Ocean walked her home and then kissed her goodnight in the dark shadows where nobody could see. It had been the best night of her eighteen years, and she wanted to live it again, every single moment. A feeling of pure excitement tugged at her heart as she closed the front door. She waved at him through the grimy front window and watched him slip away.
Upstairs, she could hear her mother and father were snoring drunkenly. She crawled into their bed and fell asleep instantly.
In the morning, Maria’s mother and father interrogated her about where she was the night before, but the only reply they could get out of her was ‘with friends down the boozer.’
On Sunday evening, she casually strolled to the Gypsy camp and made her way toward Ocean’s family van. His mother was sitting in front of it, cooking something on an open fire, and she greeted Maria in a friendly manner.
“Ocean,” she yelled loudly.
He emerged from the van drowsily.
“Oh, Maria,” he said with a smile, “come in.”
This time she pulled him onto the bunk and shut the curtain.
*
Maria was so cheerful on Monday morning, even her parents commented on her mood.
“Did ye have another good night out with yer mates then, lass?” her mother asked.
“Yes, Ma! Loved every second of it!”
“Well look at ‘em rosy cheeks and that smile! Perhaps, you should get out more often. That Miss Kelly works you too hard. Our girl’s gotta have some fun, eh, Archie?”
“I hope it’s not a man, yer little trollop,” grizzled her father spitefully, sensing she was not being straight with them.
Maria was not very fond of her parents, and she muttered a few curses under her breath as she washed the breakfast dishes. Archibald Stratton was a filthy unemployable slacker, and her mother Doris was a fat, foul-mouthed fish wife. If nothing else the last two nights had taught her that she wanted freedom and that she would never be satisfied with an ordinary life.
The morning was freezing. With the belching chimneys and dark clouds overhead, it was pitch dark as she left for work. Still, despite the gloom, the streets were busy. Maria made her way through the alleys merging with the grey mass of foot traffic with their heads bent and shoulders hunched, wending their way to their places of work. Age was irrelevant. Amongst the old and frail, there were children as young as eight shuffling along, barely awake, off to eke out a meagre living.
As she reached the market square, the traders were erecting their stalls, fighting against the dim light. Fires next to their trestles kept them warm but left a cloud of thick smoke hovered over the square. Maria felt there was something a little different about the site this morning. It seemed emptier. She walked down the street, pushed her way through the bustle of the market, and then realised what was missing—the Gypsy camp.
2
Seamstress required
Two months later Maria realised that she was pregnant. She did not launch into hysterics, and she did not care what people thought, she simply cast her mind back to the two nights in the caravan and decided that it was worth the whole experience and that she would make sure that the child would bring her great joy. Anything that can break my mundane day to day life is welcome. The most fantastic favour her parents could have bestowed upon her was to evict her. When they did, she was relieved and prepared. She took her little bag and headed to see her childhood friend, Bernice.
“I need a place to sleep for a short while. Can you help me, Bernie?”
“Me ma and da should be alright wiv it if you give them a few bob a week. I’ll ask them.”
The matter was settled. Maria moved in with Bernie and her family. They were all a bit taken aback one evening when Maria informed them in a very matter-of-fact tone that she was pregnant.
“Oh, dear God, lass! Who is the father?” enquired Mrs Ridley.
“Don’t worry, Ma’. He’s long gone.” Bernie exclaimed as she came to Maria’s aid. “But his name will be on the birth certificate. And she’ll be able to work for ages yet.”
“Come and speak to us if you need help, Maria. We can’t make no promises, but we will do our best.”
How different these people were to her own family. Maria knew that it was a disgrace to have a child out of wedlock, but something in that fateful night with Ocean had set her free. She made a solemn promise to herself. Nobody would ever victimise her or her child and that she would live her life on her terms. St. Giles was chock full of alcoholics, paedophiles, incest and murder. A baby out of wedlock was hardly a crime in comparison. It did not even make the top ten list of sins that Reverend Whitfield preached warnings about in church every Sunday. God help those who tried to torment her—she would have nothing of it.
*
Her employer, Miss Kelly, did not take the news well. It was getting harder to disguise the bump with her clothes, so Maria decided it was best to confess to her predicament. As a virtuous spinster of sixty, she was horrified to hear that Maria was with child.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed. “What will people think? You’ll be the talk of the town!”
Maria shrugged her shoulders, unsure of what to say to the woman.
“My dear, have you told your parents yet? They must be devastated.”
“Yes. They were upset,” Maria replied.
“Have you been to see the priest, gone to confession?”
Maria was not a Catholic, so she remained silent.
“Well, my dear, you have to understand that even though I am very fond of you, and you are an excellent seamstress, it will cause a scandal if I retain your services. If our more religious clients find out, I may as well close my doors.”
Maria nodded her resignation. She had no option but to respect Miss Kelly’s wishes.
“That said, I am sure you could use the extra money so I am happy for you to stay for a week or two more until your bump shows too much, then, regretfully, you must leave. Will you do me a favour, petal, and wear your big overcoat on your walk into work?”
Even this small reprieve for Maria filled Miss Kelly with anxiety. The following morning the old lady went to the local Catholic Church and said her confession. Then she lit candles and donated money to the poor box in an effort to alleviate her all-consuming guilt.
