“Glissade—changé. Coupé. Coupé. Passé—relevé. Mind your knee, Flossie dear. Splendid. Coupé. Coupé. Pirouette. And again, Connie dear, and again.”
Then came her licence and the rehearsals for ‘The Twenty Khaki Kids.’ ‘The Khaki Kids’ were either beginners, or older children who had remained undersized, and would continue to dance while they looked like children, but who had not sufficient talent to have any future on the adult stage. They were the least important of all Madame’s troupes, but Flossie was glad to join them, as no matter in what you were appearing the fact that you were working gave you a status in the Academy. They performed in ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ at an outlying suburban theatre, and made their first appearance in the ship scene, springing unexpectedly out of coils of rope, a neat little row of dancing khaki figures.
One rehearsal in the theatre made Flossie suspect that she had entered a world of undreamed-of possibilities, and a week convinced her of it. The presents she received! Food was scarce, but even so, titbits found their way to Flossie. The Matron did her best to stop it. Madame was strict, she liked her children to keep themselves to themselves, holding as little intercourse as possible with the grown-up members of the cast. Ordinarily this presented no difficulties, the grown-ups finding the children a bore, and paying no attention to them except to sign their autograph books, or perhaps, at the end of the run to give them a photograph of themselves mounted on a post card. With Flossie it was different, the news of her flew round the theatre.
“I say, old dear, give us a lend of your duster. You ’ave a look when they’re re’earsin’ this mornin’, there’s the sweetest little kid comes on, right in the middle she is, you must ’ave a look.”
“Oh, this old B. of a staircase, I’m sick and tired of marching up and down it. Do they think we girls don’t know how to walk up a lot of stairs? Have you seen the little kid with the troupe, the one with the fair hair, isn’t she a love?”
The soubrette, moving two empty beer bottles, swung herself up on the edge of the bar, and patted the place beside her for her dancing partner.
“Let’s rest a moment, the old wind was never too good, but this bread we’re getting now! Have you seen the little thing with the troupe, little thing with pale hair? Well, have a look, what a bute!”
Her dresser waved a pair of pale blue silk tights at the principal boy.
“With this war on tights ’as gone to pot, I don’t know ’ow we’re goin’ to do for them an’ that’s a fact, ladder as soon as look at you.” Expertly she held them out, turned to put on. “I say, dear, that little child you told me of, oh she’s the sweetest thing, and so winnin’ in ’er ways. I was ’avin’ a bitter tea and a piece of cake when the troupe passes the door and she gave me the loveliest smile, so I gave her a bit of cake, bless her, she was ever so pleased.”
The comedian met the children on the stairs and he stood back to let them pass. Without his bonnets and bead mantles and elastic-sided boots, he was a gloomy fellow, not one to stop and pass the time of day, but Flossie, last of the queue, paused to look up at him from under her lashes, then she smiled. He leant down to her.
“How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, thank you,” Flossie whispered. She whispered because Matron was only a few steps ahead, but the comedian thought how wistful she sounded; awful hard life for the kids with getting about so difficult, and the food so bad. He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a shilling.
‘Madame Elise’s Ten Little Sailors’ did a round of the London halls. From Flossie’s point of view it was less successful than the pantomime, as there was no permanent cast to bring her presents, but during the time she worked with them she learnt how to get hold of her earnings. It started over spring clothes.
“Mum, can I have a blue coat?”
“How can you talk so silly? You know I spent all last week letting down your pink one, and it’s as good as new.”
“But I had it last summer. I want a blue one.”
“Now don’t take on,” Fanny pleaded. “Mum isn’t made of money.”
Flossie scratched at the carpet with the toe of her shoe.
“Well, I earn some, don’t I?” she muttered in a slightly shamed way.
Fanny looked flustered.
“But, ducks, you know that with the money I bank for you every week, and what goes to Madame on commission, there’s not much left for all the things I buy you, every penny’s spent on you, and a lot more besides, you know that.”
“Well, that’s what you say. I don’t seem to have much.”
Fanny allowed this dart to pierce her, she burst into tears.
“Oh, how can you talk that way, Floss, you, with all the nice things you have? I know I never seem to stop sewing and washin’ for you.”
Flossie, really ashamed, grew more defiant.
“Well, if I’ve got to go about in my old pink, I’ll stay at home.”
She never meant it, the words were just something to say, but Fanny believed her.
“Don’t talk like that, sweet, Mum’ll manage the blue for you. You must work, dear, Mum’s so proud of her girl.”
