The Urchin's Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘I can’t refuse bookings if they’re there, lass. You know that.’

  ‘Aye, but they’ll always be there for you; folk know a good thing when they see it. There’s another of them agent types been asking about you, by the way; old Aggie just told me. He was here earlier, apparently. I tell you, lass, if you let one of ’em look after you, you’d be making a mint in a little while. You’re too good to kill yourself haring from one flea-pit to another.’

  The sisters had had this same conversation a hundred times, and now Josie answered as she always did, ‘There’s Mam.’

  Aye, there was Mam. Gertie’s voice was brisk now as she said, ‘Sit yourself down an’ let’s get that hat off.’ Josie’s stage clothes were elaborate and on the gaudy side, and not at all what she would wear outside. As Gertie moved behind her sister, carefully extracting the hat pins and lifting the concoction of lace and feathers off the golden-brown hair, the younger girl was frowning.

  She’d been in this business nearly as long as Josie, having started travelling round with her sister as soon as she had finished at school, and one thing she knew was that you needed an agent. The music hall was a world within the world; it had its own managers, agents, scouts, touts, newspapers, slang, fashions, and no one - no one - got anywhere without an agent; they didn’t even take you seriously for a start. Josie could be earning three, four times what she was on now, even playing the same halls if she had an agent behind her, but no - there was Mam.

  ‘Stop frowning,’ Josie said suddenly.

  ‘How do you know I’m frowning?’ Gertie asked, quickly straightening her face.

  Josie swung round on the bench and stared up at her sister. ‘I can feel it,’ she said softly. ‘And I’m not daft, lass. I know we need an agent but I’ll get one when I’m ready. You know how bad Mam is; she . . . she could go any time.’

  ‘We’ve been thinking that for the last two or three years,’ Gertie retorted, and then added quickly, ‘Oh I’m sorry, lass, I don’t mean that nasty, but it’s true. Sometimes folk hold on for years an’ years in Mam’s state, an’ you’re missing opportunity after opportunity.’

  This was where Gertie normally said she wasn’t getting any younger, Josie thought, as she rose from the bench and, with Gertie’s help, stripped off the satin and brocade dress she had been wearing. She knew her sister meant well, but they were poles apart in their thinking on this. Perhaps it was because their mam had always been ailing and Josie, herself, had been more like Gertie’s mother - protecting her, watching out for her and generally mothering her - but Gertie didn’t seem to have any deep feeling for Shirley. Or for anyone else for that matter, apart from her big sister.

  ‘Bloomin’ ’ell!’ The dressing-room door opened and in came a big blonde woman who was billed as a classical and exotic dancer; swathed in veils of crepe de chine, her feet were bare beneath her diaphanous costume. Everyone turned and glanced her way. Lily went under the name of Madame de Vonte, but she was a Newcastle lass born and bred, and something of a card. ‘You heard that new ’un who’s supposed to imitate the sound of a harp? Harp my backside! You know what old Sidney said on the quiet?’ Lily struck a pose and imitated the la-di-da voice of the chairman as she said, ‘“That woman has grossly libelled the instrument if you ask me.” ’ And as everyone fell about laughing, she added, ‘He did, he did! I nearly died. An’ Madam had just finished warbling her first song and that lot in the gallery were shouting and heckling when some bright spark in the stalls shouted, “Knock it off! Give the poor cow a chance!” An’ you know what she said? “Thank you, kind sir. It’s good to know there’s one gentleman in the audience.” ’

  Pandemonium reigned for a few moments, and Josie, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes as she continued dressing, thought, Oh, I’m going to miss Lily when I’m back home. I’ve never laughed so much as these last twelve weeks and it’s better than a tonic. It had even put Gertie in a good mood; the young girl was chattering quite happily as the two sisters stepped into the greasy street ten minutes later, where, through the steadily falling rain, loomed the carriage they’d ordered to transport them back to their lodgings some streets away.

  ‘Miss Burns?’

  Josie nearly jumped out of her skin as a figure materialised seemingly out of the brickwork at the side of them, and she knew Gertie had reacted the same when her sister’s voice came in a sharp snap, saying, ‘An’ who wants to know?’

  ‘I startled you. Do forgive me.’

