by Maggie Ford
Emma thought quickly. ‘I just fancied a walk before going ’ome, and I ’appened to ’ear your music.’
‘I see.’ He was looking straight at her. His eyes were an intense, mesmerising blue. They made her fidget with self-consciousness. He knew she was lying. ‘It’s me birthday,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m sixteen.’
There was amusement in his eyes, the lower half of his face still hidden by his scarf. ‘Congratulations.’ He dropped the tin of money into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘And what did you get for your birthday?’
‘Nothing.’ Emma’s head went up in defiance. ‘People round ’ere ain’t got the money ter throw around on birthday presents.’
‘Then here is a present from myself.’
As he dipped a hand back into his pocket, Emma began backing away, embarrassing memories of that first time he’d given her money and what Lizzie had said about that.
‘I don’t want yer money.’
Even as she stammered her protest, he reached out, caught her wrist and placed a shilling piece hard against the palm of her hand. To her shame, she felt her fingers close over the coin as though with a will of their own, her mind telling her that she needed it more than he did.
‘Why do yer do this busking lark?’ she burst out in sudden, quite unreasonable temper. ‘Yer don’t really ’ave to, do yer? That Martin Page I saw at your place said you ’ad yer own ’ouse – said a good magician makes lots of money, and you said yerself yer was good. So why don’t yer?’
His amiableness disappeared. ‘You must go home, my dear,’ he said brusquely.
‘I think it’s awful,’ she went on, brushing aside his advice. ‘A man what’s already got money doing this sort of thing when there’s people like us what ain’t got nothing trying ’ard ter make a living.’
‘Have nothing.’
‘What?’ She looked at him in confusion.
‘The phrase is, “you have nothing”, not, “ain’t got nothing”.’
Emma glared. ‘I talk as I like!’ she retorted and saw him shrug.
‘As you wish,’ he said, turning away as though dismissing her from mind.
She wasn’t going to be dismissed that easily. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she demanded, following him as he began to move off. ‘You act like you ain’t got two brass farthings ter rub tergether, yet yer’ve even got an ’ouse of yer own ’idden away.’
For some reason, for the first time she had need to correct her words. She’d heard posh people, passing by her and her flowers. ‘Your own house – hidden away,’ she corrected. ‘That Martin Page said how clever you was as a magician.’
But it was an effort to keep it up, and why should she, just to please him? He was nothing to her. ‘Why did yer leave off being a magician?’ she asked, trailing after him.
She grasped her empty flower tray more firmly to her side as he stalked ahead, refusing to pause for her to catch up, in fact his already long stride lengthening so that she was forced to trot to keep up.
‘What I am or have been is none of your business, young lady,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You might be sixteen now, but that gives you no right to be rude.’
She hadn’t meant to be rude. She only wanted him to see that he was doing himself an injustice. Putting on a spurt she caught up to him.
‘Look, Mr Barrington, I know I shouldn’t poke me nose in, but why don’t yer do yer magic fer people round ’ere instead of playing that thing.’
‘Because I chose not to.’
‘Yer’d make a lot more money. But yer’ve already got money, ain’t yer?’ she added, unable to help herself.
He ignored the dig. ‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘Why?’
He did not reply and again anger overtook her. ‘Because if yer did,’ she exploded, ‘yer’d ’ave ter talk to yer audience, and ter do that yer’d ’ave ter get rid of that muffler, an’yer don’t want no one ter see that scar, do yer?’
He stopped so abruptly that she almost ran into him. ‘You go too far, young lady!’ he said, turning on her. ‘May I put it this way? As you choose to speak as you do, I choose to be what I am. Do you not agree that that’s fair?’
For a moment she was stumped for an answer and he began to move on again, walking swiftly. Stubbornly, she followed.
‘I know yer still see me as a child, Mr Barrington. And I suppose to you I am, but I’m sixteen now, and round ’ere that’s well grown up. Life’s hard around ’ere. It makes yer grow up quick.’
