Free The Penny Heart by Martine Bailey Page B

‘I had the honour to dress her hair one season. When she played Lady Macbeth she was the horriblest murdering heathen you ever set your eyes on. By Jesus, she was a marvel on the stage.’
    To be an actress, Mary marvelled silently. What a life that would be.
    Mrs Quin set her head on one side. ‘You know what, dearie? The ways I seen her – weary to her boots and washed of her paint – you might have walked past her and never cast a second glance. But she had what the great ones have – whatever she set her will to do, she done it. Dragged herself up, mind, she used to jig in the streets of Cork City for pennies. Would you look at her now? Married to Lord Bedford. The way she done it, she sweet-talked herself to becoming the first Lady Bedford’s favourite friend, forever whispering in her ear what grand improvements to make to her grand estates, and all the while tumbling his lordship on the sly. Clever as a cuckoo she was, feathered her own nest before she pushed the old bird out. And near every week, they write her name in the newspapers.’
    There was a great deal of sharpery in it all, Mary concluded; not only on the stage, but off it, too.
    ‘Now I’ll be off to fetch the mending,’ the dresser said, ‘so I’ll just be leaving this lot to do its work.’
    She must have nodded off, for her head jerked suddenly as she sprang awake. In the mirror she saw a bleached skull, its hair a mass of ruby tendrils hanging almost to the floor. A bead of dye like a crimson tear trickled slowly down the brow. It was a vision of terror: a death’s head peering out from tangles of bloody gore. A memory seized her, a memory of so much blood that the shock had almost killed her. Even in that stuffy room, goose pimples rose all over her skin.
    In a moment she had wiped the crimson drip away, and she was once again a woman painted with dye and lotions. She must banish those bothersome memories far away, across the ocean in that other world. Still, there was a bony look to her face, in her sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones. It was that starveling look she knew too well.
    She sent a serving girl out to fetch some food. A beef pie, bread and butter and plenty of the sweet stuff that she loved. She devoured a treacle pudding, closing her eyes to savour every sticky crumb. Sugar. How she had craved the stuff. Though her belly was full, still she helped herself from a paper bag of sugarplums, globes of candied fruits that made her cheeks bulge. Was this happiness, she wondered? She was full of food again, and as sleepy as a suckled child. She pictured a well-stocked larder, and the chance to make all the delights in Mother Eve’s Secrets . She would help herself to the best, of course, for she who stirs the pot never starves. A comfortable future lay before her, all for the taking.
    Mrs Quin bustled back into the room and began to dress her face. Gone were the worst of the bran-specks and flaking red sores. Instead, she had the prettiness of a portrait on an enamelled tin; a smudgy confection of pink and cream. ‘A rosy blush,’ Mrs Quin said benignly, ‘is the fashion nowadays.’
    While Mrs Quin deposited her half a crown in a locked trunk, Mary slipped a bottle of Pear’s Almond Bloom and a tin of White Imperial Powder into her skirts. The pilfering gave her a jolt of pleasure, a secret thrill; to possess those lovely, lovely things for free.
     
    She went alone to the vast room where the second-hand clothes were kept. Later, she thought it the happiest hour of her life. There were silks and brocades by the yard, and pile upon pile of hats, wigs, cloaks, and masks. After two years in wretched rags, even the linen shifts felt as soft as thistledown. She whirled from one delight to another – clutching lace, burying her nose in furs, holding flashy paste jewels next to her new-bleached skin.
    Catching her reflected eye in the mirror she laughed out loud, her red mouth wide and knowing. She put aside a few carefully-chosen