The Cockney Sparrow

by Dilly Court

  ‘Ma, Ma, wake up.’

  Edith opened her eyes, staring blurrily at Clemency. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Ma, you’ll never guess what happened last night. I’m going to be a proper singer, on the stage.’

  Edith raised her head. ‘Fetch the po, Clemmie. I’m going to be sick.’

  Clemency made a dive for the china chamber pot and held it while Edith retched. ‘What’s the matter, Ma? Are you ill?’

  Edith lay back on her pillow, pale-faced and with her eyes closed. ‘Must’ve been something I ate last night. I’ll be fine in a moment. Tell me all about it.’

  By the time breakfast was over, the whole house knew of Clemency’s good fortune. She even had a congratulatory hug from Mrs Blunt, who appeared to be having one of her good days. It was then that Clemency remembered Jared Stone’s threat to sell the house if she refused his offer. But she had plenty of time, she told herself, and surely he wouldn’t really go through with it just because she had turned him down. There must be plenty of other young girls who were prettier and much more adept at dipping pockets than she was. He would find someone else, and forget all about her. Anyway, there were much more important things on her mind at this moment, the main one being to learn the part before she had to be at the theatre for a proper rehearsal later that morning.

  Lucilla was still sulking, and refusing to leave her room. Tom had a haunted look about him, but Augustus was so filled with enthusiasm for his new role as Clemency’s agent and manager that he did not seem to notice. He sent Tom to the dollyshop to purchase a second-hand evening suit and dress shirt for Jack, declaring that the newest member of the orchestra must not stink of stale fish. Ronnie made Clemency go over and over the libretto, until she felt her head would burst. And finally, just before midday, Augustus sent Fancy out to find a cab to take them to the Strand Theatre.

  As Clemency walked onto the stage, wearing Dorabella’s costume, which had been pinned and tacked in order to make it fit, she was so nervous that she was certain she had forgotten all the words, and that her voice would come out like the screech of a peacock rather than the mellifluous notes of a nightingale. She was, after all, the cockney sparrow, and the audience would be sure to see through the costume and heavy stage make-up. She blinked, dazzled by the flickering footlights, and her throat felt as though it had closed up. She could not breathe and she wanted to run away.

  Then someone in the assembled cast began to clap and soon everyone had joined in. She stared around at the smiling faces, bewildered by the tumultuous applause and the cheers. Horace slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘You see, Clem. There’s nothing to fear. Everyone is behind you and they will all help you get through your first performance.’

  A girl dressed in the costume of a maidservant came forward. ‘I’m Maisie, the understudy,’ she said in a hoarse voice, pointing to her throat. ‘Lost me voice so I can’t sing. Break a leg, ducks.’

  ‘Break a leg?’ Clemency turned to Horace, horrified. ‘What does she mean?’

  He gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘Actors believe that to wish someone good luck brings just the opposite. They’re a superstitious bunch, Clem. You’ll soon learn their ways.’ He smiled. ‘Break a leg, my dear.’

  The rehearsal was a disaster. Clemency stumbled through her part with much help from the prompter, and whispers of encouragement from other members of the cast, but by the end she was almost in tears, and convinced that she would not be able to perform that evening.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Maisie said with an encouraging grin. ‘A bad rehearsal is a good sign.’

  ‘Oh, crikey!’ Clemency said, sniffing. ‘I’ll never learn all this stuff.’

  ‘You will, love,’ Maisie croaked. ‘I got a bottle of Hollands in the dressing room. If you need a drop of Dutch courage, you knows where to find it.’ She skipped off stage.

