Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  ‘A copper? Here?’ Moses’ outrage could not have been greater had he been St Peter facing Lucifer at the gates of heaven.

  Luke, smiling a little at the fat man’s choler, nodded.

  ‘By Christ! Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll have him hanged, drawn and quartered, see if I don’t!’

  Luke shrugged. ‘Why bother? Better the devil you see than the one you don’t. Perhaps he’s just taken a fancy to our Songbird’s singing?’ He raised an unnecessarily mocking brow in Kitty’s direction.

  ‘Do you think it’s you he’s after?’ Kitty asked, directly.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Moses leaned forward, great stomach pressing against the table. ‘Don’t be so modest, my friend. Who else would he be after? We must do something about this.’

  ‘You could always cut his throat.’ Kitty, her eyes upon Luke, had spoken the words almost before thought. She herself heard – and too late regretted – the harshness of the tone.

  Luke gave her a long, unfriendly look. ‘Lend me your tongue and I will,’ he said, gently.

  Moses looked from one to the other impatiently. ‘Who needs to cut throats? I can arrange such things. If there’s one thing Moses Smith can do for a friend it’s preserve his privacy on his own patch from the pryings of the scum of the Metropolitan bloody Police Force! I’ve got’ – he winked a small eye – ‘contacts in high places. Very high places. Constable Fogg—’

  ‘Sergeant, I believe—’ Luke interpolated mildly.

  ‘Sergeant – Constable – Moses Smith pays good money to keep them all off his back and off the backs of his friends. This – Fogg – breaks the rules—’

  ‘One of his habits, as I remember,’ Luke said, thoughtfully.

  ‘He should mind someone doesn’t break his neck. I’ll get a message sent, sharp. You won’t be bothered again, Luke my boy. And – this Sergeant Fogg’ – Moses invested the words with enormous scorn – ‘will likely find himself with his eye in a sling and his flat feet back on the hard pavements of the South Bank—’

  Luke shrugged again, smiling, his eyes flicking to the sinister face of the man who watched from the shadows. ‘If you think you can?’

  Pleased, Moses leaned forward to slap his knee in friendship. ‘My pleasure, my boy, my pleasure. Trust Moses. Coppers? I own ’em. All of ’em. Have no fear – we’ll get that ugly face out of here in two shakes of a Manx cat’s tail.’

  He was true to his word. Two evenings later the table in the corner was empty – and within another two Kitty had forgotten the man’s existence, for, to her astonishment, and despite the indefinable strain that lay between them, Luke kept his lightly given promise of reward for her help, and she stepped onto the stage to find herself performing before the shrewd and calculating eyes of Patrick Kenny, whose name was synonymous not just with one of London’s most successful and popular new music halls, but with many others that were fast establishing themselves all over Britain. Here was a man who could, with his influence and his flare for the recognition of talent, make or break a performer overnight.

  He looked bored.

  Forewarned, through Midge, by Luke, Kitty had taken especial care with her appearance – the black velvet dress had been steamed and pressed, a precious paste necklace borrowed from Pol at her throat, with matching earrings swinging beneath her precariously piled, upswept hair that was decked with softly waving white plumes. As she stood nervously awaiting her cue from the pianist she saw Luke lean to his guest and pour the magnificently moustachioed impresario a glass of champagne. She hoped fervently that it was not his first. The man did not look very impressed by his surroundings – and who could blame him? she wondered gloomily, fighting jangling nerves. What possible method of persuasion could Luke have used to get the man into this den of drunkards, thieves and whores? It was much later that she realized that other talents than her own had been nurtured in such surroundings, and if he did look out of place in his well-cut evening clothes, cane resting with his white gloves and black silk top hat on the table beside him, it was certainly not the first time Patrick Kenny had visited such an establishment and it would be unlikely to be the last. That did not, however, mean that he had to enjoy it. He accepted the brimming glass from Luke, tilted his head and fixed a gimlet eye upon Kitty.

  She swallowed. She had a nerve-induced lump in her throat that felt the size of a tennis ball.

  The pianist played a slovenly introduction, striking two wrong notes in quick succession.

  Trembling like a leaf in a gale she launched herself into the haunting and popular ballad that told the story of dead, sweet Alice and her Ben Bolt, back from the sea.

