A House of Repute Read online

  A HOUSE OF REPUTE

  E. M. JONES

  Text copyright © E. M. Jones 2019

  Cover Design copyright © Billie Hastie 2019

  All rights reserved.

  E. M. Jones has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by electronic, mechanical or any other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying or recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publisher and Author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

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  First published 2019

  by Rowanvale Books Ltd

  The Gate

  Keppoch Street

  Roath

  Cardiff

  CF24 3JW

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  e-Pub ISBN: 978-1-912655-37-3

  I Mam a Dad

  Diolch am bob dim.

  1

  Lizzie’s eyes were heavy that morning. She had made several attempts to get them open, none of which had been very successful. If only she could prise them open, the rest of her body would follow suit and arise, as if a secret lever were hidden behind her eyelids. She relaxed her lids and gathered her strength for one more try.

  Her still body was entombed in the close, stuffy air of August in London. Even in her carefully kept room, there was a slight smell of the hot and bothered city. It dawdled between her neatly hung dresses and mingled with the beautifying tools on her toilette, which held sweeter smells. The air outside her window was as still as her body, and certainly no fresher than the breath she exhaled. She had considered opening the window before dropping off to sleep, but there was no breeze to gain on days like these, and she could at least attempt to keep the stench out. This also solved the problem of the first wagons of the day disturbing her slumber. After a hard night’s work, Lizzie did enjoy her sleep.

  A faded sheet, more a sun shield than a blanket, covered in off-white daisies, shifted slightly as Lizzie turned over, and the air of the room re-gathered around her. She prepared for the final, great effort.

  Not even the immovable humidity could keep Lizzie awake after her late nights. Whilst the other girls complained of sleeplessness on top of their exhausting work, Lizzie would appear with dream-tousled hair and rheumy eyes most mornings. The girls benignly envied her beauty sleep. Even the hot air seemed to respect her steady dozing; it silently filed into her shoes and slid between the rungs of her rocking chair to hold it still.

  Lizzie had made a little home of the room Mrs Henry provided for her as part of her place in the house. She had spent hours making curtains from old scraps of material donated by Mrs Henry and had used the sun-paled pinks and creams to cheer up the whole room. She had found an old grey rug, and after weeks of washing and beating, the dust had fallen away to reveal a soft, bright mat like a field of chrysanthemums. Lizzie slept, when alone, imagining herself in a cottage, waking each day to a garden brimming with just such flowers.

  ***

  Charlie and Lizzie had been out for a stroll one quiet Friday afternoon. It was unusual for them to have that time free, and they guiltily ambled along the tree-lined streets leading up to Regent’s Park. They were about to take a turn around the park when they saw a house-sale in one of the shabbier houses.

  “Let’s go in!” Charlie stepped forwards enthusiastically.

  Lizzie was unsure; it did not look like a house that would hold anything nice or desirable. Indeed, if the outside were any reflection of its contents, it served as more of a deterrent than an enticement.

  “Come on,” said Charlie. “When do we ever get to go shopping? And we might actually be able to buy something here.”

  Charlie smiled widely and gave Lizzie a wink before holding out her arm to her. This tendency in Charlie to play the cad and gentleman at the same time had amused Lizzie the first time they had met; since then, the amusement had become affection. Lizzie mirrored Charlie’s enthusiastic steps as they crossed the road towards the house.

  There was nothing misleading about the outside of the house; the inside was filthy. Lizzie and Charlie moved around the living room, their steps creating faint, momentary prints in the dust on the floor. They moved, with puzzled faces, from one decaying item to the next. Just as Charlie was about to suggest that even they could afford better than this, Lizzie tugged at her arm, quickening her pace. Her skirt dusted the floor as she strode towards the furthest corner of what must have once been a drawing room. Behind a rickety bureau, leaning against a wall, was what looked like a large piece of rotting wood.

  Before Charlie had a chance to quiz her, Lizzie wiped away the bark of the wood. Through the grime, Charlie began to see some colour: pink, green, yellow, gold. Charlie brought out her handkerchief and helped Lizzie gently wipe away the rotten covering.

  “What a treasure!” Charlie was impressed.

  Lizzie had just found an old theatre screen.

  After some discussion, with Charlie playing the role of chief negotiator, the auctioneer agreed on a price Lizzie could afford with the little money she had saved. In her role as the true gentleman, Charlie insisted on carrying the screen home, and Lizzie had cried with laughter as her companion’s cropped hair bobbed above the screen from time to time, revealing a face deepening from pink to scarlet with every step.

  The screen had since been immaculately restored by Lizzie’s patient hands and stood at the foot of her bed, a gate between her and the rest of the house.

  ***

  Lizzie enjoyed cleaning her room, and once she managed to leave her bed it would be one of her chores for the day. Mrs Henry liked to keep a sense of the Sabbath in her household, “at least ’til evening, anyway”. Sometimes the other girls resented the forced peace, but Lizzie appreciated the time to put her room back in order. An outside observer would think the room was already immaculate, but through her half-asleep eyes, Lizzie could already see a perfume bottle left open, humid dust lying on her floor and ribbons cascading from their box. Lizzie would softly amble about her room, putting things in their place, a silent ritual of her own every Sunday. On hot days, she would stop to sit in her rocking chair and indulge in her daydreams.

