The Urchin's Song Part 14

'I want to tell Gertie first.' Josie returned Nellie's hug before drawing back and putting her finger to her lips in a warning gesture. 'Don't say anything before I tell her, will you?'

'Wouldn't dream of it, gal.' Nellie now moved her head, looking Oliver straight in the eye as she said, her voice as cool as his had been, 'You're a lucky blighter if ever there was one. You know that, don't you.'

Oliver stifled his annoyance, forcing a smile as he said, 'Indeed I do.'

And it wasn't until much later, just before she fell asleep in fact, that Josie recalled Nellie hadn't congratulated her on her betrothal.

Part 3.

The Taste of Success 1901.

Chapter Fifteen.

Josie married Oliver on the first day of the New Year, a day which also saw the Commonwealth of Australia come into being on the other side of the world, but which momentous event pa.s.sed unnoticed by the new Mr and Mrs Oliver Hogarth. Oliver would have liked the marriage to take place some weeks earlier but this had not proved possible, mainly because of Josie's heavy work schedule throughout November and December.

London had embraced its newest sensation with all the enthusiasm Oliver had hoped for, and when Josie had been offered a part in the pantomime at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, throughout the last two months of the old year, they had both known it required 100 per cent commitment and had arranged the wedding date accordingly.

Josie had enjoyed the last weeks of 1900 more than she would have thought possible. The pantomime smell of gas, oranges, human beings and dust had become as familiar as blinking, along with the great gasps of antic.i.p.ation from the audience as the Demon King strutted on stage by the illumination of fizzy blue and red limes. The oooh! when she, as the Fairy Queen, entered on the other side in a holy circle of fizzy white lime never failed to thrill her, along with the children's goggle eyes as the Demon King sang his usual song: Hush, hush, hus.h.!.+

Here comes the bogey man,

Be on your best behaviour.

For he'll catch you if he can!

At the end of the traditional and very pretty Transformation scene, which consisted of raising one by one a series of gauzes to reveal fairies, reclining in enormous roses and water lilies, the children's excitement when Clown, Pantaloon and Harlequin appeared and tossed brightly wrapped crackers into small hands in the stalls, pit and circle was infectious, along with their high howls of laughter as Clown burned everyone with a red-hot poker and stole long strings of sausages from the butcher's shop in the following front-cloth scene.

It was sheer magic for the children, from the moment they entered the great portico at the theatre to find small boys dressed as pages in bright blue suits with s.h.i.+ny b.u.t.tons and pill box caps giving away little bottles of scent; and nymphs, golden and sparkling, reclining gracefully on gold brackets at the side of the stage.

Flying fairies, poised but swaying gently, filled the air and formed an archway below which the performers gathered, and the vivid colours, sparkling bright costumes and general air of festivity caused many a small person to become sick with excitement. It wasn't just the children who were enamoured; when Josie had paid for Vera and Horace, along with Betty and her tribe to come down for one of the shows in the early part of December, she'd been hard pressed to decide who enjoyed the pantomime more - the three grown-ups or the bairns.

Seated at her husband's side in the elegant hotel in Richmond which Oliver had chosen for their small reception, Josie glanced round her a.s.sembled family and friends. Oliver's only living family consisted of two great-aunts somewhere or other, and he had insisted they would hold an evening reception for his friends when they returned from honeymoon. It was the sort of thing expected amongst his set, he'd said, and it was better Josie had her family and friends to herself on her special day.

Josie now smiled at Vera and Horace before her gaze moved to Amos and his wife, who were sitting quietly together with their three children. The baby had died just before Christmas, and although there were those within both sides of the family who said it was a blessing, Amos and his wife didn't see it that way. As Amos had said to Josie in a quiet moment, they had loved the child more, not less, because of its problems. Hadn't the Lord Jesus Christ come to this earth specifically for the poor and needy and afflicted, so how could they, as His servants, consider it any other than a privilege that He'd trusted a little suffering one to their care?

Josie had been amazed and humbled by their acceptance and faith, but she doubted she could have thought the same in such heartbreaking circ.u.mstances.

