The Last Pleasure Garden (9 page)

George Nelson looks at the room on offer. It is a small space in the attic floor of a somewhat below-par lodging-house, in a rather dingy side street. It is barely large enough for the bed, wash-stand and dressing table within.

‘Meals included?'

The landlord shakes his head.

‘Laundry?' says Nelson.

The landlord smiles, but shakes his head again.

‘I'll take it.'

‘How long for?' asks the landlord. ‘Month? I can't say less than a month. I'd be doing myself a disservice if I said less than a month. In advance.'

‘A month then,' says Nelson, shaking his hand.

‘What's your line of work?'

Nelson pauses. ‘Nothing in particular.'

‘Lost your position, eh? What brings you here?'

The ticket-of-leave man walks over to the room's small window and peers out. ‘Thought I'd look up some old friends.'

R
ose Perfitt stands perfectly still upon a low stool in the work-room of one Madame Lannier, ‘Superior Milliner and Dressmaker', as the latter circles about her, minutely examining her form, like a scholar pondering some marble Venus in the basement of the British Museum. Rose's appearance is a matter of professional pride to Madame, who has spent fifteen minutes adorning her in a garnet-coloured ball-gown of corded silk, albeit one as yet with no trimmings, the body and cuirasse held together with a temporary arrangement of cleverly placed pins. Madame Lannier, it must be said, is a renowned perfectionist and must have things ‘just so'.

Rose's mother, meanwhile, accompanying her daughter to the fitting, merely sits upon a wing chair by the door, observing the proceedings.

‘You must keep the back straight, Mademoiselle, if you please,' insists the dressmaker, a thin woman with a surprisingly firm manner, who tugs gently at the dress's putative cuirasse, then, seeming to change her mind as to the cause of the difficulty, manipulates Rose's shoulders, pushing them firmly into an acceptable posture. Rose does her best to oblige.

‘Now,' says Madame Lannier, turning to Mrs. Perfitt, ‘the skirts are tied back like so, yes?
Vous
comprenez
,
Madame
? That is
la ligne
for the season – you see the waist, yes?
Très prononcé
– here and here. Then, of course, we attach the train. My girls will add the lace trim tomorrow.'

Mrs. Perfitt beams. ‘I think it will be delightful, Madame Lannier. What do you think, Rose dear?'

‘I do like it, Mama, but I would rather—'

‘
Attendez
!' interrupts Madame Lannier, observing a slight turn by her model. ‘Do not move, my child, please, not yet.'

‘Rose,' says Mrs. Perfitt, ‘please do not make a fuss. It is quite perfect. Your father will be so proud.'

‘
How
much?'

Mr. Perfitt's query resounds throughout the Perfitts' drawing-room.

‘Charles, do not pretend for a moment that you even care about such trifles.'

‘You know I do not hold with such extravagance, Caroline. It will quite turn Rose's head. She is in the clouds enough, as it is. You saw her at dinner – I could barely get a sensible word out of her.'

‘My dear, we have discussed this,' replies his wife, reaching for his hand and taking it in hers. ‘One cannot turn up to the Prince's Ground in some ready-made from Marshall and Snelgrove. This is your daughter's entrée into Society.'

Mr. Perfitt replies with a rather indistinct murmur of disapproval.

‘You will come too. And I shall be her chaperon – why, don't you trust me to keep my eye on her?'

‘I should hope I did.'

‘Well then. You need not worry so. She will be quite safe.'

Mr. Perfitt looks to the floor, and says nothing. His wife squeezes his hand.

‘I expect,' he says at length, ‘it is one of those modern articles, all waist and whalebone.'

‘Madame Lannier makes everything to the latest fashion, if that is what you mean,' replies his wife, smiling gratefully at the touch of good humour returning to his voice.

‘Then I am sure it will be something no decent young woman would wear.'

‘I shall be wearing something similar myself,' replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘If you do not think it is suitable . . .'

‘I suppose if she must go, she ought to look her best.'

‘Thank you, Charles,' says Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Thank you. Oh Lord, that reminds me,' she continues, ‘I shall need something to settle Madame Lannier's account. It is due the week after next.'

