Little Bones (11 page)

Jane didn’t mind going to the theatre alone, though when she saw the couples billing and cooing, and all
dressed
up like bright fantastic birds, she felt a pang of envy. She was wearing her blue dress. Mrs Swift hadn’t offered her the loan of a sash, or the brooch, and though she rarely thought about her own appearance – something in her opinion not worth thinking about, if your bones didn’t grow straight, or your hair sat like a nest of brown feathers – tonight she felt like disappearing, like swallowing herself into nothing. Squashed between the outskirts of the crowd and the cold iron ribs of a radiator, she watched strings of families, bickering, laughing, whispering, making her think about the old days, when her family might have done the same.

When Jane was eight or nine, they had been to see a theatre troupe in Battersea Park. Arthur, still holding the tickets, had disappeared with a man he knew from some tavern or bar-room; Ivy limped, her new boots chafing her heels, eventually slumping under an elm tree and peeling the offending, stinking leather from her feet; Agnes and Jane rushed about anxiously, as people with tickets in their hands strolled towards the canvas awning where the stage was set and music could be heard. Where had their father got to? Didn’t he want to see the Paradise Singers, the Blazing Minstrels, or Pip the Dancing Dalmatian? Eventually, with almost no time to spare, they saw the shadow of him meandering over the hill. Ivy managed to get to her feet, though she refused to put the boots back on, much to the girls’ embarrassment, and by the time they’d rushed to buy cones of toffee and had found their seats, which were thankfully on the end of a row, the music started and everything was forgotten.

Inside the Alhambra there was a thick woolly heat. Girls selling nuts and cards of cheap matches walked down the aisles, yawning and indifferent. A programme-seller was being harassed by a man in a squashed felt hat. The stalls were not as boisterous as the gods, and though Jane had a very good view of the stage, she missed all the banter of the cheaper seats. Here the women gave her filthy sidelong glances, though the men didn’t care to sneer at the cripple sitting alone –
She’s quiet enough and clean enough, isn’t she?
– waiting as they were for Miss Sally Albright, the charming blonde soubrette with big saucy eyes and shapely ankles. Shopkeepers’ wives talked loudly about days at the races and their daughters’ elocution lessons. A woman called Joy had just lost her wedding ring. ‘I wouldn’t care,’ she said, with tears in her eyes, ‘but I’ve only had that ring five minutes.’

Jane could hear the murmurings behind her, the voices blending into a rumble from the floor to the heavenly ceiling. She lifted her eyes. The painted sky was darkening and the stars began to sparkle, as if they were really sitting outside. The conductor tapped his baton, the band started up, and some of the audience quickly sprang to attention, though plenty carried on with their chattering and cajoling, or went stepping over people’s legs to get to the girl selling chocolate, who had only just appeared.

As soon as the curtain opened, sweeping the dust from the stage, Jane was quickly sucked into the pleasure of it all. What on earth had she been thinking? All right, so Johnny Treble might have strutted like a prize-winning cockerel and hurt her feelings, but look
at
all the magic! She had a free ticket (Edie and Alice would have grovelled for it), the evening off work, and sixpence from Mrs Swift for refreshments.

The stage was filled with coloured light, and girls dressed like blooming spring flowers danced complicated patterns, pink tulips gliding between rows of nodding daffodils, heralding the spring. Some of the men were already starting to whistle, and it seemed that even in the stalls they liked to show their appreciation long before the curtain call, laughing at the long-nosed comedian with the suit made from dust rags, gasping at the girl who juggled sharp meat knives. And when Johnny Treble appeared, the theatre started roaring, and even Jane felt giddy as he strode to the front of the stage in a chequered suit, tipped his hat, revealing the black oily slick of his hair, and sung about his sweetheart, who (according to the song) he hadn’t even met yet. ‘
I wonder where she is? I wonder what’s she doin’?
’ By the end of the number, all the girls were on their feet shouting, ‘I’m here, Johnny!’, ‘Here, Johnny!’,
‘Me!’

At the interval Jane remained in her seat, brushed by those on their way to the bar, the hairy overcoats, dusty skirts and the overdone lace so frothy that when one woman hesitated to call out to her friend, Jane thought she might be suffocating. Didn’t they know how old-fashioned they looked? If Agnes had been with her, they would have been laughing at these so-called ladies all night.

