‘Very soon,’ Stephen said to Cordelia, ‘you’ll have heard all his act and you won’t need to go and listen.’
‘But no,’ said Johnson, trying to tighten his belt an inch but failing, ‘they keep me here and pay me just enough to keep body and soul apart. I hope you’ll alter all that, miss or madam, and see that a labourer is worthy of his what’s-it. Soften their hard hearts – you’ll need about a ’undredweight of soda in the water but it’ll be worth the try. Then when you’ve got ’em good an’ soaked, try and squeeze a rise o’ pay out of ’em, won’t you, there’s a good gel.’
The comedian, arguing good-naturedly, was edged towards the door and pushed through it. Ten minutes later they went out themselves to see the start of the show.
It was all arranged now. Tomorrow she would leave the house as usual for the works and would drive there but get out at the gates and take a cab to the Variety. In the meantime Stephen would send up a van for her cases, which were to be left ready, and they would catch the noon train for London. ‘So,’ Stephen said, ‘forget tomorrow, let’s enjoy tonight.’
Val Johnson opened the show with a comic song, ‘As I Was A-Walking beside the Sea-Shore’, and then the Brothers Rouse did their turn, more sombre and unemotional than ever; and Miss Lottie Freeman sang ‘ ’Arry’. Everybody sang ‘ ’Arry’. Cordelia glanced down over the crowded floor and balcony; the hands beating time, the roar of men’s voices, the smoky friendliness, everybody happy again. This was all condemned because it was slightly vulgar. But why should it be wrong for people with so little gaiety in their lives to come out in the evening and eat and drink and bang on the tables and sing at the tops of their voices? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow–
‘You’re not singing, my sweetheart,’ he said, putting his hand over hers.
‘I was watching them.’ She smiled. ‘I like to watch them.’
‘Would you like to go out among them?’
‘D’you mean–’
‘On the balcony. It’s more fun among people.’
After all, why not? Tomorrow everyone would know.
‘All right,’ she said.
So their future was decided.
Chapter Twenty
It was only a few paces down the narrow corridor and they were into the balcony. The Boston Minstrels had just come on, and one of them began the verse of a song called ‘Put My Little Shoes Away’. The others joined in, singing in harmony. A sentimental song; but the audience liked them sentimental and roared at the end. She saw men wipe their eyes, and one of the smart young men at the bar blew his nose before reaching for his mug of beer.
Stephen led the way forward, nodding and smiling to the men he knew. People were staring at her and she tried to feel unconcerned by their interest. She was glad she was still wearing her hat and veil. Room was somehow made for them at one of the tables at the front of the balcony.
‘Swanee River’ again. Six men at the table besides themselves and one girl – a pretty girl, overdressed and painted. The glare and warmth of the place got into your blood like the fumes of wine, heady and a little oppressive. A little less pleasant. At the next table officers of the Volunteers were very conscious of their moustaches and their white kid gloves. Beyond, three men who might have been bookmakers’ clerks whispered together over mugs, passing on the shady tip from the stable, then two women; then a group of middle-aged men, greying, thinning, sagging, but this all forgotten; in the corner Dan Massington sat looking at her.
‘They’re going to sing ‘‘Massa’s in de Cold, Cold Ground’’,’ Stephen whispered. ‘I told them it was a special request.’
‘Yes.’ She took up her glass.
‘You did want that, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Stephen. You are kind.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced Major Morris, taking the long cigar out of his mouth, where he had put it to clap, ‘ Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my privilege to announce that as a special encore and at the special request of a distinguished member of the audience tonight the Boston Minstrels will sing their famous and renowned song, ‘‘Massa’s in de Cold, Cold Ground’’.’
He was amused, triumphant. She didn’t look again; the one glance had shown his little one-sided smile, lips just parted over prominent teeth. She listened in a dream. Well, what did it matter? Nothing more to lose, nothing more to fear. But she hoped Stephen did not see him.
‘Your hands are cold! They’ve no right or business to be, in this warm place. You’re not nervous?’
‘Champagne must stop my circulation. I wonder why?’
