The Birthday Present (2 page)

He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll pay you half a guinea and you’ll have a taxi to take you there. There’ll be food and drink and you’ll be welcomed as my guest.’

Half a guinea! This was sounding better, she thought. All those lovely shillings! She could do a lot with half a guinea. Still, better act a bit dubious, she told herself. Mustn’t seem too eager. ‘Will your parents be there?’ she asked primly, by way of delaying tactics.

‘I doubt it. My parents divorced some years ago and—’

It was Rose’s turn to be shocked.
A divorce!
Heavens above! She stared at him, trying to hide her reaction. She had never met anyone who had been divorced and this man was related to such a couple.

‘And then he  . . . my father, died. My mother married a second time. A French man. She lives with him in France.’

‘Ah!’ Mother lives with a foreigner, she thought warily. You could never trust them – or so her father insisted. Although, if she were to become an international star like Marie Lloyd she would have to travel abroad. To delay her decision she asked, ‘So where d’you live, Mr Bennley? I live with my pa in Albert Street, five minutes from here. My real name’s Rose Paton. I call myself Rosie Lamore because it sounds more glamorous. D’you think it sounds glamorous?’ She put her head on one side and gave him a saucy sideways glance which she believed enhanced her undoubted charms.

He appeared unmoved, however, and by way of answer, pulled a wallet from his coat pocket, selected a small card and held it out. Hiding her frustration, Rose took it and stepped closer to the street lamp to peer at the name and address. ‘Belview Road? Never heard of it!’

‘It’s in Kensington. The family home.’ He returned the wallet to his coat pocket. ‘It will be a small affair – myself, an older sister and Marie, of course. My younger brother Steven might be there.’

‘What about your wife?’ That, she thought, was a clever way of finding out this man’s situation. If he had a wife it would be easier to trust him.

‘I’m not married.’

Had she detected a hint of regret in the words, she wondered. She was finding him a rather tough nut to crack, she acknowledged, disappointed. She was accustomed to a better response to her feminine wiles but Mr Bennley seemed unaware of them. She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘And all I have to do is sing and I get to eat and drink and you give me half a guinea and a ride in a taxi? Cross your heart and hope to die?’

‘Exactly. Yes.’

At the corner of the road the constable waited, watching them.

‘All right. I’ll do it.’ She tossed her hair. Why not? It was worth the risk. ‘But I shall tell PC Stump where you live – just in case there’s any funny business. He’ll know where to find you!’ She smiled to take the sting out of her words, and wondered if the policeman was jealous of their cosy little chat. PC Stump was a nice man, she thought wistfully. It was a shame he was married. Being married to a policeman would be a nice safe feeling. ‘Number twenty-three Albert Street,’ she reminded him. ‘You’d better write it down for the taxi man. When is this – and what time?’

‘Next Thursday at seven thirty. That’s the 12th. I’ve written it on the back of the card.’

She turned the card over and when she looked up again, he was halfway down the street without so much as a ‘Goodbye’!

Put out by his lack of manners she shouted ‘And goodnight to you, Mr Bennley!’

He swung round. ‘Oh! Yes. Sorry!’ He walked on.

Mortified, she stuck out her tongue at his retreating back. ‘Walk away. See if I care. Walk out of my life, why don’t you! Who gives a button!’ So what if he was rich and single? She didn’t fancy him. A pity. She sighed.

Turning back, she saw that a young lad with a mangy dog had suddenly appeared and he was grinning from ear to ear. He held up a wallet which she assumed belonged to Mr Bennley. ‘Nice work if you can get it!’ he said, poised for flight.

‘You artful little wretch!’ she cried and tried to grab him but he dodged her outstretched hands, stuck out his tongue and clattered off down the nearest alley pursued by the dog, and both were immediately lost to sight.

Albert Street was no worse and no better than any other in the area. It was narrow and lacked the young plane trees that adorned some better class streets and the terraced houses were small and depressingly similar, each with an apology for a front garden, and no gate. The brickwork was grimed with soot from London’s many chimneys and the bay windows were mostly hung with thick lace curtains to deter the curious passer-by. The window sills, however, and the front door steps were regularly scrubbed and the whitening block applied and some of the tenants took the trouble to polish the knockers. The door of number twenty-three was dark green but the paint was beginning to flake away and the small brass letterbox flap had not been cleaned since Rose’s mother died. There was a rain-sodden mat on the step and a scraper for mud which was rarely used.

