by Rayne, Sarah
Petrovnic had launched straight into an impassioned plea to the members of Tranz to gather their strength and stand fast to the cause. A number of the younger ones gave soft cheers at this, and when he said, ‘I need you all—I need all of you, body and soul,’ two ladies sitting near to Toby sighed and hugged their arms round their upper bodies.
As they all knew, said Petrovnic, the old Austro-Hungarian Empire had been built by conquest and intrigues and above all by treacheries, and one of those treacheries was the annexing of Bosnia and Herzegovina a few years earlier.
‘It was an act of imperialistic greed at its worst. It was the arrogant high-handedness of the Habsburgs who feel the need to show they are still Europe’s overlords.’ He looked round the room. ‘They must not be permitted to behave in such a fashion any longer. We must make our protests—the Serb races, the people of Bosnia and of Herzegovina, must be allowed their independence.
‘His Imperial Highness, Franz-Ferdinand von Habsburg-Lothringen,’ said Petrovnic, practically spitting the name and title out, ‘is to visit the capital of Bosnia at the end of June, to direct army manoeuvres in the neighbouring mountains. And, my dear friends, when Franz-Ferdinand gets there, Tranz will be there also. Tranz will seize its opportunity, and it will demonstrate its anger.’
Franz-Ferdinand, thought Toby, his eyes on the speaker. What do I know about him? Not very much—they’re a complex family, those Habsburgs. But I think the Franz-Ferdinand Petrovnic’s talking about is heir apparent to the Austro-Hungarian throne. I don’t like this. I think there’s something a bit sinister behind it.
But despite the sense of dark undercurrents, he was swept along by the allure of Tranz’s ideals. Was it possible that his father had got them wrong? Everything Petrovnic was saying about the regaining of independence, the sweeping away of the old Austrian imperial rule, was finding a strong response in Toby. Why should Bosnia and Serbia not have their independence and their country? Why should Austria be allowed to arrogantly march in and take them over?
When Petrovnic, his voice rising to a near shout, cried that the Austro-Hungarian Empire was corrupt—that it had been built by conquest and intrigue and treachery—half the audience leapt to their feet, cheering their agreement, and Toby found himself on his feet with them.
‘A protest march!’ cried Petrovnic, his hair dishevelled, his face flushed and his eyes blazing. ‘A protest such as no one has ever known before! That is what we shall stage for this decadent imperialist line! Our friends will come from other countries—the Czechs long to be independent of Austrian rule and the Romanians live under Hungarian administration in the protection of the Romanian crown. So we must make the voice of Tranz and the voice of the people heard. And the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand—’ He stopped very deliberately and looked round the room. No one moved or spoke. ‘The Archduke,’ said Petrovnic, almost in a whisper now, ‘will have no choice but to listen. Governments will have no choice but to listen. And if we are steadfast, the people of Bosnia and Herzegovina will be free.’ He looked round the room. ‘Well, my friends? Who will accompany me on this quest for justice? For freedom? Who will come to Sarajevo for the twenty-eighth day of June? Who will be there? A show of hands, please! Volunteers!’
Toby was aware of five or six people raising their hands and of most of the others nodding and cheering. They won’t all go, he thought. I don’t suppose they can—most of them will have families and work, and the cost of the journey will probably be beyond their means. He saw that the straight-backed old lady was one of the people who had raised a hand, and that Sonja had done so as well. Her eyes were shining and her lips were parted with excitement, and as if sensing his regard she turned to look at him.
‘Not joining us, Mr Chance?’ she said, challengingly. ‘Or don’t you care about the oppressed nations of the world? Doesn’t that kind of thing reach Kensington or the artificial world of the theatre?’
Toby was about to reply angrily that he was damned if he was going to go mad-rabbiting across an entire continent, simply to wave a few flags against imperialism and shout slogans at a Habsburg archduke, but Sonja was already saying, dismissively, that she supposed the journey would be too difficult for him.
