Rose Campion and the Stolen Secret

by Lyn Gardner

  Rose carried on with the scene, despite the distraction of Ned and the increasing commotion from backstage. She blinked into the semi-darkness and sneaked another look at Ned. His smile had gone, to be replaced by a much more serious and urgent demeanour. He seemed to be trying to tell her something. He was miming holding a baby and he kept pointing at her and then pointing at the baby and mouthing words she couldn’t make out. She wondered if he was trying to tell her that he and Grace were having another baby. But why wouldn’t he just pop backstage after the show and tell her? She was pleased to see him, anyway, hoping it meant that he had come to accept Thomas’s offer of a job.

  The Shakespeare scene was drawing to an end. It was just as well. The small audience was becoming restive. There were even a few catcalls. Rose glanced up again to the gallery. Ned had gone. She was surprised. She hadn’t noticed him leave. She was disappointed too. Her acting was clearly so bad that even he, who had always been her biggest fan, couldn’t be bothered to stay and watch the end of the scene. She suddenly felt less keen to see him again.

  After the desultory applause, she walked gloomily into the wings, tugged off her wig and britches, and pulled on the skirt she had left by the side of the stage. Such mayhem had broken out by the stage door that all thought of Ned went straight out of her mind. Trunks and boxes were piled high, and a very large woman who looked as if she had been stuffed like a sausage into a tartan dress was waving her arms theatrically and fanning her crimson face.

  “Sorry, missus,” said one of the stagehands. “The gaffer – I mean Mr Campion – ’ad to go out. He should be back soon.”

  “It’s an outrage!” screeched the red-faced woman. “Mr Campion promised he’d be here to greet the arrival of his new star in person.”

  Rose stared. She had never seen a grown woman stamp her foot before. It was hard to resist the urge to laugh. Next to the red-faced woman stood a slight, scowling girl around Rose’s age with rusty brown hair twisted into ringlets. Dressed in wine-coloured taffeta, the girl wore six matching ribbons in her hair.

  “My precious Aurora, my treasure, is going to be number one on the bill, you know!” continued the woman. “I’ve never been so insulted!”

  She pulled out a silk handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with it theatrically.

  Rose’s natural friendliness won out over her urge to slap the silly woman and tell her to stop making such a fuss.

  “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “Can I help you?”

  The woman in the tartan dress suddenly quietened. She raised a lorgnette to one eye and appraised Rose.

  “I should hope so,” she said. “I’m Lizzie Gawkin and this is Miss Aurora Scarletti, otherwise known as the amazing Infant Phenomenon. And who might you be?”

  “I know who she is,” interrupted the girl rudely from under her long dark lashes. “I asked one of the stagehands. He told me all about her, how she was found abandoned on the doorstep and Thomas Campion took her in. She’s Rose Campion and I’ve been watching her act.”

  The girl looked down her nose at Rose and said the word “act” as if it had a nasty smell. Then she pointedly turned her back. Lizzie raised her lorgnette again and considered Rose with intense interest.

  Rose had to suppress an urge to laugh at the girl’s rudeness. But the name “Infant Phenomenon” sparked a memory. She’d heard about the child-star and her battleaxe aunt from a troupe of castanet dancers who had passed briefly through Campion’s over a year ago and had seen the Infant Phenomenon perform in a hall near Paris. One of the girls in the troupe had done a very funny impression of the act. She tied her hair in bunches, put a finger in her mouth and lisped a popular song as if she was five years old, and then ran around the room pirouetting and curtseying like a prize pony tossing its mane.

  “It was probably really charming and raked in the money when she was seven or eight,” she’d said, “but the bairn’s growing up fast. She’s in long skirts. It’s a shame cos she’s got talent. If only her aunt would let her grow up and do summat new.”

  Rose knew that things must be desperate for Thomas to even think of bringing the Infant Phenomenon to Campion’s. It was the kind of simpering act he hated.

  “I demand to see Mr Campion immediately!” screeched Lizzie Gawkin. “I will not allow my little treasure to be insulted like this.”

  Rose stole another glance at the girl’s sulky face. She was staring at her aunt in a way that was hard to interpret. Then she caught Rose looking at her and gave a tight little smile.

