Ragged Rose. Dilly Court

Who knows, I might catch the eye of a rich man and he’ll sweep me off my feet, and marry me?’

      ‘I’d settle for being spotted by the manager of the Pavilion Theatre or the Grecian. We could earn twice as much, and we wouldn’t have to pander to gentlemen with roving eyes and wandering hands.’ Rose braced her shoulders. ‘But we must leave here by ten, or Aunt Polly will have locked the doors.’

      Cora pulled back the curtain and stepped down from the stage to a rousing cheer from the clientele: mostly well-dressed men of means who had come slumming. She headed for the blue-eyed gentleman she’d spotted earlier, who leaped to his feet with a courteous bow. Rose followed more slowly, walking between the tables, acknowledging the flattering comments, and ignoring suggestive remarks that would have made a courtesan blush. There were familiar faces amongst the audience, some whom she knew it was best to humour and then move on. Just as Fancello erupted onto the stage to introduce his bambina cara, Clementia, Rose came to a halt at a table occupied by a distinguished-looking gentleman of military bearing. He was older than the usual punter, and he had a kind, fatherly look about him.

      ‘You are on your own, sir,’ she said, smiling. ‘May I join you?’

      He half rose from his chair, motioning her to take a seat. ‘That would be delightful, but you must excuse me if I don’t stand. I have a gammy leg – an old war wound, you understand.’

      She sat down opposite him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Were you in the Crimea?’

      Just as he was about to reply, Clementia began to sing in a sweet clear soprano that momentarily stilled and silenced the audience. Rose sat back, watching the small creature perform. Poor Clemmie was never allowed out unaccompanied, Rose knew that for a fact. Tommy liked to gossip, and his favourite subject was little Clemmie, who was virtually a prisoner of love; doted on and fiercely protected by adoring parents. Rose was unsure whether this was entirely out of parental devotion, or whether Clemmie’s ma and pa had an eye to nurturing a valuable talent. Whatever the reason, the young girl had no life outside the walls of the smoky saloon.

      Rose turned to the military gentleman with an encouraging smile. ‘You were about to tell me of your exploits, sir.’

      ‘Colonel Mountfitchet at your service,’ he said gallantly.

      Rose felt herself blushing. ‘I’m Rose Sunshine. How do you do, Colonel?’

      ‘My friends call me Fitch.’

      ‘I – I couldn’t.’ Rose had a vision of her father’s shocked face were he to hear her being disrespectful to a much older gentleman, let alone a war hero. ‘That wouldn’t be proper, sir.’

      ‘I take it that Sunshine is not your real name, and I respect your right to anonymity.’ He leaned towards her. ‘What are you doing here, Rose? You’re not the sort of girl who normally frequents places such as this.’

      ‘My sister and I are here to entertain, sir. We don’t fraternise with the customers, if that’s what you are inferring.’

      ‘Certainly not, my dear, and it’s none of my business.’

      Rose eyed him warily. This was not the usual way that conversations with patrons ran. There might be a little mild flirtation, but that was as far as it went. She had learned to slant her questions so that the gentlemen talked about their favourite topics, namely themselves, but the colonel was different. He seemed genuinely interested in her, and that was alarming.

      He cleared his throat. ‘You must forgive me, Rose. It’s a long time since I was in the company of a beautiful young lady. I beg you to forgive an old soldier for his ill manners.’

      ‘No, sir. I won’t allow that,’ Rose said hastily. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘My sister and I work of necessity, Colonel. We have our reasons, but I would ask you not to enquire further.’

      He nodded and his pale grey eyes twinkled. ‘You have my word, Rose. Now will you allow me to buy you a drink? The signora has returned and she is looking this way. I imagine she expects to boost sales by sending the Sunshine Sisters behind enemy lines.’

      Rose stifled a giggle. ‘I would hardly call you the enemy, Colonel, but I must warn you that she serves us lemonade and charges for champagne.’

      ‘I would expect nothing else from a businesswoman like the signora.’ He clicked his fingers to attract a waiter. ‘Champagne for the young lady,’ he said grandly. ‘And a whisky for me.’

      A somewhat half-hearted round of applause heralded the end of Clemmie’s performance, and Rose was quick to note the frown on the signora’s face. Poor Clemmie would come in for some fierce criticism when her mother joined her upstairs. The colonel was clapping enthusiastically, but Rose had a feeling that he was acting from chivalry rather than appreciation of Clemmie’s pitch-perfect, but emotionless, render-ing of ‘Come into the Garden, Maud’. She nodded to the waiter, who placed a brimming glass on the table in front of her. ‘Thank you.’

      He grinned and hurried away to serve a gentleman who was already the worse for wear. Rose sipped what indeed turned out to be lemonade. It had been a long day and she was tired, but it was not yet over.

      The colonel added a dash of water to his whisky, and raised his glass to her. ‘Here’s to your lovely green eyes and russet hair, Miss Sunshine. May you continue to delight us for many an evening to come.’

      ‘Thank you, Colonel.’ Rose glanced over her shoulder and saw Cora beckoning to her. ‘I think we’re on again, so I must leave you.’ She downed the sweet drink in one. ‘I hope to see you here again, sir.’ He attempted to rise, but she held up her hand. ‘Please don’t get up, sir.’

      He subsided onto his seat. ‘You’ve brought a little sunshine into an old man’s life, Rose. I will definitely patronise Fancello’s establishment again, and I will tell him so.’

      Rose acknowledged his gallant remark with a smile before weaving her way through the closely packed tables to join her sister.

      ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock,’ Cora whispered. ‘We’d better go through this one double tempo.’ She climbed onto the stage and waved to Alphonso, who had a full pint glass in one hand and a cigar in the other. For a moment it looked as if he were about to ignore her signal, but Fancello had reappeared and he clapped his hands.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have pleasure to present, for a second time this evening, the superb, sweet and sensational Sunshine Sisters. Maestro, music, if you please.’ With an expansive flourish of his arms he turned to face the girls. ‘Smile.’

      Alphonso rested his cigar on the top of the piano and took a swig of beer. With a rebellious scowl he flexed his fingers and began to play.

      When they finally escaped from the stage, having taken several encores, Rose and Cora each did a quick change, crammed their bonnets on their elaborate coiffures and wrapped their shawls around their shoulders before leaving by the side door, which led into Cupid’s Court. It was dark and there were no streetlights to relieve the gloom of a March night. The buildings around them were mainly business premises, vacated when the day’s work came to an end. Their unlit windows stared blindly into the darkness, and homeless men and women huddled in doorways. The cobblestones were slippery beneath the girls’ feet and gutters overflowed with rain-water. They had missed a storm, but a spiteful wind tugged at their clothes and threatened to whip their bonnets off their heads as they ran towards the relative safety of Golden Lane. Gas lamps created pools of light, and, even though it was late, there were still plenty of people about, although it was a different crowd from the housewives, office workers, milliners and stay makers who frequented the busy thoroughfare in daylight. Darkness brought out the worst in society, and the girls held hands as they hurried on their way.

      The home for fallen women was situated on the corner of Old Street and City Road, directly oppos-ite St Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics and the City of London Lying-In Hospital. The sour smell from the vinegar works behind St Mark’s church hung in a damp cloud, grazing the rooftops as it