‘Luke?’ she asked him now, abruptly.
‘Mm?’
‘The child that Lottie lost last year – just before we came—’ The room seemed suddenly very still. ‘Was it yours?’
He did not reply for a very long time. She lay in stubborn silence, waiting.
‘So she said,’ he said at last.
‘Did you have reason to doubt it?’
Silence.
‘Luke?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ His voice was tense. ‘How should I know?’
She looked down at him, her face serious. ‘Luke. Be fair.’
‘All right,’ he said, his eyes cool. ‘Yes. I think it was mine.’
‘And if – if Lottie had carried the child to full term – if it had been the son you so much want – would you have married her? Or at least recognized the child as yours?’
The silence this time was angry.
‘Luke?’
‘For God’s sake! What difference does it make? The child was lost.’
‘It made a lot of difference to Lottie.’
‘Kitty – none of this is your business.’
‘Isn’t it? You don’t like it that Pol explained to me how to – how to avoid having a child. Do you?’
‘It isn’t natural.’
She stared at him. He turned from her, eyes half closed in the dappling light.
‘You confuse me,’ she said at last.
He half-smiled, bitterly at that. ‘I confuse myself.’
‘You encourage me – help me – to be a success – and yet, what you really want—’
He caught her shoulders. ‘Leave it.’
‘You’re just playing at it really, aren’t you? Humouring me.’ She had not thought it out before, had not seen the logic that practical Pol had instinctively divined. ‘You don’t really believe I’ll stick it, do you? You’re waiting for me to fail – no, to tire of it, perhaps—’
He pulled her roughly to him. ‘Shut up. Just shut up.’ He stopped her mouth with his. She fought him for a moment, and then, as he mounted her, dark face vivid above her, all doubts and all questions were lost in their loving, and, fatally, she let the moment pass.
(ii)
Ably assisted by the debonair Monty in cunningly cut dress suit, top hat and cane, Dick the Dipper took the Queen’s audience by storm. To see a girl dressed as a handsome boy tickled the jaded public palate; that the girl had the talent and personality to carry it off so well enhanced their appreciation, and they showed it. They loved her.
Just two weeks after the Dipper first sauntered onto the Queen’s stage Patrick Kenny, accompanied by Luke, paid a visit to the dressing room one night after the performance. Kitty sat alone, removing the dirt stains from her face, her feet and legs still bare beneath Dick’s ragged trousers. She had tossed the cap aside and her hair hung down her back, straight as a torrent of rain. She turned as the door opened, scrambled to her feet as she saw the identity of her unexpected visitor. ‘Mr Kenny!’
‘Sit down, my dear, sit down. Don’t let me interrupt you. I came merely to express my congratulations and admiration. A brilliant idea brilliantly executed. And wonderfully suited to that extraordinary voice of yours. Well done. I’m delighted.’
Kitty flushed, pleased. ‘It was Luke’s idea actually.’
‘And a pretty splendid one.’ Kenny seated himself astride a rickety-legged chair, folded his arms along its swaying back, rested his chin pensively upon them, watching her speculatively. She returned his gaze as composedly as she was able. Her heart was thumping like a trip hammer.
‘The question is,’ he said, ‘where do you go from here?’
She said nothing. Behind Kenny, Luke winked.
‘I could, I suppose, throw you straight to the lions of London and hope for the best,’ Kenny said at last, as if talking to himself. ‘However – it seems to me to be rather early days for that. I should like to give you just a little more experience first.’
She waited. Luke leaned negligently by the door, watching.
Kenny sat back, reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a long cigar. He offered it first to Luke, who refused it with a smile and a shaken head. The impresario then drew from his pocket a small implement that gleamed soft gold in the lamp light.
Kitty held her patience.