  “Don’t worry, Rose Campion,” she said in the kind of careful English that comes from spending a long time abroad. “You don’t have to embarrass yourself on stage any longer. I’ll be playing Arthur from now on. And all the other child roles too. It’s written into my contract.”

  Rose was stunned. She must be lying. Thomas would never allow it! He knew how much these small opportunities to act meant to her.

  At that moment Thomas walked through the door. “Mrs Gawkin, my apologies. I was delayed on business. Welcome to Campion’s.”

  He took her gloved hand, and raised it gallantly to his lips. For just a second Rose saw a puzzled look on his face as if he was trying to remember where he’d seen the woman before.

  “Mr Campion, pleased, I’m sure,” said Lizzie with all the affectation of a duchess. “This is my little treasure, Aurora, the Infant Phenomenon.”

  Thomas and the girl bowed and bobbed. Rose could see him trying to disguise his disbelief; she was prepared to bet that Lizzie hadn’t been completely truthful about the “infant’s” age. She was almost as tall as Rose.

  “Mrs Gawkin, will you honour me by joining me in a glass of brandy or port?” asked Thomas.

  “I’d be delighted, Mr Campion,” said Lizzie. “Just to get over the shock of arriving and not getting the appropriate welcome. By the way, Mr Campion, before I forget – I am expecting a very important letter. Please ensure that it gets to me safely.”

  Thomas nodded and turned to Rose. Before he could say anything, she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Thomas,” she said, a chill in her voice, “is it true that Miss Scarletti will be playing all the child roles from now on?”

  Thomas went to put his hand on Rose’s shoulder but she pulled away. She knew he would only have brought the Infant Phenomenon to Campion’s if he thought the act was going to help save the music hall, and she had vowed that she would do all she could to help too. But she had never imagined it would mean giving up performing the roles she loved to someone else. Her world had shifted; the future was uncertain and she suddenly felt dreadfully insecure.

  “Rose,” said Thomas, and she could hear the desperation in his voice. “I was going to tell you. Tonight. I promise. I got my dates mixed up and I thought they were arriving tomorrow. Let’s talk about it later. There’s plenty of other things for you to do to help Campion’s. We really need you.”

  Rose could see Lizzie Gawkin clocking the tension between her and Thomas and filing it away in her head for future use. She didn’t want to give the woman the satisfaction of knowing how angry she was, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt so hurt by Thomas’s failure to warn her, and by the other girl’s rudeness about her acting. Maybe she was right. Maybe Rose had no talent and Thomas had only been humouring her because he thought of her like a daughter.

  “That’s fine, Thomas,” she said coolly. “Let me know when you’ve got a spare five minutes and we can talk about my new duties.”

  Rose turned on her heel and walked out of the stage door but not before she had seen the look of hurt on Thomas’s face.

  Rose marched down Hangman’s Alley towards the river. Somebody was standing in the shadows near the end of the alley, whistling “Pop Goes the Weasel”. It sounded eerie in the fog that was filling up her lungs like treacle. She crossed the slippery riverside path and scrambled on to the wall, sitting there in the chill exhausted by hurt and anxiety.

  Below her, the ghostly figures of the mu
dlarks could just be made out in the fog as they scavenged on the exposed shoreline. Rose watched as a small grubby boy who looked about seven sifted through the oozing black sludge, searching for metal and bones. His fingers were bleeding.

  “No luck?” called Rose. Only yesterday she had bought an old bicycle off the mudlarks, a strange, misshapen metal fish that they had rescued from the river. Rose was sure that she and the stagehands could do it up; she wondered whether they might even be able to incorporate it in an act.

  The boy shook his head. “Naught but red worms. All fat and bloated on the body they fished out the river down by London Bridge at noon,” he said.

  “Man or woman?” asked Rose.

  “Man, poor soul,” said the boy. “By the look of ’im, they say he can only have just gone in. Eels ’adn’t ’ad time to get ’is eyes.”

  Rose shivered, felt in her pocket and found a farthing.

  “Here,” she called to the boy and she tossed him the coin. He rewarded her with a broad, toothy grin and went back to his sieving. It made her think how much better her life was than that of the mudlarks. Even if she could no longer act, she still had plenty of food to eat and somewhere warm to sleep.

