“David is right about a lot of things, and if we didn’t have him here, we would have closed the doors years ago. You mustn’t push him over the edge and force him to leave to save his sanity. We need him here.” Thomas said firmly.
Max nodded yet again as his aid’s advice washed over him unheeded.
“I love my son, yet I wish that he would stop worrying about me.”
“I’m sure he cherishes you too, Max. You raised him alone without a mother to care for him. He’s turned into a fine man.”
Max smiled fondly at the mention of his beloved wife.
“David needs to marry and have children! He is nearly thirty years old with no problems in life—and that is why he has time to worry about the small things in mine.”
Thomas listened with a smile as Max chatted about his son.
“He is so busy that he has no marriage prospects. It concerns me. I want grandchildren.”
“You have the whole neighbourhood’s children here most of the time—for free, I might add. You treat them all as if they were your own. I think you need to take David’s business advice occasionally. He is a trained accountant.”
“And then I would have no fun! Stop complaining, for goodness' sake, Thomas,” Max whined playfully. “And you? Are you fretting or happy here?” the old man asked with a wry smile.
“Of course I am happy. I will never be this content anywhere else,” Thomas reassured.
“Quite right too, my lad. What else does a man need besides happiness and enough money to look after a family? That is success my boy, not the lavish but empty life that the elite display for all to admire.”
Thomas liked the sound of what Max was saying, felt the old man had rose-tinted glasses on about The Songbird’s future.
“Max, some of the performers use you at every opportunity that they get. They are paid the best wages in the city, but they constantly demand more. What is worse, you indulge them,” he lamented.
“Thomas, my good man, talented performers are the foundation of our business. They draw a full house to our theatre every night. Of course, they have an ego, but our patrons would never return to The Songbird again and again if we did not have loyal performers. I can’t see why rewarding them for their contribution is such a difficult idea for you to grasp.”
“Max, you are such a stubborn man,” Thomas moaned.
Max deflected the focus of the conversation back onto his assistant.
“When are you getting married, Thomas? Go and find a nice girl and start a family. You and David do not understand the joy that children bring. You are getting older as we speak. A wife is essential to a man’s happiness.”
“Well, that is a fine comment coming from you, Max? What happened to you wife? In all these years, you never talk about her.”
“Ah, Thomas, “ sighed Max as he became more serious, “that is a long story for another day.”
At times like this in their conversations, Thomas knew that it was no use going any further. Max would squeeze his shoulder and walk away into the shadows of the colossal theatre, lost and distant.
Over the years, Thomas had learned how to make his own life easier: stop complaining. Instead of criticising Max’s grand dreams and schemes, he put all his efforts into bringing them to fruition. Max, David and Thomas became inseparable, forming an unbreakable, if awkward, alliance.
Late at night, when the chaos of the day had subsided, Thomas would lay in bed wondering what happened to Max’s wife. No matter how often he gently encouraged his boss to explain, no answers were forthcoming. One day, he will tell me what happened to her.
*
David Liebowitz was trying hard to keep his temper. The handsome man’s desk was covered with a mound of administrative papers, and every time he looked up, one of his staff had put another invoice or letter on top. Most of the letters were addressed directly to Max. Some of the correspondence contained the most unreasonable of requests. David would try and dissuade his father from reading them in case he was tempted to help. Still, Max would usually open each letter and read it out loud. Then, he would insist upon replying to each one personally irrespective of whether he could assist or not. In desperation, recently David had demanded that Max appoint a secretary who could help him.
“Let me read that, David,” he would demand of his son.
If David refused, Max would try and second guess the subject matter.
“It is the local orphanage asking for a Christmas donation? I bet it is. How much do they need?”
“It is indeed, Papa. They are having a special yuletide meal for the orphans at the workhouse. They are asking for a donation of twenty pounds.”
“Send it to them, David. Those children deserve a full belly, especially in the festive season. Have you seen that wretched orphanage? Send them the money.”
David would carefully observe his father in those moments. If he gave Max even the slightest hint of disapproval, his father would give him his usual response, perhaps to educate him or maybe even to spite him.
“We are all God’s children, David. Give them the money.”
David had given up lecturing his father on their financial woes. Instead, he had honed his creative skills and juggled the meagre finances in an attempt to keep everybody happy and the lights on.
“Trust me, David. That small gift will bring great happiness to those children. We are compelled to look after the widows and the orphans at our gates.”
David had heard his father’s words so often that he had conceded already and had put twenty pounds into an envelope and addressed it to the orphanage. In return, Max would receive another lovely letter of thanks, and David would place it in the bottom drawer of his desk, with all the others.
Drowning in paperwork and late invoice payment requests, David could no longer keep up with Max’s correspondence. The task was so gigantic that he spent four tedious months trying to find a suitable secretary for his father. None of the clerks that David appointed were suitable for the post. Whether they were men or women, they never lasted very long. None of them could cope with Max’s eccentricities. Ultimately, Max’s patience with the recruitment process petered out.
“This is useless, David. Can’t you just find someone who knows the business? Someone in this building? Someone that I like? And someone who likes me?” Max demanded.
