The Urchin's Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘I’m sure Patrick Duffy knows more than he is saying.’ And then Josie drew in a deep breath before adding, ‘In fact I’m convinced he did away with our father for reasons of his own, but unfortunately there is no proof. That’s the truth of it.’ She stared at him, her face almost defiant, and Oliver stared back at her in quiet amazement.

  It wasn’t often he underestimated anyone - man or woman - but in the last hour as he had listened to Josie’s story over what had turned out to be an excellent meal, he’d had to admit to himself that that was exactly what he’d done regarding this particular female. She was strong, she had character and a mind of her own, and the air of innocence which sat so well with her fresh beauty and undoubted talent was not the kind of which naivety formed the base. He had had several mistresses in his time, but not one of them had affected him like this young woman who had, by her own admission, been born in the gutter and had started her singing career as a street urchin.

  He cleared his throat twice before he said quietly, ‘That being the case, what do you wish me to do? From what you have told me, it would put your brother at risk if the authorities were informed of this plan to snatch both of you’ - he included Gertie in the sweep of his head - ‘but it goes against the grain for the man to assume he can behave however he feels so inclined.’

  It might go against the grain for a man like Oliver Hogarth, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, to do nothing against an adversary he considered socially and morally beneath him, but then Oliver hadn’t started life in the East End of Sunderland in a two-roomed hovel frequented by rats and cockroaches and disease. Josie’s thoughts were not bitter, merely rational. Oliver had no idea of the power a man like Patrick Duffy wielded within his own community, nor of the protection that power gave him. Patrick was feared and loathed, but the respect brought about by blind terror ensured that whilst those about him might go down the line, Patrick wouldn’t.

  ‘No one would speak against Patrick Duffy,’ she explained, ‘they just wouldn’t. My father was a hard man and people were frightened of him, but he was scared stiff of Duffy. If you met him you’d understand why.’

  ‘After what you have told me, if I met him I would make sure only one of us was left breathing.’ And as Oliver saw her eyes widen, a slight smile touched the corners of his lips. ‘I might have had something of a sheltered upbringing, Miss Burns, but the last twenty odd years in the big bad world have ensured I am neither callow nor easily intimidated. I hold the opinion that certain men are like rabid dogs. The kindest thing for them and the individuals around them is to put them out of their misery.’

  Now it was Josie’s turn to realise she had underestimated the man sitting watching her so calmly. She knew Oliver must be intelligent and intuitive to have reached the position he now held, but she’d had him down as one step removed from the idle rich; a womaniser, a gay blood, one of those aristocratic types with gold-knobbed canes and gold toothpicks who lived in a world where everything ran smoothly and harmoniously. But she’d misjudged him. The piercing quality to his eyes and the set of his mouth told her he hadn’t been joking in his remarks about Patrick. She saw Gertie shift uneasily on her seat and knew her sister had recognised it too.

  ‘I can understand how you feel but I have to think of my brother first and foremost. We’re leaving here tomorrow but he might choose to stay, and then there’s Vera and Horace . . .’ Her voice dwindled away, but then Oliver was disabused of the notion the pause was due to feminine feebleness when she raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes as she said, ‘But if it wasn’t for the safety of my loved ones I’d be only too pleased for you to meet Patrick Duffy, Mr Hogarth. I have a feeling you would deal with him exactly as he deserves.’

  And it was at that moment that Oliver Hogarth first became acquainted with the onslaught of an emotion he had previously thought to be an illusion; a sentimental indulgence embraced by poets and other romantics he privately scorned. Namely, love.

  Josie left Sunderland in the week in which the Grand Theatre in Islington, London, was totally destroyed by fire, and - a more momentous event to those outside the theatre fraternity - it was the same week in which the trade unions created the Labour Party.

  Keir Hardie’s words on that emotional occasion - ‘It has come. Poor little child of danger, nursling of the storm. May it be blessed’ - could have applied equally to the heartsore Sunderland lass who stepped on to King’s Cross Station one grey winter’s afternoon. And, as had been the case with the delegates leaving the Memorial Hall in Farringdon Street to face the future, it was raining.

  Hubert hadn’t come. It had been the only thing Josie and Gertie could think of on the train-ride down to the capital, although Vera’s tearful farewell on the platform at Sunderland Central - surrounded by Betty’s numerous offspring who had all been darting off in different directions which had necessitated Vera, Josie, Gertie and a very irritated Oliver Hogarth retrieving little people at frequent intervals - had taken the edge off their bitter disappointment at the time.

  The night before, everything in Josie had balked at the thought of not returning to Northumberland Place to explain the circumstances personally to Vera, although she had accepted the wisdom of actually sleeping elsewhere. The more Gertie and Oliver had tried to persuade her not to return, the more determined she had become as the evening had progressed. ‘He’s a nasty little bully of a man, Patrick Duffy, and he would just love to think he’d frightened us away,’ Josie had said vehemently at the coffee and brandy stage of the meal.

