Abigale Hall Read online

  ‘Tell you what, child,’ Mrs Hodgkins coughed. ‘If these bags here aren’t gone by tomorrow, I’ll chuck them out myself!’

  ‘You do that, Mrs Hodgkins, and I’ll be right beside you with an armful of my own.’

  Mrs Hodgkins’ creaking laughter followed Eliza all the way to her door.

  She wasted little time preparing the dinner, sparing herself a crust of bread and some margarine for her luncheon. If she was quick enough, there might still be time for Peter to buy her dinner after work. She thought of Peter in his ill-fitting usher’s jacket and allowed herself a smile.

  With dinner stored in the larder, she pulled the final package from the shopping bags and scribbled a note inside its lid.

  Don’t tell Auntie Bess.

  Eliza shoved the parcel under their bed, knowing Rebecca would find it during her nightly count. A thump from the floor above caused the books on her shelf to shift. Peter and Wendy fell over with a slap. Eliza carefully rearranged it, propping it up with one of Mother’s porcelain figurines. Eliza had dozens of books saved from their old house, some still wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with string. She ran her fingers over the delicate spines, rereading the titles as she checked that all remained in their proper place. As soon as she received her pay this month, she would be back at Foyles adding another to her growing collection. She straightened a dancing figurine so that the woman’s outstretched hand fell perfectly in line with the book spines.

  The laundry she’d hung in the sitting room that morning was still damp. Nothing dried inside, but it wasn’t worth hanging it out the window. It would either be stolen or coated in coal dust. She saw in a magazine that every home in America now had electric dryers. They had everything in America – nylons, chocolate, chewing gum. Mrs Hodgkins received a parcel from her son over there every month. If only they had family there, a friend. Electric dryers. She sighed as she felt the wet sleeve of Rebecca’s brown dress. Might as well be science fiction, she decided.

  Eliza dropped her hand and took a breath. For the first time that day, there was a moment of quiet. She stood still, surrounded by the dank stench of drying clothes mingling with the fatty scent of cooked bacon. The sound of the cars below crept in through the cracked kitchen window. Thunk thunk. There was a crater in the street below. A present from Jerry. The buses could never avoid it.

  There it was again.

  Thunk thunk.

  Every bus. Every cab.

  Thunk thunk.

  They chose to ignore it. Pretend it wasn’t there. Pretend it didn’t matter, even if it did.

  Thunk thunk.

  The noise was constant. Eliza heard it in her sleep.

  Thunk thunk.

  Even when all else was quiet, there was always . . .

  Thunk thunk.

  The heartbeat of the building.

  Thunk thunk.

  A horn screeched and other sounds trickled back – the conversations in the queue outside, Mrs Granderson’s wireless above, the constant drip in the sink.

  Eliza looked at the clock. She had just an hour before she was needed at the theatre. It would take her that long to cross London. She changed into her uniform, freshened her face and made her way onto the cluttered stairs. Halfway down, her foot landed in an open bag of tea dregs, mouldy bread and fish waste.

  Fighting the urge to be sick, she tried to dislodge her foot but accidentally kicked the mess. The rotting muck exploded, spraying bits of fish-flavoured tea over the wooden stairs and cracked walls. After the bag settled, she straightened her jacket, checked the bun in her hair and proceeded down, nodding to Mrs Hodgkins, who, now struggling up the stairs, stopped to taste a bit of the fish that had landed in her hair.

  *

  On her hands and knees, Eliza stretched under the seat, her fingers brushing the greasy newspaper. She felt her stockings stick to the unwashed theatre floor as she strained to grasp the edge of the paper. When was the last time Jessie washed these floors like she was meant to? Eliza glanced at her palm. Unidentifiable dark specks pressed into her skin. A shiny brown stain marred the heel of her hand. She could almost picture the filth sinking deeper and deeper into her palm, worming its way through the muscle and bone, finding a way into a vein . . .

  ‘Try this.’

  A wooden cane hovered over her head. Holding it was Stephen, his bulldog face caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace, a piece of meat stuck between his crooked teeth.

