by Myers, Amy
A roar went up from the hall, which could be heard even over the racket in the eating-room.
‘What’s that?’ Had something happened already? Surely Will had not yet arrived? Auguste dropped a chop in alarm, splashing grease on to his spotless apron.
‘Old Yapp, the chairman, taking his place, I expect,’ Lizzie replied offhandedly. ‘I like ’im. He’s a gentleman. He don’t let old Jowitt get away without paying me. His wife don’t like me, though. You wait till you see the size of her. She sings.’ Lizzie paused briefly to evaluate the truth of her words, then bawled out: ‘Come into the garden, Maud’, meanwhile doing a passable imitation of a woman four times her width. ‘Jowitt keeps them on because the crowd like him, and her because of him . . . But Yapp couldn’t control a bunch of coconuts.’ She giggled. ‘Hear that?’
Auguste did. The roar was no longer friendly.
‘Oh, it’s going to be a good evening tonight,’ Lizzie told him happily.
Auguste was not so confident, as he rushed from the eating-room to assume his duties as Will’s protector.
Some fifteen minutes earlier Nettie Turner’s carriage had drawn up outside the lodgings in Whitechapel where Will Lamb still lived, despite his fame and prosperity. No one cooked sausages like Mrs Jones.
‘All set for the costers, Will?’ she asked brightly as he climbed in beside her.
‘Oh yes.’ He beamed.
‘You’re a love, aren’t you, Will? Don’t matter to you whether we play the Empire or Hackney Coalhole just so long as you can make people laugh.’ He grinned. ‘Doesn’t it worry you at all going back, Will?’ she asked anxiously.
He shook his head vigorously. ‘No.’
‘I suppose not, with Mariella there.’ Better to get it in the open, Nettie thought to herself. The red-headed bitch would cause trouble one way or another, that was for sure.
‘Mariella,’ Will repeated excitedly, drawing out each syllable.
‘You’re still fond of her, aren’t you, Will?’
He said nothing, but even in the dim light she could see his blush.
‘Like I used to be of Harry – once.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Fools, weren’t we? Mariella wouldn’t marry you, because you were nobody. Harry was all too eager to marry me because I wasn’t. We should have married each other, Will, and put an end to it. Are you still fond of her?’
For answer, he took her hand in his and squeezed it. His felt more like a child’s than a man’s, and perhaps that was just how he thought of her, as a mother figure. Nettie sighed. Marriage wouldn’t have worked with Will, of course. She was vigorous, earthy, robust – and she liked a bit of fun. Will was an idealist, fragile, only half living in the real world; and as for sex, did he even know what it was? Sometimes she doubted it, though perhaps she was wrong. He wasn’t very stable, and in her experience that sometimes put the old privates into a frenzy. There was a suppressed excitement about him tonight, like a kid going to a pantomime. Only Mariella wasn’t a pantomime, from what she remembered of that young madam.
The carriage rattled over the streets towards the Old King Cole. Suddenly Will spoke. ‘Will you miss me, Nettie?’
‘What do you mean, Will?’ she asked, startled. ‘You don’t really think you’re going to get murdered, do you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He giggled nervously.
‘Don’t go. Please,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ll stop the carriage, take you home.’
‘I want to go.’ He set his lips stubbornly.
She said no more, but she was even more worried than before. There was a half-smile on his lips. The smile of a kid with a secret.
