by Vicki Delany
And that, as I knew, wasn’t the half of it.
Richard muttered something under his breath. We were near the back of the hall. Too far away to intervene.
I had never heard the room so quiet when it was so full.
Abruptly Irene leaned over. She scooped a gold nugget off the floor. Most nights she was showered in nuggets and other tokens of the men’s appreciation. Tonight, although we were full to bursting, the haul was down. I suspected they were holding back to see what Colleen had to offer.
Irene held the nugget in her hands. It wasn’t very big. She turned it over and examined it for a long time. I fancied I could hear the mice moving in the walls. At last Irene again studied the audience. She placed one hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side. The silence stretched.
“Now, tell me, boys,” she said in a good loud voice, “is this the best you can do?”
They roared. A blizzard of gold began. The men threw nuggets onto the stage. The ones at the back pressed forward, to get a better aim. One fellow up in the boxes began waving his Champagne bottle. I dearly hoped he wasn’t going to throw it.
Irene looked directly at me as gold and jewellery fell around her feet.
When the storm had ebbed, she lifted one hand. “Thank you, one and all,” she said. “I will be making an announcement at the end of the evening.” Whereupon she began gathering up her loot. A couple of the girls ran out to help her pick it all up.
“Spare me,” I said.
“Do you know what this announcement is, Fiona?” Richard asked.
“I live in fear. Don’t excuse your men just yet.”
There’s usually an ebb and flow through the dance hall all night. Men sit for part of the performance, watching their favourite bits, and then they might wander into the bar for a drink or a chat with their friends, or into the gambling hall for a turn at the tables. Back to the hall for another skit.
Tonight, no one moved. Men who hadn’t found seats or a place along the wall crowded the stairs or pushed and shoved at the door. I worried about the state of the men’s bladders. No one was being allowed into the Savoy, therefore those already inside couldn’t leave to relieve themselves in the alley without giving up their place.
The night crawled on. Richard huddled in corners with Inspector McKnight and various Mounties. Ray Walker patrolled the rooms slapping his billy club into his hand. The waiters struggled to serve their customers. The girls onstage had less bounce in their step and less range in their voice. Everyone was waiting … for what no one knew.
I could see Mr. Sullivan, Colleen’s father, sitting in the front row. I edged my way toward him. He was an American, newly arrived in town. Was he so unaware of the laws and norms of the territory that he’d thought his daughter would be able to perform such a dance in such a costume? She’d told me he didn’t like her to put herself forward.
Tonight, I was finding that hard to believe.
He was chomping on a fat cigar and not paying much attention to the show. He shifted in his seat constantly — earning him more than a few sour looks from his bench mates — glancing around the room, eyeing the police, checking his watch. As the time came and went for Colleen’s aborted dance, he began to twitch.
Oh, yes. He’d known the fuss she was going to cause.
I stood against the wall, having evicted the previous placeholder, and watched everything.
I had not seen Angus again since he’d been sent to fetch Inspector McKnight. I doubted he had meekly gone on home.
The three witches scene from Macbeth is always popular. The girls, dressed in their dance costumes, sit around a kerosene lamp and shout the immortal lines in loud piercing voices meant to resemble cackles. Ellie then comes out, playing the Thane of Cawdor, dressed in her bloomers. The bloomers are, of course, part of her costume, as she is supposedly wearing trousers. On such a flimsy pretext the police allow bloomers on stage.
I decided not to venture backstage to confront Irene about the nature of this announcement of hers. No doubt she’d refuse to tell me, ensuring the girls all heard her, and I’d look as if I didn’t know what was going on.
I didn’t, but I’d never admit it.
Roland was up again once the Macbeth scene ended. He saw me watching as he climbed the stage — the booing even louder than normal — and I pulled my finger across my throat. Cut it short. I wanted to get this night over with.
He did a couple of weak card tricks, pulled a white rabbit out of his hat. And then he scampered off. He appeared to be pleased to do so.
