The Boldness of Betty Page 8

  ‘Janey, imagine having all that grass just to play on,’ breathed Samira. ‘“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”’

  I looked at her with my eyebrows raised. Samira laughed. ‘It’s from Troilus and Cressida,’ she said.

  How many plays did Shakespeare write, anyway? I hadn’t even heard of that one.

  ‘They’ve got massive gardens of their own, as well as the little park,’ I said, turning around to look at the tall houses of the crescent.

  ‘Well, my garden has a train running right next to it,’ said Samira loftily. ‘And we’ve got our very own jacks in the back garden.’

  Somehow that seemed very funny and we both broke up laughing, which unfortunately woke up Little Robbie, who clearly wasn’t sleeping as deeply as we thought. He immediately started howling and roaring (why does he do that? Imagine if I started shrieking every time I woke up. Ma would clatter me), and the noise attracted the attention of the children in the crescent park and their nurse.

  A boy of about seven in a spotless white sailor suit ran closer to us.

  ‘Look at that horrid gypsy girl!’ he cried. He threw an apple core towards Samira. ‘Go on there, gypsy, get away from our garden!’

  ‘Ssssh, Thomas, don’t be horrible,’ said an older girl, who looked about eleven. She glanced at us apologetically.

  ‘We don’t want to go near your rotten garden,’ I said.

  ‘No, we don’t,’ said Samira in a commanding and steely voice. All her usual dreaminess had fallen away. If she ever played a Shakespearean queen, I bet she would sound just like that. ‘Come on, Little Robbie. Sssh, baby.’

  And we clumsily turned around his massive pram and wheeled it back to the Strand Road.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said to Samira, who was still leaning over Little Robbie’s pram and saying silly things to make him laugh (which was working, he’d stopped crying already).

  ‘I’m used to it,’ said Samira, a little grimly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, which I know wasn’t much help. ‘He was a horrible boy.’

  And then Little Robbie said, ‘Singing, Sam Sam!’ in an extremely demanding voice, which I personally would have ignored. But like I said earlier, Samira likes him for some mysterious reason, so she gave in to his dreadful demands and started singing. It was one of the songs Auntie Maisie used to sing, all about taking a walk down the strand with a young swell. (That means a fancy young man, in case you didn’t know.) Little Robbie laughed and pulled his hat off and threw it on the ground.

  ‘How’s that for ingratitude!’ I said, bending down to pick it up. ‘Oh look, it’s all dusty.’

  ‘He’s only playing,’ said Samira affectionately, jiggling the pram. ‘Aren’t you, Little Robbie?’ And she carried on singing. Little Robbie started trying to sing along too, and then he threw his hat in the dust again. He was having a wonderful time, hooting away and chucking things all over the place. And here was I, on my precious day off, grubbing around after him. I was still trying to get the hat, which had got tangled up in the spokes of the pram wheels, when I realised someone was singing along with Samira.

  ‘As I was walking down the strand with Henr-eee!’ went a familiar, melodious voice, and I scrambled to my feet to see Auntie Maisie coming towards us, dressed in her Sunday best and waving at us. She was accompanied by a middle-aged man with a friendly moustachioed face. I knew I’d seen him before, but I wasn’t sure where until Samira said, ‘Hello, Mr Garland.’

  ‘Me and Tommy decided to go for a seaside stroll,’ said Auntie Maisie, with a smile. ‘Tommy, you remember my niece and her friend Betty? They came to the pantomime with me last year.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Garland, who I now recognised as the doorman at the Majestic Theatre. He nodded at me and raised his hat politely. ‘How are you young ladies today?’

  It makes a nice change being called a lady. Old Wobbly certainly never calls us that in the shop.

  ‘Very well, thanks, Mr Garland,’ said Samira.

  ‘And who’s this little lad?’ Mr Garland bent over the pram to get a closer look at Little Robbie. I don’t know why he wanted to do that. You can tell exactly what he’s like from a safe distance.

  ‘My nephew,’ I said, as Little Robbie beamed up at Mr Garland. He prefers every single person in Dublin to his own auntie, including total strangers. ‘Little Robbie.’

  ‘He’s a happy little chappie, isn’t he?’ Mr Garland was now making faces at Little Robbie, who was laughing fit to burst.