Our Pickles, or to give him his full name, Harry Pickles, Cockney comique, stood morosely in the wings, his mind divided between the moment when in response to old Yapp’s introduction and a flourish from the orchestra he would leap on to the stage, sweeping off his high stove hat and shout out ‘Wot cher, pals!’, and the fact that Nettie would soon be arriving at the Old King Cole. Not to mention Will. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing either of them, especially together. Nettie because she would undoubtedly want to know what he needed extra dosh for so urgently when she made him an excellent allowance to stay away from her, and Will because he’d blasted well ruined his career. Him and Brodie. Will had taken all the laughs deliberately, so there’d been none to spare for when he came on. Will deliberately made him take that spot. He was as bad as the Great Horace Brodie. At least he’d soon be rid of him in the East End halls. Brodie had had it in for him ever since they’d started over ten years ago. He’d taken all the best comique songs and left him with the Cockney ones. The Great Brodie didn’t like Lamb any more than he did, didn’t want the glory being taken away from his act. Brodie reckoned he was the big star round here, and it was going to spike his guns to have Lamb back. Pickles smirked. That’s why he’d suggested the idea to Jowitt. ‘Why don’t you ask Will Lamb back for a week?’ ‘Good idea, Harry,’ Jowitt had said. ‘And Nettie, too . . .’ Pickles had added. She’d come, of course she would, if Will was coming. Lamb was the reason for Nettie’s staying away from him — must be. Why else would anyone want to leave Our Pickles, particularly an old hen like her? She said she was forty, but she must be pushing forty-five at least. He was handsome, thirty-four, five foot eight; Will was ugly, forty-five, four foot nothing and hadn’t enough ammo in his gun to fire a shot. Not Nettie’s usual style. There must be more to it. Meanwhile tonight he was going to show her what she was missing. He grinned. Some blasted coster done up to the nines with a moustache and apron on chose that moment to wander in. ‘Piss off,’ he snarled at a startled Auguste Didier.
‘Our very own Pickles, our lovable Cockney chappie!’ came Yapp’s disembodied voice.
Pickles bounded on to the stage, down to the footlights, hands stuck in pockets. He slouched, he winked, he double-shuffled, he confided: ‘I call her ball and chain . . . ’Cos she keeps the key of the door . . .’
The welcome was half-hearted, but he knew why. They were waiting for Will Lamb.
Violet and Marigold Pears were sitting tensely in their jolting four-wheeler and not just because they were running late for their turn as Number Two. They couldn’t afford to hire their own carriage and driver to take them between engagements at the various halls during the evening; their turn at the Shadwell Grand had been running late, and then they couldn’t find a hansom cab. They had their costumes already on underneath their dresses, but even so they doubted if they would get to the Old King Cole in time. But this was not the greatest of their worries. How were they going to break the news? Someone as grand as he was wouldn’t want to marry them – since they were twins they automatically thought of themselves as ‘them’, though it was Marigold who had the major problem. Her problems were Violet’s too of course, particularly since their turn depended on split-second timing by the two of them, for they were acrobatic artistes. Soon Marigold would not be able to play her part, and that meant no money for either of them. Now they were nearly thirty, that meant perhaps there never would be again. It wasn’t fair – he had plenty of money now.
Gentlemen, they had realised, were not really interested in their artistry, only in their pink tights and clinging costumes. Dear Mama had insisted they performed in long pantaloons, but when the sisters guiltily defied her edict they got more bookings. Dear Mama couldn’t even look after baby when it came, because dear Mama was dead.
At least Will would be at the Old King Cole this evening. They could try appealing to him. They jumped down from the cab, threw money at the driver and rushed into the theatre, tearing off their dresses as they went. Willing hands helped them, and Horace Brodie’s caressing hand automatically patted Violet on to the stage.
Thomas Yapp in his mirror saw the board proclaiming Number Three had quickly changed to Number Two and sighed with relief. That should keep the Shadwell Mob in the gallery quiet for a bit while they studied their pink-hosed legs. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Tumbling Twins.’
&nbs
p; ‘Who’d they tumble to?’ a voice yelled back, to be immediately followed by gusts of laughter and bawdy comments, shushed from their marginally more respectable fellow audience below.
In fact both of them had tumbled to the same man.
Shortly before Miguel and his wife Mariella had climbed down from their hired carriage, in an atmosphere as cold as a first turn on a wet night. It had not been a pleasant journey. If he remained as tense as this he would be dropping things all over the stage, and that would not be good for the reputation of Miguel, Continental Juggler. So far everything was going well; why then did he feel so angry? Then he realised the reason. Will Lamb was going to be there. True, this was going to prove extremely useful, but nevertheless he wished he could have been more certain of Mariella’s co-operation. Who knew what she was thinking now, as she sat silently at his side? Will Lamb was a rich man now, he must be. Well, so shortly would he, Miguel, be able to send more money back to his parents in his beloved country, now their own juggling days were over. Mariella’s act was not until the end of the show, but it was imperative she should be with him, especially tonight. Once he had let her hire her own carriage in order to take extra engagements, and what had happened? He had arrived at the Flagon to find her in the arms of the Marvellous McNaughten, illusionist. And that had been no illusion.
