Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  For one terrible moment she thought he was going to push past her. Then he grinned, and the sheer relief on his face made her want to hug him. ‘You got a bloody temper on you like a poisoned cat,’ he said, ‘tha’ss your problem.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’ She smiled back at him.

  The red-headed girl tugged at his hand, scowling sullenly. She could not have been more than thirteen years old.

  ‘Got to go,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He raised a hand and left her.

  Kitty felt a light touch on her arm. ‘Everythin’ all right?’ Pol asked.

  Kitty nodded, smiling.

  ‘Take a look at this—’ Pol proudly displayed a much-fingered sketch of herself, head thrown back and laughing. ‘What a bloody lad, eh? Drunk as a lord ’e is, an’ still drawin’ like mad!’

  Kitty glanced towards the table. Jem O’Connell was the centre of a small admiring crowd. Luke sat a little apart, drinking alone. He caught her eye, smiled a little and, with the smallest of movements, toasted her with his glass.

  Against her better judgement – almost, indeed, before she had realized what she was doing – she smiled back.

  * * *

  During those two weeks that led up to Christmas Jem O’Connell became something of a fixture at the Rooms, and a very popular one at that. He was a good-natured young man with an apparently unlimited capacity for alcohol and a true artistic eye that perceived life and beauty in the most uninspiring of subjects. His energy and enthusiasm were infectious, and to all appearances inexhaustible; with a bottle of Moses’ whisky under his belt he would take to the stage in fine style, his preferred speciality being the minstrel songs and negro spirituals of his native land. On extreme occasions he could reduce himself and his audience to tears. There was, however, little danger of his taking Kitty’s pride of place at the top of the bill. Soon after her reunion with Matt Kitty at last shyly plucked up the courage to engage him in conversation and was delighted to discover that he warmly welcomed her tentative advances and in no time they became real friends. Within the first hour of their acquaintance she felt she had known him all of her life. He was amusing, articulate and companionable, and his talent enthralled her.

  To discover that this admiration was mutual surprised and delighted her. Despite Pol’s friendship she had been lonely over the past months; discovering a warm comradeship with Jem O’Connell meant a great deal to her. He spoke to her of Paris and of the new wave of artists who were doing their impertinent best to revolutionize the world of art. Names of which she had never heard – Gustave Courbet, Paul Cézanne, Edouard Manet – slipped into his conversation often enough for her to become familiar with them and to share in some small part his enthusiasm and respect for what they were trying to do. These, she gathered, were the men in the forefront of the battle to wrest the goddess Art from the entrenched bastions of the Establishment where she had been languishing in mortal decline for some time, and to restore her to robust health with the common people. Realism was a word he used often – he had no time for past conventions and styles. His passionate ambition and vowed determination was to go to Paris and study with and under these new masters – but for the moment at least he showed no sign of doing anything but making Smith’s his permanent home.

  Where he got his money from Kitty did not know – certainly he never charged a penny for the drawings that he gave away so generously. The rumour amongst the girls was that an irregular income from his family accounted for his pendulum swing every now and again from open-handed near-wealth to utter and cheerful poverty. When he was in funds he would treat the world and his money slipped through his fingers like water from a holed bucket. Broke again, he was reliant upon Luke, who would grin and cough up without a word. It intrigued Kitty, this unlikely friendship between the older, cynical, much tougher man and the young artist whom he appeared to protect – and occasionally bully – as he might a younger brother. It seemed that Luke Peveral, also, perceived much of worth in the young American. She wondered if it were true that Jem was a refugee from the distant war that the young men at the Grange had talked of and that still tore his country in two. Certainly it seemed to her that sometimes she sensed a shadow of sadness in him, quickly hidden, that was out of character with the light-hearted Jem she knew. And somehow she never cared to question him about it. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her. For now she was happy with his friendship.

