A Fall from Grace - Maggie Ford (have you read this book TXT) 📗

child. She’d start by making enquiries, though how and where to begin she had no idea.

She must first get settled in the rooms where she was to live, the blessing of practicalities beginning to take over from grieving, for it felt like grief.

The journey seemed to take ages, the taxi wending its way through endless streets, at first fine and wide, lined with huge shops, but slowly they grew narrower, more seedy, the shops smaller, the kerbs fined at times with market stalls, the houses becoming mere tenements. Finally the vehicle drew up outside some two-storey tenements in a street behind Cheapside.

‘This is it, miss!’ called the taxi driver. ‘Right, that’ll be a shilling an’ sixpence!’

With no idea of how cheap or expensive that was, she got out and handed over a two shilling piece, hovering, expecting change. Instead he glanced down at it with a grin, spat on it appreciatively and popped it into his pocket with a ‘thanks very much, miss!’

Madeleine realized then, as the taxi moved off, that her expected change of sixpence had instead been seen as a tip for his service.

Six

As with every day since coming here a week ago, Madeleine’s gaze moved despondently around her one room: a single sagging bed, bare table, two chairs, a cupboard, a double gas ring, a curtain across an alcove hiding her clothes, a window overlooking a yard bordered by similar tenements.

On the landing smelling of cooked cabbage was a stained sink and cold water tap, next to it a bathroom and toilet. One glimpse of the bowl was enough to make her heave as she tried to avoid contact with its wooden seat which all the so far unknown tenants had used before her.

An ancient gas boiler gave a dribble of hot water taking ages to fill the bath, and only just warm when filled, the bath sporting a wealth of yellowish stains. There was always the public baths which by law had to be spotlessly clean. She could go there, armed with towel and soap as often as possible so long as she had money for the entrance fee.

Her father had arranged a niggardly allowance sufficient to prevent her actually starving, its message clear enough – if she needed more, she’d have to find work. So what might have made him appear human enough to give at least some thought to the welfare of his only child, instead spoke in clear terms that he wanted nothing more to do with her; that her welfare no longer mattered to him, almost as if she no longer existed in his eyes.

Left more bitter than ever, she’d written a carefully worded plea to her mother the moment she arrived here hoping to melt her heart enough to talk to her father on her behalf. That had been over a week ago, still no reply. There’d never be one now. How had she managed to make such a mess of her life? Her sight misted over as she stared across at the other tenements of Moorgate’s dingy back streets a stone’s throw from St Paul’s as thoughts of last night’s dream stole back into her mind. She had had the same dream three times since coming here; so brief and so poignant: she’d be holding her baby close, nursing her, kissing her, such a lovely dream, but just as she started to croon to her, her own voice would wake her and she’d find herself alone in this still dark room, her arms empty, her pillow damp with tears she hadn’t dreamed she’d shed, making her get up and walk back and forth in an effort to push the memory from her mind.

Now she pushed it away again, forcing herself to think of something more realistic. She was going to have to make her own life, though how, she had no idea. Never having been alone before, never having to shift for herself, knowing only a life of luxury, she was only now learning how to cook for herself, buy food and prepare it, make a cup of tea, even to wash her own clothes. But to survive she was having to learn.

A kettle and a small brown teapot had been provided. In the cupboard drawer were a couple of spoons, a few odd knives and forks, an old carving knife and a bread knife. There was a saucepan for boiling vegetables and a greasy frying pan for meat, fish, eggs, bacon, sausages or whatever else the tenant thought to cook. Had there been an oven she wouldn’t have known how to use it. There were a few plates of odd sizes, chipped and of doubtful origin. With a little of her meagre allowance she’d have to buy decent ones from a market stall, as well as a decent towel, face flannel, soap.

The kettle and saucepan doubled as containers to boil water for washing clothes and bed linen in the bathroom. What she’d found here when she arrived had been so awful she’d drawn a little out of the precious pittance her father had put in the bank for her and had bought two pairs of sheets and pillow cases from the cheapest market stall she could find. At least she now had clean linen to sleep on.

This morning, seven thirty, after another uncomfortable night on the lumpy mattress and troubled yet again by the same dream, she was at the sink washing the old bed sheets as best she could in case they were ever needed.

She was so engrossed rinsing them that she wasn’t aware of someone emerging from a door down the passage until a voice made her jump.

‘Oh! You’re using it – the sink!’

Swinging round towards the voice, her arms dripping wet, she saw a girl of around twenty standing there. The girl’s lips parted in a grin. ‘Sorry, did I give you a start?’

Madeleine tried to gather her jangled wits and smile back. ‘You did rather.’

‘Sorry,’ the girl said again. ‘I should’ve made more