Tipping the Velvet (3 page)

It was the hair, I think, which drew me most. If I had ever seen women with hair as short as hers, it was because they had spent time in hospital or prison; or because they were mad. They could never have looked like Kitty Butler. Her hair fitted her head like a little cap that had been sewn, just for her, by some nimble-fingered milliner. I would say it was brown; brown, however, is too dull a word for it. It was, rather, the kind of brown you might hear sung about - a nut-brown, or a russet. It was almost, perhaps, the colour of chocolate - but then chocolate has no lustre, and this hair shone in the blaze of the limes like taffeta. It curled at her temple, slightly, and over her ears; and when she turned her head a little to put her hat back on, I saw a strip of pale flesh at the nape of her neck where the collar ended and the hairline began that - for all the fire of the hot, hot hall - made me shiver.

She looked, I suppose, like a very pretty boy, for her face was a perfect oval, and her eyes were large and dark at the lashes, and her lips were rosy and full. Her figure, too, was boy-like and slender - yet rounded, vaguely but unmistakably, at the bosom, the stomach, and the hips, in a way no real boy's ever was; and her shoes, I noticed after a moment, had two-inch heels to them. But she strode like a boy, and stood like one, with her feet far apart and her hands thrust carelessly into her trouser pockets, and her head at an arrogant angle, at the very front of the stage; and when she sang, her voice was a boy's voice - sweet and terribly true.

Her effect upon that over-heated hall was wonderful. Like me, my neighbours all sat up, and gazed at her with shining eyes. Her songs were all well-chosen ones - things like ‘Drink Up, Boys!', and ‘Sweethearts and Wives', which the likes of G. H. Macdermott had already made famous, and with which we could all, in consequence, join in - though it was peculiarly thrilling to have them sung to us, not by a gent, but by a girl, in neck-tie and trousers. In between each song she addressed herself, in a swaggering, confidential tone, to the audience, and exchanged little bits of nonsense with Tricky Reeves at his chairman's table. Her speaking voice was like her singing one - strong and healthy, and wonderfully warm upon the ear. Her accent was sometimes music-hall cockney, sometimes theatrical-genteel, sometimes pure broad Kent.

Her set lasted no longer than the customary fifteen minutes or so, but she was cheered and shouted back on to the stage at the end of that time twice over. Her final song was a gentle one - a ballad about roses and a lost sweetheart. As she sang she removed her hat and held it to her bosom; then she pulled the flower from her lapel and placed it against her cheek, and seemed to weep a little. The audience, in sympathy, let out one huge collective sigh, and bit their lips to hear her boyish tones grow suddenly so tender.

All at once, however, she raised her eyes and gazed at us over her knuckles: we saw that she wasn't weeping at all, but smiling - and then, suddenly, winking, hugely and roguishly. Very swiftly she stepped once again to the front of the stage, and gazed into the stalls for the prettiest girl. When she found her, she raised her hand and the rose went flying over the shimmer of the footlights, over the orchestra-pit, to land in the pretty girl's lap.

We went wild for her then. We roared and stamped and she, all gallant, raised her hat to us and, waving, took her leave. We called for her, but there were no more encores. The curtain fell, the orchestra played; Tricky struck his gavel upon his table, blew out his candle, and it was the interval.

I peered, blinking, into the seats below, trying to catch sight of the girl who had been thrown the flower. I could not think of anything more wonderful, at that moment, than to receive a rose from Kitty Butler's hand.

I had gone to the Palace, like everyone else that night, to see Gully Sutherland; but when he made his appearance at last - mopping his brow with a giant spotted handkerchief, complaining about the Canterbury heat and sending the audience into fits of sweaty laughter with his comical songs and his face-pulling - I found that, after all, I hadn't the heart for him. I wished only that Miss Butler would stride upon the stage again, to fix us with her elegant, arrogant gaze - to sing to us about champagne, and shouting ‘Hurrah!' at the races. The thought made me restless. At last Alice - who was laughing at Gully's grimaces as loudly as everybody else - put her mouth to my ear: ‘What's up with you?'

‘I'm hot,' I said; and then: ‘I'm going downstairs.' And while she sat on for the rest of the turn, I went slowly down to the empty lobby - there to stand with my cheek against the cool glass of the door, and to sing again, to myself, Miss Butler's song, ‘Sweethearts and Wives'.

