by BK Duncan
‘It was my fault, Horatio. I thought a laugh would do us good.’
‘Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you?... Now, move that spot a little more... that’s it... keep it there for the next turn and we’ll see how we go. Okay, the vent’s up next. And from now on we’ll be fixing timings so I want you all ready to come on as if we’re doing this for real. There’ll be no introductions in the performance, just the running order in the programmes, so pay attention to who’s on the bill before you. When it comes to the show proper, you’re to wait for the applause - please God let there be some - to lull, but not die, then step into your places. I don’t want Vi having to push you on.’
She wished he’d tone it down a little. Horatio was always uptight when confronted by time pressures (which today took the form of any overrun costing his father a fortune in stagehands’ time) and although she had enjoyed his snubbing of Alice she didn’t want the rest of the turns to be battered into falling to pieces. She made a point of going up to each of them and uttering a few consoling, and encouraging, phrases. All except Alice, of course.
***
The end of the first half was drawing to a close. The band and Ethel, the male impersonator, seemed to be locked in a race to finish the number. Vi made a note of it. After this rehearsal, Horatio would be so wrapped up in getting technical matters sorted that he’d expect her to pick up any issues with the actual performances.
Alice was on next. But when she came onto the stage she didn’t stand in the centre in front of the drop, but walked up to the footlights.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I reckoned I’d come across better from here.’
Vi heard Horatio’s tip-up seat spring to attention.
‘Please just do it as we rehearsed; it’s a little late now to make any changes.’
‘But last night you said the audience would want to get a good look at me.’
‘That was as my assistant. Because it’s a necessary part of the illusion. Rest assured you look delectable whatever part of the stage you’re on. And, anyway, this isn’t all about you: the lighting boys have their instruction too, you know. Now, be a good girl, and go back to your position.’
‘The gallery won’t hardly know who I am from there.’
‘They can read in Poplar, can’t they?’
‘We ain’t stupid.’
‘I never said you were.’
His voice was dangerously low. Vi almost wanted to go on stage and drag Alice towards the backdrop herself. Almost.
‘If that Ethel can do hers front of tabs then I don’t see why I shouldn’t; I work here and they’ll be loads come to see me.’
It was as if the cocaine wasn’t only making her voluble and argumentative; it was bringing out her childish petulance as well.
‘I will give you one more chance, Miss Keaps. Go to the back of the stage and do your number without another word, or I’ll scrap your slot.’
‘You can’t-’
‘Right! That’s it! Consider yourself no longer doing the song.’
Alice looked bemused for a moment as if she hadn’t expected him to go through with it. Then she stomped off, hurling, ‘You can sodding well stuff your stupid rotten show,’ over her shoulder.
Vi looked over the footlights at Horatio; his expression was a delayed echo of Alice’s disbelief.
***
The rehearsal staggered on. Terrified at putting a foot wrong and suffering the consequences, the turns delivered shambolic performances. Alice’s defection had also upset the stagehands who had become decidedly uncooperative, making every changeover take twice as long as it should. When it was all over, Horatio called the performers together and announced that the entrances and exits needed to be crisper; there would be no taking a call however enthusiastic the audience’s reaction; and that those who hadn’t got their costumes finalised had until tomorrow’s rehearsal to do so. He hadn’t needed to follow up that last point with a threat: every one of the guilty parties was giving a pantomime performance of imagining their names sliding off the bill.
He went into a huddle with the ASM, and Vi began the long task of going through the notes she’d made on each performer. She felt curiously flat about Alice; the satisfaction she’d expected would follow the victory of experience over stage-stuck youth had eluded her. Instead, she was left with a hollow sadness that it should have been necessary in the first place.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
May spent the majority of the weekend cleaning. She had intended only to scrub everything in the kitchen with carbolic, but once she’d started she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Housework depressed her whereas pulling out furniture, dismantling the range, and throwing out everything she’d allowed to accumulate in cupboards was altogether more satisfying. As if she was putting her life in order.
The opium pipe was the last thing for her to deal with. She’d considered keeping it in case it could prove useful at the inquest but then remembered Alexander Laker’s warnings of rumours concerning her personal connections to the drugs world - via Jack - and decided it would only serve to mire everything in silt. So she’d re-lit the range, and thrown it into the fire.
Jack had also proved influential in the matter of whether or not she should report the incident to the police. After spending the best part of Saturday mulling it over, she’d concluded that little would be gained: The Tong had made their point. However, aware of the dangers of drowning in the shallow waters of complacency, she had gone around to Mr Krantz’s hardware shop on Chrisp Street and asked him to change the lock. Afterwards, she’d popped into the Gaiety and given Alice her new key; her sister’s beaming face as she’d shared the news of her elevation to magician’s assistant had been the only joyful sight for days.