  Other members of the cast patted Clemency on the back, offering words of encouragement as they hurried off to their respective dressing rooms. The lead baritone kissed her on both cheeks and the tenor pinched her bottom. She would have run off to her tiny dressing room, but across the footlights she could see Jack sitting in the orchestra pit. He had been following the score, although he could not read a note of music, but his ear was good and this would be a test of his memory. The conductor waited while the rest of the musicians filed out and then he tapped the music stand with his baton, inviting Jack to play solo. Clemency stood alone, centre stage, with her hands gripped tightly together as she willed Jack to do well. The silver notes filled the auditorium with sweet music. She would not have been at all surprised if the gilded birds on the ornate ceiling had flown down to listen to Jack’s playing. She was so proud of him that she wanted to cry. To look at him as he sat in the orchestra pit making sweet, sweet music, no one would know that he had such a crippling disability. His thick, dark eyelashes made crescents on his high cheekbones as he closed his eyes, and she knew that he was feeling the music to the core of his being. When the echo of the last note had ceased, there was a moment of complete silence, as if the theatre lay beneath a magic spell, lost in time. The conductor mopped his brow with a spotless white handkerchief and he smiled. ‘Well done, Jack. Very well done. I’m proud to have you in my orchestra.’

  The afternoon was spent in yet more fittings for the multitude of costume changes that went with the part. Clemency suffered being prodded and pinned, having to stand up, sit down and stand up again to ensure that the hem was the correct length so that she did not trip up and fall on her face. ‘If you do,’ Florrie, the dresser, explained, ‘you must kiss the hem of your frock.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you don’t it will bring bad luck.’

  While she was waiting in the wings for her cue, Clemency was shaking with stage fright. She wanted to run away and hide. She was certain that she would forget every single word and action. And everyone kept pinching her. At first she thought it was pure spite, but the call boy explained in a whisper that it was for good luck. By this time, she was convinced that all theatrical people were quite mad, and that she wanted nothing more to do with them. She was not going to go out there and make a complete fool of herself. She picked up her skirts and was about to turn and run, when someone gave her an almighty shove from behind.

  ‘That’s your cue, Clem. You’re on.’

  She stumbled onto the stage, tripping over the hem of her skirts and blinded by the popping, hissing gas footlights. Her legs had turned to lead; her mind had gone blank. She was doomed to ruin the whole show.

  ‘You can do it, Clem.’ She heard Jack’s voice in her head. She could not see him across the footlights, but she knew he was down there in the orchestra pit. She felt him willing her on. She picked up the hem of her beautiful gown and kissed it for good luck.

  The performance did not go without a hitch. Clemency missed some of her cues and fluffed many of her words. But she soon realised that she was not alone. The whole cast was on her side, covering her mistakes, and helping her through the performance. Off stage they might bicker and quarrel, thoroughly dislike each other and jealously compete for better parts, but all that was put aside when the curtain went up. The audience seemed not to notice the slight pauses when Clemency had forgotten what she was supposed to be doing, or that she improvised when she had forgotten the words. At the final curtain, the applause was deafening, with repeated calls of ‘encore’. They took six curtain calls and at the last one, the call boy walked on to present Clemency with a bouquet of yellow roses. She did not know whether to laugh or cry as she followed the rest of the cast off the stage.

  Horace came up to her and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘The flowers are a small token of my appreciation, Clem. Well done, my dear. We’ll make a star of you yet.’

  Augustus was waiting in her tiny dressing room. Clemency stifled a giggle as he waddled towards her, looking like an overfed penguin in his second-hand evening suit. His smile was so broad that his eyes almost disappeared behind his p
uffed-out cheeks. ‘Well done, my little sugarplum. I knew you could do it.’

  ‘But I made a terrible mess of some of it, Augustus. I couldn’t remember all the words.’

  ‘No matter. That will come, poppet. You touched the hearts of the audience and they loved you. My only talent is that I can spot it in other people. My little Lucilla has a beautiful voice and a pretty face, but she could not have done what you did tonight. With my help, Clem, you will be a shining star in the theatrical firmament.’

  Clemency soon discovered that becoming a shining star was not as easy as Augustus had made it sound. Her days were filled with rehearsals, lessons in singing, drama and deportment from a fierce old lady who had apparently once been a star of the Opéra Comique in Paris. Clemency left the lodging house early each morning and caught the green Bow omnibus to the Strand. Augustus and Jack followed later in a hansom cab, leaving Tom, Ronnie and Lucilla to work the streets on their own.

