Chapter Two
Belle felt a bit flat as she watched Jimmy walking on down Monmouth Street. For the last hour she’d felt free and happy, but she knew as soon as she went in it would be back to a series of chores, including emptying chamberpots and clearing and lighting fires.
They had more in common than Jimmy realized. He had his bad-tempered uncle to contend with; she had a bad-tempered mother. They were both surrounded by people, but it was clear that Jimmy was as lonely as she was, with no friends of his own age to talk to.
The sun that had come out fleetingly while they were in the park had vanished behind black clouds, and as they’d passed the man who sold matches on the corner, he’d called out it was going to snow later. Reluctant as Belle was to go in, it was too cold to stay outside any longer.
She knew very little about the world beyond Seven Dials. She’d been born in the same house she still lived in. The story was that her mother had delivered her alone upstairs, put her baby in a drawer wrapped in an old quilt and gone down to the parlour again with the other girls as if nothing had happened.
Belle had learned at a very early age that she had to be virtually invisible. Her place, once she was too big to sleep in the drawer, was down in the basement of the house, and she must never, ever venture up the stairs after five in the evening, or ask her mother questions about what went on up there.
She had gone to a little school in Soho Square from the age of six until she was ten, where she learned to read and write and do sums, but that ended abruptly after some kind of disagreement between her mother and her teacher. She then had to go to a much bigger school which she hated, and was very relieved when she was allowed to leave at fourteen. But since then she’d found the days long and dreary. Yet when she voiced this thought aloud one day her mother rounded on her and asked how she’d like to be a scullery maid or selling flowers on the streets as so many girls of her age were forced to do. Belle wouldn’t like to do either job: the girl selling flowers further along the street was so thin and ragged that she looked as though a gust of wind could blow her away.
Annie didn’t approve of Belle doing what she called ‘raking the streets’ either. Belle wasn’t sure whether this was because her mother thought she’d get into mischief, or because she didn’t want her daughter to hear gossip about her.
In one of her rare nostalgic and communicative moods, Annie had told Belle that she’d been the favourite of ‘the Countess’, who ran the house at the time Belle was born. If it had not been for the woman’s affection Annie would have been thrown out on to the streets and ended up in the workhouse. She explained that the Countess was given the nickname as she had a grand manner, and because she’d been a real beauty in her younger days, with male admirers in high places. It was one of these, rumoured to be a member of the royal family, who had set her up in the house in Jake’s Court.
When Belle was still just a small child, the Countess became ill and Annie nursed her for over a year. Before the woman died, she made a will and left everything she had to Annie.
Annie had run the house ever since. She hired and fired, acted as hostess and took care of the money. It was often said around Seven Dials that she ran a good house, even if she was as hard as nails.
Belle had heard the word ‘brothel’ all through her childhood but she didn’t know its precise meaning, only that it was something you didn’t talk about at school. Annie’s Place was also known as a ‘whorehouse’: years ago Belle had asked her mother what that meant and was told it was a place of entertainment for gentlemen. Just the way Annie rapped out her reply told Belle she shouldn’t question her further.
Around Seven Dials any common woman or girl who dressed in a vulgar manner, acted a bit flighty or saucy, and liked a few drinks and a dance was likely to be called a whore. It was a derogatory term, of course, but as it was used so often there was an almost affectionate ring to it, in the way people called someone ‘a minx’ or ‘a witch’. So until a few months ago Belle had believed that her mother’s business was just a nightly party where gentlemen could meet saucy, fun girls for drinking and dancing.
But recently, through bawdy songs, jokes and overheard conversations, Belle had come to realize that men had some kind of urge and it was for the satisfaction of this urge that they came to places like Annie’s.
The details of what this entailed Belle hadn’t discovered. Neither Annie nor Mog could be drawn on the subject, and the girls themselves were much too afraid of incurring Annie’s wrath to divulge any secrets to Belle.
At night, lying in her bed down in the basement, sounds of merriment filtered down to Belle; the piano played with spirit, clinking glasses, guffaws of male laughter, thumping, dancing feet and even singing – it sounded such fun. Belle sometimes wished she dared creep up the stairs and peep around the door.
