Up, Back, and Away

by K. Velk

  “In her debut week at London’s Diamond Pavilion, the heartbreaker of Killarney – the Irish Rose, Miss Maureen O’Meara!”

  At first Miles didn’t recognize the apparition that then claimed the stage. He saw a young woman in an old-time ankle-length white dress with her hair piled high on her head. Her lips were painted into a red bow and almost as red was the rouge that had been applied abundantly to her cheeks. She wore a hat with an enormous brim and lavender gloves that climbed to her elbows. The orchestra began a tune familiar to Miles, though he did not know its name, and then Ada, umistakably Ada, sang:

  While strolling in the park one day,

  In the merry, merry month of May,

  A roguish pair of eyes they took me by surprise,

  And they stole my heart away!

  It was a nostalgia piece, a sentimental crowd-pleaser, but Ada confirmed here what she had demonstrated for Miles and Nell in the kitchen at Quarter Sessions. She had a tremendous presence. Her voice filled the great hall without apparent effort. She looked as easy on stage as if she had been born there. Miles couldn’t stay still. He jumped up and waved his arms at the stage.

  “Ada!”

  His seatmate grabbed Miles’ shirt and yanked him down roughly. “What do you think you’re doing! You’ll ruin ‘er act!”

  But it had worked. Ada looked at Miles and while she didn’t miss a beat in her song, he caught a nod of her head. With a polish and poise that amazed him, she walked up and down the stage singing to the crowd. When she strolled to the side of the stage where Miles was sitting, she looked right at him. He caught a look of desperation flicker across her brow. She bent down to take hold of an offered hand and used the gesture to look squarely at Miles again. She mouthed, “help me” in a pause in the phrasing of the song.

  He stood again but was pulled down with a head-jolting bang by the program man. “I don’t care if she is a friend of yours, she’s singin’ for everyone here and they’ve paid to ‘ear ‘er so you leave off!” The man’s anger compelled obedience.

  The applause at the end of the song was thunderous and Ada curtsied prettily and waved to the crowd. Then the orchestra changed pitch and Ada sang a song that everyone in the crowd seemed to know since they joined it right away:

  There came a girl from France

  Who didn't know how to dance

  The only thing that she could do

  Was knees up Mother Brown!

  Oh, knees up Mother Brown

  Knees up Mother Brown

  Knees up, knees up, never let the breeze up,

  Knees up Mother Brown…

  This time the applause was even louder. While the crowd was showing its admiration the red light that indicated the end of the act winked on in the footlights.

  “Shall I sing one more or give way for the Boneless Wonder?” Ada asked coyly. Cheers of affirmation for the singer and boos for the poor Boneless Wonder. “Would you like one more then?” If she had asked for their wallets and house keys Miles thought the crowd would have given the same answer.

  “Here’s a good old one that’s a favorite of a friend of mine who’s come to the show tonight,” she said.

  Then she let rip “I’ve Got Rings on my Fingers,” the song about Jim O’Shea, the Irish castaway and his girlfriend, Rose Magee.

  Diamond’s London Pavilion nearly came down around their heads as the crowd sang the chorus. By the end, the whole house was on its feet. Miles stood on his seat and waved his arms, now without interference from the program man who was clapping with the rest. Ada looked over at Miles one more time as she took her bows and blew kisses. Their eyes locked and they nodded in acknowledgement. Apparently, at last, they understood one another.

  60. Stage-Door Miles

  As soon as the orchestra struck up the national anthem, Miles raced out of the theater and around to the back where he found the door labeled “Stage Entrance.” With sweating hands he tried the doorknob. To his surprise, it turned but as he tried to push the door open he found it was bolted shut. Before he had a moment to think about what to do next, however, the bolt was thrown back and the door was yanked open by a hatchet-faced man. The man was carrying a length of black cable on a ropy forearm.

  “What do you want?” he snarled.

  “I, I am here to see Ada – I mean ‘Maureen’ – the singer. She wants to see me.”