Hurrying and talking at the same time was making her ever so slightly out of breath, young as she was, as she followed behind him into the black depths of the railway arch and on into the alley where he lived. Soon he would gain his door, go in and close it on her. She needed to continue talking fast.
‘What I’m trying ter say, Mr Barrington, is that I’m used to this sort of life. I was brought up to it, or something like it, and you weren’t. I expect it weren’t too bad last spring and summer, or even last autumn, but you only just got through this winter by the skin of yer teeth. Yer’ve never known what it can be like fer people like us what’s got almost nothing. But yer’ve begun ter find out this winter. So ’ow many winters are yer going ter put up with before it kills yer?’
Words poured from her as they neared his door.
‘You ’ave ter be brought up ’ere ter survive. Please, Mr Barrington, listen ter me.’ They had reached his door. ‘Look, yer’ve got ter go back ter what yer’ve been accustomed to, go back to what you was doing.’
She couldn’t remember when she’d spoken for so long in one go. But he was regarding her as his hand sought for the key in his pocket.
‘I know what I’m talking about, Mr Barrington,’ she hurried on, her tone growing even more urgent. ‘And I know it ain’t just that scar what did for yer. It’s everything else, like losing yer wife, like blaming yerself. I know that from what you told me the day I ’elped you ’ome. Yer use that muffler to hide from yerself – not from other people.’
He was looking steadily at her, key poised in the lock. ‘You are indeed more grown up than your age tells me. You are quite perceptive.’
She wasn’t sure what perceptive meant, but she brightened on recalling the solution she’d come up with the evening she had helped him home when he had been unwell.
She began again. ‘If yer that conscious of yer scar, why don’t yer do what I suggested a while ago, hide it under a beard. Like I said, one like our King Edward wears. All distinguished. Or do yer just like torturing yerself?’
He ignored the taunt, his tone sharp. ‘I no longer have any interest in appearing distinguished – to anyone!’ Any moment he would say a terse goodbye and turn the key, open the door and close it against her. She needed desperately to get out all she wanted to say before that happened.
‘Because yer could do yer conjuring and amaze people instead of ’aving them patronise yer, dancing to yer music and walkin’ off. Yer could make ’em respect yer, like yer said yer once did.’
He seemed unimpressed. ‘Conjuring is an art reserved for the stage.’
‘I’ve seen it done in the streets,’ she answered back. ‘Along with them what eat fire and jugglers and such. They make lots more money than the ordinary buskers what play old trumpets and violins and such. People watch with their eyes bulging, and even though a lot ain’t all that good, people are still caught out trying ter find what cup a ball is under, or where the lady is out of three cards, that sort of thing. You could do that.’
‘Simple tricks,’ Barrington scoffed. ‘Done by amateurs!’ He suddenly seemed to grow in stature. ‘I’m a master of magic, a conjuror, an illusionist, a reader of minds.’ The timbre of his voice deepened as if imparting some pearl of wisdom to a pupil. ‘Prestidigitation is a worthy profession. Sleight of hand done by a master can mystify nobility. It is not for the despicable curbside entertainer looking for pennies thrown by gaping onlookers as one would throw a bone to a dog.’
Without warning t
he imperious tone faded. He appeared to wilt just a little. ‘One must practise daily, and I have not practised for over a year now.’
Emma snapped herself from the spell he’d momentarily cast over her on the bit about reading minds. Of course conjurors used trickery. Everyone knew that. But mind-reading, he could do that! That gave her the shivers.
‘It’s the will ter do it what yer’ve lost,’ she said boldly. ‘Not yer touch. Yer could start practising again.’
‘For the curbside?’ The sneer haughty, but she ignored it.
‘Yer’ve got all them boxes in there.’ She jabbed a finger toward the still closed door. ‘Yer could pick up again if yer practised.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, turning away from her to twist the key in the lock. ‘It’s too late.’
