The Urchin's Song Part 18

'Aye.' There was a moment's hesitation, and then the woman said, her voice still low, 'From your neck of the woods. You're Josie Burns, aren't you? The la.s.s who's made good in the halls.'

It wasn't unusual for her to be recognised, not these days, but again, something was not quite right here. Rags, poverty, disease and death were the appropriate emblems of this district, and for the woman to know who she was and to brush aside the offer of payment she had made on Lottie's behalf was not normal. Most of the poor, broken-down inhabitants of the East End were born streetwise and as cunning as a cartload of monkeys, and those from further afield who joined their pitiful ranks soon learned to make the most of every opportunity.

'I know you, don't I?' Josie stared into the plump face in front of her. The texture of the woman's voice, the key in which it was pitched was somehow familiar, and she had a small portwine birthmark on her jawbone just under her left ear. Ada had had a mark like that but it had been more vivid against a child's pale skin. She'd forgotten about it till now, but she knew this woman. Josie's heart began to slam against her ribcage. 'Ada? It's you, isn't it? Isn't it?'

The woman blinked rapidly but she didn't deny it. She did not answer straight away, and when she did speak it was just a whisper. 'Aye, aye it's me.'

Josie heard Gertie's quick intake of breath behind her but as far as she knew her sister did not move; certainly she did not speak, not even when Josie moved forward and gripped her eldest sister's arms saying, 'Oh, Ada. Ada. I can't believe it,' through the pounding of her heart and the blood rus.h.i.+ng in her ears. 'Oh this is wonderful, incredible. But if you knew who I was and that I was here, in London, why didn't you contact me?' And then, without waiting for an answer, she hugged Ada to her.

For a moment or two Ada remained stiff in her embrace, and then Josie felt the big body relax and as her sister's arms went round her for the first time Josie could remember, Ada's voice was thick when she admitted, 'We weren't sure if you'd want to know us, la.s.s. Me an' Dora, we're respectable now. This is our own place an' we take in lodgers - women lodgers, you know?' This last was defensive. 'Dora works at the box-making factory an' with what she earns an' the lodgers bring in, we get by. We don't . . . We're not . . .'

Josie drew away slightly in order to look into her sister's face. Ada must be a relatively young woman of twenty-seven, but she looked forty years old if a day. Compared to her two elder sisters, Josie had had it easy. 'Hear me right when I say this, la.s.s,' she said softly, her voice dropping naturally into the broad idiom of the north. 'I don't care about anything but the fact you and Dora are our sisters.' She included Gertie in the statement although Gertie had said nothing. 'What happened wasn't your fault. Da was after sending Gertie down the same road, and he'd got the lads thieving as soon as they could walk. Him and Patrick Duffy.'

'Patrick Duffy.' Ada moved her head slowly. 'It's bin years since I heard that name. Are . . . are Mam an' Da still . . . ?' And when Josie shook her head, Ada said, 'I can't pretend to feel sorry, la.s.s, not after what they did to me an' Dora.' And for the first time since Josie had seen her, Ada looked hard and bitter. 'I've wished 'em all in h.e.l.l's flames more times than I can remember, I tell you straight.'

'Oh Ada, I'm so sorry.'

'Aye, well, there's them that'd say me an' Dora are no better than we should be, but at least we did something about getting out of what Da put us into. We knew with Duffy's contacts we had to get right away from the north, an' when we left we'd only got the train fare so for the first few years we did the only work we'd bin used to, I admit it. Then we got enough to get this place 'cos it was all but falling down, an' we got a couple of our customers to pay in kind by doing the roof an' other bits. We could easily have turned it into a bawdy house an' made a bob or two, but we wanted . . . Well, you know what we wanted I imagine, la.s.s. We wanted to be able to hold our heads up an' look any blighter in the eye and tell 'em we were as good as them. And so we finished with the other for good.'

'You were always as good as anyone else, Ada.'

Ada stepped back a pace. 'You mean that?'

'With all my heart.'

'We don't want a handout, don't think that, la.s.s. No, we're all right, me an' Dora. Ask nowt of no one and you won't be disappointed, that's our motto. We look after each other and to h.e.l.l with the rest. But . . . but I just wanted to see you once, proper like, you an' the little 'un. I've seen the posters an' such but it's not the same. Mind, Dora knows nowt about this and to tell you the truth, Lottie didn't neither. Me an' Dora had agreed, once we'd realised it was you, to let sleeping dogs lie. You've got your life an' we've got ours, that's what we said. But for the whole time Lottie's bin lodging with us, the thought was there in the back of me mind, once I'd heard what you do for some of the old-timers. An' I was wondering about the lads an' all; they were nowt but babbies when we skedaddled. So when Lottie got real sick I thought if I didn't take me chance it'd be gone--'

Ada stopped abruptly as though she'd suddenly become aware how much she was gabbling. 'An' you?' She looked past Josie to Gertie, her face hard again. As Josie followed Ada's gaze she saw Gertie was still standing as though she was frozen, apparently immobilised by the amazing turn of events. 'What about you? You ashamed of us then? Wis.h.i.+n' I'd kept me big mouth shut, are you?'

