Resonance

by Celine Kiernan

  ‘Very well, Joseph,’ said Mr Simmons. ‘Thank you for letting me know that you are here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Joe said, turning to go.

  ‘Joseph!’

  In the gloom of the hallway, Joe sighed and hung his head. Simmons was all right, but he always had to have a little something to say. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Be sure you don’t entice Miss Kelly to dawdle; she has quite an amount of work to do.’

  Joe gritted his teeth around another ‘Yes, sir’, took one last look at the American, and headed off down the corridor. Entice her to dawdle, he thought. As if either of us had all day to be sitting on our arses doing nothing …

  The sight of the theatre did not improve his temper.

  The proscenium arch and the stage itself had already been replaced. But the harsh smell of burnt wood and smoke lingered, and the orchestra pit was still a blackened hole. There was so much work to be done before the theatre could open again. The loss of business had hit the theatre cabbies hard – no one knew that better than Joe – but it was the artistes who would suffer most, being out of work this close to the lucrative Christmas season. It was such rotten luck.

  Joe was just climbing the steps to the stage, his mind on the artistes, his brow furrowed with worry, when a fortuitous coincidence of time and weather stopped him in his tracks. First the sun came out, streaming through the uncovered skylights and flooding the stage with all its wintry brilliance. Then Tina stepped from the wings. Her arms were filled with the skirts and bodice of some elaborate costume, the heavy brocade sprinkled all over with gold and silver sequins. As soon as she left the shadows, the sun reflected off her, like in a kaleidoscope, and the gloomy interior came alive with a million dancing spangles of light.

  Tina paused onstage, gazing upwards. Her face was all aglitter – her dark eyes, her strong jaw and nose, her loosely gathered mass of dark hair, all dazzling and bottom-lit with radiance from the dress.

  ‘You look like a mermaid, Tina,’ said Joe softly. ‘You look like you’re standing at the bottom of the sea.’

  She turned to him in surprise, laughed, and ran to crouch at the edge of the stage. She was so close, her face so luminous with those golden scribbles of light, that Joe found himself momentarily short of words. ‘You’re … you’re all glittery,’ he managed at last.

  ‘So are you.’

  He indicated the shimmering costume. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘It should be! It’s taken me days to sew. Her Ladyship is waiting for the final fitting now.’

  ‘It would look much nicer on you,’ he said, glancing briefly into her eyes.

  Tina laughed again, and shook the stiff brocade. ‘This is an eighteen-inch waist, Joe Gosling! I’d need to be wired into a corset just to look sideways at it. The day I do that to meself, you can drown me in the canal.’

  Joe huffed fondly. ‘You fiery radical. Here, look what I brought you.’ He lifted his lunch-pail. ‘Mutton stew from Finnegan’s!’

  Tina’s smile twisted a little with an anxiety she couldn’t quite hide.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he assured her. ‘A coach-load of toffs gave me a shilling-and-six tip last night. Mr Trott was too drunk to even notice. Mickey’ll get his cut of me wages on payday as usual, and never be any the wiser there was more to be had.’

  Tina reached for his arm. ‘Joe, why don’t you just get out of there? Get yourself some nice lodgings, with a nice landlady, who’ll make a fuss of you? There’s no need to be staying with that … with Mickey, now your mam is gone.’

  He gently twisted his arm until she let go. ‘I’m not ready.’

  ‘Joe. You’re seventeen. When will you be ready?’

  That stung – Joe was surprised how badly. Did she think he hadn’t the courage to leave? He almost blurted his plan at her there and then, almost shouted it. But in the end, he just glowered. ‘Do you want to share me dinner or not?’ he snapped.

  Tina got the message. She smiled. ‘The stew does smell lovely.’

  Joe felt himself smiling back at her. He could never stay angry with Tina. ‘Look what else I got.’

  He reached into his jacket and slyly drew out the book. Tina practically squealed with delight.

  ‘Oh, Joe, you rented a new one! What’s it about? What’s it called?’

  ‘It’s by that French lad you like, the one who wrote about Captain Nemo. This one’s about people who go to the moon. See?’ He showed her the cover, running his finger under the title, reading slowly so she could follow the words. ‘From the Earth to the Moon,’ he said.

  ‘To the moon,’ breathed Tina. ‘Just imagine.’