David rolled his eyes. The problem was not if Max liked them or not, but rather whether the new employee could tolerate Max’s endless challenges.
It was Thomas who solved the problem. For the umpteenth time, David had to accept another resignation from a clerk who could not endure Max. David thought that he had struck gold since the latest one had lasted the most extended period to date—a whole month, rather than a week. However, when Max decided to take a brief holiday, leaving the poor woman to take on all the responsibilities alone, she became so overwhelmed by the task at hand, that she preferred to resign rather than have a mental breakdown from the strain.
“What about young Suzanna, Maria Stratton’s daughter?” Thomas posed.
“That is a jolly good idea!” David exclaimed in glee, before stopping in his tracks and muttering ominously, “But do you think Suzanna will want to do the work? I mean, she’s working in the sewing room at the moment, and it’s peaceful there. Max’s administrative tasks are—not quite so peaceful.”
“She’ll be fine. She has gone to school, can read, write and do sums. Besides, Max has a soft spot for her, and it is reciprocated. Why not give her a chance? You and Suzanna have been friends for years and you’ll make a good team. You won’t have to try and gel with another new starter. The worst that can happen is that she resigns and goes back to the sewing room,” Thomas mused with a chuckle.
David smiled at Thomas and wished that he had thought of it four months earlier. Suzanna would be the perfect person for the job.
*
As time went on, Suzanna wasn’t sure that working for Max was such a blessing after all. As much as she lov
ed his bubbly and enthusiastic demeanour, he was exhausting. No sooner had he engaged her in one task when his mind changed, and he demanded another. She was by no means overworked, just befuddled by all the chopping and changing. Thankfully, through hearing the mutterings of her colleagues, she was reasonably knowledgeable about what was happening at The Songbird and more often than not, she took the initiative in solving the inevitable problems caused by Max’s erratic decision making.
Yet, Suzanna was harbouring a secret. Like her mother, she had a wilder side to her personality, crying out to be expressed. Just after she started as Max’s assistant, she had seen a run-down pub advertising for a singer. There was nothing for it, she felt compelled to apply.
The owner, Tim, a brash Yorkshireman, listened to her sing a few ditties. He looked at her beautiful face, then let his gaze drift down to her ample bosom and curves. It was then he decided that she would be more than suitable for the position.
“Now me girl, yer might have the voice of an angel, but yer got to show a little flesh to my punters too. It’s not as posh as The Songbird here. When you come back, bring a costume that shows your legs, and prop up that bust of yours a little more.”
Suzanna nodded shyly. It was the first time a man had spoken to her in this manner.
“Our customers like a more daring show. Do you think you’re up to it?”
“Of course,” she replied with confidence, despite having only seen burlesque shows, rather than starring in one.
Her mind drifted off towards the necessary preparations. A sly raid of the costume crates in the attic is bound to turn up something perfect to wear. She had watched the shows at The Songbird so often and practised all the steps in her room. Suzanna was quite sure she was going to bring down the house when it was her time to shine.
“Oh, and what’s yer name, petal?” Tim enquired.
“Suzanna Stratton,” she answered.
“No, lass. Yer stage name?”
“I, err, don’t have one yet,” she mumbled apologetically.
“Well, let's call you Milly Martin.”
It was not a name that Suzanna would have chosen, but it would do for now.
*
On Saturdays, Suzanna knew that Max only got to The Songbird after dark. It will be easy to sneak out before he arrives. Her smile widened as she filled a large bag with her costume, stage make-up, a mirror and a brush. The stage outfit that she had liked best had a tight-fitting bodice, and her imprisoned bosom had no choice but to flow voluptuously over the top of the stiffened material. Tim will approve. The bodice was attached to the skirt, which fluffed around her like a ballerina's tutu. She suspected that if she bent down, the audience might get the faintest glimpse of her frilly bloomers. Perfect. She wore sheer silk stockings on her long shapely legs. Dancing shoes with a heel completed the ensemble. The whole outfit in red and black looked striking and Suzanna deemed it bawdy enough to get everybody’s attention. After a few nights secretly practising on her makeshift stage in the attic, reviewing her performance in a full-length mirror, she had the utmost confidence in her ability.
Finally, the night for her debut had arrived. David saw her as she sneaked out past his office, the big bag banging against her legs as she tiptoed out of the building. He was too busy with someone else to call out to her there and then. Luckily for him, a couple of minutes later, he was free. He grabbed his hat and his coat, hoping that he could catch up with Suzanna and take her for a drink, mainly to apologise for his father’s latest vacillations. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to find a replacement for Max just yet. A bit of gratitude won’t go amiss.
The overly-eager Suzanna was well ahead of David but he could just still see her. He followed her down the street until she stopped in front of a boozer, The Crown and Cushion. He walked towards the pub with curiosity. He pushed open the double swing doors and looked about him, but she had vanished. David ordered a pint at the bar, his eyes darting around looking for clues to her whereabouts. He decided the owner had tried hard to make the place look grand, but his efforts had been a consummate failure. The place was shabby, and so were the Saturday night crowd who had gathered there. Suzanna must have given me the slip? A dive like this isn’t her sort of place, surely?
