‘Elegantly simple,’ he said. ‘I like the sound of that. I tell my artistes, the single most important job is to know your material. Pick songs to show yourself to best advantage, and you’re halfway there. The rest is smoke and mirrors—not actual smoke! No, no, our theatre, the finest playhouse in the Dominion, is absolutely fireproof.’ Perhaps he could smell the smoke on them.
They were to start as openers, in one, the next day.
‘I think you’ll agree, ladies, that the bill goes with a real snap and real vim,’ Walker said. ‘You’re a harmonious and delightful sort of an act, then we’ve got Pantalon & Pantalette, the Singing Comedics; Bee Ho Gray, the Lasso Man—his horse is a wonder and his wife’s a daisy too. The DeWolf Girls, they’re a classy Grecian statue act—tasteful, you know. Then intermission, then the play (except that’s done now); Nutt & Nuttier get off a lot of stuff that is mighty good—nothing to touch East & Verrall, though, who we have booked for a two-week stand but not till Feb-u-ary.’ He waved his hand at a large and gorgeously coloured poster, and they saw that the bill was filled out by a knife-throwing Spanish dancer, a French poodle act, and the headliner Rouclere, with Mildredism (‘thought-reading with no words passed!’).
‘Very nice, to be treated like artistes,’ Mama whispered to Aurora, as Walker escorted them to his office door. He patted Bella absentmindedly on her swishing rump as she went by—but impressed by his office and his chocolates, she only gave him a reproachful look.
‘Doors open at seven,’ he said genially. ‘Trouble begins at eight!’
They laughed as required and went through to the outer office. Two typists clacked in corners and a grey-crowned matron sat moored at Walker’s door like a battleship ready to repel all comers, her desk fenced round.
The matron spoke through her nose about their particulars sheet, press clippings, photographs ‘to be supplied in a timely fashion’—forestalled by Aurora producing these from her music case—and the vital provision of a telephone number as soon as that could be obtained from their lodgings. Aurora steeled herself to deal with this new hurdle.
But Jimmy Battle ran into the office, jumping the fence. Their friend. In a glow of high spirits he clasped each hand in turn, and told ‘dear Dot’ to cut the cackle. ‘They’re at Sadie Jewett’s, same as me, you’ve got the number in your wonderful files!’
He opened the gate and waved them out and down the stairs. They obeyed, tying scarves and pulling on gloves, laughing at the bustle he was producing and very happy to see him—lean and black-clad as usual, legs like long matchsticks, and always debonair.
At the street door Aurora began a proper thank-you, but he would not let her speak. ‘I’m on in two hours, replacing a man with the DeWolf Girls—we’ve got to get you settled in and figure a few things out.’ As they emerged from the stage door he bundled them straight into a cab, flipped a coin to the driver and called out the address. ‘Five in a hansom’s a tight fit, but I promise it’s only a few blocks,’ Jimmy said. ‘Which one’s the smallest: you could sit on my lap, Bella, if you’d like?’
Bella laughed and said no, thank you very much, she was quite well placed.
‘Break my heart,’ he said, making a very sad face for an instant. ‘Now, dear Mrs. Avery, are you well? I heard sad news of our poor old Sybil …’
After a few minutes comforting Mama, they pulled up in front of a dark brick house with a slim veranda. Mrs. Jewett was in the hall, a talkative lady with a false bang of yellow curls. Her boy took charge of the baggage, and Mrs. Jewett ushered Mama and the younger girls upstairs to see the two rooms she had set aside.
Aurora was left behind with Jimmy in the parlour-hall. She turned to the pier-glass, but did not lift her hands to take off her hat. Hidden by its brim she looked at him: unscathed. A little smoother, but the same. She was different now.
‘I’ve had some time on my hands,’ he said. He leaned on the tall newel post, arms gently crossed, one foot angled over the other in a graceful, athletic stance. Her blood rose in her throat. He’d been kind even long ago, when he danced to help her audition at the Empress—it was because of him that they had been hired, then and now.
He caught her eye in the long glass, and said, as if it didn’t matter a whit, ‘Working on a song-and-dance number—I need a partner. Might you be persuaded to join me?’
