Trinidad Street

by Patricia Burns

‘We’re backstage,’ Siobhan breathed.

  Her hands were pressed tightly together beneath her lips, her expression rapt as she listened to the unseen performer. He was nervous. He stumbled over words and lost his place. Without an audience to shout back in the right places, the whole thing sounded feeble. Painfully, he launched into a song that was supposed to follow on with the theme of the routine.

  ‘You can do better than that,’ Will whispered in her ear.

  She did not answer him.

  The song came to an end, dropping into the great dark void beyond the stage. There was a moment or two of silence, then a bored, faintly Irish voice sounded. ‘Right, thanks. We’ll let you know. Next!’

  Behind them, a door opened.

  ‘Hey, you.’

  Siobhan jumped and gasped. Will had never seen her look so unsure. They both turned round to see a harrassed-looking young man with a large notebook in his hand standing in the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Siobhan took a deep breath. Then she switched on her sweetest smile. ‘Sure and I was waiting just to see you.’

  Will saw the young man fall beneath her charm; he grew flustered and shifted his notebook from one hand to the other.

  ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Miss Siobhan O’Donaghue and this’ – a wave in Will’s direction – ‘is my brother.’

  Will caught breath to protest, but was stopped by a freezing look from Siobhan. The young man nodded at him and turned back to Siobhan.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss O’Donaghue. Teddy Perkins, assistant stage manager. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll show you where you ought to be.’

  Will realized now why he had been allowed to come along. She wanted it to be known that she was available, but protected. That way she could play the field with safety. And since he himself had said that he ought to look after her, he had brought it upon himself.

  Together they followed Teddy Perkins round the back of the stage and into a small room where a dozen or so hopeful artistes were waiting. They were all smoking heavily and eyeing one another. Some evidently knew each other, for they were talking together in loud, confident voices about theatres and fellow performers. Siobhan’s new conquest scribbled in his notebook and found her a rickety chair.

  ‘If you’d just sit here, Miss O’Donaghue, I’ll see that it won’t be too long before you’re called. Have you got your music?’

  She nodded, and fished into her bag to produce a sheaf of sheet music. As she held it out to him, her hand shook. He thanked her and hurried out, leaving them both to the scrutiny of the other occupants of the room.

  A woman with impossibly yellow hair and a brightly painted face smiled at Siobhan. ‘This your first audition, dearie?’ Her voice was cheerfully throaty.

  Siobhan swallowed. ‘Of course not.’

  She did not sound at all convincing.

  The woman laughed. ‘Go on, dearie, pull the other one. I wasn’t born yesterday, even if you was. You want more than a pretty face to get on in this business, you know. You got to have talent, and you got to work hard, bleedin’ hard.’

  ‘I know what hard work is,’ Siobhan told her.

  ‘And she’s got talent,’ Will put in.

  ‘You better watch her, then, mate,’ one of the men warned sourly. ‘Old Mick Sullivan’s got an eye for a pretty little girl.’

  ‘What man ain’t?’ another woman said. ‘More than one way to get on if you’re young.’

  Everyone had something discouraging to say. Siobhan just sat there trying to look vaguely uninterested, though Will could see by the stiffness of her shoulders that their remarks were getting to her. They were all either younger than he was or on the wrong side of forty, Will noticed. He guessed that Sullivan’s was a place for hopefuls or those on their way down.

  The painted women was called. The moment the door closed on her, the others discussed her past record. General opinion was that she would fail, since every management in London knew she drank and was unreliable. She reappeared some ten minutes later, calling Mick Sullivan every name under the sun. Then a small man in a checked suit and red tie was called. He did not come back.

  ‘Jimmy’s in, then,’ someone commented as Teddy Perkins put his head round the door.

  ‘Miss O’Donaghue.’

  There was a rumble of annoyance from the others, which Siobhan ignored. Will followed as she swept out.