The door being opened, Emma grabbed his arm. ‘Yer could …’
He cut short what she was about to say. ‘I wish you’d cease uttering that word, “yer”.’ His expression was one of utter distaste. ‘It offends me. How can you bend the King’s English so unpalatably? While you are with me, let me get one thing straight – I will thank you to kindly think what you are saying. Now, girl, say YOU. Say it, girl!’
The barked command made her jump. ‘You,’ she obliged, meekly.
He nodded. ‘It takes no more effort to pronounce it properly than to abuse it. And you have a nice voice when you use it as it should be used.’
Anger at having been so uncharacteristically meek melted. ‘Do I?’
‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘were I to take up my profession again, you would make an admirable assistant. But I would require you to speak English as it should be spoken.’
They stood at the opened door, she tall but still having to look up at him, her mind in turmoil. Was what she was seeing in his face signs that he was beginning to see her point, almost as if he was coming to some decision about picking up his profession again, maybe if only as a street entertainer? Her heart began to race.
‘Do yer …’ she broke off as he frowned at her. ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Mean what?’
‘About doing magic again.’
‘I did not say that. I said were I to.’
He came to himself abruptly. ‘Look my dear, come in.’ Pushing the door open, he stood back for her to enter, she doing so as though under his command. As he began to close the door, first glancing out, maybe to check no one had seen her, thinking of her reputation, she heard him curse.
‘Damn the man!’
Before he could close the door fully, it was caught and held ajar by someone who had appeared from the darkness. Barrington’s tone was full of anger. ‘What the devil do you want?’
‘I thought I’d look you up again, Theo,’ came the reply, and Emma instantly recognised the light, easy tone of Martin Page. It was a pleasing voice, but she was disturbed to hear it, being found here by him.
‘To see how you are,’ he answered. ‘Being nearby, I thought I’d …’
‘Plague me,’ Barrington finished. ‘Now that you’ve traced me.’
Emma had shrank back into the darkened room, hoping he wouldn’t come in, reluctant to have him discover her here and see the expression that discovery would bring to his face. But he’d already noticed a presence and she saw the paleness of his teeth as his lips split into a grin.
‘Ah, I see you already have company.’
He’d glimpsed the female shape, long skirt, small boater hat. But he couldn’t have recognised her. Please, came the silent prayer, don’t let him in.
‘Well, Martin,’ Barrington was saying. ‘Now you’re here, you had best come out of the cold.’
Prayers gone unanswered – for bad girls in strange men’s rooms, they never were – she stayed very still, hugging a corner. Hopefully she’d slip out with a quick excuse to be off before Barrington closed the door and had time to light any candle or gaslight. But the door closed, match struck, and she saw the look of surprise on Page’s face as the gas mantle flared.
‘How do you do?’ His tone was formal, stopping short of her name. He had probably forgotten it anyway.
‘I’d better go,’ she whispered in reply, her voice small.
‘Please, not on my account,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be staying long myself.’
But he’d already turned his back on her, that alone speaking louder than words. Barrington had put the hurdy-gurdy down on the bed, taking off his overcoat and bowler to drop them down beside it.
‘So,’ he said with a deep breath. ‘What is it you want?’
‘I want you to pick up where you left off, Theo.’
‘We’ve had all this out. You’ve had your answer.’
‘Not the one I’m looking for. Even in some cheap music hall you could live better. Exactly how long do you intend keeping up this fiasco of yours?’
‘What I do is no concern of yours,’ came the savage reply.
‘I think it is,’ Page said passionately. ‘You still blame me. No matter what I say or do, I can’t seem to convince you that nothing ever happened. Nothing! In spite of what you think, Theo, there was never anything between Eleanor and I …’
He broke off and glanced at Emma as though aware that he might have said too much. It brought an instant rush of blood to her cheeks, like someone caught out eavesdropping. There was a troubled look in his eyes. Seconds later he’d turned back to Theodore Barrington.
‘Theo, I don’t know what’s between you two, but she is just a kid.’
Indignation swept over Emma, embarrassment forgotten. ‘I’m sixteen! You can’t be much more than twenty!’