Soon there came the roars and stamps that meant the end of Gully's set; and after a moment Alice appeared, still fanning herself with her bonnet, and blowing at the dampened curls which clung to her pink cheeks. She gave me a wink: ‘Let's call on Tony.' I followed her to his little room, and sat and idly twisted in the chair behind his desk, while he stood with his arm about her waist. There was a bit of chat about Mr Sutherland and his spotted handkerchief; then, ‘What about that Kitty Butler, eh?' said Tony. ‘Ain't she a smasher? If she carries on tickling the crowd like she did tonight, I tell you, Uncle'll be extending her contract till Christmas.'

At that I stopped my twirling. ‘She's the best turn I ever saw,' I said, ‘here or anywhere! Tricky would be a fool to let her go: you tell him from me.' Tony laughed, and said he would be sure to; but as he said it I saw him wink at Alice, then let his gaze dally, rather spoonily, over her lovely face.

I looked away, and sighed, and said quite guilelessly: ‘Oh, I do wish that I might see Miss Butler again!'

‘And so you shall,' said Alice, ‘on Saturday.' We had all planned to come to the Palace - Father, Mother, Davy, Fred, everyone - on Saturday night. I plucked at my glove.

‘I know,' I said. ‘But Saturday seems so very far away ...'

Tony laughed again. ‘Well, Nance, and who said you had to wait so long? You can come tomorrow night if you like - and any other night you please, so far as I'm concerned. And if there ain't a seat for you in the gallery, why, we'll put you in a box at the side of the stage, and you can gaze at Miss Butler to your heart's content from there!'

He spoke, I'm sure, to impress my sister; but my heart gave a strange kind of twist at his words. I said, ‘Oh, Tony, do you really mean it?'

‘Of course.'

‘And really in a box?'

‘Why not? Between you and me, the only customers we ever get for those seats are the Wood family and the Plushes. You sit in a box, and make sure the audience gets a look at you: it might give them ideas above their station.'

‘It might give Nancy ideas above her station,' said Alice. ‘We couldn't have that.' Then she laughed, as Tony tightened his grip about her waist and leaned to kiss her.

 

It would not have been quite the thing, I suppose, for city girls to go to music halls unchaperoned; but people weren't so very prim about things like that in Whitstable. Mother only gave a frown and a mild tut-tut when I spoke, next day, of returning to the Palace; Alice laughed and declared that I was mad: she wouldn't come with me, she said, to sit all night in the smoke and the heat for the sake of a glimpse of a girl in trousers - a girl whose turn we had seen and songs we had listened to not four-and-twenty hours before.

I was shocked by her carelessness, but secretly rather glad at the thought of gazing again at Miss Butler, all alone. I was also more thrilled than I cared to let on by Tony's promise that I might sit in a box. For my trip to the theatre the night before I had worn a rather ordinary dress; now, however - it had been a slow day in the Parlour, and Father let us shut the shop at six - I put on my Sunday frock, the frock I usually wore to go out walking in with Freddy. Davy whistled when I came down all dressed up; and there were one or two boys who tried to catch my eye all through the ride to Canterbury. But I knew myself - for this one night, at least! - apart from them. When I reached the Palace I nodded to the ticket-girl, as usual; but then I left my favourite gallery seat for someone else to sweat in, and made my way to the side of the stage, to a chair of gilt and scarlet plush. And here - rather unnervingly exposed, as it turned out, before the idle, curious or envious gaze of the whole, restless hall - here I sat, while the Merry Randalls shuffled to the same songs as before, the comic told his jokes, the mentalist staggered, the acrobats dived.

Then Tricky bade us welcome, once again, our very own Kentish swell ... and I held my breath.

This time, when she called ‘Hallo!' the crowd replied with a great, genial roar: word must have spread, I think, of her success. My view of her now, of course, was side-on and rather queer; but when she strode, as before, to the front of the stage it seemed to me her step was lighter - as if the admiration of the audience lent her wings. I leaned towards her, my fingers hard upon the velvet of my unfamiliar seat. The boxes at the Palace were very close to the stage: all the time she sang, she was less than twenty feet away from me. I could make out all the lovely details of her costume - the watch-chain, looped across the buttons of her waistcoat, the silver links that fastened her cuffs - that I had missed from my old place up in the gallery.

