Page 45 of The Show Woman

44

Soakings

To Rosie’s amazement, when she finally turns up and begs for shifts, the carpet factory takes her back.

‘It’s all hands on deck,’ says the foreman, a rabbit-faced man with splayed front teeth and a vaguely comical bunnet that sags, inexplicably, down both sides of his face. ‘Had a big order come in from London. All very secretive but I’ve an idea these carpets are going straight to one of the big hooses. Maybe even the biggest hoose of all.’

As she sits at her machine, pedalling furiously, hearing the familiar clackity clack, Rosie wonders if one day royal shoes will grace this thick material, whether a regal hand might brush its fibres, perhaps leaning down to tie a shoelace, or pick up a dropped fan. Probably not. The royals likely had people around to do their every bidding, no matter how tiny or inconsequential. It seems unimaginable to her, to have so many servants to help you wash your face, or cook a meal, unbutton your stays. She remembers Violet talking about the showgirl who met the King once, how he was so fat his belly looked like it was the size of Ireland. She chokes back the tiniest of sobs.

Before Rosie was born, her ma had worked as a domestic servant at one of the grand Ayrshire houses. She had to wear a long white pinny and a white cotton cap, get up at the crack of dawn each day to set the fires and scrub the ancient stone floors with pails of water heated on the range.

‘It wasn’t for me,’ she told Rosie and Jennifer. ‘All that running around after others, and nothing to show for it at the end of the day but a few pennies and a roof over your head. That’s when I decided to marry your father. On the farm, if I scrub a floor, at least I know it’s my tiles I’m washing.’

Thoughts of her ma and Jennifer come often now. Rosie is deeply lonely in this cold, unfeeling city, is lost without Violet, desperately missing Carmen. Belle has been her only ballast, and it turns out that this strange little girl is a wizard on the trapeze, can do flips and jumps that remind her, painfully, of Violet.

Morag had perched daintily on Rosie’s shoulder as they watched Belle perform, her talons digging lightly into her tender flesh. There was something comforting about that curious bird. Rosie had rarely allowed herself to be touched since Violet died, had shrunk from the comforting hugs, the consoling pats on the arm, yet she enjoyed the feel of the bird’s claws. Morag was simply there, softly nudging her beak into her neck when she wanted a few crumbs, a new friend that demanded little.

‘She likes you,’ said Belle when she had finished her performance and the bird had hopped to the ground. ‘So what did you think? Was I any good?’

Rosie had nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve got real talent. Your sister would have been proud.’

‘Thanks,’ said Belle. ‘My mammy doesn’t want me doing it any more. Says she’s not going to have another daughter ruin her life by whizzing round in the air, but I don’t care. Violet would have loved that I’m doing this now. I bet she would.’

Rosie suspects that in reality Violet would have been irritated initially by Belle’s talent on the trapeze, but would eventually have tolerated it, perhaps even taught her a few tricks. Her heart aches to think of it, and what might have been. A double act, perhaps. Two flying sisters.

As she walks back to Vinegarhill from the factory this evening the rain beats down, turning the rest of the slush into rivulets of water that pour down the streets, make her heavy skirts leaden as she slops down the Gallowgate. The showground is quiet, shuttered, but as she picks her way across the mud she hears a wagon turning in behind her. Lena and Harry rush past her towards the stables, Lena’s face stricken. Rosie plods on towards her own caravan. If there is news, she will know it soon enough. Sure enough, she has only been there for five minutes, is just unwinding her woollen scarf and unbuttoning her boots, when there is a loud, anxious rap at the door.

She opens it, expecting Lena. But it is her sister Jennifer who stands there, soaked to the skin, and trembling from the cold.