Hands pushed Kitty forward. She stumbled onto the stage. She had never experienced such terror. The lights blinded her, the swirling smoke clawed at her throat. Her appearance, for the moment at least, had quieted the crowd. Moses grinned at her, savagely, and stepped from the stage, leaving her alone. Like an animal waiting to pounce it seemed to her that the audience crouched, one breath, one pair of eyes, one rapacious appetite for defeat and failure. Her mind was a perfect blank. Neither word nor note of music came to her frantic brain. She cleared her throat nervously.
‘That’s a start,’ said someone, sniggering like an ill-behaved child.
‘I can do that,’ said another, and the hall immediately echoed to a thunder of cleared throats.
She stared down at them, suddenly furious, filled with contempt. Stupid children. That indeed, was what they were. Stupid, unpleasant, destructive children—
Somewhere in her head the thought sparked a memory; a sullen, bent-on-mischief face and then the sudden lighting of interest—
Giving herself no time to think or consider, she marched to the piano. If they could do no better than to act like children, then so she would treat them. She struck a crashing, martial chord. Unexpectedly, utter silence fell. Beyond the uncertain flare of the footlights she caught a brief glimpse of narrowed, gleaming eyes.
‘Oh, soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me, With your musket, fife and drum—’
They couldn’t believe it. She saw crooked, surprised grins appear. A few started to beat time with their hands and feet.
‘Oh, no sweet maid, I cannot marry thee, For I have no’ – she paused, cocked her head cheekily and waited for the space of a drawn breath – ‘coat to put on.’ Her expression was entirely innocent. Incredibly and capriciously, they loved it. The roar this time was of approbation. Her voice strengthened. Across Moses Smith’s face she saw flit a variety of expressions – disbelief, amazement, interest, and finally a small smile of delighted satisfaction. Beside him, Lottie scowled. Kitty coarsened her voice and winked salaciously. ‘So off they went to her grandfather’s chest and found him a coat of the very, very best—’
It was unlikely that any nursery song had ever been sung with such swagger, nor indeed with such wanton innuendo and suggestion. She left the piano and strode across the stage, scarlet skirt swinging about her long legs. An excitement had taken her, irresistible and vital, lifting her, concentrating its force in voice and gesture as with fierce enjoyment she commanded the attention of this dangerously feckless audience. Without changing a word she transformed the innocent children’s song into a bawdy ballad, and the customers loved it. The applause as she finished was all but deafening, and the sweetest sound she had ever heard. She stood suddenly abashed, a little of the excitement ebbing. She looked at Moses, uncertainly. He was on his feet, gesturing excitedly, encouraging her – ordering her – to sing again. The room fell to quiet. Instinct told her that she could not continue at this pitch of excitement. A little apprehensively she walked to the piano and settled herself on the stool.
‘’Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone—’ The atmosphere could not have been more different. Yet, as if spellbound, still they listened. ‘All her lovely companions are faded and gone—’ The sadly plaintive notes echoed to the smoke-blackened beams. She lifted her head, her heart and soul in the melancholy words. And she held them, and she knew it, and nothing in her life had ever brought such happiness.
Chapter 3
(i)
She could hardly believe the change in her life. Overnight it seemed that Fortune, whose face for so long had been wantonly turned from her, smiled and beckoned at last. From the moment that she stepped from the stage to be offered a brimming glass of champagne by a beaming Moses, her perfidious world took its cue from its master and the near-outcast became by the fickle magic of success a courted celebrity. Those who would not have greeted her nor willingly given her the time of day before were suddenly eager to claim long-standing friendship. But not for long – for the past hard and lonely months had not gone for nothing, and it was a new Kitty who faced this fresh situation coolly, keeping her head and guarding her heart, knowing well that no matter what they now said to her face, behind her back they still used the spiteful epithets of resentment. She neither courted nor wanted such untrustworthy popularity, though in shunning it she realized that she aroused still more hostility. She did not care. Indeed she hardly thought about it. Her whole existence in those first weeks was bounded by and concentrated upon those few minutes each night when she stepped upon the ill-lit stage to sing: for Moses, delighted at the unexpected gift from the gods that had sprung from such an astonishingly unpromising source, overrode her first slightly panic-stricken protests and installed her upon his bill of attractions the very day after that first triumph. And so the door that she had glimpsed had opened, and she had indeed, to her delight and astonishment, discovered paradise. In the exhilaration of performing she experienced an emotion that towered far above mere happiness, and that for the moment at least absorbed and outweighed all other considerations. Yet paradise, as always, had its serpent, and in this case the devil’s flaw proved to be the nerve-wracking fear that beset her each time she stepped out to face her audience.