  Patrick Kenny looked, if it were possible, even less impressed than he had before.

  Half an hour later, shaking no less, she presented herself at the table. She knew she had not done well. Her nerves had shown, and had threaded her top notes with uncertainty. She had fidgeted upon the stage like a performing child—

  The dapper Mr Kenny rose courteously and offered his hand. ‘Miss Daniels.’

  She took it briefly, and in a flash of nervous hysteria wondered if she were expected to kiss it. ‘Mr Kenny.’ Despite the nerves she managed to settle herself fairly composedly in the chair opposite him, and smoothed her skirt. Then she lifted her eyes directly to his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, straightforwardly, ‘I didn’t sing well, I’m afraid.’

  She saw a faint gleam of appreciation in the shrewd eyes. ‘No, you didn’t,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘But – you have a good, perhaps the word is unusual? – voice. I might argue that your performance lacked – somewhat – a little fire?’

  ‘I was very nervous.’

  ‘So I guessed.’

  She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

  ‘Luke tells me that you have aspirations to’ – he waved a wry hand at their surroundings – ‘tread a wider stage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He tells me too that he thinks you capable of it. And I value his opinion.’

  She shot a quick, surprised glance at Luke and then wished she hadn’t. He was regarding her dispassionately – disappointedly? – as he might, she thought with an irrational spurt of anger, an unsatisfactory insect impaled upon a pin.

  ‘However’ – Kenny paused upon the fateful word – ‘however I cannot of course take his word alone for it, and upon your performance tonight—’ He stopped, stroking his moustache doubtfully.

  Her heart sank to her shabby boots. She had had one chance, and that provided by Luke Peveral. And she had made a mess of it. She kept her own eyes steadily upon Kenny’s flamboyantly whiskered face, swallowed chill and bitter disappointment – and in her determination not to show her distress missed altogether the import of the man’s next words.

  ‘—and we’ll see how you go from there. A little more experience – a little more panache – and who knows? Not that I’m promising anything, mind – you must understand that—’

  ‘I – beg your pardon?’

  He stopped, surprised.

  ‘I didn’t – I didn’t quite catch what you said?’ She saw the gleam of Luke’s amused smile from the corner of her eye and glowed with embarrassment.

  Patrick Kenny was politely and commendably patient. ‘My small establishment in North London. I said I’d try you there. For two weeks to start with. Seven and sixpence a week, and supper, starting next week.’ He turned courteously to Moses. ‘As long of course as that does not incommode Mr Smith?’

  ‘Mr Smith,’ Luke interrupted smoothly, ‘has already agreed that Kitty may be released to work elsewhere.’ Kitty was staring, dizzily. Luke leaned forward, poured more champagne for Kenny. ‘Seven and six, supper and a cab home,’ he said, reasonably.

  Kenny arched an injured eyebrow. ‘Now, Luke—’

  ‘Come now’ – Luke spread those dark, well-shaped hands – ‘you can’t expect the girl to walk halfway across London?’

  Kitty would have walked to and from the North Pole. She opened
her mouth to say so.

  Kenny made an exaggerated gesture of surrender. ‘Very well, very well. We’ll make it seven shillings, supper and a cab home. Well? Are you willing?’ He looked at Kitty.

  ‘Oh, yes! Yes, of course!’

  He leaned back. ‘Well and good. That’s settled then. Luke – you can get a couple of bottles of this excellent champagne for me, if you would? Where you find such stuff is beyond me—'

  Luke grinned. ‘It’s beyond the excise men as well.’ He glanced then at Kitty and she understood that a bargain had been struck, a debt paid.