***
All the physical activity hadn’t resulted in the nightmare-free sleep she’d been longing for and May was up and dressed for work by seven o’clock on Monday morning. As she walked down the street she wished she’d skipped breakfast and set out earlier. It must’ve been a spectacular sunrise to judge from the ribbons of lilac, pink, and apricot floating across the sky - the one blessing to come out of all the smoke from the industries and steamships. The scent from the silver wattle tree that Mr Dewar, the cooper, grew in a barrel wafted over the wall as she turned the corner of Ellerthorp Street. He’d planted a seed brought back from Australia and it flourished in the sheltered back yard, making every spring a foretaste of long hot summers to come. This year she would get out for as many walks as possible, perhaps even go with Roger on that jaunt into Sussex.
She became aware of footsteps behind her. Measured. Unhurried. Not a docker on his way to the morning call-on. She increased her stride slightly and heard a corresponding change of pace. Her skin prickled. Had the Tong not had an informant at all and had simply taken to watching the house? Her pursuer was gaining on her. Fumbling in her messenger-boy satchel for something she could use as a weapon - the ring of courtroom keys could do some damage if thrust in the face or groin hard enough - she whirled around. The man raised a finger to the peak of his cap as he continued past, tugging a little on the lead for his dog to keep up. May let out the breath she’d been holding. No wonder she hadn’t heard the animal, it was a slip of a greyhound seemingly run to exhaustion on the canal towpath.
Her frayed nerves served to tell her that she had to start getting some answers before she did the Tong’s work for them by scaring herself witless. She decided she would leave Alf Dent to open up the public areas of the court and pay another visit to the Black Cat Café on Three Colt Street. There was a chance that Liza might be up and about early if her mother was still looking after her little boy. Liza was one of life’s survivors, but she wasn’t a liar: she’d answer a direct question about whether she’d been double-dealing with the Tong.
***
The place
was full. Traders from Dolphin Street market tucking into bacon sandwiches after the gruelling work of setting up their stalls; a handful of woman eager to steal a march on the bargains; casual dockworkers - the lump - who’d been unable to secure a day’s work at the call-on; a scattering of children looking to earn a copper running errands. But no Liza.
May took the one spare chair, at the table of a fat woman who was in the middle of an argument with her blind husband. He made up in volume what he lacked in sight. A young girl with acne and greasy hair came over to take her order. May didn’t want anything but couldn’t really take up space when they were so busy. She asked for a coffee and, when it was brought to her, tipped the girl a ha’penny.
‘You have a waitress here. Stooped, rather heavy around the waist,’ she realised that could describe most middle-aged women in Poplar with hard work and babies taking their toll, ‘rather badly-dyed orange-ish hair.’
The girl blushed. ‘That’s my ma.’
May regretted her bluntness.
‘I told her not to do it as it would make her look stupid. But no one ever listens to me. She’s out back. I’ll fetch her, shall I?’ She hurried off without waiting for an answer.
After a long wait in which May’s companions had explored and discarded the topic of how they never would have taken up together if it hadn’t been for ‘poor, dear Fred, God bless him’ dying of the chest (the only way East Enders ever referred to consumption), the older waitress emerged from the kitchen. Her broken-backed shoes slapped on the floor as she dodged between the tables.
‘Daisy says as you want a word. Make it quick, dearie, I ain’t paid to stand around looking beautiful.’ She laughed and May was engulfed in a cloud of halitosis.
‘Do you remember me? I was here at the end of last week with Liza. She’s one of your regulars. I’m looking for her.’
‘She in trouble? If so, then I’ll tell you straight you won’t get nothing out of me.’
‘We used to work together in the tobacco factory-’
‘Come up a bit in the world since then, ain’t you, dearie?’
‘-her little boy, Cyril, is sick and I wanted to help pay for the medicine if I can.’
The woman’s wary look softened into something like compassion. ‘They’re a sore trial, kids. Wouldn’t have my brood if I had my time again. But what’s to do, eh? You gets married, then you gets knocked-up before you can see your way to getting new lino. I suppose it’s only nature but it’s we who has to suffer for it.’
May looked down and played with her spoon. She fervently believed women should have the right to choose the direction of their lives but to say so could be construed as advocating abortion and a coroner’s officer had to be seen to be upholding the law in word and deed. She felt a flush spread up from her neck as all the illegal activities she’d been involved in recently taunted her hypocrisy.
‘Has she been in?’
‘Not so as I’ve noticed. I know who you mean though; sort of worn out, but pretty looking. Not that a nice face will mean she’ll get trade much longer, not when there’s always fresh meat to be had on the streets.’
May flinched at the hard edge in her voice. But she didn’t blame the woman for it; there must be many days and nights when, given the chance, she’d opt for selling sex instead of earning little more than she took in tips waiting tables. And there’d be precious few of those given the Black Cat Café’s clientele. Then it came to May that maybe the waitress had secured herself another source of income from those more willing to part with their money. Jack had told her about ordinary working women being part of a network to draw others into the circle of cocaine and desperation. If this waitress was already working for the Tong perhaps she’d been the one who’d told them about her invitation to attend the opium party. Had she been near the table when Liza had mentioned Sadie? May couldn’t remember. And she wouldn’t ask. Her conscience was heavy enough with the thought she might’ve brought some retribution from the dope-runners down on Liza.
