore two of his children, first a son and then a daughter.’
‘You’re not making this up, Mum, are you? Because if you are, it’s not fair – we’ve been through enough.’
Harriet lay back, adjusted a cushion and closed her eyes. ‘Go and get me a brandy, Iris – you won’t miss nothing. I’ll wait.’
With her mother out of the room Rosie sat quiet, half expecting her gran to tell her something she hadn’t wanted Iris to hear; that the brandy was a ploy to get rid of her.
‘You all right, Gran?’
‘I will be, after I’ve had a drop.’
‘You don’t have to tell us any more if—’
‘I know that.’
‘I’ve brought three glasses. I think we all need some of this.’ Iris poured the brandy and then put the almost empty half-bottle on the table. Placing a glass in Harriet’s hand, she smiled into her face. ‘You can finish your story tomorrow if you like.’
‘What’s the matter? Can’t the pair of you take it? You were full of questions in the past – now you can hear the truth whether you like it or not.’ She sipped her drink. ‘I knew it would have to come out one day. Can’t remember where I was now.’
‘Mary had two children…’ Rosie prompted.
‘Brats more like. Spoiled brats. As soon as they were old enough to talk they took the piss out of me and Arthur; made fun of our cockney accents. Things went downhill when they caught me and your grandfather having a kiss and cuddle. Up until then they had been brought up to believe that their mother was my sister as well as Arthur’s. It’s what Robert wanted. Our neighbours in Bow were led to believe the same. It suited me at the time, we were a family. But once me and my Arthur realized we were in love… all hell was let loose.
‘No one believed us when’ we said we weren’t related. No one. They called us all manner of names, spat at our feet and said that we would go to hell. There wasn’t much that Mary could do to stop it, not once it started.
‘So we were banished from Bow as if we were heathens; as if we were spawned from Satan and out of hell. We had been marked for life, or so they thought. Give me Wappin’ers any time. Bow? Ha. Back then, in the eighteen-nineties, the Bow people were the elite all right… and where did it get ’em? Look at it now.’
‘There were poor parts as well, Gran. Anyway… you must ’ave had a birth certificate?’
Harriet found that very amusing. ‘Even if I had and we set about proving ourselves; where would that have left Mary? If one of those vicious gossips probed further, found out that the man she called her husband didn’t go away on business but back to his own wife, they would have spurned the lot of us. Mary was a decent young woman, God rest her soul.
‘Once we left, she was forced to cut all ties. It was hard for her and for us; especially for your grandad. They were very close. She had been more like a mother to him once they were orphaned. He never saw her again.’
‘But how can you be sure that Richard’s part of that family, Gran? Just ’cos he’s a Montague? There must be ’undreds of people with that name.’
‘Yeah, but he was a Birchfield first, don’t forget. At least, his mother was. No… there’s no mistaking it, Mog. He’s a cross between our Tommy, Mary and Sir Robert. A mixture of Birchfield and Montague, no question. And Sir Robert had a house in Belgravia as well. The properties have been kept in the family, that’s obvious. How the rich look after their own, eh?’
‘What a story,’ Rosie flopped back in her chair. ‘Wait till I tell ’im we might be cousins.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’
‘Gran… what difference will it make?’
Sighing, Harriet shook her head. ‘His father – and his aunt – are bastards. Robert met Mary in a house of assignation, in Stepney Green; an upmarket whorehouse. She was a courtesan and he was her first “gentleman caller”. Poor cow had to earn more than they paid ’er at the match factory if she was to keep her and Arthur out of the workhouse.’
‘Good God…’ was all that Iris could say.
‘Bloody hell,’ was Rosie’s response. ‘Mind you… if his dad changed his name by deed poll, they must have found out, surely?’
‘Probably. But they wouldn’t have told their kids the family secret. Richard’s grandfather was titled, don’t forget. He was a bigwig in Parliament – or so we were told. Could ’ave been royalty for all I know. He ’ad the breeding.
‘So… like me, Rosie, you’ve got to keep it to yourself. Well, not any more I ’aven’t.’ She pulled herself up, smiling. ‘G’night girls. Sweet dreams.’ She left the room, relieved to have shifted some of the anger inside. Pleased that at last she had been able to speak about the worst time of her life.
‘She’s made all that up!’
‘I don’t think so, Rosie. No one could come up with a story like that; not even your gran. I think you’re gonna have to stop seeing that young man.’
‘I’ve not been “seeing” him. Not in the sense you mean, anyway. He’s a nice bloke and I feel sorry for ’im.’ She avoided her mother’s questioning look by turning away. ‘It strikes me he’s pining for ’is family. Maybe he missed out on something when he was small as well.’
