When Dora walked through the door there were more happy tears and plenty of laughter, too, Dora being what Nellie would have described as a card. Although rosily plump and somewhat matronly for her twenty-six years, Dora looked a great deal younger than Ada. Dora’s disposition was inclined towards jollity and she did not seem so severely affected by her traumatic childhood as her elder sister. She was a pretty woman, unlike Ada, with a ready smile and a mass of golden-brown hair not unlike Josie’s. Just before the cab driver arrived, and amid promises that she and Gertie would return soon after the weekend, which Josie was committed to spending with Oliver and his friends at the country estate of some squire or other, Josie found herself thinking that none of them resembled their parents at all.
Except Jimmy. The thought was unwelcome. Jimmy, who had been the image of their da in every way, and who had been under the tutelage of Patrick Duffy for almost ten years . . .
Chapter Nineteen
Oliver was not at home when Josie called in at Park Place, before asking the cab driver to take them straight to the Empire in Leicester Square so that she wouldn’t be late for the first of the two houses that evening. She just had time to ascertain from Mrs Wilde that her husband had not been back all day, before she had to dash off. Oliver was calling for her at the theatre that night in the carriage and they were driving straight to his friend’s estate in Berkshire. There would be time enough on the journey to tell him about the events of the day, and of her decision to play a theatre in Sunderland again, if only for a short season.
The Empire was a luxurious theatre with deep pile carpets and footmen in blue and gold livery, and it advertised itself as ‘The Cosmopolitan Club of the World’. The manager always wore full evening dress and white kid gloves, and would pat any young blood causing trouble on the shoulder before a footman escorted the offender out of the theatre. Bernard, the manager, always concealed a piece of chalk in his right glove which left a warning mark so that, should the young man try another entrance, he was recognised and refused admittance. Bernard had been using this ploy for years and it amazed Josie that the clientèle never tumbled the ruse.
Bernard was fond of telling of the time, some eleven years before, when the London County Council insisted on the foyer at the back of the circle being closed due to it being a frequent haunt of ‘ladies of the night’. Regular habitués protested in a forcible manner and a small riot ensued, when barriers were torn down by dashing young fellows led by a certain Winston Churchill, now an MP, Bernard told them. Young Winston had then marched at the head of a procession round Leicester Square, which carried debris as trophies. Josie could never quite work out if Bernard was applauding the act by the young man or decrying it, and as yet no one had had the nerve to ask the imperious Bernard which it was. Nevertheless it was a good story in view of Churchill’s venture into politics, and one which Bernard derived great satisfaction from telling.
She and Gertie passed Bernard on the way to the dressing rooms and as always he was charm itself to the two women. However, they had heard him put more than one rebellious performer in their place and he could be formidable. He had been a polished artiste himself years ago, with a good light baritone voice and reportedly somewhat handsome and always immaculately dressed, but when he’d been offered the chance to step out of the fickle world of the halls and into a steady job as manager, he’d taken it.
Once dressed in the silk and satin of her stage clothes and with her face freshly made-up, Josie found she was too het up to sit quietly in the dressing room with Gertie drinking tea as was their custom. The euphoria caused by the wonder of finding Ada and Dora again hadn’t abated in the slightest, but all the talk of the old days they’d indulged in that afternoon had set her thinking about Barney so strongly she couldn’t force him out of her mind no matter how hard she tried. She knew from experience that only regret and pain would result from giving in to this, and she needed to be strong tonight when she talked to Oliver.
‘Come and watch Annabelle with me from the wings. This dressing room is too stuffy, and you haven’t seen her act all the way through yet, have you?’ Josie pulled Gertie to her feet, the excitement of the day all too evident in her animation, but once outside the dressing room the cloak of decorum and sedateness expected from someone in her position settled over her. She wondered how often other people ran and skipped and danced in their minds whilst giving an outward impression of dignified composure.
