Dilly Court - Ragged Rose

Fancello’s beetle brows drew together in a frown. ‘You want the money, you do the late show. It is not for you to dictate terms to me.’

Rose thought quickly. It would make life difficult, but she had no choice. There had never been any question of family members missing Sunday services, unless they were too ill to attend. Both she and Cora took Sunday school classes, and after evensong, at half-past seven on the dot, everyone gathered in the dining room to enjoy a cold collation as it was Mrs Blunt’s evening off. Her preferred way of spending her leisure time was to sit in the rocking chair by the range, knitting shapeless garments for the poor, while Rose and Cora tackled the washing-up in the scullery.

Rose shook hands with Fancello. ‘Very well, I accept. When do we start?’

‘Two performances a night, every day of the week except tomorrow, which is Sunday, but I expect you here in time for the nine o’clock performance.’ He gave her a wolfish smile. ‘And you will need to broaden your repertoire. Alphonso will guide you; he knows all the popular songs. And you had better speak to my wife about new costumes. That is her department.’ He wandered off, berating one of the waiters for breaking a glass.

Rose hurried to the tiny dressing room where Cora was struggling with her stays. She grabbed the laces and tugged on them until her sister gasped and begged for mercy.

‘Stop. I can’t breathe, let alone sing and dance.’

Rose loosened them a little before tying a bow. ‘There you are, now you can help me with mine.’ She slipped off her plain grey gown. ‘Undo me, please.’

‘What were you saying to old Fancello?’

‘We were haggling over the amount of extra performances.’ Rose breathed out with a sigh as Cora undid the laces. She reached for her wrap and flung it around her shoulders. ‘We’re going to do the late show tomorrow, as well as two performances a night.’

‘On Sunday? That’s not possible.’

‘Fancello won’t budge, and I’ve worked it out in my head, Corrie. We’ll slip away after supper.’

‘But it’s Mrs Blunt’s night off.’

‘I’m going to ask Maisie to come and do the washing-up. After all, we used to have a scullery maid and a housemaid before Mama became ill, and I’m sure that Maisie could do with the money.’

‘How will you explain it to Pa?’

‘I don’t know yet, but leave it to me. I’ll think of something. We have to do it for Billy.’

Rose began to apply her stage make-up, which was laid out on the narrow shelf that had to suffice as a dressing table. Each time she went through this routine she could see her mother’s face gazing reproachfully at her from the fly-spotted mirror.

Cora, however, did not seem to have such reservations. She was humming a tune and smiling as she rouged her cheeks and lips. ‘I do hope he’s here tonight.’ She made a moue at her reflection. ‘We’ll have more time to make friends with the patrons; that’s the good thing about doing two performances a night.’

‘Yes,’ Rose said doubtfully. ‘But don’t get too involved, Corrie. It’s all part of the entertainment, as far as the audience are concerned, so you mustn’t take it too seriously.’

‘Ten minutes, ladies,’ Tommy Tinker bellowed through the keyhole. ‘We’ve got a full house tonight.’

‘Thank you, Tommy.’ Rose and Cora spoke as one, exchanged amused glances and giggled. Tommy Tinker might pretend to be a man of the world, but he had burst into the dressing room on one occasion to find them both in a state of undress. He had blushed to the roots of his hair, turned and fled. He had always assumed a cocky air since then, but he never looked them in the eye.

Rose pinned a silk gardenia in her hair. ‘That will have to do. I’ve only got to put on my dancing shoes and I’m ready.’

Minutes later they were waiting in the wings, and Fancello was going through his usual patter as he introduced them to enthusiastic cheers and clapping from the largely male audience. Rose peeped through the curtains, noting that there were only a few women present, and without exception they were gaudily dressed persons who would not warrant an invitation to tea at the vicarage. Mama would consider them past redemption, and Papa would try to save their souls, but Rose had become acquainted with some of them and she was no longer judgemental. Each of them had her own story, and virtually all had suffered abuse and hardships that Rose could never have imagined. It was ironic that she and Cora were now teetering on the brink of respectability, and one little nudge was all it might take to send them tumbling into the abyss of ruined reputation and disgrace.

‘Stop daydreaming, Rosie,’ Cora said urgently. ‘We’re on.’

They pirouetted onto the stage, came to a halt with their hands clasped demurely in front of them, and launched into ‘The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze’, followed swiftly by their dance routine, with ‘Come into the Garden, Maud’ as an encore. They swept off into the wings, returning gracefully to loud applause, but Fancello was waiting for them this time. He had his arm around little Clementia, who was scowling ominously.

‘Don’t try to upstage my little girl,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Remember who pays your wages.’ He gave his daughter a hug. ‘You are on next, cara mia .’

Clementia curled her lip as she glared at Rose. ‘I’m the star,’ she muttered. ‘You’re just the chorus.’ She stomped off, leaving Rose wondering what could have upset Fancello’s pampered child prodigy.

‘Go out into the audience and do your bit, girls,’ Fancello said, jerking his head in the direction of the saloon. ‘I don’t pay you to laze around back stage.’

‘Yes, signor,’ Cora said meekly as she made her way down the steps. She paused. ‘I’ve seen him, Rosie. He’s all alone and he waved to me.’

‘Be careful.’ Rose followed her more slowly as Cora sashayed between the closely packed tables, acknowledging compliments with a sunny smile. Rose looked for the colonel but there was no sign of him and she was suddenly at a loss. A sea of expectant faces greeted her and she felt a moment of near panic. Physical contact with the patrons had never previously been part of the bargain and she almost envied Cora, who Rose guessed by the delighted look on her pretty face was being showered with compliments. Gerard Barclay was undeniably handsome and urbane, and, although Rose was suspicious of his motives, he seemed to be behaving like a perfect gentleman. She turned with a start as someone tugged at her skirt and found herself looking down at a person who was leering at her in a drunken manner, which was quite unnerving.

She managed a tight little smile. ‘Excuse me, sir. Would you be kind enough to unhand me?’

His answer was a loud guffaw as he pulled her onto his lap. ‘Now, now, darling. That’s no way to treat a paying customer.’ He slid his hands around her waist, holding her in a surprisingly strong grip. ‘You’re here to entertain me, so what about a kiss?’ His breath reeked of cigar smoke and brandy, and she noted in disgust that his white evening shirt was stained with wine and what looked suspiciously like gravy.

‘This is no way to behave,’ she said, forcing herself to remain calm.

‘Don’t be a spoilsport, young lady. Give him a kiss.’ One of his companions at the table leaned over and poked her in the ribs. ‘I know Carter of old. He won’t give up until you do.’

Rose was close to panicking. Clementia was warbling like a skylark, with Alphonso hammering out the tune, and all around her the cacophony of sound grew louder, filling her head with noise, while her attempts to get free from Carter’s clutching hands only seemed to excite him more. The tinkle of glassware and popping of champagne corks together with raised male voices and raucous laughter echoed in her head until she thought she could stand it no longer. She felt sick and suddenly everything went dark and she was falling …