Yet however much she wanted to know the entire truth about her mother’s business, something told her that there was also a dark side to it. On occasions she’d heard crying, pleading and even screaming, and she was well aware that the girls were not always happy. There were many days when they came down for their dinner with red-rimmed eyes, and ate their meal in sullen, heavy silence. Occasionally one of them would have a black eye or bruises on their arms. Even on the best of days the girls were always pale and wan. They were not very kindly disposed to Belle either. Mog said this was because they felt she was Annie’s spy, and that they were jealous of her. Belle couldn’t imagine what they were jealous for – she didn’t get anything more than they did – but they never included her in their conversations and would stop chatting to one another when she came into the room.
Only Millie, the oldest girl, was different. She smiled at Belle and liked to chat. But then Millie wasn’t the full shilling; she flitted from one subject to another like a butterfly, unable to sustain a meaningful conversation with anyone.
Mog was in reality Belle’s only friend, and far more of a mother to her than Annie. Her real name was Mowenna Davis, and she came from the Welsh valleys. Belle hadn’t been able to say Mowenna when she was a baby and had called her Mog, and the name had stuck with everyone. She had told Belle once that if she were called Mowenna now she wouldn’t recognize it as her name.
A plain, slight woman in her late thirties, with dull brown hair and pale blue eyes, Mog had worked in the house as a maid since she was twelve. Maybe it was her plainness that kept her cleaning rooms and lighting fires, wearing a black dress and white apron and cap rather than the gaudy satin and beribboned hair of the girls upstairs. But she alone in the house was constant. She didn’t throw tantrums, argue or fight. She went about her household duties with serene happiness, her loyalty and devotion to Annie and her love for Belle unwavering.
The front door of Annie’s Place was in Monmouth Street, at least tucked back in a small alley off it, but it was only the gentlemen callers who entered that way, up four steps to the front door and into the hall and the parlour. The entrance used by all the residents was around the corner in Jake’s Court, and they came into the small yard, then down six steps to the back door into what was a semi-basement.
Mog was cutting up some meat on the kitchen table as Belle came in through the scullery. The kitchen was a big, low-ceilinged room with a flagstone floor, dominated by the vast table in the centre. A dresser along one wall held all the china and on the opposite side was the stove, saucepans and other pans hanging above it on hooks. It was always warm because of the stove but a little dark because it was in the basement. During the winter months the gas lighting was on all the time. There were also several other rooms on this floor, a laundry room, Belle’s and Mog’s bedrooms, and several storage rooms as well as the coal cellar.
‘Come and warm up by the stove,’ Mog said as she saw Belle. ‘I don’t know what you find to do out on the streets! I can’t bear all that noise and pushing and shoving.’
Mog seldom went further than the immediate area because she had a fear of crowds. She said that when she went to watch Queen Victoria’s funeral procession nine years earlier, she was so hemmed in by people that she got heart palpitations and thought she was going to die.
‘There’s a lot of noise here too but that doesn’t seem to bother you,’ Belle pointed out as she took off her cape and scarf. From upstairs she could hear Sally, the newest girl, screaming about something.
‘That one won’t last long,’ Mog said sagely. ‘Too much fire in her belly!’
It was rare for Mog to make any comment about the girls and Belle hoped that as she’d said this much, maybe she could get her to continue.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked, warming her hands on the stove.
‘She thinks she ought to be the top girl,’ Mog replied. ‘Always arguing, always pushing herself forward. The other girls don’t like that, or the way she plays up to the gentlemen.’
‘In what way?’ Belle asked, hoping she didn’t sound too obvious.
But Mog stiffened visibly, clearly suddenly aware she had been talking about something her charge shouldn’t know of. ‘That’s enough, we’ve got jobs to do, Belle. As soon as I’ve put this stew on I want to give the parlour a real bottoming. You’ll help me, won’t you?’
Belle knew that she didn’t really have a choice, but she liked the way Mog always put orders to her as if they were requests.
