Tamar Page 7

  Tamar smiled broadly and said yes before he could change his mind. Mr Ellis told her what her wages would be and her hours of work, and asked if she could start the following Monday. The hours were long with only Sundays off, and the pay unspectacular, but infinitely preferable to nothing. Tamar left the shop feeling as though she were floating six inches above the ground.

  ‘I got it! I got it!’ she exclaimed to Polly, who was waiting down the street.

  ‘I thought yer might,’ she replied. ‘An’ yer deserve it. I’m right pleased fer yer.’ And she was. ‘When yer’ve got a bit of money together yer should find yerself somewhere nicer to live an’ all.’

  ‘But what about you?’ said Tamar, trying to contain her excitement in deference to Polly’s continuing unemployment. ‘We need to find you a job. I’m not moving anywhere until I know you’re all right.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Polly replied resolutely. ‘I know ’ow ter take care of meself.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Mr Ellis on Monday. He might know of something.’

  As it happened, Mr Ellis knew of a manufacturer who was offering outwork on a piece-rate basis. The money was a pittance but Polly, whose finances were almost totally depleted, took up the offer and sat in her room from morning to dusk, sewing 25-pound cloth bags. She was paid two shillings per gross and when she finished a batch, she carted them to the manufactory and collected cloth and thread for the next lot. At the end of each day her eyes, back and head ached, and her fingers were raw and blistered. She hated it but as she could now afford to pay for her room and board she persevered, telling Tamar she was quite happy to do it until something better came along.

  Delivering a finished set of bags to the factory one day, Polly was told by a woman smoking a pipe and leaning against the wall that there were positions going for manufactory workers. Polly went straight in and joined the queue. There were five vacancies and Polly was selected to fill one. The pay was low, eight and a half shillings a week, but better than for sewing bags. Conditions in the factory were noisy, dirty and often dangerous and she would be required to work a seventy-two-hour week of six twelve-hour days. After she had been informed she had one of the positions she went outside, sat in the gutter and cried with relief.

  Tamar was pleased her friend would be earning better wages but concerned about the conditions in which she would be working. Mr Ellis regularly held forth on the conditions factory workers had to put up with, and how something should be done about it. Tamar felt guilty about her own position, which was positively luxurious compared to Polly’s, and tried to give her friend money whenever she had any extra, but it was always politely refused.

  ‘I’ve got enough to keep me goin’, luv, thanks,’ Polly would always say. And she did. She was living hand to mouth, and the reality of owning a fine parlour with vases of ostrich feathers was as far away as it had ever been, but she was surviving. She made friends at the factory and, being a social person, the camaraderie during her days at work made the miserable conditions and poor pay almost tolerable. Most days, anyway.

  At the end of Tamar’s six-week trial, she was taken on as permanent staff and given a small increase; in appreciation of her efforts and her lovely way with the customers, Mr Ellis said. She could now afford to move to better lodgings and away from the endless stink of boiled cabbage. She talked it over with Polly, who could not afford to move, and Polly assured her she would be fine on her own and Tamar should start making moves to improve her position.

  ‘After all,’ she said, ‘yer’re not goin’ ter attract that fine man who’s goin’ ter sweep yer off yer feet living in this poxy bloody dump!’

  Tamar laughed, but she knew Polly was right. Within the week she found considerably more comfortable accommodation at a boarding house in Cook Street. As she loaded her trunk into the cab she had hired to move her things, Polly stood at the door and watched. When she was ready, Tamar hugged her and asked her to keep in touch; she could come into the shop or to Cook Street any time, and nothing would change.

  Polly knew, however, that things inevitably would change, and she stood staring down Shortland Street for some time after Tamar had departed, as if Tamar might turn round and come back. After twenty minutes, Polly went inside and shut the door behind her.

  September 1879

  One Saturday morning Tamar was at work when the bell over the shop door chimed. She looked up to see Myrna McTaggart sweep into the shop, resplendent in violet-coloured taffeta, which accentuated her red hair, and a jaunty little matching hat with feathers. Myrna stopped dead.

  ‘Tamar Deane,’ she exclaimed. ‘Where have ye been? Och, I’m a poet,’ she added, and laughed.

  Tamar hurried from behind the counter, her arms open wide. The two women hugged fiercely. ‘It’s so good to see you, Myrna. Where have you been?’