‘Gawd, Kit!’ Pol had said in some awe after that first night, ‘’ow did yer do it? It was like watchin’ someone else up there—’
‘It was like being someone else,’ Kitty had replied with simple truth. And so it was. It was as if when she stepped into that smoky circle of light some other Kitty Daniels – braver, stronger, strangely nerveless – inhabited her body and took over her mind. And, unable to analyze or explain this extraordinary transformation, she at first lived in terror that the gift, if gift it were, might leave her as suddenly as it had come, and that she would one day find herself marooned alone and defenceless before the voracious creature that she faced each evening as she walked onto the stage. For despite the joy she found in performing, her first image of her audience as a predatory beast red in tooth and claw persisted. Neither its enthusiastic plaudits nor its new-found admiration fooled her into believing that it would not be just as entertained by her humiliation and failure as it was by her success. She did not easily forget the tears on Potty Masters’ face.
Indeed there were many, she knew, who would be positively pleased to see her come to grief as quickly as she had come to success – for, not surprisingly, pretty Lottie had many loyal supporters and in the perhaps inevitable rivalry that arose between the two girls – on Kitty’s side unsought and unencouraged – bad feeling was exacerbated and malice fostered. There were times when Kitty strongly suspected Moses’ gleeful fat hand in the promotion of the jealous competition between Lottie’s supporters and her own – for the Song and Supper Rooms did not suffer on account of it, quite to the contrary – more tables were packed onto the crowded floor and the price of happy insensibility went up by a ha’penny a tot. But the real and open break with Lottie came when George Milton fell sick and Kitty found herself billed as the Rooms’ main attraction – ‘The Songbird of Stepney’ – and as such was excused the drudgery of waiting on tables. And the other girl’s rage was fed further when Moses made it clear that his new and unlikely star attraction, whilst she was no longer required to be at the hoi polloi’s beck and call, would certainly not be allowed to wriggle out of her duties altogether; her place now was with Moses and his guests, and to that end she was required to join them at the round table each evening an hour or so before she took the stage.
This last Kitty found a doubtful privilege at best, and one she would happily have surrendered to her rival, given the chance. Acutely nervous, she would sit for the most part in silence, answering when spoken to, deflecting with equal determination Moses’ disgustingly fulsome jollity and any faint and very occasional laconic interest on the part of Luke Peveral. From time to time other guests joined them, men whose hard eyes, rough voices and expensive gold jewellery betrayed their profession clear
ly, but more usually it was Peveral’s company in which she found herself. She sensed that he knew of her dislike for him and sensed equally that it amused rather than offended him – indeed she knew that it tempted him on occasion to mischief. The pernicious charm that she so detested and which she observed him turn upon every other female who approached within yards he never used upon her, a small mercy for which she was thankful. On the other hand, with her nerves tight enough to snap, in face of his disconcerting mockery and occasional downright provocation she often found it difficult to keep a civil tongue in her head; and she sensed that he knew that too. She was in truth sometimes alarmed at how frequently she experienced the urge to slap the sardonic, gypsy-dark face very hard indeed. The tone of their relationship, such as it was, was well and truly set, and the fickle nature of Moses’ favour proved, on a night just a few days after that first, memorable performance and before she had been excused the chore of waiting at the crowded tables, when she turned to find herself the subject of that intense, narrow gaze, and he snapped his fingers casually, as he might to call a dog to him. The rise of anger at his arrogance almost choked her. She stood, mouth tight, defying him for the space of several seconds before, slowly, chin high, she moved to his side. ‘Yes, Mr Peveral?’
He leaned back in his chair, surveying her. Only the blandly provoking expression upon his face betrayed the degree of his inebriation. ‘I have to ask, sweet songbird. What in the hell’s name are you doing wearing that dress?’