  It was a cultured voice, deep and pleasing to the ear, and as Josie stared at the big tall man clothed in a top hat and a long grey cloak which almost covered him from head to foot, she managed to answer quite naturally, ‘It’s quite all right, but I’m sorry, we have to go. The rain . . .’

  ‘Dastardly weather,’ he agreed immediately, adding, ‘Please let me introduce myself, Miss Burns. Oliver Hogarth, at your service.’ He bowed, raising his head as he said, ‘I do need to talk to you, Miss Burns. May I perhaps ride with you and your lovely chaperone?’

  There had been irony in the perfunctory bow and enquiring glance, and something mocking in the way he had proclaimed himself. Josie looked into a dark, handsome face in which the eyes were slightly hooded and excessively bagged, with bright irises, and now her voice had reverted to stilted correctness when she said, ‘I don’t think so, Mr Hogarth. Good night.’

  She had crossed the wet pavement and climbed into the carriage, Gertie just behind her, before the man had time to collect himself, and as Gertie called to the driver to move on, they could just see Mr Hogarth stroll out of the shadows and into the light of a street-lamp, before the horse was clip-clopping them away.

  ‘Cheek.’ Gertie’s voice was a little bemused. ‘Fancied his chances, didn’t he?’

  Josie nodded. ‘He did an’ all.’

  ‘Did you see his face when you said “I don’t think so”? His mouth sort of fell open a bit, like this.’ Gertie dropped her mouth into an exaggerated gape and the two began to giggle.

  ‘Oliver Hogarth.’ Josie’s voice was thoughtful once they had sobered up. ‘I’ve heard that name before but I can’t remember where. If Lily gets back before we’re in bed, I’ll ask her.’

  Lily was staying in the same boarding house as the sisters, and, having been in the music-hall business since she was a toddler featuring in her parents’ high-wire act as a human balancing pole, was the fount of all knowledge.

  Mrs Bainsby’s terraced boarding house in the less salubrious part of Hartlepool always smelt of cabbage and faggots when one stepped into the dark brown hall, but the lady herself had a heart of gold and moreover understood her guests who mostly consisted of visiting music-hall performers. The rooms were clean and cheap - two attributes which Josie had found rarely went together - and unlike some landladies, Mrs Bainsby didn’t lock the door after a certain hour and refuse to open it again until morning. Indeed, the landlady seemed to relish the more wild goings-on of some of her guests, like Lily, for example, and was always hovering around with cocoa and seed cake whatever time her lodgers got home. Josie suspected that she and Gertie were something of a disappointment to the good lady, although Lily’s escapades more than made up for their unexciting behaviour.

  Lily hadn’t returned by the time she and Gertie snuggled into their narrow iron beds, wearing several layers of clothing beneath the thin grey blankets, but Josie hadn’t really expected her to. The middle-aged blonde had several men friends among whom she divided her favours and was often out all night, returning in the early hours heavy-eyed and tousle-haired, whereupon she would sleep the rest of the day away until it was time to get ready for the theatre.

  It was all the more surreal, therefore, when in the pitch blackness of the night, Josie was brought out of a deep, thick sleep to a hand shaking her shoulder and Lily’s voice hissing, ‘Josie? Josie, lass. For cryin’ out loud, wake up! Josie!’

  ‘Wha . . . what?’ Josie could smell Lily had got a load on her, she stank of whisky. ‘What
’s the matter?’

  ‘I need to talk to you. Wake up, lass. It’s important.’

  The fact that Lily wasn’t slurring her words told Josie the other woman wasn’t as drunk as she had thought at first, and now, pulling herself up out of the warmth of the bed, she groped her way over to the battered chest of drawers on the other side of the room and felt for the candlestick and box of matches at the side of it. After lighting the candle she carried it over to the bed, sliding her legs back under the covers as her frozen toes searched for warmth. She looked at Lily in the flickering light and whispered, ‘What’s the matter and how did you get in this room? I locked the door, didn’t I?’

  Lily flapped her hand impatiently. ‘I’ve been picking locks since I was a bairn,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Look, I had to speak to you before you went tomorrow morning, an’ you know what I’m like once I get me head down. The roof could cave in an’ I’d sleep through it. It’s Oliver, Oliver Hogarth. He said he spoke to you tonight.’

