The Christmas Songbird

by Emma Hardwick

  Copyright

  Title: The Christmas Songbird

  First published in 2020

  Copyright © 2020 Emma Hardwick

  The right of Emma Hardwick identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing by any electronic means, and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without written permission of the copyright holder except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

  Applications for the copyright holder’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publishers.

  The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The travellers come to town

  Seamstress required

  The Songbird Theatre

  The French diva

  The meal at The Ritz

  She’s the one

  Let battle commence

  Habanera

  Sundatara

  Searching for Sid Payne

  ‘Tis the season to be jolly

  Escaping the chaos

  The casualty emerges

  The threat of the challenger

  Gala night arrives

  The frosty walk in the woods

  Not the usual yuletide festivities

  Sid’s torment

  Monique reappears

  The return to London

  The progress update

  Present shopping in the West End

  Florence

  Lastminute preparations

  The audition

  Narendra

  The Christmas Eve spectacle

  The big day arrives

  Prologue

  From the first time that Suzanna Stratton looked down upon the stage at The Songbird, she watched the artists in awe. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, she wanted to be a singer—and a famous singer at that.

  But she wasn’t in a posh, plush box when she felt the calling. The precocious eight-year-old had secretly climbed up into the theatre’s rafters from the attic space she shared with her seamstress mother.

  From her unique vantage point, the young girl could watch the performers, as well as the bustling activity behind the curtain. As chaotic as it was backstage, the presentation of the performances was flawless. Captivated by the entertainment on show, the audiences were unaware of just how many people it took to fill their evenings with such pleasure and delight.

  Suzanna had not found the small niche by accident, but with David Liebowitz, the owner’s son, during one of their many adventures exploring the nooks and crannies of the old music hall. He had held her tiny hand, and she had tagged along behind him in the darkness unnoticed. Reaching their hiding place had been quite an obstacle course. It began with shimmying into a crawl space. They would wriggle through the gap and tiptoe unnoticed towards a flight of steel stairs. Then he would pick up her tiny frame. Her trusting little arms clasped around his neck for all she was worth as he made a precarious light-footed jump over some missing floorboards and onto a narrow wooden promontory high above the stage. From there, the pair could look on undetected.

  Once she knew how to get to the secret viewing point, Suzanna sneaked off to see as many performances as possible when her mother was at work.

  David was five when Suzanna was born, and he was fascinated by the infant. He had no siblings, and as Suzanna became older, he took her under his wing. Everywhere that he went, she followed. He was the big brother she would never have, and she, his little sister.

  If her mother had known that Suzanna was up in the rafters every night, she would have got the beating of her life, but Maria Stratton worked punishingly long hours as a seamstress. As soon as the curtain came down, Suzanna would sneak back to the attic, and by the time Maria got back from putting the costumes away, the little girl would be safe in her bed, pretending to be asleep.

  Suzanna attended school in the morning. It was the only time that she felt she had to deal with reality. Other than that annoyance, she lived in a world of sublime fantasy.

  The Stratton’s flat in the attic wasn’t a proper dwelling as such, but rather one of a series of large storage spaces tied to the theatre, filled with props, furniture and screens from shows gone by.

  When Maria was at work, Suzanna was at peace to rearrange the furniture to her liking. In her mind, she had lived in Paris, Greece and many more exotic destinations. Suzanna would open boxes of costumes and spend her afternoons pretending to be queens, pirates, fairies or any other fantastical role that suited her mood. It was the burlesque outfits that she enjoyed the most because she loved the rapport the risqué singers built with the crowd. She had memorised every song in their repertoires. On many a long, lonely evening, she would perform the tunes with gusto on a makeshift stage built out of old wooden crates, dreaming of the chance she would get to perform for real.

  Maria made very few demands of her daughter, besides going to school and being safe. She was a free spirit too, and she did not expect her daughter to live a bleak, working-class life. Maria craved the opportunity to give her all the freedom that she never had as a child. Watching her daughter’s imagination develop and her confidence build was a joy for the beleaguered single mother.

  The old theatre in Covent Garden was Susanna’s oyster, and in her uninhibited child’s mind, she was a pearl. The cheerful girl was much loved by the small community of like-minded people around her, a happy mixture of misfits who had become a true family.

  1

  The travellers come to town

  St. Giles in the east end of London was Maria Stratton’s birthplace and its slums, a portal to hell itself. Every day was a bitter grind, with only the occasional moment of joy to punctuate the gloom.

  “So, yer pregnant are yer, yer hussy,” her father had yelled when she announced her predicament. “Where are yer and yer grubby little bairn goin’ te live then? Not under my roof, I tell you. Find yersel’ a hole to crawl into and don’t ye come back ‘ere. I am ashamed of yer, do you hear me! Ashamed.”

