thing. This is a wool-cashmere mix!’ The woman blotted the stain with a clean tissue.
Her manager and good friend, Louis Palin, appeared at her elbow with his admirable ninja skill of sneaking up on her. Not bad for a heavyset guy the far side of forty. ‘Is something the matter, madam?’
‘Look what she did to my coat!’
‘I see – please accept our apologies. Here’s my card if you wish to contact me further about this.’
The woman grabbed her coat and the card. ‘It’s probably ruined.’
‘I sincerely hope not, madam.’
With a sniff, she exited.
‘Why the fuck is she leaving a priceless coat on the back of her chair in a canteen?’ marvelled Louis. ‘Stupid cow.’
Jenny rested her head on his shoulder and he patted her back.
‘Forget it, Jen. Women like that won’t be bothered to follow through with a claim – it takes too much time and she probably has six in her wardrobe. Sweetie, can you do a double shift today?’
Jenny nodded, eager to oblige her rescuer.
‘What do you think about doing a stint on the counter?’ asked Louis.
Jenny gave him an ‘are you sure?’ look. Not being able to speak due to the scarring on her larynx made customer-facing roles a tortuous challenge. Most musicians made ends meet as teachers but her disability meant that wasn’t an option for her. She was lucky they knew her here and looked after her.
‘We’ll give it a go, all right? See how you get on.’ Louis helped her clear the table. ‘It can’t be as bad as that woman and there’ll be others on hand if you can’t manage. It’s just that I’m really short-staffed for the pre-concert rush.’
All right for him to speak, thought Jenny, then realised the irony. See what I did there? She told subconscious Harry. I do still have a sense of humour. Just about.
‘How are you fixed for tomorrow?’
Jenny got out an iPad that she used for people who didn’t know sign language. It had revolutionised the speed of her messaging with its predictive spelling and she felt it was another instrument for her as her practised fingers flew. If she felt like it, she could even get it to talk for her, though she avoided using that function as she didn’t like any of the voices. None of them sounded like she did in her head. Rehearsal tomorrow at 11.
‘After that?’
Can do five hours. That would leave one hour’s break before the concert. Living on breadline wages meant she had to take all the shifts she could when the orchestra was in London just to make the rent.
Which reminded her. She cleared the screen, her signal for a new subject. Do you know anyone who has a spare room? I’m going crazy.
She had told Louis something of her struggles with her current living arrangement. ‘That bad, hey?’
She nodded vigorously.
‘Funnily enough, I do know someone who’s just moved out of a place. I thought of you when he mentioned it, but it’s on Blackheath.’
Her hopes flew skyward and wheeled like doves. She waved her hand asking for more information.
‘Blackheath’s on the hill above Greenwich. I realise most the people you know are mostly central and south-west London, so I thought it would probably be too lonely for you?’
Your friend moved out? Why? She didn’t want to step into another nightmare flatmates scenario as the other person fled.
‘He’s finally seen sense and moved in with his boyfriend – which would be me.’ Louis gave her a wink. Louis had been wooing ex-serviceman turned singer-songwriter Kris for months now, using Jenny as his agony aunt through the ups and downs.
Kris had given up his old place? It must be love. Jenny tapped her right palm on her left in the sign for happy. Even Louis could understand that.
‘Thanks, Jenny.’ But he didn’t look as ecstatic as Jenny expected, his tone a little downbeat. ‘It’s getting something good out of a bad situation, I suppose.’
She circled her fist over her heart, the sign for ‘sorry’.
‘You know Kris. He’s been struggling silently with his pain management but has finally had to acknowledge that he needs more help, and I volunteered. Anyway, before moving in with me, he lived with this eccentric old bird in her house just off the Hare and Billet Road. Did he ever tell you about it?’
She didn’t know Kris as well as Louis so couldn’t honestly remember him mentioning it. She wavered her hand in a ‘not sure’ gesture.
‘He didn’t talk about it much as, you know, grown up guy living with old lady …? Sounds a little weird. Anyway, it’s an amazing place.’ Louis took the tray from Jenny and threaded it on the rack for dirty dishes. ‘She takes in young disadvantaged people involved in the Arts at very low rents – peppercorn ones. Kris got to know her thanks to his GP and has managed to save up quite a bit from his army pension.’
Jenny raised her brows and drew a pound sign with a question mark.
‘Because she doesn’t need the money herself. Wouldn’t that be nice, eh?’ Louis started pushing the trolley of dirty trays towards the kitchen. ‘Kris says she was once a dancer so she understands how hard it’s to survive doing the kind of jobs we do.’
Jenny could only agree. She was lucky if she made twenty-five thousand a year even with two jobs, and that still went nowhere in London once student loan, rent and transport were paid.
‘The story goes that she crashed out with an injury just before she hit the big time.’ Jenny nipped ahead to hold open the swing door. ‘Thanks, Jen. But then her Prince Charming came along and she married money, moved into the husband’s family home, and stayed happily wed for years.’ They left the trolley with the washer-uppers. ‘Then her husband had the bad fortune to up and die on her from some long-term condition he developed. That left a great gap in her life. Kris says she amuses herself by taking in her waifs and strays – him the wounded soldier turned musician qualified in spades.’
Jenny was totally ready to be a waif or a stray if it meant escaping her shared house.
How do I contact her?
‘It’s by word of mouth only. Personal recommendations. She doesn’t advertise. I’ll get Kris to put in a good word for you. Come to think of it, I’m sure you’ll love Mrs Whittingham’s house. It’s stylish, like you.’ He was teasing. There was nothing the least stylish about her.
She nudged him playfully. Address?
‘Didn’t I say? Gallant House.’
The House that Jack Built – Chapter One – Conception
Captain Frederick Jack dreamed of me – a house of his own – while he sailed the Caribbean in 1780. He was just a captain then. He’d done nothing of note, merely ferried cotton, pineapples and black ivory for a living. His days of fame as an admiral of the fleet were to come later when the little French upstart shook the thrones of Europe.
So, when I was conceived, my Captain Jack was distinguished only by the fact that he had the good fortune to marry a woman from the merchant class. With her money he could order my measurements from architects, adjust and fashion me completely to his taste. When he returned from his voyage, Jack gave his wife a perfunctory kiss, looked in on the infants bawling in the nursery at Deptford, then hurried along the Thames to climb the hill that led to my cradle. The builders