by Dilly Court
‘We all have to make a living, love.’ Herbert tugged at his beard and for a moment Phoebe thought it might be glued on, but it remained firmly in place. ‘If it’s good enough for my Rose, it should be considered suitable for young Dolly.’
Phoebe realised then that she had touched on a tender spot. She laid her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. No offence meant, Mr Jackson.’
‘None taken, I’m sure.’ Rose leapt to her feet. ‘Come on, Poppa. We’ve got to get to the theatre.’
‘Are you performing there?’ Phoebe seized the opportunity to steer the conversation to safer ground.
‘We understudy the actors,’ Rose said gravely. ‘But mostly we’re front of house.’
‘That sounds exciting.’ Phoebe looked to Herbert for confirmation but he appeared to have taken umbrage and he stood up abruptly, tipping up the bench so that Dolly slid to the floor in a flurry of petticoats and peals of laughter. This broke the ice and everyone joined in, even Herbert. He was moved to smile graciously at Phoebe. ‘If you are looking for work I might be able to find you something at the theatre, even if it’s selling programmes or clearing up after the performance.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you, but I was planning to continue the work I’ve been doing with Ma in London.’
‘Don’t tell me she’s got you telling fortunes and conducting sham séances?’ Judy impaled a slice of bread on the tines of a toasting fork with unnecessary force.
‘It’s not entirely make believe,’ Phoebe said mildly. ‘I know some of it’s a put up job, but not all. There are times when I believe that Ma really can see into the future, and sometimes it happens to me too.’
‘You have the gift then?’ Fred was suddenly alert. ‘You could make a fortune on the seafront in summer.’
Rose and her father were halfway to the door but Herbert stopped and turned to stare at Phoebe. ‘Have you ever done your act on stage?’
‘It’s not an act, Mr Jackson.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s all the same thing, dearie. Conjuring, magic, illusion or foretelling the future is all an act. We have our resident illusionist and magician Caspar Collins and his assistant, the lovely Hyacinth, but you never know when she might need an understudy. Visit the theatre as I suggested, and we might find something for you.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
Herbert seized Rose by the hand. ‘Come along, my pet. We have no time to waste.’ He swept her out of the room as if they were exiting the stage.
‘Well, that’s an offer you can’t refuse,’ Judy said firmly. ‘You can’t stay here or anywhere for nothing and you’ll have to support your mother since she’s decided to play the invalid. Annie should have trodden the boards. I’ve always said so.’ She began clearing the table, rattling the cutlery and slamming the plates together. ‘Make yourself useful, Dolly. Get up off the floor and stop giggling. You can wash up.’
Madame Galina and Gussie left their seats and headed for the doorway, jostling each other for position. ‘I was first,’ Madame said crossly.
‘You always push in, you big booby.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I won’t shut up, Galina. You started it.’ Augusta gave her a shove that sent the fat woman stumbling through the doorway.
‘Are they always like this?’ Phoebe asked in a low voice.
‘Always.’
‘But why do they stay together if they hate each other?’
Judy carried a pile of dirty crockery to the stone sink and slid it into the cold greasy water. ‘Bring the kettle, Dolly. You’ll need some hot water to wash up in.’
‘What went wrong between them?’ Phoebe was struggling to understand the relationship between the one-time prima ballerina and her dresser.
‘What do I care?’ Judy returned to the table to finish clearing away the breakfast things. ‘They pay their rent and that’s all that matters to me.’ She made another trip to the sink. ‘You can finish up here before you go to the theatre. I assume you’ll take Herbert up on his generous offer.’
Phoebe nodded. ‘Yes, I will.’
