Dodger (41 page)

‘I'll tell you what, Warrigal,' I said as I checked my timepiece again to see if it was still early enough to see the final acts. ‘I said we was going to the music hall and I meant it. You ain't seen much culture during your short time in London. How d'you fancy taking in a show?'

Lord Albert Tipsy, with his monocled eye, red leathery nose and hair what looked as though he had been caught in an explosion, tottered his unsteady way towards the drinks cabinet. He was dressed in elegant yet trouserless evening wear and mumbled something about a letter he had been sent what had got him most upset. ‘It is from my beloved,' he announced in slurred aristocratic tones as he reached the cabinet and found it propped up against a silver cocktail shaker. ‘It reads, “To my darling Tipsy.” That's me,' he explained between hiccups. ‘“To my darling Tipsy, I am leaving you.”' He looked at us then, his face a very picture of unhappiness. ‘“I shall only return under the condition that you desist in poisoning yourself with alcohol.”' He let the letter drop to his feet and appeared to be most heartbroken and then he turned his back to us as his shoulders seemed to shake with sobs. But when he turned back again he was just shaking himself another cocktail and grinning like an idiot. His only applause for this bit of deft comic business was that, from up in the gods, someone threw an orange at his head.

‘Bring on Ruby in Red!' shouted a chorus of hard male voices from above. The orange was followed by a volley of different missiles: half-eaten apples, coins, even a boot. Poor Tipsy tried to
struggle on through his act, and burst into a rendition of the music-hall favourite ‘Blowing Away the Cobwebs', but this late-night crowd of mostly men only wanted to heckle and boo. There was soon a rain of coins falling down upon him, all of them meant to hurt rather than reward Tipsy for his tomfoolery, and one struck him just below the line of his wig and cut him.

‘Fuckers!' he shouted in his true cockney accent as he clutched his bleeding forehead. His face filled with rage as his monocle pinged off into the centre of the pit, earning him his biggest laugh of the night. ‘A pox on all your filthy whore-pipes!' And then he fled the stage followed by thunderous cheers and clapping.

Rafferty's had always been one of the rougher music halls and they had these large spikes sticking out from the edge of the stage what was there to protect the performers. This did not stop some of the more intrepid spectators around us in the pit from trying to climb over them to collect the thrown coins as the drinks cabinet and other props was removed. Warrigal and I was sat in a dark corner overhung by the gods so we could not be viewed by those what sat above and we was far back enough to be able to spot any possible police tails what might have entered after us before they could mark us. Warrigal attracted his own share of attention from the rest of the crowd but this was more on account of the manner in which he carried himself rather than by his colour. The place seemed to be full of the servant class, mop-squeezers and fart-catchers, what was taking the night off from waiting on their masters and mistresses and among these was several dark-skinned coves gathered together in their own groups. But Warrigal had long since abandoned any appearance of servility towards me and the sight of him and myself, both dressed as flash as each other and whispering back and forth as if in plot, marked him out as more than just another colonial prize for some grand house.

‘Ruby's on next,' I told Warrigal over the din of stamping feet from the Gods above. ‘It says so on the poster outside.'

When the cabman had drawn up outside the theatre just ten minutes earlier I had been most pleased to see Ruby's stage name emblazoned across the angled bill posters in as large and as colourful letters as it had been on that poster I had seen in her crib. I guessed that she must have come back to this Douglas, the producer what had given her a job as a singer in the first place, and he had forgiven her for leaving and put her straight back to work. This worried me as perhaps old Douglas expected to receive more than just a good show in return for this generosity.

Once the coins and fruit splatter was swept away from the stage another man bounded on from the wings and addressed the audience in a booming voice. ‘The Inimitable Lord Tipsy, ladies and gents,' he declared all proud, and he held a hand out to the other side of the stage from where the stricken comedian had made his retreat. ‘A pity he had to leave us so soon – he was just coming to the funny bit. And
now
 –' he clapped his hands together and spoke fast before another attack commenced – ‘back for her second performance of the evening …' The boys in the seats above went wild now and his words could only just be heard above their raucous hooting. ‘Behave yourselves, my fine fellows,' said the smiling man, wagging a finger as a small band behind him began to play. ‘She's a lady, don't forget. For I give you – the sensational –
Ruby in Red
!'