Chapter 8
Cajoling neighbours and friends into spending a Saturday cleaning up a disused theatre had proved to be less of a problem than Rosie supposed. Shirley’s mother, Mrs Martin, had been the first person she approached, and her reaction had not only pleased but surprised her. She had loved the idea from the start, offering to rally round a few of her workmates from the box factory. Shirley herself had rejected the idea at first, but once Rosie had related in detail what her ultimate plans were, she was fired up and ready to go.
George, with his measured ways, had wanted to know all the ins and outs regarding cost, promising that he would enter into the spirit of things once she itemized and priced everything. His lack of confidence in her ability to think things through properly had simply strengthened Rosie’s resolve to prove herself.
When she turned up at the Theatre Royal on the Thursday evening before her team of cleaners was due to go in, Rosie was fully expecting Larry to be impatient with her for pestering him. She was wrong. He saw her conduct as dedication to the cause, and got permission to leave early in order to take her to the Star.
With Larry’s help and the use of stepladders, she managed to take down the rotting stage curtains without damaging the old brass fittings and was measuring them for the curtain-maker, when Larry casually announced that she would not have to pay rent for the first twelve months.
‘That can’t be right,’ she said, staring up at him. ‘You must ’ave heard wrong. No rent?’
‘I’m telling you! You have a year’s grace. Although… there will be rates to pay. That you will have to take into account when you’re doing your sums. I can’t remember how much that will be, but I have the figure written down somewhere.’
‘Who is this landlord? The owner of Harrods?’
‘Hardly. He’s a poor Jewish man who had this place left to him by his father. He’s very happy that life is going to be brought back into it and…’ he shrugged, ‘if you do well, he’ll do well – eventually. He’s not a saint. He’s a shrewd businessman.’
‘Well, shrewd businessman or not, I wanna thank him. Where does he live?’
‘That’s none of your business. Are you going to measure those curtains or not? I’m getting cold standing here.’
Abstracted by this latest development, she tried to concentrate on the job in hand. Taking the final measurement, she jotted it down on her notepad.
‘Right, that’s that done. Now then – carpet. Let’s take a look at that, and see if it’ll do once it’s been cleaned.’
‘It will. I’ve already checked. It may need patching up by the doorways. Other than that, it’s fine. Next?’
Rosie looked from the walls to the ceiling. ‘Paintwork. Will it need stripping down to the bare wood, or will a lick of paint do?’
‘The paper on the walls is OK. All we have to do is get a decorator to give it a wash and a fresh coat of paint. The gloss will have to be cleaned with sugar soap, and then given another coat of the same colour. Keep everything to the original and it’ll be less expensive and less work. Next?’
‘Lighting?’
‘The electrics are fine but you’ll need to buy bulbs, lots of them: bulbs and new shades.’
‘Any idea what that’d cost?’
‘No, but if you hurry yourself and leave me in peace, I’ll do an inventory and see exactly what we need. Tomorrow I’ll check with the wholesalers and get the best price.’
‘Fuel for the heating?’
‘I’ll check in the files and make a note of how much we paid last time. It will have gone up, but that’s life.’
‘Repairs?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He cocked his head to one side and lowered his eyelids a fraction.
‘Repairs? You know… door handles, hinges…’
‘I’ve kept the place in good repair. I thought I told you that already. I thought you might have noticed.’
‘I’m a woman, Larry. I don’t look at things like that. What about the seats? Am I allowed enough time to check each one? Or are you gonna throw me out?’
‘Throw you out. I’ve had a look at the seats. Eighteen need a complete re-cover, ten need to be replaced, the others will do once they’ve been cleaned. When you’re ready I have an American friend in the trade who will bring his steam machine in. He’ll be cheap.’
‘What about the carpet then – will he do that as well?’
‘If you vacuum thoroughly, he will.’
‘You haven’t seen my mother at work. She’s like a tornado.’
‘I suppose you’ve asked your boyfriend to meet you again?’
‘If you mean Richard, he’s not my boyfriend. My fella’s name is George. Richard’s a distant relative. Georgie’s the one who’s gonna put some money up, so he’ll wanna come and see what I’m up to.’
‘Fine.’ He looked at his wristwatch.
‘All right, all right, I’m going! You will ’ave the figures ready for me on Saturday, won’t you? George wants to see ’em before he agrees to dish out the dosh.’
‘You sound more like the boss every time I see you.’
‘Good. So do you. Two chiefs are better than one. Between us, we’ll keep the Indians on their toes.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so.’