  “Get lost! If you want to see ‘er buy a ticket. The nine o’clock’s about to start!” He slammed the door in Miles’ face and bolted it again noisily.

  What now? Miles stalled by the door for a moment then went back to the box office and bought a seat for the next show, along with a program of his own this time. He hoped he might be able to get a more definite message to Ada during her second performance. He sat through the Bunn Sisters, the marionettes and the tightrope walker. When the master of ceremonies appeared to announce Maureen O’Meara, however, he said that the Heartbreaker of Killarney had taken ill and would not be able to perform that night. There was a chorus of boos and hisses.

  Miles’ blood ran cold. What a fool he had been – again! He should have grabbed Ada the moment he’d recognized her. He ran out of the theater and back to the stage door. This time he pounded on it and the same man opened it, with the same scowl.

  “I told you before to get lost!”

  “Your fly’s undone,” Miles said. Incredibly, the man fell for this, the very oldest trick in the book. Miles slipped under his arm and ran backstage. The area behind the curtain was crowded and confused. Miles felt the way a bird must feel when it finds it has flown into a house. “Ada!” he called, with the doorkeeper in pursuit.

  “Stop you blasted son of a …!” The door man said in the loudest whisper he dared. The orchestra was playing its accompaniment to the Boneless Wonder’s Act.

  “Ada!” Miles called as he ran. More men joined the chase, but Miles slipped and ducked away from them all. He pushed open every door that he passed. “Ada!” He heard a thud behind him and saw that his pursuers had tripped over some scenery and then piled up like cars on the interstate. He swung the next door open and found the Bunn Sisters sitting in their dressing gowns with cold cream on their faces. One Bunn winked at him. “Where’s Ada?” he asked breathlessly.

  “She’s gone, love,” said the winker, just as an arm, one as solid and big around as a light pole, closed around his chest. A hand like a ham clamped over his mouth.

  “You little blighter! They could ‘ear you in the back row!”

  Miles tried biting the hand, but the big palm was flat across his lips. The man who held him was enormous – like a circus strong man. Miles kicked and squirmed but it was useless. He managed once to land a boot heel on the Giant’s kneecap and the man yowled as he tightened his grip to near crushing force.

  “You little bastard! Do that again and I’ll snap your neck!” In just a few steps they were back at the door. Hatchet-face unbolted it and the Giant heaved Miles bodily out into the alley.

  The Giant pointed his finger. “I’m goin’ to remember you. If you come back here it’s the last place you’ll ever go. You ‘ear me?” And the door was slammed and bolted again.

  Miles sunk to the pavement in desolation, humiliation, and despair. What had he done? He was worse than useless! They must have swept Ada out of the theater because he had called out to her. Now he knew for sure that she was being held against her will – but where? She had been right there in front of him and now…

  He stumbled to the far side of the alley and fell with a clatter against a metal trashcan. His chest hurt when he took the deep breaths that his sobs inflicted and he wondered if the Giant had cracked his ribs. He didn’t care. He deserved it. He deserved worse.

  He sat for some time in paralyzed misery letting the cold of the pavement crawl upward through him. Maybe it would be best if he just died where he sat, he thought. What now? Maybe he could find Jon Diamond’s father and tell him what was going on! That seemed like a good idea for about two heartbeats.<
br />
  Why should Ben Diamond believe a word Miles said? And informing the old man that his beloved son was a crook and a gangster could hardly be counted on as a sure-fire way to deliver Ada from evil. Even if he believed Miles and wanted to help, which was a lot to hope for, Jon Diamond had a fortune and, apparently, a goon squad at his disposal. Who knew what he might be capable of?

  Miles was out of ideas and sinking fast when he was pulled from the depths by a bolt: a literal, actual bolt, about half an inch long with a square head. It bounced on the pavement near his made-in-China boot and hit his shin. A screw followed it quickly. He looked up to see where the hardware was coming from and saw a man leaning from a small window high up over the stage door.

  The man held his finger to his lips and pointed and mimed until Miles got the idea that he should go around the corner. Then he held up ten fingers and pointed at his watch.

