The Urchin's Song (31 page)

‘Sure I know you, Percy,’ answered Patrick, his voice low and without expression. ‘An’ you know me. Bairns we were together, me an’ Percy’ - this last was said as an aside to Jimmy but without Patrick’s head moving, his eyes intent on the bulky figure in front of them - ‘an’ our mams were right good pals, isn’t that so, Percy? Like family they were, Percy’s mam an’ mine.’

Jimmy said nothing, and after a few seconds had crawled by, Percy, his voice less cheerful now, said, ‘What did you want to see me about then? Harry didn’t say.’

‘No, well he wouldn’t, would he, seein’ as how I told him not to.’

Percy’s gaze flicked to Jimmy’s blank countenance and then back to the small Irishman, and now the nostrils in his flattened nose flared briefly, before he said, ‘Is owt wrong?’

‘Is owt wrong?’ Patrick echoed the words, savouring them before he nudged Jimmy and said again, ‘Is owt wrong? What say you, son?’

‘I’d say somethin’ was wrong, Pat.’

Percy’s lower jaw moved from one side to the other. ‘Patrick, for cryin’ out loud, man, what’s the matter?’

Patrick’s eyes became fixed on the man in front of him and whatever Percy read in the little Irishman’s expression caused him to bluster, ‘Man, what’s wrong? Tell me, Patrick. You know me--’

‘You’ve already said that.’ It was sharp and tight and silenced the other man. ‘You’ve got a big mouth, Percy. Anyone ever told you that afore? An’ strange as it may seem, I don’t like me private business bein’ spread over half of Sunderland. That little arrangement we had concerning the items that tend to fall off the boats from Sweden? I thought it was atween the two of us!’

‘It is, I swear it is.’

‘Then how come you were heard blabbin’ the odds in the Queen’s Head in Long Row a couple of nights back? An’ afore you deny it, I’ve checked. You’ve bin workin’ on that dockside for nigh on thirty years; you’re trusted, the bosses like you, so how come all that goes out of the window an’ you play the big feller, eh? Who were you tryin’ to impress? A few bit bar proppers!’

‘Patrick . . .’ Percy gulped deep in his throat, shaking his head and then gulping hard again before he said, ‘I . . . I’d had a few jars, man. I wasn’t meself. Look, no one cottoned on. It hasn’t got back to anyone who matters.’

‘It got back to me, Percy.’

‘
Patrick.
Please, Patrick . . . Look, I swear it won’t happen agen, man. I’d had a row with the missus; I was drownin’ me sorrows, you know how it is. I’d never . . . Please, man.’

‘Aye, aye, all right.’ Patrick held up his hands, palms facing the terrified man in front of him, and now his voice was understanding, warm even, as he said, ‘That’s all I wanted to hear, Percy. That it won’t happen agen.’

‘I swear it. On me bairns’ heads, I swear it.’ Percy was gabbling now, relief bringing the sweat shining on his forehead. ‘I mean, we was bairns together, weren’t we. An’ like you said, your mam an’ mine were as thick as thieves.’

‘That they were. Well, you’d best get yerself home an’ the less said the better, eh?’

‘Aye, aye, man, an’ thanks, thanks Patrick. There’s . . . there’s a boat due in the morrow as you know. Same arrangement as afore then, is it?’

‘Don’t see why not.’

Patrick turned as he spoke, Jimmy with him, and as he said over his shoulder, ‘Missus all right, Percy?’ the other man came up behind them, intending to follow them out of the small patch of ground beside the slipway. It was then Patrick and Jimmy turned as one, the knives in their hands flashing for one chilling moment before they were buried up to the hilt in Percy’s chest.

Percy made a vain grab at Patrick as he went down on to his knees but he was already gasping his last, and within seconds he was stretched out on the cold cobbles and the silence of the night enclosed them again. Patrick stared down at the body for a second, kicking it with his hobnail boot. There was no response. ‘Aye, well now you’ve convinced me it won’t happen again, Percy,’ he said conversationally as though the other man could still hear him.

‘Are we leavin’ him here?’

Patrick glanced about him for a moment. ‘We’ll send him down the slipway into the water. He’ll be found soon enough an’ it’ll send a warnin’ to any of the others with slack mouths.’

‘Aye.’ Jimmy nodded. He fully agreed that Patrick had needed to make an example of Percy. One mistake was one too many in this game, and you couldn’t afford to be soft. Any sign of weakness and they’d all be taking liberties. Everyone knew Percy had stepped out of line and they’d all been watching to see what Patrick would do, especially since Percy and the little Irishman did go back a long way.