  In the wings, Teddy gave her some hasty instructions. ‘Mr Sullivan’s up in the dress circle, so look up there. Tell him who you are and what you’re going to do. Sing up, and try to imagine there’s rows of people out there just dying to see you.’

  Siobhan nodded. She was ashen. Even her head was trembling with nerves.

  ‘Pinch your cheeks to bring out the colour,’ Teddy advised.

  Teeth clenched, she did so. She looked a fraction better.

  ‘Take a deep breath and walk on holding it. That makes your eyes sparkle.’

  Her breasts lifted as she took his advice. Will watched her with longing as she stepped out on to the brightly lit stage.

  She walked almost to the centre front, moving stiffly like a Dutch doll come to life. She curtseyed to the unseen theatre manager.

  ‘Name?’ came a disembodied voice from the darkness.

  ‘Siobhan O’Donaghue. “Waiting At The Church,”’ she announced, and nodded to the pianist in the pit. Will could hear the shake in her voice.

  An opening phrase from the piano and she launched into the song, mercifully hitting the first note correctly. At first she was wobbly, but with every line she gained confidence until she was well into the part, inviting laughter and sympathy from the imaginary audience. Her gestures were a little stiff and her projection weak in places, but Will did not notice. To him, she was a star. He had to stop himself from breaking into rapturous applause as she finished. Giving Mick Sullivan no chance to stop her, she went straight on with ‘The Mountains of Mourne’. In direct contrast to the first song, she stood quite still and simply let her clear voice soar into the cavernous space of the empty theatre. Just as she had that first time he heard her at the Harp of Erin, she held Will enchanted.

  The last notes died into a profound silence. Then out of the hollow body of the theatre came the manager’s voice.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Siobhan O’Donaghue.’

  ‘Right, Miss O’Donaghue, I think we might find a little spot for you. Come up here and see my stage manager.’

  She accepted it as nothing less than her due, not even thanking him, and walked smoothly off stage. But once in the wings, the pose crumbled.

  ‘I did it!’ she squealed.

  Will flung his arms round her and gave her a kiss. ‘You were wonderful. Congratulations! I knew you would.’

  Teddy Perkins was hovering with his notebook. He showed them where to go and instructed them not to take the first offer, since they always underpaid new artistes. The details of Siobhan’s first appearance were arranged, and in a short time they emerged, blinking, into the alleyway by the stage door.

  Siobhan looked up into Will’s face. She was glowing with the thrill of achievement.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I’m going to sing in a real theatre.’

  ‘It’s where you should be,’ Will told her.

  He drew her into his arms and kissed her, properly this time. She responded with a fervour she had never shown before, holding nothing back. Her whole body was buzzing with excitement. He could feel it as she pressed against him, the throb of success pulsing through her veins and transferring itself to him. He kissed her mouth, her neck, the base of her throat and she laughed and shivered with pleasure.

  ‘Siobhan, Siobhan, you’re so beautiful, so lovely. You’re going to be top of the bill.’

  She smiled her contented cat’s smile.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  7

  THEY TOOK UP the front of the circle, a sol
id wall of supporters. Will was there, along with Harry and the Billinghams and every other young man from Trinidad Street. Some of the older ones were there too, with their wives, and all the O’Donaghues over the age of fifteen, together with their cousins and their partners.

  It was a hot evening, and even though Sullivan’s was not full the air was thick and soupy. Throughout the auditorium women were already fanning themselves with handkerchiefs and men were mopping streaming faces. Cigarette smoke wafted up from the stalls, along with the smell of cheap scent and sweating bodies. The Trinidad Street contingent ate oranges and sweets and shouted up and down the rows at each other, loud in their sense of owning part of the show. Siobhan was theirs and they were here to tell the world.

  ‘Don’t think much of this place,’ Harry commented, looking round the theatre. ‘Very second-rate, if you ask me. Wooden benches – you wouldn’t get people at the Gattis or the Old Vic putting up with wooden benches. And look at the state of the paintwork. They haven’t done that over in years. The only thing they’ve taken any trouble over is the stage, and that’s not too wonderful, either.’