Annabelle was already climbing into her large glass tank filled with water when they reached the wings of the stage, looking as pretty and graceful as ever, and her husband, Gerald, resplendent in full evening dress, had begun the first of his announcements of each feature of her performance which was accompanied by a little discourse. ‘The lovely Annabelle La Belle is now opening and shutting the mouth underwater; gathering shells underwater; sewing and writing underwater; eating underwater; drinking from a bottle underwater . . .’
‘This is a good bit.’ Josie nudged Gertie whose gaze had wandered to the audience. ‘Gerald borrows a lighted cigar from someone in the front row and gives it to Annabelle, and she smokes underwater for a minute or more before reappearing with the cigar still unextinguished. Bernard asked Gerald how they did it but he won’t let on.’
‘Josie.’ Gertie’s gaze had narrowed and she didn’t look at the tank. ‘Is that . . . No, it can’t be, can it? Not today of all days.’
The tone of Gertie’s voice rather than what she had said checked the laughing comment Josie had been about to make as Annabelle puffed away under the water with every appearance of contentment, and as her head turned and her eyes followed Gertie’s, the same thought sprang into Josie’s mind. It can’t be. It can’t be him. After four years or more, how could he choose this particular day to come to London?
Her heart thudding fit to burst Josie sank back against the thick velvet curtains at the side of the stage. Of course it was him. Every fibre of her being had known it the second she had laid eyes on the big handsome man in the second row of the stalls. He looked . . . well. She would not acknowledge that her mind had used the word ‘wonderful’ instead. Oh, what was she going to do? What on earth was she going to do? Barney. Barney.
She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time as she raised her hands to her burning cheeks. Oh, to see him again. To have him so close she could reach out and touch him. She felt faint for a moment, and it was only in that blinding second of truth that she acknowledged exactly what Barney meant to her. What he had always meant to her. She had often thought in the last years that Oliver was a man who should never have married, but now she knew that truth could be applied to her, at least concerning every other man but the one sitting in the second row of the theatre. She had fought her feelings for Barney every day since she had first laid eyes on him as a bairn of twelve, and for a moment it was a relief to admit it to herself.
And then she brought herself up very straight, and as Gertie’s head turned and her sister looked at her, saying, ‘It’s Barney, lass. What are you going to do?’ Josie answered stiffly, ‘Sing. That’s what I’m paid to do, after all.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Yes, she knew what Gertie meant, and her sister’s tone had told her Gertie didn’t appreciate the facetiousness, but at the moment all she could deal with was the immediate future in terms of her performance. Barney might be here but nothing had changed. She was a married woman.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Annabelle La Belle will now adopt an attitude of prayer.’
Gerald’s voice filtered through her whirling thoughts, and as Annabelle sank to her knees under the water, folding her hands with every appearance of rapt devotion while the orchestra played ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’ and rays of crimson and green light shone into the tank indicating morning and evening prayer, Josie made every effort to pull herself together. The conjurer was on next, and then Clarence, who had toured in burlesque before turning from singing to dramatic monologues. Clarence had revived
Charles Godfrey’s lurid sketch The Night Alarm which was ridiculously melodramatic, and featured a burning building, a horse-drawn fire cart, a maiden in distress and three songs, and the audiences loved it. With any luck, he would receive his usual encores which would give Josie time to compose herself.
‘Come on, Gertie.’ As Annabelle hopped out of the tank and bowed herself off, Josie was already retracing her steps and Gertie had no choice but to follow her.
Would Barney try to see her in between shows? Once in the privacy of her dressing room Josie sank down on to a stool, and Gertie walked across to the small stove in one corner and began to brew up without any prompting, her little face expressing her concern. He had obviously come to this particular theatre because he knew this was where she was appearing, Josie thought, but she didn’t flatter herself that he was down in the capital just to see her. No doubt he had some business here - or perhaps he was visiting someone? Again her heart began to pound. She hadn’t noticed anyone with him, but then again she hadn’t looked any further than his face. The thought that he might be with a lady friend was so unbearable Josie brought herself up sharp. She addressed the tight feeling in her chest which the mental picture of Barney and another woman had caused, saying silently, Don’t be so stupid. He’s a free man; he can have as many women as he likes and it is absolutely nothing to do with you. You’ve no right to have even a moment’s objection.
