Eliza Doolittle: The Life and Times of a Good Girl
Chapter Three: Staying Good
Author's note: Sorry about the dreary tone of the last chapter. It will get brighter… just not in this chapter. Warnings for child abuse and allusions to prostitution. Again, I would like to thank my beta. Three chapters proofread in the span of mere hours must be some sort of record.
Eight Years Later
Fifteen year old Eliza Doolittle hefted her passed out father onto the bed with a strength that belied her thin frame. For the hundredth time she swore that no one would ever put her to bed in such a state. No one would ever catch a drop of liquor on her. She tried to imagine someone else begrudgingly removing her boots and making resentful comments on her drunken snores, and shuddered. No sir. Besides the only girls her age that frequented pubs were the bad ones like Maria Stone, and Eliza was no Maria Stone. She prided herself on being a very good sort of girl.
She sighed and looked at her surroundings. Of course, good girls apparently had limited means. She had started selling flowers shortly after her mother had died, when her father had told her she had enough of school and her job now was to see to him. It brought in a little money.
Her eyes rested on the empty birdcage that had been once been her mother's. She remembered the bird that had taken residence in it. It had died shortly after her mother. Strange to think she could remember the bird's death, but not her mother's. It was as if one day she was bidding her mother farewell as she skipped to the school, and then the next clear memory was following the little cart that carried her remains. Surely there had to be an in-between? She had asked her father at the funeral how her mother had died, and he just gave her a queer look and said "You was standing there, gaping at 'er bloody body when we found 'er, you daft girl." That was the last time they had discussed Catherine Doolittle. Eliza had vague memories of her, of course, but nothing really substantial. It was as if Catherine was being slowly scrubbed from Eliza's memory, bit by bit.
"I'm sorry, Cathy…" Her father muttered in his stupor. He often apologized to Catherine when he was passed out in his cups, but Eliza never bothered to ask why.
"S'alright, Alfie, you can't 'urt me where I am," Eliza replied as her mother. She went to the mirror to study herself. Chaotic dark curls, a thin pale face, and large brown eyes. Her body was starting to develop in ways she found fascinating, even if she thought herself wicked to be paying attention to it. About a year ago she was tall, gangly and ever so awkward. Her father had called her a mop with arms. Now from time to time she found him studying her with an almost nostalgic expression on his face.
"All but the 'air and eyes, really," he had muttered once, confusing Eliza greatly.
With a laugh, Eliza stuck her tongue out at her reflection and readied herself for bed. She was a vain thing indeed if she thought she was pretty. What a dirty little ragamuffin it was that stared back at her!
A few days later Alfred Doolittle and his drinking companions noisily interrupted Eliza's sleep with boisterous singing. "Daisy, Daisy…"
She grumbled, slid out of bed and walked to the kitchen , intent on brewing coffee for her father and his friends, as she was always expected to do. Some of them had to be to work in a few hours, and they needed to sober up a bit. Alfred's face lit up when Eliza greeted them.
"There she is! Me daughter, gentlemen," He put an arm around her and pulled her tightly to his side. "The very vision of me bee-yoo-tiful Catherine, but for my dark eyes and 'air, ain't she boys?" The guests shouted in enthusiastic agreement. Bill Wexler even reached over and gave Eliza a hard pinch on the rear, causing her to shriek and pull away from her father. Everyone roared with laughter at her outrage.
"Spirited, too, Alfie!" Cried Bill. Another round of laughter. Alfred pulled her against his side once more, Eliza struggling the entire time. He gave her a hard, open palmed slap on the behind.
"You mind your manners, girl, in front of me friends!" He gave her a charming grin. "Now, wasn't that kind of these gentlemen to ask after your welfare? They've been talkin' all night about 'ow fetching you are, and 'ow desperate they are to get a chance to talk at you, now you talk to 'em. Show 'em that fancy talk your muver showed you, so's they think they are talkin' to a lady of quality."