  ‘You know all about it, then?’ Charlie said.

  ‘I know a decent theatre when I see one,’ Harry told him. ‘And this ain’t it.’

  Theresa O’Donaghue, sitting on the other side of Charlie, brightened up considerably at this.

  ‘It’s not much of a place, then?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘It’s a blooming dump,’ Harry told her.

  Charlie, annoyed at being talked across, turned his shoulder to Harry and started to talk to Theresa, who became quite animated now that she felt a point had been scored over her hated cousin.

  ‘Pity your mum wouldn’t come,’ Harry said to Gerry.

  ‘Yeah.’ Gerry gave a sigh. ‘I tried, but she wouldn’t. Said she couldn’t face a music hall. Said it’d remind her too much of Ernie.’

  ‘Does she still miss him?’

  ‘Yeah. She tries not to show it, but I reckon she does. He was a good bloke, was Ernie.’

  Down in the pit, a lone fiddle was tuning up. Then an accordion sounded a preliminary chord. The piano was swelled to an orchestra of three for the performance. There were a few ragged cheers from the audience, and shouts of ‘Get on with it!’

  The house lights dimmed, the trio struck up a jolly tune and there were whistles and catcalls from the audience, along with half-hearted applause. Along the row, Clodagh O’Donaghue pursed her lips in disapproval.

  ‘This is a rough place,’ she muttered to Brian. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like the thought of her on the stage at all. It ain’t right for a nice young girl, standing up there having all the world stare at her. Wouldn’t be quite so bad if it was a respectable theatre. But this!’ Words failed her, but her expression told just what she thought.

  The master of ceremonies swept on to the stage, cheeks red above a luxuriant moustache. He launched into his patter, ignoring some of the hecklers and picking up on others and turning their comments to his advantage. With the skill of an old trouper, he quietened most of the rowdy element and drew them together in expectation of a brilliant show. By the time he introduced the first act, most of them were willing to clap.

  The dusty gold curtains were drawn back to reveal a crudely painted backdrop of a row of shops. On to the stage bounced a small man in baggy trousers and a crooked top hat stuck with a comical red flower that nodded with every movement of his head.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello!’ he cried, his voice projecting easily over the noise and the space.

  They knew this one.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello!’ some shouted back. The comedian swept off his topper and waved to them.

  But others called, ‘Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!’ and laughed loudly at their own wit.

  Bravely he carried on, singing a short song, telling a couple of jokes and finishing with a chorus. About half of the audience joined in.

  Clodagh was incensed. ‘I’m not having her up there in front of this lot, nice young girl like her. What’d her mother say if she found out? It’s not right.’

  ‘Can’t stop it now,’ Brian pointed out.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, this is the first and last time. Crafty little madam, getting this fixed up behind my back. It won’t happen again.’

  Brian grunted in agreement. It was no use arguing with his wife, and in any case, he was with her on this. It was all right watching other women up on the stage, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted your own flesh and blood doing.

  A juggling act came on next, two men in yellow satin breeches and a woman in a matching dress that showed her legs up to her knees. The men in the audience whistled in appreciation. They did not care about the skill of the spinning balls and clubs, they were fully occupied with ogling those shapely calves. The act was a success.

  ‘Disgusting,’ said Clodagh.

  A man dressed as a policeman marched on and sang about all the sights he saw walking on the beat. His voice failed on a top note.

  ‘Boo!’ Charlie called out. ‘Get him off!’

  The cry was taken up. Soon the man could not be heard at all. Desperately, he carried on, sweat pouring down his face. In an act of mercy, the curtains closed on him. The audience bayed in triumph.

  ‘Good riddance. I hate coppers,’ Charlie said. He was really enjoying himself. This was just his sort of entertainment.

  The master of ceremonies had a hard time quietening them down. They had tasted blood and they wanted more. Gradually they subsided under his torrent of words, until they were halfway ready to listen.