Gertie's small head moved as if in a shudder and then she spoke for the first time. 'Why didn't you take us?' She hadn't planned to say it; she hadn't even known it was what she was thinking until she had said it, but once said she knew it had been there at the back of her mind since for ever. 'Why did you leave us there with him, knowing what he was like?'

'We was bairns, la.s.s, nowt but bairns, an' we didn't even know if we could get away ourselves. You don't run away from the sort of people we run away from, not unless you want to end up in a back alley somewhere with your throat cut, that is. We knew we were goin' to have to live on the streets and do the same work for a while once we got away; how could we have two little bairns with us?'

'You should've took us.'

'I told you.'

Josie watched her sisters glaring at each other and inside she was praying, Please, please, G.o.d, make it all right. Please make it all right. Make them love one another.

And then Ada sat down suddenly on a straight-backed chair, which, like everything else in the room, was battered but spotlessly clean, and she gulped twice before she said, 'You're right, we should have took you. I should have took you. I've never regretted goin', not for a minute, but for the fact that I left the rest of you with him. But . . . you can't imagine how it was. Me an' Dora, we thought about killin' him, or ourselves, or . . . Oh, lots of things. But we was little bairns, that's all. Little bairns.'

Ada's head swayed from one side to the other following the motion of her big body and the sight was more distressing than any loud wailing or tears. The lump in Josie's throat was threatening to choke her and she reached Ada the same time as Gertie did, the two of them bending over the enormously fat figure in the chair that bore no resemblance to the little child still trapped within the adult body. How long the three of them remained entwined Josie didn't know, it was unimportant, but by the time she and Gertie straightened all their faces were wet.

'You couldn't have taken us. I know that really, I do.' Gertie sank down to her knees, holding Ada's fleshy arm in her hands. 'But it was after you'd gone he started knocking me about all the time. I used to wet me drawers just when I heard his voice . . .'

'He . . . he didn't give you two to Duffy?'

'No, no.' It was Josie who spoke, Gertie's head now resting on Ada's lap. 'I could earn more for him with my singing, and when he tried the same game as with you and Dora for Gertie, we made a run for it. Vera, one of Mam's old friends, helped us. We lodged with her sister in Newcastle for a while, and then I went on the halls.'

'And the lads?'

'Working for Duffy now.' Josie's voice had the catch of tears in it but she couldn't help it. Never, in all her wildest dreams, had she hoped to see Ada and Dora again, but in a way this had brought all her buried fears for Hubert to the surface again. She wouldn't have believed it was possible to feel such elation and such despair at the same time.

'Something tells me we could all do with a nice cup of tea.' Lily had been standing in the doorway to the kitchen but now she pushed past the three sisters and walked over to the blackleaded range, reaching for a big iron kettle and, after checking to make sure it was full, pus.h.i.+ng it to the centre of the glowing coals. 'Nothing like a cup of tea when you don't know if you're on your a.r.s.e or your elbow,' she added conversationally.

Josie saw Ada start slightly, her sister's eyes widening as Ada turned her head to look at Lily who was grinning at them all from her place in front of the open fire, and then as Lily said, 'Nice to meet you, la.s.s, although I've never seen three sisters look more different if you don't mind me saying so,' she saw Ada's lips turn upwards.

Thank You, Lord, for Lily, Josie prayed silently. If anyone had the knack of putting everything on a level footing again, it was her old friend.

The next hour was spent at the kitchen table over two pots of tea and a plateful of teacakes and drop scones. There were several times during the course of this hour that Josie wanted to throw her arms round Ada again and hug her hard, but the more Ada talked the more Josie knew her sister wouldn't like it. Her sister's experiences at the hands of Patrick Duffy and men like him had made her extremely chary of any show of physical affection, be it from man or woman. Ada's comfort was in eating, and from the amount she packed away it was no surprise her weight had ballooned so excessively.

It was also clear, from what Ada revealed, that she rarely left the sanctuary of her four walls. She showed them the front room which she and Dora shared, and which had two narrow iron beds with bright bedspreads and two comfortable chairs among other furniture, and also the three rooms upstairs which were taken by lodgers - two women who worked alongside Dora in the box-making factory in one room, two more who worked in a draper's shop in another, and a tiny box room with just enough s.p.a.ce for a pallet bed and chest of drawers which had been the late Lottie's quarters.