  She said this very softly, looking at him all the while, and suddenly it was as if Joe’s heart had dropped off the edge of a cliff. His smile became a grin, and he could no longer bring himself to look up from the book.

  Tina stood in an abrupt rustle of satin and dazzle of sequins. ‘Right!’ she said. ‘Just give me ten minutes with Her Majesty the Queen in there, and I’ll be—’

  Her abrupt silence made Joe look up sharply. She’d gone very still, her expression puzzled.

  ‘Tina?’

  She didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes lifted to the darkened theatre behind him, a frown growing between those forthright eyebrows. She seemed to be listening to some faint, disturbing sound that only she could hear.

  It was a look Joe hadn’t seen in years, and it caused an all too familiar tightening in his belly, an old creeping feeling on the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder to the top of the steps, where Tina’s attention was focused. There was nothing there. Just row upon row of shadowy seats and the bright, distant rectangle of the foyer door.

  He was about to whisper, What do you see? when shapes moved within that bright rectangle – the distinctive shadow play of a person walking across the reflective floor of the foyer.

  For a moment, Joe’s heart shrivelled with the fearful conviction that it was Mickey the Wrench come to beat his share of the shilling and six from Joe’s hide. But the figure that came to the foyer door had nothing like Mickey’s bulldog silhouette. This man was tall and lean, and as he came into the auditorium, Joe saw him take a top hat from his head.

  With the use of a cane, the man began to make his way down the steps. As he descended through the darkness towards them, Tina took a step back, as if afraid. Joe put himself between her and the approaching stranger. His hand tightened on the handle of his lunch-pail. He found himself thinking, Stay away from her!

  The man came to the edge of the shadows. He put a gloved hand on the gate that led from the dress circle into the stalls, but he did not step into the light.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

  At the sound of his voice, Joe felt his inexplicable aggression drain away, leaving just a dull and dreamy unease. He heard the click of Tina’s high-heeled boots as she stepped forward.

  ‘I’m looking for the manager,’ said the man.

  Joe felt his arm float upwards, his finger pointing. ‘Mr Simmons is in his office. That door, then up the stairs.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man. ‘I am much obliged.’ He did not turn to leave, however, and there followed a strained silence as he observed them from the shadows. After a moment, he lifted his cane and pointed to the reflections still shivering across Tina’s face and hair. ‘What a bewitching effect,’ he murmured. ‘Quite … moving. You are an artiste, dear? You “tread the boards”, as they say?’

  There was a rustle by Joe’s left ear, but no reply. ‘She’s a seamstress,’ he said. ‘She makes costumes.’ Then, almost as if someone else were speaking: ‘She’s very good at it – there’s no one better.’

  The man was silent for a moment. ‘And you?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘You are an artiste?’

  Joe snorted.

  ‘He’s a cab-man,’ said Tina. ‘He works in the depot out back, fixing the cabs and helping with the driving.’

  At that, the man seemed to abruptly lose interest, and he turn
ed without another word and walked away. There was a brief moment of light as he let himself into the corridor that led to Mr Simmons’ office; then the door closed softly behind him, and all was shadow once more.

  Joe hunched his shoulders, trying to rid himself of a discomfort he couldn’t quite define. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘He was a queer duck.’

  ‘There’s rumours of an impresario,’ said Tina distantly. ‘Come to fund a run of extravaganzas. I wonder if that was him.’

  She didn’t look too happy at the possibility. Joe couldn’t say he disagreed.

  AS ALWAYS, ONCE work was done, Joe waited outside the theatre for Tina. Night was falling, the air already snapping with cold when she appeared like sunshine within the foyer. He held the door and she hurried out, pulling her shawl tight against the weather.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘How’s Her Majesty?’

  She grimaced. ‘She didn’t get the part.’

  ‘I told you. She’s too old.’

  ‘Joe! Miss Ursula is a wonderful artiste. Why shouldn’t she play Ophelia? Mr Irving is over forty and he’s still allowed to play Hamlet!’

  Joe snorted. ‘Miss Ursula is a touch more than over forty, Tina.’ Tina glowered, all pink-cheeked and angry within the frame of her blue bonnet, and Joe couldn’t help but smile. He tried to imagine her playing Ophelia and just couldn’t manage it. He couldn’t picture Tina going prettily mad, strewing flowers and such – she’d more likely clatter Hamlet over the head with a frying pan.

