Free The Penny Heart by Martine Bailey Page A

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    Alighting at Manchester, she allowed Weetch a short farewell in an alley by the stables. She let him maul her until the coachman called for all to board. Then she speedily sent her hand on an investigation of his breeches.
    ‘You must go,’ she sighed, hearing the final call for all passengers.
    ‘I must see you again,’ he groaned, his head lolling back against the wall. ‘I know it is only two days, but I have developed such a strong affection—’ What a dossuck! She bit back a laugh as she rapidly fabricated a false address. ‘Don’t forget to call, my dear,’ she cried as he hurried to board, blowing her a kiss.
    After watching the coach disappear, she emptied his purse of a grand haul of 17s 9d. Not wanting ever again to risk being nabbed by the Justices, she cast his purse away into the canal.
     
    Manchester was larger and taller than she remembered it, five-storey brick warehouses and manufactories rising high into the sooty sky. Bustling past the streams of workers rushing hither and thither to the clamour of ringing bells, she wondered at their stupidity. Whey-faced and poor, they were of no more interest to her than the rats scurrying about the heaps of cinders. Instead, she watched herself in a new glass window, mortified by the outmoded appearance of Flora Pilling’s tartan gown. Charlie was always a flash fellow, and he had revelled in her firecracker looks.
     
    At the Theatre Royal she searched out a certain Mrs Quin. The woman had long had a reputation for restoring the appearance of theatrical persons ravaged by gin and fast living. In the dusty chambers beneath the stage she found the watery-eyed Irishwoman, an array of pins in her cap, and scissors swinging at her waist.
    All the way to Spring Gardens Mary rehearsed the patter under her breath. Now it came out almost as good as ever.
    ‘Mrs Quin, is it?’ she asked in a low, honeyed tone. She bobbed demurely. ‘As you can see, I’ve been a time out in the Indies and find myself rather afflicted by the climate. And next week the man I’m to marry will call upon me.’ She bit her lip and affected a poignant expression. ‘Mrs Quin, I hear you are the best there ever was with hair and paint. I wonder, could you help me back to the fair-skinned, red-headed girl he remembers?’
    Mrs Quin led Mary to a dirty pane of glass and considered her crimsoned skin. ‘Holy Mary,’ she said in a husky rasp. ‘It’s a box of powders I have, not a box of miracles. But perhaps I can sort you out – for a man’s eye, at least.’
    ‘And my hair? Back to a flaming red?’ Mary pulled off her cap.
    ‘That’s the easy part, dearie. But I’d be wanting half a crown for the sorting of yous.’
    ‘As much as that? There’s one thing more.’ She had glimpsed a room filled floor to ceiling with clothes, as well as promising baskets and boxes. ‘I’ve grown rather behind times with the fashions – would you be kind enough to sell me some of those clothes you keep for the plays?’
    ‘You’re in a right fix, ain’t you? But if you be having the price, I’ll be selling you the rig-outs.’
     
    In a comfortable chamber arranged with large mirrors, Mrs Quin began her work. Inside her famous box of tricks were dozens of compartments, containing pots and tins and brushes. First, she applied a chalky liquid to Mary’s skin, cool at the start, but rapidly tingling warmly.
    ‘I’ll leave the Virgin’s Milk to get to work. Now let’s get your hair on its way,’ she said, slathering it with a high-smelling purplish dye.
    Mary sat back sleepily, willing the lotion to bleach her complexion. On the walls above her were portraits of actors – cheap prints pasted on the lumpy walls. She fixed upon the image of a large-eyed beauty with waist-length black tresses and a flowing gown like a priestess. The actress stared out from the print, holding aloft a grinning mask.
    ‘That’s Liza Farrell what was, Lady Bedford as she is now,’ Mrs Quin confided.