  ‘Well,’ the older woman replied, glancing keen-eyed about the shop. ‘We were renting a wee house in Mt Eden while I was looking for a place to buy, but I’ve found one now. A verra lovely place in Dilworth Terrace in Parnell. We’re in the middle o’ making alterations and redecorating, and we’ll be open for business in three or four weeks.’

  ‘Parnell!’ said Tamar, impressed. ‘I didn’t realise you had that much money!’

  ‘I didnae quite have enough, but I made maself a suitable arrangement with a verra helpful gentleman.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tamar, surprised. ‘Do banks lend money for … your sort of business?’

  ‘No, lassie, no’ a bank, a moneylender, and they lend money for any sort o’ business they think will be profitable,’ laughed Myrna.

  ‘So are you living there yet?’

  ‘No, we cannae move in for a week or so; the tradesmen are still there and we havnae organised the furnishings. That’s why I’m here. Mr Ellis was recommended as the best draper in town, so here I am. I didnae ken ye were working here, though.’

  A discreet cough alerted them to Mr Ellis’s presence.

  ‘Mr Ellis, this is my good friend, Miss Myrna McTaggart. We came out on the ship together.’ Mr Ellis stepped forward and gently took hold of Myrna’s gloved hand.

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said, with a wide smile.

  ‘And yeself, Mr Ellis. Your premises are as elegant as I have been led to believe,’ Myrna replied, favouring the draper with a dazzling smile of her own.

  ‘And what can I hope to do for you, madam? A set of velvet curtains for your parlour perhaps? A length of damask for a pretty tablecloth?’

  ‘Och, more than that, I should hope,’ said Myrna. ‘I’m looking to furnish ma new home in Parnell. I have eleven bedrooms, two parlours, a drawing room, a dining salon, a large kitchen and all the other amenities ye would expect. I require them all to be furnished to a verra high standard including drapes and lace curtains, bedspreads and linens and anything else I might need. D’ye think ye can be o’ assistance?’

  Mr Ellis’s eyes lit up and his eyebrows almost flew off his forehead. ‘Indeed, madam, indeed I can! Come this way if you please. Just this morning I received a new shipment of quality silk from the Orient, not to mention some lovely venise. And you’ll be needing towelling as well, I expect.’ He led Myrna away, his hand on her upper arm, on a tour of his vast collection of fabrics and accessories. Tamar smiled to herself; Mr Ellis was clearly in his element.

  An hour and a half later Myrna had chosen the fabrics she wanted and had given Mr Ellis and his seamstress instructions. Mr Ellis promised to make her order a priority. As Myrna prepared to leave, she drew Tamar to one side. ‘How is Polly? I havnae seen anything o’ her at all.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for some time,’ replied Tamar, feeling very uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been to her lodgings twice in the last month, but she hasn’t been at home. She might have been at work at the factory, but I didn’t like to go at night by myself. And I’ve sent three or four notes, but she hasn’t responded.’

  ‘Factory!’ exclaimed Myrna. ‘Ye mean she’s slaving away in a sweatshop? And is
she no’ sharing accommodation with yeself?’

  Tamar explained what had happened since they left the boarding house on Ponsonby Road.

  ‘Och, well, I’d better go and find the lassie maself, then. This isnae always a safe town, ye ken. I’ll let ye know when I track her down,’ Myrna said. ‘Well, I’ll be away now. I’m off to pick out some furniture but I’ll be back next week to see how yon Mr Ellis is getting on with ma drapes. I’ll talk to ye then.’ She kissed Tamar on the cheek and left the shop, the bell chiming behind her.

  ‘What a magnificent woman,’ said Mr Ellis, his eyes sparkling. ‘Truly magnificent. And wealthy too, I suspect. You don’t happen to know how she came by her money, do you, Miss Deane?’

  ‘No,’ Tamar lied. ‘But I think she has some sort of business.’

  ‘And you did introduce her as Miss McTaggart? Not Mrs?’

  ‘No, she isn’t married, Mr Ellis. Well, not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mr Ellis, thoughtfully twiddling the ends of his moustache.

  ‘But I don’t think she’s looking for a husband at the moment,’ Tamar added gently. Mr Ellis went pink.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following Monday Myrna hired a cab and went to the boarding house on Shortland Street. ‘Good evening to ye, lassie,’ said Myrna when the door was opened by a slightly grubby-looking young woman. ‘I’m looking for Polly Jakes. Is she in?’

