A Dream of her Own

by Benita Brown

  It was not unusual, of course, for the girls to acquire followers. And Nella was destined for stardom, that was already obvious. Harry remembered the first time he’d heard her sing at the pantomime in Newcastle. Even then, he’d found it hard to believe that she’d had no training. Her voice, pure and strong, had echoed down from the upper circle like the voice of an angel. She seemed to know instinctively how to project and fill the theatre. She had a natural talent. A talent that he’d been only too keen to sign up and train.

  And the little crookback was beautiful; there was no doubt of that. Once the good food and rest periods that Harry had insisted on had filled out the hollows in her face and had added a bloom to her young skin, she began to take on the ethereal attraction of a romantic medieval princess in a painting by Rossetti. She always secured the hood of her cloak far enough back on the top of her head so that her babysoft, pale gold ringlets framed her face, and the soft, fluid folds of the expensive velvet cloak hung gracefully to the floor, concealing her body entirely.

  Harry sighed. That poor malformed body - who could have guessed that it contained a voice so perfect and a spirit so strong. He remembered watching Nella gripping the brass handrail as she came painfully down the stairs from the gods the night of the pantomime ...

  After the finale, Harry had pulled off his costume and hurried into his ordinary clothes and, without even stopping to clean off the greasepaint, he had hurried out of the stage door and round to the exit she should emerge from.

  The last of the boisterous theatregoers had hurried into the cold and dark of the winter night and Harry began to wonder if he had missed her when, at last, she appeared, clinging on to the rail for support as she came down the stairs. He tried not to show his dismay at his first sight of her twisted body and, summoning up his acting skills, he was able to smile as he stepped into her path.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her stare was half suspicious, half belligerent.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I’d like to speak to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your singing. But not here, it’s cold.’

  ‘Too right. It’s bloomin’ perishing and I’ve got to get back. Step aside, if you divven’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t mind,’ Harry corrected automatically. ‘You should say don’t mind.’

  Nella’s eyes widened. ‘I beg your pardon. Who do you think you are to correct me like that!’

  Harry grinned at the sheer spirit she showed. Her eyes had flashed and the angry animation had hinted at how expressive her face could be. If only it weren’t for those poor twisted bones ...

  ‘Well, answer me, then. Didn’t yer mother give you a name?’ she demanded. She had drawn herself up so that her body almost appeared to be straight and Harry laughed out loud.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘If you’ve just come here to mock me then will you kindly step aside so’s I can get a cab and get back before I’m locked out!’

  ‘No, don’t go!’

  ‘I’ve got to. Me job depends on it.’

  Nella began to push past him. Harry didn’t want to catch hold of her and frighten her. The strange little thing looked quite capable of twisting out of his grasp and vanishing into the night like Rumpelstiltskin. ‘Wait!’ he almost shouted. ‘I told you I wanted to talk to you about your singing. Your voice - it’s beautiful.’

  ‘Is it?’ She was out on the pavement. Frost sparkled at her feet and her eyes shone as she looked back at him. ‘Well, thank you. But I’ve still got to get a cab back to Rye Hill.’

  ‘Is that where you live?’

  ‘Aye, if you can call it living.’

  Nella shrugged and turned away from him. Harry hurried after her as she made her way towards the cab rank. He could see the steam issuing from the horses’ nostrils, hear the subdued chatter of the cabbies.

  ‘How about if you never had to go back there?’ She ignored him and hurried on. ‘What do you do there? Work in one of the big houses?’ She had almost reached the first cab in line and Harry raised his voice even further. ‘Is that what you are? A skivvy?’

  She turned and faced him. ‘Yes, that’s what I am. Now I don’t know why you’re tormenting me like this, but will you please let me go or I’ll lose me job and me home an’ all!’

  ‘Do you like being a skivvy?’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  The cabby was just about to help her up into the cab when she turned and spat out, ‘And I’m serious, too. Haddaway and stop botherin’ me!’

  ‘You heard the lass,’ the cabby said, and he stared at Harry’s face, still covered in greasepaint. ‘Haddaway back to the theatre, Mr Bodie, and get one of the chorus girls to oblige you.’

  At that point Harry had almost given up. The shame of it - to be judged to be so hard up for female company that he should be pursuing a shabby little crookback through the streets of Newcastle. His outrage must have shown for he heard Nella say, ‘Ee, I divven’t think it was that he was after. He was just gannin’ on about me voice.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Harry said, ‘and it’s my voice and look where it’s led me. I only wanted to do you a good turn, offer you a better life in the theatre - stardom, riches, even - but you seem determined to remain in servitude for the rest of your miserable existence!’ He knew he was overacting but he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Take her home, my man. Take her back to Rye Hill. And just to show there’s no hard feelings, please allow me to pay the young person’s fare.’

