None of this discouraged her, however. What did alarm her was the dwindling of her remaining money. Due to the years spent in Kitty’s kitchen, she knew how to cook a sustaining broth with scrag ends and vegetables, and other such inexpensive meals, but having no oven she had to buy shop-baked bread at tuppence a pound loaf, and even dripping – butter or magarine was quite out of the question – was thruppence a half-pound. Then there was coal and candles – she had decided lamp oil was too expensive – and of course, Dolly’s two-shillings-a-week rent.
She sat on her bed one morning, a snow flurry outside the window emphasising the unwelcome fact that the bad weather was far from over and spring was still a couple of months away, and contemplated the holes in the soles of her boots. She couldn’t afford to get them mended. She had four shillings left and the rent was due. The last of the coal was burning on the fire and it was essential she got a another sack today, for not only did the fire provide warmth but it was her only source of cooking and making a hot drink. Since the four ounces of tea had run out which she had bought the first morning after moving in, foregoing the luxury of milk and sugar, she had been making do with half a teaspoonful of raw oatmeal in a mug of hot water to thaw her out when she had come in frozen from tramping from one theatre to another all day.
She shouldn’t have bought the hearthrug and curtains and cushions, she could have managed without them. She bit on her lower lip, anxiety flooding her. But one thing was clear. She had to put the ambition of becoming an actress to one side for the time being and find work of some kind. But what could she do? She wasn’t trained for anything.
And then she remembered the notice in the window of a little restaurant she’d passed the day before, advertising the position of waitress. The restaurant was in one of the streets west of the Gaiety Theatre; she hoped she could find it again. She tended to get her bearings more by the theatres than the myriad of street names, which were confusing.
Having decided to try, she lost no time in getting ready. The only food she had was the stale end of a loaf, but undeterred she toasted it in front of the glowing fire and spread the last of the dripping on it. She was even out of the oatmeal, so a mug of hot water had to suffice, but she felt better for having something inside her as she set out twenty minutes later, her feet soaked through within seconds.
She found the restaurant without any trouble. It was sandwiched between a Roman Catholic church and a small row of houses at the back of the Vaudeville and Adelphi theatres. She made a mental note of the street name. Maiden Lane. Perhaps that was a good omen? The next few minutes would tell.
She’d taken special care with her hair, drawing it neatly into a shining chignon, and her coat – bought especially to the requirements Miss Bainbridge laid down for her students – was of good quality. Fortunately no one could guess about the holes in her boots, she thought wryly, as she squelched into the restaurant which was quite full, considering it was only eight o’clock. There were no women among the customers, since respectable ladies dined in their own homes unless escorted by a gentleman, and most of these customers were clearly having breakfast before they went to work.
She stood just inside the door, uncertain of how to proceed and embarrassingly aware of the covert – and not so covert – glances of several of the men.
A small fat man with an harassed expression appeared from a door at the back of the restaurant and on seeing her paused for a moment. Then he came towards her, a pair of shrewd black eyes surveying her from head to foot. Even before he spoke, Sophy felt herself bristling. There was something in his face . . .
‘Don’t tell me. You’ve come about the job as waitress.’
She stared at him, wondering what she had done to arouse such hostility. ‘Yes. Yes I have.’
He put down the coffeepot he was holding, nodding slowly as he crossed his arms over his fat stomach. ‘And why is that?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why do you want to come here and work as a waitress?’
Sophy knew she had gone as red as a beetroot; she could feel her ears burning. ‘Are you the proprietor?’
That seemed to amuse him for some reason. He nodded. ‘Yep, I’m the proprietor, my dear.’ He emphasised the word proprietor. ‘And I repeat, why do you want to come and work for me? No, don’t tell me.’
She hadn’t been about to.
‘You want to go on the stage, and Mater and Pater have thrown you out in horror. Am I right? So you’ve decided to play at something else for a while.’
The strange feeling of aloneness which had been with Sophy all her life, even when she was in the midst of company, rose up at his aggressiveness, threatening to choke her. She wanted nothing more than to turn tail and leave, but she was blowed if she was going to give this nasty individual the satisfaction. Aware that everyone was listening, she glared at him, but her voice was crisp and without heat when she said, very clearly, ‘I am not surprised you are looking for a waitress. I can’t imagine anyone would suffer you for more than a day or two.’
‘Is that so?’
At least he had stopped smirking, Sophy thought, but it was a pity about the job.