Kenny cut the cigar, made a small ceremony of lighting it, blew the smoke in a fragrant cloud to the ceiling. Only then did his eyes come back to Kitty. ‘I have a small company touring the provinces at the moment. A six-week tour, two of which have passed.’ He drew on the cigar again. ‘The tour can’t be said so far to be an unmitigated success. It needs a boost. It also needs a couple of replacement artists, owing to the unfortunate circumstances brought about by the fact that my leading female singer has chosen a most inconvenient moment to elope with the Great Margico’s assistant.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘I do hope they neither of them ever plan to work in the theatre again. It occurs to me that this might be as good an opportunity as any for you to get a little more experience and to try out your new act on a wider and more varied audience. What do you say?’ Before she could open her mouth he lifted a quick hand. ‘It’s understood, of course, that if you make a success of this – if the provincial audiences like you as much as the East End does, then you get a crack at the Cambridge.’
‘The Cambridge?’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Brighton first. You’ll go?’
‘When do I leave?’
He beamed. ‘The end of the week.’
* * *
Luke came with her to the splendid new Victoria Station, to see her on her way. He had made no demur, had in fact seemed genuinely pleased at the chance that had come her way. Since their conversation about Lottie and the baby it seemed to her that he had been bending over backwards to convince her that her suspicions were unfounded. Or perhaps, she had found herself wondering once or twice, to convince himself.
Crowds swarmed through the busy booking hall, whistles blew, doors slammed like pistol shots, steam shrieked to the echoing roof: the regular chuntering of the great steam engines as they drew in and out of the long platforms was all but drowned by the sound of the frantic human activity that surrounded them. Silently nervous, Kitty clutched the battered suitcase that an impressed Pol had lent her and looked around.
Luke took her arm. ‘Platform Two,’ he said. They pushed through the crowds, stopped at the barrier. ‘Where’s the girl who’s supposed to be going with you? The magician’s assistant – what’s her name?’
Kitty consulted a scrap of paper she carried. ‘Miss Fleur Harcourt.’
‘Where are you supposed to meet her?’
‘On the train. First carriage. Oh, Luke!’ With a sudden movement not far removed from panic she flung her arms about his neck. ‘I do wish you were coming with me!’
He put her from him gently. ‘I can’t. You know I can’t. But I’ll come and see you. I promise. In three weeks’ time – in Manchester—’
‘Three weeks? Why so long?’ The moment the question was out she wished she had not asked it. His face had assumed the expression she most hated, as if a shutter had closed upon it, guarding all thought.
‘I’ve something planned,’ he said.
She stepped stiffly back from him. ‘Be careful.’
‘I’m always careful. Now – let’s find the first carriage, and Miss Harcourt.’
She trailed behind him along the platform. The first carriage was empty.
‘She’ll miss it if she doesn’t hurry.’ Luke stowed her suitcase on the rack, turned and took her hands. For a moment the awkwardness of parting held them in silence. ‘You’ve got the address to go to in Brighton?’
She nodded.
A whistle shrilled. ‘I’d better go.’ He kissed her lightly and stepped from the carriage, swinging the door shut behind him. She leaned at the window and watched the tall lean figure walk down the platform. He would not, she knew, wait for the train to leave. At the barrier
he turned, raised his hand and was gone. Nervously Kitty settled herself in her seat. She had admitted to no one, not even Luke, that this was the first train journey she had ever in her life undertaken. Matt’s insistence that trains could travel at fifty or sixty miles an hour she had dismissed as his usual extravagant exaggeration. A little distractedly she wondered now just how fast they did go.
On the platform the guard called, blew his whistle. As the train, puffing like a great dragon, began slowly to pull away, the carriage door flew open and a girl with the most unnaturally red hair Kitty had ever seen flung herself into the moving train. She slammed the door behind her, muttered an obscenity of the kind that Kitty had rarely heard from a man’s lips, let alone a woman’s, threw a string-tied paper parcel onto the rack and then sprawled into a seat glaring at Kitty as if whatever disaster had caused her nearly to miss the train were entirely her fault. Kitty’s heart sank. The girl’s plain, pale little face was the most bad-tempered she had ever seen.