‘Miguel, it’s too risky. You know how jumpy Will is,’ Mariella suddenly hissed. ‘I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind.’
Miguel glared. ‘No. You asked him. You are implicated. It is the plan. My plan,’ to make his point even clearer.
‘I won’t do it.’ Her disinclination was not on moral grounds, but for reasons of her own which she had no intention of sharing with her husband.
‘You have no choice,’ he replied simply. The threat was implied in his dark eyes.
‘I’ll tell him Fernando has discovered.’
The eyes blazed. ‘No. You should not encourage Fernando so much, Mariella. He is dangerous.’
She shrugged. ‘He adores me. He’s got no more brains than a baby. Where’s the harm?’
‘The harm, sweet wife, is that he has no brains. Did you tell him Will Lamb was coming?’
‘Yes. He didn’t like it.’
‘Not good. Leave things as they are, Mariella.’ It was an order.
Mariella, to whom self-survival was a path perpetually brilliantly lit, fell silent, and began to consider other options. Others’ survival, after all, was not of so much importance.
The Shadwell Mob was getting restless, eager to show muscle. The pink tights had vanished from sight and memory, and a continental juggler was too good an opportunity to pass up. The low hiss became louder, a well-aimed rotten egg joined the spinning plates and met its end bursting over their juggler’s shoulder, and despite indignant howls from other parts of the house and Yapp’s best efforts, the sound of ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’ provided an accompaniment to Miguel’s act which drowned the orchestra’s best attempts at ‘The Toreador’s Song’ from Carmen.
Backstage, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Will Lamb, Auguste heard the rumpus in alarm, both for the performers’ sake and for his own. He did not relish the prospect of those healthy spirits descending in force on his eating-room in the interval. The proper place for rotten food was the rubbish bin, not adorning the person of a maître chef. At the sound of the stage door opening he hurried towards it hopefully. Standing guard over it was a gentleman of imposing build clad in a leopard skin, with a club clenched in one huge fist. Another personal detective? Before he had time to inquire, the new arrival entered. It was not Will Lamb, but a tall well-built man in his mid to late thirties, with a handsome, if florid, face and clad in Ascot gear. The new arrival, evidently already in role, raised his hat politely. ‘The Great Brodie,’ he announced.
‘The Great Didier,’ Auguste replied, flustered.
‘You are a performer?’ Horace Brodie looked puzzled. ‘Your turn?’
‘Faisan truffé and bailiff-hunting,’ Auguste replied gravely.
Noise from the auditorium deflected the Great Brodie from pursuit of this red herring. ‘A lively night,’ he murmured. ‘I see I am needed. Ah, Harry,’ he stopped to raise his hat to Harry Pickles, still in costermonger costume, on his way out to his next engagement. ‘A good house?’
‘First-rate till you walked in.’ Pickles slammed the door.
Horace sighed. ‘Dear boy, but not a true performer. Jealous, alas.’
The Great Brodie, lion comique, puffed out his chest, took a deep breath and a statuesque stance in the wings, watching Miguel in some amusement at his inability to control his audience. He tweaked his lapel complacently. He wouldn’t be here much longer now, and could afford to be generous.
He strolled nonchalantly on to the stage, adjusted his monocle and stared out at the audience. The noise stopped, and Yapp sank back in his seat with relief. That walk, that stare, were known everywhere, even at the Shadwell Grand. No one in their right mind would barrack or chirrup the Great Brodie’s song. Out here in the East they were still privileged to its exclusive hearing; when the Great Brodie went up West and the song was published, every Tom, Dick and Harry would be whistling and caterwauling it. Tonight it was theirs alone. Even the Shadwell Mob thought that worth a breathless hush.
Miguel, casting his saviour a look of anything but thanks, scuttled off, defiantly juggling a few plates on the way. Two of them crashed and broke. The Great Brodie did not bother to turn his head. He held the audience in the silence of anticipation for a moment. He lightly adjusted his elegant cravat, his top-hat was pushed fractionally towards the rakish, his elegant cane was uplifted. He recounted in a bored voice:
‘Romanos, Rules and the Ritz for me, Though I might call in to the Carlton for tea. I’m considered a lucky mascot, At Goodwood, Henley and Ascot . . .’
