by Joan Smith
“Get into bed, Perdita,” I urged, shoving her down.
“Top of the trees,” his friend agreed.
“Built like a . . . and the bosoms, like two ripe melons.”
“Get into bed and cover your ears!” I said, trying to draw a satin sheet up over her head.
“Just a minute. They are talking about me,” she said, hopping back up.
“No, they are obviously talking about Phoebe.”
“Not much of a voice,” the darker, heavier man said.
“Voice? Did she have a voice? I didn’t notice. That Venus is going to be in my pocket before she gets to London.”
“Don’t open that curtain!” I shrieked, but in a low voice, twitching it back into place. Perdita tittered, but contented herself to lay her ear against the window inside the curtain.
"I could learn to love that wench,” the first admirer said rather wistfully. “I may not offer for Dulcinea after all.” He was already practically engaged to some lady, you see, and talking so broad about Perdita.
The dark man laughed. “By God, you better keep the girl under close wraps then. Where will you take her?”
“To Birdland. Where else would I take a bird of such rare plumage? You don’t suppose that damned harpy with her would expect to accompany us?”
The damned harpy felt an angry thudding in her breast.
“You can buy her off. Mind you’ll have to come down heavy. You know how these abbesses are when they get a young chick like April.”
“She’s worth it. This is the one, Staff. This is the one I've been waiting for. Who would have thought I’d flush her out of cover in Marlborough? Marlborough, imagine! Nowhere.”
“How will you get hold of her?”
"Through Daugherty, maybe. Maybe the bawd. We shall have to see who owns her.”
“Nobody owns me!” Perdita said, shocked at last.
“These men are dangerous,” I cautioned.
“Old Phoebe was pretty well stuffed, too,” the darker man said in an approving way.
“Bursting at the seams, but she’s a bit of a tough old hen for me. I like ‘em young.” There was a longish silence, then he spoke again. “God, I’m drunk,” he said, in a wearied voice. “Good party though. Mama will give me hell for leaving so early. We better get back to Stornaway. Twenty miles—it’ll take over an hour.”
“Back to Dull-cinea,” the other man said, laughing. “Dull, dull, dull, Dulcinea! But she’s a good girl,” he added, in a dutiful way.
“Top of the trees,” his friend agreed readily, consigning to the lady the same epithet given Perdita.
They straggled off together, beginning to sing “Faire, Sweet, Cruel” in a very creditable duet. I was weak with relief that they had not discovered us.
“He certainly likes me,” was Perdita’s contented comment.
“Aren’t you flattered? He wouldn’t recognize you if he fell over you tomorrow. He was dead drunk.”
“Oh he was not quite down among the dead men. It means out stone cold,” she told me. A new piece of distinction picked up from Angie. “Anyway, it’s all right. I would recognize him,” she said, yawning. His friend called him Storn, and he mentioned Stornaway. It is only twenty miles away. Someone must know who he is. The other was called Staff—it must be a nickname. Maybe he would like you, Moira.”
“You are really too kind. Anyone who liked Phoebe would not care for an abbess. I suppose he called me that because I wore a dark gown.”
"Oh no, it is what gentlemen call a female who handles prostitutes,” she said, in the sweetest, most innocent voice ever heard. "Angie told me. She used to work for the Abbess Rose in London, but the woman beat her and took all the money for herself, so she ran away. Poor Angie has had a hard life.”
"Yes, I come to realize life on the streets without any money is not easy.”
Another yawn was my reply. I set my head on the pillow, and to my utter amazement, I slept.
* * *
Chapter 4
Daylight showed me the bower in which I had so innocently slept was done up in red satin. Sheets, pillows, curtains and all were blood-red satin. The sun filtering through the windows bathed the whole in a fiery glow, turning us into a pair of scarlet women. Perdita still slept. I made as little disturbance as possible struggling into my gown. I could hear some low voices and sounds of activity beyond the carriage. I quietly opened the door and climbed out.