Reg and Neville, with their respective wives and children, were seated either side of Amos and his family, but Betty had been unable to make the wedding at the last minute due to her three youngest children going down with the measles. Barney had sent his apologies too. Pearl was very poorly, as Josie knew, he had written, and they'd decided a journey of such magnitude would tire her unduly.

Josie hadn't known, and when she questioned Vera about the nature of Pearl's illness, Vera wasn't very forthcoming. She thought she'd mentioned that Pearl had been a bit under the weather? Vera had said with a surprised note in her voice. And when Josie a.s.sured her that no, she hadn't, Vera simply shrugged and mumbled that she had no doubt Pearl would soon be well again. And that was the most Josie could get out of her old friend.

Josie had included Prudence in Vera and Horace's invitation. She'd felt she could do little else with Betty's stepdaughter living with Vera, and all the lads and their families receiving invitations, but she wasn't sorry when Prudence declined. She had no wish to see the girl again, least of all on her wedding day, although Vera had reported that Prudence was a changed person. Indeed, Josie suspected that Vera felt sorry for Betty's stepdaughter, even perhaps liked her a little, because she had made no effort to ask Prudence to leave now her hands were improved as much as they were ever going to be. Vera had even put in a good word for her at the corn mill when an inspection/checking-out post had become available, so now Prudence worked with Vera too.

She'd felt strange about that, Josie admitted to herself as she watched Vera talking to Neville's wife who was seated next to her. Abandoned almost. Which was ridiculous, quite ridiculous. Vera had her life up in Sunderland and she had to do what she thought was right in any situation. Her own life was quite different now she'd met Oliver; everything was different. Too different? She quelled the little niggle which had been at the back of her mind for the last day or so, angry it should rear its head on this day of all days. She was happy, very happy, and she had the most wonderful husband and friends, and Gertie. Precious Gertie.

She turned to Gertie who was sitting at the side of her and who looked charming in her deep blue bridesmaid's dress which had a matching cloak edged with white fur, and said very quietly, 'I wonder where Hubert is today? Jimmy too.'

Gertie nodded. 'And Ada an' Dora. By, they had a rough start, didn't they, and I'd have bin sent along the same road but for you, la.s.s.'

Josie nodded but didn't pursue the conversation, conscious of Oliver on her other side. She had told him all about her childhood and her flight with Gertie to Newcastle and the reason for it, and he had been as shocked and distressed as she had expected. But she had felt it was right to tell him it all; she hadn't wanted to continue with the engagement under false pretences. After a few moments he had taken her hands in his, his face grim, and said, 'I make no judgement on your sisters, Josie. They were clearly more sinned against than sinful, but nevertheless if this were to come to light it might throw a shadow over you yourself. Do you understand this? Society is quick to condemn, my dear, and can be very cruel. I think it would be better if we do not discuss this painful subject again but consign it to the past where it belongs.'

'They are my sisters, Oliver.'

'Of course they are, but by your own admission it has been almost a decade since you saw them last. You could pa.s.s them in the street and not know them, and - forgive me, my dear - the life they have embraced is a hard one. There is no guarantee they have survived it thus far.'

She had stared at him for some ten seconds or more before saying, 'Nevertheless, I must repeat they are my sisters and the fault was not theirs. If you are asking me to admit to being ashamed of them, I cannot.'

'Oh, my dear.' His tone had changed and he had pulled her stiff body into his arms, saying softly above her head, 'Your att.i.tude does you credit but I would have expected nothing less from you. I am the most fortunate man in the world.'

She would have said more but he had begun to kiss her and the moment had pa.s.sed, but since that day - the day after he had asked her to become his wife - they had not talked of her two elder sisters again simply because the matter had not arisen. Josie told herself Oliver had dealt with the unwelcome confidence with typical male logic and lack of emotion, and had endeavoured to see the situation from his point of view, but deep inside, barely acknowledged, had been a shred of disappointment . . .