  The rocking chair had been the final addition to her room, after it had appeared one day whilst Lizzie was at the market. The chair had a low back, which held Lizzie’s slight frame perfectly. It was made of scuffed dark wood, and the curve of the legs had been well-oiled when Lizzie inherited it. Lizzie had thought that Mrs Henry must have been throwing it away; she had been very kind in helping Lizzie furnish her room when she had moved in a few months before.

  Lizzie had sat in the chair and taken up some sewing she had been working on. As she swayed back and forth, enjoying the artificial wind in her hair, she heard nimble
feet approaching.

  “Come in, Charlie,” she had said, before she heard a knock.

  “Do you like it?” Charlie had asked, shyly.

  “What?”

  “The chair.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely.”

  “Good. I thought if you’re going to be here for a little spell, you’re going to need somewhere to sit down.” And with that, Charlie had turned and left.

  Lizzie shifted again, turning her still-closed eyes towards her chair. It would be nice to have a bit of time to sit and sway in her chair today; she enjoyed looking out of the window at the street in its sombre Sunday state.

  The house grew louder; the smoothing out of bed linen was overtaken by the patter of feet on the old staircase, and eventually the rushing of water and sizzling of steam began to intrude upon the dreams that Lizzie attempted to cling to. Between sleep and wakefulness, her mind wandered. A kind smile grew on Lizzie’s lips as she listened to the water. She could picture Dina, one of the other girls, washing her long dark hair in cold water—as was her habit every morning from April to October—and hear Mrs Henry insisting that due to this eccentric French method of washing it, all her beautiful hair would eventually fall out! Dancing feet on the landing led Lizzie’s mind to memories of her own childhood: tip-toeing downstairs on summer mornings to play with her father on the farm, and then later walking to her grandmother’s house while her mother snored with her latest beau upstairs. Her mind came back to the present as she thought of Charlie, her wide smile and dainty feet. Her soft steps refused to let go of her dream of becoming a dancer.

  Lizzie enjoyed the luxury of being alone in her room for a few more minutes. She was nearer waking than sleeping by now, but knew that once she opened her eyes and let the day in, the stillness of the morning would be far from her. It was time, and if she didn’t get up of her own accord soon, Mrs Henry would kindly force her to arise. Lizzie slowly counted down from ten… nine… eight. The sheet moved closer to the edge of the bed. Six… five. A small, pale foot, with carefully decorated nails appeared from under the sheet. Three. The foot stretched out through the heavy air, giving space to a slender calf and a knee half hidden by faded cotton. Two…

  Lizzie got up.

  2

  It had been a quiet month. Many of the regular customers were away, spending their wealth on continental treats. Mrs Henry claimed that every summer she had been in the game was like this: “They go away with their families, you see. But, girls, they always come back to us—it’s our job to make sure they do.” Her house was fairly run, and—although she encouraged the girls to “go out and get them”—in general, during these quiet periods, they knew their places were safe as long as their regular customers returned in the autumn.

  Lizzie, as well as the others, carried a silent guilt at their enjoyment of this time of year. Their young, worn bodies had time to rest, and they could fleetingly believe London was their playground and they were not merely faded attractions in its fair. However, they would be coiffed, costumed and painted later today, bait decorated to dazzle and capture any passing trade.

  Lizzie arrived in the kitchen to find Mrs Henry up to her elbows in her Sunday ritual of stuffing a chicken.

  “And good morning to you, ma’am,” came a voice from behind a pale, fleshless wing. The chicken began to cluck violently, flailing its feeble wings in the air. Mrs Henry never failed to find this little joke of hers amusing, which often resulted in the girls finding more stuffing on the floor than in the chicken.

  Dina was on potatoes, peeling and chopping with vigour. Mrs Henry’s joke made no impact on the regular rhythm of her knife and the predictable plopping of potatoes into the water.

  Lizzie sat down at the table, feeling only a little guilty as the machinery of Sunday lunch whirred around her.

  Mrs Henry’s house seemed strange to the other girls. The habits and routines were bizarre to most: house lunch on Sunday, closing times and curfews, roll calls and reports of the night before. And Mrs Henry, like a misplaced Madonna caring for her brood. When Lizzie had first arrived, she had delighted in the comfort of the homely and familial routines. She found Mrs Henry’s more of a home than her own had been, but this family’s values were founded on the sale of its members, and it was not the idyll Lizzie had imagined at first. They were a family as long as they were good for the family firm. The girls worked hard, and Mrs Henry kept them on track as well as their visitors. Sunday lunch was a notable break in the business.