Maria continued working for another month. She would be lying if she said she had no concern about the future, but she did not feel hopeless. There had to be a solution. Her instincts told her she would never end up in the workhouse. Far too resourceful and resilient to give in, she was determined to take any opportunity that came her way, hoping the future would bring something more exciting than a one-roomed home for her and the child in the slums of St. Giles.
On her last day at work, Miss Kelly and the girls surprised Maria with a leaving do. They had collected some money and gave her a beautiful quilt that they had made for the baby. Their kindness filled Maria with emotion, and she realised that despite Miss Kelly’s strict adherence to religious and social norms, she was a forgiving soul.
“When all the dust blows over, and the bairn is a good size, I will gladly have you back, petal,” Miss Kelly reassured Maria.
The expectant mother felt a lump in her throat and her eyes watered.
“Thank you for everything you have done for me. I will always remember it.”
The girls wished her luck and from behind the grimy windows waved her goodbye. Most of them lived in St. Giles they hoped Maria would probably bump into them, but still hurt as much as if she were leaving for good. In a reflective mood, she returned to her friend’s house.
*
“The girls collected enough money for me so that I can stay here for a month.”
“Aw lass, it’s not like me ma will put yer on the street, like,” Bernie answered.
“Yeah, I know Bernie, but they have bills too. Can’t expect them to keep me.”
“It’s going to be hard to find a job being as round as you are,” laughed Bernie.
; “ I have this feeling that something big is about to happen.”
“Yeah, that big thing growing in your belly is about to happen!”
Maria chuckled, then her smile turned to a frown.
“No, Bernie,” Maria sighed, “a new life—a new start.”
Bernie watched her friend struggle up the stairs, clutching the quilt. She felt for her. It’s a terrible predicament. Rather her than me.
Maria’s desperation to leave the claustrophobic little house grew day by day. The weather had turned foul, and she could not go out for a week. Finally, there was a break in the storm clouds. She dressed up warmly, took her umbrella and set out on a walk through the market.
Her stomach had grown in a surprisingly large in a very short while. There was no mistaking her pregnancy. Locals lifted their eyebrows when they saw her and whispered behind their hands. Others greeted her as usual and pretended that they did not notice. If Maria had been a sensitive type, she would have dropped her head in shame and hurried through the lanes, but she was not. Maria had an unusual personality. She lacked a pronounced rebellious streak, yet she did not care what anybody thought of her. Worrying about other people’s opinions of me solves nothing. Might as well get on with life.
*
Maria decided to take a stroll toward Covent Garden, a place she enjoyed immensely but seldom had time to visit. She turned into a lane just off Seven Dials and walked down a cobbled street, lined with inviting tea and coffee shops, pubs and a few eateries. A few crossings further on, she saw a sizeable building standing proudly in the row. The frontage was decidedly ornate. It could have been an old school or perhaps a church. It had large imposing doors decorated with carvings. Elaborate wrought-iron lights adorned the steps. Above the door was a sign:
‘THE SONGBIRD THEATRE’
It was then the penny dropped about the posters lining the neighbouring walls advertising acts and shows. There were pictures of beautiful ladies in risqué costumes, comedians in garish chequered suits, singers with their arms outstretched holding a note perfectly and all sorts of exotic wonders and novelty acts the like of which she had never seen before. Maria was fascinated.
Next to the building ran a long thin alleyway which lead to an open space. A small sign on the wall read ‘Deliveries’. Out of sheer curiosity, Maria walked down the path and reached some tall buildings surrounding a vast courtyard. There was a heavy wooden stage door at the top of a small flight of steps. The sound of a beer barrel being rolled along by one of the staff startled her. Feeling like a trespasser, she trotted back to the road before she was discovered. She turned back to see if she had escaped unseen. It was then another sign caught her eye:
‘SEAMSTRESSES WANTED
APPLY WITHIN’
This is the chance I’ve felt in my bones for days now. Boldly, she returned to the stage door, knocked confidently, cranked the stiff handle down and walked in. A cheerful, rosy-cheeked woman of about sixty opened the door.
“Who are you looking for lass?”
She did not take notice of Maria’s protruding stomach.
“Well, I saw the seamstress job advertised—” Maria explained with a smile.
“—hold on, let me find Max the owner,” the woman advised.
Before she left, the kindly woman gave her tired but happy-looking guest a cup of tea and sat her down at the large kitchen table, a table so large that Maria thought it could seat at least thirty people. She began to wait for what seemed like an eternity. Politely pacing herself with the tea it had gone stone cold, but she still sipped at it to look like she had a reason to be there. Her anxiety increased the longer she waited. She hid her nerves by smiling politely at whoever walked through the kitchen, just in case it was the owner turning up unannounced.
Twenty minutes later, Max Liebowitz appeared. He was an energetic fortyish man, with a cheeky smile and cheerful demeanour. He had a strong European accent that Maria could not quite identify. She struggled to understand what he was saying at times. Thankfully, she picked up on an important question amongst his jabbering.
“Do you have experience as a seamstress?” he enquired hopefully.