  ‘No,’ replied the girl sullenly. ‘She’ll be working.’

  ‘At the factory? At this hour?’ said Myrna, looking surprised.

  ‘She don’t work at t’factory. She’s on t’streets.’

  ‘Working the streets, do ye mean? Where?’

  The surly girl nodded but volunteered nothing more.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Myrna angrily as she dug in her purse for some money. ‘Here. No doubt this will loosen your tongue.’

  ‘Down t’hill by Customhouse Street. Queen’s Wharf end.’

  ‘How long has she been doing this?’ demanded Myrna.

  The girl shrugged indifferently.

  ‘Well, thank ye so much for your help,’ Myrna said sarcastically as the door was shut in her face.

  Back in the waiting cab she ordered the cabbie to head towards Customhouse Street. As they arrived she asked him to drive slowly. Women stood on several street corners, their faces partially illuminated by the dim gas streetlights, with more hanging about the wharf gates. Leaning out of the cab window as they drove past, Myrna peered at them closely.

  At the intersection of Customhouse and Commerce Streets, she asked the cabbie to stop; across the road stood someone who vaguely resembled Polly. The girl was looking in the direction of Quay Street at three drunken sailors attempting to hold each other up. Myrna crossed the road and walked up behind her.

  ‘Polly Jakes! What the hell d’ye think ye’re doing?’

  When the girl turned, Myrna saw she had been mistaken. ‘Sorry, lassie, I thought ye were someone else.’

  ‘Myrna?’ asked the girl in a doubtful voice.

  Myrna saw it was indeed Polly. ‘God bugger ma bloody days! What on earth have ye done to yeself?’

  Polly was at least twenty pounds thinner and her shabby dress hung off scrawny, stooped shoulders. Her blonde hair was filthy and she had a large open sore at the corner of her mouth. Even in the dim light Myrna could see the pallor of her skin and deep shadows under her eyes. ‘Ye look like shite, lassie! What’s happened to ye?’

  Polly stared back for so long Myrna thought the poor girl had been struck deaf. Then she sat in the dirt, put her face in her hands and wept. Myrna picked up her skirts and squatted beside her. ‘Aye, ye’ve fallen on hard times, haven’t ye?’ she asked gently.

  Polly continued to weep but managed to nod. Myrna handed her a handkerchief and waited patiently until the distraught girl gained some control of herself. ‘I ’ated the factory so much,’ she said when she had recovered a little. ‘It were all right to start wiv’, but it got worse. I were so tired an’ the money were never enough. An’ some of the other girls said this were a good way to make money, so I started about six weeks ago but I just aren’t doing so well. There’s too many ’ores around!’ she wailed bitterly. ‘I can’t afford proper food an’ I’ve gotten sick an’ ugly!’

  Myrna stroked Polly’s bony back soothingly. ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘I ken what it’s like. I’ve been there, remember? Though I dinnae recall ever smelling quite as bad,’ she added as she caught a whiff of Polly’s body odour. ‘Ye’ve lost yeself, haven’t ye?’

  Polly nodded miserably.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing for it, I’m taking ye home with me,’ said Myrna, straightening up. ‘We’ll go back to yon boarding house and get your things. Get up now, a lady doesnae sit in the dirt.’

  ‘I’m not a lady. Not any more,’ mumbled Polly.

  ‘Yes, ye are!’ replied Myrna angrily. ‘And dinnae forget that, lassie!’

  She helped Polly up and led her to the cab. The cabbie jumped down, then recoiled when he saw the state of his extra passenger.

  ‘Och, dinnae be stupid, man,’ Myrna snapped testily. ‘Ye’ll no’ catch anything!’ Then, after the cabbie had reluctantly helped Polly into the cab, she added deliberately, ‘Well, ye’ll probably no’ catch anything. Back to Shortland Street, and be quick about it.’

  When they arrived, Myrna banged loudly on the front door. The same sour-faced girl answered. ‘Aye, it’s me again,’ said Myrna. ‘I’ve come to collect this lassie’s things.’

  The girl stood dumbly aside as Myrna barged past and led Polly into the hall. ‘Which room?’ Myrna asked.

  ‘This one,’ said Polly, pointing to a doorway halfway down.