  Meanwhile, Luke Peveral continued to surprise and confound those who would try to dissect his character and his motives. Two days after Christmas he prevailed upon Moses Smith, to everyone’s astonishment, not least Moses’ own, to close the Supper Rooms down for an evening so that all and sundry might accompany Luke on the ‘threepenny steamer’ that plied London’s river to the Cremorne Gardens to celebrate – he said – the feast of St John and his – Luke’s – birthday. The occasion was a special Christmas Gala, which the bills proclaimed to be the Greatest Ever Held and which would include sideshows, circus turns, outdoor dancing if the weather permitted, brass bands and fireworks.

  Though she would never have admitted it openly, Kitty had never been so excited in her life. She leaned on the rail of the boat beside Jem, drinking in this view of the city in which she had lived for so many months and of which she had seen little and knew less.

  The air was cold and clear, the early winter dusk already ringing with frost. The flag- and lantern-decked little steamer chugged steadily against the tide, dark, foam-flecked water churning from its bows. Two children waved from a bridge; like a child herself Kitty waved back. Beside her, watching her, the young American grinned, and she laughed a little, unquenchable excitement in her eyes and in the strong lines of her face. The great buildings of London slid past, mysterious and romantic in the chill twilight. One by one Jem pointed them out to her.

  ‘—and oh, whatever is that? It looks like a palace—’

  ‘That’s your Houses of Parliament. You’ve never seen them before?’

  ‘No. Heavens, aren’t they magnificent? Are they very old?’ They both at the same moment recognized the incongruity of her ingenuous question to a foreigner. Kitty blushed a little. Jem smiled.

  ‘Pretty old, I think. But thirty years or so ago there was a fire, and a lot of the building had to be rebuilt—’

  Fire. For one unguarded moment the flames that had licked from the windows of Westwood Grange flickered in her memory. Matt, Matt – why did you do it? She shook her head clear of such thoughts, leaned her elbows upon the rail, standing on tiptoe, straining her eyes into the dusk. ‘Oh, doesn’t it all look pretty with the street lamps alight? It’s like fairyland! Do tell me – have you been to the gardens before? Do you know them?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What are they like?’

  He turned to her, propping himself against the rail, his perceptive, artist’s eyes intent upon her face. ‘They’re like fairyland too,’ he said, smiling again.

  She smiled back, glad that he had chosen her company, glad too that for once he appeared to be stone sober. Which was a lot more than could be said for Luke Peveral. She glanced to where he stood a little way along the deck, holding court with easy, and perceptibly drunken charm, Lottie clinging like a pretty limpet to his arm. As Kitty watched, Luke, gently but firmly, tried to disengage himself. Lottie, fragile as a flower and tenacious as the toughest bramble, would not be disengaged. Luke did not persist. Kitty wondered, not for the first time, at the odd contradictions in the man’s character. ‘Is it really Luke’s birthday, do you know?’ she asked Jem.

  The American shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘But if the man says so—’

  She turned back to contemplate the glimmering fairy lights that were reflected in the moving waters. ‘He’s a strange man, isn’t he?’

  She was unaware of the quizzical look in his eyes as he watched her. ‘He sure is.’

  ‘Have you noticed – everyone seems to see him di
fferently?’

  ‘He’s been good to me. He’s a pretty grand guy as far as I’m concerned.’

  She nodded, apparently absorbed in her study of the water.

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  That brought her head round, sharply. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ The tone was wry. Jem O’Connell, for all his youth, was no fool where women were concerned. He was watching her with a friendly sympathy that she entirely failed to recognize, and his smile was touched with a faint self-mockery.

  ‘I can’t say I care one way or the other.’

  ‘No,’ he said again, soberly, ‘of course not.’

  She brought her eyes back to his face, suspiciously. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘Just a little, I suppose.’

  ‘Why?’

  He hesitated. Shook his head, smiling that warm smile. ‘Because for someone who doesn’t care one way or another you seem to be asking a lot of questions.’

  She shrugged. ‘The man just seems to be a bundle of contradictions, that’s all. I mean – look at all this. However did he get Moses to shut the Rooms?’

  ‘Who knows? When Luke sets his mind to something he’s pretty hard to resist.’