As soon as she danced on to the stage I could see what the fuss was about. I could not imagine London possessing a maid with a face and figure more pleasing than the fair warbler now upon the stage. Her voice was stunning and she was wearing a very fetching scarlet dress what was cut in a way what revealed her wonderful bare legs high-kicking away, which sent the audience into a frenzy.
They had been right to make her top of the bill, I thought. I could not help but notice one crucial thing about her though. This was not my Ruby Solomon.

‘This is not my Ruby,' I pointed out to Warrigal, who I imagine had already noticed. ‘There must be more than one Ruby in Red,' I supposed. ‘It's the only explanation.' I was vexed at discovering a stranger on the stage in the place of the girl I had come to see and I wondered if this really was the right music hall what Ruby had told Greta she was returning to. Perhaps she was dancing in another show.

‘This is the last of the vittles,' said a voice from behind me. It belonged to one of the many young girls what was walking around carrying trays of bruised oranges and limp ham sandwiches and she spoke without apology. ‘But we're still charging you a ha'penny for 'em.'

I turned around to tell her that I would prefer some whisky instead and there I saw her.

‘Jack,' she said, recognising me in the same instant and almost dropping her wares in surprise. ‘What you doing 'ere? I thought you'd left London for good.'

‘Missed you too much.' I smiled back just as I had in the meat market when she had said the same thing. I got to my feet and went to embrace her, which was not easy considering the tray of stale sandwiches which blocked my way. A drunken fellow walked towards her with a penny in his hand, but Ruby, who was busy telling me how pleased she was to see me, gave him the whole tray of food and said he was welcome to the lot before she turned back to me.

‘I thought the peelers had took you like they took Jem,' she said. She did look relieved that I was back although she seemed less pleased to notice I still had my ever-present shadow with me.
Her attitude to Warrigal seemed to have changed since I had mentioned that he was a killer back in Australia. ‘Well, I'm glad you're all right, Jack,' she said, ignoring him.

‘You and me both,' I told her. ‘And I thought what better way to enjoy my liberty than to come and see you perform your act.' Ruby's smile dropped as I thumbed towards the woman in her place. ‘Only it seems this thieving mare has stolen your stage name.'

‘She ain't stolen a thing,' Ruby said in a quieter voice and shrugged. ‘She's Ruby in Red, always has been. I just pinched the poster and made out it was me. I've only ever worked here as a sandwich girl.'

‘Oh,' I said, and after a small silence added, ‘That's a funny thing, you both being called Ruby.'

‘Her name ain't Ruby, it's Esmeralda. Douglas Boyd gave my name to her because it sounded better. I asked him if I could have a chance to perform my songs upon the stage but he said I had a voice as fresh as the guttering.'

‘Cheeky bugger,' I said. ‘Show me where he is. I'll have some strong words with him.'

‘You'll be lucky to find him. He vanished about a year ago owing this music hall a fortune in ticket sales. Ain't been heard of since. Shame really – after Fagin and my old Uncle Ikey he was the only man to ever show me a kindness. I was lucky that Rafferty gave me my job back, considering I only ended up here because Dougie saw to it. Speaking of which –' she reached over to where some drunken theatregoers had cleared her tray of the last sandwiches and took it back – ‘my work hours are done. I need to fetch my bunce for the night.' She went to leave. ‘Enjoy the rest of the show, Jack. See you about.' I grabbed her by the arm before she left.

‘I ain't come here for no show, Ruby,' I told her. ‘I've come here to talk to you. I've something I need to tell you.'

‘I don't know, Jack,' she said, and pulled away from my touch. ‘I'm busy now and I've got a new life. I'm living back in Saffron Hill with this family. They're good people and I'm glad to be free of Jem and all that for now.'

‘Yeah, but I ain't Jem,' I told her.