  ‘Cheers.’ Eliza took the cane and guided it under the chair, unable to rid the feel of dirt from her skin.

  ‘Last to leave again, eh, ducks?’

  ‘You’re still here, aren’t you?’

  His horrid aftershave was worse than the smell from under the seats. Stephen bragged how his cousin sent it from Canada, but that scent was nothing to be proud of.

  ‘Well, I can’t possibly leave you here on your own, can I? Want me to . . . ?’

  ‘No.’ She accidentally knocked the paper further away.

  ‘It would go a lot quicker if—’

  ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’

  He leaned closer, his sour breath warm on her neck. ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Stephen, but I can manage.’ She hooked the cane behind the paper and dragged the rubbish towards her.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t offer.’ He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. She felt it creeping towards her neck, his thumb stroking her through her blouse.

  ‘Eliza?’

  She jumped at the sound of Peter’s voice.

  ‘Over here!’ she called, grabbing the rubbish.

  Stephen leant back against a seat as Peter tripped down the aisle towards them, his wavy ginger hair matted down with Brylcreem, light freckles nearly invisible in the dim light. Freckles didn’t look so bad on him, she thought. Flecks of white lint peppered the unkempt uniform that hung from his lean frame. She resisted the urge to reach out and pick each bit off one by one and settled for scrubbing her dirty palm against her thigh.

  ‘I couldn’t find you anywhere,’ Peter said, struggling to juggle the heavy bin bags in his arms.

  ‘Purvis had me clear Jessie’s rows.’ She tossed the greasy newsprint into her bin bag.

  ‘That’s the second time this week she’s missed her shift.’ Peter dropped one of the bags on his feet. ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘Easy, Lamb.’ Stephen laughed.

  ‘I don’t see you helping.’

  ‘Enough, boys.’ Eliza picked up one of Peter’s bags along with her own. ‘And don’t be so hard on Jessie. Think she’s finally got herself a new job. Wants to tell me all about it on Saturday. She’s been saying for weeks how much she hates this place.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see her point,’ Peter sighed, noticing a stain on his vest.

  ‘You’re going to see her?’ Stephen yawned, baring his teeth like a dog. Eliza hooked her free arm through Peter’s, resting her head against his shoulder.

  ‘She rang yesterday. Wants my advice on how to break the news to Purvis. Come on, Peter. Let’s toss these out and go to dinner.’

  Stephen leapt to his feet. ‘Is the invitation open?’

  ‘Couples only.’ Eliza smiled, escorting Peter up the aisle and away from that revolting aftershave. Alone in the lobby, she pulled him closer.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Fine. I’m tired, that’s all.’ Eliza peeked over her shoulder to see Stephen watching them from the darkened stalls. He picked the food from his teeth and spat it onto the floor.

  *

  A church bell chimed the hour as Eliza entered her building. Two years on and it still warmed her to hear the bells again. Eleven o’clock – Rebecca would be in bed and Aunt Bess complaining about the laundry. Maybe Eliza would tell her about electric dryers. She slipped her key into the lock, pushed open the door and got slapped in the face.

  Aunt Bess radiated fury and fag smoke.

 
; ‘In.’

  Cheek stinging, Eliza bowed her head as she closed the door behind her. Rebecca sat on the edge of the ratty sofa, the box of new shoes at her feet. If Rebecca had cried, her last tears were already smacked out of her.

  Aunt Bess reached out her hand.

  ‘Well?’

  Eliza pulled the clothing card from her handbag and handed it over without a word. She wanted that to be the end of it. She knew it wasn’t. Aunt Bess threw the card onto the side table and grabbed the shoebox lid from the floor.

  ‘Don’t tell Auntie Bess?’ she read. ‘Don’t tell Auntie Bess!’

  ‘Rebecca had nothing to do with it. It was my idea. Please . . .’

  ‘Of course it was your idea! I bloody well know she wouldn’t do anything like this on her own.’ She waved the lid about her head, threatening to bring it down like an axe.

  ‘Please let her go to bed.’

  Aunt Bess dropped her arm, fingernails gouging the pulpy flesh of the lid as stiff tendons protruded from the thin skin of her tightened hand.