‘Miss – Fleur Harcourt?’ she asked, tentatively.
Unpleasantly, the other girl barked with laughter. ‘Florrie,’ she said.
Kitty extended a hand. ‘How do you do? I’m Kitty Daniels.’
‘That so?’ The red-headed girl completely ignored the outstretched hand, neither did she return any other greeting. She slumped into the corner opposite Kitty and scowled out of the window, where the countryside streamed past at a dizzying rate. ‘Bleedin’ Brighton,’ she said.
The journey passed almost entirely in silence.
* * *
Brighton was brisk and breezy and – for the time of year – rather cold. Kitty, with Florrie trailing, grumbling, behind her, obtained directions at the station and set off for the address at which she had been told that digs had already been taken for them. To her surprise she was discovering herself rather to be enjoying the adventure of being out in the world on her own – though she had to admit that she wished the experience might be shared with someone a little less ill-tempered than the sour Miss Harcourt. Her consternation was considerable, therefore, when she discovered upon reaching the address they had been given – a small, unkempt house in a narrow back street some considerable distance from the sea and, they were to discover later, from the theatre – that she and her travelling companion were to share a room.
‘But – is there no separate room available?’ She surveyed in dismay the tiny, shabby room to which they had been shown.
‘It’s all there is. Take it or leave it.’ The woman who ran the establishment, who had introduced herself brusquely as Mrs Moulder, sniffed. She was extremely fat and her soft, pale skin looked as if it had never seen the open light of day. Her colourless hair straggled from an ill-constructed bun and she smelled of stale sweat and staler cooking. Kitty took a small step back from her. ‘One room, they said. Lucky to get it, too, the measly price they pay. Real actors now’ – she crossed her muscular arms over her vast bosom and eyed the two girls repressively – ‘they’re diff’rent. Proper gentlemen we get here when there’s something decent on at the Palace.’ She looked them up and down. ‘Variety, is it?’ she asked dismissively.
Kitty admitted that it was. Florrie, who had ignored the entire exchange, flopped gloomily onto one of the narrow, uncomfortable-looking beds.
‘Hmmp!’ The sharp, disapproving sound left no doubt as to the woman’s feelings about Variety. ‘Well – I’ll have you know we allow no hanky panky here, young women. You make your own beds and clean your room and be home within fifteen minutes of curtain or you’ll find yourselves locked out. That clear?’ She did not wait for a reply. ‘Breakfast’s at eight. High tea at five, if you pay extra for it. You behave yourselves, we’ll get on. You don’t, and you’re out.’ And with that uncompromising warning she left them.
Kitty stared after her, speechless.
‘Stupid old bitch.’ Florrie struggled to a sitting position. ‘’Ere—?’
‘Yes?’
The other girl’s expression was suddenly wheedling, ‘Wouldn’t ’ave such a thing as a tot o’ gin about yer person, would yer?’
Kitty shook her head.
Florrie grunted, flung herself back onto the bed, turning her back.
Grimly Kitty set about unpacking.
* * *
Two hours later the girls were at the Palace Theatre for their first, hurried rehearsal before taking their place on the bill the following night. They were greeted with a marked lack of any interest or enthusiasm – a negative attitude rather than a positive one, Kitty quickly concluded; the company were not particularly hostile, they simply could not care less one way or another. Morale at the moment was evidently not at its highest. The two girls were each allocated a grubby corner of the women’s dressing room. Florrie was introduced to the Great Margico, who nearly fainted when he saw her. ‘A boy! I need a boy!’
‘Well, ’ard cheese,’ Florrie said, dourly, ‘you’re stuck wiv me. Mr Kenny’s orders. ’E’s pissed orf wiv your boys an’ their nasty little ’abits. Anyone got a tot o’ gin?’
To her surprise Kitty found herself almost at the top of the bill, sandwiched between Barney and his Incredible Singing Dog and Mr George Bonnard, the Famous Minstrel. The latter she watched at rehearsal, his being a name she had heard from George Milton, and was disconcerted when her mildly friendly overtures were completely rejected.