'Happy, my darling?' Oliver's voice was soft and deep and now, as she turned to him, the look in his blue eyes made her quiver. They were to spend their wedding night in Oliver's London house before leaving for a week's honeymoon in France where one of Oliver's friends had a chateau. They could have spent longer abroad but Josie was beginning a new season at Covent Garden beginning the third week of January, and so regretfully they had decided a week was all they could manage. 'You look quite exquisite.' Oliver stroked her flushed face before looking down at the ivory silk dress encrusted with hundreds and hundreds of tiny crystals across the low-cut bodice, and then back upwards to her golden-brown hair under its lacy veil. 'Even the good Reverend Whear was mesmerised by your beauty. He nearly forgot his words, did you notice?'

'Oh, Oliver.' She smiled now, and he grinned back at her, suddenly very much her Oliver. Everything was going to be all right. Once this first night of marriage was over she would know what to expect and then it wouldn't be so frightening. Women the whole world over survived this thing that happened once the lights were out, and most of them loved their husbands. Look at the Queen - she had been devoted to her Albert and utterly devastated by his death, and they had had nine children. She had openly idolised him, and he her, so this . . . activity couldn't be that bad, could it?

It wasn't. A little painful perhaps on the first night and certainly somewhat embarra.s.sing, but Oliver's gentleness and restrained pa.s.sion, along with his almost reverent adoration, had even made that night enjoyable. And as the honeymoon progressed in the wonderful old chateau where they were waited on hand and foot by Oliver's friend's old retainers, Josie blossomed under her husband's skilful and experienced lovemaking.

They arrived home in England, tired but happy, on a very wet and windy January evening, and Gertie, who had her own quarters now in Oliver's house, had opened the door and run down the steps to greet them as though Josie had been away for a month instead of a week.

It was some time later after they had enjoyed the excellent homecoming dinner Mrs Wilde had prepared, and the maids had cleared away the dishes, and Josie and Oliver along with Gertie were sitting in front of the roaring drawing-room fire, that Josie said, 'Is anything wrong, Gertie? There is something, isn't there? What is it, la.s.s?'

'I wasn't going to say anything tonight what with you just coming home, but . . .' Gertie hesitated. 'It's a bit of a shock but Pearl, she's gone.'

'Gone? Gone where?'

'She died, Josie. The day after you went to France.'

'She died?' Josie was aware of the crackling bright orange flames licking round the big log on the fire which Constance, one of the maids, had attended to some minutes before, and Oliver at the side of her saying, 'Who is Pearl?' but for a moment she was having a job taking the news in. Pearl had been young, so young and bonny; it seemed impossible that she was dead. She turned to Oliver. 'Pearl is - was - Barney's wife, Betty's stepson.'

Gertie chimed in again, with, 'I couldn't believe it when I heard, an' apparently all them back home got a gliff an' all. No one realised she was so bad, you see.'

'How old was this Pearl?' Oliver asked quietly.

'Only twenty-four or twenty-five,' Josie said. 'We'd invited them to the wedding, if you remember, but Barney wrote to say she was ill. I never realised it was anything so serious. Vera seemed to suggest it wasn't much at all . . .' Her voice trailed away. This was awful. Pearl had had her whole life in front of her. And her mam and da would be devastated. According to Betty, they'd built their life round Pearl. And Barney - how would he be feeling? She could still hardly believe it. 'Do we know the cause of death?' she asked Gertie.

'A disease of the blood, so Vera wrote. She . . . she started bleeding at the end apparently, from everywhere, an' then she went into a coma an' within a few hours she'd gone.'

'It was in the newspapers in November last year that the blood is far more complicated than doctors had expected.' Oliver stood up and walked across to the fire, standing with his back to the flames as he continued, 'Three different blood groups have been identified by a scientist in Vienna, and he thinks this explains why different people react differently to blood transfusions among other things. Did your friend have transfusions?'

'I don't know.'

'I'm so sorry, my dear.' Oliver returned to the sofa and sat down, patting Josie's arm as he spoke. 'It is always so much worse when one hasn't lived out the three score and ten.'

Josie nodded. She hadn't liked Pearl and now she felt awful because she hadn't.