It was a fine day. Reimer’s Hall was on the crest of a hill, with the awakening town spreading out below us, the early workers already beginning to appear on the street. In the other direction, it was country. Birds chirped above, the sun shone, the breeze ruffling the grass was pleasantly refreshing, not cold. The odor of coffee and bacon tantalized me. Looking around, I saw an open fire, around which half a dozen people had gathered, eating and drinking, like a pack of gypsies. Mr. Daugherty was amongst them, quite a gypsy baron, being the only one in a proper shirt and jacket. When he saw me, he got a cup of coffee and came towards me.
"Good morning, ma’am. You had no trouble last night?”
"No, none, though I am considerably worried those two gentlemen might return.”
"Not a chance of it. They were so thoroughly disguised they would not know where to go looking if they wanted to. They won’t remember a thing, and will take it for a dream if they do.”
“I hope you may be right. The thing is, Mr. Daugherty, we find ourselves financially embarrassed.”
"'Tis no unusual occurrence hereabouts, ma’am. I’m in the basket myself. April told me of your mishap. Typical for the innkeeper to rob you, then threaten to call in the constable. You are welcome to join us as far as London, but I must ask you to work for your keep. Fiddler’s pay is all I can offer—thanks and wine.”
"What, no food?”
He took this for a prime joke. "Oh aye, peck and booze was my meaning. Food and drink, but you must realize the others would resent it if you didn’t pay the piper, you see. Already Phoebe is making noises about her carriage . . ."
"She is welcome to it. Truth to tell, I am not accustomed to red satin bedding.”
“I recognized you for a first-class act.”
"Oh muslin is all we require!” I told him, wondering what this man would consider classier than satin. "Naturally we are willing to work. I would be happy to do what I can, but Miss Brodie must under no account appear again on the stage."
"You?” he asked, staring. "I--I don’t think you are just our sort, ma’am. No offence meant I assure you, but . . .”
It was only my charge who was first-class, I deduced. "None taken. I did not mean to imply I either sing or act, sir. I am a fair stitcher, however, and would be happy to help out in that capacity.”
"Oh," he said, with very little interest, “I have a wardrobe mistress already. Min, Miss Cork, tends to our costume needs. I cannot afford two.”
We strolled to a couple of large rocks, which we used as chairs for our outdoor breakfast. I tried the coffee, but found it quite simply undrinkable. I swear it had been boiling an hour. Every bit of bitterness had been allowed to steep out of it. An iridescent slick of oil glimmered on its surface. “You could certainly use a cook,” I mentioned, emptying the cup on the ground.
“You cook?” he asked, with very definite interest at this absurd idea.
“A little,” I told him. “When I was following the drum. My father was an army man, a captain.”
“That would be helpful. We could save a deal of blunt if we could eat more of our meals on the spot. Eating at inns is the killer. There’d be no haute cuisine called for. Bread, cheese, wine—fruit, now that summer is coming on, with an occasional hot meal if you can manage it.”
“Stew and soup,” I mentioned, with a look at their single pot.
“Ah, that’d be grand. Real stew. A rare treat. Will you give it a run, then?”
“I would be happy to, and Perdita can help me.”
“There is where I fear
we will come to cuffs. Only you will cook.”
"That was not my meaning!”
“It is mine,” he said simply. “I am not running a charity show. We have to make ends meet. The girl is a good drawing card, a regular canary, and it will only be till we get to London, you know. A couple more stops. What difference will it make?”
We were not so very far removed from Swindon yet that I could feel safe. By nightfall we would be farther removed. It did not seem likely that any of Sir Wilfrid’s friends would enter such an establishment as Tuck’s. We were desperate, and if Perdita could sing us to London, it must be done, but under her stage name, of course.
"How long will it take us to get there?” I asked, after a frowning pause.
"Four days. We have still to play Kingsclere, Farnborough, possibly Woking, and we are home. If the Woking deal falls through, it will be one less. We move on as soon as breakfast is over, to get set up for tonight at Kingsclere, a small hall only. We won’t break even, but will be less in debt than if we omitted it.”
“There is nothing for it then but to go along. If those men should show up again . . ."
