The Cockney Sparrow (16 page)

As the cold, foggy days of winter warmed into an early spring, it seemed to Clemency that the house was filled with lovers. Lucilla and Tom might keep their intimate relations a secret from Augustus, but Fancy was openly affectionate towards Jack. On one occasion, late in the evening when most of the household had gone to bed, Clemency had gone outside to the privy in the back yard, and on her return had found Fancy’s sleeping place empty. The door to Jack’s room had been left ajar and she had not been able to resist the temptation to peep inside. In a shaft of moonlight filtering through the little window high up in the wall, she had seen Fancy, fully clothed, lying down beside Jack with her arms around him as he slept. They had looked so sweet and innocent, like the babes in the wood, that it had brought a lump to her throat. She had tiptoed away, not wanting to break the spell.

After that, Clemency had tried to be extra nice to Fancy, if only for Jack’s sake. But it was not easy. Fancy was prickly as a hedgehog, jealous and touchy. Sometimes Clemency wondered if they would ever really be friends; she just had to keep reminding herself that Fancy was
genuinely fond of Jack, and that he was happier now than he had ever been, in the bad old days when they had lived in Stew Lane.

Then there was Ma, who had been stepping out with Mickey every Sunday afternoon for two months, and during that time had not touched a drop of strong drink. Mrs Blunt’s nerves had never recovered fully from Jared Stone’s announcement that he was thinking of selling the property. Sometimes she seemed to be her old self, in charge of everyone, but at other times, she retired to her room and spent days there, locked in and seeing no one. Ma had continued to do the cooking, even when Mrs Blunt was having a good spell. The lodgers were happy, and Clemency had never seen Ma in such high spirits. Released from Hardiman’s evil influence she was a different person. The yellowish tinge had left her skin and she had filled out a bit, developing curves that seemed to make it difficult for Mickey Connor to keep his hands off her. It was a fact that Ma stayed with Mickey in Frying Pan Alley most Sunday nights. The first time it had happened, Clemency had been frantic with worry, and had been ready to go to the police station next morning, half expecting to find that the Ripper had claimed yet another victim. Then Ma had breezed into the kitchen, with a big smile on her face. There had been no need to ask where she had spent the night.
Clemency had gone outside to the privy and cried with relief.

With all this springtime billing and cooing, Clemency felt strangely out of place, even though she tried to convince herself that she had no interest in forming a relationship with any man. As far as she could see, they were trouble. Allowing any bloke to get a grip on your emotions would end up one way only – heart-break and loneliness. Ned had come to call twice, the first time to apologise in person for criticising her costume, and the second time he had brought a fruit cake, baked by Nell, and an invitation to come to the pub for supper. She had accepted the cake and wriggled out of the supper invitation, using working the theatre queues as an excuse. Ned had gone away looking distinctly put out, but Clemency was unrepentant. She liked him well enough, but he was too bossy and if he had any romantic ideas, then he would be sorely disappointed. She hoped that her refusal would not upset Nell, who had shown her nothing but kindness, but she felt that if she allowed herself to be drawn into their tight little family circle, she would be caught like a wasp in honey, unable to escape. And she needed to be free. There was danger lurking in the shadows and it was not just the notorious Ripper. One day Hardiman would almost certainly find them, and Jared Stone was also out there somewhere: a silent menace,
hovering in the background. He had not repeated his threat to sell the lodging house, but Clemency had not forgotten the desperate look on the pregnant girl’s face when Stone had sent Meg packing. That man worshipped one thing only, and that was money. She knew he would be as ruthless in throwing them all out on the street as he had been with Meg.

It was a chilly evening at the end of March. The wild winds had whipped straw and loose playbills into a spiralling twister that had left a trail of rubbish strewn over the pavements outside the Strand Theatre. The theatregoers had gone inside leaving Augustus and his troupe to pack up their instruments, ready to move on to the Gaiety, the Lyceum and the Adelphi. Clemency stood beneath the poster advertising the latest comic opera, waiting for Tom to fetch the handcart from Surrey Street. It had to be left a fair distance away, so that the stench of rotting fish did not offend the people they hoped to entertain and to relieve of their hard-earned money. The wind had whipped long strands of hair from beneath her cap, and she took it off, shaking out her long tresses. She stared up at the face of Dorabella Darling, smiling down from the poster with gleaming white teeth, and an immodest expanse of bosom exposed above a tightly corseted waist. One day, Clemency decided, she would sing inside the Strand
Theatre instead of out here on the cold pavement. She would be a famous star of the opera bouffe, just like Dorabella.