I grabbed Maxie as she headed backstage after doing the rounds of the boxes. “I want to finish early tonight. Tell the girls to drop Ellie’s song and the Macbeth fight scene. Colleen can sing her song, then we’ll have the cancan, and Irene can wrap it up.”
“Why?”
I glared at her. She got the hint and slunk off. If she messed up my instructions, I’d sack her.
Irene wandered onto the stage, dressed in a nightgown — a white cotton garment, high of neckline and long of sleeve, unadorned. Not the fancy one she wore to entertain Eleanor (and Ray?). I shuddered at the image that brought to mind. Time for the dramatic hand-washing scene. Mr. William Shakespeare would be rising from his grave in righteous indignation if Irene ever set foot onto a stage in London. Acting was not, shall we say, one of her talents. She moaned and collapsed to her knees and wiped at the red cloth between her hands intended to represent blood only she could see. “Out darned spot,” she cried. Yes, I am well aware that the line is damned spot. But we didn’t want to see Irene dragged off to jail for the use of vile language.
I glanced toward the back of the room. A couple of taller men shifted and I caught a flash of clear tanned skin and pale hair. Angus. I should have known.
I hesitated. I didn’t want him here. Particularly not tonight when trouble itself hung heavily in the air. But Colleen would be going on at the conclusion of Irene’s scene and I needed to ensure she knew I was here, watching.
Irene croaked out the last line, staggered to her feet, curtsied low so the audience could get a glimpse down the front of her shirt, and vacated the stage.
It was as though everyone knew something was about to happen. The men leaned forward in their seats. Even the poker players — Turner, the count, Roland — had abandoned their game to stand in the non-existent space at the back of the hall. The stage was empty for a moment, we all breathed, and then Colleen stepped out. She was, as instructed, dressed in her street clothes. She looked very small alone on the stage. She walked to the front, clasped her hands in front of her. She might have been about to recite bible verses to the congregation. Her eyes darted about the room, found me, moved away, and settled on her father seated in pride of place, front row centre. The piano player tinkled the keys and they began to play. Colleen waited for a few notes, opened her mouth and sang.
Her voice was nicer than I’d heard upstairs in my office. It had a sweet melancholy to it, and she could project to the back of the hall.
The men smiled and nodded. A couple whispered to their companions. More than a few closed their eyes to enjoy the music. The Mounties standing at the back relaxed.
I let out a long breath.
Disaster averted.
The music came to an end. Colleen, now smiling, curtsied as the men hooted their approval. A couple of gold nuggets fell at her feet and she scooped them up. She appeared pleased with herself, and I was pleased with her.
I had started to turn, to head for my son and order him to go home, when a shout broke over the trailing end of the applause.
“You! You jealous witch. You silenced her!” To my considerable surprise the voice was directed at me. It was Gerry Sullivan and he was on his feet. His blotchy red face bulged with indignation. He pointed a scarred and yellow-nailed finger at me. He surveyed the audience. “Are you going to stand for that? My girl was going to do a dance that would have been the talk of the town for years to come. But she — they — silenced her. S
he — they — wouldn’t let you see it. Are you going to stand for that? Are you American men or Canadian mice?”
“Shut up, old man,” someone yelled. A chorus joined him. They’d been given a song by their new favourite, and they’d enjoyed it. Now they wanted to see the rest of the show. Richard Sterling was heading toward me, relaxed no longer. I lost sight of Angus.
“Sit down,” a sensible voice called.
“Let the girl dance,” some fool suggested. A couple of men took up the call. “Let the girl dance.” Feet began to stomp in chorus. I saw Constable McAllen grab a collar and drag a man backward out of the room. Joe Hamilton arrived at a run.
“Outta the way, you fat old fart. I wanna see the dancing,” the man seated directly behind Sullivan shouted.
I gestured to the orchestra to start the music for the cancan. That should settle the men down. I could only hope there would be someone backstage with presence of mind to realize I wanted the lively dance to begin now.
