The Urchin's Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘What makes you think I want to get away from my beginnings, Prudence?’ Josie answered her, purposely misunderstanding the context. ‘My beginnings are linked with Gertie and my mam and Vera, so why would I want to get away from them?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘If you mean I want to succeed in life, surely you’re all for that?’ Josie challenged swiftly. ‘I can remember you saying years ago that things must change, that women have as much right as men to rise in the world and that they should be paid for the job they do, not a subsistence wage based on their gender. And you used to argue that the unions had to fight for each individual member regardless of their age or social standing or gender. Didn’t you? Didn’t you!’

  It would be true to say here that if thoughts could kill, Josie would not have lived to see another dawn. Prudence stared at her, desperately searching for an answer that would put this thorn in her flesh in her place, but she was still speechless when Josie turned away from her and made her way downstairs to the others.

  Shameless, she was, Josie Burns. Prudence continued looking after her after Josie had gone down the stairs. Her type always had an answer for everything. She’d smarmed her way in at home, Prudence thought bitterly, had her da and Barney eating out of her hand and even now she was still setting her cap at Barney. Thought no one had noticed, no doubt, but she’d seen Josie make up to him at the graveside. At the graveside, of all places! And then to go and talk about showing respect for her da. She was a baggage and an upstart, always had been and always would be, and all her fine talk wouldn’t alter that! Prudence’s thin lips twisted with rage, and then she stamped back downstairs. Not for a second did she allow any particle of her mind to suggest that Josie had been absolutely right in all that she had said.

  Betty had moved back to Sunderland a week after the funeral, but it was Amos and one of the other brothers who had moved her, so Josie hadn’t seen Barney again. Betty was now established in a small terraced property in Brougham Street; due to her windfall - for which she had thanked Josie over and over again - and the small amount of money paid out on Frank’s death, she had been able to purchase it outright.

  Brougham Street was not too far from the corn mill where Betty and Vera had both obtained part-time shifts - Vera working mornings and Betty afternoons - with the idea that whichever sister wasn’t working would take care of Betty’s little brood.

  It had all worked out very well, and Betty was as happy as she could be, given the tragic circumstances.

  ‘You’re on next, Josie. After the chaser-out.’ One of the troupe of Oriental dancers who had just come offstage spoke to Josie as she passed, and Josie nodded in acknowledgement.

  This new invention of moving pictures which the Palace had had for two or three years now provided a useful breathing space halfway through the evening. The films shown were of short duration and usually of topical or local interest, but even though the movements were jerky and the projection machine broke down at some point every week, the patrons loved them.

  Josie’s eyes moved upwards to the framed page of the Sunderland Citizen hanging above the middle of the mirror. The article had appeared two years before in August, so amusing the Palace’s manager that he’d cut it out and kept it for posterity. It read:

  The Cinematograph. This is a most extraordinary invention, but I think the inventor(s) will be almost regretting that he ever produced it, since instead of being used for the improvement and advancement of mankind, it has hitherto been used for exhibitions of a most degrading nature. The prize-fight was bad enough, but The Bride’s First Night and suchlike exhibitions were outrageous. A friend of mine went to both. He went especially to see the effect upon the people. The effect was so vile that he assured me he doubted whether any decent working man would ever dare to admit to his children or womenfolk that he had been there. Is there really no way to stop these things? We prohibit prize-fighting by law, we also prohibit public indecency. Have we not the power to prohibit exhibitions which are life-size and amount to the same thing? Surely these are things for the Watch Committee to watch.

  The manager had written underneath the article, in great black letters, A friend went to see The Bride’s First Night? Who does he think he’s kidding? But don’t worry, my bairns - this is just a seven-day wonder, moving pictures, and no threat to the legitimate theatre.

