Resonance (3 page)

A
S ALWAYS, ONCE
work was done, Joe waited outside the theatre for Tina. Night was falling, the air already snapping with cold when she appeared like sunshine within the foyer. He held the door and she hurried out, pulling her shawl tight against the weather.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘How’s Her Majesty?’

She grimaced. ‘She didn’t get the part.’

‘I
told
you. She’s too old.’

‘Joe! Miss Ursula is a wonderful artiste. Why shouldn’t she play Ophelia? Mr Irving is over forty and he’s still allowed to play Hamlet!’

Joe snorted. ‘Miss Ursula is a touch more than
over forty
,
Tina.’ Tina glowered, all pink-cheeked and angry within the frame of her blue bonnet, and Joe couldn’t help but smile. He tried to imagine her playing Ophelia and just couldn’t manage it. He couldn’t picture Tina going prettily mad, strewing flowers and such – she’d more likely clatter Hamlet over the head with a frying pan.

‘Hey,’ Tina said, ‘isn’t that the out-of-work magician you were telling me about?’ She pointed over Joe’s shoulder. ‘Gosh, he looks awful lost, poor lad. He looks awful hungry.’

Jesus, she got that same look on her face every time she saw a stray cat. Joe knew where this was leading. ‘Here, let me carry that for you.’ He took Tina’s workbasket, purposely blocking her view of the American, who was loitering forlornly in the backstage alley, his bag at his feet. ‘Come on, Tina. It’s getting dark.’

Joe began herding Tina down the street with a hand on her elbow. This was a risky move when it came to Miss Martina Kelly. She’d been raised by fruit-stall shawlies, and could be fierce as a fishmonger when she wanted to be. She wasn’t too keen on being herded around.

Sure enough, Tina dug her heels in, looked at Joe’s hand, looked at his face, raised her eyebrows.

Joe released her elbow.

‘Tina, he’s a
complete stranger
.’

Tina’s mouth tweaked up in amusement. She patted Joe’s arm. ‘Let’s buy him a bag of chestnuts,’ she said.

‘E
HRICH
W
EISS,’ SAID
the American, smiling a broad showman’s smile and tipping his hat. ‘You can call me Harry – everyone does.’

‘Martina Kelly. You can call me Tina. This is Joseph Gosling.’

The American offered his hand. Unsmiling, Joe shifted the workbasket, as if it were more than he could manage to carry it and his lunch-pail and shake hands at the same time. The showman’s smile never flickered as the American returned his hand, unshaken, to his pocket.

‘Heavy load you have there,’ he said dryly.

Tina was looking him up and down with her usual smiling curiosity. ‘Where you from, Harry?’

‘Oh, here and there,’ he said, clearly amused at her frank survey of his clothes. ‘I travel a bit. But mostly I live in New York with my family.’ He eyed Tina with an appreciation of which Joe did not even remotely approve, and Joe flatly cut in to the conversation.

‘You Hungarian, Harry?’

The American looked surprised.

‘Your accent,’ said Joe. ‘It sounds Hungarian.’

‘Why, that’s amazing! My parents are Hungarian. My brothers and I are American, of course, but Mama and Papa … well, we speak hardly any English at home.’ He spread his hands, perhaps in indulgence at his parents’ immigrant ways. We speak a kind of German – it’s Mama and Papa’s native language. Most strangers don’t realise we’re Hungarians. How on earth did you know?’

‘Oh, Joe’s very clever,’ said Tina. ‘Anyway, you talk like Saul, the auld Jew who runs the bookshop. He’s a Hungarian.’

Harry’s showman’s smile stiffened just a little. ‘The “auld Jew”?’

‘Yes,’ said Tina. ‘Saul. He’s Joe’s best friend.’

Joe rolled his eyes. This was a favourite joke of Tina’s,
Saul’s shop being the only place in Dublin where Joe freely spent his money.

All at once there wasn’t a trace of the showman in Harry’s demeanour. ‘Say,’ he said, apparently surprised. ‘Say, your friend, huh? Well, that’s just
grand
.’ Seemingly on impulse, he once again offered his hand.

There was something so warm about this gesture, something so genuinely pleased, that Joe had shifted the workbasket to his hip and was shaking Harry’s hand before he remembered he didn’t trust strangers.

‘You had your supper yet?’ asked Tina.

Harry flushed. ‘Oh, sure,’ he said. ‘Sure I did.’

Sure you did
, thought Joe, eyeing Harry’s pinched face.
And a nice big dinner, too
.

‘Mm hmm,’ said Tina wryly. ‘What did you have?’

