A Dream of her Own (27 page)

Authors: Benita Brown

Tags: #Newcastle Saga

BOOK: A Dream of her Own

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Constance remembered Esther’s scorn on her wedding day. What was it that she had said about Mrs Green?
‘I see that you have made a friend ... I suppose you areused to that kind of person.’

That kind of person
. . .

She sighed and sipped her tea again. Well, whatever Esther had meant by that, Constance realized that the Greens seemed to fit somewhere in between the parlour and the kitchen, not quite friends but definitely not servants. And she saw that their independent working status gave them a kind of freedom from the ridiculous rules of society.

But meanwhile Polly was next door enjoying companionship and comfort and she, Constance, was alone. Where were her friends? Who exactly were her friends? Rosemary Elliot had promised that she and Beattie would visit, and they had at first. They had called two or three times and taken tea with her, and Rosemary had even repeated her invitation to Constance to call upon her at Moorside Towers. But Constance had not done so. On reflection she knew that she would not want to be a guest in a house where her husband could not enjoy the same footing.

As John’s mother’s condition had worsened, Constance and Rosemary had agreed that the visits should end for a while. They had stared at each other, knowing what was meant by the words ‘for a while’, but neither of them cared to say it out loud. And now Constance knew there would have to be a suitable period of mourning.

And Nella. What of Nella? When they had said goodbye on the day after Boxing Day, Constance had urged her to come whenever she could, but Nella had never returned. She had not called from that day to this. At first Constance did not think too much of it. Perhaps Nella had made friends with the new maid as Constance had told her to. Perhaps she was looking out for the girl - keeping her company. But surely she would not forget about her old friend? Not Nella.

Eventually, Constance had written to her but, so far, there had been no reply. She could not imagine what had happened. She had not realized how much she would miss her cheery company.

In spite of Mrs Green’s entreaty Constance found that she had allowed her tea to get cold. She took another sip and then placed the cup on the tray. She might as well go to bed.

Matthew stretched languorously on the battered, old horsehair sofa and turned to smile at John. ‘It’s after midnight. Shouldn’t you go home to your little wife?’

‘She’ll be asleep.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I told our obliging neighbour that I was worried about the effect the day might have had on Constance and I gave her a sleeping potion to slip into a cup of tea.’

‘Is that safe?’

‘Quite safe. I got it from the doctor. He agreed that Constance might need help to relax after everything that has happened.’

‘Well then, put some more coal on the fire and I’ll open another bottle of claret. Hungry?’

‘Yes, quite.’

‘See what’s left in the hamper, there’s a good chap.’

John filled their plates with cold chicken, cheese and small bread rolls while Matthew poured the wine. He turned to John and smiled. ‘Why don’t we sit on the floor in front of the fire. Here, help me spread the rug. Now it will be like a picnic only instead of in the countryside we are in our own little house.’

‘But it won’t be ours for much longer, will it, Matthew?’

Matthew frowned. ‘No. My father is determined to extend his garage into this unused stable block, then these old grooms’ quarters will be given over to the mechanics.’

‘And then?’

‘Then? You and I will just have to find somewhere else.’

Chapter Fourteen

After she had finished her song, Nella remained centre stage and bowed her head. There was a long moment of silence before the applause began. She drew herself up and stared out beyond the proscenium arch into the darkened auditorium. She couldn’t see the audience but she could smell them, the odours released by shabby clothes, unwashed bodies and sweat, hair pomades and cheap perfume.

She could also sense their enjoyment. It was almost tangible, the approval, the love, even. And above all she could hear them. First the hands clapping, then the feet stamping and then, as they rose to their feet, the cries began.

‘Bravo!’

‘Encore!’

‘More! More!’

She allowed herself to glance into the wings where Harry Bodie was grinning and giving the thumbs up.

‘ “The Song of the Sparrow”,’ someone in the audience called out, and other voices took up the cry. Nella glanced over into the orchestra pit where the conductor was smiling up expectantly. She nodded and the conductor raised his arms theatrically. The audience saw the gesture and settled down again. The music began and Nella started to sing.

Harry edged forward and stared at the slight figure still standing centre stage. That was where she always stood. Nella never moved about the stage like the other performers did. She couldn’t - or at least she wouldn’t. The long dark grey cloak that she had designed herself was padded cleverly across the shoulders in order to hide her twisted back and she had schooled herself to walk, almost glide, on to the stage as gracefully as possible.

No one could know what effort and pain it cost her to walk and hold herself like that for the duration of her act, least of all the big man in the box who had become her most devoted follower.

Harry peered beyond Nella and up towards the box overhanging the stage. He was there again, as he was most nights. He had followed Nella around all the theatres in the North East ever since her theatrical career had begun just after Christmas, and Harry fully expected that he would follow her even further when her growing fame began to get her bookings further afield.

It was not unusual, of course, for the girls to acquire followers. And Nella was destined for stardom, that was already obvious. Harry remembered the first time he’d heard her sing at the pantomime in Newcastle. Even then, he’d found it hard to believe that she’d had no training. Her voice, pure and strong, had echoed down from the upper circle like the voice of an angel. She seemed to know instinctively how to project and fill the theatre. She had a natural talent. A talent that he’d been only too keen to sign up and train.

