Keep on Dancing, page 9
The hollow in Harriet’s chest worsened as she recalled how Mary’s children had had an upbringing she could never have dreamed of; there was plenty of money, nannies, a governess. Sir Robert saw that his children were brought up to live belonging to the upper classes – and have the same snobbish attitudes as he had towards her and Arthur. Mary had tried her best, but those children would never look upon them as anything more than ignorant peasants. She wondered for a moment what had happened to those spoiled, pampered kids, and if they ever knew that their mother had been a kept woman and that they were, in fact, bastards.
‘Why do you really want to get the music hall up and running again?’ she asked in a quiet, sombre voice, pushing away all thoughts of her past.
‘I don’t know Gran… not really. It’d be easier for me to go back to the theatre another night, when the drama teacher’s in the building… but now that I’ve seen the Star and met Larry, the old boy…’
‘I doubt he can be bothered with it all,’ she said, all-knowing.
‘Now that’s where you are wrong. He loves that place. You should see ’ow he keeps one of the rooms! It’s as if he lives there. Tommy loved the picture palaces… Larry loves old music halls. Each to their own.’
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’m worn out listening to yer.’ Harriet yawned, rearranged her pillows and inched herself down into her bed. ‘Switch my light off on your way out, there’s a good girl.’
‘’Course I will.’ Rosie leaned over and kissed her gran on the cheek. ‘Night-night – don’t let the bedbugs bite.’
‘Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you… I nutted one of the cocky sods from the Prospect of Whitby. He really insulted me. He’ll think twice next time.’
Lifting her head a couple of inches off her pillow, Harriet peered at her granddaughter. ‘I hope that’s a joke?’
‘No. Why should it be? Toffee-nosed sod deserved it. You should ’ave heard the crack,’ she chuckled.
Concerned by Rosie’s matter-of-fact confession, she lowered her head back down into the feather pillow and murmured, ‘Turn over if you have a nightmare.’ Something which she had repeated several times when Rosie was a child and had cried out in the night. She had a feeling, though, that it might be herself who would be having bad dreams. Her granddaughter had brushed up against violence twice in a very short space of time and if, as she had always believed, events came in threes, what might come next?
With her hand on the light switch, Rosie stood in the doorway looking at the small bundle under the bedclothes. ‘See you in the morning, Gran,’ she said quietly, switching off the light and closing the door behind her.
Chapter 6
With the March wind blowing into her face, Rosie gripped Iris’s arm as they stepped out of the brewery gates on to Mile End Road after what had proved to be an important day in both of their lives. Working together in the same factory had created a bond between them which neither had expected. Synchronizing their schedule that morning, Iris’s first day back at the brewery had proved to be less chaotic than they had envisaged. Harriet had helped with her role-playing, behaving as if they were small children being sent to school with lunch boxes and polished shoes.
‘I was wondering…’ Rosie said hesitantly, ‘if I should ’ave driving lessons instead of us selling Tommy’s car. What d’yer think?’
‘I’ve already thought about it. We’ll sell it through the Advertiser. You couldn’t afford to run it, Rosie. Tax, insurance, petrol – never mind the cost of driving lessons. Anyway, it’s not all that reliable; think back to how many times your brother had to have Mike the mechanic round to get it going. It’s been nothing but trouble from the day he got it. He should never have sold that old shooting brake… but there you are, he had to show off and have the biggest car in the street.’
Taken aback by the reprobation, Rosie glanced at Iris. It was the first time she had heard her mother criticize her beloved son.
‘I s’pose George’s a bit flash as well…’ Rosie offered, testing her mother. ‘The way he dresses and that.’
‘I don’t think so. He’s a bit swanky, that’s all. Keeps up with the style. Your brother wasn’t flash, Rosie, he—’
‘I know that.’ She withdrew her arm and pushed her hands into her coat pockets. ‘It was you who said he was a show-off.’