  ‘Is he?’ Her voice was cool. ‘I wouldn’t know. He seems quite resistible to me.’ Once again she missed the amused and friendly sympathy in his glance. ‘It must be costing him a fortune.’ She could have kicked herself – why not just let the subject drop?

  ‘I don’t guess he cares how much it’s costing. This last little’ – Jem hesitated – ‘trip – seems to have set him in funds for a bit.’

  ‘So they say.’ And – she thought – it wasn’t all they said. The week before, Luke had disappeared on one of his expeditions to lighten the pockets of the rich. When he had returned a couple of days later it had been obvious that it had been a successful one. It had been obvious too – according to Pol – that it had been a dangerous one. As Luke had celebrated his profitable raid with unusual gaiety and even more unusual wildness, Pol had shaken her head grimly. ‘That must ’a’ bin a close shave.’

  ‘What must?’

  ‘Look at ’im. I ’aven’t seen ’im like this in a few long months. Sure sign. You can bet your boots ’e nearly got ’is collar felt this time.’

  And Kitty, watching, had seen what she meant. Beneath the reckless high spirits had lain a thread of strain that had shown itself in a shade too much carelessness, a shade too much laughter, a shade too much generosity, that had culminated in this madcap trip.

  ‘Pol thinks he nearly got caught this time,’ she said, now.

  ‘Now there’s a lady who really doesn’t like him.’

  The inference of the gently teasing emphasis was not lost on her. She maintained a dignified silence. Mischievously he let it stretch for a full minute before, relaxed and easy, he changed the subject. ‘By the way, Miss Songbird’ – he often used the nickname Luke appeared to have coined for her – ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you how very handsome you’re looking this evening—’

  She glanced at him again, half-suspecting mockery, but his smile was genuine, his eyes warm. ‘Thank you.’ Slightly self-consciously she made a small, unnecessary adjustment to the claret-coloured ribbons at her throat. The little, plumed grey velvet bonnet that so nearly matched with the sweeping cloak-coat known as a paletot which she wore over her wide-skirted claret wool dress had been a find she had not been able to resist, despite the expense. Her visits to Harry’s over the past few weeks had been funded by the generosity of Smith’s customers to their favourite artist. Even after Moses had extracted his dues and his rent her savings were slowly growing. When she had found this outfit it had been with only the faintest tinge of guilt that she had plundered the precious pouch she always wore for safety pinned to her petticoat and decked herself in the second-hand finery of a respectably fashionable young woman, as different from the clothes she and the other girls who worked in the Rooms would normally wear as was chalk from cheese. Her needle had gone to work again, and her reward had come when she had joined the excited gathering outside the Rooms this evening and had noted the small, astonished silence that had greeted her appearance.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Luke had said, straight-faced and already pleasantly and determinedly inebriated. ‘The Songbird in her plumage. I give you good day and welcome, ma’am.’ But beneath the flippancy had been a gleam of approbation that to her own disgust had pleased her.

  Jem touched her arm lightly. ‘We’re almost there. See – there’s the landing stage.’ The steady chug of the engines was slowing. Ahead she could indeed see the landing stage, decorated with bunting and lanterns. Excitement took her again.

  Cremorne Gardens at first sight, decked and lit with the trappings of Christmas looked, as Jem had said it would, truly like fairyland. From the moment she passed beneath the huge illuminated star that lit the impressive entrance from the King’s Road Kitty was entirely dazzled. The twelve-acre gardens were dominated by the graceful, pagoda-shaped bandstand in their centre, with its wide, tree-sheltered open-air dancing platform. The lilting strains of a waltz lifted above chatter and laughter. On the floor couples danced, swaying and spinning in each other’s arms, the wide skirts of the women lifting and swirling like multi-coloured upturned flowers upon a summer stream. Around the dance floor were small columned grottoes, most of them already occupied, whilst above them the small private rooms that had given the gardens a name rather less than respectable glowed with soft light behind draped curtains. The thronging crowds were gay and out for enjoyment. The red coats of soldiers, every bit as bright as the dresses and shawls of their female companions, contrasted well with the more sober attire of their non-military brethren. Kitty had never seen such a scene of colour and movement, never felt the infection of sheer, boisterous energy that can be generated by such a gathering. Jem had his sketchbook out. Kitty grabbed his arm. ‘Come on! You’ll get lost!’ and, laughing, he allowed himself to be towed along behind the others. Kitty, clasping his hand, caught a brief glimpse of her brother’s impish, grinning face before with a lifted hand he disappeared with Croucher and Springer into the crowds.

