The Urchin's Song (44 page)

‘So . . .’ Gertie considered she had been quiet long enough. ‘I’ll ask again. What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing.’ This time Josie didn’t try to prevaricate. ‘If Barney wants to see us no doubt he’ll make that plain, and it would be nice to see an old friend, wouldn’t it? But he might not have time anyway. Did . . . did you notice if anyone was with him?’

There was a definite bite to Gertie’s voice when she said, ‘No, I did not notice if there was anyone with him,’ and Josie knew she’d offended her sister by not talking about her real feelings. But she couldn’t, she just couldn’t. To voice what she felt for Barney, even to hint at it or display any agitation at his presence here would be wrong. And certainly a betrayal of Oliver.

She felt she was going to cry and was forbidding herself to do so, added to which she was exhausted. But then in view of all the day had held, was that surprising? And she’d been working so hard lately; here at the theatre, at the little receptions and soirées Oliver promoted so strongly, and other musical events. Now there was another of the weekend parties in front of her which Oliver described as ‘the most agreeable form of social intercourse known to man’, and she herself described as boring.

She knew exactly how every hour would be spent. People would be called by their valets or a maid of the house at eight-thirty - never a minute before or a minute after - and these servants would arrive bearing in their left hand a neat brass can of shaving water for the male guest, and in their right hand a neat brass tray of tea, toast and Marie biscuits. The male guest, blinking plethoric eyes above his silk eiderdown, would munch his share of the biscuits and sip the tea, before donning his Afghan dressing-robe and slouching his way along the passage to the bathroom. His lady wife would dress with assistance from the maid, and then they would both descend the inevitable red pile staircase to breakfast. The smell of last night’s port would have given way to the smell of the morning’s rows of little spirit lamps. These would be gently warming rows of large silver dishes heaped high with food.

Oh, the food. Josie sighed wearily. Around the centre table prepared for perhaps twenty-five to thirty guests and bright with Malmaisons and toast racks would be another four or five smaller tables. One for the hams, tongues, galantines, cold grouse, pheasant, partridge and ptarmigan. There was
always
ptarmigan. A further table would hold fruits of different calibre, and jugs of cold water and lemonade. A third table contained porridge utensils. A fourth coffee, and pots of Indian and China tea. The latter were differentiated from each other by little ribbons of yellow (indicating China) and red (indicating Britain’s magnificent Indian Empire).

Discussions on how he or she had slept were taken very seriously, and then there would be morning coffee later, luncheon, an afternoon stroll, tea served in some gallery or other, bridge, dinner, and then a little musical diversion at which Josie was always commandeered to perform. Finally, at midnight, devilled chicken would be served and people would disappear to their rooms in ones and twos.

Sometime in the day the men would have gone shooting and the ladies would gossip; similarly in the evening the men would often hang back when their women retired to bed and some serious gambling and drinking would take place. And there were some couples who did the rounds every weekend of their lives. Josie winced at the thought. Well, she’d had enough, she suddenly realised. She didn’t know if it was seeing Ada and Dora in their little house and marvelling at their quiet bravery, or Barney’s unexpected appearance which had brought with it memories of Betty and Frank’s existence and a whole host of other recollections, or yet again that she was just heartily sick of Oliver’s set, but this weekend party would be her last. She loved her work, she thoroughly enjoyed the time she spent with Lily and the other ladies in the house at the back of the Caledonian Market, but this other life was just not real. She needed to be with her own folk again, it was as simple as that.

She would make it clear to Oliver she wanted to do a tour of the north which included a good portion of time spent in Sunderland. He wouldn’t like it but then that was nothing new.

And then, as Gertie silently handed her a cup of tea, Josie faced the fact that she was purposely thinking about everything but the main issue hammering at her consciousness. Barney was here. In a few minutes she would have to step on to that stage and sing and smile and flirt a little with the audience as though this was just another night. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Oh, Barney.
Barney.