* * *
With so much to think about, Rosie decided not to take a taxi home. She was in the mood for a good long walk, with no one in her ear telling her what she might be letting herself in for. Fully aware that it would be pointless arguing, since she had had no experience, she would have to take all the well-meant advice as if she was hearing it for the first time. As far as she could tell, so long as the cash was available, the task of getting a show together, providing she found talented singer-dancers, it would be a challenge she’d relish. If it failed, at least she would have brought an old theatre out of the dark, however briefly.
Passing the Yardley building, she looked up at the Yardley Lady who had sparked off a story she was to weave around dance routines she had yet to create. Conveying her ideas to other dancers would be testing. If she couldn’t get her concepts across, then she would have to call in someone with experience. Someone who, like others in the show, would have to work knowing there would be no salary but a share-out from money taken on the door.
Rosie’s mind was racing, and she arrived at the street leading to the Prospect of Whitby before she realised it. Having no choice but to pass the pub, she decided to keep to the opposite side of the road, to avoid an undesirable confrontation. As she passed the gasworks, Rosie felt herself shudder as the nightmare of her ordeal returned. She quickened her pace, checking the shadows on either side of the street.
By the time she reached the lights of the pub her heart was pounding and she could feel the perspiration soaking into her blouse and sweater. With her hands plunged into her coat pockets, she instinctively pulled her coat close to her body.
The few people outside the pub, laughing and drinking, were too engaged even to notice her. Telling herself not to be weak, she crossed the road, heading for the comer of her turning. She would have to make that journey several times in the future, and if she was to arrive home calm and collected, she was going to have to overcome her fear.
Hearing footsteps behind, she glanced over her shoulder. With his head held high, as cocky as ever, Bertie the intimidator strode along. ‘Hello whore,’ he said, passing her.
Whether or not it was by chance that he had happened to be there, he had managed to unnerve her: his nearness, his smell, his voice. Turning into her street, she shivered and felt sick. By the time she reached her front door, her hands were shaking and she had trouble getting the key into the lock. Throwing the door open, she shot inside and slammed it shut.
‘Is that you, Rosie?’ called Iris from the living room.
‘’Course it’s me – who else?’ She did her best to sound light-hearted.
‘You’ve got a visitor!’
Walking slowly along the passage, she hoped it wouldn’t be George: he would see immediately that she was traumatized and would want to know why.
‘Hello, babe – all right?’ George sat there, smiling, delighted to see her.
‘Yeah… exhausted, but all right.’ She leaned over him and brushed a kiss on his lips. ‘I’m gonna have a quick bath. I’m filthy. Been touching fifty-year-old dirt.’
He looked doubtful. ‘Sure you’re OK?’
‘I said I was, didn’t I? I won’t be more than ten minutes.’
‘If I’d treated my Arthur the way you treat ’im…’ chided Harriet in her usual way. ‘Not enough he’s bin waiting for you for over an hour!’
‘Leave her be, Harry, girl. She’s been working all day at the brewery as well as the music hall. Give ’er a break.’
‘See?’ Rosie poked out her tongue and made a quick exit.
‘I think you’re gonna ’ave to keep tabs on that young lady, George. If you’re as keen as you make out.’
‘Oh Gawd… here we go.’ Iris stood up, yawning. ‘I’m whacked. I’ll put the dishes away, Mum, and then I’m off to bed. G’night George.’
‘Night, Iris.’
Once she was out of the way, George leaned forward in his chair and eyed Harriet. ‘Come on, then. Get it off your chest. What’s Rosie up to?’
‘I’d be a clever woman if I knew that. She’s ’ardly ever in.’ Harriet sucked her lips and waited. He had taken the bait.
‘So what are you saying, then?’
Harriet shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Keep your eye on ’er… that’s all.’
Falling back into the chair, Georgie laughed quietly. ‘And the rest. Got someone else, ’as she?’
‘I never said that. But she ’as started to mix with a different set of people. Toffs. She’ll be getting all uppety next. One of ’em was in a couple of nights ago. He walked ’er ’ome… late at night. Good-looking chap. A medical student. She met ’im in the Prospect. One of that lot. He’s got it bad, I should think. The way he looks at ’er – all moony-eyed.’
‘I don’t think you should be telling me this, Harriet. Rosie won’t be too happy about it. Telling tales out of school.’
‘Ha! Since when did I ever go to school? Still… if you wanna bury your ’ead in the sand—’ she pulled herself up from the chair, ‘I won’t lose any sleep over it. He looks as if he’s got a few bob.’
‘And you reckon Rosie’s fell for him, do you?’
‘I never said that. You’re putting words into my mouth. Goodnight, son.’ She slunk out of the room, leaving him to mull it over.
‘That’s nice,’ Rosie said, arriving in her long, light-blue dressing gown, ‘they’ve left us to ourselves for a change. Fancy a mug of Ovaltine?’