  He raised his hand to strike her then thought better of it. While the argument raged, Maria’s mother swiftly packed her daughter’s clothing into a bag. Furious, the father shoved the young girl through the front door and onto the dark cobbled street. The small bag of belongings sailed through the air and skidded by her feet.

  “I never want to see ye again, lass. Ye made ye bed, now lie in it.”

  Neither parent were particular adherents to morals, but it was an excellent opportunity to get rid of their young and increasingly wayward daughter and save a few more pennies to put towards their liquid diet.

  Alone in the narrow lane, with the spring rain showering down upon her, Maria put her hand on her belly, desperate to be close to the only family member she had left. The filthy tenement buildings looming overhead added to her feeling of anxiety, and she felt as if she was suffocating. She ran toward the bustling marketplace and sheltered under a shop’s awning for a moment. The situation in the market was as dire as anywhere else in St. Giles, but at least it was a dry space where she could take a moment to catch her breath and focus on her predicament, and a few bystanders made her less at risk of being mugged for the few pennies she might have on her.

  *

  Maria knew who the father of her child was, but if she had disclosed it to her father, he would have been more than berserk—he would have throttled her. She had met the man in question near the Seven Dials dis
trict. Standing on a street corner playing the violin, he had a hat laying on the ground in front of his feet. The most mournful tune Maria had ever heard, for her raw emotion was communicated through each note of the arrangement.

  She stopped to listen to the musician as he bared his soul in public—the only person in a stream of many who was able to comprehend the suffering behind the music. Ocean saw Maria observing him intently and looked into her eyes. At that moment, the spark hit her soul and her heart raced. She felt as though he was playing the music just for her. It was a peculiar encounter, but strangely enjoyable. Exciting, even.

  A few days later she bumped into the violinist again, this time at St. Giles market when he was at work—not as a musician this time. Now, his trade appeared to be far less glamourous, a humble builder’s labourer. Instantly remembering the beautiful young woman who had watched him play, he doffed his flat cap and winked at her. Maria smiled coyly from across the street. Interpreting the smile as a good sign, Ocean put down his hammer and walked towards her.

  “Good day, Miss. Forgive me, but I saw you listening to my music last week.”

  Maria felt shy. She had not realised that she had been so obvious, and she hoped nobody else had seen her fawning over the fellow. If word gets back to Pa, I’ll be for the high jump.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling reassuringly as if reading her worried thoughts. “Most people don’t understand my music. It’s like I am invisible to them. It washes over them, and they go along doing their usual business. You caught my attention because you stopped to listen.”

  “It was such a sad tune,” Maria sighed.

  “My people have experienced a lot of sadness. I am impressed that you sensed that. It is a traditional Roma song—an Eastern European sound of suffering.”

  Ocean smiled at her. The dark-skinned man was exotic looking. She did not know what to make of him. There were so many stories and warnings about Gypsies, so she kept at arm's length, being cautious not to seem over-familiar.

  “Where did you learn to play the violin?” Maria asked.

  “My father taught me. He loved music.”

  “It is very different from our English tunes.”

  “Of course it is. We play with our soul.”

  “What does that mean?” Maria quizzed.

  “It’s not only a pretty little ditty. Our music makes you feel emotions—joy, sorrow and passion.”

  Maria blushed. The men she knew never discussed these matters of the heart so openly. She began to regret asking. Ocean noted her embarrassment.

  “Please don’t worry about enjoying my music, Miss. Thank you for the compliment.”

  “My name is Maria,” she exclaimed nervously, not wanting the encounter to end, even though she felt her inexperienced face reddening.

  “Well, Miss Maria, it has been a pleasure, but now I need to go back to work before my brother finds me loafing.”

  As he walked away, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “Forgive my rudeness. I’m Ocean. Ocean Taylor. Perhaps, I’ll see you again, Maria?”

  With that, she watched him disappear into the crowded market. Ocean Taylor seemed so intense, not like any the other pimps and drunkards she had met in St. Giles. And what a name!

  “Ocean,” she murmured to herself dreamily.

  The young eighteen-year-old dawdled home, her head filled with thoughts of the soulful swarthy young man. Itching to tell someone about him, she stopped in at her friend’s house on the way home.

  “Bernie, I met a chap called Ocean today,” Maria said hesitantly.

  “Oh yeah? That’s an odd name,” Bernie replied.

  “Yes, it is, He’s a Gypsy.”

  “Oh, Maria, if yer wants peace in yer life, it’s best you stay away from a Gypsy. Yer father’ll skin you alive.”

  “But—he was so nice, Bernie. There’s something quite special about him,” she added with a cheeky glint in her eye.

  “Let it go, Maria, it will only cause trouble. They only marry their own,” Bernie advised her as her eyebrows raised ever higher. “I can’t see yer waltzing around England in a bleedin’ Romany caravan telling fortunes.”

  Maria started to laugh.

  “You’re right, neither can I,” Maria agreed with a chuckle, “but don’t discount it just yet, I am sure it would pay better than my sewing job with Mrs Turner.”