When her row had all but vanished with their oranges and cheroots, their fat velvet purses and well-thumbed programmes, most of which had been concertinaed into
make-do
fans, Jane could stand and stretch, could wiggle her feet and look high into the gods, which by now were very nearly empty.

Eventually, the orchestra reappeared, the crowds hurried back, some with beer stains on their jackets or ash on their neckties, and the second half flew. Some of the men, now half cut from their visit to the bar or the nearest public house, were swaying on their feet as Miss Sally Albright twisted her pinkie into her dimples and fluttered her buttery lashes, her singing voice like a six-year-old lisping, her dance steps simple, mechanical. As she pulled the sides of her dress to make a childish curtsey, those still in their seats leapt to their feet with a cry.

When the next act appeared, an oriental illusionist, the crowd seemed deflated, fidgeting, rifling through their toffee bags, lighting fresh cigars, and this restlessness continued until Mr Johnny Treble appeared for the finale, reaching his white-gloved hand to a swooning woman in the front row (how Ivy Stretch would have envied her!), singing, swaggering, dancing and clicking his heels, until the theatre was in uproar and Jane’s hands were so sore from clapping she had to rub them over her arms.

The pavements were shining with drizzle. Moving down the steps, Jane followed a loose knot of people walking into the yard, flushed and hopeful, to where the stage door stood open a couple of inches, a rod of bright light splitting open the pavement. Jane wondered if the doorman would still be sitting at his desk, feet up, or would he be standing like a policeman on guard, because didn’t they know Miss Albright was exhausted,
wanting
nothing more than a cup of cocoa and a warm pillow? And Mr Johnny Treble, though he might have looked full of beans, was just about ready to drop. ‘Still, he might sign your programme if you ask him nice enough, steady now,
steady
, he can’t do you all at once.’ From where she was standing, Jane could see women on their tiptoes waving handkerchiefs and programmes, men leaning with one foot against the wall, trying their best to look nonchalant. ‘Is he here yet?’ asked a woman. ‘I can’t wait for him all night, though heaven knows I’d like to.’

The drizzle fell over her face, catching on her lashes, blurring the lights from the hoardings and the thick yellow glow of the naphtha lamps. She walked with her hands in her pockets, which seemed to make her sway less noticeable, past the bulging taverns, the laughter trailing around the corner, where the chestnut man, sparks flying from his brazier, had a damp hungry crowd all wanting a cheap bag of supper.

Jane took a short cut down an alley, the throngs petered out, and she became aware of a ringing in her ears and the echoing of her boots. Hoops of pale mist hung around the street lamps. She shivered. At the top of the street, she walked on tiptoe and peeked through the windows of the houses, seeing a man standing on a chair fixing something onto the wall, a grey cat leaping from cushion to cushion and a woman holding a tray of trembling tall glasses. By the time she reached Covent Garden, where Jeremiah Beam was in a doorway chewing on a pig’s knuckle, licking all the grease from his fingers, Jane was exhausted and cold.

Mrs Swift, wearing her nightclothes, a smear of cocoa
dirtying
the collar of her overlong dressing gown, had been waiting all evening for news of Mr Treble.

‘The doctor has retired,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to know if he’s as good as they say he is.’

Jane stood by the hearth, the fire now nothing but a crush of orange splinters. ‘Well,’ she started, ‘he’s a born entertainer.’

‘Go on,’ Mrs Swift leant forwards.

‘The audience were all on their feet. They couldn’t get enough of him.’

‘Can he dance?’

‘Oh, very well,’ blushed Jane, ‘and he can sing, though sometimes it’s more speaking than singing, but he seems very natural, and I don’t know, it adds to his charm.’

‘Charm?’ said Mrs Swift. ‘You think the man has charm?’

Suddenly Jane felt chilled. She didn’t know what to say. She looked at Mrs Swift’s feet, the way they sat like raw pies inside her slippers. She thought about the coffee house, the sneers, the dropping of the teaspoon. But then she saw him dancing, flipping and twirling his hat, his dark eyes shining.

‘Mr Treble has charm,’ Jane told her. ‘But he doesn’t always use it.’

*

The doctor invited Jane into the consulting room, asking Alice to fetch the best tray with the scenes of painted bluebirds, a pot of fresh tea, and something to go with it.

‘We have nothing to go with it,’ Alice told him, lazily scratching the back of her arm.