  ‘Another bottle!’ Moses lifted a hand. Lottie appeared by his side. She was wearing a dress that Kitty had not seen before, and one she would have wagered her soul had never seen the grimy interior of Harry’s doubtful emporium. It was of vivid sapphire satin and fitted the girl like a second skin before flaring to a full, graceful skirt. Her shoulders were bare – in fact for all the concealment the dress offered, cut as it was to reveal her white, swelling breasts almost to the nipple, she might, Kitty thought a little sourly, have been naked to the waist – indeed the effect contrived to be somehow even more provocative than if she actually had been. She saw Moses’ eyes linger upon the expanse of smooth, blue-veined skin as his arm slipped about the girl’s supple waist, and her own skin crept as a fat little hand openly caressed the girl’s breast. ‘Another couple of bottles, my dear. And – bring a glass for yourself—’

  ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’ Lottie’s blue gaze was fixed upon the fat man’s face as if her hope of salvation might be found somewhere behind those hot, almost lashless eyes. Kitty glanced at Luke. He was watching the byplay through narrow eyes, his mouth straight and unsmiling. Lottie turned without so much as a glance in his direction. When she returned with the bottles and the glass she brought them to Moses, leaning across him so that her bared breasts pressed against him and the fall of her hair brushed his face. He did not look displeased with the experience. He dragged a chair to the table beside him, fondled her buttocks. ‘Sit here, Lot. Next to me.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Smith.’

  Kitty, a little pensively, accepted her glass of champagne.

  ‘A toast,’ Luke said. ‘To the Songbird of Stepney. Our very own star of the music halls.’ Kitty suspected mockery beneath the sober words and threw him a dark glance of exasperation.

  Patrick Kenny raised his glass, and to his credit his lack of conviction was not as obvious as it might have been.

  Glasses were lifted. All eyes were turned to Kitty – all that is except Lottie’s. She, perched on the edge of her chair, was leaning against Moses as if without his support she might slip helplessly to the floor, and her doll-like gaze was for no one but him.

  (ii)

  ‘Pol? What’s Lottie up to with Moses?’ Kitty was stitching industriously at the green dress, adding a couple of swathes of glittering braid to the skirt and sleeves.

  Pol was attempting to clean a pair of tarnished silver slippers, purchased from Harry for an exorbitant three shillings. ‘It’s called playin’ both ends against the middle, if I’m not much mistaken. ‘’Ere – I’m not sure I can get this all off—’

  ‘Don’t worry. They’ll be fine – they’re looking much better already. You mean – Moses and Luke—?’

  ‘Seems like it, don’t it?’

  ‘But – why? I mean—’ Kitty bent to her work, frowning in ferocious concentration. ‘I thought it was Luke she was after?’

  ‘Don’t fool yerself. It is. Ask me, it always will be. But that Jack the lad ain’t about to be tied down, is ’e? She’s tried one way. Now she’s tryin’ another.’ The brassy head lifted. ‘Seems she thinks ’e’s got ’is eye on someone else,’ she added, quietly.

  That brought Kitty’s head up quickly. At the look in Pol’s eye she flushed deeply. ‘Oh, don’t be silly! I don’t even like Luke Peveral. And he doesn’t like me. I was forced into a position where I had to help him. He was forced into a position where he owed me a favour. That’s it. That’s all.’

  ‘It is?’ Pol’s voice was openly caustic.

  ‘It is.’ The words were brusquely firm and declared that the discussion was at an end. She went back to her sewing.

  Pol watched her for a quiet moment longer, her kindly face serious. Then she held the slippers up to the light, examining them. ‘Well, I’m bloody glad to ’ear it, girl. Bad enough to ’ave Lot moonin’ over that good-fer-nothin’ bastard, without you startin’.’ Her eyes flicked back to Kitty’s face, straight and sober. ‘Watch ’im, Kit. ’E’s nothin’ but trouble, an’ always will be. An’ Lot makes a pretty bad enemy—’

  Kitty stood up, shook out the dress, held it to her, inspecting her reflection critically in a broken slither of fly-specked mirror that was propped upon a shelf. ‘Lot can have him,’ she said firmly. ‘And welcome to both of them. You can tell her that from me.’ She turned, the skirt of the dress flaring about her legs. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry, Pol. I’m going to sing. I’m going to sing on the stage of the New Cambridge Music Hall. I’m going to convince Mr Patrick Kenny that I’m the best thing that’s come his way in many a long year. I’m going to get out of this rat-hole, Pol, and I’m never coming back!’

  Pol was watching her affectionately, half-smiling. ‘Yer know? I almost believe yer.’

  Kitty turned back to the mirror, holding the dress. ‘Believe me,’ she said, flatly.

