Workhouse Angel

by Holly Green

  With all my love,

  James

  Twenty Two

  Angelina studied herself in the dressing room mirror. Her bonnet hid hair that was still too short, and the thick greasepaint, which she had now learned to apply herself, covered the unbecoming tan her complexion had acquired during her time with the Donovans, but she was not satisfied.

  ‘I hate this dress! Poplin is such cheap material. I ought to have something much finer, now that I’m the star of the show.’

  ‘You are not the star of the show!’ Catriona said sharply. ‘You are a star, not the star.’

  ‘It’s my name at the top of the bill,’ Angelina insisted complacently. ‘Mr Finnegan said I bring in more customers than the rest of you put together.’

  ‘That’s rubbish! He only says that to keep you sweet. He’s afraid you might decide to leave, or ask for more money.’

  ‘Is he?’ Angelina’s confidence wavered for a moment. She looked round the dressing room and saw that Catriona was not the only one she had annoyed. For the first time it occurred to her that they must think her very conceited. She swallowed her pride and forced herself to apologise. ‘Sorry. I expect you’re right. We are all stars, really.’ But she could not resist adding, ‘I still think I ought to have a better dress.’

  Catriona’s tone changed. She came across and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Of course you should. But if you really want to be a star, a proper star, you need to learn to present yourself better. I told you when you first joined that there’s more to it than just standing there and singing. I could teach you a few tricks of the trade, if you like.’

  ‘Mr Finnegan said he didn’t want me to learn that sort of thing,’ Angelina responded doubtfully.

  ‘Oh, pooh! What does he know? He’s only interested in making money out of other people’s talent. Why not let me show you what I mean?’

  ‘Very well,’ Angelina agreed, but without enthusiasm. She did not have a very high opinion of Catriona’s performance, but the older woman had so much more experience than she had. She told herself that there must be things she could learn.

  ‘Come to the theatre tomorrow morning,’ Catriona said. ‘There won’t be anyone else here. We’ll have a little rehearsal all to ourselves.’

  Angelina duly presented herself the next day and found Catriona waiting for her.

  ‘Now, let’s think about how you present “The Last Rose of Summer”. Sing the first few lines for me.’ Angelina did as she was told, and Catriona broke in with, ‘No, not like that. On that first line, come down to the footlights and pretend to pick a rose. No, really imagine you have a proper rose in your hand. That’s better! Now, when you sing about all the rose’s companions being faded and gone, look around the stage as if you can see them and it makes you very sad because they are all dead.’

  The instructions went on all through the song … ‘Now clasp your hands and look up to heaven … now wipe away an imaginary tear … that’s better. Now do it all again from the beginning.’

  Angelina felt awkward and rather foolish as she went through the actions, but she told herself that Catriona must know better than she did, so she did her best to follow the instructions. That evening, as she was preparing to go on stage, Catriona whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t forget. Do it the way I taught you.’

  Obediently, Angelina performed the song as they had rehearsed it, but instead of the rapt attention she was used to from the audience she was aware of a certain restlessness, and even heard a few titters. The applause was less enthusiastic than usual, too.

  As soon as the final curtain came down Aidan caught her arm.

  ‘My da wants to talk to you. He’s in his dressing room. You’d better get along now.’

  Finnegan stood up as she came in and advanced towards her.

  ‘Now, miss, just what do you think you’re playing at? That’s not the way I told you to perform that song.’

  ‘I … I,’ she felt herself squirming, ‘I thought it would be better like that.’

  ‘Better! You made a fool of yourself up there. Who put those ideas into your head?’

  She dropped her eyes. ‘Catriona said …’

  ‘Catriona! I might have known. Did I or did I not tell you I didn’t want you to copy her affectations?’

  ‘But she said if I really wanted to be star …’

  ‘If you want to be a star, you will do as you are told in future! Take no notice of Catriona. Go back to performing it just the way you always did. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Finnegan. I’m sorry.’

  He reached out and patted her cheek. ‘Well, we’ll say no more about it. Run along now, but I want you on stage tomorrow morning. There’s a new song I want you to learn.’

  As she reached the door of the dressing room she shared with the other women, Angelina heard Catriona’s voice. ‘Honestly, did you ever see anything so pathetic?! The poor child has no idea of stage craft.’

  She pushed open the door in time to hear Fionnuala respond tartly, ‘We all know who told her to do that, Cat. You’re just jealous of that lovely voice. Leave the poor child alone.’

  Finnegan was waiting for her when she arrived at the theatre next morning, together with Barney, the pianist.

  ‘Can you read music?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. I learned a little bit when … when I lived at home.’

  He studied her face. ‘You have never told us where home is, or was. Just that you don’t want to go back there. Don’t you miss it, sometimes?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, sometimes, bits of it. I liked it when my mama was pleased with me, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Most of the time she wasn’t. I didn’t like it then.’

  ‘But you must think sometimes it would be nice to have a real home, with people who were always kind to you.’

  ‘Oh yes! I should like that, very much.’

  He handed her a sheet of paper. ‘I want you to think of that when you sing this song. Go and stand by Barney at the piano and he’ll play it through for you.’