Aurora looked at him, charged with energy, bright in this stifling wood-panelled hall. An oblique bevel of the mirror seared his cheek with a scar of sun. She felt she knew him very well, and yet they’d only spent a few moments alone in these three years.
‘A week to rehearse, two weeks’ run. Walker will pay well for the number,’ he said, as if she needed convincing. He joined her in the pier-glass. The two of them side by side, a pleasing combination of light and dark, well-matched as to size and build. ‘Two hundred a week, he promised, if it looks good when we get it sorted out,’ he said. ‘Strong placement, too: second-to-last in the first half.’
‘What of Miss Masefield?’ The play was off, Walker had said.
‘She had an opportunity,’ Jimmy said, smiling at Aurora with warm understanding. ‘New York, a revival of The Degenerates, in which she had such great success some years ago. The cast was already filled, she had no need of another young man. And so!’
Aurora wished the story were otherwise, that he’d had the resolution to quit Miss Masefield’s company. But after all, she had not quit Mayhew. She raised her arms to unpin her hat, her face bent away. The velvet cuff of her walking-suit fell back, revealing a bandage on one wrist. The silver bracelet she had worn for some time now caught on the gauze.
Jimmy put out a hand to touch the bracelet, then the bandage. ‘What’s this?’
‘Oh!’ She tucked her hands back into the cuffs. ‘Nothing! A small fire, it was nothing. Only it burnt our props, so we are having to change our act.’
‘Poor hand,’ he said. He pulled her wrist gently out into the open, and kissed above the burn. ‘Will you find time to dance with me, though?’
‘I think so—but what about us?’ Us always meaning the three of them, she and her sisters.
Jimmy laughed. ‘Double acts come and go, sister acts are more rare. Never fear, Walker wants the Belle Auroras too. He’s a man of vision, pays top dollar for good openers.’
Remembering, she pulled the grouch-bag out of her bodice and ripped the loose stitching from its inner pocket. ‘Thank you for the loan,’ she said. Forty-seven dollars; she counted them into his hand. Then she said, ‘Now that we are quits, we can be partners.’
Brittle
East and Verrall, arriving on a later train, paid a call on the girls that evening. Verrall’s arm was in a sling, but he swore he only wore it as a ploy for pity, to save joining up. East brought a white paper bag of peanut brittle, as well as the rundown on who all was in town, or had enlisted: the cream of vaudeville was rising in Winnipeg, three of its theatres counting as minor big-time—firststringers abounded, with plenty of their old friends to round out the bills. Among East’s other news: the Elocutionist, Maurice Kavanagh, was starring in a play at the Pantages.
‘Kavanagh’s a furniture actor,’ East told them disgustedly. ‘Acquits himself well enough sitting down, but the moment he stands up, he’s a joke. Grabs the back of chairs, leans against the tables—rested against a wall last week and the flat collapsed. And he’s got his lines written all over. Nice bit of business, picks up the picture of his dear wife—except when you look close, you see he’s pasted his sides on it. Soused buffoon.’
‘No, East,’ Verrall objected. ‘Nobody would know. He speaks as smooth as velvet and he’s got grace, you’ve got to give him that.’
Bella glanced across to see how Aurora took this news of Kavanagh’s decline. Not well—a pity to still be overset by an old drunk not treating her with respect years ago, Bella thought. Looking suddenly quite sick, Aurora dashed out of the parlour.
‘Bit queasy these days, ain’t she?’ East asked Bella, in an intere
sted way.
‘She’s always like that,’ Bella said, around a mouthful of brittle. East took the bag from her.
‘It’s Julius that has me worried,’ Verrall said. ‘Since—you know—since then, he doesn’t look after himself as he ought.’
‘He told me he’d found the cure for a hangover: continuous drunkenness. I thought that was rather good,’ East said. ‘Continuous vaudeville used to do the same for me.’
Mama had drawn as close to the fire as the chair would fit. ‘Sybil was my youth brought back,’ she said, into a little silence. ‘She always thought I was judging her, but I promise you, I was not.’
‘No, no, Mama,’ Clover said. ‘We know that.’