The music began to have the desired effect. Some of the protesters settled down. Joe Hamilton could find no one to expel, and the end of Ray’s billy club remained in his hand.
The man seated behind Sullivan, who’d told him to get out of the way, lumbered to his feet. He lifted his arms in triumph and half-turned, to ensure his friends had seen him exercising authority. Sullivan hit him full in his exposed side. Followed by a punch to the face. The man dropped to the benches in a tumble of arms and legs. Blood streamed from his nose.
His friends leapt to their feet.
“English cowards,” Sullivan roared. He leapt over the bench and stood with his back to the stage, fists up.
“Protect the American!” someone yelled.
And the fight was on. The “Infernal Galop” ended in mid-note.
As no one was dressed in their country’s colours, I doubt any national pride lay behind the brawl. But all it takes is one punch and every man in a room seems to think he should be involved. Three or four men rushed to Sullivan’s defence. Benches toppled, glasses broke, musicians grabbed their instruments and attempted to flee. Blood flew and bones snapped. Dancers screamed and either yelled at men to stop or egged them on.
Richard Sterling waded into the thick of it, grabbing men and tossing them behind him to waiting Mounties. Ray cracked heads, and Joe Hamilton struggled to subdue swinging patrons.
A secondary fight broke out in the back of the hall, impeding the efforts of those few sensible folk attempting to get out of the way. Two men were exchanging blows on the stairs leading to the boxes while one of the waiters cowered against the railing, clutching thirty-dollar bottles of Champagne to his chest.
Angus. I had to get to the spot where I’d seen my son last. I slunk along the wall, keeping my back against it. I’d taken no more than a couple of steps when a hand grabbed my arm and swung me around, pulling me off balance. Dirty fingers pawed at the front of my gown and fat wet lips slobbered on my cheek, searching for my mouth. I screamed and attempted to pull myself free.
He wrapped his arms around me and thrust his knee between my legs. I lifted my foot and raked it down his instep. His boots were thick and high and I made little impact. He fumbled for my breast. I grabbed his head. I felt through strands of greasy hair for his ear. I gripped it and twisted. He grunted and his hold on me relaxed.
Not much, but enough.
I raised my knee and drove it into his crotch. He staggered back, instinctively bending over to protect the precious family jewels. I gripped the shoulders of his jacket in both fists, pulled him close, and squeezed my arms together. His face bulged as air began to be choked off. His eyes stared at me, round and black and full of shock.
I let go and stepped back. I held my hands up and bounced on the balls of my feet. I breathed consciously, deep and slow. “Do not,” I said, “touch me again.”
He leapt over a broken bench, skirted two men rolling on the floor, and fled, never to be seen again.
Richard Sterling was frozen in the act of coming to my rescue, his mouth a round O of surprise, his eyes wide. He shook his head and went back to breaking up fighters.
25
A fight. At last Angus was in a fight. He braced himself the way Sergeant Lancaster had taught him. Feet planted lightly on the ground, knees slightly bent, fists raised. He was ready. But no one was coming toward him having also assumed the correct stance. Instead the room was a melee of flying bodies, swinging fists and feet, spraying blood and spittle, and a whole lot of yelling.
His mother. He couldn’t see his mother. He leaped onto a bench. Over the mass of men, he spotted her, the scarlet of her dress shining like a beacon amongst the drab men’s clothes. She was heading to the rear of the room, keeping her back against the wall. A man followed. Angus didn’t care for the look in the fellow’s eyes. He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulled her around to face him. Angus opened his mouth to shout.
A body crashed into his legs. He swung his arms, trying to keep his balance. The bench collapsed and Angus jumped. Into the middle of a brawl. A fist streaked past his cheek. He raised his hands to protect his face and danced backward, taking himself out of the way. All around him men were yelling and women screaming. He felt a hand on his shoulder and began to turn. A man stood there, frozen in the act of swinging a punch.