 

By the time Josie did step on to the stage some fifteen minutes later she was every inch the famous music-hall star, and no one was to know she was blessing the fact her corsets commanded her to keep her back straight and her shoulders from drooping.

Barney knew his eyes were devouring her and that he was shaking slightly, but he could no more have stopped his body’s reaction to the sight of the woman who had been a constant torment, mentally and physically, for the last few years than he could have stopped breathing. She had been lovely four years ago but now she was exquisite, a goddess. No, no not a goddess, he corrected himself in the next moment; she was too warm and lovely to be put in the same realm as aloof and remote immortal beings.

How could he have stayed away four years? He must have been mad. He should have come before. Betty couldn’t hide her feelings like Vera, and the last couple of times he’d spoken to his stepmother he had sensed she suspected all wasn’t well between Josie and Oliver, although nothing had been said directly. Or was he just imagining it because he
wanted
it to be that way?

Was Josie aware he’d moved back down to Sunderland from Scotland? When he had left the highly coveted position as manager of the Empire in Glasgow for the post of manager at the Avenue Theatre in Gillbridge Avenue, he had made Betty his excuse.

His stepmother was finding it hard to cope with her brood now the lads were older, he’d explained to the owner of the Empire when he’d told him of his decision to leave. He felt it important her bairns had a man about the place some of the time - the three eldest boys in particular. The twins and Robert were working at the docks for an individual who was well known for sailing close to the wind, and any bad habits needed to be nipped in the bud right now. The man had said he understood but had expressed regret at Barney’s going, a regret, he’d gone on to say, that would be echoed by his daughter. Barney had made no comment to this. Penelope was a nice lass and they had had some good times together, but as far as he was concerned she had never been under the illusion there was anything permanent in their friendship. And friendship had been all he had offered Penelope. The ones who had come and gone at the Empire and had wanted something more physical than friendship had known the score too.

Who had ruined him for any sort of meaningful relationship? Not Pearl. No. Surprisingly he hadn’t found it hard to put the years of torment with his wife behind him. No, it had been the woman standing on the stage in front of him now who had effectively wrecked his life.

Oh, that wasn’t fair. He felt his guts twist with self-disgust. It wasn’t her fault. What was the matter with him, for crying out loud? He had become a married man within months of their meeting and she had been nowt but a child at the time, and after he had realised how he really felt he had known Josie would never have stood for a hole-in-corner type affair which would have been all he could have offered her; Pearl had considered divorce a mortal sin.

Josie had just finished singing ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’, striding from side to side of the stage as she had sung and reducing the audience to howls of laughter, but now, after the applause had died down, she moved to the centre of the stage under the rays of one limelight from the centre of the roof and a spontaneous hush fell over the assembly. This was what she did best, Barney thought. The few times he had heard her sing in the past she’d held the crowd in the palm of her hand when she was still like this.

She began to sing ‘The Things You Can’t Buy With Gold’, gazing up above the spectators as she leaned forward slightly, her body accentuating the sentimental refrain. Barney’s throat tightened, and her face, lit by the silver light, began to draw him as the rest of his suroundings melted away. She had the voice of an angel. He found he was holding his breath. It was even better than he remembered. He dragged his eyes away from the slender figure on the stage for a moment and saw his fellow listeners were transfixed too. How could such a powerfully emotive voice come from such an ethereal frame? And what the hell was he doing here? She wouldn’t look twice at him, whether she was unhappy in her marriage or not; the world was her oyster. He had been a fool to come, such a fool, but she hadn’t seen him. He could still make his escape and she would be none the wiser.