‘It’s the betwixt and between stage. You’ll soon be better. Let me fill your glass.’
Val Johnson came on in a holiday sailor rig, a straw hat with a black silk ribbon, spotted shirt with black flowing tie, velvet jacket with brass buttons over a white waistcoat and bell-bottom trousers. His big black moustache was heavily waxed, he wore an eyeglass on a ribbon, and an enormous cigar waggled in his mouth.
‘The fellows look upon me – with a jealous eye.
The ladies all adore me – as I saunter by.
They titter and they blush
Then after me they rush;
The heaviest of heavy seaside swells am I!’
Stephen said: ‘I believe the old scoundrel is worth a raise. I’ll see he gets it next month. Och, now, you’re very quiet. Brighten up, me dear, it’s Saturday tomorrow.’
‘Och, now,’ she said, ‘I was just thinking of that.’
‘Well, then, I’m sorry I reminded you.’
‘Not at all. I’m glad I forgot.’
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘ are you more Irish than I am?’
‘I think it’s catching,’ she said, ‘like German measles.’
‘Or Scotch Haggis.’
‘Is that catching?’
‘Well, you have to have a doctor.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘you’re confusing it with lobscouse.’
‘Oh, I thought that was something to do with the drains.’
Still laughing, he turned towards the stage, and as he did so the look in his eyes changed.
He said: ‘Well, well, our old friend Mr D. Massington.’ He bowed and smiled. ‘Mr D. Massington’s here, Cordelia. In the corner. Bow good evening to him.’
‘I certainly shan’t.’
‘But in our business,’ he teased, ‘ we have to be polite to all our customers.’
‘I’ve already seen him.’
‘So that was why my Delia’s hands were cold. I wonder how the devil he got in. What’s the matter, my sweet? He can’t hurt us now. Let him gibber in his corner like the wicked old monkey he is.’
‘It’s a superstition. He’s – tied up with all the things that have upset me in the past. Perhaps M. Gustave would be able to explain it.’
‘Shall I have him thrown out?’
‘Heavens, no. Ignore him, as you say. In a bit perhaps we can slip back to our box.’
‘Oh, ho,’ said Stephen, ‘but perhaps he’s not content to leave it so. He’s got up and he’s coming this way. Hold tight, my dear, this’ll be fun.’
Heart thickly beating, she stared at the stage. She never knew what was happening there. Someone was on it, and the orchestra was making the most of its brass.
‘Oh, evening, Crossley,’ said Massington behind her. ‘Mind if I share your table?’
‘What’s wrong with your own?’
‘Not convivial enough. I don’t attract the ladies as you do. Won’t you introduce me?’
‘I’ll do it with pleasure if your memory’s so bad.’
‘Well, is it my young friend after all? While the cats are away the kitten will play? I’m afraid this kitten is in for trouble. Not that I blame her.’
She glanced up at him. He was rather more than usually drunk.
‘Not that I blame you,’ he repeated. ‘ Remember when I saw you first I warned you life with Brook would be insupportable – that’s unless you were as go
od as you looked, which I doubted. You’d obviously got to come to terms with yourself. My only complaint – my only complaint is that you couldn’t choose a gentleman to teach you how.’
Cordelia leaned her chin on her hand and watched the stage show. Do nothing, show nothing to make it harder for Stephen.
But Stephen was already in a losing battle.
He said: ‘For a gentleman you’ve a very peculiar way. You’re always objectionable in places where it’s hard to make a disturbance.’
Massington smiled. ‘And for an upstart, my dear Crossley, you run entirely true to type.’
‘Ssh! Ssh! people were saying round them as the show went on. But Stephen was too deeply involved to care.
‘I’ve no doubt,’ he said, ‘that you’d wish to bring ill repute on our place by getting yourself thrown out. But maybe you’d like to walk out, and then we can settle this in the nearest alley.’
‘In the fog,’ said Massington, ‘ with your thugs to see fair play?’