“O’Reilly will show ‘em the door. He’s a good lad. You’d be recognizing the Warder, from last night’s play.”
“He is not the only thing about the play that is familiar.”
“You recognized my source, did you?”
“Yes, and most of the lines, to say nothing of the songs. Why did you change the name?”
“The title is too well known. Folks want originality, do you see? They remember Gay’s title, and think they don’t want to see The Beggar’s Opera again, but they don’t recognize it, or care, once they are in. I’ve never had to give a refund, in any case. We do a mighty fine Tempest as well, but I call it Stormy Passage, and leave out some characters.”
I figured it was Caliban who was lumbering towards us, also the Warder, O’Reilly. He was a dark-haired, hulking brute of a fellow, holding a loaf of bread between his hairy hands, and gnawing at it as he advanced. “I’ll make you known to the folks,” Daugherty said, evading the newcomer.
We went to the fireside, where I was presented to several common strangers, whose first business was to discover my name. In the interest of as much privacy as possible, I told them Molly, which pleased the Irish amongst them, of which there were several.
They did not ask my last name, nor did I volunteer one. O’Reilly took the notion I was his own private property, and asserted his claim by putting his ham hands around my waist and lifting me a yard into the air. I told him if he ever touched me again, I would pour scalding water over him, which he took as a good token of success with me.
"O'Reilly is a fine lad, but he never can keep his hands off a pretty woman,” Daugherty told me, somewhat belatedly. “That is the worst, indeed the only vice in him.” He was mistaken there, but that will come out soon enough.
I demanded an apron, and told O’Reilly he might feel free to leave as soon as he had finished eating, as I was busy.
He gave me a not very clean dish wiper, which I tucked into my skirt band, then I dumped the gritty black mess they called coffee on the ground and made up fresh, in the black open pot that hung over the fire. "It's a good cuppa tay we ought to be having,” O’Reilly said sadly.
I sliced the three remaining loaves of bread, holding O’Reilly off from them by a menacing flourish of the knife every time his fingers made for the plate. “Sure and you can’t feed a grown man on crumbs, woman,” he told me. His next ploy was to send the monkey to steal some for him. The monkey was called Cathleen, and got away with three slices before I realized from the circle of smiles around me what was afoot, and gave Cathleen the back of my hand across her haunches. She made a very angry, human face.
“Cathleen is jealous of you,” O’Reilly told me.
“Does she usually do the cooking? The coffee tasted like it,” I replied, knowing by that time O’Reilly was responsible for the brew.
“That’s it.”
There was neither butter nor cheese. Coffee with sugar and cream from a nearby farm and dry bread was their fare. They seemed satisfied with it, as I was myself. The open air and the picnic atmosphere lent a novelty, almost a charm to the scene.
The show people, always with the exception of Phoebe, were friendly, warm, and totally depraved. It was not my intention to exclude Phoebe from the depravity, actually. She was probably the worst of a bad lot, but I was not immediately exposed to her. Queen Phoebe, as she was referred to in the group, had her meal carried to the door of her traveling bed by Mr. Daugherty. He entered the carriage, too, though I saw very clearly she opened the door wearing her petticoat, and nothing else.
"Mick is sweet-talking Queen Phoebe,” O’Reilly informed me. Undaunted by my rough treatment of him, he seldom was more than a foot away from me. He was handy for lifting the heavy pot and keeping the fire stoked up. The actors did use some hot water for their morning ablutions, which I was relieved to see, though I think the better part of it was for the men’s shaving. They would each bring a small pot of water and sit it on the edge of the fire. There were more pots than I first thought, but the constant movement of the caravan kept things in a state of confusion.
I took a cup of coffee and a slice of bread to Perdita, and asked O’Reilly to bring me a basin of hot water after we had got the beds pushed back into the seats, to make room. He also found a length of muslin from the wardrobe mistress, which we tore in two to use for facecloths and towels. It was like trying to bathe in a shoebox. This done, I returned to the fire to rinse out the coffee cups, and leave them in the sun to dry. There was no soap to be had.