She finished her coffee and slipped the waitress a threepenny bit. Tom’s workshop opened out onto a view of Limehouse Causeway and she’d be able to watch the prostitutes walking their regular circuits from there. The first sign of Liza and she’d ask Tom to go and fetch her so they could talk unobserved. He’d complain but he’d do it.
***
He didn’t turn around at her greeting. With a spanner in one hand and an oilcan in the other he was hunched over his workbench, no doubt adjusting and readjusting a screw or nut in that obsessive way of his. The space smelt of coffee and paraffin. May threw a glance at the hulk of canvas at the back. The morning sun coming in through the open double-doors was kissing the bottom edge with a promise to reveal the glory beneath, but she didn’t want to walk up to inspect his progress on the Norton without his permission. He was so obviously in one of his moods that he’d probably throw the oilcan at her if she invaded his sanctuary any further. She’d place the money she’d brought with her (even without the threepence it should be enough for a spark plug) on the bench and leave him to come around to her company while she stood by the entrance and kept a lookout for Liza.
Tom paused in his tinkering to sweep the coins onto the floor with the side of his hand. ‘Might as well chuck it away with the rest, missy; there ain’t no point anymore.’
Belatedly, May remembered his ailing brother. ‘I’m so sorry. Tom. Is it bad news?’
‘Worst as can be.’
She bent down to gather up the coins to give him time to recover from what, to him, would’ve been a soul-baring display of emotion. When she thought the time was right, she straightened up again.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Like what? Find another put out for the totter. Know the chances of that happening? I reckon less than me winning on the dogs which is as likely as buggery seeing as I don’t go.’
May was as shocked by his swearing as she was by his callousness over the loss of his brother. But then she reminded herself that Tom didn’t respond to the vagaries of life remotely like other people.
‘Did you stay for the funeral?’
‘You ain’t no more brains than this spanner. I weren’t talking flesh and blood. Wish I had been. You don’t know how much I wish I had been.’ And his voice cracked.
She watched a fat tear track down his cheek and settle in the crease around his mouth. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his overalls then, in a lightening movement that rocked her back on her heels, shot out his withered arm and grabbed her wrist. His grip belied the wastage in his muscles.
‘Ain’t never known heartbreak like this, and ain’t never likely to neither.’
May tried not to struggle and allow herself to be dragged to the back of the workshop. Once there, Tom whipped the tarpaulin off the Norton. She gasped. The gleaming chrome she’d so recently polished reflected the soft sunlight. Unevenly. In contorted shapes, not smooth lines. The forks of the Brooklands’ Special had been flattened and bent back on themselves. The front wheel was buckled and minus almost a third of its spokes. She wanted to cry. But hers wouldn’t have been a silent weeping like Tom’s. She would’ve sobbed and screamed and battered her fists on the selfish old man who’d taken it upon himself to shatter her promise to Albert because of something he’d got into his deep, dark head. Other than the woodwork tools and a handful of his old clothes, the shared dream of getting the motorbike on the road again was the only thing she had left of her brother. Tom was speaking:
‘...day before yesterday it must’ve happened. Friday. Left the place open. Didn’t take a gander under the canvas ’til this morning.’
That’d been Saturday: the stupid cretin didn’t have a normal person’s concept of time, along with everything else. And then she realised he hadn’t done something in a funk only to discover it when in his right mind again. Someone had come
in and attacked the motorbike. Her motorbike. It’d been vandalised because it was her motorbike. They’d known. The Tong. Horrible though it had been she could understand why they would want to warn her off by threatening her, but to destroy such a beautiful and rare machine looked like an act of spite.
‘I’ll do what I can, missy. But I ain’t no Saviour to set about raising Lazarus.’ He stroked the leather seat. ‘Excepting I ain’t let no assemblage of metal and rubber, wire and doodads, get the better of me yet. We’ll show ’em what I’m made of, won’t we?’
May thought for a moment he was talking to her but the soft smile on his wrinkled face and the crooning lilt of his voice made it clear he was addressing the Norton. She apologised over and over again to him in her head - for her suspicions, and for the fact that his space had been violated for no other reason than he was doing her a kindness - and slipped out into the shadow of the dock wall. Someone was going to be made to pay the consequences of this mindless viciousness. It wouldn’t be Tom, and it wouldn’t be Albert. And she was damned if she was going to let it be her.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
May’s anger turned into a hard and brittle lump in her chest when she saw the dope-runner who’d been talking to Richard Weatherby strolling along the road, exuding an arrogance as if he owned the place. His hat was tipped back, a smug smile broken intermittently by the matchstick he was lazily flipping between his lips with his tongue. She knew the Tong had to have policemen and local politicians (probably magistrates, too) in their pockets to get away with conducting their despicable activities so brazenly, but was it bribes or fear put them there? Her nerve endings fizzed at the thought they now assumed she’d been successfully added to the list.
She strode over to stand in front of him, refusing to have her presence hidden from the street by skulking around the corner; if they had someone watching her then she’d give him something to report.
‘What can I do you for?’