'Barney was the gentleman I met once at Vera's house, wasn't he?' Oliver said after a moment or two.

Josie nodded again. 'When you came up to Sunderland to see a friend of yours,' she agreed.

'I think we both know why I came up to Sunderland.' He smiled and she half smiled back, but she felt shaken and disturbed. 'What are the funeral arrangements?' Oliver asked Gertie.

'It's tomorrow morning, early, so there's no chance of going,' Gertie said. 'I let them all back home know that you two weren't due back till late tonight so they don't expect us.'

'Thank you.' Josie felt doubly guilty now as a sense of relief made itself known. She would have gone if there had been time but she wouldn't have known what to say to Barney, or Prudence either for that matter. Prudence had thought the world of Pearl. She'd be absolutely heartbroken . . .

'Well, la.s.s, this took us all by surprise. I never thought that she wouldn't get better, did you?'

Prudence shook her head. She knew Vera was wondering why she wasn't more upset, and she was sorry Pearl had died, it was terrible, but she couldn't pretend to something she didn't feel. Not any more. Not with Vera. For years now she had squirmed at Pearl's treatment of Barney, and only she knew how awful it had been in that house. Not that she wished Pearl dead, never that, but it had happened and that was that.

As they entered the church and took their seats, Prudence glanced across to where Barney was sitting, his head bowed and his hands joined as they hung down between his knees. Pearl's parents were on one side of him and Betty on the other, but he appeared oblivious to anyone else.

'First s.h.i.+rley, then Frank and now this.' Vera's voice at the side of her brought Prudence's head turning, and Horace - on Vera's other side - nodded mournfully. 'They say it goes in threes so please G.o.d this is an end to it. What say you, la.s.s?'

'Aye.' Prudence nodded in her turn, and then she wondered what Vera would say if she came out with the truth and told her she was the happiest she'd ever been these days.

When she had first gone to live with Vera and Horace she knew it had been on sufferance. Oh, not that anything had been said, Vera was too nice for that, but she'd known all right. And it had been difficult, the first few weeks. Her hands had still been paining her a lot then, and she'd felt . . . Oh, she couldn't have described to anyone how she'd felt in those dark days. She had prayed she wouldn't wake up when she'd laid her head on the pillow more times than she could remember, and the river had beckoned to her more than once. It would be easy, she'd thought, just to let herself fall into the river and for the waters to close over her head and end all the struggling and heartache and pain. She'd spent hours in the little room designated to her; thinking, thinking, thinking until she'd felt she was going mad. She was never going to be married, never going to have bairns or be loved, never even have any real friends. She was an oddity, a freak, that's what she was. And then, to put the tin lid on it, she'd come out in a rash all over her face and torso.

It had all come to a head that day she'd looked in the little hand mirror in her bedroom and seen the gargoyle she'd become looking back at her. At least that's how she'd felt at the time. And she'd thrown the mirror to the floor where it had smashed into a hundred pieces, and Vera had come running up and thought she'd dropped it because of her hands and told her not to worry, she'd get another one. And she had screamed at Vera that she didn't want another mirror! Why would anyone want to see what she saw when she looked in one? And then somehow she'd found herself in Vera's arms sobbing her heart out and once started she hadn't been able to stop. Horace had gone for the doctor when she was still crying an hour later, and he'd given her something to make her sleep. And Vera had been there when she'd woken up, and they had talked. For hours they'd talked. And everything had changed after that. She couldn't remember her mam much but she couldn't have thought more of her if she'd lived than she did Vera. That's how she felt now. And Horace was kind. Oh, he was. And easygoing. He didn't gripe about much, Horace.

'Come as somethin' of a bolt out of the blue to Barney an' all.' Vera was whispering as befitted the solemn occasion, and again Prudence nodded, whispering back, 'He'll be all right, Vera. It's terrible, but it's not as if he and Pearl were as close as you and Horace or anything, is it?'

'No, no. You're right there, la.s.s. Aye, you are, an' I've always said G.o.d works in mysterious ways.'

'His wonders to perform,' Horace chimed in.