‘Uh … fish and … uh … butter and some bread.’ Harry had to wipe the corners of his mouth just saying the words.

Tina tutted and shook her head. ‘Stay here, Harry Weiss. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She ran lightly off around the corner of the alley, and the men were left looking at each other – Joe holding her flower-covered wicker basket on his hip, Harry trying to look as if he knew what was going on.

Joe sighed, knowing well how Tina worked. ‘She’s gone to send a message home,’ he explained. ‘You’re being invited to supper.’

He was about to tell Harry that he needn’t think the offer of a bowl of soup meant a free meal every day for the rest of his life when a low voice behind him froze the words in his mouth.

‘Well, Joe. What’s that in your hand?’

Joe hated the shameful surge of fear that flared within him. Harry must have read it clear as day, because his face hardened and he frowned an unspoken question:
You need help
?

Joe shook his head and turned. He had to suppress a start at how close Mickey the Wrench was. He was looming as always, swaying from side to side in that hypnotic way of his, his hands in his pockets, his big face grinning. ‘What’s that in your hand, Joe?’ he repeated amiably. ‘Looks like a lunch-pail. Didn’t know you owned a lunch-pail, Joe.’

‘It’s from Finnegan’s.’ Joe scanned the alley. Mickey was alone. Good. ‘I’m bringing it back to them for Mr Simmons.’

‘Well, aren’t you
nice
,’ crooned Mickey. His blue-button eyes met Joe’s, and there was no smile in them at all. ‘Mr Simmons must have been
powerful
hungry today. What with ordering a pail of dinner from Finnegan’s right on top of the heap of bacon and cabbage he lowered down him in Foy’s. How much does a pail of dinner set you back in Finnegan’s, Joe?’

‘How the hell would I know?’

‘Must be a shiny copper or two. Must be a right pretty penny.’ Mickey tossed a glance at Harry. ‘Why don’t you run along now, son? Meself and the cousin here need to chat.’

Harry just flashed that showboat of a smile and shrugged. ‘I’m comfy,’ he said.

Mickey’s grin flickered off, then on again. ‘That so?’ he said.

At the far end of the alley, someone opened the side door to the cabbies’ depot. Dim light spilled out into the darkness, and Joe’s heart dropped as Mickey’s brothers, Daymo and Graham, stepped into view.

He pushed Tina’s basket at Harry. ‘Harry. Get lost.’

‘Yeah,’ grinned Mickey. ‘Get lost, Harry.’

But Harry just closed his fists, his face set, and Joe realised with horror that he was going to stay.

Tina’s voice stilled them all. ‘Joseph Gosling!’

She was standing at the head of the alley, in the full light of the street lamps, her hands on her hips. She was purposely blocking foot-traffic, and Joe suppressed a little smile as several people glanced down the alley to see what she was staring at. God, she was clever.

‘Are you walking me home or not?’ she demanded.

Two dandies, filled with haughty amusement, paused to watch the gutter-boy get a drubbing from his girl. ‘I’d hurry if I were you, my lad,’ drawled one of them. ‘Or you’ll have no one to hold your hand on the tram!’

Joe snatched the basket from Harry’s arms. ‘Grab your bag,’ he muttered and hurried out towards the bustle of the evening crowd. Mickey and his brothers stood watching from the shadows. Harry glowered back at them, and Joe hustled him on. ‘Just keep walking, you eejit.’

T
HEY ROUNDED THE
corner of the alley and were instantly mired in a swarm of screeching urchins. Buttoning their pockets, Harry and Joe fell into place on either side of Tina. She tightened her grip on her basket, and the three of them began pushing their way through the rancid chaos.

The urchins seemed enthralled by a beautiful two-horsed carriage parked on the street outside the theatre. The carriage was of a heavy old-fashioned type, built for long journeys, and the coachman occupied a roomy boot, complete with access gate. The scruffy little children who surrounded it
were in a frenzied state of excitement.

‘Lookit the blackfella!’ they were shrieking. ‘Lookit the blackfella!’

The cause of their hysteria turned out to be the carriage driver, a tall, slim black man who seemed nothing but patiently amused by the filthy little creatures surrounding his vehicle. As Joe, Tina and Harry passed by, the driver met Joe’s eye and his easy smile faded. He sat forward with a frown.

At that moment, Mr Simmons came barrelling out of the theatre, waving his arms and yelling at the urchins. ‘Oi! Clear off, the lot of you! Before I call the peelers!’

At the mention of the police, the swarm dispersed like grimy fog, up alleys, down side streets, over walls.