‘I didn't say you was, but–'

Some of the crowd began to shush us now for talking during the performance and even Ruby in Red could be seen scowling at us between kicks for talking so loud. My Ruby said sorry, bowed her head and made her way out of the theatre and I followed her close behind. Warrigal, of course, followed me and we all went round to the back of Rafferty's, Ruby telling me all the while that I was not to follow. I refused and so she said we could come backstage while she waited to get paid and she disappeared up some iron steps what led into the rooms above. This backstage area stank of sweat and spirits and the unpainted walls was as good as covered with old bill posters what boasted of former glories. It was late in the programme but there was still a number of tired performers there slumped on chairs and staring at their own unsmiling faces in these large mirrors as they wiped off their stage make-up. Bright discarded costumes of all sorts was strewn around the floor for others to collect for the wash as Ruby led us through the different rooms, saying hello to all she passed. In one room a man dressed only in his undergarments was leaning backwards on a wooden chair in front of a large mirror as a woman dabbed his forehead with some damp cotton. The grey wig of Lord Tipsy was on the dresser in front of him, his face was smeared with old man make-up and when he saw Ruby enter he asked her where in hell Rafferty had got to with his money.

‘For half an act?' she scoffed ‘You've a cheek.'

‘I was under attack!' cried the comedian in outrage. ‘I can't be expected to keep performing under those conditions. You tell Rafferty I'm not leaving until I've had my bustle.'

‘Contracts is contracts, Sid.' Ruby shrugged as she pointed towards a dilapidated piece of furniture what Warrigal and myself could wait on. ‘You sit there while I look for Rafferty,' she said to us, ignoring the outraged wailing of the man at the dresser. ‘I won't be long.' She and the other woman then left us in that dressing room sat behind this Sid who was now holding the cotton to his own head and flashing us an evil glare through the mirror in front of him.

‘These weeknight audiences are fucking barbarians,' he complained once the door was shut after them. ‘And Rafferty's is the biggest pisshole there is. I don't know why I play here.'

‘Well, some people are no judge of talent,' I said back, all encouragement. ‘But I for one thought you was very droll. I should have liked to have seen more, Mister …'

‘Sid Frizelle,' said the man, brightening in an instant. He spun on his chair, away from the mirror, and faced me eye to eye. ‘The man of a million characters.' He waved his free hand with a flourish. ‘Most of them drunkards. But I can do blind men too if the money is there.' He looked to Warrigal and then back to me. ‘What talent agency are you from?'

‘I ain't,' I replied, causing his smile to vanish with a blink. ‘I'm just waiting for Ruby.' Frizelle scowled at me and turned back to his mirror.

‘Then you should have brought flowers,' he said in spite. ‘The dirty puzzle will go with anyone for flowers.' I was about to tell him to watch his mouth before I realised that he was likely to be referring to the Ruby now onstage rather than the one what served sandwiches so I just let him stew there.

Just then the door opened again and my Ruby told him that the other Ruby was taking her bows and would soon be up. ‘She'll need this room to change in,' she said to him. ‘You've had long enough.'

‘Don't you talk like that to me, young lady,' he squawked back at her. ‘I want my bunce. Wee Dougie Boyd ain't around to stick up for you no more! You're lucky Rafferty took you back.' Ruby rolled her eyes and left us again but, as she had promised, we was soon joined by the radiant figure of her namesake, her face alight with the exhausted satisfaction what comes from a successful performance.

‘Fuck off, Lord Tipsy,' she said to Sid, and began taking off her dress. ‘I need that mirror.' Sid had now produced a small bottle of whisky and drank from it saying nothing. ‘And who are you two?' Ruby in Red asked, looking at us.

‘We're here to see to it that this Rafferty pays Ruby her money,' I told her. ‘There'll be trouble if he doesn't.'

‘Give us a hand with these clasps then, lover,' she said, and turned her back to me. I moved close to her, as I was bid, and helped her to take off that dress. The clothing fell away from her, revealing the sort of sensational lingerie I had only before seen stolen from shops. ‘I'm sweating like a pig in this,' she moaned, kicking the dress away. ‘And there's really no need to get in any fisticuffs on my behalf – I've been paid already.'