  Miles stood stiffly and stumbled around the corner to the spot he thought the man had indicated. A few minutes later a small, harassed looking man came scurrying into view.

  “I’ve only got a moment,” he whispered. “Show’s almost over and you’d better make yourself scarce. They took your friend. She was making a racket about wanting to see you. Mr. Diamond had them take ‘er out.”

  “Where is she? I’ve got to find her.”

  “Sorry lad,” the regret in the man’s voice was genuine. “I don’t know where they’ve got ‘er – could be any one of a dozen places. Mr. Diamond’s got hidey holes all round town.”

  Miles felt sick again, and then angry at Ada for coming to London when he had told her he needed to speak with her at Quarter Sessions. If only she had waited!

  “Will they hurt her?” He felt hardly able to form the words.

  The man looked nervously back towards the alley. “Nothing serious I shouldn’t think. She’s a bit of valuable merchandise, that one. But listen. I think I may be able to find out where they’ve got ‘er. They won’t bring ‘er back here tomorrow, now you’ve showed up. Likely keep her under wraps til he’s got ‘er where he wants ‘er. That usually don’t take long. But she’s different from the others, ‘ent she? She actually can sing. He’ll want to make his end out of that as well.”

  “I’m staying at the Victoria Hotel by Euston Station,” Miles said. “Could you call there right away if you find out? Please… My name is Miles McTavish.”

  The man held up both hands. “I don’t want your life story. And don’t ask me a lot of whys and wherefores. We ain’t got time. But, look. There’s a place we can meet tomorrow, Brown’s Pies, at the High Street Kensington Underground Station. It’s just inside, by the entrance. Meet me there tomorrow at four. I’ll see what I can find out. I’ve got to get back in now.” The man started away.

  “Wait!” Miles called as his helper melted into the shadows. “What’s your name?

  “You can call me Pip. Tomorrow at four – Browns, High Street Kensington.” And then he was gone.

  61. Trusting

  Miles returned to the Victoria Hotel feeling like a cheap umbrella after a windstorm, turned inside out, broken, and worthless. He dropped onto the squeaky mattress and wished again that he could just die and be done with it all.

  Death, however, did not oblige, and when morning came, having no other choice, he got up and got in line for the bath. As he stood with his oddly long 1928 toothbrush and a towel over his arm in the hallway of the Victoria Hotel, he considered how, during this whole escapade, he had faced one do-or-die situation after another. So far he had done and not died. He hadn’t known from one moment to the next whether he was doing the right thing, but his blind stumbling had taken him in the right direction. He had to trust that if he really tried to do the right thing, that was all he could do. It wasn’t much of a strategy, but it had worked more or less, and he couldn’t stop now, whatever it cost him.

  His business at the famous Drummonds Bank – famous according to the cab driver who took him there, at least – took the better part of the morning. He had determined to use Lady Fisher’s 200 pounds to set up a trust fund for Ada. He knew the basics of trust funds, though he had never had to put one together himself. It proved a complex transaction, especially given the odd contingencies that Miles wanted to cover. In the end, the banker, a Mr. Cleveden, agreed that if Ada had not claimed the money by 1977 (as Miles knew she would not), all of Lady Fisher’s 200 pound and it’s accrued interest was to be transferred to the Yellow Rose Bank in Dallas, Texas where it would be held in trust for a further 50 years for Ada, her descendants, or any other beneficiary she might choose. If it worked, Miles figured that by 2013, Ada would have something in the range of $40,000 to $60,000 in the bank where Chuck McTavish was in charge of such accounts.

  “Identification of the rightful beneficiary may prove difficult or impossible over such a long period of time,” Mr. Cleveden, the banker, had said when Miles described the plan.

  Miles had thought of that. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ornate brass padlock and two keys. The lock was heavy – so heavy that Miles had worried it might pull the bottom of out his pants pocket. It made a satisfying “thunk” as he placed it on the banker’s wooden desk.

  Mr. Cleveden and Miss Everett were transfixed.

