by KJ Charles
“I’ll do that. Is that how I ought to be thinking of you as well?”
Chris was silent for so long, Stan worried he’d been rude. He was about to apologise when his companion spoke, very quietly.
“I’m Christiana, really. That’s who I am. I dress like this when I need to, if it’s safer, like tonight. Or, rather, like I thought tonight would be, not how it is. But if you want to get it right in your head, I’m always Christiana.”
“Underneath, even when you’re dressed this way? Got it.”
The brown eyes on his were a wonder, coffee spiked with molten gold. “Do you know something? I like you, Stan.”
“I like you too,” Stan said, and sat smiling at her, amazed at his own daring.
Chapter Three
“I ALWAYS LIKE PEOPLE open and free,
Underhand business would never suit me.
I’ll tell you something to make your hair curl,
I saw a married man kissing a girl.”
The crowd bellowed along:
“Out in the open with everyone passing them,
Everyone passing them, shouting ‘What ho’,
She will be eighteen months old her next birthday,
So what does it matter? I’d just like to know.”
It was one of those nights, the special ones. Every note hit perfectly, every joke and wink at the audience drew roars. They were in the palm of her hand, and best of all, Stan was sat in the third row of the stalls, beaming.
Stan. Curly black hair and dark brown eyes, impressive nose, and that lovely shy smile. She liked his smile a lot, and his artisan’s hands too, strong and covered with tiny scars. He wasn’t the best-looking man in the world, if one were to be objective about it, and she’d seen people smirk as they walked together, since she stood a good six inches taller than him. It was impossible to imagine caring about any of that.
They’d been seeing each other for two months. Not seeing one another in a formal sort of way, just Stan coming to her dressing room after performances. Going out for a drink, sometimes dressed up, sometimes as herself. Dinner, now and then, talking about anything and nothing. He’d never pressed for more.
It felt like something real. The doormen and the other girls knew him by name, for heaven’s sake, which was virtually the same as bringing him home to meet the family, and he’d mentioned, very casually, that she might one day like to come to tea with Uncle Jacob and Uncle Louis. It felt like courting.
She came to the end of the song, her last of the night.
“One day I rode on the top of a bus,
Downstairs I heard someone making a fuss.
Just then a girl’s voice in anger arose,
Shouting, ‘Don’t start till I’ve got on my clothes.’
Out in the open with everyone passing them,
Everyone passing them, shouting ‘What ho.’
She was a laundress with clothes in a basket,
So what does it matter? I’d just like to know.”
She hurried down to her dressing room, the applause still ringing out. Mr. Starling was at the stage door, talking to Jim, the doorman. He wore a purple velvet scarf and big gold hoops in his ears. He’d worn pink chiffon and silver jewellery when she’d first come to ask about a place at the bottom of the bill, and she’d felt safe for the first time in years.
“Miss Chris. Excellent performance. You’re on form tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“In a hurry? I won’t keep you, but find me for a chat tomorrow, will you?” He smiled at her. “We need to talk about moving you up.”
She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Really?”
“Really. Tomorrow.” He winked and strolled off.
“Nice one, Chrissie,” Jim said. He was a solid brute who looked like a rough-hewn plank of wood, and belonged to the theatre body and soul. “Good work. Your young man coming by tonight? I should charge admission, I should, all the inning and outing.”
“That’s what all the girls say,” Christiana remarked, and left him cackling.
She’d got the stage paint off by the time Stan arrived. He knew she preferred to do that, and made sure he didn’t rush down. She didn’t paint excessively for the stage, no red rouge circles and eyes like spiders, but even her modest palette looked ridiculous close up and she liked to look her best when he came by.
He knocked, ever polite. “Hello there.”
“Hello, you. Did you enjoy it?”
“You were as good as I’ve seen you.” His eyes were bright. “Blooming wonderful. They loved you out there.”
“Mr. Starling wants to talk about moving me up the bill,” Christiana blurted. She’d meant to wait for a suitable moment, but couldn’t hold it in. “I’m to see him tomorrow.”