  ‘Hey,’ Tina said, ‘isn’t that the out-of-work magician you were telling me about?’ She pointed over Joe’s shoulder. ‘Gosh, he looks awful lost, poor lad. He looks awful hungry.’

  Jesus, she got that same look on her face every time she saw a stray cat. Joe knew where this was leading. ‘Here, let me carry that for you.’ He took Tina’s workbasket, purposely blocking her view of the American, who was loitering forlornly in the backstage alley, his bag at his feet. ‘Come on, Tina. It’s getting dark.’

  Joe began herding Tina down the street with a hand on her elbow. This was a risky move when it came to Miss Martina Kelly. She’d been raised by fruit-stall shawlies, and could be fierce as a fishmonger when she wanted to be. She wasn’t too keen on being herded around.

  Sure enough, Tina dug her heels in, looked at Joe’s hand, looked at his face, raised her eyebrows.

  Joe released her elbow.

  ‘Tina, he’s a complete stranger.’

  Tina’s mouth tweaked up in amusement. She patted Joe’s arm. ‘Let’s buy him a bag of chestnuts,’ she said.

  ‘EHRICH WEISS,’ SAID the American, smiling a broad showman’s smile and tipping his hat. ‘You can call me Harry – everyone does.’

  ‘Martina Kelly. You can call me Tina. This is Joseph Gosling.’

  The American offered his hand. Unsmiling, Joe shifted the workbasket, as if it were more than he could manage to carry it and his lunch-pail and shake hands at the same time. The showman’s smile never flickered as the American returned his hand, unshaken, to his pocket.

  ‘Heavy load you have there,’ he said dryly.

  Tina was looking him up and down with her usual smiling curiosity. ‘Where you from, Harry?’

  ‘Oh, here and there,’ he said, clearly amused at her frank survey of his clothes. ‘I travel a bit. But mostly I live in New York with my family.’ He eyed Tina with an appreciation of which Joe did not even remotely approve, and Joe flatly cut in to the conversation.

  ‘You Hungarian, Harry?’

  The American looked surprised.

  ‘Your accent,’ said Joe. ‘It sounds Hungarian.’

  ‘Why, that’s amazing! My parents are Hungarian. My brothers and I are American, of course, but Mama and Papa … well, we speak hardly any English at home.’ He spread his hands, perhaps in indulgence at his parents’ immigrant ways. We speak a kind of German – it’s Mama and Papa’s native language. Most strangers don’t realise we’re Hungarians. How on earth did you know?’

  ‘Oh, Joe’s very clever,’ said Tina. ‘Anyway, you talk like Saul, the auld Jew who runs the bookshop. He’s a Hungarian.’

  Harry’s showman’s smile stiffened just a little. ‘The “auld Jew”?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tina. ‘Saul. He’s Joe’s best friend.’

  Joe rolled his eyes. This was a favourite joke of Tina’s, Saul’s shop being the only place in Dublin where Joe freely spent his money.

  All at once there wasn’t a trace of the showman in Harry’s demeanour. ‘Say,’ he said, apparently surprised. ‘Say, your friend, huh? Well, that’s just grand.’ Seemingly on impulse, he once again offered his hand.

  There was something so warm about this gesture, something so genuinely pleased, that Joe had shifted the workbasket to his hip and was shaking Harry’s hand before he remembered he didn’t trust strangers.

  ‘You had your supper yet?’ asked Tina.

  Harry flushed. ‘Oh, sure,’ he said. ‘Sure I did.’

  Sure you did, thought Joe, eyeing Harry’s pinched face. And a nice big dinner, too.

  ‘Mm hmm,’ said Tina wryly. ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Uh … fish and … uh … butter and some bread.’ Harry had to wipe the corners of his mouth just saying the words.

  Tina tutted and shook her head. ‘Stay here, Harry Weiss. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She ran lightly off around the corner of the alley, and the men were left looking at each other – Joe holding her flower-covered wicker basket on his hip, Harry trying to look as if he knew what was going on.

  Joe sighed, knowing well how Tina worked. ‘She’s gone to send a message home,’ he explained. ‘You’re being invited to supper.’

