By the time Sophy left the shop she had bought the mattress and bedding, a thick hearthrug which would cover a good part of her little room, two flock cushions for the hardbacked chairs and a pair of bright yellow curtains for the window. Arnold had thrown in an old coal-scuttle, a knife, fork and spoon, a dinner plate and a mug. Sophy had been drawn to a small pink armchair in faded velvet but not only could she not afford it, it would barely have fitted into her small attic room. Arnold had only charged her six shillings for the lot, which even Sophy knew was a bargain, but he’d assured her he would make up his money with some of the other goods from the spinster’s house which were all in excellent condition. He was going to deliver all the items after close of work, which for him meant ten or eleven o’clock, but Sophy was pleased about that as it meant she should have time to whitewash the walls and perhaps even get them dry if she lit a fire as soon as she got home.
Home. She savoured the word as she and Dolly walked back towards Endell Street. And ridiculously, the little room felt like home already, probably due to Dolly’s kindness. She had seen several landladies over the last days and one or two had actually frightened her, and all the rooms had been too expensive anyway. She had already discovered that everything was more costly here than up north. Lamp oil was double the price at sixpence a quart, and candles a third more at sevenpence a pound. Even the piece of soap the shopkeeper had cut for her from a big bar had cost a penny; she could have had two pieces for that in Southwick. Half her money had gone already. She would have to concentrate on finding work now she had found somewhere to stay.
She had read the papers in the lounge of the hotel and made a list of all the theatres, deciding she would write to the managers asking for an interview over the next week or so. One thing she was absolutely decided on was that she didn’t intend to work the halls. She wanted to be an actress, a serious actress.
It was only last year that Henry Irving, the actor-manager of the Lyceum, had been knighted, and she remembered reading an article at that time in one of the newspapers Jessica had smuggled into the dormitory. The reporter had stated that in one fell swoop the theatre had risen above the music halls and had become respectable, and middle-class children who had been taken to the matinées at the Prince of Wales and had performed in endless drawing-room amateur dramatics, would now contemplate acting as a career. This would be particularly true of girls, the reporter had gone on with a touch of disapproval. Young ladies had always been taught that women should be humble and obedient, and that ambition and independence were unfeminine attributes, but on the stage they could see women expressing passion and achieving fame. This was a double-edged sword, and might encourage women’s suffrage – a dangerous notion, he had finished darkly.
‘Here we are, dear.’ Dolly interrupted her thoughts, and Sophy realised they were home. ‘Would you like a nice cup of tea before you go upstairs? If I know my Jim, there’ll be a pot on the go. Loves his cuppa, he does.’
When Sophy entered the quarters of the landlady she found Jim with his feet up in front of the range and a big fat cat purring on his lap. The kitchen-cum-living area was large, much bigger than Sophy had expected, and a portion of the room had been divided into what was obviously the Heaths’ bedroom, with a big brass bed and wardrobe against the far wall. A curtain had been strung up to separate the bedroom area from the living area but this was only partially closed, and Sophy could see another two cats lying on top of the quilted eiderdown that covered the bed. The room was terribly overcrowded and more than a little smelly, but Jim beamed a welcome at them and Dolly pushed her down in the other armchair in front of the range, and Sophy felt herself relax. They were nice, this couple. She had been lucky to end up here. And then, for some strange reason, she had a great desire to cry.
She didn’t, of course. She accepted her cup of tea and a piece of fruit cake thankfully – she hadn’t eaten since the previous evening – and listened while Dolly told her about her twelve children and eighteen grandchildren and all their doings. After another cup of tea and an even larger chunk of cake – Dolly had noticed how quickly the first piece had gone – Sophy made her goodbyes and went upstairs to begin work.
The first thing she did was to light the fire. The little room was as cold as ice and it had begun to snow outside, big feathery flakes that swirled and danced outside the window. She had only purchased one small sack of coal and a bag of wood bits the day before, and she had barely been able to lug that up the three flights of stairs. In one way she thought it was lovely that she was tucked away all by herself at the top of the house, but the day-to-day practicalities of living in the attic room would be daunting for anyone less fit than herself. How old Mr Ferry had managed, she didn’t know.