‘So . . .’ Gertie considered she had been quiet long enough. ‘I’ll ask again. What are you going to do?’
‘Nothing.’ This time Josie didn’t try to prevaricate. ‘If Barney wants to see us no doubt he’ll make that plain, and it would be nice to see an old friend, wouldn’t it? But he might not have time anyway. Did . . . did you notice if anyone was with him?’
There was a definite bite to Gertie’s voice when she said, ‘No, I did not notice if there was anyone with him,’ and Josie knew she’d offended her sister by not talking about her real feelings. But she couldn’t, she just couldn’t. To voice what she felt for Barney, even to hint at it or display any agitation at his presence here would be wrong. And certainly a betrayal of Oliver.
She felt she was going to cry and was forbidding herself to do so, added to which she was exhausted. But then in view of all the day had held, was that surprising? And she’d been working so hard lately; here at the theatre, at the little receptions and soirées Oliver promoted so strongly, and other musical events. Now there was another of the weekend parties in front of her which Oliver described as ‘the most agreeable form of social intercourse known to man’, and she herself described as boring.
She knew exactly how every hour would be spent. People would be called by their valets or a maid of the house at eight-thirty - never a minute before or a minute after - and these servants would arrive bearing in their left hand a neat brass can of shaving water for the male guest, and in their right hand a neat brass tray of tea, toast and Marie biscuits. The male guest, blinking plethoric eyes above his silk eiderdown, would munch his share of the biscuits and sip the tea, before donning his Afghan dressing-robe and slouching his way along the passage to the bathroom. His lady wife would dress with assistance from the maid, and then they would both descend the inevitable red pile staircase to breakfast. The smell of last night’s port would have given way to the smell of the morning’s rows of little spirit lamps. These would be gently warming rows of large silver dishes heaped high with food.
Oh, the food. Josie sighed wearily. Around the centre table prepared for perhaps twenty-five to thirty guests and bright with Malmaisons and toast racks would be another four or five smaller tables. One for the hams, tongues, galantines, cold grouse, pheasant, partridge and ptarmigan. There was always ptarmigan. A further table would hold fruits of different calibre, and jugs of cold water and lemonade. A third table contained porridge utensils. A fourth coffee, and pots of Indian and China tea. The latter were differentiated from each other by little ribbons of yellow (indicating China) and red (indicating Britain’s magnificent Indian Empire).
Discussions on how he or she had slept were taken very seriously, and then there would be morning coffee later, luncheon, an afternoon stroll, tea served in some gallery or other, bridge, dinner, and then a little musical diversion at which Josie was always commandeered to perform. Finally, at midnight, devilled chicken would be served and people would disappear to their rooms in ones and twos.
Sometime in the day the men would have gone shooting and the ladies would gossip; similarly in the evening the men would often hang back when their women retired to bed and some serious gambling and drinking would take place. And there were some couples who did the rounds every weekend of their lives. Josie winced at the thought. Well, she’d had enough, she suddenly realised. She didn’t know if it was seeing Ada and Dora in their little house and marvelling at their quiet bravery, or Barney’s unexpected appearance which had brought with it memories of Betty and Frank’s existence and a whole host of other recollections, or yet again that she was just heartily sick of Oliver’s set, but this weekend party would be her last. She loved her work, she thoroughly enjoyed the time she spent with Lily and the other ladies in the house at the back of the Caledonian Market, but this other life was just not real. She needed to be with her own folk again, it was as simple as that.
She would make it clear to Oliver she wanted to do a tour of the north which included a good portion of time spent in Sunderland. He wouldn’t like it but then that was nothing new.