‘Good. Because I want a week’s rent in advance and the moment you fall behind, you and my sainted cousin and the simpleton are out of my house.’ Judy watched as Dolly walked slowly towards the sink carrying the kettle of hot water. ‘If that girl moves any slower she’ll be walking backwards. I’m going to market but I want to find this kitchen spotless by the time I get back.’ She snatched her bonnet and shawl from a peg behind the door, and hooking a wicker basket over her arm she left them with only Fred for company. He seemed to have escaped her eagle eye and was squatting quietly at the end of the table finishing off his breakfast with apparent difficulty. Phoebe could not help noticing that he had only a few teeth left in his head and was rolling the toast round and round in his mouth before gulping it down. She would not be surprised if he suffered from the most appalling indigestion. She went to take his empty plate but he caught her by the wrist, peering up into her face. ‘I can tell you everything,’ he said in a stage whisper.
‘About what, Mr Jones?’
‘About Gertrude, for that’s Galina’s real name, and her friend Augusta.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘It was a man.’ Fred shook his head sagely. ‘It always is, if you ask me, ducks. They both fell in love with the dance master, a Russian fellow with an unpronounceable name. Anyway, he was engaged to Augusta, who must have been quite a pretty plum before she shrivelled up into a prune, but Gertie fancied him too.’
Phoebe shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘It really isn’t any business of mine. Perhaps some things are best forgotten.’
Fred shook his head. ‘You wanted to know why they don’t get on and I’m telling you. The wedding was arranged but then Gertie announces that she’s in the family way and he’s the father. He, being a soft fool, marries Gertie and jilts poor Gussie. She takes a knife to him and stabs him in the breadbasket, although luckily it’s not fatal.’
‘How terrible.’ Phoebe felt almost sorry for Augusta, who had been driven to a crime of passion. ‘What happened then?’
‘Gussie being the ballerina’s dresser knows a thing or two and she tells the Russian that Gertie was never in the family way and he’s been had good and proper. He confronts Gertie with the truth and she panics and gives him a mighty shove which sends him over the balcony in the theatre, so now the poor chap really is dead and the two women have to flee the country or face arrest for murder and attempted murder.’
‘Why have they stayed together then? If they hate each other it seems like madness.’
‘Gussie says that in the beginning it was because they didn’t trust each other. Both of them thought the other one would shop her to the police, and then it became a habit. After years of struggling to make a living they’re like Siamese twins, joined at the hip never to be parted. You get used to them, ducks. They don’t mean half of what they say.’
‘You’re a very wise man, Mr Jones.’
‘Fred, love. Call me Fred.’ He rose stiffly to his feet. ‘Best get on or I won’t earn nothing today.’ He limped from the kitchen, dragging his gammy leg in an awkward gait. Phoebe could not imagine how he managed to do his job as a window cleaner, but it was obvious that Judy would have little sympathy for anyone who was unable to pay their way. She fingered the leather pouch tucked in the pocket of her skirt in which she kept the money that they must live off until she could start earning. It was considerably lighter after taking out their cab fares and the cost of the railway journey. She would have to give Judy something on account, since Ma was not in a fit state to move on, and at this rate their cash would soon dwindle to nothing. The stark reality of their situation was only just beginning to dawn on her.
Chapter Eight
LATER THAT MORNING Phoebe arrived at the theatre in New Road, slightly damp from the sea mist that had engulfed the town and feeling rather bedraggled as she entered the imp
osing building. She was greeted by Rose, who emerged from the box office with a cheerful smile on her pretty face. ‘I’m glad you came, Phoebe. Poppa will be too.’
Phoebe suspected that this was a polite lie, but her admiration for Rose’s irrepressible good humour grew moment by moment. ‘I’m very grateful to both of you. I’m sure it’s quite difficult finding work here in the winter.’
‘It is, but we’ve been here for as long as I can remember. Poppa and Mamma were a double act in the old days.’
‘Really? What did they do?’
‘Acrobatic dancing. Poppa used to hurl Mamma into the air and catch her. They were a huge success. They even performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.’
‘Amazing,’ Phoebe said sincerely. She could not visualise Herbert Jackson as anything other than a portly middle-aged man. ‘Are there any jobs going, Rose? I really don’t mind what I do, and it’s only temporary.’
‘You won’t be staying in Brighton then?’ Rose’s mouth drooped at the corners and her eyes dulled.
‘Just for the winter. It’s a long story.’
