Mermaids Singing (3 page)

Fear of Sid kept Kitty housebound. Working as a mudlark was out of the question, but she tried to repay Betty by helping with the household chores. In the evenings, she struggled by candlelight, learning to sew a straight seam. Betty’s true trade was that of seamstress but, without the money to purchase a sewing machine, and with hands gnarled with rheumatics, she could barely make enough from dressmaking to feed herself and Polly, let alone pay the doctor’s bills. Taking in commercial travellers helped to keep food on the table, but with Kitty now sleeping in the attic room, Betty had only two letting rooms. Even allowing for Jem’s allotment from the New Zealand Shipping Company, money was tight. It hurt Kitty to know this, and her heart ached to see Betty sitting at the kitchen table night after night, straining her tired eyes, as she attempted to balance her household accounts. Life in Tanner’s Passage was hard enough, but far removed from the grinding poverty of Sugar Yard. Kitty knew that she could not live off Betty’s charity for much longer. She would have to find work, even if it meant selling matches or bootlaces in the street.

Curled up on the window seat, Kitty snipped the thread as she finished sewing buttons on an afternoon dress for one of Betty’s clients, the wife of a prosperous silversmith who lived in Shoreditch. The sensual feel of the grey tussore beneath her fingers sent thrills of pleasure rippling through her veins. It was the most beautiful garment that Kitty had ever seen and she rubbed it against her cheek. One day she would work in a dress shop up West, even if she had to sleep beneath the counter at night and spend the day picking up pins and bits of cotton thread. Up West, bright lights twinkled like boiled sweets; everyone wore shoes or boots, and ladies smelt of perfume and powder. Up West, people didn’t scratch all day from fleas and lice; rats kept to the sewers below the streets and you didn’t stumble across stiffs frozen to death in back alleys and shop doorways.

Glancing at Polly, just to make sure she was still sleeping peacefully on the sofa, Kitty allowed her gaze to wander down below to the bustling crowds in Tanner’s Passage; sailors, stevedores, costermongers, beggars and street urchins jostled each other as they went about their business. It was almost dusk, too early for the drunks and street women, but high time that Betty returned home. She had gone out earlier on one of her mysterious errands and, with a sigh of relief, Kitty spotted her familiar figure scurrying home.

Minutes later Betty breezed into the sitting room, tossing her bonnet and shawl onto a chair and smiling. ‘Kitty, love, you’ll never guess where I’ve been. I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘You’ve been to see Maggie and she wants me to go home?’ Kitty held her breath.

Shaking her head, Betty came to sit beside her. ‘You can’t never go back there, ducks.’

‘She still blames me?’

‘No, she don’t. Maggie would have you back in a shot, if it weren’t for him, but she admits that Sid is a bad lot and you got to be kept well away from him.’

Kitty’s heart jolted as though she’d missed a step on the stairs. ‘You’re sending me away too?’

‘You’ve always got a home here with me, but we got to be practical. Now Maggie and me got our heads together, and we think it’s best if you’re out of the way for a bit. Don’t cry, love. Just hear me out …’

Leaving Polly in the capable hands of a neighbour from across the street who owed Betty several cups of sugar, not to mention half a loaf of bread, Kitty and Betty set out early next morning. In one of Betty’s old skirts, cut down so that it almost fitted, and a white cotton blouse, taken in a few inches, Kitty knew that she was not exactly dressed in the height of fashion, but at least she was clean and tidy. A knitted shawl and gloves finished off her outfit and Betty had given her a red ribbon with which to tie back her long, curly hair. The ribbon was so beautiful, soft and shiny, that Kitty had to keep putting up her hand and touching it, just to make sure it was still there.

For economy’s sake, they walked most of the way, and took a hackney carriage from Temple Bar. Kitty was horrified at such extravagance, but Betty said it was a question of keeping up appearances. She wasn’t going to arrive at her old employer’s home looking like a pauper. The cabbie drove them to Mayfair, setting them down in Dover Street.

‘We’ve got ten minutes to spare,’ Betty said, shaking out the creases of her Sunday best black bombazine dress. ‘We’ll have to go in through the servants’ entrance at the back, but I wanted you to see what a fine house you’ll be working in.’