Turning the conversation, Iris asked Rosie if she was seeing George that night, adding that she thought he was very polite, that she liked him. ‘I do worry a bit about the difference in your ages though, Rosie.’ She stretched an arm across her daughter to stop her stepping on to the main road. ‘The lights are changing.’
‘Why should that worry you?’
‘Well… you can bet your bottom dollar he’s cruised up the Nile. He might expect more from you than he should.’
‘I’m twenty-three Mum – not a teenager! I know all I need to know about sex, if that’s what you’re building up to. I’ve courted a couple of boys… I think I know what they expect and what they don’t expect.’
‘There is a difference. George’s twenty-seven; he’s not a boy.’
‘That’s what makes him so special. And no… to answer your question, I’m not seeing him tonight. It’s Monday. I’m going to the Theatre Royal, remember? You’re getting as bad as Gran for not listening.’
‘Why can’t George go with you? Save walking through Wapping by yourself at that time of night.’
‘I ’aven’t even told him I’m going.’ She tossed her long curly hair off her face and smiled. ‘I don’t want him to know yet. Him and his mates have got certain opinions about people in the theatre. They reckon the men are all poofs and the women upper-class sluts.’
‘Tch…’ Iris shook her head and sighed. ‘Things you come out with.’
‘I’m only repeating what I’ve ’eard. Anyway, I doubt I’ll be that late back. I’m goin’ there to black my nose, that’s all.’ She didn’t want to say that she was going to the Theatre Royal to meet up with Larry for a tour of the Grand Star. She had told her gran where she was going, but had asked her to keep it to herself for the time being. Her mother might put a damper on things.
‘Anyway; enough about me. How’d your first day go?’
‘I told you at lunchtime. It was fine.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday. You ’ated every minute of it.’
‘Only at first… during the morning. I soon found my feet. It’s been a very long time since I was in an office; an age. It took me back… and it brought me to. What have I done with my life? Fifty next birthday. Fifty.’ She shook her head despairingly. ‘What a waste of time… washing and polishing things that didn’t need it – passing the time of day until—’
‘Tommy got in from work,’ Rosie cut in.
‘And you came home from school… and then from the box factory. All those years spent indoors when I could have been out here, earning and being my old self.’
‘Now you really do sound like Gran.’
‘Yeah, all right, I’ll admit she had a point. But right or wrong, how often do any of us listen to our mothers?’ The remark was meant to be double-edged, but Iris had not yet earned the privilege of preaching to her daughter and she knew it they both knew it. Rosie could not remember a time when she had been offered her advice. At least the comment held promise.
Pushing open their front door, the two women caught a whiff of something nice and savoury coming from the kitchen. ‘Smells like Lancashire hotpot,’ murmured Iris, ‘she’s going all out, bless ’er.’
‘I only ’ope I’m as active as she is when I’m eighty. Not that I’d want her to hear that. She’ll be shoving cod liver oil down my throat, putting crushed garlic in my slippers and spouting old remedies non-stop.’
Surprised to see George perched on a kitchen chair enjoying a cup of tea, Rosie smiled. ‘What are you doin’ ’ere?’ He looked more attractive than ever in his donkey jacket, jeans and leather boots.
‘I’ve come to give you the good news. I’m getting out of the docks. I’ve had a little windfall.’
‘Got the sack more like,’ Harriet snapped, while turning the gas down low under the bubbling saucepan of Brussels. ‘Silly bugger sees it as a dividend.’
‘She’s wrong,’ he grinned, winking at Rosie. ‘A bit of business worked out very nicely. I always fancied myself as a businessman. There’s a shop for let in Watney Street. The man wants to sell his stock and goodwill… a tobacconists, with a nice little flat above. I thought we might go out for a steak tonight, babe, to celebrate.’
‘You bloody won’t.’ Harriet again. ‘Took me all day to shop, prepare and cook for their dinner. Take ’er out tomorrow. Me and Iris’ll ’ave fish and chips, save me cooking. Slaving over a soddin’ stove all day.’