‘Move along there. You’re blocking the entrance.’ The liveried doorman made wild motions with his hands as a hansom cab drew to a halt at the kerb. He pushed past her to open the cab door and assist a young woman to alight. She laid a gloved hand on his arm and stepped down to the pavement. Clemency had seen many toffs and their ladies, but this girl was an outstanding beauty. Dressed in the height of fashion, with feathers and flowers in her upswept blonde hair, she had the fragile look of a porcelain figurine. She swept past Clemency leaving a trail of perfume in her wake. The doorman ushered her inside, bowing obsequiously. There was something vaguely familiar in the haughty manner of the beautiful young lady.

‘I’d recognise that flaming-red flag anywhere.’

She could never forget that voice. With her cap still clutched in her hand and her hair caught by the playful wind, Clemency spun round, coming face to face with the man she had hoped never to see again.

Jared Stone was standing so close to her that Clemency could feel the warmth of his body. The tangy scent of sandalwood and Macassar oil brought back unpleasant memories of their first meeting. A sudden gust of wind caught the corner of his opera cloak – it lifted and flapped like the wings of a huge black bird – the blood-red lining caressed her cheek. His voice was deep and seductive. ‘Busking outside a theatre! You are wasting your talents, my dear.’

‘No one asked for your opinion.’

‘And you are content to go about dressed like a street urchin, earning a few coppers a day?’ Jared’s lip curled in contempt. ‘I had you down for an opportunist, Clemency. A girl with ambition.’

‘Jared.’ The young lady called from the foyer. ‘We’ll miss the first act if you don’t hurry.’

‘Go along, Jared,’ Clemency mocked. ‘Be a good chap and do as she says.’

‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Izzie.’ He waved to his companion, but his eyes held Clemency’s in a hypnotic gaze.

She wondered vaguely what the relationship was between Stone and the beautiful young lady. Not that she cared. He could have as many mistresses as he liked – it was no skin off her nose!

‘My offer still stands,’ Jared said. ‘Come and work with me, and there’ll be no more of this degrading existence. You’re worth more than this.’

‘I told you afore; I don’t want to go back to being a dipper.’

‘I’m not talking about stealing hankies and breast pins. I could open the doors to a different world, if you’ve got the courage to take a chance.’

‘And if I haven’t?’

‘Then I can close doors just as easily. You need saving from yourself, Clemency. But I’m not a patient man and I always get what I want. Think very carefully before you refuse my offer a second time.’

‘And what if I says no?’

‘I have a buyer who is very keen to purchase a certain establishment in Flower and Dean Street.’

Augustus came over to them. He stared hard at Jared. ‘I know you. You’re the fellow that threatened to throw us all out on the street.’

Jared bent his head so that his lips were close to Clemency’s ear. ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours and then I want an answer.’ He turned on his
heel and strode into the theatre foyer. The doors closed behind him.

‘What did he want, Clem?’ Augustus put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t let him scare you. We theatre folk look after our own. Just say the word and I’ll set Tom and Ronnie on him.’

Clemency smiled in spite of herself. The picture of gentle Ronnie and toothless Tom taking on Jared Stone, and the ruffians she had seen in Hog Yard, made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. She shook her head. ‘It weren’t nothing. Look, here comes Tom with the cart. We’d better move Jack afore he catches a chill in this cold wind.’

As Tom and Ronnie hoisted Jack onto the cart, he leaned over and touched her shoulder. ‘What did that bloke want with you, Clemmie?’

‘Nothing, Jack. Honest. He was just passing the time of day.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I may be crippled but I ain’t stupid.’

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Augustus said, taking the cart handles in a firm grasp. ‘If we don’t move on quickly we’ll miss the theatre queues and there’ll be no supper for anyone.’

They were about to move on when a man in evening dress rushed out of the foyer. ‘Stop, stop. Sir, may I have a moment of your time?’

Augustus hesitated. ‘We have to get to our next pitch. Can’t it wait?’