‘Bring your own friends – if there’s any will admit to that. And if you’re afraid of getting hurt, no doubt we can find some boxing-gloves.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Massington, ‘you would be able to instruct me in all the latest fouls of the ring.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Stephen, ‘I should be able to instruct you in how to keep your mouth shut.’
‘But not permanently shut, eh, my dear?’ Massington turned to Cordelia. ‘That must be worrying you. Or are you committed past caring? Has this glib-tongued little Cheap Jack really persuaded you that he means to be honest for once in his life? Tut, what women will believe? My father used to say, ‘‘The prettier the woman, the bigger the fool: only the plain ones learn common sense.”’
Stephen was up and had taken his arm.
‘Will you go out quietly, or will you be thrown out – and I give you warning, if you are we’ll prosecute.’
‘Stephen …’
Massington looked down at the hand on his arm as if at something unclean. He had all the gestures of the aristocrat but none of the restraint.
‘Take your damned hand away!’
‘Ssh! Ssh!’
‘Take it off, I tell you! I shall stay here as long as I like! I paid like everyone else–’
Stephen motioned to the two attendants who were pushing their way through the tables. ‘Fling him out and send for the police.’ He hesitated. ‘No, just throw him out and leave it at that. Please keep your seats, everyone!’
People at nearby tables had got up in alarm at the noise. Stephen released Massington and motioned to them to sit down.
One of the attendants grasped Massington’s elbow.
‘Now come along, sir. Out yer go.’
Massington turned and stared at the little uniformed man, then abruptly snatched his arm away and gave him a violent thrust in the chest which sent him sprawling across the people at the table behind. Stephen’s advice was no use now. People got up, some amused, some alarmed.
The other attendant caught Massington, but he twisted and fought in a violent temper. Stephen was on him; they went down in a heap; Cordelia backed among others. Massington rolled under the table, the attendant with him; the other attendant half pulled the table away, and Massington got up on all fours, lifted the end of the table on his back; glasses and mugs and plates sliding and rolling. The painted girl screamed, pressed against the rim of the balcony; the stage show hesitated, faltered, went on. The girl was free, Stephen having pulled her. But the table was going up; others shouted now, joined in; two attendants on Massington; but their impetus, though well meant, just tipped the table; it went over the edge of the balcony; Stephen grasped it, but the weight was too much; it pulled out of his hands, the white cloth fluttering – and crash: the crash and the shouts came up from below; it had fallen, perhaps killed or injured.
They had Massington securely, his face bleeding, his thin black hair; he’d collapsed, retching under their weight, his own fury, drink. Stephen was looking down; the show stopped, people were shouting, screaming, a new note from below. Others peered down, took up the cry. The white table-cloth had caught on a gas bracket on the balcony edge, was flaming, flaring, out of people’s reach. ‘Fire!’ people were shouting. ‘Fire!’ The band had stopped; people were up, pushing, standing, already moving to get out.
Major Morris shouted at the orchestra to play on; two dancers stared stupidly from the stage; Stephen shouted and gestured towards the back. Someone turned out the gases which ranged the balcony and the walls.
A doubtful move, the lights only in the bar, on the stage; and the light of a burning table-cloth, the flame licking at the pink chintz round the balcony. The move to get out became a sudden great unthinking rush, a sudden boiling over, a breaking of chemical forces. Cordelia was pushed headlong towards the door. ‘ Keep calm!’ someone was shouting; it was Stephen, vain, futile reason, thin small voice in the clamour of panic. ‘ No danger! Keep calm!’ The half-light worse than the danger of fire. People standing on tables, overturned; the band weakly wavering into ‘As I Was A-Walking’. Val Johnson on the stage in shirt-sleeves.
‘Cordelia! Cordelia! Where are you?’ Torn both ways, Stephen had abandoned the hall and now sought her. ‘ Stephen, here!’ she said, a hand raised in the flood. A woman had fallen, was screaming; the half-light was worse than the fire: a little smoke and flame; but the great beast must get out. From the body of the hall you could hear it trampling too.