‘Most of it’s by train and the conditions won’t be in the least what you’re used to, anyway. No grand hotels or first-class railway compartments. Certainly not the Orient-Express.’
‘But,’ said Toby, ‘I don’t suppose there are many places in the world Thomas Cook’s can’t reach.’
He saw that he had disconcerted her, and was aware that Alicia had turned to look at him. Sonja said, ‘You surely don’t mean you’d come with us to Sarajevo?’
She sounded so incredulous that Toby was furious with her. ‘If your friend with the gift for oratory will take me, I’ll certainly come with you.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE SAW ALICIA HOME, but managed to avoid going into the elegant little house with her, pleading the extreme lateness of the hour and the demands of his performance earlier at the Tarleton. For once he could not have coped with Alicia’s silken bedroom and her silken love-making; he needed to be alone, because he was starting to feel horrified at what he had done, although he was determined to show that scornful opinionated Sonja Kaplen that he cared just as deeply about oppression as anyone else.
As yet he had no idea what he would say to his father, but he would think of something. Preparing for bed in his own room, he made a mental review of his appearances at the Tarleton for the forthcoming month. There were only two and one was in four days’ time, the other in two weeks’. After that, there was nothing that could not be postponed. In any case, the theatre put on very few shows at the end of June—‘People don’t want to sit in hot theatres in the summer months,’ Flora Chance always said. ‘So it’s a good opportunity for us to give the old place a lick of paint and a bit of a spruce-up.’
He slept fitfully and woke at four. What had he done? Bosnia, for pity’s sake! Half a world away. Unknown language, unfamiliar people, appalling travelling conditions, all in company with people he had only just met… And simply because that infuriating Sonja Kaplen had taunted him with being too wrapped in a soft Kensington life to care about suffering and deprivation! No, be fair, it was as much that he had been attracted by the idea of righting wrongs inflicted by a decadent Austrian Empire and helping an oppressed nation regain its independence and identity. At midnight in a roomful of eager people—some of them persuasive and attractive—this had been an alluring idea, the stuff dreams were made of and from which stirring adventures were woven. In the dawn of a stuffy bedroom by himself, it was annoying and even vaguely sinister.
By half past five he began to feel irritated with the whole thing. It ought not to be Tranz keeping him awake in this too-hot dawn; it ought to be the pleasing memory of how well the new song had been received, and of how he would sing it again that night.
At six he got up and found his old school atlas, turning the pages until he came to Bosnia. There it was, rather like an inverted triangle. South of Hungary, west of Romania. It was considerably further east than he had been thinking, in fact alarmingly so—you only had to cross the Aegean Sea to be in Turkey. Persian carpets and Scheherazade spinning stories, thought Toby. Caliphs and grand viziers and the Ottoman Empire. And if you went north, across the Black Sea, you would be in Russia: tzars and troikas and wolves in the forests and Fabergé eggs. He considered all of this and thought if he really did make this journey, then plainly he was madder than anyone had yet suspected.
He tried going back to bed but at seven o’clock gave up the attempt to sleep and got up again, splashing cold water on his face and pulling on the nearest clothes. As he slipped out of the house everywhere was silent, and Toby walked round the square, enjoying the early-morning quiet. Even at this hour, there was a haze across the park, suggesting insufferable heat would build up as the morning progressed.
He got back to the house in time to see Minnie setting out breakfas
t in the small morning room at the back. He smiled and said good morning to her, at which she grunted something unintelligible, and stumped out.
Toby helped himself to eggs and bacon and a large cup of coffee, and when his mother came in, he said, ‘It looks as if Minnie was in the Sailor’s Retreat again last night.’
‘She was and she said they were singing “Tipsy Cake” in there by half past ten, and doing so with great relish,’ said Flora, and Toby experienced a rush of undiluted delight. That’s what my life really is, he thought. Writing songs and singing them, and trying to make the Tarleton as prosperous as possible. Not gadding off to bizarre countries to shout rude slogans at archdukes and annoy emperors. Yes, but I gave my word. How will I back out of it?