'What?' Now Vera turned fully to him. 'What are you on about?'

'Isn't that the next part of that verse? G.o.d works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform?'

'It might be.' Vera clearly didn't like being caught out on something she didn't know, and she sniffed before she said, 'But I would hardly call Pearl's death a wonder, Horace.'

'I wasn't sayin' that, now was I?' He leaned forward, appealing to Prudence, who was secretly amused. These two were like a double act at times but now was not the time to smile. Poor Pearl. As Horace settled back in his seat, Prudence glanced at the back of Marjorie and Stanley's heads. And her poor parents. But at least there were no little ones left motherless, that was something. And Pearl hadn't bothered to come and see her in hospital when she'd first hurt her hands - and that was before she'd got ill. Barney had come, and he'd said Pearl found hospitals upsetting but that she'd sent her love. That day, Prudence had realised that she didn't actually want Pearl to visit her, which had been a great surprise at the time.

Barney turned round once as the service began, his eyes searching out Prudence, and when she inclined her head at him he nodded back before facing the minister again. He was glad his sister was here. He hadn't seen much of her since she had been living with Vera, and to his surprise he had found that he missed her. She was an intelligent la.s.s, Prudence, and they'd had some good cracks together, but moreover he didn't have to pretend with her. He knew that most people would cast him in the role of heartbroken husband, and respect for Pearl prevented him from telling the truth, but the pity and sympathy in people's faces had him wanting to stand up and shout, 'Don't none of you feel sorry for me! Feel sorry for Pearl, aye, in as much as you would for any young life cut short, but not me.'

A stifled sob from Pearl's mother at the side of him brought his head towards his mother-in-law, but she was staring rigidly ahead and did not glance at him. Barney had gleaned enough over the last years to know who he had to thank for Pearl being the way she was in the bedroom and out of it, but there was no doubt her mother had loved Pearl in her own way. Marjorie Harper had had a deeply possessive streak where her only child was concerned, and she'd projected all her warped ideas about the intimate side of marriage on to her daughter, along with the compulsive desire she had to control every aspect of her husband and her marriage. Pearl's father had never spoken of his relations.h.i.+p with his wife, but within weeks of being wed Barney had read what was in the other man's eyes and recognised it for what it was. How Stanley had stuck Marjorie for nigh on thirty years he didn't know.

Barney slanted his eyes at the couple beside him. Pearl's parents were sitting stiff and straight and without any part of them touching, but there was no doubt both were deeply distraught. But then again, if Pearl hadn't died he'd be in the same boat as Stanley unless he had upped and skedaddled, and what man worth his salt did that?

By, in all his wildest imaginings of how things were going to work out he'd never thought it would be like this. And he wouldn't have wished Pearl's end on anyone. Not that he'd been allowed to be with her when she died. Pearl's mother had been sleeping on a put-you-up at the side of her daughter's bed ever since Pearl's first collapse and had made sure Barney didn't contaminate her daughter with his foul presence for more than a minute or two a day. If she could have surrounded the room in barbed wire and kept him out completely, she would have. They had taken Pearl to hospital, that last forty-eight hours, but Pearl had just got distressed when he had tried to sit near her and take her hand, and so the doctors had advised him to leave her to her mother. But he had gone in to see her after it was over and her father had taken her mother home, and he had hardly been able to recognise the young, pretty la.s.s he'd fallen in love with so many moons ago. He'd felt a sense of desolation then, standing looking down at what once had been a living, breathing human being, and memories from the past - from their courting days - had come flooding in. But those days hadn't been real; he knew that now. They had been an illusion.

The service was not a long one and after the burial in the churchyard the funeral entourage returned to Barney's house in Jesmond. Pearl's mother had wanted to see to the meal which, although consisting of various cold meats and such, was substantial, and Barney had let her, knowing Marjorie needed to be able to do something. It was as he was filling everyone's gla.s.ses that Vera spoke to him for the first time that day, her voice quiet as she said simply, 'I'm sorry, lad.'