All the floorboards were devoid of even the thinnest of clippy mats, there were paper blinds at the windows and no signs of any creature comforts, but like the downstairs of the house, the walls were whitewashed and free of bugs, the floors scrubbed and swept, and an almost clinical cleanliness prevailed throughout.

In view of the fact that Ada's house was obviously her whole world, Josie was all the more touched when it emerged that her sister had visited the theatre office herself to leave the message concerning Lottie. 'Me an' Dora can't read or write, la.s.s, an' you couldn't trust anyone round here to deliver a message right, so it was shanks's pony or nowt,' Ada said matter-of-factly as she stood at a small side table in the kitchen stripping out the cartilage and gristle from some lambs' hearts she was going to stuff for the household's evening meal. She opened out the cavities, filled them with forcemeat and skewered them closed before placing the hearts in a big oven dish, saying the while, 'If you hadn't tumbled I wasn't going to say nowt, but it's bin eating away at me, knowin' who you were an' that you and Gertie were so close. They say blood's thicker than water an' mebbe they're right at that. What say you, la.s.s?'

'We've got to try and see the lads again.'

It was an answer in itself and Ada recognised it as such, but now she shook her head of thick brown hair, saying, 'Don't be daft,' and her voice was flat. 'They're with Duffy, you said so yourself.'

'Which is all the more reason for getting them away.' Josie turned to Gertie who was sitting next to her at the kitchen table eating her third drop scone. 'Don't you see?'

'Look, la.s.s, I know you think you've had your own run-ins with Duffy but believe me, you don't know the half,' Ada said before Gertie could respond. 'What you said earlier about thinking he did Da in? I wouldn't be surprised; not at anything would I be surprised where that perverted, s.a.d.i.s.tic so-an'-so is concerned. His word is law in some quarters an' he knows it, aye, an' plays on it. I was barely ten when Da sold me to him . . .' Her voice trailed away and she lowered her head, leaning heavily on the small table for a moment or two. Then she stretched her neck and moved her fat chins from side to side. 'No one could imagine, la.s.s, no one 'cept Dora 'cos she went through the same. He's not human. On me second night with him he brought some pals in . . .' Ada raised her eyes and looked straight at her sister. 'Don't think he won't know what you're about 'cos he will, and you bein' a favourite of the halls won't protect you neither.'

Josie rose from her seat, walking across to this sister with whom she had only been reunited for a couple of hours, and yet who she felt had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. 'He destroyed our family, Ada. Him and Da,' she said quietly, her voice vibrating with the depth of her feeling. 'He hurt you and Dora more than I can imagine,' she reached out and grasped Ada's hand and Ada's fingers wound tightly round hers, 'and he did his level best to hurt me and Gertie too, and he still has the lads. Oh, I know from what Hubert said that Jimmy might be willing, but not Hubert. I know he wanted to get away; he was just too frightened to do it.'

'And with good reason, la.s.s. With good reason.'

'I don't doubt it.'

'You won't stop her.' Gertie had joined them, and now she looked across at Lily who was watching them all with a slightly bemused expression on her face; the revelations of the last two hours had knocked even this old veteran of life for six. 'Will she, Lily?' Gertie said. 'I think it's barmy to try and find the lads, but if Josie's made up her mind . . .'

'The Archangel Gabriel himself couldn't change it, not even with a holy visitation involving most of the heavenly host,' Lily finished for her. 'But from what's been said, I agree with these two, for what it's worth. This Patrick Duffy sounds like a right nasty piece of work to me, and once you start something with his type it's never finished until it's done.'

Josie nodded. 'Just so, Lily. You've hit the nail on the head. And it was started long ago and not by me.'

'But you said earlier that this man, this bloke up in Sunderland that you hired, he couldn't find the lads.' Ada had pulled away and was adding a chopped onion, carrots and turnip to the stock in the dish. 'What makes you think he'll have any more luck now?'

'He probably wouldn't,' Josie agreed. 'But Hubert found us once before; he could do so again. You and Dora could come with us, Ada. The four of us will go. Any of the theatres would be glad to have me' - this was said without any vestige of pride but as a statement of fact - 'and I could let it be known in the Sunderland Echo that I'm visiting with my sisters, two of whom I've only just been reunited with. That'll draw Hubert out, I know it will.'