  ‘Oliver Hogarth?’ Gertie was awake now. ‘Do you know him, Lily?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Lily didn’t say here that normally the likes of Oliver Hogarth wouldn’t be seen dead consorting with a tuppenny act like hers, and that she had nearly passed out with shock when she’d found him waiting for her outside the female dressing room earlier. She’d known as soon as he opened his mouth that he was after Josie, but it wasn’t often she was wined and dined by such as Oliver and she’d made the most of the experience. She smiled inwardly. By, she had. She’d heard he liked the women and drink and he’d proved her right the night. But even after he’d had his way he’d been a gentleman - which was more than you could say for some. Couldn’t get rid of you quick enough after, some of ’em.

  ‘Do you know who he is, Josie?’ Lily asked now, her voice low. ‘One of the best agents in the business, that’s who. He lives in London but often travels about here an’ there, an’ one of his touts told him about you - well, more than one actually - so he thought he’d come up and take a look for himself. He wants to talk to you about him becoming your agent.’

  Lily couldn’t keep a thread of envy out of her voice at this point. She’d have given her eye-teeth for Oliver Hogarth to be after her.

  ‘You know how things are,’ Josie shrugged. ‘I don’t want an agent at the moment.’ Lily knew all about Shirley’s poor health and the hold the north-east had on Josie for the immediate future.

  ‘Don’t talk soft, lass. We’re not talking about any old agent here! This is Oliver Hogarth. He’s got some of the best on his books an’ he’s loaded, lass. Absolutely stinking with money. Look, I promised him I’d get you to talk to him before you leave, an’ he said he’d come and take you to lunch, Gertie an’ all. All right? And let’s face it, lass, you’re not exactly dashing off anywhere particular in the morning, are you! Oh, I know you want to spend a bit of time with your mam, but I mean - Sunderland. Now if it was the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, or the Gaiety in Manchester, I’d be up at the crack of dawn meself.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Sunderland.’

  ‘No, no, I give you that, lass, an’ you’ve got work which is more than some can say, but you’ve got something that’ll take you beyond the provinces if you let it. That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘I intend to get somewhere one day, Lily,’ Josie said quietly and levelly, ‘but not at the cost of going against my conscience or my heart. And if that sounds silly to you I can’t help it,’ she added a trifle aggressively. ‘Speaking of Sunderland, Henry Irving made his stage debut at the Royal Lyceum, you know, and he still speaks fondly of it to this day, according to the newspapers. Now if Sunderland is good enough for the greatest actor of our age, it’s good enough for me.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Lily was laughing now. ‘By, you can be a fiery little thing when you want, can’t you! I don’t want to stop you visiting your precious Sunderland, lass. All I’m asking is that you hear what Oliver has to say first. He’s on for a nice meal you know, and he goes to all the right places. Likes to be seen to be seen, does Oliver Hogarth, if you know what I mean. He was telling me how the Prince of Wales enjoys meeting performers and hearing them sing; has his own private parties, apparently, and he’s generous - jewelled tie-pins and snuff boxes and all sorts. Oh aye. Oliver’s been there and seen it. You could do a lot worse than having him speak for you. Mind, one look into them big peepers of yours and he might want to do more than just speak for you. Bit of a ladies’ man, is our Oliver, but nice with it. Reckon he could charm the drawers off the old Queen herself if he had a mind!’

  ‘Oh, Lily.’

  ‘Don’t oh, Lily me! Flippin’ ’ell, any other lass I know’d be falling on me neck crying in gratitude, I tell you. You’re one on your own, Josie Burns. Oliver Hogarth - and she sends him away with a flea in his ear!’ There was no animosity in Lily’s tone; in truth she had thoroughly enjoyed Oliver’s story of what had happened when he’d tried to approach Josie. Some of those agents at the top had more power than the Queen herself within the business, and fancied themselves rotten. It had undoubtedly been an unusual experience for Oliver Hogarth to find himself put in his place by a bit lass. ‘Anyway, you’ll talk to him tomorrow then? You can still catch the train home later.’

  ‘You could at least hear what he has to say, Josie. That wouldn’t matter, would it?’ Gertie added her twopennyworth from her bed.