About an hour after he had entered Phoebe’s carriage, Mr. Daugherty came out, looking tired and disheveled. He winked broadly at O’Reilly, thinking I had not seen him, but I am not so young or innocent as to be unaware what went forth, particularly when I saw his breeches hanging on the door handle on the far side of the carriage when I went to Perdita. If men must behave like animals, however, it is best they do it with others of their own sort, and not with the likes of Perdita, to whom he was attentive when not cajoling the Queen.
After an hour or so, everyone was ready to leave. The costumes were crated, the few bits of scenery dismantled and put into a carriage. My cooking pot held our food and cutlery and cups. "What are we waiting for?” I asked Mr. Daugherty, for I was eager to get on closer at least to London.
“Phoebe has not come out yet,” he told me. That was it. We sat around looking at each other till the Queen stepped out of her drawing room, outfitted as yesterday in the ostrich plumes and the sable wrap, which was seen, in broad daylight, to be infested with moth holes and of uncertain coloring. She was a fine looking woman, for all that. She was close to thirty, I estimated, full-figured, with handsome, striking features, black hair, dark eyes, a large nose and a broad smile.
“I will take my constitewtional now,” she told Daugherty, who nodded his approbation. She paced up and down the meadow, all alone, for perhaps ten minutes, her skirts riling up the dust, and picking up bits of dead grass and burrs as she went. It was really a comical sight to see her so stately and grand in a meadow, insisting on this perquisite she had gained for herself, of holding up business while she walked.
Perdita sat with me on my rock, waiting. When Phoebe was tired, she walked up to us in her grandest manner and stopped. An icy smile was levelled at us. “You girls are new, if I am not mistaken?” she asked, in a parody of graciousness. She was the monarch, greeting new subjects.
"You met April yesterday, Phoebe,” Daugherty reminded her.
“So I did. I had forgotten,” she said, to show us how little she cared for the competition. “Mick mentioned your number went over fairly well last night, dear,” she said, narrowing her eyes for a good examination of my charge’s youthful face.
“Everybody clapped,” Perdita answered simply.
“Your first show?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you do, miss?” she asked, turning her attention to me.
“I cook,” I said, and laughed at the absurdity of it.
“With your looks and manners you could play a lady,” she volunteered. “Not the ingenew . . ." she added, with an assessing study of my face.
“Oh I am coming to think the role of a lady beyond me,” I told her, weak with trying to control my features.
“I don’t know about that. You managed to fool Mick,” she said, letting some of her spite intrude into her tone. Then she snapped her dark eyes at us and paced off to announce she was ready to leave.
“There’s trouble brewing,” O’Reilly warned me. “You want to keep your little princess away from the Queen’s man, or she’ll scratch your eyes out.”
“The problem will be to keep the man away from April.”
“Phoebe will be no end of help to you. She throws her skirts at every lad that passes by, but only let her catch Mick winking, and she swears she’ll leave the show. She once had an offer at the Garden, according to legend. She threatens to accept it when he cuts up stiff, but I doubt their memories are so long in London that they recall the offer.”
Phoebe and Daugherty drove in the blue lead carriage; Perdita and I were jammed into another with about six other girls, one of whom was the blond Angie, Perdita’s informative friend.
The talk along the way does not bear repeating. It was of men, money, failed opportunities and unlikely hopes for future stardom or mistress-ship under a wealthy patron. Angie knew a girl who was being kept "in a grand establishment with a piano” by a lord, and another who had a “regular arrangement with a Cit,” which allowed her to bank a hundred guineas per annum. There was really very little mention of acting. Their greater hope for success was rooted in selling themselves to the highest bidder. It was a pity our lecherous visitor last night had not made his offer to one of these girls. I cannot think he would have had the least difficulty in attaching any one of them.
Perdita sat with her ears flapping and her eyes like saucers, lapping up the disreputable stories. I had little hope that any of it was passing over her head. Her questions indicated quite clearly she knew what sort of “regular arrangement” Angie’s friend had made. I wonder where the young girls learn so much nowadays. I only heard the facts of life from a married friend when I was twenty-one, and even then I did not believe the half of it.