Kitty stared around her in awe; Mayfair was so grand that it took her breath away. She had seen several big, shiny, horseless carriages weaving in and out between the horse-drawn vehicles that jostled chaotically in the busy streets around Piccadilly Circus. The people strolling along the pavements in St James’s were plump as partridges, and wore such fine clothes that she could hardly believe her eyes. The reality of being up West was better than the wildest of her dreams. In her excitement she had almost forgotten that her feet were pinched and sore in a borrowed pair of Betty’s high-buttoned boots. Her heart was fluttering inside her ribcage and her stomach felt as though it had tied itself in a knot. She felt elated to be here in the world of her dreams, but she also felt out of place amongst the rich and beautiful people; she was bubbling with excitement and yet trembling with nerves. Her relief at being far away from Sugar Yard was being eaten up by the aching sadness of leaving Maggie, who really did love her, and the children, who must be missing her just as much as she missed them.

Betty stopped suddenly, pointing to a double-fronted, five-storey Georgian mansion on the far side of the street. ‘That’s Sir Desmond Mableton’s house where me and your dear mother worked as housemaids, years ago. Ain’t it fine?’

Lost for words, Kitty could only stare at the imposing building. A carriage drawn by two, finely matched chestnut horses had drawn up outside. A liveried footman ran down the steps to open the door, while a man in a black tailcoat waited under the portico.

‘That’s Mr Warner, the butler,’ Betty whispered. ‘He runs the household below stairs and it was him what arranged your interview with the housekeeper, Mrs Brewster. Look, Kitty, that’s Sir Desmond himself getting out of the carriage.’

Sir Desmond, Kitty thought, looked very old and very grand in his frock coat and top hat, but he was totally eclipsed by the elegant young lady alighting from the carriage, aided by the footman.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Kitty said, breathless with admiration. ‘Is that his daughter?’

Betty’s mouth formed a tight little circle as if she had just sucked a lemon. ‘Keep your voice down or they’ll hear you, and don’t stare. That’s Lady Arabella Mableton, Sir Desmond’s second wife. She’s no better than an actress.’

‘An actress?’

‘Worse!’ Betty said, with a disapproving sniff. ‘She performed in the music halls.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Most gentlemen of his station would have set her up in a nice suburban villa, but Sir Desmond went and married her.’ Betty grabbed Kitty’s hand. ‘Come on or we’ll be late.’

Kitty didn’t move; she couldn’t take her eyes off the lady with her golden hair piled high beneath a wide-brimmed hat, her ruffled, ivory silk gown nipped at a tiny waist, a long-handled parasol clutched in her gloved hand. Sir Desmond was already at the top of the steps but, as Lady Mableton went to follow him, she appeared to stumble, dropping her parasol. Sprinting forward, dodging between a gentleman on horseback and a hansom cab, Kitty crossed the street and snatched up the parasol.

Lady Mableton’s startled expression was replaced by a charming smile that lit her blue eyes and dimpled her cheeks. ‘Thank you, my dear! How kind of you.’

If an angel had suddenly come down to earth and spoken to her, Kitty couldn’t have felt more tongue-tied. She bobbed a curtsey.

Betty appeared at her elbow, breathless and red in the face. ‘Come away, Kitty.’

‘Kitty, that’s a pretty name. I’m indebted to you, Kitty, er …’

‘Kitty Cox, Ma’am. I come to be a scullery maid in your house.’

Lady Mableton’s eyes clouded with concern. ‘Oh, you poor child.’ She turned to Betty, laying a gloved hand on her arm. ‘Madam, if you love your daughter, don’t make her do this. Take her home with you now, I beg you.’

Kitty sat on the edge of her chair in the housekeeper’s office, gazing in amazement at the splendour of her surroundings. She had never seen anything so fine as the mantelshelf swathed in crimson velvet, trimmed with dangling gold tassels that reflected the flames from a coal fire, blazing up the chimney. They must be rich as kings, she thought, to afford such a luxury in September, when the weather had turned a bit nippy, but was nowhere near cold.

Before she had time to study the details of the fancy wallpaper and the gas mantles with smoked-glass shades, the door opened and Mrs Brewster sailed into the room. She looked every bit as imposing as the picture of Queen Victoria that had hung on the classroom wall in Kitty’s school, where skinny, little Miss Draper, with squint eyes and a flat bosom, had taken a personal interest in Kitty’s natural ability to draw. Miss Draper had brought magazines into the classrooms so that the children could cut out pictures and paste them into scrapbooks. Amongst these Kitty had been quick to pounce upon copies of
Milliner, Dress-maker and Draper
, the
Lady’s Pictorial
and
Queen, the Ladies’ Newspaper
, all of which had been bought and discarded by the rich widow to whom Miss Draper’s sister was lady’s maid. And this house, Kitty thought, was much more grand than anything she had seen in the periodicals, and Mrs Brewster did look like the Queen. Dragging herself back to the present, Kitty stared at the housekeeper, wondering if she ought to curtsey. Casting a nervous glance at Betty, Kitty followed her example and stood up.