“Yes! Oh, that’s marvellous. Well done, you beauty.” He grinned hugely at her, with open delight. “You deserve it. Watch out, Marie Lloyd.”
“I can’t believe it. I’m doing all right, Stan, you know that? I am doing all right.”
Stan stepped forward, hands coming out. It was obvious instinct, and equally obvious was the way he stopped himself a second later. Christiana didn’t. She grabbed both his hands, and they stood, hands clasped, grinning absurdly at each other.
And then the moment faded, and they weren’t smiling any more.
Stan swallowed. “Christiana...”
She pulled her hands back. “No, wait, I want to say something. I need to. Could you listen?”
“Course.”
Of course he would. That was what he did.
“It’s this.” Please, please be who I think you are. Please let me be right. Please. “You know I like you. These last two months— I more than like you, Stan. You’re wonderful and kind and so patient, waiting for me. Only... Oh God. I’m just going to say it, all right? If I wanted to go to bed with anyone in the whole world it would be you, but I don’t. I just...it’s not something I want with anyone. And I don’t know if you’re waiting for me to do that, because if you are it’s not fair on you, and I don’t say you shouldn’t expect it, but I don’t, I really don’t—”
“Christiana!” Stan almost shouted. “I never asked you to.”
“You never ask me to do anything. You always ask what I want. But I need to know what you want, because I need to know if it’s something I can give you, and so do you.”
“I’m not waiting for anything. You said you don’t fuck men the first day we met. I heard you.”
“I don’t do women either,” Christiana said. “I just...don’t do it.”
“No,” Stan said. “Nor do I.”
They looked at each other. Her heart was hammering loud enough to drown out the distant orchestra. “Really? You really, truly don’t want to?”
“Really. I mean, you’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’ve never met anyone like you. But I don’t need to, you know, stick bits in other bits to prove that.”
The words hung in the air while they both came to terms with what he’d said. “‘Stick bits in other bits’?” Christiana repeated.
Stan shrugged. She looked at him. They both started laughing at once. “Bits?”
“Yeah, but that’s all it is, innit?” Stan said, grinning. “People make all this fuss like it’s magic—”
“Oh God, don’t they? It’s like everyone else is under some sort of compulsion to do this thing and I just stand here wondering why.”
She could see the light in Stan’s eyes, the kind you got when you discovered you weren’t, in fact, the only one in the whole world. “Right. And the things you see people do for the sake of getting to the bits, honest to God.”
“And half the time those bits are the only ones that count, and they throw away the rest of the person.”
Stan grimaced. “Have you...?”
“A couple of times. Didn’t like it. You?”
He shook his head. “Never wanted to and nobody’s asked.”
“Well, that’s stupid,”
Christiana said. “Not that I want people bothering you, but they don’t know what they’re missing. I really like you, Stan.”
“Same. I like being with you. I’ve never felt this way about a girl in my life.” He made a face. “I’m a bit out of my depth, to be honest. I’d just like...”
“What would you like?”
He inhaled. “If you maybe didn’t mind holding hands and stuff. If you know I’m not going to start pawing you, would that be all right?”
“It very much would,” Christiana said. “Do you like doing anything else? Kissing?”
“Don’t know. Never tried.”
“Would you like to kiss me? No funny business,” she added, a famous comedian’s catchphrase. He didn’t laugh, but he did nod. He looked very serious. Christiana bent down, and met his lips.
She wasn’t marvellous at this herself. Kissing people gave them the wrong idea, and it was hard to enjoy touching anyone when you were constantly wondering where they’d stick their hands. This was perhaps the least practised kiss ever executed in a music hall back room, with noses in the way and two very uncertain people, but she sort of moved her mouth a bit, and felt Stan’s open a little, and then his hands came up to her shoulders.
Christiana felt herself tense, just a little, but this was Stan, and he wasn’t groping. It felt more like him hanging on for balance, or even for dear life. She kissed him a little more firmly, just to see what might happen, and his mouth moved in response, gloriously intimate and gloriously tender, and not grabbing or groping or pressing her at all.