And the little crookback was beautiful; there was no doubt of that. Once the good food and rest periods that Harry had insisted on had filled out the hollows in her face and had added a bloom to her young skin, she began to take on the ethereal attraction of a romantic medieval princess in a painting by Rossetti. She always secured the hood of her cloak far enough back on the top of her head so that her babysoft, pale gold ringlets framed her face, and the soft, fluid folds of the expensive velvet cloak hung gracefully to the floor, concealing her body entirely.

Harry sighed. That poor malformed body - who could have guessed that it contained a voice so perfect and a spirit so strong. He remembered watching Nella gripping the brass handrail as she came painfully down the stairs from the gods the night of the pantomime ...

After the finale, Harry had pulled off his costume and hurried into his ordinary clothes and, without even stopping to clean off the greasepaint, he had hurried out of the stage door and round to the exit she should emerge from.

The last of the boisterous theatregoers had hurried into the cold and dark of the winter night and Harry began to wonder if he had missed her when, at last, she appeared, clinging on to the rail for support as she came down the stairs. He tried not to show his dismay at his first sight of her twisted body and, summoning up his acting skills, he was able to smile as he stepped into her path.

‘What do you want?’ Her stare was half suspicious, half belligerent.

‘Don’t be afraid. I’d like to speak to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Your singing. But not here, it’s cold.’

‘Too right. It’s bloomin’ perishing and I’ve got to get back. Step aside, if you divven’t mind.’

‘Don’t
mind,’ Harry corrected automatically. ‘You should say
don’t
mind.’

Nella’s eyes widened. ‘I
beg
your pardon. Who do you think you are to correct me like that!’

Harry grinned at the sheer spirit she showed. Her eyes had flashed and the angry animation had hinted at how expressive her face could be. If only it weren’t for those poor twisted bones ...

‘Well, answer me, then. Didn’t yer mother give you a name?’ she demanded. She had drawn herself up so that her body almost appeared to be straight and Harry laughed out loud.

‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘If you’ve just come here to mock me then will you kindly step aside so’s I can get a cab and get back before I’m locked out!’

‘No, don’t go!’

‘I’ve got to. Me job depends on it.’

Nella began to push past him. Harry didn’t want to catch hold of her and frighten her. The strange little thing looked quite capable of twisting out of his grasp and vanishing into the night like Rumpelstiltskin. ‘Wait!’ he almost shouted. ‘I told you I wanted to talk to you about your singing. Your voice - it’s beautiful.’

‘Is it?’ She was out on the pavement. Frost sparkled at her feet and her eyes shone as she looked back at him. ‘Well, thank you. But I’ve still got to get a cab back to Rye Hill.’

‘Is that where you live?’

‘Aye, if you can call it living.’

Nella shrugged and turned away from him. Harry hurried after her as she made her way towards the cab rank. He could see the steam issuing from the horses’ nostrils, hear the subdued chatter of the cabbies.

‘How about if you never had to go back there?’ She ignored him and hurried on. ‘What do you do there? Work in one of the big houses?’ She had almost reached the first cab in line and Harry raised his voice even further. ‘Is that what you are? A skivvy?’

She turned and faced him. ‘Yes, that’s what I am. Now I don’t know why you’re tormenting me like this, but will you please let me go or I’ll lose me job and me home an’ all!’

‘Do you like being a skivvy?’

‘Huh!’

‘I’m serious.’

The cabby was just about to help her up into the cab when she turned and spat out, ‘And I’m serious, too. Haddaway and stop botherin’ me!’

‘You heard the lass,’ the cabby said, and he stared at Harry’s face, still covered in greasepaint. ‘Haddaway back to the theatre, Mr Bodie, and get one of the chorus girls to oblige you.’

At that point Harry had almost given up. The shame of it - to be judged to be so hard up for female company that he should be pursuing a shabby little crookback through the streets of Newcastle. His outrage must have shown for he heard Nella say, ‘Ee, I divven’t think it was
that
he was after. He was just gannin’ on about me voice.’

‘That’s right,’ Harry said, ‘and it’s
my
voice and look where it’s led me. I only wanted to do you a good turn, offer you a better life in the theatre - stardom, riches, even - but you seem determined to remain in servitude for the rest of your miserable existence!’ He knew he was overacting but he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Take her home, my man. Take her back to Rye Hill. And just to show there’s no hard feelings, please allow me to pay the young person’s fare.’

He was just about to drop the money into the cabby’s outstretched palm when Nella placed a hand on his arm. ‘Wait a minute.’ Turning to the cabby, she asked, ‘Do you know this man?’

‘Aye, it’s Harry Bodie, the comic actor.’

‘Actor-manager,’ Harry murmured.

‘Famous, he is,’ the man continued, ‘but that’s no reason for chasin’ innocent young lasses.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake—’ Harry began.

‘You were the grandmother!’ Nella exclaimed.

‘That’s right. Doubling up as the Baron and—’

‘And you’re in charge of this troupe?’

‘For my sins, I am.’