  ‘You do not tell me what to do. Not in my home. You’re bloody lucky to have a home at all. Would you rather be squatting at Bedford House? No heat? No running water? Or should I chuck you out and send her to the orphans’ home?’

  Rebecca remained still. Eliza trembled. She wanted to run to her sister, sit by her, hold her. Aunt Bess blocked her path.

  ‘What? Nothing to say for yourself this time?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Eliza whispered. She kept her eyes on the ground.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Sorry is going to get my coupons back, is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. She stared at the blackened floorboards beneath her feet. Soot was embedded deep into the wood grain. No amount of washing would ever get it clean.

  Silence overtook the room. A bus hit the pothole outside. Thunk thunk. Aunt Bess’s rage receded. She took a seat at the kitchen table, tossing the box lid onto the warped surface. She lit a cigarette and avoided Eliza’s eye.

  ‘Take Rebecca and go to bed. I’ll decide your punishment in the morning.’

  Eliza felt the release in those words. Her paralysis was gone, but Rebecca’s remained.

  ‘Come, Rebecca. Time for bed.’ Eliza held out her hand. Rebecca did not take it; her eyes remained fixed on an unseen point. Eliza crouched before her. ‘Rebecca?’ She stroked her sister’s soft hair. ‘It’s time for bed, dearie. Aren’t you tired? Rebecca?’

  Rebecca turned her head and met Eliza’s gaze. Eliza could see nothing in Rebecca’s eyes. They were so like their father’s, those eyes – large and brown and empty.

  ‘Come on. Bedtime,’ Eliza repeated. Rebecca’s hand snaked into hers. She guided her to their bedroom as Aunt Bess’s cigarette burned in her hand, the filter never raised to her lips. The key turned stiffly in the door. Eliza double-checked it was locked then sat Rebecca down on the shared double bed while she changed out of her uniform.

  ‘The weather was nice today. They said on the wireless it was only supposed to get warmer. I bet we could have a picnic soon. We could head across town and sit in St James’s Park and feed scraps to the ducks. Wouldn’t that be lovely?’ Eliza finished changing and helped Rebecca lie down underneath the threadbare blankets, pulling them up to her chin the way Mother used to.

  ‘Eliza, are you cross with me?’ Rebecca asked, her voice distant. Eliza neatly folded her uniform.

  ‘Why would I be cross? You’ve done nothing wrong.’ She slid the uniform into their dresser, rearranging the collar and sleeves before shutting the drawer.

  ‘Suppose I did, would you still love me? I don’t think Auntie Bess does.’

  ‘Oh, Rebecca.’ She switched off the light, already feeling the pull of sleep, and crawled into bed beside her sister. ‘We’re not like Auntie Bess, you and I,’ she said, wrapping her arm around her. ‘We’ll always love each other no matter what.’ She kissed Rebecca’s cheek then rolled over and stared out the window, unable to see the clear night through the grime-covered glass. Rebecca whispered to the darkness.

  ‘Onetwothreefourfive.’

  Eliza couldn’t block it out.

  ‘Sixseveneightnineten.’

  She remained awake, focusing on the flickering street lamp outside.

  ‘Eleventwelvethirteenfourteen.’

  Its orange glow filtered into the room, becoming more pronounced as Eliza’s eyes adjusted to the dark.

  ‘Fifteensixteenseventeeneighteen.’

  A chair scraped against the kitchen floor.

  ‘Nineteentwenty.’

  The stool tipped over. She smelled sulphur and marrow liqueur. Eliza cried.

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  No. No stool.

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  A chair. Aunt Bess.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  It was only Aunt Bess rising from her chair. Eliza stopped crying and closed her eyes. Rebecca began counting again.

  2

  Mother stood on the shore, watching them from across the sea. Far, far away she was, but Eliza could see her clearly, see her smiling. At the dock was a little wooden boat, rocking gently back and forth. Father picked up Rebecca and sat her inside. He offered Eliza his hand, but she could not move. Peter held her, anchoring her to the grassy bank. Father turned his back on her and climbed into the boat. The dock faded and he rowed in long, even strokes, taking Rebecca away. Mother waited, solemn. Eliza wanted to tell them to wait but she had lost her voice and did not know if it would return. The boat became a pinprick in the ocean, so small Eliza could hold it in her hand. She balanced it on her palm. A mighty screech startled her. She dropped the boat and it broke at her feet.