Oh thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.
Stan pulled back after a few minutes, looking dazed. “Blimey.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I like it.” He reached for her hand. “Does this mean you’re my girl?”
“Officially? I think it must.”
“Blimey.” He straightened to his full height, such as it was. “That’s all right then.”
She squeezed his hand. Stan’s girl. The thought tingled through her. “It is, isn’t it?”
THREE WEEKS LATER, she came to meet him in the shop. Kamarzyn Repairs was an unobtrusive little place on Florida Street, in deepest Bethnal Green. It was a shabby sort of area, which meant there were a lot of darker faces around, plenty of Jews and Indians, and a lot of betwixt and between like Christiana herself. That in turn meant she could go out without dressing up, because she wouldn’t get the same scrutinising gazes. She shaved close, wore a modest frock, and didn’t put on any jewellery except a couple of plain ear-bobs. No point attracting attention.
It was a warm early summer day. They were going to take an afternoon in Victoria Park, listen to the band, sit by the lake, explore the Palm House if it wasn’t too hot in there. She wasn’t on that night, so they’d have a rare evening together too. They’d kiss, and hold each other, talk, maybe even sleep in the same bed. They’d done that twice, the first time both stiff as boards with nerves. It was funny how your mind could trust but your body still panicked. Even so, they’d done it, and relaxed more with every gentle touch, every tender minute that passed.
The second night they’d gone to sleep with arms and legs entwined, holding each other like they’d been doing this forever. If it were now to die, ‘twere now to be most happy.
She wanted a lot more nights cuddled up with Stan, and a lot more days out on his arm. His girl. But first they sat in the back room of the shop having a cup of tea, while Christiana bubbled about her new higher billing.
“What about you?” she asked, once the questions of extra songs, more patter, and a costume change had been thoroughly thrashed out. “You look a bit worn.”
“Oh, it’s nothing much. Stupid stuff.”
“What is it?”
He sighed. “Look, don’t get upset, but it’s Kammy Grizzard.”
“What?”
“Nothing to do with you, don’t worry. He’s getting ideas above his station. He’s got a dozen fences working for him, so now he thinks he’s the grand panjandrum, and the whole trade should be giving him a cut. He wants ten per cent off me.”
“Ten per cent? For what?”
“Protection. I said to his blokes, what are you protecting me from because as far as I can see, the only trouble I’ve got is you. They said, that’s right. Pricks.”
“But what happens if you say no?” Christiana asked, gripping her cup. “He’s nasty, Stan.”
“I’m not handing ten percent of the Lilywhites’ earnings over to Kammy Grizzard for doing damn all. He’s trying to build an empire on our backs, and he can shove it.”
Christiana didn’t point out that the defiance in his voice didn’t carry through to his eyes, which were worried. “Stay safe,” she said instead.
“Course I will. Another cuppa, or shall we get on?”
“Let’s go. I’ll just use the necessary.”
She went through to the outhouse in the little yard, taking her time because she needed to calm down.
Kammy bloody Grizzard. It had been three months, and he hadn’t touched her or tried to. She oughtn’t still find herself sweating at his name. But she was, because if he was threatening Stan, that meant he wasn’t afraid of the Lilywhite Boys, which meant the protection she’d come to believe in was an illusion.
“Oh God,” she whispered to herself.
No, she was making too much of this. Stan moved in a world where people made threats all the time. And Kammy surely wouldn’t care about her: he’d probably forgotten her existence once he got the money in his hand. He’d made a huge profit on his purchase of her debt. That would be enough for him, she told herself. There was no reason for her to be afraid.
She gave it a bit longer, breathing deeply, which wasn’t much fun in a lavatory but needs must. Her heart was pounding. She didn’t want to spoil the day with fears, and Stan would notice if she was fretting, even silently.
Calm down. This is his line of work. He knows what to do.
I hate it.
She squared her shoulders, and headed back to the kitchen. She’d left the back door open on her way out, since it was a hot day, and that meant she heard man talking.