  Lizzie was on vegetables. She moved next to Dina and started washing carrots and cabbage. This was a pleasant way to wake up, and as she unconsciously scrubbed, peeled and chopped, Dina spoke about the wonders of the hot water system she had used at her most recent companion’s home. A regular—Sir Glynne—had taken a shine to Dina when he had first met her at a ball in Chelsea. Sir Glynne was notorious for his extravagance and fine tastes. He wore clothes of velvet and fur in shades of black blacker than seen anywhere else in London; his voice demanded attention and care wherever he went. He claimed to have fallen in love with Dina’s dark beauty, exotic accent and dry wit the first time he spoke to her. Dina suspected that he had fallen in love with her dark beauty and reasonable rates, but kept up her half of the pretension. Mrs Henry loved Sir Glynne; not one of her girls had ever before been loved by a peer of the realm. Dina had secured the greatest height of Mrs Henry’s professional pride, and so the two very different women co-existed with mutual respect, if not affection. Over time Sir Glynne had negotiated alternative terms with Mrs Henry—she had not been a difficult opponent—and now Dina visited him whenever he was in town and wanted to show his love to his dark beauty. Dina was the only member of the household excused from the daily roll call: a peer of the realm could not be expected to pander to Mrs Henry’s rules.

  Dina was established as Sir Glynne’s companion, and while he was away for the summer, Dina was secure. The last time she had seen Sir Glynne was almost a month ago; he had been feeling extravagant during his final night in London and an opulent meal had been shared.

  Dina was just describing the new and unnecessarily luxurious hot water system Sir Glynne had in place when the back door opened and Charlie appeared looking rather blown about and sweaty.

  “God! What a palaver! The things a girl has to do to get a paper in this town!”

  Charlie dutifully fetched the paper every Sunday. She had never paid for a paper any Sunday since Lizzie had met her.

  “I was talking pleasantly to the man, and then he accuses me of trying to distract him so I can steal a paper!” Charlie’s face morphed into a picture of innocence and confusion. “Me! Well, I told him that if a young woman could not be pleasant to a respectable gentleman on the Sabbath, what had the world come to!”

  Charlie’s tales of how she procured the paper had become increasingly convoluted over the past few weeks as London’s vendors grew wary of her open smile. Consequently, the lunch hour had grown later since more and more stuffing was flung on the floor with Charlie’s audience falling into heaps of laughter and dropping their culinary duties and utensils into a sloppy mess.

  “So in the end I charmed the miser and he gave us a Times and sent his regards to the household and in particular our great leader, Mrs H!”

  Mrs Henry blushed slightly and started fussing over the splayed stuffing and directing her troops back to their stations. “Hurry up, the lunch won’t cook itself!”

  ***

  Dina offered to help Lizzie with her hair and so they made their way to the yard. Lizzie mentally prepared for the final step in her waking-up process—the cold wash.

  Dina was French in all respects. She was haughty, reserved and dry. Despite this, she had edged into close relationships at Mrs Henry’s house. There was a distant affection between her and the mistress of the house. The only point they agreed on was that Sir Glynne was very rich and good for business. Dina had been at Mrs Henry’s for two years when Lizzie arrived and, while she had initially seemed a
hostile neighbour, had become a good friend. Dina, Lizzie and Charlie catered to very different tastes, so no professional jealousy existed between the girls. Dina contributed to their mutual wellbeing with French style advice, and Lizzie altered the girls’ dresses and hats and left them in better shape than they ever had been.

  Charlie attended the cold-water hair wash as valet, though never indulged herself. As she dragged a pot of cold water out and tried to carry Lizzie’s towel at the same time, her face once again blushed towards red, as was often the case following her self-imposed chivalric duties. Lizzie closed her eyes as she leaned over and heard Dina explaining once more to Charlie: “It makes the strands take in the nutrients, all the nutrients you have in this dreadful London water. And the hair, it will briller. Shine.” Charlie’s unconvinced silence met Dina’s logical argument.

  Lizzie relaxed into the cadence of Dina’s accent, punctuated by Charlie’s good-natured refusal to be persuaded. As Dina poured the cold water over Lizzie’s hair, she enjoyed the brief and exhilarating numbness that overcame her. She thought of the day ahead: lunch, a brief rest and some tidying, dressing and out to work, and then who knew what? Dina’s hands gently ruffled her hair, and Lizzie fell into the affection of the process, thinking about what to wear that evening and where to begin her night’s work.

  Lizzie heard Charlie’s “Yes, ma’am” and knew it was time to face the day ahead as the towel was handed over. Dina’s gentle ruffles became rougher as she dried Lizzie’s hair. Lizzie looked up, directly into Dina’s expert analysis of the process.

  “Voila. Brillant.”

  Before Lizzie had time to thank Dina for her specialist care, a boom reverberated across the yard, causing Charlie to drop the pot of water and set it clanging against the ground, just to ensure that all the neighbours had awoken. Lunch was ready.

  ***

  Having thanked their gods for a lunch that had come together remarkably well given the amount of ingredients on the floor, the women shared the paper. Differing opinions were expressed on the latest fashions and Mr Gladstone’s latest plans, though with little confidence that very much would change at Mrs Henry’s house whatever he did. And then Charlie gave out a yelp—a sound so far from her usual vocal range that all the women turned to look at her. She had her nose an inch from the bottom left hand side of the paper, and her face was similar in colour to the sheet next to her.