Auguste, despite his anxiety, crept back to the wings to listen, as the roar came up: ‘So . . .!’ The Great Brodie launched into his chorus:
‘Don’t wait up, don’t wait up,
Don’t wait up tonight, love.
Tonight I’m going out with the chaps,
And I’ll be back tomorrow perhaps.
You never know how far they’ll go . . .
Perhaps they’ll go as far as Flo . . .
So don’t wait up, have your tea,
And don’t wait up for me.’
There was a giggle. At his side had appeared a buxom girl of twenty-five or so with a kerchief round her shoulders, and her skirts bunched up over her petticoat, and a battered straw hat crammed on to her head. ‘Wonderful, ain’t he?’
‘He is good, certainly,’ Auguste agreed diplomatically. Will Lamb and Nettie Turner had artistry, though, that shone out over and above their material. He was not sure the same applied to this man, though he would not say so to the girl at his side who had a look in her eyes Auguste recognised. Devoted adoration, and not, alas, for Auguste Didier.
‘He’s going up West next week. To the Alhambra. He’ll have to change the patter for them. I told him that.’
‘Why?’
‘More respectable audience. Can’t be too careful,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘Look at me, now. Young girl up from country.’ She saw his amazed look and giggled. ‘Me songs, chum. All about vile seducers of young innocent lasses. Like me.’ She winked. ‘Like me and Horace, eh?’
‘Who?’
‘Him. The Great Brodie,’ she said fondly.
Next week she’d be up with him in London, the Old King Cole left far behind. Out on stage, the lion comique was taking his bow, humbly and gratefully. She heaved up her yoke and milk pails.
Not long now, Brodie thought. On Saturday it was good-bye, Old King Cole. And good-bye, Dolly Dadd.
Percy Jowitt arrived in the wings, moaning agitatedly, as he saw Dolly taking her place centre stage amid a chorus of whistles. A well-aimed potato landed in one of the pails, and Percy groaned. He clutched his new cook like the Ancient Mariner without asking, fortunately,
the reason for his presence.
‘I’m too late,’ he moaned. ‘I was going to stop her and send Will on next. It’s the only hope. They’re getting ready for their big effort up in the gallery. She’ll never hold them like Brodie or Lamb.’
‘He’s not here.’
Percy gazed at him in horror. ‘Not here? What do you mean, not here?’
His words had seemed quite comprehensible to Auguste. ‘He has not yet arrived.’
‘Where is he?’ This time the shriek must have been audible on stage for Dolly in the midst of her first chorus, ‘I was the lamb and he was the wolf—’ glared in the direction of the wings.
‘I don’t know,’ Auguste hissed back.
‘But there’s only one more act to go.’
‘Me.’ The large leopardskin appeared between them, clothing the body of the enormous man whom Auguste had seen guarding the door. He must have been well over six foot, with muscles bulging through his tights, and arms and chest plentifully covered with hair.
‘Oh, it’s you, Fernando,’ Percy said dismissively. ‘Meet the new cook.’
Fernando grinned amiably, and gave Auguste a welcoming pat on the back that sent him stumbling forward, and almost precipitated his first stage music-hall appearance.
‘Gentle as a lamb, he is,’ Percy said reassuringly.
Fernando beamed, then frowned. ‘Lamb?’ he repeated slowly. ‘Fernando not like Will Lamb.’
The winkles! He had forgotten to get the winkles and whelks ready for the interval. Yet how could he leave now before Will had even arrived? Anguished, Auguste watched Dolly Dadd take her bow and quickly run off the stage in relief. She had managed to hold the audience, but only just, and rumbles suggested the storm could not be far off. Fernando was about to take her place, apparently oblivious to anything unusual in the audience. But Auguste had no time to spare for what was on stage; at last, at last, he heard a carriage draw up, and, thanks be, the sound of Nettie’s laughter – a trifle forced, he thought, as he rushed to open the stage door. As it opened, he saw Will descending after Nettie from the carriage, dwarfed by the driver. Will’s face lit up as he saw Auguste – and then he screamed.