Rose brightened visibly. ‘I’ve got plenty of time. There’s not much to be done this morning. Come and sit in the auditorium and tell me everything.’
Seated at the back of the stalls, Phoebe breathed in the odour of stale cigar smoke and the fug created by warm bodies in an enclosed space. She could almost smell the excitement that last night’s audience had felt as they watched the show. The gilded decor and red plush upholstery put her in mind of a sumptuous palace of entertainment. The velvet curtains were pulled back to reveal the empty stage which seemed to be bathed in suspense, waiting for the next act to come on. She was so enthralled with the ambience that she was finding it hard to concentrate on responding to Rose’s eager questions about life in London.
‘Do go on,’ Rose said earnestly. ‘Tell me why you didn’t go to Italy for the winter. I would have thought a change of air would do your mother a power of good, especially in her delicate condition.’
Phoebe had no intention of shaming her mother by allowing the paternity of her unborn child to become common knowledge. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Annie Giamatti was a tragic widow who was not well enough to accompany the family to Italy and had come to the coast for her health. Phoebe did not mention the Paxman gang or the fact that her own father had died due to his involvement with the high mob many years ago. She managed to tell the sorry tale without actually lying, and she could see from the sympathetic look in her eyes that Rose believed every word she said. Feeling slightly guilty, but also relieved that there would be no further awkward questions, Phoebe shot a sideways glance at her new friend. ‘So do you think Mr Jackson could find work for me? I could start right away.’
Rose stood up, waving to her father who had just walked on stage carrying a broom. ‘There’s no need to do that today, Poppa. Look who’s come to help out.’ She dragged Phoebe to her feet and propelled her down the aisle towards the stage. ‘Phoebe says she’d be glad to do anything as long as it’s paid work and it’s legal.’ She trilled with laughter and her father smiled benignly.
‘You see the humour in everything, petal. You are a bright ray of sunshine in a dark and dreary world.’
Rose climbed the steps onto the stage and took the broom from her father’s hands. She beckoned to Phoebe. ‘Come on up. You can start here and work your way back through the dressing rooms. The performers are an untidy lot so you’ll have your work cut out to clean up after them, but it’s a start. When you’ve done that there’s the auditorium to sweep out and ashtrays to empty. I’m sure there’s enough work to keep you busy, and luckily there’s no matinee today so you don’t have to rush.’
‘I think it’s time we stopped for some light refreshment,’ Herbert said as Phoebe mounted the stage. ‘You look a bit bedraggled, if you don’t mind me saying so, my dear. A nice cup of tea will set you up for the rest of the day, and Rose will pop out to the bakery on the corner. We usually have something to eat at about this time each morning. I’m not denigrating our landlady’s breakfasts but a couple of slices of toast don’t constitute the sort of meal that a fellow needs to get through until noon.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a threepenny bit which he pressed in Rose’s hand. ‘Some gingerbread or perhaps a meat pie would go down well, my love. We have to keep our strength up.’
Phoebe set to work with a will but she soon discovered that it would have taken a small army of charwomen to get the building to Herbert’s exacting standard of cleanliness. He kept her supplied with tea and cake, but by six o’clock that evening she was completely exhausted and her hands were raw, her back ached and she could hardly put one foot in front of the other as she walked home with Rose. Herbert had taken himself off to the nearest pub on the slender pretext of promoting the show that was taking place that week. Rose did not seem to mind that her parent was spending their hard-earned money, although Phoebe was beginning to realise that only one of them actually did any work and it was not Herbert. Charming he might be, generous he was definitely, but when it came to doing anything that resembled hard labour, Herbert Jackson was never to be found. She suspected from the hint of alcohol on his breath when he returned from an errand earlier on that he had already stopped off for a drink.
‘Poppa’s an artiste,’ Rose explained as they battled against a boisterous wind laced with salt spray that tugged at their bonnets and shawls. ‘You should just see the faces of the children when Mr Punch beats Judy with a stick. I think that he pretends it’s Miss Edwards when she’s been in a particularly bad mood, although I don’t mean to offend you, and please don’t repeat that to anyone.’