  Following Bernie’s advice, Maria put all thoughts of Ocean Taylor aside as she navigated her way through the dirty streets to the small flat the Strattons called home.

  Her mother had made a slop of sorts. The woman was too lazy to cook properly. Her signature dish was boiling whatever they had in the house to a mush and disguising whatever flavour was left with oodles of salt and pepper. Maria’s useless lump of a father sat drunk in front of the fire.

  The girl gulped down a bowl of the bland grey goo then escaped up the stairs to the family bedroom, hoping for a few precious moments of privacy before the end of the day and the inevitable crush of bodies on their lone mattress.

  *

  Every winter the Gypsies set up camp in the area at Seven Dials, and they offered their usual services as tinkers, handymen, musicians and fortune-tellers. In addition to their legitimate skills, they also had the reputation for being pickpockets and small-time thieves. There were plenty of rumours of them stealing children too. Most of the permanent residents were so woeful at caring for their families they often lost tabs on their offspring’s whereabouts. It was far easier to accuse the travellers than admit that they were poor parents who neglected their children.

  The local criminals liked to use the Gypsy visit as a cover for their nefarious exploits, revelling in blaming their crimes on the influx of travellers. Still, for the bulk of the locals, the Gypsies had their novel appeal. They dressed differently and had their own language. Although they looked poor, they adorned themselves with masses of gold and silver jewellery. What’s more, they brought lively entertainment: laughter, music, and the most beautiful women dancing free and unashamedly in the firelight.

  It was a cold December night when Maria Stratton left work late on the fateful Saturday night of Suzanna’s probable conception. Miss Kelly was snowed under with orders for alterations to dresses for the festive season and demanded all her girls did lots of overtime. All Maria seemed to do was work, work, work. The long days were exhausting but the extra money was helpful.

  Maria followed her regular route home through Seven Dials. The evening was cold, but there was no rain. As she passed the Gypsy camp, she saw that a big crowd had gathered around the warmth of their bonfire. Curious to see what was happening, she passed along the periphery of the great crowd, craning her neck as she peeped through the gaps between the sea of heads and shoulders.

  In the centre, she saw the raging red flames reaching up to the night sky and the community of Gypsy women dancing around it. The women seemed carefree and joyous, uninhibited and free of the rigorous Victorian social demands that the English women had to endure. Maria felt envious. The romance and freedom appealed to her.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her.

  “Good evening, Miss.”

  She looked around, startled. There was Ocean Taylor, smiling broadly and his dark eyes sparkling in the firelight. He oozed a free-spirited charm and carnal experience that Maria found intoxicating.

  “Come with me!” he whispered seductively in her ear as he grabbed her hand.

  “I can’t! I mustn’t!” she protested meekly.

  He gave her no option as he gently pulled her into a narrow alley. She gave him a nervous smile, delighted that he had taken the lead. It was like a dream come true, a chance to escape the dreariness of the slums. Once hidden from sight, he kissed her, but it was not the usual fumbling experience she had from time to time with the boys who fancied her in her childhood—this was pure, manly fire.

  For the first time in her young life, a man had awoken her passion. As she experienced th
e delights of desire, Maria suppressed her moral urge to stop him. Ocean was keen to take things as far as he could.

  “I want more,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear once again.

  She could feel his hot breath and rough stubble brush against her soft face. His swarthy rough hand lifted her dress and touched her smooth thigh. There was no attempt to stop him. She revelled in the reckless freedom. It was exhilaration and liberation that she had never known before. This was the life she wanted, a life free of the heavy responsibility of tomorrow.

  He hustled her into a nearby Roma caravan, lifted her up like a fairy-tale princess and softly lay her onto a bunk. She watched him hop up alongside her. He pulled the curtain around them with a brisk swish and began to remove his clothes. She had never seen a man this close naked before, and she was torn between her head saying she should be bashful and look away and her heart urging her to stare at his muscular physique.

  Deftly, he teased each piece of clothing off her until she too lay naked and expectantly before him. Ocean made love to her passionately, and she responded in the same way. She had heard that the first time for a woman was painful and unsatisfying, but that was not what she was experiencing. It was exquisite. There was no talk of love. There were no promises of a future together. There were no invitations to ride off with him into the sunset. It was pure lust and it was fabulous.

  When Ocean’s family returned to the van for the night, Maria gently pushed her lover away, her eyes wide with panic. Ocean seemed relaxed about it. He propped himself up on his elbow and put his finger against his grinning lips. His family seemed to be worse for wear from drinking and all the fireside partying and quickly tumbled into their beds. The young couple hid behind the curtain in silence and quietly continued their carnal exploration of each other’s bodies when they were sure the others were asleep. Alas, Maria started to imagine her parents back at home worrying about where she’d got to. The dark thoughts began to overtake her feelings of joy, and with regret, she said it was time for them to call it a night.