  Myrna opened the door and said, ‘God Almighty, what a fleapit. Well, get your things together. What is that godawful stink?’

  ‘Cabbage,’ replied Polly, dropping her few tatty personal belongings into a carry bag, then she hesitated.

  ‘There’s one other thing I ’ave ter get. I won’t be a minute.’

  She headed down the dingy hallway, opened the back door and went outside. Myrna followed and watched while Polly untied a small, pathetic-looking black and white dog. She scooped him up and stuffed him into her bag, jamming his head down and quickly snapping the clasp shut. ‘I’m ready,’ she said as she straightened up, staggering slightly.

  ‘Are ye all right?’

  Polly nodded. ‘Just dizzy. I’m a bit ’ungry.’

  ‘Och, that’s easily fixed. Are ye paid up in ye rent?’

  ‘I owe a few weeks.’

  As they re-entered the house Myrna dropped a pound note onto the kitchen table, then they went out through the front door and climbed into the cab. Myrna told the cabbie to go, and they turned and headed in the direction of Mt Eden.

  Polly fell asleep, her mouth open and the mangy little dog curled on her lap; Myrna had to wake her when they arrived and help her up the short path. Jessica answered when Myrna rang the bell.

  ‘Hello, you’re back. Oooh, who’s that?’ Jessica asked in a shocked voice, pulling a disgusted face at the bedraggled figure next to Myrna. Polly fainted and dropped the dog. He whimpered and immediately hopped onto her unconscious form.

  ‘Bugger. Help me get her up,’ directed Myrna. ‘Get the others.’

  When Letitia, Vivienne and Bronwyn appeared they carefully picked Polly up and carried her into the parlour.

  ‘Pooh,’ said Letitia, holding her elegant nose and stepping back. ‘She stinks.’

  ‘Aye, she does,’ replied Myrna, rubbing Polly’s still hands. ‘Can one o’ ye prepare a tub?’

  Polly came around by the time the water for her bath had been heated and poured into the tub. Myrna removed her dirty clothes, wrapped her in a blanket and propped her up on a sofa in the parlour with a generous glass of brandy. The dog crouched on her bare feet, refusing to move. Myrna’s girls were firing questions at Polly and she looked as if she was going to cry again.


  ‘Let her alone, will ye?’ said Myrna crossly as she helped Polly into the bathroom. ‘She’s exhausted and no’ well. Ye could be helpful and lend her some soap and hair rinse and find her something to wear after she’s bathed.’

  The little dog sat down in the middle of the parlour and started a terrible, heart-rending yowling.

  ‘Oh, Christ, bring the bloody thing in as well,’ muttered Myrna over her shoulder. Letitia and Bronwyn herded the dog down the hall with their feet and guided him into the bathroom. He spotted Polly lowering herself into the tub and launched himself in with a pathetic little splash.

  Myrna was shocked at Polly’s condition. She was very thin and her ribs and hip bones jutted out in an ugly, painful way. Her breasts had shrunk and her skin was mottled and bruised. ‘God, lassie, how could ye let this happen?’

  Polly shrugged, her eyes half closed. ‘I got so tired at the factory an’ I couldn’t afford food,’ she replied eventually. ‘It were food or lodgin’s, an’ I didn’t want ter sleep on the streets. It didn’t get any better when I were street-walkin’ an’ I just lost control of it after that, especially when I got sick.’

  ‘Ye poor wee thing,’ crooned Myrna, rubbing chamomile rinse into Polly’s hair, pouring a generous dollop over the dog as well.

  ‘Was it bad?’ she asked after a while. ‘The men, I mean?’

  Polly nodded. ‘It weren’t what I thought it would be like. Yer know, from what Bronwyn an’ the girls told me.’

  ‘Och, lassie, it’s a completely different kettle o’ fish when ye’re on the streets,’ said Myrna. ‘The customers dinnae have the money, nor the manners. Were ye hurt?’

  ‘I got belted a few times. I thought it were me own fault ’cos I were no good.’

  Myrna shook her head. ‘No, lassie. There’s some men who need that. And they’re no’ necessarily the piddly spenders either. It’s no’ your fault.’

  She looked down at the little dog crouching unhappily at the end of the tub, his ugly head and skinny shoulders poking out of the water. He was a terrier of some sort, but looked suspiciously as if he had an assortment of breeds in him. ‘Is this your wee mongrel?’ she asked.