All hand-wringing concern, Mr Simmons turned to the gentleman who had followed him from the theatre. ‘Please do accept my most profuse apologies, Lord Wolcroft. I can only hope they haven’t scratched the paint or discommoded your horses.’

The gentleman shook his head as if to say,
Think nothing
of it
. Smooth-shaven, his lean figure clad in an elegance of dove-grey morning coat, top hat and cape, he was the very picture of aloof aristocracy, despite the chalky pallor of his skin.

‘Joe,’ whispered Tina. ‘That’s the strange man from the auditorium. See his cane?’

Joe nodded absently, his attention still fixed on the carriage driver, who was regarding him with frowning interest. Abruptly, and without any kind of regard for his status, the driver leaned over and cut across Simmons’ conversation with his master. ‘Cornelius,’ he demanded.
‘Look at that boy.’

Mr Simmons was rendered momentarily speechless with horror, but the gentleman just turned in the direction pointed and gazed at Joe. The carriage driver did the same, and Joe found himself frozen in place, the unwilling object of their combined scrutiny.

‘Do you see it?’ said the carriage driver.

The gentleman tensed, as if suddenly realising what he was being asked. ‘No,’ he said sharply, turning away.

‘Is it not Matthew?’

‘Please, Vincent. No.’

‘But …’

Abruptly, the gentleman retreated to the carriage and slammed the door. He turned his face from the window even as he snapped the blind shut. The driver spent another moment gazing at Joe; then he pulled the carriage into the street and drove away.

‘Well,’ drawled Harry, ‘it’s just like a penny drama!
The
Finding of the Prodigal Son
. Play your cards right,
Matthew
, and you might be set to inherit a fortune.’

Joe huffed. ‘He’s bloody hard up for a son if he has to resort to the likes of me.’

‘I don’t like those men,’ said Tina. ‘There’s something not right about them.’

‘Miss Kelly!’ Mr Simmons’ voice had them snapping to attention like soldiers.

‘Yes, Mr Simmons?’

‘Is Miss Ursula still within?’

‘Yes, Mr Simmons.’

‘Very well. I shall speak with her. I want you back here bright and early tomorrow, Miss Kelly.’ At Tina’s puzzled
look, the theatre manager almost smiled. ‘There are to be auditions.’

‘Auditions?’

This time Mr Simmons did smile. ‘A tour, Miss Kelly! A fortuitously timed tour! An extravaganza for the Christmas season!’

Fran the Apples
and the Lady Nana

H
ARRY SINCERELY HOPED
he wasn’t headed for a smashed skull and emptied pockets in the slime of a Dublin alley. The places through which this vivacious girl and her slouching alley cat of a chap were leading him were so narrow and mean that it was difficult to believe they could exist this close to the well appointed theatre district. At some point along the way, the girl had covered her bright-blue bonnet with her shawl. Harry thought it right that she had – in these surroundings that bonnet would have seemed wrong, somehow; it would have seemed vulnerable. Her chap, striding silently at her side, had a cut-throat walk to him here, a stone-eyed
I’ll-mind
-my-business-if-you-mind-yours
expression, which Harry recognised all too well from the slums of New York.

‘Say,’ he murmured, fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder, ‘have we much further to go?’

‘No,’ said Tina, smiling. ‘We’re right here.’

Harry followed Joe’s example and scraped his shoes clean of horse muck and street filth at the boot-scrape; then he
followed Tina up stone steps to the gloomy arch of a front door. As she squinted in the almost-dark to find the lock, Harry eyed the scarred wood and Tina’s smile widened.

‘It’s a bit battered, isn’t it? When we first started locking up, the dossers got angry and tried to kick it down. But we were sick to the teeth of them sleeping in the hall and pissing on the stairs, so we refused to give up. Every morning, Miss Price and Fran’ – she glanced at him – ‘that is, the landlady and my aunt Fran, they’d come out and fix the damage; then we’d lock it up all over again.’

She and Joe went inside. Darkness swallowed them as soon as they stepped from the threshold, and Harry hesitated. The house breathed out a rich, wholesome, welcoming smell, not at all what he’d expected – not the usual stench of a tenement. There was damp, certainly, and the unavoidable taint of human waste, but there was also the tang of apples and fresh turnips, the satisfying scent of bread, pipe-smoke, coal-fire and carbolic soap. This place almost smelled good. It almost smelled like home.

There was a
tap-a-tap-tap
way off down the hall, and Tina’s voice called out in the darkness.

‘Miss Price? It’s Martina. I’ve come for me lamp.’