  ‘Some of the time,’ I said, trying not to let my true feelings about Little Robbie show.

  Mr Garland made a very impressive cross-eyed face, which caused Little Robbie to shriek with glee. Auntie Maisie was looking at the pair of them very fondly. I know Samira jokes that Mr Garland likes Auntie Maisie, but when I noticed the look she gave him this afternoon, I had a feeling she might like him back. Anyway, Samira wasn’t thinking about their potential romance at that moment. She had a plan.

  ‘So what are you two up to this afternoon?’ said Auntie Maisie.

  ‘I was just telling Betty about the production of Romeo and Juliet,’ said the cunning Samira.

  ‘Are you going to be joining us, then, young Betty?’ Auntie Maisie turned to me with a smile. I felt a bit awkward, even though I knew this line of questioning must be part of Samira’s ingenious scheme to get me into the theatre with her.

  ‘I don’t think I can afford it,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that!’ Mr Garland stopped making faces at Little Robbie (who looked quite annoyed at suddenly not being the centre of his attention) and stood up straight. ‘I can get yiz all in.’

  ‘You won’t get into trouble or anything?’ I do want to see the play, but I wouldn’t want Mr Garland to, I don’t know, lose his job or anything over it. And I didn’t want him or Auntie Maisie to think I’d been dropping hints.

  ‘’Course I won’t.’ Mr Garland adjusted his hat and grinned. ‘Three more little ladies squashed into the gods won’t make a clatter of difference.’

  ‘Ah, Tommy, you’re very good.’ Auntie Maisie seemed genuinely delighted. ‘That’s all arranged, then. We’re going to the theatre.’

  A thought struck me, one that should have hit me as soon as Mr Garland made his kindly offer. ‘I can only go on Monday or Saturdays, though,’ I said. ‘Or Sundays if the play is on then. Otherwise I can’t get there in time after work.’

  Mr Garland smiled. ‘Don’t worry about that, Miss Betty. Whenever suits the three of you is fine with me.’

  ‘That’s all fixed then.’ Maisie beamed. ‘Now, we’d better get a move on if we want to get to Clontarf and back before my old ma has the dinner poured out.’

  And with a jaunty wave from Maisie, and another tip of the hat and a cheeky wink from Mr Garland, they sauntered on towards the seafront. As soon as they were out of earshot Samira grabbed me.

  ‘We’re going to the theatre!’ she cried, in her most dramatic voice, and her excitement was so infectious I couldn’t help squealing back, and an old lady in a rusty black dress who was passing by gave us a real disapproving look and muttered something about young girls today acting like hooligans. But we were too happy to care.

  ‘Your parents can’t say no now,’ said Samira as we wheeled Little Robbie across the bridge.

  ‘You’re right about that,’ I said. ‘It won’t cost us a penny. Oh stop that, Little Robbie, there’s nothing wrong with you.’ Because Little Robbie, enraged that we weren’t giving him any attention ever since we’d left Maisie, had decided to start shrieking at the top of his lungs. And even though Samira sang and cooed at him for the rest of the walk home, he was clearly determined to punish her and kept roaring until he was purple in the face and looked more like a plum than a tomato.

  By the time we reached my house even Samira was beaten.

  ‘He’s very loud, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘Is there something wrong with him?’ She looked a bit frightened. It had taken a whole year, but she’d finally seen Little Robbie’s true nature.

  ‘This is what he’s like most of the time,’ I said.

  Then I had to go inside and hand him over to Lily, who gave him some bread and milk which finally shut him up. But I didn’t get a break from his dreadful ways because they all stayed for dinner and he managed to tip my cup of tea right into my lap, and Lily said it was an accident and he’s a baby who couldn’t help it, but of course I knew he had done it on purpose.

  Chapter Six

  I did it. I’ve joined the union! It’s all thanks to Rosie, really. If it weren’t for her telling me about the Irish Women Workers’ Union last week, I would have still thought unions were just something men joined, and I’d never have gone down to Liberty Hall today and asked for the mysterious ‘D.L.’ In fact, if Miss Warby hadn’t behaved the way she has done over the last few days … but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  It all started on Monday. I arrived at eight as usual and hung up my coat in the cubby hole. Before I put my apron on I checked my uniform dress for stains. I check it every day, but I still feel nervous before I step out on the shop floor. You get docked a whole sixpence if your dress is dirty, which I certainly can’t afford. And it’s not like I have a spare work dress to wear when this one is being washed – I won’t have paid off the cost of it until Christmas, so I certainly can’t afford to buy another one.