‘Of course, Mog. Have we got time for a cup of tea first?’ she replied. ‘I’ve just met Garth Franklin’s nephew. He’s a really nice boy!’
Over the tea Belle told Mog all about Jimmy, and how they’d gone for a walk in the park. She always told Mog everything, for she was far closer to her than to Annie. In most people’s eyes Mog was an old maid, but Belle saw her as very modern in many ways. She read the newspapers and was keenly interested in politics. She was a supporter of Keir Hardie, the socialist MP, and of the suffragettes who were campaigning for votes for women. Hardly a day passed when Mog didn’t comment on their latest meeting, march on Parliament or story about them being force-fed in prison because they’d gone on hunger strike. She often said she’d like to join them.
‘I’m glad you’ve found a friend,’ Mog said fondly. ‘But you mind he don’t take no liberties with you or he’ll have worse than Garth Franklin to deal with! But we’d best get on with the parlour now.’
Annie boasted that she had the finest parlour outside of Mayfair, and it was true that she had spent vast sums of money on the Italian mirrors, crystal chandelier, Persian carpet and beautiful velvet curtains at the windows. But with upwards of twenty gentlemen a night visiting, the girls in and out and cigars and pipes being smoked, along with drinks spilt, it needed spring-cleaning frequently.
Belle thought the parlour might look good by night, but she didn’t think much of it by day. The curtains were hardly ever drawn back or the windows opened, and the gold paper on the walls just looked a dirty yellow when daylight entered. Likewise, the plum-coloured curtains had dust and cobwebs on them, and a stale odour of tobacco clung to them. But Belle liked spring-cleaning the room. There was something really satisfying about removing a month of dirt from the mirrors and seeing them sparkle, or beating the rug outside until the colours became bright again. And she liked working alongside Mog because she was a happy soul who worked hard and appreciated the help of others.
As always in a spring-clean, they stacked up the sofas and tables in one corner first, then rolled up the Persian rug and carried it downstairs between them.
The parlour took up most of the ground floor. There was a small area for hats and coats by the front door, which Mog answered when the bell was rung. Behind the staircase which led to the other three floors was what they called the office, which was an L shape, and was also Annie’s room. Tucked in here too, behind a door, were the stairs to the basement. Mog had often remarked that the layout of the house was ideal. Belle supposed she meant that Belle never saw who came calling, and the gentlemen never saw how they lived.
There was a lavatory on the ground floor too. It had only been installed a couple of years ago; before that everyone had to use the outside privy.
Belle often felt aggrieved that the girls didn’t always go to this lavatory, using their chamberpots in their rooms instead. She felt that if she could make her way on a wild, cold night to the outside privy and not use the pot under her bed, they could at least go down a couple of flights of stairs inside the house.
Yet Mog never backed her up when she grumbled about having to empty the pots. She just shrugged and said perhaps the girls had been caught short. Belle thought that was absurd; after all, if they were entertaining the gentlemen in the parlour it would take far longer to go to their bedrooms for a pee in a chamberpot than to use the lavatory by the parlour.
It was bitterly cold as they lifted the rug over the washing line in the back yard, their breath like smoke in the icy air. But once they began beating the rug with the bamboo paddles, they were soon warm again.
‘We’ll leave it here till the floor’s dry,’ Mog said when they’d finished and they both had a grey film of dirt all over them.
It was only as they went back upstairs that Belle saw her mother. As always in the mornings, Annie was wearing her dark blue velvet dressing-gown over her nightdress and she had her curlers covered by a lace cap.
Mog was close in age to Annie, both being in their late thirties, and they had formed what Mog called an alliance as young girls because they came to this house when it was owned by the Countess at around the same time. Belle often wondered why Mog didn’t say they had become friends, but then Annie was not a very warm person, so perhaps she didn’t want a friend.
Dressed up, with her face painted, Annie was still beautiful. She had a tiny waist, a firm, high bosom and a queenly air. But in her dressing-gown her complexion looked grey, her lips thin and bloodless, her eyes dull. Even the shapely body was gone without her corset. The spiteful way she often spoke to her girls suggested she resented that her own looks were fading while they were still in their prime.