Maureen JENNINGS - Under the Dragon’s Tail

“Nobby,” said Annie, indicating the glass panel. It was an ornate flower design in red and green.

“Somebody’s been working on this,” said Annie, and she tugged at the gleaming brass bellpull with vigour.

The door opened and a young footman in grey livery stood in front of them. His polite demeanour vanished immediately.

“Millie! What are you doing here?”

“We’ve come to have a chat,” Annie answered for her.

He stepped forward, half closing the door.

“Not here. You’ll get me sacked.”

“Where then?”

“Go around to the back, there by that path. I’ll run and let you into the kitchen. But I can’t stay more than a minute–”

“That’ll probably be half a second longer than it took to put the kid in the basket.”

He turned a shade of white-green.

“Oh God! No!”

“Oh God, yes.”

Millie suddenly burst into tears, her nose and eyes running all at once. Annie almost felt sorry for Meredith, he was so terrified. He glanced agonizedly over his shoulder.

“I daren’t talk to you anymore. Burns is a devil.”

At that moment, they heard a child’s voice, and a young girl about seven or eight years old appeared behind him.

“Excuse me, Meredith, we’re going out.”

He had to step aside and she came onto the top step.

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t know we had visitors.” Her manners were exquisite.

“Er, these are my, er, cousins, Miss Sarah, from the country.”

“How do you do? We’re going on the open-air streetcar to the lakeshore,” she said, needing to tell somebody in her excitement. She turned as a woman came to the door, dressed for an outing. “Here are Meredith’s cousins, Auntie. They’re from the country.”

The woman was of middle age, elegantly dressed, and would have been considered handsome except for her disfigurement. A wine-coloured naevus covered her right cheek, pulling up her lip so she seemed to be caught in a perpetual sneer.

At the sight of the two young women, she halted in the doorway. Her shock was palpable. Her hand flew to her face.

Meredith mistook her reaction for disapproval.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pedlow, they won’t stay–”

She stared at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

Annie jumped in. “Don’t worry about us, madam. We’ve just come for a quick visit.”

The older woman suddenly pulled down her veil and started to button her gloves.

“That’s quite all right, Miss, er?”

“Brogan. Annie. You might have heard of me. I’m on the stage. I sing.”

Millie gave a little moan of mortification. She hadn’t told John about her sister’s livelihood.

Annie gestured in her direction. “This is my sister, Mildred Brogan.”

“And you’re related to Meredith.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The footman was moving as if he had livestock in his breeches, and Millie was trying to bury herself in her handkerchief.

“May I go ahead?” Sarah called.

Both Mrs. Pedlow and Annie suddenly focused their attention on the little girl.

“Your daughter is so like you, if I may say, madam,” said Annie.

“I’m told there is a likeness, but Sarah is actually my first cousin once removed. Her mother died in childbirth in England. The father had passed away earlier and as there was nobody else, my husband and I became her guardians. She is my ward.”

Annie’s gaze didn’t waver. “How good of you to do that for an orphan.”

“She has brought great joy to my life, so it has been no hardship.”

Sarah hovered at the gate afraid to go further.

“Auntie, may I go on?”

Suddenly Annie said, “Children love the theatre, don’t they? I am acquainted with the manager at the opera house. Would you like me to take her down there? He would show us around.”

Millie stared in horror at her sister then buried her face once more in her sodden handkerchief. Meredith gaped.

Mrs. Pedlow fidgeted with the veil on her hat. “Thank you, Miss Brogan. That is very kind.” Her voice was tight. “Perhaps we could, er, talk about it first. I wonder could you call…?”

“Love to. Would tomorrow afternoon suit you?”

“Perfectly. Shall we say three o’clock?”

“Done.”

Annie actually thrust out her hand as if they were two men sealing a contract. Awkwardly, Mrs. Pedlow touched the young woman’s fingers. Kid glove meeting kid glove.

“Now if you will excuse me, Sarah is longing for her ride.” She paused. “Meredith, please give your cousins some refreshment. It is a warm day.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Mrs. Pedlow walked away down the path, her back straight and stiff. Her silk walking suit was a lilac tint with deep flounces of airy cream lace at the throat and sleeves, the hat a huge masterpiece of lilac ribbon, flowers, and lace. The outfit would have paid the sisters’ rent for several months.

“Annie, how could you be so bold?” Millie whined at her.

“Oh, Millie, shut your trap. You don’t know anything. Nothing at all.”

Since their new lodger had arrived, Mrs. Kitchen had set up the front parlour for meals. It meant she had to bring Arthur out into the back room but she insisted. At first, Murdoch missed the coziness of the kitchen where he’d eaten before, but he now had the chance to sit down with Mrs. Jones and her son, Alwyn, and he liked that a lot.

There was a soft tap on the door and Mrs. Kitchen came in with a tray.

“I made you a semolina pudding for your sweet.”

Murdoch patted his stomach. “How am I going to compete in the games if you keep feeding me like this? I’ll be having to enter the fat man’s race if I carry on.”

She smiled, pleased. “Nonsense. A man needs his strength.” She put the tray on the sideboard. “How was the fish?”

“Delicious.”

Friday was a meatless day and they’d had boiled turbot for dinner.

She placed the dish of yellow pudding in front of him and stood to watch him take his first spoonful.

“Hmm, wonderful,” he said, lying blatantly.

Truth was he could have lived happily the rest of his life without ever tasting semolina again, but he wouldn’t hurt her feelings by saying so.

“The boy polished his off in no time. His mother eats like a bird though. Needs some meat on her bones.”

Murdoch thought the young widow’s flesh was perfect for her small stature, but again he just concentrated on getting down his sweet and made an agreeing noise.

“After you’ve finished, why don’t you come sit out front with us. Arthur’s fever has gone up so a bit of night air might do him good.”

“Thank you, Mrs. K., I’d like that.”

She started to gather up his dishes and said artlessly, “Would you mind to run up and ask Mrs. Jones if she’d like to join us? These days the upstairs can get to be an oven. And her working away ’til all hours. It’s pleasant outside right now.”

“All right.”

Ever since Enid Jones had arrived, Beatrice vacillated in her opinion of the young woman. Personally, she liked her a great deal. She was sober and industrious, kept her own room spotlessly neat, took good care of her son. However, every Sunday Beatrice was forced to admit that Mrs. Jones was a Protestant. When Mrs. Kitchen set off with her rosary grasped in her hands, telling her beads on the way to St. Paul’s, Mrs. Jones and her son would head in the opposite direction towards the big Baptist church on Jarvis Street. She carried a plain black Bible. On those days, Beatrice gave up the notion of matchmaking for William. During the week, however, the idea had a way of creeping back in.

Murdoch knew perfectly what his landlady was up to, but as he had the same feelings himself, voicing an objection seemed hypocritical. He pushed back his chair and wiped his moustache clean of any pudding that might be sticking there.