  ‘Him with the sense to run away, lives to fight another day.’ Gertie’s voice had held no humour although her words had made Oliver’s mouth twitch. ‘An’ frankly, lass, he’d love it far more if he got his hands on you, so think on.’

  ‘I’m not intending for him or anyone else to get their hands on me,’ Josie said firmly. ‘And I’m certainly not suggesting that we’re foolish enough to go back without adequate force.’

  ‘But if we tell the police, Patrick an’ Jimmy will know that Hubert--’

  ‘I’m not suggesting the police either.’ It was indignant. She wasn’t stupid, for goodness’ sake! ‘You know Sybil’s party tonight? Well, everyone’s going to be there, aren’t they?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we round up a good few of them and go back to Vera’s in a crowd. They can wait outside while you and I nip in. We needn’t tell the others the full story, just make it clear that we’re being bothered by a couple of unsavoury characters, that’s all, and once at Vera’s we can pack our things and tell her what’s what. Perhaps Vera and Horace would like to come back with us to the party after? Sybil won’t mind. The more the merrier as far as she’s concerned. It’d do Vera good too. She’s been a bit down in the mouth over Frank and everything; an evening out would set her up.’ Josie was blowed if she was going to creep away from Sunderland like a little whipped puppy because of that man.

  That was true. Gertie stared at her sister and was aware of Oliver doing the same. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and read admiration in his face, although his voice expressed none of this sentiment when he said, ‘You’re putting yourself in harm’s way for no good reason except to demonstrate this Duffy fellow cannot intimidate you.’

  ‘That’s good enough reason for me.’ Josie’s face had set determinedly. She wasn’t frightened of Patrick Duffy; she wouldn’t let herself be.

  ‘And I don’t suppose there is anything I can say to dissuade you from this course of action?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even though this protest will be something the fellow is unaware of, considering he doesn’t know you’re privy to his plans tonight?’

  ‘I’m aware of my protest.’

  Oliver sighed deeply. ‘I will make no comment. Suffice to say I have never understood how a woman’s mind works and that I insist on being at your side at all times tonight.’

  Josie considered for a moment, then replied, ‘All right, but nothing will
happen, I can assure you of that.’

  She was right. Oliver was on tenterhooks the whole time he, and a large crowd of revellers, milled around on the pavement outside Vera’s house, but he had seen no one other than their party. The would-be assailants had been primed to look out for two young women, not a carousing band of merrymakers which featured, amongst others, Signor Bianchi, The Famous Weightlifter from Italy, and Rumbo Austin, Juggler Extraordinaire; the latter used to be a blacksmith before he had entered the music hall and was built like a tram. The criminal element of Sunderland knew when the odds were stacked against them, and were well versed in becoming invisible when necessary.

  With Sybil’s warm agreement, Vera and Horace found themselves whisked back to the party - Signor Bianchi carrying the girls’ trunk and other luggage as though it weighed nothing - with the result that Vera had the time of her life, and Horace had so far forgotten himself as to allow Sybil to teach him the Cakewalk, an American dance which was all the rage in theatrical circles.

  ‘Come along, my dear.’ Oliver now took Josie’s arm as the porter he had commandeered wheeled their luggage out of the station on a large wooden handcart. ‘And please, don’t distress yourself further about your youngest brother. You said all you could. You gave him the opportunity to escape the life he is leading and that’s all you could do.’

  Josie looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment before saying sadly, ‘But it wasn’t enough, was it, Oliver?’ It had become Oliver and Josie halfway through the previous evening when the agent had reached across the table and asked her permission to address her and Gertie by their Christian names. Josie wasn’t to know it was the first time he had ever thus petitioned the female of his choice.

  He shook his head slowly, including Gertie in his glance as he said, ‘He has free will, as do we all, and this gift from the Almighty can be used for good or ill. Life is a series of choices for everyone.’

  Josie removed her arm from his hand with an impatient movement. ‘He’s frightened, Oliver. Scared out of his wits, and frankly he has every reason to be so. And I don’t think Hubert has ever had this free will you speak of. First my father controlled him and now Duffy has an even tighter hold.’

  He stared at her, aware of the porter waiting some distance away and of the bustle all about them. She was right. And he must have sounded patronising in the extreme. ‘I’m sorry, forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course. Maybe there will be an opportunity in the future for you to help him. He contacted you once, he may do so again.’

  ‘He needs to break free of Jimmy.’ Gertie entered the conversation somewhat abruptly. ‘An’ he won’t do that until he’s a mite older an’ can see things for what they are. Jimmy’s like our da - no good to man nor beast.’

  They stood in an embarrassed silence for a moment or two before Oliver said, his voice loud and over-hearty, ‘What are we doing standing here! The porter has the valises and trunk, so let us make haste and find a carriage, and once everything is on board I shall instruct the driver to take us by way of Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London before the light fades. Tomorrow I shall take you both on a tour of some of the music halls, small and great. In London you can see more clearly than anywhere else the three popular elements that have gone to make up the present music hall.’ He was leading them out of the station as he spoke.

  ‘The three popular elements?’ Josie queried.