  “I bought this yesterday. It’s great, isn’t it?” Miles said.

  The shiny lock featured the applied figure of a man wearing a tri-corner hat. The man was trying to hold onto the hat against a stiff wind. His old-fashioned frock coat blew out behind him. He was taking a marching step and he held a cane straight out before him. The cane pointed to a small dial, which was etched, very finely, with numbers from one to twenty. It pointed just now at the little space just beneath the number one.

  The lock had had cost him thirty pounds of Professor Davies’ money, but this was another use of funds that he felt sure the Professor would approve. Miles also hoped that he might be able to give the lock to Professor Davies some day, as a kind of return of the loan. Even Miles could see it was a treasure and sure to be valuable in the future.

  The locksmith who had sold it to him explained that the “marching man lock” had been made in the 1750s by one of his forebears. It had clearly pained the old man to think of selling. “It’s a masterpiece of the locksmith’s art and there will never be another like it,” he had said, but when he learned the lock was going to be placed in a safe deposit box for a long time, and that Miles had thirty gold sovereigns in his pocket, a deal had been struck.

  “I want to leave one key here with the bank,” Miles told Mr. Cleveden. “And I will take one key. If I find Ada, I’ll give her my key and tell her that the money is here. If she doesn’t want to claim it right away, she can hold onto the key and give it to the person she wants to have it. Even if I don’t find her, she’s likely one day to call on Miss Everett. If the money winds up at the Yellow Rose Bank, whoever shows up with the working key and knowledge of how to open the lock will be entitled to whatever money is in the trust at the time the bearer of the key presents him or herself. Otherwise, after fifty years more pass, the entire amount can be contributed to the American Red Cross.

  The banker was intrigued. “Well, speaking as one with some experience of trust fund beneficiaries, I think it most unlikely that the money will stay with us for very long if Miss O’Shea is made aware of it. However, it is not impossible that events may transpire as you suggest. It is a very unusual, indeed, but not the strangest arrangement I have heard.”

  “Let me show you how the lock works. Maybe you should write this down Mr. Cleveden.”

  Miles then demonstrated how, once the marching man’s hat was pushed forward, the front leg kicked up revealing the key hole.” The key then had to be turned two complete revolutions for the padlock to snap open. At that point the little dial moved so that the man’s cane was pointing to the number “1”.

  “See, it shows how many times it’s been opened,” Miles explained. “That way its owner knows if it’s been opened while he�
��s been away.”

  “How wonderfully cunning,” said the banker.

  “What happens after it’s been opened twenty times?” Miss Everett asked.

  “You can reset it like this.” Miles pushed the forward brim of the man’s hat up. There was another satisfying little click and a tiny keyhole, not much bigger than a pinhole, was revealed under the hat. The top of each of the two keys had a funny little spur on it. Miles put the spur in the little hole and turned the key counterclockwise, once. The dial returned to its former position. “I think it should be written into the trust that any claimant must be able to reset the dial as a way of assuring that the person got the key and the whole story from Ada.”

  Mr. Cleveden said this seemed “rather eccentric” and perhaps “an abundance of caution” but agreed to do as Miles asked.

  “Can you finish this up without me now? I have another meeting to get to – across town.”

  “It was a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. McTavish,” the banker said with no hint of condescension. “I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.”

  “Thank you,” said Miles. “I’ll take that wish. I am afraid I am going to need all the luck I can get in the next few days.”

  62. A Word of Warning…

  Miles felt a sense of relief when, coming up the long sets of stairs from the platform at Kensington High Street Station, he found that there actually was a shop called “Brown’s Pies” at street level. It was just a counter with a couple of small tables, like a mooring on the side of the river of people flowing past. An enticing smell came from its small kitchen and Miles saw that Cornish Pasties were on the chalkboard menu. They were one of Miles’ new favorite foods and the smell made his stomach growl. He was nearly two hours early for his meeting with Pip, so he ordered two pasties and a glass of something called “lemon squash,” and took a seat.