  Josie wasn’t so sure. She remembered Vera’s enthusiastic commendation of the Victoria Hall’s picture-show in the first week of January. The hall had presented what were proclaimed to be ‘The Most Beautiful Animated Pictures’ ever seen in Sunderland, ‘A Triumph of Animated Photography, 10,000 pictures of the Boer War and our Navy.’ The hall had been packed every night and although Vera was not easily impressed, she had gone twice. And according to the Sunderland Echo in December, when the Olympia Exhibition Hall in Borough Road - a giant pleasure-drome with roundabouts, gondolas, a free menagerie and the best circus entertainment - held a special performance of Edison George’s Special War Pictures, the large audience enjoyed themselves most heartily, joining in with the Olympian band as it played patriotic songs.

  Yes, there was a place being carved out for moving pictures all right, Josie thought. It might be a novelty according to most folk, but it was a novelty that the public was taking to its heart, although she agreed with the manager that the music hall would continue. Anything else was unthinkable.

  ‘So, our last night here then.’ Gertie was looking at her sister’s reflection in the mirror, and Josie nodded to the face behind her shoulder. ‘Oliver must think a bit of you, lass, to insist he come up here tomorrow and escort us down to London himself.’

  Josie shrugged. ‘He probably does that for anyone new he signs up, Gertie. And he knows we haven’t been to London before so likely he thought we’d get lost. But aye, it is nice of him.’

  ‘Do you like him then? As a person I mean, not an agent,’ Gertie asked nonchalantly.

  Josie understood her sister too well to be fooled by the casual tone, but a sudden crash and thud at the far end of the dressing room announced that Sybil - a serio-comedienne who indulged strongly in doubles entendres in her patter and often downright vulgarity - had fallen off her stool again, after partaking too well of the whisky flask she kept hidden from the management’s eagle eye in her bag.

  Josie and several of the other girls rushed to help her up, and once they had hauled her none too light bulk back on to the seat, Josie asked Gertie to make a pot of strong black coffee. This was the third time the ageing veteran - who had married her first husband at the tender age of fifteen and was now on her fourth, and again unhappy, marriage - had been the worse for wear due to the drink. Sybil tried to mask her unhappiness in a round of gay living, and was in fact holding one of her famous parties that very night to which all of the players had been invited.

  Amid a few feathers from Sybil’s shocking-pink boa that were floating in the air, the girls poured coffee down her throat until it was time for Josie to go onstage, and so further conversation regarding Oliver was forgotten.

  It was hard to believe now, Josie thought soberly, as she walked into the glare of the footlights a few minutes later, that the wreck of a woman in the dressing room had once been the toast of London.

  It was common knowledge that Sybil had drunk champagne with princes in palaces but also eaten winkles with her old friends round street stalls, and because of that she was a favourite with everyone. In her hey-day, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, had asked for a private performance because Sybil was one of his favourite artistes, and she had been more than half an hour late at his apartments, due to keeping a promise she’d made to visit an old impoverished fellow performer in hospital. Everyone loved Sybil - except, perhaps, the lady herself.

  The incident in the dressing room had been depressing, but like every music-hall artiste, Josie became someone else once she was onstage. She sang a somewhat flirtatious song first, dimpling at the audience as she heard appreciative c
huckles from parts of the building. It was the late session, and here and there a cigar hung lazily from a smiling mouth as patrons considered each song or dance or other performance with an air of languid contentment; a hazy sense of smoke and drink and general enjoyment pervaded the theatre.

  After two songs of a faintly suggestive nature, sung with wide-open eyes and a small pout, Josie knew the audience were with her. Now she moved into the very centre of the stage, a slim, graceful figure leaning forward to accentuate the refrain of the sentimental ballad she began to sing. She felt the spontaneous movement of sympathy and attention her voice and demeanour evoked, and now the patrons’ sombre, intent faces threw into more brilliant relief her beseeching gestures, bathed as she was in rays of rosy-pink lights from the centre of the roof and from below in the glow of the footlights. Part of her was sorry to be leaving the place of her birth for the capital, and something of this feeling must have come across in the pathos of the song, because there was a collective sigh from the audience when she finished the last note before they broke out into tumultuous applause.