‘A good wife to Julius, a better wife than many.’ She fell silent again, and in a little while East and Verrall took their leave, recalling that orchestra rehearsal would come early next morning.
Bella and Clover walked Mama up to their chamber, finding Aurora already asleep there in the alcove bed. They helped Mama undress, and put her to bed. Bella crawled in beside her to keep her warm. She smoothed Mama’s hair with a gentle hand, watching the brown curls spring back, silver threads amongst the brown. Perhaps the man who wrote that song had been patting his mother’s hair, soothing her after some sad trial.
In the darkened room she listened to Clover moving about, tidying their things and putting on her own nightdress, linens rustling as she climbed in with Aurora in the alcove bed; then silence fell complete. This was a cozy room. Winnipeg was the best city they’d been so far. If only their act went well tomorrow, Bella thought. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and begged the world, the universe, and the Almighty to let them make a great thing of it here, to find success.
Still Mrs. Mayhew
In the morning darkness, Aurora and Mama debated which numbers, in what order, and what the girls should wear. On the ‘something glad/something sad’ principle that even the dreadful Cherry Sisters obeyed, they would begin with Buffalo Gals, a rampageous starter that would do nicely to cover latecomers and grab the attention of the house; then the fragrant Last Rose of Summer; and end with Danny Boy. Clover took Bella through the harmony again, correcting her impatiently, while Mama ran the iron through Aurora’s hair—and then the cab was at the door.
Their dressing room was shared with the two DeWolf showgirls, massive placid beauties who stood still and revolved on platforms; their ponies (smaller girls, who danced) made friendly greetings. The room was well mirrored, only two flights up; the hanging-space allotted for their costumes was if anything too much. Mama set out their things while they ran down for orchestra call. No hitches, in this smooth-running theatre. The fly-ropes ran like clockwork, the stage was clean as a whistle. The vast house, seating nearly two thousand, was a palace of white and cream and gilt. It was the most opulent theatre they’d yet played, so Aurora was interested to notice how soon it became like every other theatre: ordinary, home. Under their leader, Bert Pike, the orchestra boys were a cheerful bunch, famous for a long-continuing double-pinochle game. Even the backstage was warm, important in frigid January, and biscuits and tea were served behind the curtain before the matinee, a ceremony they hadn’t seen since the Empress.
Walker strolled about the stage himself, and bowed kindly to Mama. ‘Any word of Mayhew, by the by?’ he asked Aurora.
She looked up at him. ‘Would it matter, sir?’
‘Ha! Not to me, my dear,’ he said. ‘But it might to you.’
‘My understanding is that he has gone south, and will not be entering the Dominion again,’ she said, remaining very cool.
‘He mentioned an interest in Spokane,’ Walker continued, not pressing exactly.
‘I believe he did. But his affairs were considerably disordered after the ruin of the Muse, and I am not certain—’ She broke off, and then laughed. ‘To be candid, Mr. Walker, he found himself embarrassed before his creditors, and I doubt we’ll ever hear from him again.’
He took her elbow and said, ‘Well, well—you do right by the Walker, and I’ll do right by you, Miss Avery.’
‘Still Mrs. Mayhew, still,’ Mama corrected him. ‘Divorce being repugnant, and also, without Mr. Mayhew’s assistance, impossible.’
‘I intended only to use your daughter’s professional name, which I trust she has retained,’ Walker said smoothly.
Mrs. Walker had come down to greet the artistes as well, handsomely turned out in a brown walking dress with red velvet reverses; Walker introduced her to the girls and Mama.
‘No need, I’ve known Flora these twenty years, my dear,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m Hattie Anderson that was,’ she said. ‘I remember you from the Hey-Go-Mad Girls—you were the loveliest thing I’d ever seen, all pale blue and cream lace.’
Mama pinked with the pleasure of being remembered, and although unable to repay the compliment, thanked Mrs. Walker with a nostalgic and flourishing curtsy.