  Barney played and she followed the words on the paper: ‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home …’

  ‘Sing it for me,’ Finnegan said.

  It was not a difficult tune and she sang it without a problem until she came to the refrain – ‘Home, home, sweet, sweet home’ – and then her voice wavered.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Finnegan said. ‘Just keep going.’

  He made her sing it three times and then told her to take the sheet music away with her and make sure she knew the words. ‘We’ll put it into the programme tomorrow.’ As she turned to leave he added, ‘By the by, I’ve been thinking you could do with a new costume. Ma will take you to the dressmaker’s this afternoon.’

  As she walked into the wings, she heard him say to Barney, ‘I told you. There won’t be a dry eye in the house if she sings it like that.’

  The new dress was made of lavender silk, and there was a new bonnet to go with it.

  Just as she was about to go on stage the following evening, Finnegan murmured in her ear, ‘Just think about that lovely home we talked about yesterday.’ When she got to the refrain she felt tears stinging her eyes, and for an instant her voice quavered. The applause at the end was thunderous.

  It was over a month, now, since she had joined the company and each week they had packed up and moved on to play in a different town. From Cork they had gone to Waterford, then Wexford, Kilkenny and Portlaoise and now they were in Newbridge. Angelina had grown used to sleeping in a strange bed and being guided through unfamiliar streets by Ma Finnegan. Ma was always kind to her and made sure that she was eating properly and getting enough sleep. Staying up till nearly midnight on performance evenings had taken its toll, but she had adjusted to it after a week or two. Nevertheless, there were times, just before going to sleep or on first waking up, when an overwhelming sense of strangeness swept over
her. She thought of her parents, or the people she had always believed were her parents, and wondered if they were still looking for her. She remembered the nuns and the girls she had known at the convent. What would they have thought if they could see her now? How long would she live like this? Until she was as old as Catriona? As old as Ma? She was unable to imagine the future. At times like these she remembered her beloved rag doll and wished she had her to cuddle.

  It soon became evident that Catriona had not reconciled herself to Angelina’s starring role in the company. Angelina had to put up with recurrent small annoyances. One night, just as she was about to go on stage, her bonnet was unaccountably discovered under a cushion, crushed so badly out of shape that it was almost unwearable. On another evening, one of the gold slippers she wore with her angel costume was missing and she had go on stage in bare feet. Later, it turned up in Tinker’s basket, earning the little dog a scolding from his master. Next night, when she went to put on her angel wings, she discovered one had lost most of its feathers.

  She was never able to prove that Catriona was the culprit and the other woman was always the loudest to exclaim in surprise at the loss and was the most eager to find the missing articles – except that she always looked for them in the wrong place. Angelina thought of complaining to Ma or to Mr Finnegan, but she was afraid of retaliation if she aggravated Catriona further and so kept quiet.

  Their next engagement was in Bray, on the coast just south of Dublin. On the second evening, as soon as she began to sing, someone in the gallery started to boo and the sound was taken up by two or three other voices. Angelina had never experienced such a thing before. The audiences could be rowdy at times, shouting at Finnegan if they thought his jokes were unfunny or he was taking too long to introduce the next act, but he took all that in his stride. Sometimes they whistled at Fionnuala in her skimpy acrobat costume, and quite often there was rustling of programmes and fidgeting while Catriona and her partner were singing, but Angelina herself was always heard in hushed silence. Tonight was very different. As the noise increased she stopped singing and then ran off the stage in tears. Finnegan stepped into the breach.

  ‘Now, see what you’ve done, you boys up there in the gallery. How can you treat a little maid like that? Shame on you!’ This sentiment was echoed by members of the audience sitting in the pit. ‘Shame! Shame!’ Finnegan went on. ‘Will I ask her to come back on stage and finish her song?’ ‘Yes! Yes!’ the cry went up. ‘Then let’s give her a big round of applause to show our appreciation.’

  The audience clapped and called, ‘Maeve! Maeve!’, and Finnegan came into the wings and took her by the hand. ‘Come along now. Can you hear them calling for you? Take no notice of those louts in the gallery. You won’t hear from them again.’

  So she dried her eyes and went back onto the stage and this time the applause when she finished was louder than ever. Back in the dressing room, Ma put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Don’t let it worry you, pet. We all know who’s responsible for that bit of nastiness, and it won’t happen again.’

  After the curtain came down, Aidan told Catriona that Finnegan wanted to see her in his dressing room. Angelina had no way of knowing what passed between them but Cat came back looking sulky and refused to talk to anyone. After that, there was no more barracking and the mysterious disappearances stopped.

  Sometimes when they left the theatre after a performance, there would be men waiting at the stage door with flowers. Most often they were for Fionnuala, occasionally for Catriona, and once or twice there was a posy for Angelina. Then, one evening, when they were in Portlaoise, Ma came into the dressing room with a large box of sweetmeats and a beautiful bouquet addressed to her and inscribed ‘from an admirer’. It happened again in Newbridge and again when they reached Bray. Angelina spent happy hours imagining who this ‘admirer’ might be. He would be young, of course, and very handsome; perhaps an officer in the army or even a knight. She had read about knights, who rode white horses and saved beautiful maidens, and she dreamed of meeting one in real life.