He was gazing at her again, his brown eyes still troubled. ‘You would do well to keep away from him,’ he said darkly. ‘You’ve no idea what he can be like. There are things you don’t know – don’t want to know – about him. Take my advice. Leave. Before you get caught up in his web.’
‘It’s you who needs to leave,’ Barrington snapped. ‘You’ll not change my mind, about the stage or yourself. I shall never go back to it.’
Emma had been thinking that Martin Page was only trying to frighten her off so he could wheedle his way back, but on Barrington’s statement, she leaped forward.
‘You mustn’t say that!’ she cried out. How could he turn away from such a romantic existence as the stage?
They were both looking at her. But she had to convey her own feeling on this. ‘I told yer,’ she said. ‘If yer ’ad a beard to hide that scar, perhaps all them guilty feelings might go away.’
She knew what she wanted to say, but not how to say it. There was perhaps a name for the way a visible scar could be used as an excuse, a cover for something that went far deeper, but she couldn’t think of any.
Faltering under their combined stare, she went on in a diminished voice, ‘I only thought it might ’elp, that’s all.’
Barrington spoke first, his voice surprisingly soft considering both men had seemed at odds with each other. ‘My dear, what did I tell you a little while ago? It is “you”, not “yer”. And there is an aitch in the word “help”.’
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. With this going on, he was trying to teach her to speak properly? Woodenly, she repeated the correct pronunciation then felt annoyance flare. Why d’yer want me to talk proper?’
‘To become a young woman worthy of notice,’ he said, Martin now ignored.
‘What if I don’t want ter be … to be noticed.’
‘With your beauty, my dear, you can become anything you want, but you’d have to work hard and learn to speak well. I couldn’t take you on as my assistant if you didn’t.’
Emma stared, unable to make sense of those words as Page broke in.
‘Theo, what’re you up to?’
Barrington turned to gaze slowly at him. ‘I am saying that were I ever to return to the stage, I would use a female assistant.’
Page frowned. ‘I was your assistant, Theo, a damned good one and you know it. You taught me.’
&nb
sp; ‘That was before …’ Barrington allowed a significant pause, then adopted a more vague note. ‘Before those events leading up to my wife’s unfortunate demise.’
‘There were no events, as you put it,’ Page said tightly. ‘But you’d be ready to stake all on some green girl with no training just to have your so-called revenge. Wasn’t dismissing me out of hand enough for you?’
‘I said were I ever to go back, not that I will.’ Barrington said levelly.
‘Same thing.’ Page went to position himself squarely in front of him like one ready for a fight, but Barrington’s gaze remained steady.
‘Not the same thing at all, Martin. I need to get one thing straight. The past is behind me. It is not forgotten. But it is behind me.’
Page was eyeing him narrowly. ‘So no matter how much I protest, Theo, you’re never going to alter your mind about me, so what is the point of my trying?’
‘No point at all.’
Emma stood transfixed, one man openly smouldering, the other calm yet with the calmness of a quiet day before a tempest breaks. Whatever there was between them was none of her business. All she was thinking was what Barrington had said about a lady assistant, intimating it was her he had in mind.
‘So you mean you might go back on the stage?’ she ventured.
It was Page who answered. ‘If he does, it will be to spite me – him and his baseless suspicion. But he won’t. I know him. He won’t.’
‘It don’t ’ave to be in a theatre.’ She couldn’t let this golden chance slip. Her mind’s eye saw the money she could bring home to Mum, even from helping a street magician with his tricks, if that was what being his assistant meant. She took an enthusiastic step towards Barrington.
‘Yer could start with doing your conjuring on the street – see how people take to it.’ She was trying hard to speak nicely – her chances depended on it. ‘Work the theatre queues, an’ I could help you, like you said. I’m very quick to learn and you could teach me.’
Her voice trailed off inadequately as he levelled his eyes at her, and a small shiver ran through her as he continued to hold her gaze. There was something about it that made her feel uncomfortable. Nor had he spoken, but again Martin spoke for him.