  And it was only then, as she curtsied and smiled before agreeing to sing another song - more to give the girls in the dressing room extra time to sober Sybil up than anything else - that she noticed the big handsome man in one of the boxes to the left of the auditorium. Oliver. But she’d thought he was arriving tomorrow? And then he smiled at her, blowing her a silent kiss of approval, and she found herself blushing scarlet as she wrenched her eyes away from the magnetic blue gaze. This would never do. A man like Oliver Hogarth was used to elegant, sophisticated creatures who were conversant with the ways of the world. She had discovered a great deal about the man since her fellow artistes had realised who her new agent was. Sybil in particular had been very blunt.

  Oh, she knew he had won Gertie over; her sister was transparent in that regard, much as she would have protested the issue. But Oliver Hogarth was something of a libertine and a rake according to everyone else, and after she had thought the matter over, Josie realised it was true. He had charmed Lily to get to her that night in Hartlepool, and without any conscience whatsoever. ‘A bit of a ladies’ man but nice with it.’ That’s what Lily had said. Of course, it could have all been innocent, but it had been three or four in the morning when Lily had returned . . . If Hogarth thought Josie was that sort of girl, he had another think coming. By, he did.

  ‘Keep your knickers on and the elastic tight, and you’ll be all right, dear.’ That’s what Sybil had said to her when Josie had first mentioned Oliver Hogarth. ‘He’s not a bad man, not like some - oh, the stories I could tell you, dearie, they’d make your hair curl - but he is partial to a well-turned ankle, and there’s many a young gal woke up in the morning regretting the night before when Oliver’s been around, if you get my meaning.’

  Josie had got her meaning, and once got, was not going to forget it. So now she sang her last song, arousing nostalgic memories for more than one or two in the audience with her rendition of ‘Bobbing Up and Down Like This’, along with much laughter, and left the stage on a wave of cheering and clapping.

  She heard the chairman, who was sitting at a table in front of the orchestra, begin his flowery speech to announce Sybil, who was waiting in the wings, and she spoke softly to the other woman as she moved past her. ‘Are you all right, Sybil? Are you up to going on?’

  Heavy stage make-up couldn’t hide the wrinkles in the face looking back at her, but Sybil smiled widely as she whispered, ‘It’ll take more than a dram or two to stop me, dear, but bless you for asking. My main worry now is wetting me drawers after all that coffee.’

  The young woman and the older one leaned against each other briefly, both shaking with laughter, and then as the chairman resumed his seat with melancholy dignity and banged his little auctioneer’s hammer, the orchestra broke into Sybil’s signature tune and she flitted lightly on to the stage, losing twenty years as she did so.

  Dear Sybil. She had a heart of gold and such a warm, generous nature, and yet everyone knew her present husband had indulged his roving eye ever since they had been married. Why was it that some women seemed to have a penchant for philanderers and rotters? Josie asked herself as she hurried back to the dressing room. And then an image of Oliver’s attractive face came into her mind and she bit her lip hard, just before she opened the dressing-room door and was enfolded in a wave of chatter and cheap scent and colour. And then Gertie was at her side.

  ‘Oliver’s here! He’s sent you this.’ Gertie handed her an exquisite corsage as she spoke, her voice bubbling. ‘An’ he’s asked us out to dinner after the show. Look, he got me one an’ all.’

  She pointed to a smaller corsage that was nevertheless just as pretty, and which she had already pinned to the lapel of her serge dress.

  Josie glanced down at the delicate arrangement of pale peach orchids threaded through with cream lace, and she couldn’t quell the flutter of pleasure and excitement that speeded her pulse. However, her voice was quiet and steady when she said, ‘I presume Billy brought these along?’ Billy was the young lad who ran errands, assisted Oswald - the stagehand - and was general dogsbody and jack-of-all-trades. ‘And no doubt you accepted the invitation to dinner on behalf of us both?’

  Gertie turned her head and stared at her sister for a moment before saying in a slightly defensive tone, ‘He’s come all the way from London, lass, an’ he is your agent, isn’t he?’