‘Some of the regulars at the Sailor’s Retreat had been to the performance,’ Flora was saying.
‘And they went back there afterwards to eat,’ said Toby. ‘Mutton pie and ale. I keep telling you the Oyster Bar charges too much for at least half our audiences. Serve them jellied eels and stout or one of the old sixpenny ordinaries and they’d eat there.’
‘I’m certainly going to see if we can serve tipsy cake tomorrow night,’ said Flora, pouring coffee, and Toby looked up quickly, pleased at the idea and annoyed for not having thought of it himself. ‘It’s a fairly easy thing to assemble anyway,’ said Flora. ‘Layers of sponge cake soaked in sherry, with jam and cream. But whatever we give them to eat, they like your song. It sounds as if it’s one of your best yet.’
‘Moderately reasonable,’ mumbled Toby. ‘It’s going to the printers today to be engraved for the song sheets.’
‘It sounds as if it’s a bit more than reasonable,’ said Flora. ‘I thought I’d come in tomorrow to hear it.’
‘Did you? Good.’
‘Toby, are you really going to eat a second helping of eggs and bacon?’
‘I am,’ said Toby and grinned at her with affection and approval. She must be approaching fifty and the slender girl who had plied that infamous fan for the delight of half the male population of London’s halls had vanished beneath a degree of unashamed plumpness. But it was an attractive plumpness, satin-skinned and firm, and her hair was still glossy and becomingly dressed. She wore a discreet touch of rice powder on her nose, and her outfit that morning was a well-cut moss-green silk costume. Even after all these years, Toby had seen his father look at her with love and pride. He wondered if he would ever feel like that about someone himself. On present showing it did not seem very likely.
‘Are you working here today, or are you at the theatre?’ enquired Flora.
‘What? Oh, I think I’ll work here after I’ve seen the printers,’ said Toby. ‘I’ve got an idea for a new song about a theatre ghost.’
‘The Tarleton’s ghost?’ There was an unusually sharp note in her voice.
‘No, it’s the old saying about the ghost paying the wages,’ said Toby. He glanced at her. ‘I’ve never asked if you ever saw the Tarleton’s ghost?’ He was quite surprised to hear himself asking this question. But she’ll laugh and say that of course she never saw it, he thought. And that there are no such things.
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘Yes, I did see it once.’
Toby looked at her in surprise. ‘You’ve never mentioned it before.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Flora. ‘Before I married your father. And I was never actually sure what I had seen: it was one of those fog-ridden nights, so afterwards I thought I might have been mistaken.’
‘That’s part of the legend, though. He’s only ever been seen walking through the fog.’
‘Has he? I didn’t know that. I daresay it’s just that fog makes the story sound more eerie,’ said Flora rather indifferently. Then she smiled, said something about hoping he would not work too hard in this killing heat, and went out of the room before he could ask any more questions. Toby could not decide if his reference to the ghost had upset her. Perhaps it had reminded her of her youth and made her feel a bit wistful. He thought he would not mention it again, and in any case he did not really want to know the ghost’s provenance. He would rather keep it mysterious and timeless, so he could slot it into whatever century he liked, and allot to it whatever tragedy or melodrama or romance occurred to him. He wondered if this made him a thwarted romantic, or a ghost story writer manqué?
He saw the printers—there was going to be a rather good cover on this song sheet: a leery, beery gentleman in butler’s attire winking at a mob-capped cook, with an improbably lush, cream-topped confection of the chef’s art set between them. Toby approved the cover, and went back to the house to work on his new song. There was a large empty room next to his bedroom which he had turned into a study, importing a big oak desk, two comfortably battered chairs and most of his books.
After lunch, he heard his mother come upstairs and go into her own bedroom and close the door. It was quite unusual for her to retire to her room during the day, but the heat this summer was enough to drain anyone’s energy. Toby carried on working and at six o’clock went out to Frank Douglas’s comfortable, slightly battered rooms in Earls Court to see if they could fit music to his lyrics.