Patrick bent down, wiping the blade of his knife on Percy’s moleskin trousers before slipping it back in his inside jacket pocket, and Jimmy followed suit. They disposed of the body with equal equanimity, and it was as they stepped into North Moor Street that Patrick said, as though they had been discussing the matter seconds before, ‘Your sister’ll be back one day, son, sure as eggs are eggs, if not to play the halls then to see that old biddy in Northumberland Place she seems to think so much of. An’ when she comes we’ll be waitin’, you an’ I. She’s made a monkey of me three times; she won’t do it again. I owe her an’ you do an’ all, for your da an’ her rattin’ on you an’ the lad. She’d have seen you all go down the line if she’d had her way, the lyin’ little upstart.’

Jimmy turned his head on his shoulder and looked sideways at Patrick as they walked on, and his voice was quiet but of a quality that pleased the other man when he said, ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt I’ll see me day with her, Pat. No doubt at all. She aimed to ruin the lot of us an’ all the time actin’ like Lady Muck. There’s enough of the lads primed now to let us know when she comes back an’ we’ve surprise on our side. But for that load of whores an’ dolts she had with her the last time she’d be pushin’ up the daisies by now.’

‘Or doin’ time in one of Doug’s secure whorehouses,’ Patrick put in slyly. ‘I tell you, man, they don’t last long in them places, not with the perverts Doug caters for, but the lassies’ lives are hell while they’re still breathin’. If we’re goin’ to do her in, that’d be poetic justice to my mind, considerin’ all them singers an’ actresses an’ the like are on the game in one way or another, ’cept they dress it up to appear different.’

Jimmy stared at Patrick for a moment. Murder was one thing, but Doug’s locked and guarded brothels which catered - as Doug himself put it - for a special type of customer were something else. And then, as Patrick said, ‘Remember your da, son, an’ how she turned your own mother agin you an’ Hubert, an’ broke up the family,’ he nodded slowly. He’d think about what they were going to do with Josie once they had her but, by all the gods, get her they would. They’d heard this singing lark had taken her down south but like Patrick had said, she’d be back, and not just because of Vera neither. Josie was a northerner at heart; the north was in her blood, her bones, and eventually she’d return to her roots. To her ain folk. And when she did, this particular member of her ain folk would be waiting.

‘Ee, lass, you’re as white as a sheet. Put a bit more rouge on, for goodness’ sake.’

Gertie’s voice was brisk and meant to be reassuring, but to Josie, sitting weak-kneed and trembling on her stool in the dressing room, it was further confirmation that she didn’t look the part.

‘She’s fine.’ Gertie received a dig in the ribs which made her gasp as the young woman sitting on the next stool to Josie’s physically objected to Gertie’s well-meant advice. ‘Any more rouge and she’ll glow like a beetroot once she’s onstage and enjoying herself. And you will enjoy yourself, lovey, believe me. All right?’

‘Thanks, Nellie.’ Josie smiled at the colourful figure who had auburn hair piled high on her head, the colour of which definitely came out of a bottle. The two girls had only met a couple of days previously when Josie had visited the large theatre in Ealing to familiarise herself with its layout and size, and to have a series of rehearsals before her début on the London stage. She hadn’t been too nervous then, and it had been lovely to meet Nellie and discover she was the daughter of an old music-hall friend of Lily’s. In fact, Nellie strongly reminded Josie of Lily; they had the same happy-go-lucky nature and outrageous sense of humour, and - unfortunately - the same penchant for falling for handsome rogues.

However, Josie wasn’t thinking about Nellie’s torrid love-life at the moment; her mind was on her forthcoming appearance which was now only minutes away. Oliver had assured her that this theatre was nowhere near as grand as the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane or Covent Garden, both of which held four and a half thousand happy theatregoers at a sitting, but nevertheless its décor and size had proved to be overwhelming. In her mind’s eye she was picturing the magnificent salon reached from the street by a flight of fine curved stone steps, and the air of elegance, comfort and convenience it contained. On every side immense gorgeous plate-glass mirrors reflected surrounding objects and the massive crystal-drop chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. Against the walls on either side were comfortable stuffed seats of superior quality, in front of which were small marble-topped tables. From end to end, rows of similar tables were fixed at convenient distances from each other with as many chairs as would seat some one and a half thousand loungers.

The mirrored wall at the back of the stage itself reflected the carved, gold-painted cupids and swans which decorated tall pillars at various intervals and again made the hall itself appear far larger than it actually was. Bars were situated through a section of open arches at the rear of the auditorium but divided by a promenade from the main salon. Altogether it was gracious and undoubtedly beautiful, and the thought of it at the moment was scaring Josie to death.