  Thanks to the apron, I’ve managed to keep my frock clean so far – we wear detachable white collars and cuffs that can be taken off and washed and dried at home, and Ma has sewed in little patches underneath the arms of my frock that I can unpick and wash to make sure I don’t get sweat stains on my dress under my arms. Ma would kill me if she ever heard me say sweat, she thinks it’s common and rude. I’m
not sure what to say instead. In books when characters are working hard in the heat they say things like ‘I wiped the perspiration from my brow’ but they never say anything about sweaty armpits.

  Anyway, there are no sweat stains anywhere on my dress at the moment, so I hurried into the shop, where Kitty was getting ready to open the front door.

  ‘You’re just in time, Betty,’ she said. I walked as fast as I could – no running on the shop floor! – to my position behind the counter.

  ‘Where’s Miss Warby?’ I whispered to Annie. Rosie was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ Annie whispered back. ‘There’s some problem with the oven and they’re behind on today’s cakes. I could hear her roaring from the cubby hole.’

  That didn’t bode well. If Old Wobbly starts the morning with a temper on her, everyone in Lawlor’s suffers for it all day.

  ‘What about Rosie?’ I said. Annie just shrugged. By now Kitty had opened the shop door and returned to her place by the large and frightening tea urn.

  I was starting to get worried about Rosie being late. I really didn’t want her to get into trouble with Old Wobbly. She’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever met – sometimes I feel like a selfish little madam in comparison, because I’d never have even thought of giving my cakes to the washing-up girls if she hadn’t mentioned it, and she takes all hers home to her ma. And she has a sense of fun. She’s always teasing me, but not in a nasty way. She’s very hard working, and even though she’s often looking after her little brother, she’s hardly ever late for work.

  In fact, she’s usually there before I am. Which is why it was strange not to see her waiting for me behind the counter. The first customer of the day, a woman in a purple hat laden down with feathers, was walking in through the door, and there was still no sign of Rosie. The purple-feather lady made her way towards the tearoom, just as Rosie, looking a bit red in the face, appeared in the door that leads to the corridor.

  ‘There you are!’ I hissed.

  Rosie opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word a bony hand grasped her shoulder.

  ‘Miss Delaney!’ said Miss Warby in a terrible voice. ‘A word, if you please.’ And she pushed a white-faced Rosie back through the door and along the corridor, presumably into the cubby hole.

  More customers were arriving and I had to serve them, but I found it hard to concentrate, worrying what Miss Warby was saying to Rosie. As I said earlier, we get fined for being late, as much as half a day’s wages. Someone told me that a waitress got the sack last year for lateness, but she had been late dozens of times. In the six weeks I’ve been working here I’ve never seen Rosie be late even once. Luckily that morning’s customers didn’t want anything too complicated. Some days they all want five of one sort of bun and three of another little cake and two of the scones and some manner of fancy bread too, and even at the best of times it’s hard to keep hold of it all in your head.

  That morning I was so worried about Rosie that just selling single crumpets and Mary Cakes was almost beyond me until Rosie, looking very subdued and with slightly red eyes, joined me and Annie behind the counter.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I whispered, as I put a customer’s sixpence in the cash register.

  ‘Fined,’ muttered Rosie. ‘Tell you at break.’

  And that was all I could get out of her because every so often for the rest of the morning Old Wobbly would stick her head in the door, like a dragon glowering from its lair, so we didn’t dare exchange another word.

  Then something happened that briefly put all thoughts of Rosie and Miss Warby out of my head.

  Kitty was manning the tea urn, as usual. I’m scared of that urn at the best of times, what with its steam and its malfunctioning tap. And as it turned out, both of those things caused the disaster. The urn had just been refilled, and Kitty had just finished filling a pot of tea, when a massive spurt of steam came bursting out of the tap. In her shock, Kitty dropped the pot, and boiling tea went splashing all over her foot. She let out a little scream of pain before quickly turning to the wall and biting down on her knuckles. But it was too late. Wobbly had heard her cry and rushed into the tearoom.