‘Nothing?’ he said. ‘Not even a biscuit?’

‘Not even half a biscuit, sir.’

Jane felt jumpy. The room was covered in dust. Why couldn’t they sit in the parlour, or the kitchen? Was she in trouble? Would the doctor be dismissing her? While he shuffled through his papers, she allowed herself a good look around. The walls were papered with a pattern that might have once been garlands of roses. There were no medical instruments, charts or any kind of examining table. A whisky bottle stood between a cardboard calendar and an empty pen pot. When Alice returned with the tea tray, she caught Jane’s eye and pulled a face. ‘Will that be all, sir?’ she asked.

‘Yes, and could you please close the door behind you?’

When the door clicked, Jane shivered. Perhaps this would be the end of it? This time tomorrow she might be begging at that nice easy spot, not far from Oxford Circus. She could see her torn clothes and the knot of tatty ribbons in her hair. The doctor poured tea and Jane looked amazed. She had never seen a man pouring tea before. He smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘Please. You have done nothing wrong.’

He pushed a small pretty cup in her direction. It was decorated with pale yellow rosebuds. Was this the cup he had caught from the sky? She hoped so. The saucer didn’t match. From what she could see, there was not so much as a hair crack in it.

‘You are happy working for me?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ she nodded, the tea scalding the tip of her tongue.

‘You are a very valuable assistant – invaluable, I could not do without you, and I trust you implicitly.’

‘Implicitly, sir?’

‘It means absolutely.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Despite “implicitly”, you are a very articulate girl.’

Jane smiled, thinking of Miss Prosser,
The Big Book of Knowledge
, and later Father Boyd, with his great polished table, the boxes of pencils, his lists of words, unusual words, like ‘vague’ and ‘pioneer’.

‘I do like words, sir,’ she said. ‘I like learning.’

‘And it shows.’

Jane blushed. The doctor laced his fingers and leant a little towards her. She could smell whisky on his breath as he said she must be wondering why she’d been called into this little-used room, but he had work to discuss, very private work, and as she was the only other person in the house to have sworn a solemn oath, he felt they deserved a little privacy.

‘It’s Mr Treble,’ he explained. ‘He has found himself in a delicate situation. Might I be honest? It’s a very serious matter.’

Jane tried to look serious, but now all she could picture was the handsome Mr Treble in his flashy chequered suit. She swallowed a grin as the doctor explained that Mr Treble had been ‘walking out’ with a society girl, the daughter of an aristocrat, no less, and according to her family he was a most unsuitable match. ‘A song and dance man does not marry into a good English family,’ the doctor told her grimly, ‘though it seems the girl is so enamoured with Mr Treble, she is willing to walk away from her heritage,
her
birthright and family, and live happily with him on the road.’

‘That’s wonderful, sir.’

‘No.’ The doctor, unsmiling, shook his head. ‘Mr Treble thinks the girl is deluded. His feelings for her have … waned.’

Jane took another sip of her tea. She saw the face of Johnny Treble in the coffee house. The girls in little clusters. Blushing. Giggling. Swooning. Of course his feelings had waned! It didn’t take a genius to work out that his feelings were probably spread very thinly over town.

‘Unfortunately, the girl is inconvenienced,’ the doctor told her.

Jane blushed. ‘She’ll be wanting the tincture then, will she?’

The doctor’s face looked troubled. He rubbed his left eye. ‘She would like to keep the baby,’ he stumbled. ‘Of course it’s a mistake.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jane quickly agreed, thinking he was talking about the poor girl’s condition.

‘Mr Treble has no interest in becoming a father, or marrying anyone at present. He has a good heart you understand. He is thinking of the girl. That her family will disown her. Society will shun her. She will end up dead or in the workhouse.’

The doctor, now leaning back in his chair and relighting the dead little stub of his cigar, then went on to describe in lurid detail how life was lived in these sorry establishments, and though Jane tried to look interested, sighing at his descriptions of the harsh regime, she might have told him a good few tales
herself
, her grandparents having spent the last three years of their lives in Christchurch Workhouse on the Blackfriars Road.

‘It seems unthinkable,’ he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling, ‘but the girl is adamant, and though she wants to keep the encumbrance, Mr Treble would like to take the matter into his own hands, for the sake of everyone involved, you understand?’