  * * *

  To Kitty’s delight Pol – to whom, in Pol’s own words, Midge ‘owed a few favours’ – got the evening off to be with her on her first night at the Queen’s Music Hall in Enfield, North London, an establishment that had grown, as had many such, from a public house famous for its ‘Saturday night sing-songs’ to be a fully fledged theatre, albeit still with a bar.

  ‘Thought yer might like someone to ’old yer ’and an’ cheer yer on a bit,’ Pol said, obviously gratified at Kitty’s pleasure, ‘an’ I can give yer an ’and ter get ready, if yer’d like?’

  ‘I’d love it.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re sure Lottie won’t mind?’

  ‘If she does, that’s ’er problem.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t want to cause trouble between you.’

  ‘You don’t. She does,’ Pol said, succinctly. ‘She don’t own me, no more than you do. I go me own way.’

  Kitty grinned. ‘I’ve noticed.’

  ‘So – ’ow yer feelin’ about it all?’

  ‘Terrified.’

  Pol laughed. ‘What yer goin’ ter sing?’

  ‘I thought – the flower girl’s song’ – Kitty hummed the first few notes of the popular tune Won’t You Buy My Pretty Flowers – ‘then The Soldier’s Tear – that always goes down well, God knows why, and then – providing they haven’t booed me off the stage by then – I thought something from The Bohemian Girl.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Kitty took a quick, suddenly nervous breath. ‘Oh, Pol! Supposing I can’t do it! Supposing—’

  ‘S’posin’ nothin’,’ the other girl interrupted firmly, ‘You’ll knock ’em dead. You’ll see. Now’ – she stood up – ‘get yerself a good night’s sleep. I’ll see yer termorrer.’ At the door she stopped. ‘You all squared with Moses? It ain’t like ’im ter lose ’is star turn without kickin’.’

  Kitty grimaced. ‘He’s kicking.’

  Pol raised questioning brows.

  ‘He’s docking me half my wages.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ Pol said, sombrely, ‘’ow d’yer ever break free?’

  ‘If I ever find out, I’ll let you know.’ Kitty’s face was grim. ‘And that’s a promise.’

  * * *

  She suffered the next day the worst bout of nerves that she had ever envisaged, let alone endured. The first sight of the theatre – two or three times the size of the Supper Rooms, with a balcony and boxes that glittered with gilt and sparkled with tall mirrors, a large stage that projected into the audience who sat at small, candlelit tables, and an orchestra pit that looked to her to be
the size of another stage in itself, all but frightened the life from her. It was all an awful mistake. She couldn’t – she couldn’t! – do it. She’d never sung with an orchestra – she didn’t know how – no one would hear her – she’d forget her words—

  The afternoon rehearsal was a scrappy, mediocre affair, neither a true disaster nor any great success. The orchestra leader was a pompous little man with thin, greased hair and pockmarked skin. He was not, he made it clear from the start, about to be ordered about by any chit of a female from Stepney.

  ‘Please – I wondered – just there – wouldn’t it be better with just the piano—?’

  ‘Nonsense, Miss Daniels. Allow me to know my business. The whole orchestra, if you please.’

  ‘Well, if you think so?’

  ‘Seems ter me yer’d better start standin’ up fer yerself,’ Pol said, gently. ‘You’re doin’ the singin’ after all.’

  ‘Oh, Pol, how can I? I’m a nobody! Next but one from the bottom of the bill! I’m supposed to do as I’m told and be grateful for it! Oh, Pol – perhaps I never should have tried. Oh, I could kill Luke Peveral for getting me into this!’ she added, with sudden and violent illogic. ‘It’s going to be awful! I know it is!’ She had been given a tiny corner of a squalidly untidy shared dressing room, her little patch no more than a rickety chair, a stained and chipped shelf and a mirror. She stared now into the damp-marked glass, oblivious of the cheerful bustle around her as a group of Italian acrobats, chattering at the tops of their voices, limbered up in the restricted space and helped each other with their make-up and their gay, spangled costumes. Beyond the reflection of her own white face she could see their kaleidoscopic movement, and beyond them another splash of bright colour in the peasant costumes of the dancing Bartlett sisters who wrangled between themselves, as they had been wrangling all afternoon, their sharp unpleasant voices scraping nerves already raw.