  ‘What on earth is all that racket about?’ She looked at the broken pot and the pool of tea, which Annie was ineffectually trying to clean up. ‘Who is responsible for this?’

  ‘It was the urn.’ Kitty’s breathing was shallow. She must have been in agony. ‘It … The pot fell on my foot.’

  It was obvious that Kitty was in enormous pain, and seeing as how Old Wobbly holds her in high enough esteem to make her the supervisor, I thought she’d send her home or even just tell her to have a rest in the cubby hole. But she didn’t.

  ‘You should be more careful, Miss Dunne,’ she said coldly. ‘Perhaps if you weren’t so concerned with that union of yours, you might pay more attention to the tasks at hand. Now go back to work.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Warby,’ said Kitty stiffly.

  As soon as Wobbly stormed out of the room Rosie and I rushed to Kitty’s side, but she didn’t want our help.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Most of it went on the floor, not me. Come on, the lunchtime rush is starting.’

  At two o’clock, the rush had calmed down and I was almost dying with hunger. (Just imagine having to sell people lots of cakes and buns and having to look at people eating finger sandwiches in a tearoom and not being able to eat so much as a crumb yourself.) Kitty, who was still looking very pale and wasn’t putting her weight on the foot that had been splashed, nodded at me and Rosie.

  ‘You can take your break now,’ she said, before quickly turning to greet a regular important customer who Miss Warby had told us should be given extra attention. ‘Hello, Mrs Sheffield, how are you today? Where’s your little dog?’

  Rosie and I quickly slipped out the door and down the corridor. We made our way to the kitchen, where one of the girls handed each of us a plate containing one of yesterday’s big bread rolls and a little sliver of butter. We nodded our thanks, grabbed a butter knife and a mug of tea each, and headed to the cubby hole, where we sank down on the benches. I couldn’t help groaning with relief.

  ‘My poor legs! I’ll never get used to this.’ I stretched my legs out in front of me and pointed my toes, then looked at Rosie, who was taking a massive bite out of her bread roll without even buttering it. ‘Do you think Kitty’s all right?’

  Rosie shrugged her shoulders. ‘She’s tougher than she looks.’

  She took another bite of her roll.

  ‘What about you? What happened this morning?’

  With an effort, Rosie swallowed down her bread.

  ‘Ma’s sick again,’ she said, and took a swig of water. ‘She’s had to take to her bed. And then Francis puked up his breakfast just as I was going out the door and Josie had already gone to the factory, so I had to clean him up.’

  ‘So Wobbly docked you?’ I said. It was more of a statement than a question. Wobbly never lets anyone away without a fine.

  Rosie had taken another bite of bread so she just nodded. Eventually she said, ‘Yeah, course she did. A whole shilling.’

  A shilling is practically a day’s pay. None of us can afford to lose that. But especially Rosie. Her whole family lives in just one room. Her Ma used to work as a charwoman, doing heavy cleaning work in people’s big houses up on the North Circular Road near the Phoenix Park, but Rosie says she hasn’t been well over the last year. Some of the things she’s said about her ma make me wonder if she drinks, like Mrs Hennessy’s brother who used to stay with them and always woke up at about lunchtime and talked all strange if you met him after about three in the afternoon. He smelled like the air outside the door of Cusack’s pub. I’ve never liked to ask too many questions about Rosie’s ma, though. If she wants to talk about it she’ll tell me.

  Anyway, it’s clear that Rosie and Josie have to look after her little brother Francis whenever they’re at home, and even if he’s a much nicer baby than Little Robbie (which wouldn’t be hard), looking after a little kid like that is an awful lot of work. Just washing the nappies is woeful, even if you can afford to heat enough water, and I’m not sure they can. Because her ma isn’t working very often, the family has to rely on what Rosie and Josie bring home as wages. And that certainly can’t be enough for all four of them. Lawlor’s are proud that they don’t pay us girls enough to live on. Before I started at Lawlor’s Mrs Lawlor told Ma that they only employ ‘nice girls who live with their parents’, who just need to earn a few shillings a week for pocket money and to add to the general housekeeping, which Rosie says is their excuse for not paying us a decent living wage.