The Sweethearts Collection. Pam Jenoff
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come about a job.’
‘Tavern’s two doors down,’ he snapped, staring her up and down before returning his attention to the papers on his desk.
‘You misunderstand, sir. I’ve come about fashioning the serpentine.’ He looked up in surprise, snatched off his glasses and sat back in his chair.
‘You are a qualified turner or polisher?’
‘Well no, but I have turned trinkets for the tourists and …’
‘Character?’
‘Very good,’ she assured him. He let out a long sigh.
‘I mean can you furnish me with a testimonial from your last place of employment?’
‘Well no, sir. You see …’
‘I thought not,’ he snapped. ‘This is a respectable establishment, Miss, er,’ he waved his hand in the air. ‘We employ men with families to provide for, not some woman of dubious nature.’
‘I’ll have you …’
‘Shut the door on your way out,’ he ordered, cutting her short. Placing his glasses back on, he stared pointedly back down at his papers.
‘I pity your workers. No wonder they all look so miserable,’ she snapped.
A woman of dubious nature, indeed, she fumed, stamping her way back outside and turning back the way she’d come. Rain was falling in great fat splodges and, with the day wearing on, she needed to find somewhere to stay. Some of the money Big Al had given her would buy a bed in a modest boarding house for a couple of nights, giving her time to find employment. Always supposing someone would engage her without a character.
As she passed the plush-looking Queens Hotel it began to rain but, realizing a room there would be way beyond her means, turned up the adjacent street lined with tall, elegant houses. Obviously some people had money to be able to afford such grand places, she thought, turning into another lane which led into the town.
The appetizing aroma of hot pies made her stomach rumble, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Delving into the basket for her money, she gasped as someone thrust her hard against the wall. She just had time to glimpse a man with black teeth and foul-smelling breath, before the notes were snatched from her hand. Then he was gone, footsteps echoing on the cobbles.
‘Stop, thief,’ she called, but nobody took any notice. Shocked, shaken and berating her stupidity, she slumped down in the doorway, pulling her shawl around her. Sheltered from the driving rain, she sat there trying to collect her thoughts. Suddenly the door flew open, tipping her backwards.
‘Be on your way. We don’t want riff-raff darkening our doors.’ Colenso stared at the irate man. He looked hot and sweaty, his clothes covered by a large apron.
‘I was only …’ she began, but he stood there shaking his fist until she got wearily to her feet and continued her journey.
Light-headed through tiredness and lack of food, she wandered aimlessly around the wet streets, not knowing what to do. Darkness was gathering and the lamplighter was going about his job.
‘Hey darling, want to earn some money?’ She spun round to see a sailor coming out of a nearby alehouse. He was clearly the worse for wear as he staggered and weaved his way towards her. ‘Just been paid and looking for a bit of fun,’ he leered. Eyes widening as realization hit her, she turned and fled down yet another lane. However, she soon realized her mistake. Here women, their clothes revealing more than they hid, were intent on parting seamen from their money as they plied their trade. Hastily averting her eyes, she ran back the way she’d come. She’d rather go hungry than resort to that.
The rain was still falling in torrents, and the wind blowing in from the sea carried the tang of salt, making Colenso feel thirsty as well as hungry. Finding herself outside the tall church she had seen earlier and too exhausted to go any further, Colenso decided to seek refuge inside. However, the big wooden door was locked and so, biting back tears of frustration, she slumped down in the narrow porch. She shivered as an owl hooted then saw a pale flash as it swooped low in front of her. There was a piercing scream followed by an eerie silence. Pulling her shawl tighter around her, she realized it was going to be a long night. How could she have been so stupid as to pull her money from her basket in broad daylight? Grief must have dulled her senses, she thought, trying not to look at the lichen-covered gravestones that loomed luminously out of the darkness. Penniless and homeless, the threat of the workhouse or worse was fast becoming a reality.
The clock on the tower struck midnight, its mournful tones sounding loud in the quietude of night. She tried to formulate a plan but images of Kitto rose in her mind instead. Surprisingly, they no longer filled her with joy. He’d obviously had a change of heart and didn’t care enough even to reply to her letter let alone follow her. Never would she put herself in such a vulnerable position again, she thought, her heart pricking with pain. She’d lock her emotions into a cage. No longer would she torture her mind, reflecting on what might have been. Somehow, she’d make a new life, though where and how, she had no idea.
She must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew the sky was lightening to grey. Mercifully, the rain had stopped and the grass smelled fresh, glistening like a carpet of diamonds. Stretching her stiff limbs, she picked up the basket and got to her feet. Onward and upward, she told herself as she made her way down the path and out onto the street again. Her stomach rumbled loudly and she thought longingly of the bokoli she’d shared with Mara. Dear Mara, she hoped her lover had come for her and that they were happy together in the afterlife.
Being early, the streets were deserted apart from the sewage cart collecting the night soil. Holding her nose, she hurried on until she came to the town with its sprawl of shops. She looked around, hoping to find one that was open, although how she was going to purchase anything, she had no idea.
The tempting smell of baking lured her to the back of a shop where two men were busy taking loaves out of a huge oven.
‘I’m seeking work, do you have any positions?’ she asked, eyeing the bread hungrily.
‘We don’t employ vagrants here,’ a woman said, appearing from a door behind.
‘But I’m not …’ Colenso began.
‘Be off. Scat,’ she said, shooing her away with her cloth.
Vagrant indeed, Colenso fumed as she made her way further up the street. Hearing the sound of hooves, she turned to see a man driving a donkey cart laden with a milk churn, ladle clanking on the sides. Her mouth watered and she raised her arm to hail him before remembering she had no money.
Realizing she needed to concentrate on getting a position, she crossed the road to the raised pavement where the better shops were. As she stood on the granite paving deciding which way to go, her nose twitched. There was an acrid smell coming from the premises in front of her. She tried the handle then, when it didn’t turn, peered through the window but couldn’t see anyone, only rows of jars lined up along a counter.
With the smell of burning growing ever stronger, she hurried down the side passage where smoke was pouring out from an open door. Rushing inside, she blinked in the steam-filled room then spotted a huge copper pot, its contents boiling over and spilling onto the range. Snatching up a cloth, she carefully removed the pan from the heat and set it in the sink, where it sizzled and spluttered as the seething mass began to settle. Whatever it had been was black and beyond saving.
A snort followed by a snore made her jump, and spinning round she noticed an old man asleep in a chair in the corner of the room. As the smoke cleared, she saw he had a long white beard that rested on his chest. He looked so peaceful she didn’t like to wake him. Instead she walked around, taking in the huge cone of sugar on the cupboard, funny long thin tables that appeared to be made of tin, a strange-looking roller. Shelving housed different moulds and rows of little bottles, some brown others clear.