‘No, I must speak to you now.’ He held out his hand. ‘Horace Claypole, theatre manager, in a very difficult situation.’

‘Augustus Throop, man of business. How may I help you, sir?’

‘Please step inside for a moment.’ Horace hurried back into the foyer. He held the door open, tapping the floor with the toe of his patent-leather shoe, and drumming his fingers on the glass.

‘Best do as he asks,’ Augustus said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Something tells me it might be to our advantage.’

Lucilla grabbed his arm. ‘Daddy! Maybe he’s heard me sing and is going to offer me a part in the opera.’

‘Only one way to find out, poppet-pie.’ Augustus tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. He turned to Clemency. ‘Best come in too, Clem. If we lose our little nightingale to the legitimate theatre, we don’t want our little sparrow to be taken off by inflammation of the lungs. Follow me.’

They followed Horace through a maze of narrow passages that led eventually to his office behind the stage. Clemency could hardly believe that she was inside a real theatre with a performance in progress. She inhaled the fuggy smell, a mixture of tobacco smoke, expensive perfumes and disinfectant. The full-bodied
sound of the orchestra accompanying the singers filtered out through the closed doors to the auditorium. She could only imagine what it was like to be in there, transported by the music, sound and colour to a fairy-tale world where there was no poverty, want or disease: a world of beauty and imagination – the stuff of dreams. She dragged her thoughts back to the present, glancing round to make sure that Ronnie and Tom had brought Jack in out of the cold. Sure enough, they had him suspended between them, with his arms around their shoulders, dangling like a puppet. Jack grinned and winked at her. ‘Maybe it’s you he wants, Clemmie.’

‘All my eye and Betty Martin,’ Clemency retorted, chuckling.

They all crowded into the tiny room. Most of its floor space was taken up by a large desk, piled high with papers, and its walls were lined with playbills. Horace seemed even more agitated, and he paced up and down, wringing his hands. The leather soles of his shoes made tip-tapping sounds on the bare boards, and there was silence as everyone waited for him to speak.

‘Er, how may we be of service, Mr Claypole?’ Augustus asked at length. ‘Time is of the essence, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

Horace came to a halt. ‘Yes, quite. Well, I’ll come straight to the point. You’ve no doubt heard of my leading lady, Dorabella Darling?’

A murmur of assent rippled round the room.

Horace clapped his hand to his bald pate, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘She announced, just before going on stage, that she has accepted a better offer. She leaves tonight on the boat train for Paris, where she will star in the Opéra Garnier. My poor little theatre can’t compete with an offer like that. The understudy has laryngitis, and I am desperate for a replacement, at very short notice.’

Augustus puffed out his chest and pushed Lucilla forward. ‘I knew that someone would spot my little nightingale sooner or later.’

Horace stared at him as if he had gone mad. ‘No, no, sir. You’re mistaken. The role requires the actress to play the part of a pageboy who disguises himself as a maid. I need someone who can be convincing in both parts.’ He eyed Lucilla’s plump form, with a dull red flush rising from above his starched white collar. ‘I mean, the replacement for Dorabella needs to be …’ He coughed delicately and looked past Lucilla to where Clemency was standing. ‘You, young lady – I’ve heard you singing outside my theatre, and I was convinced that you were a young boy. Then tonight, when I saw you without your cap, I realised that you are exactly what I have been looking for. What is your name, my dear?’

‘Daddy!’ Lucilla shrieked. ‘He can’t mean it. I’m the one with the golden voice, not her.’

‘Hush, petal.’ Augustus lifted Lucilla off the ground and thrust her into Tom’s arms: a sudden move that would have left Jack hanging helplessly from Ronnie’s shoulder if Clemency had not rushed over to support him.

‘What is wrong with the young man?’ Horace demanded, staring at Jack. ‘Is he drunk?’

‘No, mister,’ Clemency said fiercely. ‘Any fool can see that he ain’t got the use of his legs. I’ll have you know, what’s more, that my brother Jack is a fine musician. He’s probably better than all of them players in your orchestra put together.’

Horace clasped his hands together, his round eyes made huge by the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘Such fire! Such spirit! What is your name, my dear?’

‘Aaarrgh!’ screeched Lucilla, beating her fists against Tom’s chest.