  She suddenly felt ashamed of the way she had treated Thomas, who she knew loved her like a daughter. He was so worried all the time about losing Campion’s, it was hardly surprising that he had mixed up the date of the arrival of the Infant Phenomenon. Rose just hoped Aurora would bring in the crowds.

  “Come and find me at Campion’s if you dredge up anything good,” she shouted to the boy. Then she slipped off the wall and started to make her way back to find Thomas and make things up with him. Rose never bore a grudge for long, and neither did Thomas. She suddenly realised how hungry she was and stopped to buy a pie. She was about to bite through the crust into the steaming gravy when a commotion started up in the street. A boy with a livid scar down his face tore across the road followed by a girl around Rose’s age. She was as thin as paper and she had lanky blonde hair, a heart-shaped face and fierce hazel eyes. She was shouting indignantly after the boy.

  “Give it back!” she cried. “Give me back me money, you thief.”

  The boy didn’t stop, and disappeared down a muddy, rutted lane that led into a maze of streets, then vanished into the fog. The girl, still shouting, went to follow him but Rose caught her arm.

  “Let it go. He’s one of the Tanner Street boys, and you don’t mess with them any more than you mess with a pit bull terrier. I wouldn’t go down there, if I were you. Anyone you meet will as soon as cut your throat and steal the clothes off your back as give you the time of day.”

  The girl shook off her arm.

  “He tricked me. Told me he’d take me to a lodging house and get me a place on a rag-gathering gang if I gave him me deuce.” The girl’s hazel eyes welled with furious tears. She was shaking her head at her own stupidity. “He’s a low-down, lying prigger.”

  A man in the crowd, which had gathered to watch the unfolding drama, jeered.

  “And you’re the Queen of Sheba. More like a little pickpocket yourself.”

  The girl raised her fists. “I ain’t no pickpocket,” she said indignantly. “Honest as the day, that’s me.”

  The man laughed at her fierceness and Rose laid a soothing hand on her shoulder.

  “Here,” said Rose, offering her untouched pie. “Have this.”

  The girl eyed it for a moment and then took the pie, stuffed it ravenously into her mouth and chewed furiously. Gravy ran down her chin.

  “I ain’t no pickpocket,” she insisted again through a mouthful of food.

  “Are you all on your own? No family?” asked Rose.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Do you have somewhere to go for the night?” Rose continued.

  The girl stuck out her chin defiantly and frowned. She wasn’t going to let this one trick her like the scar-faced boy had. She wouldn’t trust her too easily.

  “You think I was born yesterday,” she said hotly. “I ain’t no pigeon. I know how to look after meself.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” said Rose. “But if you ever need help, come to Campion’s.”

  The girl put her head on one side like an inquisitive bird. Campion’s! Grace Dorset had been talking about it only this afternoon. Maybe it was fate?

  “Campion’s Palace of Varieties and Wonders,” said Rose proudly, by way of explanation. “It’s not far. Down Hangman’s Alley.”

  “The music hall,” breathed the girl, and her eyes filled with sunshine at the thought.

  “We put on melodramas and pantomimes too.” Rose smiled encouragingly.

  A struggle was taking place in the girl’s face. She looked back down the dark lane where the boy had disappeared. She’d like to try to get her deuce back, prove to herself and this girl that she wasn’t an easy mark. Go to Campion’s with her stomach full and her head held high.

  “Mebbe I’ll come by later,” she said hesitantly.

  “Suit yourself,” said Rose. “You’d be welcome. Any time. Ask for Rose.”

  The girl bit her lip and nodded. “I’m Effie.”

  Rose reached into her pocket and handed Effie a penny. The girl protested, but Rose wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Effie watched Rose disappear into the fog. Every bone in her body was telling her to run after her. She had felt safe with Rose. She looked down at the penny in her palm. Maybe it would change her luck. She could always go to Campion’s tomorrow or the day after if need be. It would be her safety net, and she felt better just knowing it was there. But she desperately wanted to stand on her own two feet, prove to herself, her mum and the world that she could do it.

