One after another, her gentlemen came and went, enjoying the final hours of freedom from their families. ‘Gave those Yankees a run for their money,’ jested a keen golfer. ‘Rawlins left ‘em standing at the Open.’
‘Damn the golf,’ cursed a military man. ‘Sending our lads out to Ashanti - bah!’
‘Where’s Ashanti?’
‘Africa, old chap. West a fraction.’
‘Too old for that lark now. Did my bit in the Transvaal.’
‘Really? Have a snifter.’
And so the day passed, with Ettie amused by the stories she heard as she worked. Her customers regarded her as they might a maid or servant in their own homes, to which – after enjoying the tobaccos and decanters – they now seemed reluctant to return to.
When the day was over, Ettie swept the ash-laden floors and cleared the overflowing glass bowls. She rinsed the tumblers, shined the glass and returned the button-back chairs to their former polished glory.
Finally, she sat on the stool and gazed out on the darkened street. She had extinguished the lamps and sat by a single candle. Peace settled around her like a soft, comfort blanket.
The till brimmed coppers, silver and notes. Orders were taken for January. The accounts were complete. Terence had cooked her a ham and egg pie for Christmas.
Ettie sighed with pleasure. In just a few hours she would attend Midnight Mass to thank God for all he had given her. But most of all she would pray for Clara and Lucas. For the orphanage and the children. And for Michael.
Chapter 22
Christmas Day arrived clear and bright. Ettie woke to an unusual silence. She missed the rowdy voices and cries of Soho’s unconventional residents. It appeared that even the drunks and the desperadoes of Silver Street observed 25th December.
After washing and dressing rapidly – since the cold was turning her fingers blue – she peered out of the window to the furrows of browned snow on the cobbles beneath. She shivered, disappointed to discover not one soul in sight.
Downstairs was equally silent, until she coaxed a fire in the drawing room, adding a few paper twists and a shovelful of coals. The crackling and spitting gave a little energy and she sat by it as she ate her breakfast. Last night at Mass she had listened to the carols and remembered the orphans. How they loved Christmas; the thin slices of fruit cake and tiny parcels wrapped in paper, chalks or pencils for the boys, and ribbons for the girls. What would the farmer give them? Ettie felt very guilty as she toasted her bread on a long fork over the fire and drank hot tea from a mug as the tiny scarlet flames danced between the coals.
Today would be a very long day with no customers to serve. What could she do to fill the hours? Perhaps take a walk out? But as morning turned into afternoon, she was still sitting by the fire; a fire that had extinguished to grey ashes. Why can’t I think of something to do? She wondered. A little voice in her head replied simply, ‘because it’s your birthday’.
Ettie’s lashes moistened. She was now fifteen years of age, and nothing could change that.
Slowly she rose to her feet, returned the dirty dishes to the kitchen, then washed and dried them. She then set about cleaning, dusting and polishing rooms that already were spotless. Work was her only solace. When she could find nothing more to do, she unlocked the door to the salon. It was here she felt most useful, with Rose and the echo of her customers’ conversations.
She swept the floor, dusted the shelves and rearranged the velvet blue cloths. Opening a pack of freshly arrived tobaccos, she arranged a selection of Lucas’s most expensive cigars. Now all that was left was to store the week’s takings in the cast iron chest.
Yet Ettie was reluctant to end the day and return to the silent house. There was no one there to share her birthday, as she had done each year with the orphans. How she wished to be back again with the Sisters of Clemency! She wanted to hug Kathy Squires close and tell the twins Meg and Amy a bedtime story. She yearned for the companionship and the laughter that Michael had brought into her life.
Tears stung on her eyelids. Like tiny, poisoned darts of self-pity they reminded her it was Christmas and she was alone.
Her sad eyes met Rose’s. How Lucas’s mother must have suffered, she thought resolutely. A beloved husband’s early and unexpected death. A young son to raise. The business to run. Rose’s loneliness would have been even more desperate than her own.
‘I’m young still,’ Ettie encouraged herself. ‘And have my good health. Why should I be unhappy?’
As if in response, a sudden noise made her jump. It came from the salon window. ‘Tap, tap,’ the noise went. Ettie listened again.
‘Tap tap.’
Darkness had descended now. The salon didn’t feel quite so friendly. Ettie crept to the door. The blinds were closed. Should she draw them and take a look?
Another ‘tap, tap’. This time louder. Then a cry of impatience.
‘Ettie O’Reilly, where are you?’
At once she recognized the voice. Drawing the lock, Ettie was almost bowled over as Gwen and Lily rushed in. A freezing draught followed as they drowned her in hugs and kisses and the faint, unmissable scent of aniseed.
‘Joyeux Noël,’ cried Lily. ‘Terence told us you are alone.’
‘In this dark and gloomy place,’ Gwen said as the two girls made their way in, squinting into the flickering shadows.
Ettie closed the salon door, startled but happy to see her two friends. ‘Mr and Mrs Benjamin are holidaying in Europe.’
‘Fine for some,’ snorted Lily. ‘But for you, Ettie, have you not a minute to spare for your friends?’
Ettie blushed, knowing she should have found time to visit Gwen and Lily.
‘No excuses, little beauty,’ laughed Gwen, throwing off her coat and bundling it into Ettie’s arms. ‘We are here and that’s all that matters. See,