Rose Perfitt sits at her desk. Instead of opening her treasured cache of letters, a daily ritual she has already performed, she begins a new missive, addressed to her older sister:

17 May 1875

My Dearest Laetitia,

Just a little note, as I said I would write. Today we went to Lannier's, an awful bore, though Mdm. made herself very agreeable afterwards. She said I shall look like a princess at the ball – très gentile, n'est ce pas? But I think Mama hopes I shall be a Cinderella. Of course, my dress will
not be magicked up, except by Papa's ten guineas! HE thinks it is all nonsense – poor Papa! I confess, my dear Letty, I am getting
so
excited about the dancing that I know I shall be quite out of my mind with it on the night; and I cannot believe that three whole days remain until Saturday. I mean to enjoy it like anything. Mama says no-one present will have less than seven thousand a year – she thinks that I shall go fishing out one of them like a prize angler. I cannot say why, my dear Letty, if you can forgive me a little secret, but I do not think such men will ever capture your little one's heart; but I expect they shall all mark my programme. For I long to
dance
!! I trust your Mr. Worthing and the boys are keeping well. The weather here is heavenly – I hope it lasts. I shall write to you properly, I promise, once the agony of waiting is over!

Your loving sister,
Rose

Rose smiles, satisfied with her prose, folds the letter into an envelope and rings the servants' bell. Her maid arrives promptly.

‘Can you see this is posted tonight?'

‘Yes, Miss.'

An hour later, as Rose Perfitt is completing her evening toilette, assiduously brushing her long hair, she is interrupted by a knock at her door.

‘Come in?'

The Perfitts' maid reappears. ‘Beg pardon, Miss.'

‘Yes?'

‘I posted that letter, Miss.'

‘Thank you,' replies Rose, perplexed. ‘Richards – whatever is it?'

‘There was a gentleman, Miss. He came up to us when I was at the pillar-box.'

‘I do not follow. Was he pestering you?'

‘Yes, Miss. Well, not exactly,' replies Richards, blushing. ‘He gave me this envelope, Miss. He said I was to take it just to you, seeing how it was a secret.' The maid holds out a rather dusty-looking envelope. Rose takes it swiftly from Richards' hand.

‘You may go, Richards.'

‘Thank you, Miss,' replies the maid, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye.

Rose Perfitt waits until the maid has left the room before taking up her silver letter-opener. She slices open the envelope, peers inside and turns it inside out.

A single petal from a red rose falls onto her desk.

‘A
warm night, ain't it?' says the toll-keeper upon Battersea Bridge, tugging at his shirt collar. ‘I reckon there's a storm brewing.'

‘Is that right?' replies Jane Budge, surrendering a copper coin to pay for her crossing.

‘Aye, that's right,' says the toll-keeper, gesturing magnanimously towards the turn-stile. ‘Us old 'uns can feel it in our bones.'

‘You're like my old Ma, 'cepting with her it's rain, snow, and who'll win the bloody Derby.'

‘You laugh, my girl. You laugh when you're soaked through and no 'brella.'

‘I'll be all right,' she says, over her shoulder, walking on across the bridge.

In truth, Jane Budge wonders if the old man's prediction may prove correct. The nocturnal sky seems black as pitch, punctuated by neither the moon nor the stars. She sets herself a brisk pace, past the gas-lights upon the bridge, quickening her step down to the Battersea Road. There, for want of any better mental exercise, she estimates her progress by ticking off each public house as she goes past, useful milestones along the rather dingy thoroughfare. It is only when she passes the Red Cow, considering herself quite alone
on the road, that she hears the distinct sound of foot-steps on the stone paving behind her.

She turns around, but there is no-one to be seen. Pausing for a moment, the only figure she can discern in the gloom is several hundred yards away, in the side road next to the last public house, a man bracing his body against a wall with one arm, relieving himself of an excess of beer. He looks far too unsteady to be any danger. She shakes her head and walks on, looking back at him two or three times, to be sure he is not following. But the man merely remains against the wall, as if determined to prop it up all night.