  Josie nodded, seating herself on the stool Gertie had kept clear for her amidst all the mayhem. ‘Aye, he’s my agent,’ she said very softly, ‘but that’s all he is, Gertie. You understand? I . . . I don’t want him to get any ideas.’ That went for Gertie too, so it was better to nip any misunderstanding in the bud right now. ‘We don’t know how things are going to turn out down south and I’m going to have more than enough on my plate as it is. My work is the only thing which interests me. All right, Gertie? Is that clear?’

  My work is the only thing that interests me. What stupid things we say sometimes. As the thought took form, along with another - different - man’s image in her mind’s eye, Josie lowered her head and fiddled with the buttons of her dress. She had had a difficult time keeping the picture of Barney all alone at the graveside out of her mind, and even now it still crept in at odd moments when she wasn’t on her guard. And she could do nothing at all about her dreams.

  She was glad she was going down south, she told herself savagely, whipping the hairpins out of her hair and massaging her head with the tips of her fingers, ignoring Gertie’s protests at the cavalier treatment of her painstakingly arranged curls and waves. It was the best thing all round, it was. And she was grateful, so, so grateful, that no one could read anyone else’s mind.

  And then just for a moment that last thought was brought into question when Gertie’s hand lightly touched her shoulder and patted it twice, and her sister’s voice said quietly, ‘Aye, it’s clear, lass, it’s clear.’

  Josie looked at her sister’s small elfin face in the mirror and Gertie stared back at her for a moment without speaking. And then she said, with a lilt in her voice, ‘So, what’s it to be then? Bread and cheese all by ourselves with water to wash it down, or a slap-up meal with Oliver where you’ll be fêted and adored? Difficult choice, I know.’

  Oh, Gertie. In spite of herself Josie grinned back at her sister. ‘I don’t think bread and cheese was on the cards for tonight,’ she said drily, ‘but I get your point. And as you so rightly said, Oliver has come all the way from London.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Gertie beamed at her. ‘And I wouldn’t expect you to do any other than follow Sybil’s advice about the elastic on your drawers, by the way.’

  ‘Gertie!’

  At that moment the dressing-room door was thrown open and Sybil herself entered on a gust of plumage and perfume. The painted face was smiling, and on catching sight of Josie, Sybil called, and loudly, ‘Josie, darling, there’s someone out here waiting to make your acquaintance! Come and put him out of
his misery, and do feel free to bring him to my party tonight, dear. Such a nice young man and so polite. I do like politeness in a man, don’t you?’

  Oliver. He hadn’t had the good grace to wait until she left the theatre, but had come to the very door of the dressing room. What would people think? Her mouth smiling but her eyes cold, Josie ignored the last part of Sybil’s ringing proclamation which had had all the girls’ heads turning interestedly towards her, and said quietly, ‘Someone, Sybil? Can’t you give me a clue?’

  Sybil had almost reached her now but as was her wont when she had had a few, her voice was still strident when she exclaimed, ‘A handsome young fellow m’lad, dearie. The sort who makes me wish I was a few years younger, I tell you. He said his name was . . .’ she paused, more wrinkles joining the others as she screwed up her eyes. ‘What was it? Harry . . . Horace . . . No, I have it!’ She beamed at Josie triumphantly. ‘Hubert. He said his name was Hubert and that you would want to speak to him when you knew he was here.’

  ‘Hubert?’ She and Gertie had spoken together, and now, as Josie’s eyes met those of her sister in the mirror, she said dazedly, ‘That’s my brother, Sybil.’

  ‘Darling child, aren’t they all?’ Sybil gave one last leer before she tottered over to her stool and crashed down on its long-suffering legs.

  ‘Josie.’ Gertie was clutching her so hard on the shoulders Josie knew she would have bruises in the morning. ‘Oh, Josie.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, lass.’ Josie was speaking mechanically, her head whirling. She suddenly had the most inordinate desire to laugh, but she knew it was the kind of laughter that would finish up with her weeping. Hubert, here? Then Jimmy . . . And her da. All this time with no news. Her mam had been right. They had been here. Oh, Mam . . .