‘Look, lovey, them out there are just the same as the audiences in the north where you’ve worked,’ Nellie said now, adjusting her generous bust within her low-cut, lurid green satin frock as she spoke. ‘They just want to enjoy themselves, that’s all. I’ve had a peek, and we’ve got a load of the crutch and toothpick brigade in tonight, and you’ll go down just dandy with them with your hair and figure.’

‘The crutch an’ toothpick brigade?’ Gertie queried at the back of them.

‘You know, the swells, the Beau Brummells, the smart man-about-town type,’ Nellie said, grinning. ‘Them with their eyeglasses and gold toothpicks and jewellery. You can always recognise them a mile off with their gold-knobbed crutch sticks and tight trousers and immaculate hair and dress, but they’re good customers and don’t heckle on the whole, unlike some. You know that song Nellie Farren sang about ’em? She took the mickey good and proper but they didn’t seem to mind, even the bit about how they got their trousers on and whether they hurt much!’

There was general laughter from the other girls around them who were listening to Nellie too, and one of the old hands called out, her manner ribald, ‘And I bet you’ve helped take a few pairs down in your time, eh, Nellie?’

Nellie wasn’t in the least offended; she loved being the centre of attention, and now she returned with a lascivious wink, ‘Would I ever do that, Violet? I’m a good girl, I am, not like the majority these days. All they think about is where to buy their next frock and who to take it off for.’

‘How many new frocks have you had recently then, Nellie?’ another wit called.

‘One or two, Dot. One or two.’

Josie was still smiling when the little stagehand, who couldn’t have been a day over eleven years old and who blithely ignored scantily dressed females like a veteran, popped his blond head round the corner of the dressing room, calling, ‘Miss Josie Burns? You’re on in three minutes. And Nellie Wood, you’re after her.’

‘We know, we know.’ Nellie slipped her arm through that of Josie as Josie rose to her feet, her face even whiter. ‘Come on, gal, I’ll walk along with you.’

Josie turned to Gertie and Gertie smiled encouragingly, saying, ‘Break a leg, lass. Break a leg.’

‘Last time I played a house with Lily she did just that,’ Nellie said as the two girls left the dressing room arm in arm.

‘Did what?’ Despite her nerves Josie’s interest was caught and held as Nellie had intended it should be. Like many children of music-hall performers, Nellie had trodden the boards since she was knee high, and she’d always found distraction was the best remedy in situations like these. She had a hundred and one anecdotes to fit the bill.

‘Broke her leg,’ Nellie giggled. ‘One of the girls at that time had this admirer who used to send bottles of champagne and chocolates and roses to the theatre every night. Dead keen he was. Anyway, after the show one night we all got tipsy on his champagne and started messing about onstage singing, and Cicely - that was the girl - said she’d give the latest box of chocolates to the one who could reach the highest note. Well, you know Lily - she couldn’t resist that sort of challenge and she was making rapid progress, she was really, before she got carried away and slipped off the stage and broke her leg. We all made a stretcher with our hands and carried her to the infirmary like that; caused a stir when we went in all dolled up in our stage costumes, I can tell you. Anyway, Lily got the chocolates and when Cicely’s admirer got to hear about it he sent a case of champagne to the infirmary for Lily, so we had another party on the day she came out. She’s a card, old Lily.’

Nellie had timed her little exposition to end just as they reached the wings, and now, as the light-fingered magician who specialised in stage pickpocket routines sent his victim for that night back down in the audience amid much applause, the heavy, richly embroidered curtains swung closed and they heard the chairman holding forth once the piano had stopped.

Josie felt Nellie squeeze her arm encouragingly. She had to go and take her place on the stage now. Unlike Nellie, who was a ribald singer and a forthright, if not definitely vulgar type of comedienne, Josie’s strength was in her exceptional voice. This was shown to advantage with the more poignant, emotionally stirring songs she favoured; the slightly risqué ones in her repertoire going down best when sung tongue in cheek with a demure, winsome presentation. Oliver had publicised her début accordingly and - Josie had to admit - spared no expense to promote this stage performance. Lithographers had provided ‘personal’ posters which Oliver had had displayed all over town, along with pamphlets, insidiously circulated with the view to providing nine-tenths of the newspaper notices he hoped for the next day. There was much more one could do a little later, he had assured her, such as issuing invitations to a private performance for persons of high rank, personalised song sheets, song collections advertised in the newspapers and music shops, and appearances at social events and so on, but that would come once she had been noticed in the capital. Which wouldn’t take long, not if he had anything to do with it. But for now, her début night, she would be best displayed standing in a ray of silver limelight from the centre of the roof, and from below in the misty gold radiance of the footlights. To that end her dress was an ethereal floating cloud of silver silk chiffon, and the fresh white rosebuds in her golden-brown curls added to the picture of radiant young womanhood.