‘The Four Little Snowflakes’ taught Flossie that an audience is more than just a sea of blurred faces. Every audience varies, and has each its collective personality. The ability to feel that personality differs with artists, but there is no one who, after one entrance, cannot say, “They’re nice to-night, grand comedy lot,” or “They’re going to eat that curtain to the second act.” Flossie, spinning prettily on her points, became acutely sensitive to her audiences; she knew they were saying, “Oh, isn’t she sweet,” and when, with her three companions, she was throwing kisses and dropping curtsies at the end of her dance, she knew that it was because of her kisses and her curtsies that they were given the extra call. Then there came tangible signs of her popularity. She was the smallest of the Snowflakes, and almost every day the attendants brought her parcels marked ‘To the Little Snowflake’ or ‘To the Smallest Snowflake’ and once to ‘The Fairest Snowflake.’
As Cupid she was noticed by the critics, which meant several visits to the photographer’s, and after the photographs were published, a certain amount of fan mail. She was eleven at the time, but small for her age, and the company as usual made a fuss of her, telling each other it did no harm as she was a simple unspoilt little thing. At home, if Fanny could have criticised her prodigy, there was a different story to tell. It seemed to Flossie insulting that she, so lovely and so wonderful, should be asked to do menial things. Sometimes Fanny, rushed beyond bearing, and exhausted by long hours in the food queues, would forget, and suggest she lay the table, or make her bed. Flossie’s answer never varied.
“If people want children to do those sort of things, they shouldn’t have children like me.”
At the Academy she was the object of much discussion. Success had come to her too easily, but it was a child’s success and would not last; if she were to have any future as a dancer, hours of grinding work lay ahead of her. Muriel slaved.
“Battement—serré. Right up on that point, Flossie. Keep that right knee straight. Good. Now the other foot, straighten that left knee. And again, Connie dear, and again.”
Madame called Muriel into her study.
“Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie?” She held out a packet of cigarettes.
“Only if she works. She has those looks, and any amount of personality, but, of course, she’s not a dancer and never will be.” Muriel puffed at her cigarette. “If she works she might be a star though, in a musical show.” She sighed. “She might be anything.”
“Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie?” Madame asked the governess.
The governess, a Miss Edwards, was afraid of neither Madame nor anybody else. She had thought Flossie a lovely little dear for just one morning.
“The child’s a little toad. A smug little toad. So far she has always been in some show and I’ve not been allowed to upset her, and she knows it, but the first morning she’s out of work, I’m going to talk to her as she’s never been talked to before.”
Flossie knew that she was not really loved at the Academy by either teachers or pupils, but she put this down to jealousy. Sitting in a tram, homeward-bound from the theatre, she mentioned it to her mother.
“I can’t help being pretty, can I, Mum?”
“Course you can’t. Who says you can?”
“Well, just the other children, they don’t like me.”
“Spiteful cats. Don’t you mind, ducks, it’s jealousy. Mum’s wonderful girl.”
Just as the rehearsals for the ‘Babes in the Wood’ were starting, the Armistice was declared.
“Now isn’t that awkward?” said Fanny. “Your dad’ll be comin’ home.”
CHAPTER VII
It was summer before George got home. He walked up the Fordham Road in his creased-looking mufti, nodding greetings, and saying a few words to any who noticed his return, but scarcely taking in who they were, for though his feet were on the asphalt, his head was in the clouds.
Three months’ hobbling on crutches because of a wounded foot had given him a thing he had never possessed before, leisure. The hospital to which he had been sent was an unattractive barrack-like affair in the north, but for George it had attraction, because it was within a few minutes’ walk of the town allotments. Day after day he had taken himself up there, and minutely examined the crops, and had long talks with the gardeners. He had been fortunate in his time, for at the end of February, when he arrived, he had seen much of the sowing and planting, and by the beginning of June, when he left, crops almost full-grown. Ruminating over the vegetables of others, he had conceived an idea. ‘Why shouldn’t he have a bit of ground and grow stuff for his shop? Not a London allotment, that would be difficult to get, but somewhere in the country, maybe Essex, where he could go and work on a Saturday afternoon, and Sundays. When the weather was good, he could take Fanny and Flossie along with him, have a picnic they could, maybe he’d find time to put up a bit of a hut where Fanny could sit out of the wind. A bit of earth of his own. Stuff he’d planted, pushing its way up.’ Unconsciously his head rose a fraction. ‘He could see to it right away to-morrow even. If it was a nice day, why shouldn’t the three of them take their dinner out, and see if they couldn’t find the bit of ground he had in mind?’ As he neared the house he slowed up, filled with his nearest approach to excitement. He could see Fanny, bent over her stove, she’d be getting the tea. ‘He’d creep in quietly and hug her from behind. It had been a good idea not telling exactly which day he was coming, it would be good to see her surprise. After a bit he’d open the presents he had, or maybe he’d keep those till Flossie got in from school, they’d be pleased with those, never believe he’d made them all himself. The cushion for Fanny with the King’s head and all the flags of the Allies embroidered on it, and the little purse for Floss, made in red, white, and blue beads.’ He reached the gate, opened it cautiously so it would not creak, slipped through the door and into the kitchen.
