At last the hack turned down a narrow back street in Bloomsbury, Bryant’s Court.
“Is this it?” asked Rose nervously.
“This is it,” said Daisy. “I hope they gave you money to pay for this hack.”
“I still have some of my pin-money left,” said Rose.
The cabbie thanked her so effusively and said, “Good day, my lady,” that Rose was alarmed.
“He recognized me!”
“Nah!” said Daisy. “You tipped too much.”
The delighted cabbie had carried their luggage to the front door. Daisy rang the bell. The door opened and Miss Harringey stared at Rose.
“Don’t expect me to help you up the stairs with that luggage,” she said. “Come into my sanctum and I’ll give you your keys.”
Rose stood nervously while Daisy collected two sets of keys, one each to the front door, one each to the room.
“Miss Levine knows the way,” said Miss Harringey.
Rose was too depressed to say anything. Inside her head, a voice was crying, “What have I done? Oh, what have I done?”
They decided to carry the suitcases up first and then return for the trunk. Their suitcases were light because they contained nothing but their ‘working clothes’, but the trunk was heavy because it was not only packed with underwear but piles of books which Rose considered essential and Daisy thought were a waste of time and energy.
Daisy unlocked the door to their room. “There you are,” she said cheerfully. “New home.”
Rose bit her lip. She would not cry. But the sight of the room depressed her so much that she felt a lump rising in her throat.
She forced herself to say, “I suppose it will do. Let’s get the trunk.”
Miss Harringey, hands folded on her rigid bosom, watched curiously as they struggled back up the stairs, carrying the trunk between them. Rose turned on the first landing and saw her watching and gave her a haughty, glacial stare. Miss Harringey sniffed and retreated to her parlour.
When they laid the trunk in a corner, Rose straightened up and looked around again.
“There are no curtains,” she said.
“That’s ‘cos we’re at the top of the house,” said Daisy. “Nobody can look in.”
“I want curtains,” said Rose. “Good, lined curtains.”
“You do that, and then the old bat will become suspicious if she starts snooping around. Look, we’ll buy some cheap ones.”
“And a vase for flowers. I need fresh flowers.”
“My lady…I mean Rose…you’ll need to get used to the new life.”
“A cheap vase and cheap flowers,” said Rose stubbornly.
“There aren’t any cheap flowers in winter.”
“We’ll get a vase anyway and prepare for spring. But curtains, right now. Run down and get us a hack.”
“People like us don’t take carriages,” said Rose patiently. “We’ll walk up to Lower Oxford Street, and then, if you’re tired, we’ll take the omnibus, and not first class either.”
Rose sat down on the bed. “Perhaps we shouldn’t rush into things. Light that fire, Daisy. This room is abominably cold.”
“I need a penny for the meter.”
Rose opened her handbag and took out her purse. “Here’s a penny. I suppose we’ll need to save a stock of pennies for the fire and the bath. Oh, we can’t even have a cup of tea.”
“Yes, we can!” said Daisy triumphantly. “You packed books, I packed essentials.” She put a penny in the meter and lit the gas. She unlocked the trunk and pulled out a small kettle, a teapot, a packet of tea and a paper twist of sugar. “No milk, but we can have it without. I’ve brought a pot and frying pan as well.”
Rose began to laugh. “Anything else?”
“Six sausages and two rashers of bacon and a loaf of bread.”
“But how on earth can you cook?”
“See!” Daisy pulled out a gas ring from the side of the fire. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Rose began to feel almost cheerful. Daisy lit the gaslight and made a pot of tea. She wondered if Rose realized that a hostel which boasted gaslight and a bathroom was above the common order.
“I am such a fool,” said Rose. “When I saw this shabby room, I almost wanted to run back to Eaton Square and hammer on the door and say I had made a dreadful mistake. We will go out and find somewhere to eat and then we will spend the evening in practising our Pitman shorthand. I wish to surprise Papa by making myself indispensable to the bank. I wonder what the other women will be like?”
∨ Hasty Death ∧
Two
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
William Shakespeare
The alarm clock rang shrilly at six on Monday morning. Rose felt she had not slept at all. Daisy snored, Daisy cuddled up to her during the night, making Rose feel suffocated.
“Wake up!” said Rose. “Time to get ready.” Shivering, she lit the gas fire and the gaslight in its bracket by the door. “I’ll use the bathroom first.”
They had both had baths the night before, fearing they would not get a chance in the morning, but Rose wanted hot water to wash her face. She reflected as she lit the geyser over the bath, which exploded into life with a roar, that two pennies in the meter just to wash one’s face was already beginning to feel like wanton extravagance. The bathroom was a dismal place. The bath itself was a deep coffin of a thing, but fortunately it was now clean, she and Daisy having had to scrub it out the night before. She washed her face and then filled the jug from the bedroom with hot water and climbed back up the stairs.
“Brought you some hot water,” said Rose.
“What for?” asked Daisy. “We washed last night. Help me with my stays.”
Rose tied Daisy’s stay ribbons and then hurriedly began to dress. “The bank’s in Lombard Street, Daisy. How do we get there?”
“We walk.”
“But it’s so far!” wailed Rose.
“I’ll find out about omnibuses, or maybe we can get an underground train.”
“I know,” said Rose. “We’ll take a hack and get him to stop just short of the bank. Just this once.”
“Oh, all right,” said Daisy. “But we have to try to live within our means.”
♦
There were two types of typists in the City – the working girls who were struggling to better themselves, and the middle-class ladies who worked for pin-money.
The senior ‘girl’ was Mrs Danby, a thin, acidulous woman in her forties. She was middle-class and ruled her small staff of four typists with a rod of iron. Mrs Danby was not looking forward to the arrival of two newcomers, even though it was increasing her empire.
Mr Drevey had told her they were to be put in a separate room and made to type out the entries from the old ledgers. Mrs Danby pointed out that the ledgers were filled with meticulous copperplate handwriting and therefore did not need to be typed and the usually courteous Mr Drevey had snapped at her to do as she was told.
The doorman informed her of the newcomers’ arrival and she swept out in the hall to meet them; the only thing modifying her temper was the rustle of her new and expensive taffeta underskirt.
The two newcomers stood before her, irreproachably dressed. “I am in charge of you,” she said, a surprisingly loud voice emanating from her thin figure and thin trap of a mouth.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Daisy, holding out a gloved hand. “I am Miss Daisy Levine.”
Mrs Danby ignored the hand. Common-genteel, she thought. Her eyes turned on Rose, who was standing patiently.
“And you are Miss Summer?”