There came the cracking of a lock. A door opened, and there was Tina, outlined in candlelight. Harry saw that she was surrounded by a flock of metal prams. They were filled with old breadboards and baskets of fruit and vegetables, and Tina smiled against the backdrop of humpbacked shadows they threw against the wall. The ticking of clocks and mewing of cats filled the narrow hall as an inordinately tiny old woman peered around the door of her apartment.

‘Come in now,’ murmured Joe, surprisingly close in the dark, and Harry stepped inside.

The old woman squinted up at Tina. ‘Frances said you’ll have a boy with you. I don’t care for boys, Miss Kelly. I don’t care for them at all.’

‘I know, Miss Price, but Mr Harry Weiss is a very quiet fellow, very mannerly and reserved.’

Stepping closer and removing his hat, Harry tried to look mannerly and reserved. The tiny woman scowled, clearly unimpressed. Joe stepped to Harry’s side and the woman shrank back.

‘Who’s that?’ she cried. ‘Someone’s lurking!’

‘It’s just me, Miss Price. Joe.’

The wrinkled old face melted into tenderness. ‘Ah, Joe,’ she crooned. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were a boy.’

Joe sighed, and Harry had to bite his lips against a smile.

‘Well,’ said the tiny woman, ‘if Joe’s with you …’ She reached to a shelf by the door, touched a taper to a wick. ‘Here you go, Miss Kelly,’ she said, lifting down a heavy oil lamp. ‘No need to fetch a pail of water or bring up coal; Fran did it all when she got home.’ She handed the lamp to Tina, smiled fondly at Joe, scowled suspiciously at Harry, then shut the door in their faces.

‘Be ready to be on display,’ whispered Tina, and she hoisted the lamp and led them upstairs.

Doors opened on every landing. Women’s faces appeared. Framed in candlelight, they clucked and cooed with questions. Tina greeted them all without stopping, the lamp held high so they could get a good look at Harry. ‘Howyeh, Miss Mulvey. Howyeh, Miss Crannock. Howyeh, Norah, how’s Sarah? Ah, that’s lovely. Yeh, this is the boy. No, he’s
only staying for dinner … Yeh, from the theatre. Yeh, he’s Joe’s friend.’

Joe snorted quietly at that one. Harry nodded to each passing face, and smiled and did his best to look charming.
Are there no men here at all?
he thought.

Finally Tina took them up a last narrow flight of steps. ‘None of them will sleep a wink ’til you’re gone,’ she whispered. ‘They’ll be gossiping about you for weeks.’

She touched Harry on the arm. He turned to look at her, and was surprised at the anxiousness in her expression. She leaned close. ‘You can say you’re a magician, Harry, if you like. Nana used to love a good magic trick, so she did. But please don’t go doing any mind-reading or fortune-telling or anything like that, all right?’ She flicked a glance over his shoulder at Joe, then back again. ‘My aunt wouldn’t approve.’

Harry was taken aback. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Sure. I wouldn’t want to upset anyone.’

Tina smiled and straightened, obviously relieved. She went to open the door, hesitated and turned once again. Her voice was lightly teasing this time, her eyes bright. ‘Watch out for Daniel O’Connell,’ she warned. ‘He bites.’

With that, she pushed open the door and led the way into warm light, the scent of candles and the heady smell of food.

‘B
ET YOU’VE NEVER
seen such a lovely little room as this, have you, Harry?’ The network of wrinkles that made up the Lady Nana’s face formed itself into a broad and toothless grin. ‘It’s a proper little home, isn’t it? A real gem.’

She clamped her gums onto her pipe and stroked
Daniel O’Connell’s wiry fur with a work-seamed hand. The terrier bared his teeth at Harry from the comfort of the old woman’s lap. Harry was pretty sure the little savage had bitten straight through his tendon. He indulged a brief fantasy of catapulting the dog out the window, then beamed his very best smile at the Lady Nana. ‘It’s a
darned
pretty home, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ve never
seen
prettier.’

On the opposite side of the fire, Tina exchanged an
eye-rolling
glance with Joe and went on with her knitting. By her side, the silent, dark-eyed woman she had introduced as Fran the Apples squinted narrowly, as if suspecting Harry of lying. He wasn’t. He thought the little room was charming, with its well scrubbed floorboards, glittering metal bedstead, and host of religious pictures on the walls. Even the huge statue of the Virgin Mary, with her multitude of warmly melting candles, had a serene comfort to her that made Harry feel welcome. Of course, the feed of stew that nestled in the pit of his stomach had a lot to do with it. Harry rubbed his ankle and smiled contentedly around him.