“Yes, Sir. Miss Kelly down on Mandrake Street employed me for three years.”
Maria felt his gaze sink and settle on her round stomach.
“We are snowed under with work, so the hours are long. Will that be a problem?”
“No, Sir. I am a very hard worker. Miss Kelly will tell you that.”
“And, err—” Max paused as he took a deep breath. “When is your baby due?”
“Not for a while yet. Months,” she replied earnestly.
Mr Leibowitz didn’t give any clue as to his thoughts on the pregnancy. Maria dreaded continuing the conversation, but as Bernie often reminded her: ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ she feigned confidence.
“I will need accommodation, as well. Perhaps you have a room for us. Even a bit of a storeroom floor would do where we can lay a mattress. A roof over my head is all I ask for. My family have disowned me because of the bairn, and I am too proud for the workhouse. I have been relying on the generosity of friends. I will work hard, I promise. All I ask is that you give me a chance to prove my worth to you.”
“I tell you what. I’ll give you a room in the loft if you’re prepared to put in the late nights,” Max bargained.
Maria smiled from ear to ear.
“I can assure you late nights are not a problem. Thank you.”
“It’s a pleasure,” he confirmed, grinning from ear to ear. “We’re a somewhat messy and chaotic family here at The Songbird, but we are a happy bunch.”
“When do I start?” Maria enquired.
“Immediately,” said Max. “Go and fetch your things from that friend of yours. I’ll get my assistant Thomas to clear a space for you. We’ll have you settled in no time.”
That was twenty-one years ago, and Maria had never looked back at her dull life in St. Giles. She had never gone back to see her parents, and she never tried to find Ocean again.
3
The Songbird Theatre
Max Liebowitz stood proudly, hidden in the wings, as he looked out into the auditorium. For decades, he had stood on the same spot watching the patrons arrive. He watched their delight and anticipation as the curtain was rising. He saw smiles develop on people’s faces as they were spirited away into a fantasy world of music, wonder, illusion and laughter. Providing them with a welcome escape from the grim reality of life outside the theatre gave him a tremendous sense of purpose and a feeling of pure joy.
Thomas Bartlett looked at the older man and smiled with affection. He had accompanied Max to the stage every night for the last five years, and every night Max said the same thing:
“Ah, look at that, Thomas. Just look at that crowd—see how they are enjoying themselves! That is what life is about,” announced Liebowitz in his Polish accent, which had softened over the years. “Life should be full of laughter, and we make them laugh, Thomas.”
Max Liebowitz was the most unreasonable person to work with that twenty-eight-year-old Thomas Bartlett had ever met. Nevertheless, he adored the cantankerous old fellow. Over the years, Mr Liebowitz had become like a father to him. Max was a born dreamer, and Thomas was the aide who was always tasked to make those dreams come true, however far-fetched or awkward they might be. Max cherished Thomas’ level-headed support.
After being roundly defeated by his employer’s errant and excitable behaviour, Thomas had given up trying to clip Max’s wings. As soon as Thomas surrendered and did as he was asked, without question, he realised that Max’s unusual philosophy on life was inspirational, joyous and uplifting—even if his frequent splurges on fun and frivolity for the audience were eye-wateringly expensive.
“How do you always remain so cheerful, Max? No matter how challenging life is or the challenges we face putting on the shows, you always remain joyful?”
“Ah Thomas, there is so much misery in the world. I bought The Songbir
d because I wanted to see people smile. The greatest lesson I learnt is that you can’t make other people happy if you aren’t happy yourself. It is a great privilege being responsible for the happiness of others, whether it be your family, friends or beyond. When the audience and our little backstage family are happy, so am I.”
Max’s son David was a little less tolerant of his father’s well-intentioned but wayward nature when it came to the theatre’s finances.
“Papa, this place is chaos,” David would lecture him. “The performers take advantage of you. You have families housed in the attic who do not pay for food or rent, and there is a constant demand upon you to support the local charities,” he complained.
Max, however, would just smoke his cigar and laugh, which frustrated David all the more. The young accountant felt his father needed to appreciate some home truths.
“You never count the takings at the end of the night. I have concrete proof the doorman steals. The bar has never balanced since I’ve worked here—and you’re continually allowing the poor entry without paying,” he chastised.
“We are blessed, David. There is enough for everybody. I live a better life than all the people in Covent Garden. I have a small house to call my own, a bed, food on my table every night and loyal employees who are happy to work with me. What more does a man need?”
Thomas would sigh when he heard David trying to reason with his father.
“He’s right, Max.”
“Don’t you worry about anything, my boy. Leave the finances to David,” Max would remind Thomas.
Thomas would shake his head. For him, Max the dreamer and his son David the realist were worlds apart. Any hope of being the bridge between their contrasting viewpoints and getting the theatre on a solid financial footing seemed to be doomed.
“David told me that he is looking for another job. He says that this is not a theatre, but a circus, run by a clown.”
“My son David has been telling me that for years,” Max chuckled. “My boy is a very shrewd businessman. His business acumen has kept The Songbird alive for many years—on paper. I have kept it alive in people’s hearts.”
The Christmas Songbird Page 2