Rosie and Iris looked at each other and smiled. This was the first time Harriet had cooked a meal in ages, and she was loving the chance to brag and complain.
‘We’ll go out for a drink then – after she’s had her dinner.’
‘I can’t, George, not tonight. I’m going somewhere.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He sniffed and peered into her face. ‘Who with?’
‘Shirley Martin,’ Rosie lied, thinking it might not be such a bad idea to take her friend with her.
Suspicion swept over his face as he looked from her to Harriet who, by her expression, was making it clear that she had no intention of getting involved. ‘Well that’s funny ’cos Shirley left ’ere ten minutes ago full of the joys of spring. She came to show you her solitaire. Big diamond.’
‘Shirley’s got engaged?’ Rosie beamed, fully aware that her cover was blown. ‘When?’
‘Today. They’re taking both sets of parents out for a meal… tonight. The engagement party’s this Saturday.’ He pulled a cigarette from his packet and avoided her eyes. ‘She must have forgot she was going out with you.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Never mentioned a word of it. No message of a change of plans; nothing.’
Rosie was hearing him, but other sentiments were touching a nerve: envy and disappointment. ‘She’s my best friend. How come she never told me she was getting engaged?’
‘Because her fella wanted to keep it between themselves till the day. Best friends have to take second place sometimes,’ he added pointedly, with a touch of disappointment in his own voice. ‘That was a lovely cup of tea, Harry, girl!’ He stood up and pushed his shoulders back. ‘I’ll leave you to eat in peace. See you, Iris.’ Making his way to the kitchen door he paused, looked at Rosie, went to say something, and then changed his mind. ‘Mind how you go, babe.’
The kitchen filled with silence as they waited for the sound of the street door closing behind him. ‘Now you’ve done it,’ Harriet murmured, testing a Brussel with a fork. ‘The webs we weave…’
‘You’re not two-timing him, are you?’ Iris’s self-righteous, accusing voice rankled. What right had she to behave like a mother all of a sudden?
‘Yeah, I’m seeing a lovely fella tonight; Larry. How long’s dinner gonna be, Gran?’
‘Five minutes. Pour these spuds into the colander for me, Iris. My wrist can’t take the weight of that saucepan.’
‘Right. I’ll have a quick wash then, and put a bit of lipstick on.’ Hiding the touch of regret at having lied unnecessarily to George, Rosie went to the bathroom.
‘So that’s why she was so late home last Monday. She’s seeing someone else.’ Iris pulled off her coat and mumbled, ‘Like father, like daughter.’
Pointing the potato masher at Iris’s face, Harriet looked far from pleased. ‘Don’t be so bloody judgemental! She’s not seeing anyone else, right? Now leave it at that and give me a hand.’
‘I doubt that George’ll believe that. She’ll lose a good one there; silly mare.’
‘You reckon?’ Harriet turned away, smiling and shaking her head. ‘He’ll feel a right lemon when she does finally tell him who she’s seeing tonight. A right bloody lemon!’ She laughed at the thought of it. ‘And so will you if you don’t keep your gob shut and leave her be.’
* * *
As she approached the Prospect of Whitby, on her way to catch a bus, Rosie wished she had acted more lovingly towards George. All she had had to do was speak to him privately, outside the street door, and explain why she had not told him the truth as to where she was really going. That she wanted to keep it quiet until she had either joined the theatre workshop or got round Larry to open up the old music hall. He would have laughed at her for sure, but that would have been better than letting him go off believing she was two-timing him.
Rosie quietly cursed herself for being stupid, and stepped up her pace. If she was back early enough she would go round George’s house and surprise him. Then she would sort things out properly. Happier and lighter inside, she braced herself for another possible round of abuse from the young men drinking beer outside the Prospect.
She glanced sideways at them, relieved to see that the one she had shamed wasn’t there, although someone else was; the one who had reminded her of Tommy. Passing the small group, she smiled at him, nodded hello, crossed over the narrow road and turned left into the badly lit street.