  Their next engagement was in Dublin, where they were to stay for two weeks. On the second night Ma came into the dressing room where Angelina was taking off her make-up and drew her to one side, lowering her voice so that Fionnuala and Catriona did not hear.

  ‘There’s a gentleman asking to meet you. He’s in Finnegan’s dressing room.’

  ‘A gentleman?’ Angelina queried and felt a tremor of fear run through her body. Was it possible that her father has finally traced her and was waiting to take her back? ‘What sort of gentleman?’

  ‘It’s the one who’s been sending you presents. Don’t you want to meet him and say thank you?’

  ‘Oh!’ It was a gasp of pure relief. ‘Oh yes, I’d like to meet him.’

  She was about to put on the workaday blue poplin dress but Ma stopped her. ‘Here, put on the lavender silk. Let me help you.’

  ‘Should I wear the bonnet?’

  ‘No, I’ll just brush your hair, so. And … yes … a touch of colour, I think.’ Ma reached into the make-up box for a stick of carmine and touched Angelina’s lips. ‘There. We want you to look your best, don’t we? Now, come along. We mustn’t keep the gentleman waiting.’

  When they reached the door, Angelina hung back. ‘Will Mr Finnegan be there too?’

  ‘Lord yes! Don’t worry yourself. He’ll stay with you all the time. Now, in you go.’

  She opened the door and gave Angelina a gentle push. A man rose from a shabby easy chair to greet her. He was not young, and not particularly handsome, though he had splendid moustaches and a beautifully embroidered waistcoat.

  ‘Ah, here she is! And even lovelier off stage than on! Come here, my sweetheart, and let me have a proper look at you.’

  He held out his hand and Angelina went unwillingly towards him.

  ‘This is the gentleman who has been sending you all the sweets and flowers,’ Finnegan said. ‘What do you want to say to him?’

  Angelina made a little curtsy. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘Come now,’ the man said. ‘Isn’t it worth more than that? How about a little kiss?’ He leaned forward and indicated his cheek. Angelina looked at Finnegan, who nodded encouragingly, so she stood on tiptoe and touched her lips briefly to the proffered cheek. He smelt of whisky and cigars, and she was powerfully reminded of the man she had called Papa.

  ‘That’s better!’ he said. ‘Now come and tell me all about yourself.’

  He sat down again, keeping hold of her hand so that she had to stand close beside him. He looked round the room. Finnegan was occupying the only other chair.

  ‘Dear me! There’s nowhere for you to sit. I tell you what, why don’t you sit on my knee?’

  Angelina held back but Finnegan said, ‘Go on, sweetheart. The gentleman isn’t going to hurt you.’ So she eased herself reluctantly onto the stranger’s lap and he put his arm round her waist.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a little bundle of joy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you like to be tickled?’

  She remembered vividly how her papa used to take her on his knee and tickle her. It had made her happy then, but he hadn’t stopped her mama from beating her and he was the one who had taken her to the convent and left her there. She slid off the man’s lap.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Oh, come now.’ He made a little face, like a child deprived of a toy.

  ‘Give her time, sir,’ Finnegan said. ‘She’s not been used to this sort of attention. Maeve, there’s a footstool under the table there. Why don’t you bring that over and sit by the gentleman?’

  She did as he suggested and the man reached out and stroked her hair. ‘So, tell me. Where are you from, my pretty?’

  She looked to Finnegan for guidance and he said, waving his cigar expressively, ‘Ah, there now, there is the mystery. No one knows. She’s a changeling, a fairy child, to be sure.’

  ‘A fairy child?’ The man looked down at her and she expected him to laugh,
but instead he looked as if he believed the story and was delighted by it. ‘So, you don’t know who your mother and father were?’

  She could answer that quite honestly. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You don’t need to call me sir. Call me Mr George. No mother or father? Well, well. A little orphan child. How sad!’

  ‘I’m not sad,’ Angelina said robustly. ‘I like living with Ma and Mr Finnegan and singing on the stage.’

  ‘And you do it most beautifully, like an angel, as the playbill says. We must look after you, if there is no one else. Isn’t that so, Mr Finnegan?’

  ‘Oh, quite so,’ Finnegan agreed. ‘And it’s late for a little one to be out of bed. If she’s to perform tomorrow I think I must take her home now.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ the man said. ‘We don’t want to exhaust her. So, I’ll say goodnight, Maeve. Sweet dreams.’

  He leaned down and, before she could evade him, kissed her on the lips. She jumped up off the stool and retreated towards the door. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Say, goodnight Mr George.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr George.’ She opened the door and escaped into the corridor. As she did so, she heard him give a little chuckle and say, ‘What a perfect little angel, Finnegan. So sweetly innocent. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  Ma was waiting for her in the empty dressing room. ‘Well, what did the gentleman have to say to you?’

  ‘He kissed me and wanted to me to sit on his lap. I didn’t like it.’

  ‘Did he?’ Ma patted her shoulder. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t got a little girl of his own, to sit on his lap. Do you think that might be it?’