And then, as Gertie silently handed her a cup of tea, Josie faced the fact that she was purposely thinking about everything but the main issue hammering at her consciousness. Barney was here. In a few minutes she would have to step on to that stage and sing and smile and flirt a little with the audience as though this was just another night. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Oh, Barney. Barney.
By the time Josie did step on to the stage some fifteen minutes later she was every inch the famous music-hall star, and no one was to know she was blessing the fact her corsets commanded her to keep her back straight and her shoulders from drooping.
Barney knew his eyes were devouring her and that he was shaking slightly, but he could no more have stopped his body’s reaction to the sight of the woman who had been a constant torment, mentally and physically, for the last few years than he could have stopped breathing. She had been lovely four years ago but now she was exquisite, a goddess. No, no not a goddess, he corrected himself in the next moment; she was too warm and lovely to be put in the same realm as aloof and remote immortal beings.
How could he have stayed away four years? He must have been mad. He should have come before. Betty couldn’t hide her feelings like Vera, and the last couple of times he’d spoken to his stepmother he had sensed she suspected all wasn’t well between Josie and Oliver, although nothing had been said directly. Or was he just imagining it because he wanted it to be that way?
Was Josie aware he’d moved back down to Sunderland from Scotland? When he had left the highly coveted position as manager of the Empire in Glasgow for the post of manager at the Avenue Theatre in Gillbridge Avenue, he had made Betty his excuse.
His stepmother was finding it hard to cope with her brood now the lads were older, he’d explained to the owner of the Empire when he’d told him of his decision to leave. He felt it important her bairns had a man about the place some of the time - the three eldest boys in particular. The twins and Robert were working at the docks for an individual who was well known for sailing close to the wind, and any bad habits needed to be nipped in the bud right now. The man had said he understood but had expressed regret at Barney’s going, a regret, he’d gone on to say, that would be echoed by his daughter. Barney had made no comment to this. Penelope was a nice lass and they had had some good times together, but as far as he was concerned she had never been under the illusion there was anything permanent in their friendship. And friendship had been all he had offered Penelope. The ones who had come and gone at the Empire and had
wanted something more physical than friendship had known the score too.
Who had ruined him for any sort of meaningful relationship? Not Pearl. No. Surprisingly he hadn’t found it hard to put the years of torment with his wife behind him. No, it had been the woman standing on the stage in front of him now who had effectively wrecked his life.
Oh, that wasn’t fair. He felt his guts twist with self-disgust. It wasn’t her fault. What was the matter with him, for crying out loud? He had become a married man within months of their meeting and she had been nowt but a child at the time, and after he had realised how he really felt he had known Josie would never have stood for a hole-in-corner type affair which would have been all he could have offered her; Pearl had considered divorce a mortal sin.
Josie had just finished singing ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’, striding from side to side of the stage as she had sung and reducing the audience to howls of laughter, but now, after the applause had died down, she moved to the centre of the stage under the rays of one limelight from the centre of the roof and a spontaneous hush fell over the assembly. This was what she did best, Barney thought. The few times he had heard her sing in the past she’d held the crowd in the palm of her hand when she was still like this.
She began to sing ‘The Things You Can’t Buy With Gold’, gazing up above the spectators as she leaned forward slightly, her body accentuating the sentimental refrain. Barney’s throat tightened, and her face, lit by the silver light, began to draw him as the rest of his suroundings melted away. She had the voice of an angel. He found he was holding his breath. It was even better than he remembered. He dragged his eyes away from the slender figure on the stage for a moment and saw his fellow listeners were transfixed too. How could such a powerfully emotive voice come from such an ethereal frame? And what the hell was he doing here? She wouldn’t look twice at him, whether she was unhappy in her marriage or not; the world was her oyster. He had been a fool to come, such a fool, but she hadn’t seen him. He could still make his escape and she would be none the wiser.
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