She stared at him, totally bereft of words.
Luke turned to Moses. ‘She looks like the village maypole,’ he said, mildly, and for all the world as if Kitty were stone deaf.
Moses shrugged and spread his hands. ‘So she’s thin—’
Not far away Lottie had paused by a nearby table and was openly listening, the faintest shadow of a smile hovering about her mouth. Kitty’s cheeks were of the colour of the detestable dress. ‘I—’
Luke grinned amiably, still addressing Moses. ‘So what? That doesn’t mean she has to look like a string bean in a rage. You know what they say – “the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat”—’
Moses sniggered. ‘You fancy ’em skinny, do you?’
Luke shrugged dismissively. ‘Not particularly.’
Outraged, Kitty drew breath and opened her mouth.
Luke looked at her, apparently innocently unaware of her fury. ‘I really would suggest that you get yourself something decent to wear. Something a little less’ – he paused, and added delicately – ‘violent.’
Finding her voice at last, she interrupted him. ‘Do you think,’ she said, softly and clearly, her husky voice shaking in her unsuccessful attempt to control her anger, ‘that if there had been anything decent to wear within ten miles of this – establishment’ – both the pause and the word were trenchant with disgust; she saw, too late, Moses’ head lift sharply, his brows drawing together thunderously – ‘that I shouldn’t have found it?’ Her momentum carried her on. ‘Do you think that I’d choose to walk around looking like – like a dockside whore?’ She stopped then, suddenly aware that she had gone much too far, and equally suddenly sick with fear. Moses’ face was suffused. Luke’s normally guarded eyes had widened, surprised almost to sobriety. There was a very small silence.
Moses, in his anger, was struggling to his feet. ‘You little bitch! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to!’
Luke, swiftly and placatingly, put out a hand to stop him. ‘Moses, no—’ His eyes flicked back to Kitty and in them she read faint puzzlement – as if, she thought bitterly, some inanimate object had grown teeth and bitten him. ‘Easy, Moses. It wasn’t her fault.’
Obscurely, and despite the fact that she was almost rooted to the floor with terror, she found his defence of her almost as intolerable as his earlier heartless carelessness. She glared at him. A sudden flicker of amusement in his eyes, he turned from her and aimed the full battery of his facile charm at Moses. ‘Easy, Moses,’ he said again, and jerked a long, comradely thumb. ‘Wring the songbird’s neck and she won’t sing too well, eh?’
But Moses was not to be so easily placated. ‘Brass-faced little slut.’ His round face gleamed with the sweat of anger. His small hand shot out and fastened itself with surprising and hurtful strength about Kitty’s wrist. She flinched, but had the sense not to enrage him further by trying to pull away. ‘Nothing but bloody mischief, you, from the day you came. Too bloody good for us, are you? Eh?’ His grip was agonizing.
Tears of pain standing in her eyes obstinately unshed, she shook her head.
‘Come on, now, friend.’ Strangely, for all the disarming amiability there was a new, almost warning note in Luke Peveral’s voice. Firmly and surprisingly he leaned forward and laid a long, forceful hand upon the pudgy wrist that, extended by the force of Moses’ grip upon poor Kitty’s wrist, looked fit to burst from its frilled, diamond-studded cuff. ‘Be fair. It wasn’t her fault. Leave it now.’ The two men’s eyes met for the briefest of moments. Kitty felt the biting pressure of the short, powerful fingers relax a little. As if sensing it, Luke leaned easily back in his chair, grinning again, drawing Moses into a close and cleverly woven net of masculine camaraderie. ‘Women!’ he said, the lift of his shoulder mocking. ‘Tempers, tantrums and only ten pence to the shilling, most of ’em. Not worth the effort of slapping them around. Save your energy, man. Let her get up there and do her act. The customers are waiting.’
Furious, she glared at him. The faintest flicker of impatient warning lifted the dark brows.
Moses let her go. ‘You’ll apologize first, girl.’
She fixed her eyes somewhere upon the empty air between the two men. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, her tone completely devoid of expression.