Black-and-White Puzzle
The street in front of the theatre was crowded with carriages and cars by evening. Dressed for the first number, Clover wrapped herself in her shawl and ran outside for a breath of cold air. She heard the jingle of sleigh bells even through the jostling, jockeying street noise, and watched a red cariole sleigh drive up, the coachman bulbous in buffalo on the high front seat. He handed his passengers out onto the marble walk in front of the theatre and helped them slip out of their own buffalo robes; jewellery glittered on the ladies as they emerged from the dull brown cocoons.
For a faint instant Clover missed her butterfly wings. She had felt very graceful in those wings. Now she was a dull brown ball of misery. But must shake that off, for the performance. She made her way down under the house and up to the dressing rooms, with a brief detour to the convenience—where she discovered a streak of pink on her underclothing and let out a soft gasp of relief, staring past her knees to the solved black-and-white puzzle of the tiled floor.
‘Clover?’ Aurora’s voice came through the cubicle door.
‘I’m here,’ she answered, almost cheerfully.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes! Yes I am quite all right, I just—my visitor came. I will hurry.’ She ought not to have given way to the relief, but Aurora did not seem to notice.
Warmer, Sweeter
The house held the electric hum of a good night beginning. In the wings every rope was taut, all the hands alert. None of them with a cigar. As she checked herself, Aurora saw Bella checking—dear Bella, who could have been burned so badly, and was so brave about her poor arm and shoulder. But the music was changing. Aurora watched Bella gird herself to forget about fire and danger and just be joyful. Easy enough, on a night like this, the closest to big-time they’d yet worked in vaudeville—easy to be an opener. And there was the tune, and away they went.
‘A pretty little gal I chanced to meet,
Oh, she was fair to see …’
Dancing behind her, Aurora thought that Bella was fair too—conscious of the brightness that she could command, letting it beam out to all the lovely people who had come, who were as happy to see her as she was to see them. Her heart visibly overflowing from pleasure into glee, Bella danced for her sisters and joked with them and enlisted them until they all stamped the Buffalo Gals stomp, and danced by the light of the moon.
The audience turned from their coat-arranging and coiffure-touching; they ceased to chatter and kiss and whisper, turned their sunflower faces up to the girls, and let themselves be carried away by nothing complicated, nothing effortful, just the enjoyable treat of a nice girl, clowning to make them laugh.
Quick change into their white dresses, and Mama had their garlands to hand—they were ready to fly back out even before the applause had stopped from Buffalo Gals. Aurora put out her hand and gave Clover’s a clasp, wondering about her words in the convenience—she had not thought that Clover and Victor—but, no time. They danced on with the intro to The Last Rose of Summer.
Offstage right, and ther
e was Mama waiting with Clover’s tartan sash, her fiddle, Bella’s sash—those two turned smartly and went back on—and Aurora’s sash. ‘Well done,’ Mama whispered as she slipped the sash past Aurora’s glimmering hair. ‘In very good looks tonight, my dear girl!’ She gave her a kiss and Aurora walked into the light, as the low-voiced violin began its strain.
‘Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside …’
She had not seen him before, but as she reached the end of the second verse she looked straight into Jimmy Battle’s eyes, where he leaned against the arched entrance to a box. Since he was there, she sang to him, giving him a gift of fitting love, however separated by time and luck and cowardice and greed—none of that mattering.
‘And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warmer, sweeter be …’
Behind the violin she could hear Clover holding the line for her, deepening down so that she could rise, and she turned the lamp of her attention on every person in the audience, letting each of them know how she loved them, and always, always would.
The room was still for that ineffable instant before the applause began. Then the orchestra struck up the Pantalon music, and the Belle Auroras were done.
C.P. Walker visited their dressing room before the intermission, to say he’d heard open sobs from the audience during that last number, and to suggest that they might better work in two, with more room for their pretty dancing; he’d push Bee Ho Gray’s set back into three.
‘And future dates along our circuit into February or March, if your schedule will suit? I’ll have my girl draw up an extension for you to sign tomorrow,’ Walker told Aurora.
With a genial wave, he left them. Aurora smiled at his little girl, who had tagged along at his coattail and waved her hand too. Her coat and leggings were of curly Persian lamb, and she wore red boots.
The Little Shadows Page 36
