By Friday evening, Daisy thought she would die of boredom. The evening and weekend lay ahead. It was all right for Rose. She would probably sit reading.
Daisy’s days as a chorus girl at Butler’s Theatre began to take on a rosy glow. She missed the jokes and the raucous company. And men had found her attractive when there was no Rose to compete with.
In the evening, they cooked sausages over the little gas ring by the fire. Then Rose settled down to read.
“Pity we’ve got to work tomorrow morning,” complained Daisy.
“Only until twelve-thirty, then we’re free,” said Rose, looking up. “We can go to the British Museum.”
Daisy thought rapidly. “I might go and see my family if you don’t mind being left on your own.”
“Don’t promise them all your money. We get paid tomorrow.”
“Naw. Just say hullo.”
Next day, Rose was exhilarated to receive her first pay packet. But she made a mental note to ask for more money if she was going to continue to be employed as a secretary.
She said goodbye to Daisy outside the bank. “I’ll be back this evening,” promised Daisy.
Rose had discovered an omnibus which would take her to Holborn and from there it was an easy walk to her diggings. Conscious of the need for thrift, she paid for a third-class ticket. She did wish people did not smell so bad. Not that the upper classes were so terribly keen on baths, but they did bathe occasionally. Rose took out a small lace handkerchief scented with Parma Violet and held it to her nose.
♦
Daisy felt she was breathing the air of freedom when she stood outside Butler’s Theatre in Whitechapel. She was back home among familiar sights and sounds. She had no intention of visiting her family. Although she sent them money when she could, she could not forget her last visit the year before, when her drunken father had tried to assault her.
Daisy was studying the posters when a male voice said. “Think of going in, miss? It’s a good show.”
Daisy swung round. “Why, it’s Billy Gardon!” she exclaimed.
Billy goggled at the sedate little figure in front of him. “Daisy, is that you?”
“It’s me all right.”
When Billy, a comedian, had last seen Daisy, she had brassy blonde hair and thick make-up, not to mention garish clothes.
“What happened to you?”
Daisy grinned. “It’s a long story.”
“Tell you what,” said Billy. “I got this little flat at the top of the theatre. I’m not on till this evening. Let’s you and me go up there and have a glass of hot gin.”
Daisy hesitated only a moment. Telling herself that she’d never had any trouble from Billy before, she let him lead her round the side, through the stage door and up through the inner recesses of the theatre.
She could hear someone on stage singing ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’ and the audience joining in the chorus.
Slapping it here, slapping it there, paste and paper everywhere,
Mother was stuck to the ceiling, the kids were stuck to the floor.
I’ve never seen such a bloomin’ family so stuck up before!
“Here we are,” said Billy, panting a little as he came to a halt before a door at the top. He swung it open and ushered Daisy in.
She found herself in a frowsty little room. There was a bed against one wall with the blankets spilling over onto the floor. A table against the window was covered with the remains of breakfast. It was flanked by two kitchen chairs and a dead aspidistra in a brass bowl on the window-ledge. The walls were covered in music-hall posters.
Billy cleared the table by lifting up the four corners of the cloth, bundling everything up and putting it in a corner. There was a coal fire spilling ash onto the grate. “Soon get a fire going.” Billy raked out the ashes, giving Daisy a view of his large plaid-covered backside. Billy was a thickset middle-aged man with a large walrus moustache. His hair was dyed black and his face was red from too much drinking.
When the fire was lit, he thrust a kettle full of water on it, and then opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of gin and two glasses.
“We’ll have some hot water for the gin in a trice,” said Billy. “Now, let me look at you. What you been and gone and done to yourself?”
He was a good listener. Daisy would not confess to herself that she still found Rose’s company rather intimidating. The class lines were strictly drawn. To want to move out of your station was flying in the face of Providence. Everyone knew that God put you in your appointed station.
So it was a relief to be back with what she naïvely thought of as ‘her own kind’. Mellowed by hot gin – several glasses of it – she told Billy everything, only forgetting to say that Rose’s parents had gone abroad.
“So this earl’s daughter’s living in this hostel! Where did you say it was?”
“It’s at Number Twenty-two Bryant Court in Bloomsbury. Fact is, I’m amazed she can stand it after all she’s been used to.”
“Here, have another gin.”
“Shouldn’t really. Still, it’s a cold day.”
“Run out o’ gin. Be back in a mo’.”
Billy raced down the stairs and round to the pub with the empty bottle, which he got filled with gin. Then he went into the chemist’s next door to it and bought a bottle of laudanum. His brain was racing. Here was his passport to freedom. No more shows, day in and day out. He was getting on in life.
♦
That evening, Rose was feeling tired. She was also hungry, but there was no sign of Daisy and she wondered whether she should start eating without her.
At nine o’ clock, there was a knock on her door. Rose opened it. Miss Harringey stood there. “There is a person downstairs to see you.”
Rose arched her eyebrows. “I do not see persons, Miss Harringey. What does he want?”
“I do not approve of gentlemen callers. Would you be so good as to descend and send him on his way.”
Rose followed her down the stairs. “He is in my sanctum,” said Miss Harringey, throwing open the door.
Rose stared at Billy, from his dyed greased hair down over his plaid suit with the brown velvet lapels to his brown boots, and then her eyes travelled back up again to his face.
“Yes?”
“I am Mr Billy Gardon. You may have heard of me.”
“No. State your business.”
“It’s a delicate matter,” said Billy, looking at Miss Harringey. “It’s about Daisy.”
“Step outside with me,” said Rose. “Thank you, Miss Harringey.”
She led Billy out into a small hall and closed the door behind her on Miss Harringey’s curious face.
Miss Harringey opened the door a crack. She heard Billy saying, “Miss Levine’s been taken ill. She’s at the theatre. I got a flat there, up top. She’s asking for you.”
“I will get my coat and come with you directly,” said Rose.
♦
Captain Harry Cathcart was enjoying his breakfast on Sunday morning when his manservant, Becket, announced, “Mr Matthew Jarvis to see you on urgent business.”
“Mr Jarvis?”
“The Earl of Hadshire’s secretary.”
Harry felt a sudden stab of unease. “Show him in.”
Matthew strode into the room, his normally pleasant face white with strain. “I came to you directly. I normally don’t work on Sundays, particularly with his lordship being away…”
“Sit down, Mr Jarvis. Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I decided to work this morning because I planned to visit my mother in the country tomorrow. I was going through Saturday’s post and found this. It had been delivered by hand.”
Harry took the cheap envelope and extracted a piece of lined paper. He read: “If you want to see your daughter again, bring five thousand guineas to Jack Straw’s Castle in Hampstead on Monday at two in the afternoon. Don’t tell no one or she’s dead.”