A Dream of her Own (25 page)
The lad looked her up and down as if assessing her trustworthiness. ‘I suppose so,’ he said at last. ‘Here, give me your ticket.’
Nella fumed with impatience while he examined the ticket and tore it in half. She could hear music and singing and then a burst of laughter; she could hardly bear to miss much more. The lad gave her her half of the ticket back and leaned towards her smiling. ‘You’re in luck,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t you say you were a friend of Ethel’s?’
‘What?’
He grinned at her puzzled expression. ‘That’s the ticket she tries to keep for her cronies. Front row, right at one end. If you promise not to make a noise you can sidle down and slip into your seat right away.’
But when the young assistant took her through the doors, guided her along behind the back row and then left her at the top of the steep rows of seats, Nella almost grabbed on to him and asked him to please help her down. But he had gone. So here she was, not sidling, but bumping down on her bottom and trying to make out what was going on on the stage at the same time.
She kept her eyes on the scene below her. She decided that it was like a picture in one of Miss Annabel’s storybooks. At the back of the stage there was a big curtain with a picture of a pretty little village on it. And at each side of the stage there were a couple of tall thin curtains a few feet apart with trees painted on them.
By the time she got to the bottom row and eased herself up on to the end seat, she had worked out that the lively bunch of people singing and dancing were jolly villagers, and the lady with impossibly blonde ringlets, a blue-checked dress and a red cloak was Little Red Riding Hood.
She was disappointed, but only for a moment, that Lucy Lovekins, the actress playing the part of Red Riding Hood, wasn’t a real little girl; that her figure was too rounded, not to say buxom, and that her childish tones were a bit too sugary sweet. Soon Nella was lost in a fairytale world, willing to suspend her disbelief and accept anything that the wonderful, magical beings on the stage told her. She leaned forward, rested her arms on the plush padding in front of her and gave them all her attention.
One tier below, at the opposite side of the auditorium, Maria Alvini watched her son and smiled ruefully. Valentino had pulled his chair forward to the very front of the box. He was enchanted with the story; he nodded in agreement when the little girl’s mother told her to go straight to her grandmother’s house and not to speak to strangers. He shouted out a warning when he saw the wolf hiding behind a tree and, when the woodsman asked the audience whether he should sharpen his axe and take it with him into the woods today, Valentino’s voice could be heard shouting ‘Yes!’ above all the others.
During the interval, when refreshments were sent in to the box, Maria could hardly persuade him to move back and take his eyes from the orchestra playing in the pit below. Then, when the curtains were raised once more, the grandmother suddenly got up from her bed and came forward and begged all the children in the audience to sing to her and cheer her up.
She asked them to sing a song she was sure they all knew, ‘Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow-wow’ and when they began, Valentino turned to his mother, his eyes shining.
‘I know that song!’ he said, and he began to sing.
On stage, Harry Bodie pushed up the frill of his mobcap and looked up into the royal box in amusement. He had noticed the big good-looking man and his childlike enjoyment of the show and, for all his fine clothes and his well-built manliness, Harry had realized that there was something childlike there. Something not quite right. And now the big galoot was singing his head off even although it was just meant to be the children in the audience. Behind him the faded little woman who must be his mother was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Suddenly the audience, children and grown-ups alike, yelled out, ‘Look behind you!’ and Harry dropped back into the character of the grandmother and turned to face the big bad wolf. He ran upstage and grabbed his prop rolling pin and then followed a knockabout routine that had the audience in stitches and left Harry and Sam Slater, who played the wolf, out of breath. And, of course, it was worse for Sam in that skin.
At the end of the routine they finished up front centre stage, shaking hands and agreeing on a truce which would last long enough to have a singsong. Sam went to get a sack of bonbons and Harry ordered the lowering of the song sheet.
‘Here we are, lads and lasses,’ he said, ‘ “The Song of the Sparrow”.’
The members of the audience who knew the song clapped in anticipation and the orchestra began to play.
Poor little sparrow, lost and alone,
Poor little sparrow, so far from home ...
Harry went through the words first and then Sam joined in. After that he called for everybody to sing and he pointed out the words with a giant pointer.
‘Let’s make a game of it!’ the wolf called on cue and Harry began to set one half of the audience against the other. They sang in turn while Sam decided who was best and started throwing bonbons out into the audience.
‘Why don’t we have all the posh folk in the dress circle next?’ Sam said. ‘You know, the ones who live in Je-esmond!’
‘Oo-ooh!’ the rest of the audience called dutifully.
The people in the circle sang out good-naturedly.
‘I bet the upper circle could do better than that!’ Harry said, and started them off.
The upper circle was more raucous than the stalls or the dress circle and they began lustily enough but then a strange thing happened. Harry was aware that some of them had stopped singing, and then some more and he could hear people shushing and saying, ‘Listen, who is it ...?’
And then he heard her. One voice, sweet and true, rising above the others. He stared up and cupped his ear until he located where the voice was coming from at the front of the upper circle at the end of one row.
Poor little sparrow, lost and alone,
Poor little sparrow, so far from home ...