Fanny was bent over her stove just as he thought she would be. Down went his grip on the floor and she was in his arms.
“George! You old silly.” For a moment, as she clung to him, Fanny forgot that here was the stumbling-block in the way of Flossie’s future, and knew him only as her George, solid, reliable, something to lean her tired body against, and take her cares off her shoulders.
George was shocked at her appearance; on his leaves he had thought her looking tired, but then her tiredness was part of a general tiredness, but now other people were bucking up, why wasn’t Fanny?
“You been feelin’ your drop? You don’t look right.”
Fanny pushed him from her, nervous under his scrutiny.
“Go on, you old silly, I’m lovely in meself. Why didn’t you let me know you was comin’?”
“Thought I’d give you an’ Floss a surprise.” He glanced at the clock on the dresser. “She’ll be comin’ along soon now, won’t she? I’ll step up the road and meet her.”
Fanny pretended to busy herself with the lid of the kettle.
“It’s no good doin’ that. She don’t come home to tea.”
“Whyever not?”
“Well, she’s changed her school, she’s a bit further away.”
“She’s never got into the secondary, has she? You never told me.”
“No, she hasn’t. Now you sit down and let me get your tea, Mr. Talkative, or you won’t have none.”
“But what about Flossie’s school?”
Fanny laughed nervously.
“Aren’t you impatient? I’ll tell you all the news just so soon as I’ve got this set.”
George sat down, looking in a worried way at Fanny’s back. He was not one who ever had suspicions about people, least of all about his own family. There was his home fixed and unalterable. At any hour of the day during the last four years, he would, had he been asked, have told exactly what his wife and child were doing. ‘Four o’clock? Fan’ll be just putting on the kettle. Twelve? My Floss’ll have her eye on the clock, glad to be gettin’ ’ome to her dinner.’ Even obvious changes in other people’s arrangements, such as he read of in the papers, the hours spent in food queues, the nights in cellars, did not seem to have any bearing on his own belongings. But now he could not fail to see that Fanny was nervous, and seemed as if she had something on her mind.
Fanny put the teapot on the table, and a cake, loaf, jam, and butter, and spooned some tea into the pot, all the while avoiding his eye.
“Sorry there isn’t relish, I’d have had a spread if I’d known you was comin’, I meant to slip out and get a bit of fish after I’d had a cup, I generally have something late with Floss.” She broke off: how Flossie did keep coming into the conversation, if only George had said he was coming, she’d have kept her at home, no need to have had this fuss for a day or two.
George took the cup of tea she passed him, and put in some sugar, and stirred vigorously.
“You got something on your mind, my girl. Best let us have it and get it over. What’s up with Floss?”
Fanny swallowed.
“Well—” she looked at him pleadingly. “I know you aren’t going to like it, George; you being so religious-minded, I ought to ’ave told you when you was ’ome on your leaves, but there didn’t seem no point in upsettin’ of you then.”
George patted her hand.
“Come on, out with it. What’s she been up to?”
“She’s on the stage.”
George put down his cup, and stared at her a moment with incomprehension. At last he said:
“On the stage! Whatever for?”
“Now look here,” Fanny leant towards him, “you’ve got to try and understand. Our Floss is beautiful. You should read what the papers say; I’ll show you after, I’ve all the pieces kept. It don’t seem right her havin’ all those looks and just doin’ no better than what we done, slavin’ day in day out, never no clothes nor—” she saw the expression on his face, “Oh, I don’t mean I ’aven’t been ’appy along of you—I have, you know that. But Floss is different, everybody says so.”
George felt the words he heard could have no belief behind them. His Fan didn’t think that way.
“The stage! You know what the minister says, Fanny, you ’eard ’im, same as I done. It’s a lure of Satan, that’s what he says.”
Fanny began to cry.
“I knew that’s how you’d talk, that’s why I never told you before.” She held her sobs back. “You got to try and understand. We ’aven’t no ordinary child, she’s wonderful, everybody says she is; you ’aven’t no right to stand in ’er way, you can’t do it.” She put her head on her arms and broke down completely.
George got up and patted her shoulder.
“There, don’t take on. I dare say no great ’arm’s done. You meant all right, I suppose.”
Fanny half raised her head, there was a gleam of hope in her look.
“You don’t mind?”
“Well, I don’t say that, but she’s young, and maybe ’as not got contaminated and set in Satan’s ways. Where is she now?”
“At her dancing lesson.”
“Dancin’! So that was what all the talk of her dancin’ was last time I was home.” He looked down at Fanny, flabbergasted. “You acted very deceitful.” A sob answered him. “When does she go to this theatre?”
“She’s not workin’ now.”
“And never will again.”
Fanny jumped up, her face streaming with tears, she spoke in jerks through her sobs.
It Pays to Be Good Page 5