‘Don’t mind him, love.’ Barney fondled his little dog, straightening the tinselled ruff about its neck. ‘He hasn’t got over losing Miss Lilly Colrane to a magician’s assistant. Understandable, I suppose.’ He smiled a maliciously wicked little smile. ‘She was his wife.’
* * *
She survived. More – she loved it. For the first time in her life she was alone and relying solely upon her own resources and she was delighted to discover that, hardship and discomfort notwithstanding, she thoroughly enjoyed it. Her act was popular from the very first performance – more and more often as her technique and confidence improved she found herself the recipient of the most enthusiastic applause of the evening – something which did little or nothing to endear her to the other members of the company. She accepted that philosophically; what mattered was that each evening, despite the petty squabbles and inconveniences of the day she renewed that special relationship between herself and her audience that invested the most squalid of surroundings with magic and gave purpose to the dreariest of days. It was a hard school, but an effective one. Florrie Harcourt’s constant and sullen presence notwithstanding – for wherever they went it remained accepted practice that they should room together, probably, Kitty concluded, because no one else could bear to spend their leisure hours, such as they were, to the tune of the girl’s constant, ill-tempered grumbling – she very much enjoyed this, her first taste of theatre variety. As the days and then the weeks passed she found herself an accepted member of the company; was astonished to find herself the object of some friendly – and some not so friendly – envy.
‘Oh, come on, ducks,’ Barney said, grinning his disbelief at her expressed surprise, ‘you know how good you are. You can’t expect the rest of us to be happy about spending the rest of our lives treading the boards in Scunthorpe or Margate while a chit of a lass like you swans off to the bright lights?’
She protested politely, and hugged entirely to herself the pleasure that the man’s words gave her. Barney was a true professional, and his opinion in such matters was not to be taken anything but seriously.
In Manchester, the week before they were due to move to a small theatre in Bethnal Green, in East London, Luke came to see her. She spotted him immediately in the audience, ran to him almost incoherent with excitement when he came backstage after the show.
‘Well, well,’ Florrie said, acidly, eyeing Luke with the first faint interest that Kitty had seen her display since they had first met. ‘All right, Miss Show-off – ’ow many more surprises ’ave yer got for us?’
‘Luke, Luke! I’ve missed you so! What did you think? They l
oved the Dipper, didn’t they? Funny – in the south they seemed to prefer Monty. How’s Matt? Have you seen Pol—?’
He stopped the words with a kiss, swinging her almost from her feet. They spent two perfect days together; she did not ask him about the activities that had kept him away for three weeks, nor about the source of the money he spent so freely, and he of course volunteered nothing. She was so pleased to see him, so delighted to have him with her again that for the moment she told herself she did not care. For now she was happy to live for the day and let the morrow care for itself.
He left Manchester two days before she did. They’d be together again once the company returned to London – for while they were performing in Bethnal Green she could return to her old room in Stepney.
She did not confide her own thoughts about that.
In Bethnal Green they played to the most appreciative audiences of the tour. Kitty was utterly amazed, and rather pleased, to discover that in returning to London she felt almost as if it were a homecoming. Luke came to almost every performance. Matt and his friends graced the balcony one night and Pol too managed an evening off to see her. But the happiest surprise of all came on the last night, when a so-familiar yet almost forgotten face appeared, with a smiling Luke, at the stage door after the performance.
‘Jem!’ Kitty threw her arms about his neck. ‘Jem O’Connell! What in the world are you doing here?’
The young American hugged her, laughing delightedly, rocking her back and forth.
‘A celebration,’ Luke said, ‘would seem to be in order. And for more reasons than one.’
Kitty glanced sharply at him. His narrow eyes gleamed with laughter. ‘I saw Pat Kenny today. He sent a message. He wants to talk to you. Tomorrow, in his office—’ He stopped.
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