Preoccupied with the student who had befriended her the previous week, she was regretting not having said something to him. He was worthy of more than a polite nod. She wondered why he had reminded her so much of her brother. Maybe, unconsciously, she was searching for a substitute, just like her gran had when she lost her soulmate. She and Grandad Arthur had been the best of friends as well as husband and wife.
Remembering the way Tommy had always had her welfare at heart, she was unaware of the group of students approaching the gasworks from the opposite direction, on their way to the pub.
‘Just off to the boxing ring, are you?’ came one smart remark.
‘Or is it down to the gym for a bit of wrestling?’ chortled another.
Rosie hastened on, looking straight ahead and ignoring them, relieved that they had not slowed down and offered no threat. This particular stretch of road was not welcoming, and there was a damp foggy atmosphere reminiscent of midwinter instead of late March and the promise of spring. She instinctively looked over her shoulder to check that they really had carried on walking. She scolded herself for being so jittery; allowing her gran’s warning about the gasworks to get to her.
‘Hello, whore.’ The sneering, hushed voice startled Rosie. She stopped dead, gripped with fear.
Stepping out of the shadows, the student she had injured the week before stood in front of her and grinned. ‘I thought it was you.’ His eyes darted everywhere, checking his surroundings. It was very quiet on the street, not one footstep to be heard. ‘Wicked night, isn’t it?’
Swallowing the rush of saliva to moisten her dry throat, she tried to hide her terror. ‘I’ve arranged to meet my boyfriend here.’
‘Have you really?’ Bertie sneered. ‘Do you know… they had a very difficult time resetting my nose.’ His hand flew to her throat and clutched the long woollen scarf, twisting and turning it until it was tight around her neck. ‘Not quite as cocky now, are we?’ He pushed his face close to Rosie’s, breathing into hers. ‘Scum of the earth.’ With his left hand gripping her scarf, his knuckles pressed into her windpipe, he drew back the other hand and hit her in the face. ‘Slag!’
Trembling and too stunned to scream, Rosie flinched, contracting every muscle in her body as his hand came at her again, this time slapping her cheek with the flat of his palm. The third and most excruciating pain came when he rammed his knee between her legs. A penetrating, stinging sensation surged through her body; a rushing stir of burning, icy-cold hurt.
With one hand spread across her face, the nails digging in, he used the other to grip and squeeze one breast until he heard an agonized cry. He then gave her a right-hand slap which sent her sprawling to the ground.
‘Slag!’ He drew phlegm, spat at her feet and strode away, heading for his digs, glad that it had started to rain. Glad that the slut would lie there in the wet. She had made him the butt of all the jokes at the medical college, besides inflicting excruciating pain and disfiguring his face. His pride was still smarting, and no doubt would be for a while yet. The common tart had not seen the last of him. The beating he had given her had not satisfied him, and he had no intention of remaining the victim. He would turn it around somehow. He would have his peers slapping him on the back and congratulating him for putting the ignorant bitch in her place.
* * *
With the light drizzle moistening her face, Rosie slowly came to her senses and tried to focus on her surroundings, but the sound of quick, echoing footsteps sent a renewed rush of terror through her.
‘Rosie! It’s me, Richard Montague.’ Kneeling by her side, the student looked into her face, which was beginning to swell under the streaks of blood and dirt. Shamed by what he saw, he brushed her damp, bedraggled hair from her face. ‘I’ll see the coward go down for this… I swear it.’
‘I want to be sick…’ she whispered.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Bend your head forward and down.’
Doing as she was told, Rosie felt a throbbing in her face and temples as the blood rushed to her head and the need to throw up ebbed away. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Can you stand up?’
‘I don’t want to.’ She raised her glazed eyes to his. ‘I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘The coward had been lying in wait for you. If you can manage to walk a few steps, you’ll feel better. Then I’ll help you home. I’ll carry you if you like.’
‘No… get me a taxi… there’s a phone box along the turning.’
