Mermaids Singing by Dilly Court

Author:Dilly Court
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Historical Saga
ISBN: 9781446472613
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-04-29T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Placing advertisements in shop windows had been Maria’s idea. Handwritten cards inscribed with Betty’s name and ‘Dressmaker to ladies of fashion’ with the address clearly printed and a recommendation from ‘A Lady, wife of a prominent Member of Parliament’, seemed to do the trick and a flood of orders for gowns poured in from wealthy merchants’ wives who hitherto had only ordered the odd blouse or skirt. Betty did the cutting and Maria and Maggie sat up night after night, sewing seams until their fingers bled and their eyes were red-rimmed and sore. A sewing machine would make life easier but it was going to take months to save up enough money to purchase one. Sewing by hand was slow work and the merchants’ wives often kept them waiting for their money; in the meantime, they had to rely on Bella’s wages from the music hall.

After a successful first week, Bert, the manager, a leery old cove, with wandering hands and a partiality for blondes, had been pleased enough to keep Bella on. So far she had managed to hold off his amorous advances by playing up to him. She suffered a bit of cuddling and pawing, just enough to keep him happy, with the unspoken promise of further favours that she had no intention of fulfilling. It made Bella physically sick to encourage the old goat, but they were relying on her at home, and if she lost her job they would all go hungry.

In order to help with the household bills, Kitty had found herself work in the blacking factory, leaving at crack of dawn and coming home late, stinking of boot polish and covered from head to foot in sticky black dust. Bella had grown to love Kitty like a sister and she had tried to talk her out of factory work, but Kitty was as stubborn as she was loyal. She had ignored Bella’s warnings about the people driven mad by working with phosphorus in the match factory, their faces deformed by phossy jaw, or flour packers coughing up blood, their lungs destroyed by the dust. There was little to choose between labouring in a laundry and suffering chronic bronchitis, or slaving in the sweatshops on scandalously low wages.

Singing and dancing in the Palace of Varieties paid comparatively well and Bella had learned at an early age how to hold an audience. There was the buzz of excitement and a flutter of stage fright before each performance, and the intoxicating thrill of hearing the applause and cheers as she took her final bow. Rackham had often told her that greasepaint was in her blood and she had hotly denied it, but at least here, in the East End, she had nothing to prove except her talent as an entertainer. She was not on trial every minute of the day as she had been as Desmond’s wife, his embarrassing misalliance, with society watching and waiting for her to make a faux pas in speech or manners.

‘Miss Lane, five minutes, please.

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