  By the end of the first week, Clemency was word perfect. Jack had mastered the music almost from the first, and he was now learning to read the musical score. He seemed so happy and excited with his new career that Clemency was delighted for him. Her own life was so completely occupied with the theatre and her new friends that she had no time to worry about Jared, or even to think about Ned. For the first time in her life she was earning a real wage. She had no need now to beg for a few coppers from Augustus, or to bargain over stolen items in Minski’s dingy shop. She felt rich, in spite of having to give fifteen per cent to Augustus, which he said was for managing her business affairs, although as far as she could see there were none to manage. Then she had to pay rent to Mrs Blunt for their board and lodging, which left her a shilling a week to spend on herself, but those twelve pennies meant more to Clemency than if they had been twelve golden guineas. With her first week’s wages, she bought some green-glass bead earrings for Ma, which matched her eyes and made her smile. Ma had continued to be poorly in spite of a dose of Dr Collis Browne’s Chlorodyne medicine. She had been quieter than usual, although Clemency saw very little of her during the first heady weeks of rehearsals and performances. And now, with the run of the current production coming to an end, the cast had begun rehearsals of Mother-in-Law, a frivolous comedy, followed by Vulcan, or the (h)ammer-ous Blacksmith, a burlesque, as they were styled on the posters and handbills. Clemency had only a small speaking part in the first play, and the lead in Vulcan, but each day she became more confident. She was so happy that she had to keep pinching herself to make certain that she was not dreaming.

  On the morning of the last performance, she woke up to find Ma retching into the chamber pot. Clemency wriggled to the end of the mattress and sat up. ‘Ma, you ought to see a doctor. You’ve been sick every morning for weeks. It can’t be right.’

  Edith raised a haggard face and her mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘I’m not ill, ducks. I was like this both times with Jack and then with you.’

  Clemency stared at her, hardly able to believe her ears. ‘You mean – no, you can’t be, Ma.’

  ‘Why not? I’m only thirty-seven, That ain’t too old to fall pregnant, but I never thought it would happen again. Not after all this time.’

  ‘I dunno what to say. Have you told Mickey?’

  Edith shook her head. ‘He’ll run a mile.’

  ‘Maybe not, Ma. He might be pleased.’

  ‘Fat lot you know about men, Clemmie. Blokes like Mickey don’t want to be tied down with a family.’

  ‘He might surprise you. You got to tell him, Ma.’

  ‘I’ll never see him again if I do.’

  ‘It ain’t something you can hide forever. You must tell him. You might be surprised at how he takes the news.’

  All morning Clemency worried about Ma. She had not told Jack. Boys were funny about their mums; she knew that for a fact. Jack would be mad as fire if Mickey didn’t do the right thing by Ma. With her mind occupied, Clemency forgot the dance steps and was shouted at by the ballet mistress. With a bit of a struggle, she put Ma’s problem out of her mind and concentrated on her work.

  At the final curtain, Clemency was presented with a bouquet of flowers. As she danced off the stage, she saw a dark stain spreading down the front of her costume. The flowers were dripping water and their stems were muddy. ‘Oy, you. Charlie.’

  The call boy came towards her grinning sheepishly. ‘What’s up, miss?’

  ‘Where did you pinch these flowers? They never come from a shop, now did they?’

  Charlie pulled a face. ‘Don’t you know nothing about the theatre, miss? On the closing night, the leading lady gets a bunch of flowers pinched from a graveyard. I had to risk life and limb to get them for you. It’s tradition. So there!’ He stalked off with an offended twitch of his narrow shoulders.

  ‘Tradition! They’re all blooming barmy,’ Clemency muttered, as she went to her dressing room to change out of her costume. She dropped the bouquet into the waste bin with a shudder. ‘Who’d want funeral flowers? Not me.’

  She wiped off the thick greasepaint and washed her face in a bowl of warm water provided by Nan, the dresser who took care of her. She was fully dressed, and was buttoning her boots, when Charlie stuck his head round the door.

  ‘You’re wanted on stage, miss.’