  Aurora sat, bored, at a table in the Four Cripples, just round the corner from Campion’s, trying to pretend she was listening to Lizzie’s rambling monologue. Thomas Campion had been insistent that, since he had not been expecting the Infant Phenomenon and Lizzie until the next day, she must rest tonight. Aurora rather doubted that Thomas’s idea of her resting was sitting in the Four Cripples watching Lizzie drink gin. The woman had been drinking steadily for the last two hours. It was making her garrulous. She kept leaning forward and breathing gin fumes into Aurora’s face, making the girl recoil in disgust.

  “Auntie,” said Aurora tentatively, “I was thinking about trying out something new in the act…”

  Lizzie eyed her sharply and took another slurp of gin.

  “Don’t get any ideas about setting up on your own, girl,” she said. “It’s a cruel world out there. Without me to look out for you, you’d be no better than a beggar on the street. Don’t start believing all that nonsense I put out about you being a treasure. Without me, you’re nothing.” She lurched drunkenly across the table and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Mind, I do have some real treasure, oh yes, and you’ll find out about that soon enough.” She knocked back more gin. Her eyes looked distant. “It’s not just silver and gold that’s precious. There’s something that’s worth far more: knowledge and information. I’m just biding my time and then Lizzie Gawkin will be richer than the Queen of England.” She slumped forward again and, resting her cheek on the table, her eyelids flickered and she began snoring quietly.

  Aurora looked away in disgust. The man at the next table in the low-crowned bowler hat drank the last of his ale, dabbed his slug-like moustache with a handkerchief and left.

  She looked around the grimy public house and sighed. For a moment she was tempted just to stand up and walk out of the Four Cripples, walk out on Lizzie and walk out of the life she was leading. But where would she go? What would she do to survive? Lizzie was right, it was a cruel world out there, and she had no doubt that Lizzie would hunt her down. And Aurora knew that with Lizzie’s foul temper the consequences of that for her would be very bad indeed. Without family or friends, she was trapped. She might just as well be behind bars.

  She supposed she would have to wake Lizzie up and help her back to Campion’s. She
heaved the woman up, and Lizzie fell heavily back in her chair with her mouth open, a trail of dribble on her chin. Aurora shook Lizzie’s shoulder to make her stand and they tottered towards Campion’s with Lizzie leaning heavily on the girl.

  As they entered the yard Aurora saw Thomas give Rose a quick hug and disappear back inside the theatre. Clearly the two of them had made up. Aurora felt a stab of terrible loneliness. Even though she knew that Thomas was not Rose’s real father, he behaved like one. Aurora wished she knew her own father.

  Rose turned a cartwheel. One of the ballet dancers shouted something to her and Rose threw back her head and roared with laughter. Her eyes shone like stars. She looked up, spied Aurora and immediately rushed over to help her. Aurora felt terrible, regretting all the terrible things that she had said to Rose on her arrival. If she had just kept her mouth shut maybe Rose might have become her friend. She needed one more than ever. She was about to apologise to Rose and try to start again when Lizzie jerked awake and began waving her arms around alarmingly and cussing. She and Rose heaved her towards the stage door.

  “A letter’s come for you by the evening post, Lizzie Gawkin,” said O’Leary, manning the stage door as usual. He pushed it into her hand and she thrust it clumsily in her pocket. By the open gate of the yard, a moustachioed man in a bowler turned and sauntered away, whistling “Pop Goes the Weasel” as he went.

  Rose watched from the side of the stage as Belle Canterbury finished her signature song. Belle’s voice rose hauntingly and with a purity that sent a shiver down Rose’s spine.

  It was a week since Aurora and Lizzie had arrived and the hall was packed. It was warm with the fug of pale ale, gin, shrimps, oysters and the gaslights, and the good cheer of an audience who were delighted to forget about the daily grind of their lives for a few brief hours and be transported to another world. Rose loved Campion’s when it was like this; it felt like something out of a fairy tale wrapped in its own secret golden web of magic. The gilt mirrors glittered against the eggshell-blue walls. The chandelier shivered and sparkled. Everyone in the audience suddenly looked beautiful; even the most ragged and patched glowed as if lit from within.