Rose arrived home and, noticing none of the defects, let herself into the narrow hallway. She was greeted by the familiar sound of a dripping tap in the scullery, her father’s snoring and the stale smell of fried onions mixed with damp wallpaper and dust. She tossed her shoes on to a chair in the front room and found her father asleep in the ancient rocking chair in the living room – the chair that had once belonged to Annie, his wife, but which he had now claimed as his.

Alan Paton was small and thin and Annie had often compared him to a whippet. She had cast her daughter as a curly white poodle and herself as an overweight spaniel. She had been dead for nearly two years but Rose still missed her and so did Alan but somehow they muddled on without her and Rose did her best to keep her father cheerful. He had been forcibly retired from his job as a docker after an accident had damaged his hip and rendered him unable to perform the heavy lifting work. He had partially recovered from the accident but was now forced to earn when and where he could which currently meant a few hours each week behind the bar of The White Horse, pulling pints and earning a pittance for his efforts.

This, with his occasional win on the horses, plus the money Rose earned with her singing, and occasional ironing, was all they had to live on but she had learned frugal ways from her mother. They fancied themselves a little better off than some of their neighbours since they had rarely been forced to rely on the pawnbroker and had so far managed to keep the bailiffs at bay.

Her father’s mouth was open and he was snoring and Rose let him sleep on while she searched the cupboard for something to make into a sandwich for their late supper. Slicing thin Cheddar cheese and spreading pickles, she made a pot of tea and finally woke him.

‘So how’d it go, Rosie?’ he asked automatically, already anticipating her usual answer – a reluctant ‘Fine, Pa’ followed by a few small grumbles.

‘Fine, Pa.’ Settling herself on the floor beside his chair she demanded, ‘Guess what?’

‘No idea.’

‘Take a guess, Pa.’

He shook his head, still heavy with sleep. ‘I give up!’ and took a bite of the sandwich she had thrust into his hand.

‘Take a guess!’
She glared at him, determined to make the most of her dramatic news.

‘You saw the man in the moon!’ He chuckled at his own joke.

‘Pa! You always say that!’ She turned to look up at him, her eyes shining. ‘This posh bloke was waiting for me outside the stage door and he’s asked me to go to this posh place in Kensington and sing for his daughter’s party because she’s ill and can’t get out and about. He’s going to pay me half a guinea for my trouble and I can have some of the food and stuff so I’ll try and smuggle something out for you.’ Elated by his gasp of surprise, Rose also bit into the cheese and pickle.

‘Half a guinea? You’re pulling my leg, girl! No one’s going to—’

‘But he said he would and he gave me this.’ She handed him the card. ‘Marcus Bennley. That’s what it says and that’s his name.’

‘Michael Bennley?’

‘Marcus, not Michael.’

Alan had never been any good at reading and he was thoroughly confused by the small print. ‘If you say so, Rosie, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I mean, half a guinea for a few songs and you’re not even famous. You’re not even nearly famous. I mean of course you’re good but you only sing in a public house, not a real theatre or a music hall.’

‘But I will, Pa. I’m not famous yet, I grant you, but I’m only young.’

‘That’s as may be but believe you me, Rosie, there’s some very dodgy men around and this one luring you with money sounds fishy. You want to watch it. That’s my advice.’ He took another bite and chewed noisily. He was coming round from his doze and now looked marginally more alive than dead. ‘Give it a bit more thought, Rosie.’

‘There’s nothing to think about! It’s an offer of work and  . . . and it might get me some more private work. Don’t you want me to earn a half guinea?’

‘Depends how you earn it.’

She should have known, she thought irritably, half convinced by his argument. Whoever would believe that someone would promise someone like her half a guinea? That was two weeks’ wages for some men. But Mr Bennley
had
promised it. She had the card to prove it. But on the other hand a man could
say
anything and not really mean it. The first real doubt slithered into her mind.

Her father said, ‘Any more where that came from?’ meaning the sandwich.

Rose shook her head. ‘But we’ll be eating cake next week, Pa!’ If Mr Bennley was genuine. ‘He sounds genuine. He’s sending a taxi to collect me and take me to the house.’