  ‘And now, a lovely little lady to sing for you. With a voice like a thrush and a face like a flower, all the way from Mother Ireland just for you, let’s have a big hand for – Miss Siobhan O’Donaghue!’

  The front circle erupted into cheers and applause. The trio played a catchy little tune as the curtains opened. This time the backdrop was columns and flowers. On to the stage stepped Siobhan, a picture of fresh innocence in a huge hat trimmed with flowers and a pale green dress cut just short enough to give an occasional flash of ankle as she moved. The Trinidad Street contingent clapped even more vigorously.

  She stood centre front and sent a brilliant smile up at the circle. The trio played a few bars of introduction and she launched into her song, a sweet little ditty in which a girl promises to be true to her sailor sweetheart while he’s away. As she reached the chorus, she held up a picture frame and gazed at it, inviting the audience’s sympathy.

  ‘All I’ve got is his little photograph,

  Cannot hear his voice

  Cannot see him laugh . . .’

  She was beginning to get to them. The catcalls were dying down, and they were listening.

  Then came a little dance with the picture held in both hands at arm’s length, and another chorus. The audience was starting to join in now that they had picked up the words. Loudly the piano started on a repeat. Not expecting it, Siobhan started in a little late, but hardly anyone noticed. After a long chord to finish, and a sweeping curtsey from Siobhan, her followers in the circle stood up and stamped and cheered and clapped. Less enthusiastically, the rest of the theatre joined in.

  ‘More, more, more!’ shouted her supporters.

  But the curtains stayed closed and the master of ceremonies reappeared. Siobhan had made her debut.

  In his seat in the third row of the circle, Sidney Spruce, theatrical agent, sat back with a pleasurable feeling of excitement. He was not deceived by the cheering just in front of him. He was no fool, he knew the local supporters when he saw them. But the girl he had just seen had talent. She needed plenty of training to use it properly, training that he would be able to see to. She had looks and charm, and a freshness to interest even a jaded palate such as his. Best of all, she was young and, as far as he could ascertain, had no links with the entertainment business. Professionally, he scented a potential money-spinner, which he needed right at the moment, sinc
e two of his better clients had recently deserted him for more prestigious agents, while another had only yesterday got himself arrested for assaulting a policeman whilst under the influence of alcohol. It had come just at the wrong time, when his wife was demanding a move to a better house. Which brought him to the personal level. He liked very young, untried girls. They made a pleasant change from the hard-bitten women he usually dealt with, artistes who had trodden the boards for years and had seen all that the world had to throw at them. They made an even pleasanter change from his wife and her constant demands for more and better material comforts. He rolled the image of the girl before his eyes again – the sweet soaring voice, the lovely little face, the delectable figure – and thanked whatever providence had guided him to come to Sullivan’s this evening.

  He slipped out of his seat and clambered over complaining bodies to the safety of the aisle. In the gents’ toilets he preened in front of the smeary mirror. An astute face looked back at him, full-lipped, once almost handsome but now running to seed, with bags under the eyes and the first red threads surfacing on the nose. But his hair was still thick and dark, though receding a little, giving him widow’s peaks. He combed it carefully, straightened his bow tie, hitched his jacket up on his narrow shoulders and looked at the full effect. Not bad. Good enough to impress a green young hopeful with stars in her eyes, if past experience was anything to go by. He set off to find someone to fetch her for him.

  He waited outside the women’s dressing room while young Teddy Perkins went to bring her out. He did not want any of the old troupers warning her about him. When she emerged, he knew that instinct had been right. She was even more stunning close up.

  ‘Miss O’Donaghue?’

  ‘Yes?’ She looked him up and down with just a quick flick of the eyes, but took it all in. Her expression remained neutral. She had not placed him straight away.

  ‘Sidney Spruce, theatrical agent. Quite a nice little performance you gave.’

  She looked distinctly offended at that. She was obviously a rank amateur, used to the admiration of her family circle.

  ‘Sure and that’s kind of you,’ she said, with sarcasm.