‘How’s your leg, Harry?’ smirked Joe. ‘Still a bit sore?’

Harry grimaced at him.

Joe grinned. He was standing at the room’s only table, pouring black beer into enamel mugs. After dinner, to the women’s delight and Harry’s admiration, the thin young man had produced two big bottles of the stuff, one from each of the hidden pockets inside his jacket, and he was now dividing the contents between three mugs and two large jam jars.

‘Ah, thank you, Joe!’ sighed the Lady Nana, accepting her mug of beer. ‘Nothing like a little porter to build you up for the cold.’ She raised her mug. ‘To Miss Price!’ she cried.

‘We were blessed the day we found her,’ agreed Fran the Apples. ‘Blessed. You don’t catch
her
upping the rent every time we buy a new bedspread or fix a broken window.’

‘Amen,’ said Tina, and they all raised their drinks.

Harry couldn’t help but notice that Joe did so with a certain wry reluctance. ‘To Miss Price,’ Joe said. ‘Despite what she thinks of
boys
.’

‘Ah now, you can’t blame her,’ said Nana, tipping her mug so Daniel O’Connell could take his share. ‘Sure, aren’t men the ruin of the tenements? Never short their beer money while their women and childer starve.’

‘I’m not like that,’ said Joe softly.

‘Ah, you’re not at all, Joe,’ crooned the Lady. ‘You’re not at all.’ She reached and squeezed his chapped hand. ‘And don’t you pay for it? Don’t they give you a terrible time? You poor gossun.’

Joe flushed. ‘I do all right.’ He flicked a glance at Harry, and Harry couldn’t help but prickle in sympathy for his pride.

‘But there’s no avoiding it,’ mused Nana. ‘Men are bowsies, pure and simple.’

‘Ah, Nan,’ admonished Tina, glancing at Fran the Apples, who was frowning into her beer.

‘Not all men are like that, Nana,’ said Fran.

‘Oh, ho!’ crowed the Lady Nana. ‘I know who you’re thinking of! But you give him time, Frances love! They’re all gents until they have their boots under your table;
then
you see the man in them! Useless shower of gurriers.’

‘Say now,’ cried Harry, ‘that’s just not true! My pa for one. He isn’t like that. He works
hard
, and he’d do anything for my ma! It’s not always a man’s fault when times are tough!’

A stunned silence fell over the women. Joe shifted
uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to the Lady Nana, and Harry instantly regretted his outburst – he didn’t know these people; he didn’t know the delicate balances of their relationship.

‘Of course,’ he ventured, ‘my pa might be a
rare
specimen of a man.’

‘Well,’ murmured the Lady Nana apologetically, ‘it’s more the drink, you know. The drink’s a terror for emptying a man’s pockets. I’m sure your pa’s a grand fella for staving off the drink, Harry. Just like Joe here … and yourself, no doubt.’

‘Are you all theatre folk, Harry?’ asked Fran the Apples. ‘Your dad and your mam and all?’

Tina lowered her knitting. ‘Is your dad an artiste, Harry?’

‘Uh …’ Harry hesitated. On his travels, he had learned that there was an astonishing amount of kindness in this world – but he’d also learned firsthand how easy it was to find oneself out in the cold. The statue of the Virgin Mary gazed placidly at him over Tina’s head, her plaster face set in sweet inquiry.
Well?
she seemed to ask.
What
does
Papa do?

Harry glanced at Joe.
Joe’s best friend
, that was what Tina had called Saul.
Joe’s best friend
. Harry set down his jam jar. ‘Uh, no,’ he said, ‘my pa’s not an artiste. He’s a rabbi, actually. In New York.’

‘Whassat?’ asked the Lady Nana, her brow furrowed. ‘A rabbit?’

Joe released one of his now familiar sighs. ‘Not a rabbit, Nan,’ he explained patiently. ‘A
rabbi
. A Jew priest.’

‘Oh,’ said Fran the Apples, her head turning sideways in frowning uncertainty.

‘Oh!’ said Tina, her eyes bright with questions.

‘Ah,’ nodded the Lady Nana. ‘A Jewman.’

‘Yes,’ said Harry carefully. ‘A Jew.’

‘Ah, there’s nothing like a good Jewman,’ said Nana. ‘Next to the pawn, there’s nothing like him.’ She nodded sagely, petting the sleepy Daniel O’Connell. ‘You can always make a deal with them, you see. Not like them lousy loan sharks. It’s very rare a woman’ll get a black eye off a Jewman.’