Harry leaned towards Sam and said quietly, ‘Go and get them to raise the house lights, will you? Upper circle only if they can.’
He fell from his nest ere his feathers were grown,
And now he must wander and evermore roam ...
The voice went on, clear as a bell, even though everybody else had now stopped and when the lights came up there she was. She was so far away that he could only make out a pale sweet face and a slight frame robed in dark hues. But it didn’t matter what she looked like, of course. Just look what greasepaint did for Lucy! No, it didn’t matter what the girl looked like, not when she had a voice like that.
When the song ended, the audience applauded spontaneously and, after a while, the lights were dimmed and Harry got the show going again. But not before he had noticed the reaction of the big man in the box. He had risen to his feet and he remained standing in spite of the fact that his mother was tugging at his sleeve and no doubt urging him to sit down. It was obvious that he couldn’t even hear her as he stared up at the girl in the upper circle.
Chapter Thirteen
April 1907
Constance removed her black three-quarter-length coat and handed it to Polly. She lifted off her black lace veil, laid it on top of her coat, then caught at stray wisps of hair and smoothed them up with cold fingers.
Cold ... she had been cold all day.
‘Take my things to my room, Polly, and then come down and help Mrs Green.’
‘Yes, Mrs Edington.’ Polly, more subdued than usual, hurried upstairs, leaving Constance in the narrow hallway. The others had preceded her into the dining room but she needed to be alone for a moment.
She lowered her head and rested her chin on clasped hands while she tried to deal with the more disturbing images of the day.
The glass-sided hearse, the carriage horses bedecked with black ostrich feathers, men in top hats, and the cross of white flowers on the black-draped coffin ... The church as dank and cold as a grave, and then the fleeting sun in the watery sky above the dripping trees in the graveyard ...
John had not wanted her to go but, for once, she had stood firm. And now she was chilled to the bone.
Polly had returned and she glanced respectfully at Constance, who was no longer Mrs John, before opening the door to the dining room and standing back to allow her to enter first.
The air in the room was cool. There was no longer any need to keep the fires banked low. Constance beckoned Polly over to the hearth and asked her to build up the fire; then she turned to look at her three guests. The last time that John’s family had been here together, the three-tiered white-frosted wedding cake had taken pride of place on a table decorated with white flowers and ribbons, but now the table was draped with black crepe and everyone was in mourning.
John’s uncle, Walter Barton, looked distinguished in mourning clothes, whereas his Aunt Muriel looked faded and drab. Esther, in black, looked older than her seventeen years and very stylish; although her features were just a little too bold to be truly ladylike.
Constance became aware that Esther was staring at her and looked away. She felt ashamed. I should not be thinking like this - making frivolous judgements about John’s relatives on such a day.
‘Come and sit down, Mrs Edington.’ Mrs Green was at her side. ‘Your guests can’t begin without you.’
Constance allowed herself to be led to the table where she took her place next to John. He had been talking to his uncle, who sat at the head of the table, and she caught the words, ‘... my father should be told.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Walter Barton replied, ‘my solicitor, Mr Silverman, will take care of that. I imagine that you would prefer Duncan not to get in touch?’
‘It’s been so long. I think that would be best, don’t you?’
‘You know my feelings. But, after all, he is your father.’
John’s father, Constance thought. Until recently I believed Mrs Edington to be a widow ... until she began to talk about him.
‘Constance.’ John turned and took her hand as she sat down next to him. He looked at her searchingly. ‘Are you all right, my love? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine, John, really. Just a little tired.’
‘Do you want to go upstairs and lie down? You’ve done so much these last few days.’
Constance heard Muriel Barton sniff ostentatiously. She glanced across the table to find both mother and daughter watching her through narrowed eyes. She forced herself to smile at John. ‘No, really, and I haven’t done much at all, not as much as I would have liked.’
It was true. For the last week or two of Frances Edington’s life John had hardly allowed Constance into his mother’s bedroom. She remembered the day, just a week or two ago, when she had been sitting with her mother-in-law trying to persuade her to eat something. Frances had pushed the tray aside and taken Constance’s hand. She’d gripped it painfully and Constance had looked at her in surprise, such strength in a woman who seemed to be wasting away before her eyes ...
Frances’ face was as pale as parchment but there were two feverish spots of colour burning in her cheeks. Her other hand lay on her breast, fingers splayed, pressing down as if to stop any coughing fit before it started. Her voice was low and Constance wasn’t sure whether she knew what she was saying.
‘I loved him from the moment I saw him ... Duncan. There could be no one else for me, no matter what my father said ...’
A spasm of pain passed across her face and her breathing became laboured. Minutes passed before she spoke again. ‘He loved me, I’m sure of that ...’ She closed her eyes and lay quiet for so long that Constance thought she had gone to sleep. She tried to remove her hand but Frances responded by gripping her even more tightly. Constance looked up to find the sick woman staring at her urgently.
‘Do you think he would come if he were told?’
‘Told what?’
‘Told that I was dying - no, don’t deny it. John could write and tell his father that I am dying. Surely he would come!’
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