Sister's Trio Squad

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

I have no appointments for today, Miss O'Maxwell, so obviously you have made some sort of mistake." 'I... well, no, not really . . .'

Miss Drinkwater rose impatiently and removed her glasses. Then what may I do for you?' Now that she was here she had to try, at least she

had to try.

'I would very much like to work here, Miss Drinkwater. I do have experience. I already know about ordering and invoices and my previous employer said I had taste and was imaNancytive.' Lisa delved into her bag to find the letter Mrs O'Leary had given her. 'And I have a good reference."

Miss Drinkwater took the letter without a word and read it, then folding it, she handed it back to her. 'It's a very good reference, Miss O'Maxwell, but a small haberdashery establishment in Ireland is not quite the same as this... She gestured with one hand, and to Lisa that gesture was far more eloquent than any words. But she must press on, she must. 'Oh, no, of course not, I understand that, that I do! But I don't just want a job, I want a career. I hope that one day I can be. . . like you!' It all came out in a rush and not at all the way she had wanted it to sound.

The thin lips twitched in a half-smile. 'I'm sure one day you will be. Believe me, it takes quite a lot of nerve to walk in here, off the street, or should I say off the boat, and ask to be considered for employment in an establishment like this! You'll go far, Miss O'Maxwell, but not here, I'm afraid.'

'Why? Mrs O'Leary said. . .'

'I'm not doubting this Mrs O'Leary, but I will tell you distinction this for your own good and to save you a great deal of disappointment. There is no emporium of any in this City that would employ you with that accent and without the years of experience all my girls have. Do you realize that most of them have spent nearly half their lives working their way up from the sewing room? They start at fourteen as apprentices and if they prove capable and diligent, then they will be promoted to a bodice hand, a coat hand or a finisher. It takes years, Miss O'Maxwell. If I were you I would try some of the smaller, less exclus ive shops.'

Lisa's eyes were bright with unshed tears. She felt gauche and small and she smarted with humiliation, although Miss Drinkwater's tone had not been cutting or sarcastic, in fact she had been most civil. 'I ... I had such grand hopes work in a small, poky shop!' I didn't come all this way to

'I'm sure you didn't, but take my advice, you'll have to start at the bottom, try somewhere smaller. Now, I'm very busy

Lisa turned away.

'Oh, on your way out would you send Miss Frazer in to see me? The young lady who showed you in?' Miss Drinkwater added, seeing the query in Lisa's eyes.

She didn't even think about the carpet as she ran down the staircase and she couldn't see the doorman clearly for her tears. She'd never get another chance like that, not to see someone like Miss Gladys Drinkwater without an appointment. Oblivious to the disdainful looks and the exclamations of 'Well, really!' Lisa pushed past everyone in the street with her head bent. At the top Bold Street the gardens of Saint Luke's church beckoned of invitingly, a haven of quiet away from all these people. She went in and sat down on a bench.

Somewhere smaller. Less exclusive. Start at the bottom. With that accent... The words buzzed in her head. She just wasn't 'genteel' enough for them, that was the real reason. She couldn't help her accent and until now she had never thought about it, let alone considered it a burden. She felt so miserable and humiliated and hurt that she couldn't try anywhere else - not today. She wanted to go home. Not to that house in Lancaster Street, but home to her Ma and Mrs O'Leary. But at home there was trouble; the fighting had already begun.

Lisa wiped her eyes with one of the lace-edged handkerchiefs, her other gift from her former employer. She'd always admired them and Ma had said they were a wise choice, for you could always tell a lady by her gloves and linen. That thought made her feel worse. She wasn't a lady and she never would be; all she wanted to do was to serve such 'Ladies' and now . . . she jerked up her chin. Oh, she couldn't go back to that awful house and see the look on Aunt Maura's face or have to listen to her acid comments about, 'The higher they go, the harder they fall!' She wouldn't tell them. She'd say she'd had some offers and was considering them. Tucking the handkerchief back in her bag she rose and walked towards the gates.

The sign marked 'Stage Door' was so grimy that it was difficult to read the letters at all. The entrance was in an alleyway behind the theatre which was dark even in day. light. The cobbles were dirty and slippery with rubbish. Nancy had found it only after walking around the theatre twice and finally asking two women who were studying the names on the poster at the front doors.

She hammered loudly on the scarred, wooden door with its peeling paint, the word 'Private' just discernible under the dirt. Finally, it was opened by an old man in shirtsleeves, a greasy waistcoat and old trousers that looked as though they had oriNancylly been intended for someone much larger.

'I've come to see someone about an audition.'

'What "audition"?" The old fool,' Nancy muttered impatiently. You have heard of auditions, I suppose?'

He thrust his face closer, peering up at her with watery eyes. She stepped back, wrinkling her nose. Obviously soap and water didn't mix with him very often. 'I've been in this business years, girl. I know what an

audition is!' 'Right, now we've got that sorted out perhaps you could tell me who I have to see?"

'Won't be no one 'ere until ternight.' He made to close the door but he hadn't reckoned on Nancy's determination. With a quick swipe she jerked the door back and it crashed against the inside wall.

'Ere, what the 'ell's yer game! I'll 'ave the scuffer on yer!' Who is it I have to see and exactly what time will they

be here?"

"They pleases themselves.'

'A fine way to run a theatre!'

An' what d'yer know about runnin' a theatre? Just gor off the boat by the sound of yer. What d'yer do?'

'I sing,' Nancy answered coldly, ignoring his remarks. She wasn't going to lower herself by arguing with him, he was probably only some sort of caretaker.

'Doesn't everyone?'

Her temper began to rise. 'Just give me the name of the Manager or whoever it is that runs this place, if it's not too much trouble?"

'Joe Maxwelly's the fella yer want.' You're taking my name in vain again, Harry! Well, who've we got here then?"

Nancy turned abruptly and found herself looking down at a swarthy, dark-haired man dressed in a light-grey checked suit. She disliked him instantly, from the shiny black hair, plastered down with some sickly-smelling oil, to the black boots that protruded from beneath the loud, chequered trousers. 'Mr Maxwelly?'

He tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat and looked her up and down. 'Who are you?'

'Miss Nancy O'Maxwell.'

'She's c*m for an audition, she sings,' Harry inter rupted.

'Does she then?"

Nancy glared at the old man. Did they think she was deaf or stupid? 'Yes, I sing. I can also speak up for myself, thank you.'