‘I won’t,’ Phoebe promised breathlessly as she attempted to keep up with Rose. In the gathering dusk the sea had taken on the colour of the leaden sky with a charcoal line denoting the horizon. White horses tipped the waves and she could taste salt on her lips. If she had not been so tired she might have enjoyed the spectacle. As it was she could barely climb the steps to the house and it was left to Rose to knock on the door.
It was opened by Dolly, and Phoebe was immediately struck by the sudden change in her appearance. Her hair seemed to have grown miraculously, and hung about her face in corkscrew ringlets. ‘It’s pretty, ain’t it?’ she cried joyously, tugging at a golden strand. ‘Miss Judy found it in a sea chest she keeps in her room. One of them theatricals left it when she done a moonlight flit.’
Stepping over the threshold, Phoebe realised that Dolly was wearing a wig; a rather well made and expensive-looking hairpiece to boot. ‘It’s very pretty.’
‘It’s the same colour as me natural hair. Now I can go out and not feel that everyone is staring at me.’ She reached out her hand and grabbed Rose by the sleeve. ‘Come in and shut the door. It’s nearly suppertime and Miss Judy has made boiled salt cod and I cut up the cabbage. I been a good girl all day. She’ll tell you that for sure.’
Rose closed the door, shutting out the damp night air. ‘You’ve done well then, Dolly. It takes a certain sort of person to get on with Miss Judy, so good for you.’
Dolly preened herself, puffing out her chest. ‘She never hit me. Not even once.’
‘I should think not.’ Although Phoebe was only too well aware of the torments Dolly had suffered at her mother’s hands, she could not help but be shocked by such unwarranted violence to someone as childlike as Dolly. She slipped her arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘No one will lay a finger on you while I’m around.’
‘You’re freezing cold,’ Dolly said in a motherly tone. ‘Go and sit by the fire. You too, Miss Rose. I’ll make a pot of tea. I’m good at that, Miss Judy said so.’ She started for the kitchen but paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘I kept an eye on Annie, like you said. But she won’t eat nothing and she ain’t got off her bed all day.’
‘I’ll go up and see her now.’ Phoebe took off her damp shawl and bonnet and handed them to Dolly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take o
ver now.’
The bedroom was in darkness apart from a pale square of night sky revealed through the windowpanes. Phoebe could just make out the humped shape of her mother beneath the coverlet. She made her way to the washstand and struck a vesta, lighting the stub of a candle that Judy had given them the previous evening. ‘Are you awake, Ma?’
‘Leave me alone.’
Phoebe moved swiftly to the bedside and pulled back the covers. ‘This won’t do, Ma. You’ve got to get up. You can’t stay in bed until the baby’s born.’
‘I’m going to die,’ Annie moaned. ‘I’ve nothing left to live for.’
‘That’s wicked talk. If you don’t care for me, think of the child. You say you love Ned, well prove it.’
Annie turned her head to peer up at her daughter. ‘How? He don’t want to know me.’
‘He certainly won’t want to know a woman who behaves like an invalid when there’s nothing wrong with her. Women have babies all the time and they don’t take to their beds.’
‘You’re cruel, you are, Phoebe. You know how delicate I am.’
‘You’ll fade away if you don’t eat and you’ll kill the baby. Is that what you want, Ma?’
‘I’d like a drop of gin. You’ve got money, Phoebe. Go down to the pub and buy a bottle, then I’ll think about getting up.’
‘I’ll do no such thing. Get up now and put your clothes on. You’re coming down to supper if I have to carry you.’
Annie curled up in a ball, pulling the sheet up to her chin. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, I would.’ Phoebe tweaked the sheet from her mother’s fingers. ‘And I want you to meet Mr Jackson who works at the Theatre Royal. He might even have a job for you if you speak nicely to him.’
Annie raised herself on her elbow. ‘What sort of job?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him that, but you won’t find out by lying in bed. Maybe you could tell fortunes on stage, or contact the dear departed of people in the audience.’