  Thinking that it must be Jack who had sent for her, she hurried through the dimly lit corridors to the wings. The auditorium was in darkness with just the ghost light left burning on the stage, yet another old theatrical superstition, to keep the spirits of dead actors from taking up residence after the theatre had emptied. A shiver ran down her spine as a tall shadow emerged from the far side of the stage.

  ‘Who is it?’ Her voice shook and her heart had begun to pump wildly; her palms were damp with sweat. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’ve been most patient, waiting for your decision.’ Jared stepped from the shadows into the flickering candlelight. ‘The waiting time is over. I want your answer, and I want it now.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘You must be mad.’ The words came tumbling out before Clemency could stop herself. She bit her lip. ‘I mean, why would I want to turn back to crime when I’m doing so well in the theatre? I’m a star, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Jared strolled across the apron of the stage. With the light behind him, his shadow crept across the boards to engulf her, and when he stopped just a few steps away from Clemency it was too dark for her to make out the expression on his face. She felt, rather than saw, his anger. ‘You’re a street singer who had a lucky break, my dear. You have a good voice but you are untrained and undisciplined. You’re an amateur.’

  ‘That ain’t fair! I’ve had good reviews in the newspapers.’

  ‘And today those same newspapers will have been wrapped around fish and chips or used to light fires.’

  ‘I don’t care what you say. I am a star.’

  ‘And who said so? The idiot Augustus? He’s making money out of you, just the same as old Claypole. You may have the leading role this week, but I hear he’s going to sign up a star from the Opéra Comique in Paris for the next production. You’ll be lucky if they choose you to be her understudy.’

  ‘That’s not true. You’re lying.’

  His laugh echoed round the empty auditorium. ‘Ask Claypole if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Go away and leave me alone. I don’t want nothing to do with you, Jared Stone.’ Clemency stamped her foot, biting back tears of anger and frustration. He was lying, of course he was. Everything he said was aimed at hurting her and to achieve his own selfish ends. ‘Go away.’

  He took her by the hand. ‘Come and work with me. I’m offering you a life of excitement and luxury, the like of which you’ll never get in the theatre. Stay here and you’ll end up singing on street corners again, or worse.’

  ‘I’d rather sing on street corners than be your creature. I don’t envy that poor girl what lives with you now. I suppose you’ll throw her out on the street when you’ve had e
nough of her, just like you done with Meg.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. And don’t you ever mention Izzie’s name in the same breath as Meg Jones.’ He dropped her hand as if her flesh had burnt him. ‘You’ll live to regret your decision, but I won’t ask you again.’

  He walked off, but Clemency could not allow him to have the last word. ‘So what will you do then, Mr Stone? Sell the lodging house like you threatened and turn us all out on the street? That ain’t what I’d call the action of a gent.’

  He paused, turning his head to stare coldly at her. ‘I’m not so much of a villain that I would make innocent people homeless. But you won’t find my new agent so lenient as the last man. If the rent is overdue then Hardiman will have no alternative but to evict the lot of you, including the landlady.’

  ‘H-Hardiman!’ The word almost choked her. ‘Did you say Hardiman?’

  ‘I see his reputation goes before him. That is exactly what I wanted. Todd Hardiman won’t stand for feeble excuses when it comes to collecting rents. I won’t throw you out on the street, Clemency. But I’d advise you not to fall foul of my agent. I gather he’s a bad man to cross. Goodbye, my dear. You won’t be seeing me again.’

  She did not wait for him to leave the stage. Clemency turned and ran back through the corridors to the musicians’ dressing room, where she knew Jack would be waiting for her. She found him on his own, smoking a cigarette. He looked up as she burst into the room and he exhaled a plume of smoke. ‘Where’s the fire?’ His smile froze. ‘What’s up, Clemmie?’

  ‘Jack, we got to leave Flower and Dean Street. We got to get away tonight, or at least first thing in the morning.’ She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

  ‘Hey, hey! What’s the panic? Who’s scared you like this?’

  ‘I just saw Stone. He’s hired Hardiman as his agent. I don’t think he knows our connection with him, but we got to get away before he finds us.’