Massington was gone somewhere. Stephen plunged after her. They were moving towards the stairs, stumbling and climbing over chairs; the hoops in her skirt bent and were crushed. ‘Stop pushing!’ someone shouted. ‘There’s plenty of time.’ They were trampling over someone lying on the floor; no other way; you had to do the same or fall. A crashing and smashing of chairs behind; someone was fighting.
The bottleneck of the stairs; Stephen nearly caught her as they reached the first step. Down, one, two, three. ‘Stop pushing.’ ‘Look out there!’ ‘Mind these women!’ People were pressing down from the top, with one thought only, to get to safety away from the fire, out into the open air. And at the turn of the stairs they met a stronger flood coming up from the body of the hall.
Movement suddenly ceased and was replaced by pressure, pressure that became instantly unbearable. She stood there between three men, crushed, unable to move her arms. Whalebone snapped and her skirt tore. Pressure on her shoulders, her back, her breast; she couldn’t breathe. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please.’ The pressure eased fractionally; she could just take tiny breaths of warm vitiated air, getting warmer. Dear God, if I die. O Christ receive my soul. Is that a poem? ‘Stephen.’
‘Here,’ he said. Blessed voice; but he couldn’t move, couldn’t touch her, over people’s shoulders. ‘Get back there! Get back! Stop pushing! There’s no danger if we keep quiet. Go back up the stairs! Stop pushing at the top. Go back!’
Talk to a blind beast bent only on freedom, cattle in stampede. ‘Gawd! someone started shouting. ‘Gawd! I’m dying. Let me out!’
If you faint here you’re done: you stay up because you can’t fall, but when they move you’ll slip slowly down till their boots go over you. Keep your reason.
‘All right, miss?’ The man next to her was peering at her. ‘It’s a bit ’ot, ain’t it? Keep your pecker up.’
‘I’m all right,’ she said, and then she saw his colour changing; somebody’d turned off the colour and it was running away, out of his face, which went green; his eyes turned up and his head lolled on his shoulder. But he still stood there.
This aye night, this aye night, every night an’ all. Fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy soul. That was it; old Scottish friend of her father’s, one Christmas Eve he’d …
They went down a step. The heat, as if the fire was filling the air; and the smell, the terrible smell; the human animal reduced to its barest chemical content, crushed bodies in a terrible press. ‘Cordelia!’ The wall lights were beginning
to dance. Of all the ways to die. I shall scream with my last breath. God, God, God, God! Father forgive them for they know not … Groaning further down. ‘Cordelia, my sweetheart!’ ‘I’m going, Stephen,’ she said. Another step. One foot was off the ground and she could not find the ground. ‘ Blast you! God and all the Saints! Blast you! Stop pushing! Give us air!’ Something was trickling down the side of her nose, sweat from her forehead. Her limbs were soaking. Another step down, into the greater heat, the greater press. Another step, the groans were all round her; Stephen was fighting someone. They had reached the corner, the dread corner.
‘It was like a battlefield, like a terrible battlefield in which the vanquished, the dead, and the wounded could not lie down. But some were down. She could feel them underfoot. The man beside her was slipping, would take her with him; blood was thumping in her ears. Down he went, slowly at first, then with each step quicker until one moment his hair was level with her shoulder, the next with her waist, and then he was gone.
Eased pressure; Stephen could just touch her; she took a deep breath of warm foul air and then the gap closed. It saved her for a second or two longer. The lights were inside her head now. This aye night, this aye night, every night an’ all. ‘Cordelia!’
And suddenly, like a great spout of water, she and others were flung into the entrance lobby by the pressure; she was on her knees, a man under her; she was falling, but someone grasped her shoulders, dragged her on hands and knees towards the door. Among the glass from the broken door, towards the air; she heard Stephen groaning behind her. It was one of the attendants who had saved her. Half sick, half fainting, she was in open air, in the swirling, blessed, friendly cold fog. Stephen had reached her, his arm about her waist as she slumped against the wall.
There were people all round, half visible in the fog, sitting on the pavement, shouting, standing in the road. No fire engine yet. Was there any fire? People were coming out faster; the worst of the bottleneck might be broken, but many were injured if not worse. Ambulances needed.
Cordelia Page 24