I saw her features, too, more clearly. I saw her ears, which were rather small and unpierced. I saw her lips - saw, now, that they were not naturally rosy, but had of course been carmined for the footlights. I saw that her teeth were creamy-white ; and that her eyes were brown as chocolate, like her hair.

Because I knew what to expect from her set - and because I spent so much time watching her, rather than listening to her songs - it seemed over in a moment. She was called back, once again, for two encores, and she finished, as before, with the sentimental ballad and the tossing of the rose. This time I saw who caught it: a girl in the third row, a girl in a straw hat with feathers on it, and a dress of yellow satin that was cut at the shoulders and showing her arms. A lovely girl I had never seen before but felt ready at that moment to despise!

I looked back to Kitty Butler. She had her topper raised and was making her final, sweeping salute. Notice me, I thought. Notice me! I spelled the words in my head in scarlet letters, as the husband of the mentalist had advised, and sent them burning into her forehead like a brand. Notice me!

She turned. Her eyes flicked once my way, as if to note only that the box, empty last night, was occupied now; and then she ducked beneath the dropping crimson of the curtain and was gone.

Tricky blew out his candle.

 

‘Well,' said Alice a little later, as I stepped into our parlour - our real parlour, not the oyster-house downstairs - ‘and how was Kitty Butler tonight?'

‘Just the same as last night, I should think, said Father.

‘Not at all,' I said, pulling off my gloves. ‘She was even better.'

‘Even better, my word! If she carries on like that, just think how good she'll be by Saturday!'

Alice gazed at me, her lip twitching. ‘D'you think you can wait till then, Nancy?' she asked.

‘I can,' I said with a show of carelessness, ‘but I'm not sure that I shall.' I turned to my mother, who sat sewing by the empty grate. ‘You won't mind, will you,' I said lightly, ‘if I go back again tomorrow night?'

‘Back again?' said everyone in amusement. I looked only at Mother. She had raised her head and now regarded me with a little puzzled frown.

‘I don't see why not,' she said slowly. ‘But really, Nancy, all that way, just for one turn ... And all on your own, too. Can't you get Fred to take you along?'

Fred was the last person I wanted at my side, the next time I saw Kitty Butler. I said, ‘Oh he won't want to see an act like that! No, I shall go on my own.' I said it rather firmly, as if going to the Palace every night was some chore I had been set to do and I had generously decided to do it with the minimum of bother and complaint.

There was a second's almost awkward silence. Then Father said, ‘You are a funny little thing, Nancy. All the way to Canterbury in the sweltering heat - and not even to wait for a glimpse of Gully Sutherland when you get there!' And at that, everybody laughed, and the second's awkwardness passed, and the conversation turned to other things.

 

There were more cries of disbelief, however, and more smiles, when I came home from my third trip to the Palace and announced, shyly, my intention of returning there a fourth time, and a fifth. Uncle Joe was visiting us: he was pouring beer from a bottle, carefully, into a tilted glass, but looked up when he heard the laughter.

‘What's all this?' he said.

‘Nancy's mashed out on that Kitty Butler, at the Palace,' said Davy. ‘Imagine that, Uncle Joe - being mashed on a masher!'

I said, ‘You shut up.'

Mother looked sharp. ‘You shut up, please, madam.'

Uncle Joe took a sip of his beer, then licked the froth from his whiskers. ‘Kitty Butler?' he said. ‘She's the gal what dresses up as a feller, ain't she?' He pulled a face. ‘Pooh, Nancy, the real thing not good enough for you any more?'

Father leaned towards him. ‘Well, we are told it is Kitty Butler,' he said. ‘If you ask me' - and here he winked and rubbed his nose - ‘I think there's a young chap in the orchestra pit what she's got her eye on ...'

‘Ah,' said Joe, significantly. ‘Let's hope poor Frederick don't catch on to it, then ...'

At that, everybody looked my way, and I blushed - and so seemed, I suppose, to prove my father's words. Davy snorted; Mother, who had frowned before, now smiled. I let her - I let them all think just what they liked - and said nothing; and soon, as before, the talk turned to other matters.