  He was about to tell Harry that he needn’t think the offer of a bowl of soup meant a free meal every day for the rest of his life when a low voice behind him froze the words in his mouth.

  ‘Well, Joe. What’s that in your hand?’

  Joe hated the shameful surge of fear that flared within him. Harry must have read it clear as day, because his face hardened and he frowned an unspoken question: You need help?

  Joe shook his head and turned. He had to suppress a start at how close Mickey the Wrench was. He was looming as always, swaying from side to side in that hypnotic way of his, his hands in his pockets, his big face grinning. ‘What’s that in your hand, Joe?’ he repeated amiably. ‘Looks like a lunch-pail. Didn’t know you owned a lunch-pail, Joe.’

  ‘It’s from Finnegan’s.’ Joe scanned the alley. Mickey was alone. Good. ‘I’m bringing it back to them for Mr Simmons.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you nice,’ crooned Mickey. His blue-button eyes met Joe’s, and there was no smile in them at all. ‘Mr Simmons must have been powerful hungry today. What with ordering a pail of dinner from Finnegan’s right on top of the heap of bacon and cabbage he lowered down him in Foy’s. How much does a pail of dinner set you back in Finnegan’s, Joe?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘Must be a shiny copper or two. Must be a right pretty penny.’ Mickey tossed a glance at Harry. ‘Why don’t you run along now, son? Meself and the cousin here need to chat.’

  Harry just flashed that showboat of a smile and shrugged. ‘I’m comfy,’ he said.

  Mickey’s grin flickered off, then on again. ‘That so?’ he said.

  At the far end of the alley, someone opened the side door to the cabbies’ depot. Dim light spilled out into the darkness, and Joe’s heart dropped as Mickey’s brothers, Daymo and Graham, stepped into view.

  He pushed Tina’s basket at Harry. ‘Harry. Get lost.’

  ‘Yeah,’ grinned Mickey. ‘Get lost, Harry.’

  But Harry just closed his fists, his face set, and Joe realised with horror that he was going to stay.

  Tina’s voice stilled them all. ‘Joseph Gosling!’

  She was standing at the head of the alley, in the full light of the street lamps, her hands on her hips. She was purposely blocking foot-traffic, and Joe suppressed a little smile as
several people glanced down the alley to see what she was staring at. God, she was clever.

  ‘Are you walking me home or not?’ she demanded.

  Two dandies, filled with haughty amusement, paused to watch the gutter-boy get a drubbing from his girl. ‘I’d hurry if I were you, my lad,’ drawled one of them. ‘Or you’ll have no one to hold your hand on the tram!’

  Joe snatched the basket from Harry’s arms. ‘Grab your bag,’ he muttered and hurried out towards the bustle of the evening crowd. Mickey and his brothers stood watching from the shadows. Harry glowered back at them, and Joe hustled him on. ‘Just keep walking, you eejit.’

  THEY ROUNDED THE corner of the alley and were instantly mired in a swarm of screeching urchins. Buttoning their pockets, Harry and Joe fell into place on either side of Tina. She tightened her grip on her basket, and the three of them began pushing their way through the rancid chaos.

  The urchins seemed enthralled by a beautiful two-horsed carriage parked on the street outside the theatre. The carriage was of a heavy old-fashioned type, built for long journeys, and the coachman occupied a roomy boot, complete with access gate. The scruffy little children who surrounded it were in a frenzied state of excitement.

  ‘Lookit the blackfella!’ they were shrieking. ‘Lookit the blackfella!’

  The cause of their hysteria turned out to be the carriage driver, a tall, slim black man who seemed nothing but patiently amused by the filthy little creatures surrounding his vehicle. As Joe, Tina and Harry passed by, the driver met Joe’s eye and his easy smile faded. He sat forward with a frown.

  At that moment, Mr Simmons came barrelling out of the theatre, waving his arms and yelling at the urchins. ‘Oi! Clear off, the lot of you! Before I call the peelers!’

  At the mention of the police, the swarm dispersed like grimy fog, up alleys, down side streets, over walls.

  All hand-wringing concern, Mr Simmons turned to the gentleman who had followed him from the theatre. ‘Please do accept my most profuse apologies, Lord Wolcroft. I can only hope they haven’t scratched the paint or discommoded your horses.’