His eye was taken by a bright poster on the wall that said there would be a show starting downstairs at nine o’clock. Since Suzanna seemed to be missing, he decided he might as well go and see what the show was about. He chuckled as he knocked back the last of his pint. I bet if my father was here, he would say this act is perfect for The Songbird! Somehow, I doubt it will be!
*
In the cramped room in the basement that Tim said was ‘the dressing room’, Suzanna propped the face mirror up on a rickety table and steadied it against the wall. She took out the makeup and laid it out in front of her. The liquids and powders worked like magic, and as she applied them step by step, gradually, she became unrecognisable. She only became nervous when she began to put on the costume. Knowing she would be seen in public in it was very different from prancing around in private. The bodice was so restrictive, her breasts seemed to bubble up under her chin. She wanted to cross her legs and pull the short skirt down as far as she could when she caught a glimpse of her bloomers in a full-length mirror. Stunned by her reflection, she ignored her inner voice berating her for her outfit’s lack of modesty and her lack of experience. Tim’s taken a chance on you. Now, it’s time to see it through.
With no warning, she heard Tim behind her push open the door of the shabby closet open. He leaned against the wall and watched her do the finishing touches to her makeup.
“Stand up. Let me get a look at you,” he ordered.
Suzanna obeyed shyly and straightened her pose.
“Now, turn to face me.”
Keen to impress, she put her weight on her tiptoes, then elegantly spun in her dancing shoes, her skirt swishing around her quite revealingly and her ample bosom bouncing.
“Oh, that won’t do at all. Come here!”
Puzzled, she glided over to him. Suddenly, Tim grabbed roughly at the front straps of her bodice and pulled it down an inch.
“The fellas don’t want to see a nun, luv.”
He looked her up and down and continued his judgemental assessment.
“And get rid of the silk. They prefer bare legs.”
“What?” scowled Suzanna, aghast. If this is what it takes to be a pub singer, I am not sure I want to be one anymore!
“You are performing for people with very little imagination. Take off those stockings if you want to get paid tonight. Hurry up. You have two minutes to go.”
*
The basement was damp and mildewed. Thankfully, the room lights were off, and there was only one large light shining on the small stage. There were six tables at the foot of the stage, all crowded with rowdy drinkers, each with a pint on the go, and at least another full one to follow to save queuing later. Behind them was a raised foot-high platform with a wrought-iron waist-high railing. Men of every class leaned over it, eager to watch the act. David formed an opinion on the clientele. They were a lewd and lively bunch and not what he was accustomed to at more refined The Songbird.
Off to the right of the stage, a skinny looking man with a cigarette smouldering in his mouth began to play a honky-tonk piano, and a thin and stained canvas backdrop fluttered down as it unfurled from the ceiling to cover the drab brick wall. The heavily made-up girl who appeared on stage was stunning, and there were wolf whistles and applause. Everybody was drunk and lustful, and there was a lot of crude references to her body. David felt uncomfortable with their lack of manners, and had he not been hemmed in, he would have left. He looked at the young woman on the stage, her chest was exposed more than it needed to be, and her legs were bare. No wonder the boisterous chaps in the front row are on the prowl.
*
When Tim pushed Suzanna onto the stage, she was instantly blinded by the spotlight. Terror struck when the piano started
to play, and she realised that she had missed her queue. Thankfully, the pianist was experienced, and he improvised, allowing her to begin the song as if nothing had happened.
All Suzanna wanted to do was cover herself up. Practising alone on the makeshift stage in the attic had not prepared her for this. The tipsy patrons of The Songbird enjoyed themselves, but they only became raucous when the fresh air hit them as they tottered home. These men were crude from the outset.
David only knew that it was Suzanna when the singing voice rang out with ‘My boyfriend is sitting in the gallery.’ It can’t be her can it? Before she’d finished the first verse, the men started to boo her. Crikey, it is!
“We don’t wanna hear that old stuff!” shouted someone.
“Show us yer arse, girl!” cried another.
The poor girl belted out the lyrics, trying to drown them out. The pianist thrashed at the keys. It was useless.
“Tim! Oi! Tim! We want our money back.”
A beleaguered Suzanna attempted to tame the rabble by trying some deliberately sensuous moves, but they ridiculed her even more, cruelly pointing and laughing. David was horrified by the direction the performance was taking—on and off stage. He began to push his way through the congested basement, trying to reach the front.
“Yeah, mate, I want to go home n ‘all,” laughed a docker, his tobacco-stained teeth glinting behind his thin lips.
By the time David got in between the front tables, the men were on their feet jeering. Suzanna was still singing and dancing trying to save the show when somebody threw a glass at the stage. Mercifully, she dodged it and it went crashing against the wall behind her. Two other hooligans did the same, and it was a miracle that none of the projectiles hit the poor girl.
One of the men grabbed David as he pushed past him.
“Where you think you’re going, mate?” the fellow shouted drunkenly.
David shrugged him off.
“You’re after the hussy, ain'tcha?”
The Christmas Songbird Page 3