  Josie herself was remembering the strange little shiver which had sped down her spine when she’d looked into Oliver Hogarth’s dark face. There was an insouciance about him that was curiously magnetic; something which drew as well as repelled. How old would he be? Forty? A little younger maybe? And tall, six foot or so. And although he was good-looking it was his manner which formed most of his dark attraction; the self-possession and cool authority had been entirely natural, as had the blatant cynicism which had carved deep lines into his tanned skin. He wasn’t a bit like Barney.

  The last thought brought her stiffening, and she said abruptly, ‘It’s the middle of the night and we’re all going to look like death in the morning at this rate. If I say I’ll see him, can we all go to sleep, please?’

  Lily grinned into the face she privately thought was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen. Those great eyes of Josie’s were killers, and if Oliver Hogarth could see her now with her hair all spread out on her shoulders . . . ‘He’ll be here at midday.’ Lily slid off the foot of Josie’s bed, holding out her hand for the candlestick, which she carried over to the chest of drawers before extinguishing the flame with her thumb and forefinger. And then her voice came in the darkness, saying, ‘And dress up a bit, for goodness’ sake, lass. Even if you’re going to refuse him it’s better to leave ’em panting!’

  There was a saucy laugh, which found an echo from Gertie’s bed, and then Lily was gone, leaving Josie herself grinning in the blackness. She was a card, Lily, and no mistake. Nothing ever seemed to get her down, and what she didn’t know about life and men wasn’t worth knowing.

  ‘Josie, what if--’

  ‘Gertie, we’re not discussing this any more now. We’ll talk in the morning. We both need our beauty sleep.’

  ‘Aye, all right.’ Gertie knew better than to argue when that note was in her sister’s voice.

  However, long after Gertie’s steady breathing indicated she was asleep, Josie lay wide-eyed in the stillness. She usually kept her mind from thinking about Barney, having found from experience that she suffered for it. And tonight was no exception. She twisted restlessly in the narrow bed, the ancient, flock-filled mattress lumpy and hard beneath her limbs.

  Since she and Gertie had left Betty’s for good, some nine months after she had first appeared at Ginnett’s and just after Gertie had finished her schooling, her contact with the family had been spasmodic, depending on her current work venue. Those nine months when she’d continued to live with Frank and Betty had seen a change in Barney that she knew had alarmed his stepmother a
nd father, because Betty wasn’t one for keeping her anxieties to herself. He had been subdued on the occasions he popped in to see them all, even taciturn, and he hadn’t repeated any of the invitations he’d made before the marriage for them all to visit his wife and himself. And Pearl never accompanied him.

  Josie had left Newcastle to work first in Gateshead for a season, and then travelled some sixteen miles or so down country in Durham, before moving backwards and forwards to other theatres scattered all over the north-east, and during that time she hadn’t seen Barney above once or twice. The encounters had been strange - Barney had almost seemed like someone else - and uncomfortable, but it was the last time she had been at Betty’s, just over six months ago, that she had been actually shocked at the change in the tall, laughing, bright-eyed lad of old. She’d heard from Vera that Betty thought the marriage had run into real problems. Knowing Betty’s conviction that a happy marriage was one in which the wife presented the husband with a baby every twelve months, Josie had found herself wondering if Betty’s verdict was based largely on the fact that as yet, Pearl and Barney were childless.

  Of course, there could be innumerable explanations for Barney having appeared to have aged ten years, along with the brooding expression his countenance had assumed whenever he wasn’t forcing himself to act bouncy and cheerful. Betty might speculate that things had gone from bad to worse since Barney had begun to work for Pearl’s uncle at Ginnett’s, but Josie couldn’t see that herself. She’d found Ernest Harper to be a nice little man and he’d been well respected by his own staff and performers alike. She couldn’t see Barney finding it difficult to get along with Ernest. And Barney and Pearl had been able to move from St James Street into the prosperous suburb of Jesmond which was almost exclusively occupied by handsome dwelling houses - Pearl must have liked that. Betty said their large gracious home in Windsor Terrace was big enough to house ten families, let alone one bit lass and lad, the one time she and Frank had been invited there just after the couple had moved in.