Mrs Brewster went to sit behind a large, oak desk. ‘You may sit down.’ Hooking a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles over her ears, that were half hidden by swathes of iron-grey hair dragged back into a knot at the nape of her neck, Mrs Brewster shot Kitty a cursory glance. She turned to Betty. ‘So, Mrs Scully, you were formerly employed here as a housemaid?’

Betty sat bolt upright, clearing her throat. ‘Yes, Mrs Brewster, more than twenty years ago. Me and Kitty’s mother worked under Mr Warner in those days.’

‘Before my time, of course,’ Mrs Brewster said, glaring over the top of her spectacles as if she expected Betty to argue.

She didn’t.

‘And you think this girl would suit our strict requirements?’

Betty nodded her head. ‘Like I told Mr Warner when I wrote him, Kitty is a good girl, clean and tidy.’

Mrs Brewster turned her steely gaze on Kitty. ‘Are you willing to work hard, Kitty?’

‘Yes’m.’ Kitty felt herself blushing and she wriggled nervously on the hard wooden seat of the chair.

‘Yes, Mrs Brewster! And don’t fidget, girl.’

‘Yes, Mrs Brewster.’ Kitty sat on her hands.

Mrs Brewster turned back to Betty, as if Kitty weren’t capable of answering for herself. ‘She looks undersized for her age, and peaky.’

‘She may be small, Mrs Brewster, but she’s wiry and she’s used to hard work. Aren’t you, Kitty?’

Before Kitty could answer, Mrs Brewster came in on the attack. ‘I don’t put up with shirking, Kitty Cox. Are you a shirker?’

‘No, Mrs Brewster.’

‘Are you an honest, God-fearing girl?’

‘Yes, Mrs Brewster.’

Mrs Brewster stared at Kitty for what seemed like an hour with cold eyes that reminded Kitty of the fish heads that Sid brought home from the market. ‘You might do,’ she said at last. ‘All right, Mrs Scully, I’m prepared to take the girl on for a trial period of one month. But if she doesn’t come up to scratch she’ll be sent back to you without a character, is that clear?’

‘Yes, Mrs Brewster, Ma’am. Thank you.’

‘She’ll be paid ten pounds a year, all found. Have you anything to say, Kitty?’

Kitty shook her head, tempted to tell this hard-faced old crow what she could do with her rotten job, but ten pounds a year was a fortune and, anyway, she couldn’t have spoken a word, not without bursting into tears.

‘I didn’t hear your answer,’ snapped Mrs Brewster, leaning across the desk. ‘Cat got your tongue, Kitty Cox?’

The housemaid, summoned by Mrs Brewster to take Kitty down to the servants’ hall, bobbed a curtsey, shot Kitty a scornful glance and strode off. Following her through the maze of narrow passages, painted dark green at the bottom and a yellowed cream at the top, Kitty had to run to keep up. The housemaid barged through a baize door that led into the kitchen, letting it swing back, almost knocking Kitty off her feet.

‘Who’s this then, Dora?’ demanded the cook, wiping her floury hands on her apron.

‘It’s the new scullery maid,’ Dora said, giving Kitty a spiteful nudge in the ribs. ‘Tell Mrs Dixon your name, girl, if you’ve got a tongue in your head.’

Kitty drew herself up to her full height, but even then she was only up to Dora’s shoulder. Everyone was staring at her and she wanted desperately to run back to Betty and beg her to take her home to Tanner’s Passage. Stifling the impulse, she took a deep breath. ‘Me name is Kitty Cox.’

A housemaid with a sly, feline face, giggled behind her hand. ‘Don’t they know how to talk proper where you come from, Kitty Cox?’

‘That’ll do, Olive.’ Mrs Dixon shook a finger at her, frowning. ‘I hope you’re stronger than you look, Kitty, or you won’t last a day in my kitchen.’

‘Yes’m.’

‘I’ve seen bigger rats in the yard,’ Olive muttered, winking at Dora.

‘Get on with your work, all of you,’ Mrs Dixon said. ‘Kitty, you go with Florrie and she’ll show you what to do.’

Dora and Olive went off giggling and Kitty followed Florrie into the scullery. A mountain of greasy pots and pans cluttered the wooden draining board. The clay sink looked big enough to bathe all Maggie’s little ones at one go.

‘That’s your job,’ Florrie said, handing Kitty a dishcloth. ‘That’s what you’ll do, day in and day out, until your hands are red raw. When you’ve finished that you come to me and I’ll tell you what to do next.’