  Moses had evidently not given everyone the night off.

  ‘Hey, look! Wait, Kitty – I must get that—’ Jem’s sketchpad was out again and his pencil flew as he caught the picture of a trio of gaily dressed entertainers in pantaloons and gypsy-style blouses who danced upon stilts high above the sea of top hats and bowlers and pretty, feather-decked bonnets to the sound of a clattering barrel organ. A tiny monkey dressed in scarlet pantaloons and a bright green jacket leapt upon Kitty’s shoulder, chattering volubly and shaking a tin of coins in her face. Surprised, she gave a small shriek and the creature bared its tiny yellow teeth in a caricature of a grin.

  ‘Here – take yourself off—’ Jem dropped a coin in the tin and the little animal leapt from Kitty’s shoulder onto a soldier’s broad, scarlet-clad back. The gaily-painted barrel organ thundered deafeningly on. Kitty and Jem pushed their way to where the others had gathered in front of a striped Punch and Judy booth. Moses, Kitty saw, was almost apoplectic with laughter as the repulsive puppet pulverized first his wife and then his ugly baby with his truncheon. Only once before had she seen this traditional performance – one Christmas, when a travelling Punch and Judy man had come to the Grange – and she had no better liked it then that she did now.

  ‘Well, Songbird – and what do you think of my birthday treat?’ Dark eyes, all but hidden in their tangle of lashes, strangely sober in a smiling face.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said simply, ‘I’ve never seen such a place.’

  ‘London knows how to enjoy herself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lottie, utterly lovely in blue velvet, a gift from Luke as she had made certain everyone knew, appeared beside him, catching his arm, eyes venomous upon Kitty. ‘You promised we’d dance—’

  He allowed himself to be drawn back into the
laughing crowd.

  Pol bounced to Kitty’s side. ‘’Ave yer seen the circus acts? Blimey – I don’t know ’ow they do it! There’s a girl over there walkin’ a bleedin’ tightrope over a cageful of the ’ungriest-lookin’ brutes of lions you’ve ever seen! Come on, come an’ ’ave a look—’

  ‘A drink, everyone. There’s wine, and there’s ale by the jugful—’

  ‘’Oo’s comin’ ter see the two ’eaded lady—?’

  ‘—bloody fortune-teller knew more about me than I know meself! Christ, it was creepy, I don’t mind tellin’ yer – fair gave me a turn—’

  ‘—there’s our Springer doin’ ’is bit. Best bloody tumbler in London Town is our Springer—’

  ‘—come an’ ’ave a ride on the elephant with me – I ain’t goin’ on me own, no fear—!’

  ‘A dance, Miss Kitty – I insist —’ She found herself, laughing, in Jem’s arms. They were of a height, and he danced lightly and well. She found herself wondering where he had learned to dance so. Since they had arrived at the gardens he had been drinking steadily and the light in his eyes was reckless. Faster and faster they spun. Breathlessly she clung to him, her tuition under the effete but strict eye of Anne’s dancing master standing her in good stead as the sweep of her wide crinolined skirt and the skilful swooping speed of their progress cleared a space in the centre of the floor and the other dancers stopped to watch, laughing and applauding. Joining in the spirit of the thing, the band increased the tempo. Upon a sudden singe of delighted and delightful excitement Kitty spun and spun in Jem’s surprisingly strong arms, his smiling, reckless face the only focused thing in a world of light and colour that spun past her dazzled eyes like a host of shooting stars. At last, upon a grand, triumphant chord, they were done, and were awarded a burst of generous applause from the onlookers.