  He was just about to drop the money into the cabby’s outstretched palm when Nella placed a hand on his arm. ‘Wait a minute.’ Turning to the cabby, she asked, ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Aye, it’s Harry Bodie, the comic actor.’

  ‘Actor-manager,’ Harry murmured.

  ‘Famous, he is,’ the man continued, ‘but that’s no reason for chasin’ innocent young lasses.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake—’ Harry began.

  ‘You were the grandmother!’ Nella exclaimed.

  ‘That’s right. Doubling up as the Baron and—’

  ‘And you’re in charge of this troupe?’

  ‘For my sins, I am.’

  ‘And you really think that me voice is good enough for the stage?’

  ‘More than good enough.’

  ‘And what about the way I look?’

  ‘That’s a problem.’ Harry had known that it would be no good lying to her. ‘But it’s not insurmountable.’

  ‘Insur ...?’

  ‘We can solve it. Believe me.’

  ‘So you’re really offering to take me on?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that if you really want to give me a job, it’ll hev to start right now because you’ve delayed me so long that Dr Sowerby will hev locked up and I’ll hev to sleep in the coalhouse - and if I dare show me face in the morning Mrs Mortimer will take the greatest pleasure in dismissing me.’

  ‘My face,‘ Harry corrected gently. ‘You should say my face,’ and dropping the coins into the astonished cabby’s hand as a gesture of goodwill, he took hold of Nella’s arm and led her back across the slippery cobbles to the theatre.

  Lucy hadn’t been pleased, but she found it hard to refuse Harry and she had agreed to take Nella back to her digs with her that night and keep a motherly eye on the girl until she could fend for herself in the strange new world she had entered so unexpectedly ...

  And now Harry knew that his instinct had been right. Just a few months on and already word had got around that Nella Nicholson was an act worth seeing. Her admirers had begun to refer to her as Little Sparrow after the song which she had made her own.

  And Nella had nothing to reproach him with. Harry was taking his cut but he was straight with her and already she was earning as much in a week as she had once earned in a year - more like five years - as a domestic servant. If he had anything to do with it, she was going to be
very rich indeed. And Harry, as her manager, would do very nicely, thank you.

  He smiled with pleasure and anticipation as the audience at the Hippodrome finally, and reluctantly, let the curtain fall for the last time.

  Jimmy Nelson had to run to keep up with Valentino. He saw the way the women looked at the master as he strode through the concourse of the Central Station. Not a chance, Jimmy thought. Some of them were bonny enough, but even if they had been a better sort of woman rather than the whores that hung around the entrance at night, Valentino wouldn’t have given them a second glance.

  The master had eyes for no one except the little singer Nella Nicholson, and that was why Jimmy had been wrenched away from his duties at the restaurant and given this strange but exciting new task of accompanying Valentino to the theatre. Over the past weeks, they had been to shows at theatres all over the place: Ashington, North Shields, South Shields, Gateshead, Jarrow and Sunderland, and tonight they had been to the Hippodrome at Blyth.

  Goodness knows what would happen when Nella Nicholson began to travel further afield. Jimmy couldn’t see the master giving up his passion for the singer. Perhaps the Alvinis would have to let him stay away for the night - get rooms in a nice hotel. I’ll need some smarter clothes if that happens, Jimmy mused, as well as a bit more spending money.

  Valentino was no longer in sight. Jimmy wrenched his mind back to his duties and ran through the pillared entrance out into the April night. He was worried. One night, not long ago, one of the trollops had approached the master and offered her wares. Jimmy remembered how Valentino had stared down at the poor painted thing uncomprehendingly until, growing impatient, she had started to get nasty.

  When her smiles turned to snarls, the big man stiffened and, when she began to screech he grew angry. Usually he was as meek and as biddable as a lamb; otherwise his ma, old Madame Alvini, would never have let him out with only Jimmy in charge. But when his anger was roused it was swift and violent, and all the more dangerous because his poor brain was so addled.

  ‘Piss off!’ Jimmy yelled at the girl. ‘Piss off before he clouts you one!’

  The girl began to back away but, from the corner of his eye, Jimmy saw a man detach himself from the shadows. The man was big, but not as big as Valentino. Jimmy watched as he cocked his head to one side and seemed to sum up the situation; then the man shrugged, grabbed the girl and pulled her away.

  ‘Look, Mr Alvini, look at this!’ Jimmy hurried towards him, holding out the postcard that he had bought in the foyer of the theatre.

  ‘What - what is it?’

  Valentino was still staring after the retreating girl. Hesitantly Jimmy reached out and tugged at his sleeve. Valentino blinked and glanced down.

  ‘Look - I bought it for you - a present.’

  Jimmy pulled the master over to stand under one of the gaslamps hanging high in the roof space of the portico. He relaxed when, at last, Valentino looked at the card and smiled.