Still unhappy about the offer, he shook his head. ‘A taxi could take you anywhere, Rosie. You just watch out.’

Finishing her sandwich, she washed it down with the tea, but the harsh realities of life were beginning to depress her. Maybe her father was right and she had been taken for a mug. She knew the sort of things that went on in London. A pretty girl could be sold into slavery and smuggled out to far-off countries and never seen again. She didn’t want to be one of them.

She thought back to the moment she met him. ‘PC Stump was there, Pa. I mean, he wouldn’t dare say all that in front of a policeman, would he, if he wasn’t genuine, because if I disappeared PC Stump would remember him and he’d describe him to the detectives and they’d catch him.’

‘Wouldn’t do you much good, though, would it, if you was already stowed in the hold of a ship on the high seas or buried six feet under? Bit late for you then.’

Frowning, Rose tried to recall exactly what had happened outside the back door of The White Horse. The truth was, she realized with a jolt, that PC Stump had
not
heard Mr Bennley’s offer because she had asked him to move on and give them some privacy. How stupid she had been! All the constable could do was describe the man and Bennley would deny everything.

Climbing to her feet, she collected her father’s empty mug and took it, with her own, into the scullery to rinse them under the tap.

‘You stupid girl!’ she told herself crossly. It was vanity. Pure vanity, to believe that anyone thought she was worth half a guinea to dress up in a frilly little number, rouge her cheeks, redden her lips and sing a few songs. Serve her right. She had got her comeuppance! Coming to an instant decision, Rose marched back into the living room. ‘That’s it then, Pa. I’m not going. I don’t want his money. When the taxi comes I’ll send it back and say I’ve changed my mind  . . . Or you can go out and tell the taxi driver I’m ill.’

Instead of being pleased, however, Alan now regarded her doubtfully. ‘Shouldn’t you let him know? He’ll be promising his daughter this lovely surprise and then she’ll be disappointed and everything.’

Rose groaned. ‘What, write him a letter? Oh Lord!’

‘Why not? You can write good enough and you’ve got the address on that bit of card. Tell you what – write that your pa won’t let you go. That’ll put an end to it.’

She nodded reluctantly, wishing that she had never met the wretched man and had never heard about his sick sister. ‘First thing in the morning,’ she promised and made her way upstairs to bed.

The first down to breakfast next morning in Victoria House in Belview Road was twenty-year-old Steven Bennley, who helped himself to eggs and bacon from the sideboard and sat in his usual seat facing the large windows and staring straight into the luxuriant leaves of the aspidistra which stood alone on a small highly polished table. He wore a loose fitting shirt tucked into his trousers and his feet were bare.

Steven pushed the food into his mouth without enjoying it because he had matters to worry about which weighed on his spirits. He had looked forward to the thought of leaving school and becoming independent but he was now realizing that having a good time meant having money to spend. Like his brother and two sisters, he received a small income from the money his grandparents had left them, but for Steven it was proving woefully inadequate.

Halfway through his meal he was joined by his older brother Marcus who nodded in his direction but didn’t speak. While he helped himself to porridge and cream Steven watched him.

‘You were late back last night, Marcus,’ he said at last. ‘I heard you come in. Out with a young lady, were you?’ He grinned.

‘I was, actually. In a way.’ He sat down, poured himself a cup of tea, and Steven passed the sugar bowl.

‘You were?’

‘Yes.’

A woman appeared in the doorway and said, ‘Two pigs at the trough!’ Letitia was twenty-five, two years younger than Marcus – dark-haired with a permanently anxious expression.

Marcus ignored her.

Steven scowled. ‘Good morning, Letitia. Charming as ever!’

She sat down and poured herself a cup of tea but made no attempt to eat. ‘Doesn’t anyone want to know how the tennis match went yesterday?’

Steven put his knife and fork together and pushed his plate away. ‘No we don’t but I expect you’ll tell us.’

Her expression changed. ‘I was Bernard’s partner and we won!’ She glanced at Marcus.

‘Well done.’ He gave her a brief smile.

‘Then we picnicked on their lawn – champagne, cold lobster, everything perfect. The da Silvas really know how to entertain.’