Eliza blinked in confusion. "Dad, what are you on about?" She looked around nervously at their expectant faces.
"Don't tell me you don't remember! Catherine was always teachin' you lady talk, and these gentlemen want to hear it."
Eliza shook her head. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, Dad, sorry."
He glared at her for a few moments before his face lit up again. "No matter, no matter. Bill 'ere would like to speak to you in private. Take 'im to the back bedroom and be obliging." Eliza saw Bill Wexler hand what looked like a one pound note to Alfred as he crossed the room to Eliza. Warning bells went off in her brain, and she shook her head.
"Dad, I'm tired, me 'ead aches. I don't feel like talkin' tonight. Just let me make your coffee and go back to sleep." She back away from Bill, whose eyes glimmered as he looked over her figure.
"'e just wants to talk, Poppet, that's all." Eliza didn't believe it for a second. Thinking quickly she grabbed the nearest bottle she could get her hands on and smashed it against the side of Bill's head. The man staggered backwards, clutching his wound. With a roar, Alfred crossed the room and grabbed Eliza by the hair of her head, dragging her into bedroom. Eliza's heart beat wildly as she struggled. She had heard about fathers doing awful, unspeakable acts to their own daughters, but never once thought it would ever happen to her.
To her surprise, he merely settled with throwing against the battered armoire face first. Her forehead cracked against the wood and the force of the impact sent her reeling backwards onto the floor. A carpetbag was thrown down onto the floor next to her.
"What're you waitin' for? Pack up! If you don't want to earn a proper livin' around here, then you get out!"
She moaned and clutched her throbbing forehead. He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, and with a grunt hoisted her up from underneath her arms with such force , she thought they were going to be ripped from their sockets. Somehow she managed to stumble about, grabbing what she could carry. She even gathered the birdcage. She couldn't leave it to him; it was the only beautiful thing in those dreary lodgings.
Avoiding eye contact with the bewildered men, she ran through the front door. Before she could make it down the last step, a forceful kick to her behind sent her flying forward. The landing knocked the wind out of her, but it was the raucous laughter from the men inside her father's home that truly stung. After getting on her feet and setting down her belongings, she turned to the men, spit, and gave them the rudest hand gesture she could think of.
"I 'ope you rot in 'ell, Alfred P. Doolittle! You ruddy brute!" She screamed, before picking up her belongings and leaving. She was walking away very badly bruised, but she was walking away. Melinda Ross was a good friend of her mother's, and would probably put her up for a few nights until she could get on her feet again. It wouldn't take so very long. Eliza was a strong girl. Someone had once told her she was clever to boot. All in all a good combination to make it. Her father could drink himself to death or drown in the Thames for all she cared, it was herself she had to worry about now.
As she suspected, her father approached her a few days later as she was walking out of the florists with her supply of violets. He had his hat in his hands and looked contrite.
"'ullo, Eliza."
"Dad." She nodded and tried to walk past him. He stepped directly in her path.
"Now, now. I just came to apologize for the other night. Gin is a terrible thing, Eliza, terrible." He actually appeared remorseful. Eliza softened a bit. He really wasn't such a bad man. Not when he was sober at least.
"I wanted to ask you to come 'ome, Eliza." She didn't need to think twice about that. It was out of the question. She would be independent from now on, and only see him when he was sober and behaving himself.
"I've got me own 'ome now, thanks. I ain't never comin' back to live with you, Dad." She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a few coins. "But I know what you was gettin' at so 'ere'… For the pub." She gave him a nod, and walked away. This time he didn't try to stop her. Something stayed his hand, and prevented him from dragging her through the streets back to his home. If he were a particularly deep man, he would have guessed it was Catherine.
With a few coins in his purse, and a tune on his lips, Alfred Doolittle headed to the pub; he too felt free. Maybe with Eliza gone, the gut wrenching guilt that he had lived with since Catherine's death would lift. Perhaps he would take a wife!