“Beggin’ your pardon, young Angus. Didn’t recognize you there for a moment. Your ma know you’re here? She won’t like it.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Jordan.”
Jordan leapt back into the fray. Roland the Magnificent made his way through the room, stepping carefully, avoiding bodies. He carried a full glass of whisky. “Rather a to-do, old boy, wouldn’t you say.” Turner, the gambler, clocked a dirt-encrusted sourdough with a beard reaching halfway to his belt who was yelling something about Yankee honour. The miner crashed into the wall and slid slowly downward, where he sat with his legs outstretched shaking his head.
Count Nicky studied the fallen creature at his feet with a sniff.
More Mounties were arriving and miscreants either being hauled away or deciding it would be wise to take their leave. A couple of fierce brawls were still going on, but otherwise the room was beginning to settle down.
Angus looked again for his mother. She was heading his way now, and the man who’d been following her was nowhere to be seen.
Richard Sterling was holding out a hand to pull a young fellow, blood pouring from his nose, up from the floor. Inspector McKnight had lost his hat. He was breathing heavily and looking highly pleased with himself as he rubbed his knuckles. McAllen was marching a man out the door, arm twisted behind his back. Mounties broke up the last fighters. A group of women had ventured onto the stage, where they stood watching.
Benches were scattered across the floor, some broken. Hats and jackets lay abandoned. Judging by the smell, and the wet sawdust on the floor, more than one man had lost control of his overfull bladder. Angus crushed a cigar, still burning, out with his foot.
“I wonder if I might put in for danger pay,” Roland said.
Four or five men began straightening benches. Once that was done, they took their seats and waited calmly for the show to resume. The oldest of them lit his pipe and tossed the match onto the floor.
Inspector McKnight and Richard Sterling met in the centre of the room. Angus’s mother joined them.
“… an unpardonable fuss,” McKnight was saying. The knuckles of his right hand were beginning to swell.
Fiona sniffed. “You understand, of course, that was absolutely none of our doing.”
“You led the men to believe a scandalous display would be on offer, madam.”
“I most certainly did not. You cannot hold me responsible for rumours spread by others about my establishment. You saw it yourself. Colleen’s song was nothing but totally proper. Subdued even.” Colour was high in Fiona’s face and her shoulders were set.
McKnight hesitated, then he turned to Sterling. “What about the man who started the fight? Have we
apprehended him?”
“He got away. We shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”
“I want that man in jail. Cursed Americans, always making trouble. He deliberately attempted to cause a riot. He’ll spend a month chopping wood and then get a blue ticket.”
“Do you know him, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Sterling asked.
Some of the tension left Fiona’s face as the focus of the police attention shifted. She’d been worried, Angus guessed, that they’d shut the Savoy down. “His name’s Gerry Sullivan. He’s the father of the singer.”
“Get the girl,” McKnight said. “I want her to …”
The men who’d taken seats near the stage began clapping. Others joined them, hooting and stomping their feet. Men began drifting back into the dance hall. Benches were righted and pulled into place and the room began to fill up once again.
Fiona groaned.
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” McKnight said. “There will be no more performances here tonight. We’ve all had enough excitement for one evening.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” she said. “I’ll announce that the dancing will begin early. Angus, on your way home, tell Ray the show will not be continuing.”
“But …”
“No buts. I don’t know why you’re here this late. Don’t make it a habit.”
Angus slunk away. Sterling gave him a slap on the back as he passed. He shrugged the Mountie off.
* * *
I never appear on the stage. Tonight, as I climbed the stairs, the faces in the audience lit up with expectation. Everyone leaned a bit closer. Only a few Mounties remained in the room, the rest of them were taking the fighters unlucky enough to be nabbed off to jail. Behind me I heard the excited whispering of the girls, speculating as to what I was up to.
I stood patiently until the chatter died down and I had everyone’s attention. It didn’t take long.
The musicians had resumed their places; the performers waited in the wings. I lifted one hand.