She felt Luke’s eyes on her. Turning, she heard Moses, his mood changing mercurially, suddenly sputter with laughter. ‘Did you hear that? God Almighty! “I beg your pardon,” the little bitch says – cool as you like! Bugger me if I can make that one out—’
Moving from them, Kitty did not hear Luke’s reply. Neither did she see the look of pure hatred bestowed upon her by Lottie. The incident had passed, and was not mentioned again, except indirectly when Midge brusquely informed her that she was to visit Harry’s again. ‘Get yerself a couple of outfits. Tell ’im it’s on Moses.’ She hesitated, the next words obviously coming hard. ‘You’re ter tell ’im you’re ter choose ’em yerself,’ she said.
This time she was luckier – a more leisurely hunt through Harry’s cluttered, evil-smelling back room turned up a gown of musty black velvet trimmed with tarnished metal buttons and tattered silver ribbon. She spent days refurbishing it – letting down the hem, taking in the bodice, tucking and tacking and darning until she was satisfied, and for the first time in her life she sent up a small prayer of thanks for those detested sessions she had spent with her needle at Anne Bowyer’s side under the repressive eyes of Imogen Alexander. The other dress she found was of dark green satin, in good repair, if a little short, with a wide skirt and big, sweeping sleeves.
‘Blimey, where did ’Arry find them?’ Pol asked in wonder, blinking at the magnificence. ‘Bloody Buckingham Palace?’
Kitty smiled. Pol wandered further into the room, stood watching as Kitty neatly and quickly unpicked a worn seam and pinned it together again. ‘Bloody perishing, isn’t it? Can’t remember such a winter, freezes yer marrer. ’Eard about the poor little bleeder upstairs, did yer?’
Kitty, her mouth full of pins, nodded. A small child who lived on the floor above had been discovered the day before by his mother, frozen to death in his bed. The malnourished little corpse still lay there, in a room occupied by seven brothers and sisters, waiting for the frantic mother to scrape together the necessary funeral fees. ‘We got a collection goin,’ Pol said. ‘Poor little sod ought to be buried. It ain’t right. ’Ello, what’s this?’
Kitty removed the pins from her mouth. ‘A couple of songs someone dropped into the Rooms for me to look
at.’
Pol stared at her. ‘Gettin’ famous, are we?’ she asked, amiably caustic.
Kitty flushed a little. ‘No. No, of course not. It’s just – the man writes songs for a living and has heard me sing—’ But while the words were dismissive she could not deny to herself that this proof of her growing popularity had pleased her. The songs were second-rate, and she could not use them, but it was flattering nevertheless to be treated thus, as a true professional. The thought brought upon its heels another – a remembered, bitter comment about people getting too big for their boots, and a pair of blue eyes bright with spite. ‘Pol?’ she asked, quietly, laying down her needlework for a moment on her lap, ‘Lottie – why does she hate me so? Why won’t she even try to be friends? What have I ever done to her?’
Pol stared at her in open amazement. ‘You kiddin’ me on?’
‘No. No – of course not. I really don’t understand. I don’t want—’ Kitty stopped.
Pol shook a bright, brassy head. ‘What you want’s got precious little to do with anythin’ so far as our Lottie’s concerned. Lottie’s Lottie, an’ that’s the way she’ll stay. She ’ates your guts, an’ to be honest by ’er own lights ’oo can blame er’? There’s nuthin’ yer can do about it.’
‘But—’
‘Ferget it, Kit,’ Pol said succinctly, ’you’re on an ’idin’ ter nuthin’. Just stay out of ’er way if yer can. She might look like some kid’s fairy doll, but she’s got a funny streak in ’er, our Lot. A very funny streak.’
* * *
With Christmas just a month away Kitty found herself working as hard as she ever had, and thoroughly enjoying it. With experience and practice her voice strengthened and her confidence grew, though she had come to believe that she would never curb the paralyzing bouts of pre-performance nerves that assaulted her each evening. As the bitter weather continued, George Milton’s abused constitution refused to institute a quick recovery from his bout of illness and Kitty became, day by day, more established as Smith’s star performer – and this despite the fact that, as yet, few women enjoyed such status. She worked hard extending her repertoire, with the willing help of the ailing George whose generous, almost fatherly attitude, delighted and touched her.
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