Frank was pleased with the proposed cover for ‘Tipsy Cake’, and he loved the concept of the salary-distributing ghost in Toby’s new lyrics. He adored making people laugh and he immediately sat down to improvise some beautifully semi-eerie, semi-comic music. They spent the evening polishing this and rehearsing the song, sending out for beer and hot steak pies halfway through. By midnight they were agreed that the song would be ready for Saturday night.
Toby had kept the first few lines exactly as they had formed in his head that evening in the theatre when he had heard Alicia walking about.
On Friday nights the ghost walks
Rattling its chains to itself;
Because that’s the night the ghost hands out the pelf.
They agreed they would ask Rinaldi to turn down some of the footlights at that point, and Toby thought they might even have something clanked loudly off-stage to indicate chains, or even create echoing footsteps. Filling the rain-box with lead shot ought to work very effectively.
Two more lines followed the opening chorus, describing how the ghost shook its head mournfully at the amounts it had to pay out and bewailing the fact that it had never been paid half as much in its own heyday. Then came a verse listing the tribulations of the actors themselves as they waited for wages night.
There’s sweet Daisy Croker who dances the polka
By Thursday she’s gone to the nearest pawnbroker…
There’s young Johnnie Smart Heels who turns fifty cartwheels
And adds a few tumbles to hide stomach rumbles…
And Leo the Strong Arm who don’t come to much harm
Until he’s deprived of his nightly half quartern…
But on Friday night the ghost walks,
Always as white as a sheet
Cheerless as sin, so they buy it some gin,
And some bedsocks for its feet.
Frank said the Saturday night audience would love it; almost all of them would understand about running out of money by Thursday and resorting to pawning things, and about enjoying a drink in the pub no matter how broke they might be.
By this time Toby was more or less resigned to the journey to Bosnia with Tranz. He had tried to think of a way to renege on it and had thought of at least three excuses that would hold water. The trouble was that he kept seeing Sonja Kaplen’s contemptuous expression if he broke his word.
Flora Chance’s bedroom overlooked the garden, and someone, probably Minnie, had opened the windows earlier on so the room was cool. The scent of lavender and lilac drifted in, mingling with the tang of herbs from the little kitchen garden. Parsley and thyme like the old song, and the cool sharpness of the mint. Fennel and rosemary. Rosemary was for remembrance, of course, everyone knew that old line, although Flora could never remember where it was from. Toby would probably know, she would ask him later.
<
br /> She could hear a faint clatter of crockery from the kitchen—she and Hal were going to the theatre with some of his Foreign Office colleagues tonight and then entertaining them to supper here afterwards, so Flora would shortly have to make sure the preparations were all in hand. It would be what cook called an informal summer meal, but there would still be panics about whether the salmon mousse was setting and if the iced pudding would stay properly iced in the current heat. Flora would help the kitchen staff to solve these problems and it would be one of the many times when she would be secretly amused to think the girl from the East End could these days coolly give orders to a cook and supervise the correct laying of a table for ten people. I’ve come a long way, she thought with the self-deprecatory amusement this knowledge always gave her.
But only a small part of her heard these ordinary household sounds because the memories and ghosts were crowding in, blotting out everything else. Ghosts… One ghost in particular…
‘I’ve never asked if you ever saw the Tarleton’s ghost?’ Toby had said, and Flora had managed a light-hearted reply. She had seen it more than just once, that figure. And she had known who it was and what its purpose was, and that was the really dreadful part of those memories.
She leaned her face against the coolness of the windowpane. From Toby’s room came the occasional snatch of piano music; he was no pianist, but he had a small upright piano in his room and he could play enough to help with the initial shaping of his lyrics. Busking it, he called it, smiling with his father’s smile. Flora loved it when he looked like that. Toby was one of the very best things in her life: one of the shining things. He had said the new song was something to do with the hoary theatrical expression about the ghost walking—meaning the paying of wages to the actors at the end of the week.
