Rosella went down the stairs to help Sarah give the two small children their breakfast, the sailor’s wife told her to be cheerful and not to give up.
“You go and see this Contessa, whoever she is,” she said, spooning bread and milk into the mouth of young Kate. “Keep tryin’, that’s the only way. Not that I don’t like to have you here in spite of that dreadful old bird. But you’ll never get anythin’ if you don’t keep tryin’.”
Rosella was watching over little Johnny, who was only just old enough to be responsible for his own bowl and spoon at mealtimes, but who sometimes forgot himself and threw the whole lot on the floor.
She looked around at the crowded kitchen, where Sarah spent most of every day, cooking and washing and looking after the young ones and then, when they had gone to sleep, working at the sewing she took in to make a little extra money.
There were no parlourmaids or housekeepers here. And no money unless you worked for it.
And all over the East End of London, there were thousands upon thousands of similar houses where families worked and struggled to make a living.
Rosella might have her little bag of gold sovereigns now, but it would not last for ever. She must do as Sarah advised and keep going to try to find some paid work.
Johnny was pushing his bowl towards the edge of the table, a broad smile on his little face and with his thick fringe of fair hair, he reminded her very much of Thomas, back at New Hall.
“Careful,” she said, rescuing the bowl. “Have you finished, Johnny?”
“Yes!” he told her and he jumped down from the chair and began running round the kitchen, shouting, “you naughty, naughty boy!” in a good imitation of Pickle.
Rosella and his mother could not help laughing at him, until the noise of his shouting became unbearable and they let him out to play in the back yard.
“I’m sorry,” Rosella said. “It’s usually the other way round. Pickle hears things and copies them!”
“Your bird is just like a child,” Sarah replied, “only one that never grows up. You will never be able to send him off to school and he will never leave home to earn his own living.”
Little Katie had finished her bread and milk now, and her mother sat back and took a long drink from her cup of tea.
But Sarah’s relaxation was interrupted by the loud wails of a crying baby from upstairs.
“What’s that?” Sarah asked, looking very puzzled. “I can hear Peter crying, but he’s lying over there as happy as can be?”
“I am afraid it’s Pickle again!” Rosella laughed. “He’s fed up with waiting for me and he’s trying out a new imitation to see if will bring me running to him. I expect he has seen how we rush to pick up Guy when he cries.”
“Well I never,” sighed Sarah. “You should put that bird in a circus.”
Rosella smiled to herself. Of course, if you wanted Pickle to say or do something on demand, he never would.
He would just sit silently and glare at the circus-goers and they would all demand their money back.
“I will get him out of your way,” she said to Sarah, “and take him with me to see the Contessa.”
“Good luck,” Sarah said. “P’raps the old lady has a sense of humour. You might be lucky, this time.”
*
Rosella did not feel as if luck was on her side, as she stood by the marble reception desk in the lobby of The Palace Hotel in Bayswater.
The clerk at the desk looked at her disapprovingly through his pince-nez .
“I cannot allow you to remain in this hotel, miss,” he said. “You must remove yourself and that – creature – immediately!”
“ Good afternoon !” Pickle squawked and several of the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen passing through the lobby laughed and pointed at the bird.
The clerk was not impressed and continued to glare at Rosella.
“I must see the Contessa Allegrini,” she explained. “I have come a long way, especially to speak to her.”
She thought of the very long journey
“You go and see this Contessa, whoever she is,” she said, spooning bread and milk into the mouth of young Kate. “Keep tryin’, that’s the only way. Not that I don’t like to have you here in spite of that dreadful old bird. But you’ll never get anythin’ if you don’t keep tryin’.”
Rosella was watching over little Johnny, who was only just old enough to be responsible for his own bowl and spoon at mealtimes, but who sometimes forgot himself and threw the whole lot on the floor.
She looked around at the crowded kitchen, where Sarah spent most of every day, cooking and washing and looking after the young ones and then, when they had gone to sleep, working at the sewing she took in to make a little extra money.
There were no parlourmaids or housekeepers here. And no money unless you worked for it.
And all over the East End of London, there were thousands upon thousands of similar houses where families worked and struggled to make a living.
Rosella might have her little bag of gold sovereigns now, but it would not last for ever. She must do as Sarah advised and keep going to try to find some paid work.
Johnny was pushing his bowl towards the edge of the table, a broad smile on his little face and with his thick fringe of fair hair, he reminded her very much of Thomas, back at New Hall.
“Careful,” she said, rescuing the bowl. “Have you finished, Johnny?”
“Yes!” he told her and he jumped down from the chair and began running round the kitchen, shouting, “you naughty, naughty boy!” in a good imitation of Pickle.
Rosella and his mother could not help laughing at him, until the noise of his shouting became unbearable and they let him out to play in the back yard.
“I’m sorry,” Rosella said. “It’s usually the other way round. Pickle hears things and copies them!”
“Your bird is just like a child,” Sarah replied, “only one that never grows up. You will never be able to send him off to school and he will never leave home to earn his own living.”
Little Katie had finished her bread and milk now, and her mother sat back and took a long drink from her cup of tea.
But Sarah’s relaxation was interrupted by the loud wails of a crying baby from upstairs.
“What’s that?” Sarah asked, looking very puzzled. “I can hear Peter crying, but he’s lying over there as happy as can be?”
“I am afraid it’s Pickle again!” Rosella laughed. “He’s fed up with waiting for me and he’s trying out a new imitation to see if will bring me running to him. I expect he has seen how we rush to pick up Guy when he cries.”
“Well I never,” sighed Sarah. “You should put that bird in a circus.”
Rosella smiled to herself. Of course, if you wanted Pickle to say or do something on demand, he never would.
He would just sit silently and glare at the circus-goers and they would all demand their money back.
“I will get him out of your way,” she said to Sarah, “and take him with me to see the Contessa.”
“Good luck,” Sarah said. “P’raps the old lady has a sense of humour. You might be lucky, this time.”
*
Rosella did not feel as if luck was on her side, as she stood by the marble reception desk in the lobby of The Palace Hotel in Bayswater.
The clerk at the desk looked at her disapprovingly through his pince-nez .
“I cannot allow you to remain in this hotel, miss,” he said. “You must remove yourself and that – creature – immediately!”
“ Good afternoon !” Pickle squawked and several of the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen passing through the lobby laughed and pointed at the bird.
The clerk was not impressed and continued to glare at Rosella.
“I must see the Contessa Allegrini,” she explained. “I have come a long way, especially to speak to her.”
She thought of the very long journey
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