  The bus honked again, and Eliza startled awake. She checked the mattress was dry then slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Rebecca, as the scent of the ocean still lingered in her mind. Pulling on Mother’s dressing gown, she crept out of the bedroom to find Aunt Bess cooking breakfast. A cigarette butt burned in the cracked ashtray beside her.

  ‘Good morning,’ Eliza said.

  Aunt Bess dropped the wooden spoon. She picked it off the floor and stuck it straight back into the porridge.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Did I oversleep?’ Eliza approached the table, keeping her arms tucked around her waist.

  ‘No. I had to wake early today.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The contents of Aunt Bess’s handbag were dumped across the table. Eliza’s eyes were drawn to the grey envelope, now opened, that she had glimpsed yesterday. The stationery was thick – expensive – with Aunt Bess’s name and address scrawled in red ink in a neat, slanting hand.

  As if sensing Eliza’s gaze, Aunt Bess forgot the porridge and grabbed the letter. Then she cleared the rest of her things. ‘Set the table, would you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Eliza retrieved the plates from the cupboard. ‘Would you like me to wake Rebecca?’

  ‘No. Let the girl sleep. Pour us some tea, would you?’

  Eliza obliged, retrieving the pot and two cups. They were both eating before either spoke again.

  ‘Rebecca needn’t come to work today,’ said Aunt Bess.

  ‘She hasn’t been let go?’

  ‘She’s getting the day off. I’ve already discussed it with Mr Mosley.’

  ‘But she’ll be allowed back? She loves the work. It keeps her––’

  ‘That’s not for you to worry about, Eliza.’ Aunt Bess dabbed her mouth with the edge of her apron then rose from the table. ‘I need to change. Keep her busy today.’

  ‘I have to leave for work at five o’clock.’

  Aunt Bess hesitated as she pushed in her chair.

  ‘No. You don’t.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Purvis as well. Perform your household duties as per usual and I’ll be home for dinner at six.’ She went to the sitting room to change into her work clothes while Eliza remained at the table.

  ‘Is this our punishment? Taking away our livelihood
s?’

  ‘Working as a cigarette girl is hardly a livelihood.’

  ‘Auntie Bess, I know what I did was wrong, but—’

  ‘There’s to be no further conversation on the matter. Now do as you’re told and be here at six. Understood?’

  Eliza stared into her bowl. The porridge was runny, tasteless.

  ‘Understood, Eliza?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good.’ She finished applying her lipstick then dropped the make-up into her handbag and stared inside the small handbag. ‘Good.’ She snapped it shut. ‘Six o’clock. And I expect you to be on time.’

  Eliza stared at the closed door, feeling Mother’s old dislike for Bess Haverford threatening to escalate into her own absolute hatred. The floor creaked behind her. She turned to see Rebecca standing in the bedroom doorway, tapping the handle.

  *

  ‘What’s she planning, then?’ Peter asked as they strolled down Charing Cross Road. Eliza held a new book from Foyles under one arm, the other threaded loosely through Peter’s, as Rebecca skipped beside them.

  ‘I don’t know. I never know.’

  ‘All over a pair of shoes . . .’

  ‘Peter, please. Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Course we can.’

  They continued their walk, neither saying a word. Rebecca darted ahead to look in a shop window, then ran back to Eliza and Peter. A pigeon flew low over their heads and landed on a nearby ledge. Rebecca ducked and laughed, sticking her tongue out at the bird.

  ‘Well. This is exciting,’ Peter said.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just . . .’

  ‘Worried? Tired? Angry?’

  ‘Do I look worried, tired or angry?’ Eliza fussed with her limp hair.

  ‘No. I think you look . . .’

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘I was going to say beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She blushed.

  ‘Well, I mean it. By the way . . . I was thinking . . .’