“You don’t get it, you little fucker. Kammy told you to pay up, so you pay up right now.”
The horrible familiarity of the voice stopped her in her tracks. It was Geoffrey Grizzard, Kammy’s nephew, that vile bastard with the moustache. the one who definitely wouldn’t have forgotten she existed, because she’d done him some damage and he wasn’t a forgiving type. Long-fermented fear squeezed her heart.
“No, you don’t get it,” Stan said. He sounded far more confident than she would have expected. “I don’t work for Kammy so I don’t pay Kammy, savvy? If I want protection, I’ve got a couple of mates to sort that. Sling your hooks.”
“That’s not going to happen. Last chance, Russky.”
“I’m Polish, you arsehole!”
Apparently Geoffrey didn’t care. “Are you paying up or not?”
“Not,” Stan said. “Clear enough for you?”
“If that’s how you want it,” Geoffrey said. “Grab him, lads.”
There was a crash of furniture, wood and breaking china, thumps, yells. Stan started to shout something that was immediately cut off.
Christiana stood, frozen in terror, hating herself. A brave woman would pick up... She scanned the yard, hoping for a handy bit of wood with nails in it, saw nothing she could use. Maybe she could run in—no, she’d need to kick off her heeled shoes first, then run in, and try to attack Kammy Grizzard’s thugs. Three of them. Jesus. And if Geoffrey recognised her, if they took her too—
She couldn’t do anything, because they were violent men and she was sickeningly afraid. She simply stood, hand over her mouth, paralysed with fear, as Geoffrey told his men, “Right, get him back to Thirza Street.” Then she heard feet recede and they were gone.
Stan. Oh God, Stan.
She forced herself to move. The first steps felt like they were th
rough thick tar, then she hurtled into the empty, wrecked kitchen. The table and chairs were all upturned; the shards of the teapot lay in a pool of brown liquid on the floor. They’d been planning such a nice day.
Kammy’s men had taken Stan. What now? What could she do?
She needed help. Not the police, obviously—because of Stan’s work, because she’d have to waste time getting changed if she wanted them to listen to her, and mostly because she had too much knowledge of the police to believe in their help. What she needed was the Lilywhite Boys, right now, and the only way she knew to find them was by leaving a message at the Blue Posts in bloody Holborn and waiting for them to collect it. There had to be something better than that.
But there wasn’t. Stan had never told her anything about them, except that they sometimes met here in his kitchen.
Fine. She would leave a note for them here on the off chance—one that wouldn’t be incriminating if the wrong eyes saw it—and then she would get a cab to Holborn, and pray the landlord of the Blue Posts did more than just pass letters on. Maybe he knew where to find them. Maybe she’d bloody well make him tell her.
She righted the table and a chair, scrabbled around for pencil and paper, hands shaking, and sat to write. She’d got half way through a letter when the bell at the front rang and someone came into the shop.
Christiana rocketed up from the chair like a pheasant, panic shooting through her. She hadn’t locked the door and they’d come back for her. Why had she not locked the door?
Heavy feet approached, more than one pair, then the kitchen door opened, and a man walked in. He was lean, dressed in casual tweeds like a gentleman off to a sporting event, with reddish-brown hair and a pencil moustache, and if it wasn’t for the eyebrows she wouldn’t have known him.
“Where’s Stan?” he demanded, eyes flicking to the broken teapot. “Who the devil are you?”
“Don’t be stupid, Jerry,” said Templeton, coming in behind him. “It’s the missus. Miss Christiana. Nice to—” His voice changed. “What’s happened?”
“They took him,” Christiana said. Her voice cracked on the words. “Kammy’s men. Three of them. They came in and said he had to pay up and he wouldn’t. They said it was his last chance, they grabbed him and took him away. I was coming to find you. You have to do something.” Jerry wasn’t moving. Templeton had strolled to the table and was reading her note. “Did you not hear me? Kammy Grizzard’s taken him and you have to help him! Please!”