  ‘The pleasure garden with its saloon theatre, the song and supper rooms, and the catch and glee clubs and harmonic meetings in tavern concerts,’ Oliver said jovially. ‘The sort of West End boltholes immortalised by William Makepeace Thackeray and his set. Those were the days, my dear. Singers hired at a pound a week and all the free drink they could consume! Gargantuan suppers enjoyed by all the young bloods at one in the morning and no ladies allowed. This went on until the late 1860s. Oh, some of the old-timers can tell a tale or two about those days, believe me. Of course, when the ladies were admitted, to boxes with latticework screens in front, it stopped some of the more . . . exuberant excesses of the supper rooms and clubs, but that’s when more far-sighted individuals began to build the gilded palaces in which you play now.’

  He smiled at Josie as they paused at the entrance to the station and watched the porter load their luggage on to a waiting horse-drawn carriage. Then Oliver hurried the two girls over to the open door, helping them up into the upholstered depths before he tipped the porter handsomely.

  Gilded palaces? Josie smiled to herself. Perhaps some of the northern halls could be termed such, like the Empire in Newcastle which was magnificently ornate from the pits right up to the gallery which was almost square in comparison to the conventional shape of the circle below. She had enjoyed her season at the Empire; its beautifully moulded plasterwork exquisitely painted in rich lush colours and everything of the very best. But some of the smaller halls in the north held no more than four or five hundred patrons at best; their dingy, somewhat faded interiors only enlivened by the players themselves.

  As Oliver slid into the carriage he took the seat opposite Josie and Gertie, and it was clear he had warmed to his theme as he said, ‘Music halls have become palaces of variety, especially those here in the capital. This is the place to be, all right.’

  He was leaning forward as he spoke, the heavy grey greatcoat he was wearing and his top hat making him seem even bigger in the close confines of the carriage. He exuded strength and vitality; his dark, handsome face alight, and a clean and faintly pleasant smell coming from him. Josie felt the little shiver she had experienced once or twice before when he had been close, and it disconcerted her.

  She felt herself blushing, but Oliver didn’t appear to notice, continuing, ‘The halls in London are the resort of wealth, fashion and influence, where can be seen the most prominent and distinguished representatives of art, literature and law, together with city financiers, lights of the sporting world and a liberal sprinkling of the social elite. To that end, my dear, we must see about . . . increasing your wardrobe.’

  The brief hesitation wasn’t lost on either of the two girls and they both knew exactly what Oliver was getting at. It wasn’t so much increasing her wardrobe that was needed, but a complete overhaul. The capital had embraced new fashions for the new century, upholding the notion that women’s dress should reflect their growing freedom at work and play. The more severe corsets and stuffy bustles were being consigned to the dustbin, whilst hemlines had crept up above the ankle. There was even talk that modern woman should abandon her skirts in favour of the knickerbocker, and keen cyclists had already raised eyebrows by doing that very thing.

  ‘I have taken the liberty of contacting a good friend of mine, a Mrs Irving, who is well versed in ladies’ fashions,’ Oliver said easily. ‘She will accompany you to the big shops and take pleasure from doing so. You can safely put yourself in her hands, and perhaps Gertie would also like to take this opportunity to increase her ensemble?’

  He smiled at Gertie who beamed back. Wouldn’t she just! By, they’d landed on their feet with Oliver all right. And if she wasn’t mistaken Josie was beginning to like him, just a little. Which could only bode well. If nothing else it would take her mind off the other one; anyway, Josie could do better than the likes of Barney Robson, even if he had been free. Which he wasn’t. All things considered, she hadn’t been sorry to leave Sunderland.

  ‘But . . .’ Josie hesitated. What on earth was all this going to cost?

  And then, as though Oliver had read her mind, he said, ‘This is what is called an investment, my dear. I intend to launch you straight to the top, but you need certain things to be right. Another friend of mine, Mr Golding, will take you for singing lessons and deportment every afternoon, and in the evenings we will sit and converse, the three of us.’

  ‘Converse?’

  ‘On literature, the arts, social etiquette . . . It is my hope that you will soon be moving in circles which will require you to be familiar with th
e conventional rules of social behaviour - if you should be introduced to the Prince of Wales, for example, after some performance or perhaps a private soirée.’

  It was pouring with rain outside the carriage and already the grey twilight was banishing what was left of the afternoon, but Josie was unaware of anything but Oliver’s smiling face and the gasp of surprise from Gertie at the side of her. Oliver was informing her, gently but nevertheless firmly, that she had a lot to learn. Well, she’d known that, hadn’t she? But this talk of the Prince of Wales took it to another dimension. She liked Oliver - in fact, the more she saw of him the more she liked him which was a relief in the circumstances - it would have been awful if she had been unable to get on with her own agent - but somehow she felt she needed to assert herself. Even make a stand.

  She wanted to succeed in her chosen profession. The desire that had been with her ever since she had first stepped on to a stage four years ago burned all the stronger for being curbed so long due to her mother’s ill health, and she appreciated Oliver’s experience, but . . . She wouldn’t be taken over, mind and soul. That was it.