'Aye, thanks, Vera.' Barney felt he didn't need to say any more. Vera being Betty's sister would know the marriage had not been all it should be; they were as close as bricks and mortar, those two. 'It's. .h.i.t her mam and da hard.'

Vera nodded. And then she forced herself to say, as naturally as she could, 'Gertie wrote me an' said she'd explained them down in London wouldn't be able to make it, Oliver an' Josie only just gettin' home from their honeymoon late last night an' all.'

'Aye, she did.' Barney drew in a long breath. He had kept his mind from thinking about Josie, or more particularly Josie and Oliver, because he had known there was only so much he could take and he needed to get this day over.

And then Vera surprised both Barney and herself when she said what she'd promised herself she wouldn't say, certainly not on this particular day: 'She's got a new life now with how things have gone for her, her success and all. It's all different, lad. Not that she'll forget her roots and her old friends, Josie's not like that, but it wouldn't be natural if she didn't shake off the dust so to speak, would it?'

Barney raised his head and looked at Vera, and his lips moved, but he didn't speak until he turned and looked across the packed sitting room. And then he said, his voice flat, 'It's a good turn-out. Marjorie and Stanley will take some comfort from that. Marjorie sets great store by such things.'

'Aye, well everyone to their own, lad.' Vera was feeling mightily uncomfortable and, searching her mind for something to say, she added, 'Will you keep this house up now?'

Barney shook his head. 'I'm selling it. I've been told I'll make a nice profit on it. And I'm leaving Ginnett's.'

'Oh aye? You had the offer of another job then?'

'No.'

Vera inhaled deeply and tried again. 'So you'll be doin' what? Going back to the concrete works or lookin' for something else in the theatre line maybe?'

'I don't know yet. I haven't decided. I might take off for a bit, travel around.' And then, when the silence stretched and lengthened Barney turned again, and what he read on Vera's face caused him to say, and curtly, 'It's all right, Vera. London won't be one of my calling places.'

Vera didn't protest her innocence of the unspoken accusation, she merely looked at him for a moment or two before nodding slowly, and what she said was, 'One town is very much like another in my book.'

No, one town was not very much like another, not when it had Josie in it. Barney watched Vera move away and for a moment he had it within him to hate her for the none too subtle plea to stay away from Josie. What did she think he was, anyway? Pearl barely put to rest and Josie just married; did she really think he was going to hightail it to London and plead his cause? Barney had decided to go to Glasgow, or perhaps Edinburgh. He'd make a bit out of the sale of the house, even after he'd paid the Building Society their whack, and he owed no one nowt. He needed to get away for a time, right away. Aye, that's what he'd do. He would go to Scotland and if things turned out right he might even stay there for good.

'You all right, Barney?' Prudence was at his elbow.

He nodded. 'And you?'

'Aye.' She had hoped to have a quiet word with him today but there was as much chance of that with friends and family milling around as flying. She hadn't known quite how she was going to approach what she needed to say, it being a delicate subject, so perhaps it was better left unsaid anyway. She got on all right with Barney now and she didn't want anything to upset that.

She hadn't liked the look of the little ferret-faced individual who had spoken to her in the market a few weeks ago, but within a moment or two of him opening his mouth she had realised he had approached her for a purpose. He had known where she lived and her name and where she'd come from in Newcastle; he'd have had to ask questions and probe a bit to find that out.

She'd been tempted to tell him to be off about his business initially, especially when he had laid a claw-like hand on her coat-sleeve to detain her, but her curiosity had been stronger than her unease. He'd been careful in what he said, but it had been enough to indicate that he was aware she was the person who had tipped Bart Burns the wink all that time ago, and at that point she had to admit she'd become interested. And so she had swallowed her distaste and walked with him for a while, and although they had parted without anything of real importance being said, and without him stating the reason he'd spoken to her in the first place, she had gleaned enough to understand that the small Irishman had no more time for Josie Burns than she had. It was only when she was within sight and sound of Vera's that she'd suddenly remembered the description the police had given of the accomplice who had been with Josie's father that night at her da's, and it seemed to match the little man to a T.