His heart was pounding like a sledgehammer, the force of it creating a physical pain in his chest and a dryness in his throat that no amount of liquid could assuage. She was gone from him; she was gone from them all - Betty and the bairns, Vera and Horace, all of them. She had been like one of those vibrantly beautiful butterflies that fluttered to rest on dank soil before flying off to lush pasture.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her face even as the truth hit home. She wasn’t the little urchin bairn Betty and his da had taken in because of her hellish situation at home any more; she was a wealthy, successful, beautiful and intoxicating woman. He hadn’t been thinking clearly the last few weeks since he had come back from Scotland to Sunderland; just the thought that there might have been a chance for him had addled his brain. But his mind was now clear and working normally, and it was telling him he was the biggest clot out. He hadn’t moved down to Sunderland because of Betty, at least that wasn’t the main reason. Why hadn’t he had the gumption to admit it to himself before? He had wanted to move into the perimeter of Josie’s life again, or at least be with people she cared about so there was a likelihood of seeing her. Which made him what? He didn’t like to think about what it made him.

 

Josie had known from the moment she’d walked on to the stage that the only way she was going to get through her performance was to look no further than the footlights. If he was with someone she wouldn’t be able to bear it. It was illogical and unreasonable and a hundred other things besides, but she couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t be able to sing a note if her worst fears were confirmed. It was as simple as that.

Amazingly she found her voice didn’t reflect her turbulent emotions. Claudette Belloc had done her job well, and all the little Frenchwoman’s tuition came to the fore as Josie let her voice soar into the instinctual routine of the songs she knew so well.

Amuse and relax them a little first; then a song which would tug at the heartstrings followed by an even more poignant ballad to bring the silk handkerchiefs into play. It was the first time she had sung mechanically but no one seemed to notice.

After finishing with ‘After the Ball is Over’, Josie curtsied again and again to the applause before she rose finally, and it was only then, as she smiled and waved to the audience before walking from the stage, that she allowed herself to glance in the direction of the seat in the second row. It was empty.

Contrary to her original plan Josie said very little to her husband during the ride to Squire Conway’s estate in Berkshire, and Oliver, still smarting under what he saw as his wife’s incredible proposition that she would seek a solicitor’s advice with a view to taking control of her earnings, said even less.

It wasn’t the first time they had been invited to spend the weekend at this particular house, and as the carriage scrunched on to the gravel drive which was lit by many lanterns hanging from the massive oak trees bordering the drive, Josie’s heart sank at the number of empty coaches it contained. A smartly dressed footman was waiting to help them dismount, and two stable-boys were hovering in the background ready to release the horses from their shafts and take them to the Squire’s stables.

They descended into a large forecourt which again was lit by many lanterns as well as lights from the many windows of the huge house in front of them, and Oliver took her arm as they climbed the massive horseshoe-shaped steps to where another footman was holding open the door for them.

Steven Conway met them in the hall, two liveried servants standing behind their master ready to take the guests’ coats and hats, and the blaze of lights, the buzz of voices and the sound of genteel laughter was all too familiar. A small maid dressed in black alpaca with a stiffly starched apron and cap was waiting to escort Josie to the ladies’ room where she could freshen up after the journey, the Hogarths’ portmanteaux and bags already having been whisked up to their room.

The name or names of each guest would be neatly written on a card slipped into a tiny brass frame on the bedroom doors, and Josie had come to realise a little night movement between the rooms of these rambling country houses was not unusual. However, it was unthinkable that appearances wouldn’t be kept up and everything was done with the utmost discretion. The hostess would always arrange things for the convenience of her guests; some married couples preferred separate rooms and there was nothing at all wrong with that - gentlemen could snore so dreadfully, after all, and some ladies liked to retire earlier than their husbands and didn’t appreciate being woken in the early hours after their spouse had indulged in a bout of gambling and drinking.

Then there were the recognised lovers to be considered; individuals could get very annoyed if they had gone to the same house-party only to find themselves at the other end of the building from their current amour, especially if the hostess had made the unforgivable faux pas of putting them in the same room as their husband or wife. The professional Lothario would be furious if he found himself in a room surrounded by ladies who were all accompanied by their husbands.