Читать книгу Moss Rose - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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Belle Adair hesitated as she left the Cambridge Music Hall; in front of the lit portico the bills for the pantomime were already in place; above the door a huge painted, booted cat stared into the fog, and the gaslights flared on the crimson letters: "Puss in Boots." The bitter frost and fog had cleared the streets of all but the homeless; the huddled filth of Holborn was bidden by the thick swathes of dirty vapour that the street lamps only faintly dispersed. Belle, whose clothes were plain and dark, and about whose person there was nothing flamboyant or voluptuous, did not in the least resemble the capering Moss Rose fairy in the pink tights and rosy skirts, but rather seemed a nursery governess or some shabby genteel widow. As, urged by a sudden impulse, she turned into the fog, there was nothing remarkable about her, save her proud poise and the swiftness of her walk. Pulling her veil over the face from which the grease-paint had been too hastily wiped, leaving stains behind on the small features, she made her rapid simple calculations. Thirty shillings when she was paid yesterday—ten shillings for two weeks' rent, five shillings for food and gin—fifteen shillings, then, to last the week and she must have new stockings, soap, her shoes mended. She had meant to buy Tommy Bulke a toy for Christmas, but apathy had prevented her and now the shops would be shut. Supposing the Cambridge decided that they did not want her in the pantomime and gave the Moss Rose waltz to lively Minnie Palmer? Perhaps she was a fool not to have gone with Daisy Arrow to the Alhambra or the Argyll Rooms—but it would have been no good, shabby, dull and weary as she was. Even Daisy, who was prettier, would be disappointed; she would come home alone and cry herself to sleep as she so often did—what an odious thing that her room was so near that you could hear almost everything that she did.

Bell paused in the fog; a constable in his oilskin cape passed, eyeing her suspiciously. "I suppose, if I go on like this, I shall get to prison. It might happen any night. Why didn't I use that knife? I was too tired. There's the river, but it's too far. Daisy said that she was hungry—well, so am I—it will be too late to ask Mrs. Bulke for anything. I had better get a drink. Sixpence, a shilling, yes, that would be well spent on a drink, something strong."