  ‘Little Sparrow!’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Alvini. Nella Nicholson. That’s for you - you can keep it.’

  Valentino had forgotten everything else and been totally absorbed in looking at the postcard. Jimmy had been pleased with himself. When he’d seen the cards for sale in the theatre, he had bought one hurriedly, intending to give it to the master as a nice surprise when they got home. Now it had served as a useful distraction.

  Perhaps they remembered the incident because, ever since that night, the girls had confined themselves to looking. Jimmy was amused to see that some of the young men looked at Valentino too. He knew what kind of young men they were who hung around the station at night, one or two of their sort dined in the private rooms at the restaurant and sometimes made life awkward for him. Not that this lot could have afforded to eat at Alvini’s.

  But tonight the whores of both sexes kept their distance. They could easily have walked back to the restaurant from the station but Jimmy decided that they’d better take a cab. Valentino’s brother always saw to it that he had plenty of spare cash and he never questioned Jimmy’s use of it. Not that he would ever cheat Mr Frank, he respected him too much. In Jimmy’s opinion Gianfranco Alvini was much more of a gentleman than most of the customers of the restaurant.

  Frank must have been watching for the cab from the upstairs window for he was waiting at the door. He hurried out across the pavement.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine. Your brother really enjoyed the show.’

  ‘I’m sure he did. But what I meant was, did he ...?’

  ‘Don’t worry. No trouble. Never is.’ Jimmy had never mentioned the incident with the street girls. Why worry folk when nothing had happened?

  ‘I’m very grateful to you, Jimmy,’ Frank said. And then, ‘But it’s late. Why don’t you take a cab home? Here, I’ll pay.’

  ‘Not likely! I mean, no thank you. I’ll walk home, if you don’t mind. I’d never hear the end of it if I turned up in a hansom in Raby Street. And, anyway, if I leg it I should catch the last tram.’

  ‘All right. Good night, Jimmy, and thank you.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Alvini.’

  Frank Alvini closed the door and locked it before taking his brother up to the family’s living quarters. Valentino didn’t give him any trouble. Frank hung up his older brother’s clothes and waited until he was settled in bed and breathing evenly before he closed the door quietly and walked softly across the landing to knock on their mother’s door.

  ‘It’s all right, Mamma, you can go to sleep now.’

  There was no answer and Frank smiled. His mother always pretended that she was asleep but Frank knew that she didn’t settle on the nights that her elder son was out of the house. He imagined her lying in bed in a state of anxiety bordering on terror until she heard Valentino come home again.

  Frank was soon in bed himself and he sighed as he reached out to turn off the oil-lamp on the bedside table. There was a pile of medical books on the table and he had promised himself earlier that he would do at least an hour’s reading before he went to sleep but his mind was too troubled. He didn’t know what they were going to do about this obsession his brother had with the little actress. They had hoped it would wane but instead it seemed to be growing more intense with each passing month.

  Frank guessed that, unlike a child, Valentino’s power of comprehension would never develop further than it had already. Unlike his body, which was growing more and more powerful. And that was where the danger lay. Usually good-natured, Valentino could lose his temper if he were crossed, and with such physical strength and so little maturity who knows what he might do.

  They had had to give in to his requests - more like demands - to let him go to see Nella Nicholson wherever she might be performing, and so far Jimmy Nelson had been an intelligent and adequate escort. But, if this obsession with the singer continued much longer, Frank knew that they would have to decide what to do about it. Meanwhile he should probably consider paying Jimmy more and, luckily, they could afford it. Alvini’s was doing well. So well that Frank felt guilty that he had no desire whatsoever to continue in the business once he was qualified. And that was another problem.

  Constance was also lying awake. The dying embers in the bedroom hearth gave out a warm glow but she felt far from comforted even when she pulled the clean sweet-smelling bedclothes more closely around her.

  She was alone. She couldn’t remember how long ago it had been when John had told her that rather than disturb her at nights he would return to sleep in his old room. He said that she needed all the sleep and rest she could get for the sake of the baby.

  But did he not understand that she could neither sleep nor rest when she was left alone like this? She didn’t even know what time he came home these days, nor where he had been. Some nights she tried to remain awake to listen for him but either exhaustion overcame her before he came home or he was too quiet for her to hear him.

  But he always appeared in the morning, bringing her
breakfast tray himself, and he was otherwise so sweet and kind to her that she could not bring herself to reproach him. He gave her a generous allowance, said she could order anything she liked for the household or for herself, but he never once asked her how she spent her days or whether she would have liked his company.

  She had tried to talk to him about his work at Barton’s but he was obviously bored by that. He became much more animated when discussing the future that he still hoped to make for himself as a couturier. At first that had drawn them together. He had been willing to spend hours in the sewing room, designing and making clothes for her. But when her body began to change with the pregnancy he had suggested that she should let him do most of the work.