'Me and Dora go back? Not on your nellie. Wild horses couldn't drag me back up there, la.s.s. No, we're all right here; we've got a nice little goin' on and I'm not spoilin' everything to jaunt up to Sunderland for a visit I don't want to make. I'm sorry, la.s.s, but that's how it is. Dora'll say the same.'

Josie nodded. It was probably asking too much of Ada and Dora to do what she had suggested, but now she had made up her mind she wondered how she could have waited so long before going home. 'I understand, and you and Dora must do what seems best to you, but I have to try and see Hubert again, and this is the only way I can think of.'

'What about Oliver?' said Gertie flatly. Over the last hour she had been considering her brother-in-law's reaction to the news about Ada and Dora - and likewise Anthony's. This last idea of Josie's would be sure to send Oliver into a frenzy, and she knew exactly how Anthony and his mother would view their going off on some wild goose-chase to Sunderland. Oliver was already in one of his sulks because of their visit to the East End that morning, and when he was like that it made things so difficult for Anthony at the office. Anthony . . . She had glossed over much of her life before she had come down to London with Josie; he had no idea that her sisters had been prost.i.tutes. The word reverberated in her head. She couldn't tell him, she just couldn't, and his mother would be horrified. They had always known her as the sister of a successful and wealthy music-hall star.

'Oliver?' Josie shrugged off-handedly as though she hadn't also been considering how her husband would react. 'He will probably disagree, but after four years I don't think it's too unreasonable to have a spell working up north. It need only be for a few weeks. Lots of the stars work the provinces now and again, and there are some excellent music halls in other places but London.'

Whether Oliver agreed or not she was going to stick to her guns over this. She was grateful for the way Oliver had helped to further her career, and she knew he had opened doors with his connections which would have remained closed a lot longer without him, but he'd done all right out of her success. What would Gertie say if she told her what Oliver lost in the gambling dens he frequented? She felt it disloyal to discuss such things, even with Gertie, and especially now her sister was so involved with Oliver's right-hand man at the agency. She was aware Gertie had a.s.sumed Oliver's bad temper that morning had been due to this visit, but in reality they'd fought half the night when she'd told him she was going to seek a solicitor's advice about the possibility of her earnings being paid into a new and separate bank account from their joint one.

Maybe she should have done it years ago, but she hadn't wanted that sort of marriage and she'd felt it would belittle Oliver. She didn't feel like that any more. In fact, she didn't know how she felt about a lot of things . . .

Upon discovering Ada's ident.i.ty, Josie had asked the driver of the horse-drawn cab they'd travelled to the East End in to return to the house at midday, but when the cheery-faced man put in an appearance it was only Lily who left.

Dora wouldn't return to the house until just after four o'clock from her job at the box-making factory a couple of streets away, having started work at six that morning, and Josie couldn't bear to leave before she'd seen her other sister.

The driver declared himself more than happy to return for them at five o'clock - 'You're paying the fare, missus, and I always say the customer is right' - and so Josie and Gertie spent a very pleasant afternoon getting to know Ada again. Josie thought Gertie was a little subdued, but in view of the surprise which had been sprung on them she couldn't blame her youngest sister for being bowled over.

When Dora walked through the door there were more happy tears and plenty of laughter, too, Dora being what Nellie would have described as a card. Although rosily plump and somewhat matronly for her twenty-six years, Dora looked a great deal younger than Ada. Dora's disposition was inclined towards jollity and she did not seem so severely affected by her traumatic childhood as her elder sister. She was a pretty woman, unlike Ada, with a ready smile and a ma.s.s of golden-brown hair not unlike Josie's. Just before the cab driver arrived, and amid promises that she and Gertie would return soon after the weekend, which Josie was committed to spending with Oliver and his friends at the country estate of some squire or other, Josie found herself thinking that none of them resembled their parents at all.

Except Jimmy. The thought was unwelcome. Jimmy, who had been the image of their da in every way, and who had been under the tutelage of Patrick Duffy for almost ten years . . .

Chapter Nineteen.

Oliver was not at home when Josie called in at Park Place, before asking the cab driver to take them straight to the Empire in Leicester Square so that she wouldn't be late for the first of the two houses that evening. She just had time to ascertain from Mrs Wilde that her husband had not been back all day, before she had to dash off. Oliver was calling for her at the theatre that night in the carriage and they were driving straight to his friend's estate in Berks.h.i.+re. There would be time enough on the journey to tell him about the events of the day, and of her decision to play a theatre in Sunderland again, if only for a short season.

The Empire was a luxurious theatre with deep pile carpets and footmen in blue and gold livery, and it advertised itself as 'The Cosmopolitan Club of the World'. The manager always wore full evening dress and white kid gloves, and would pat any young blood causing trouble on the shoulder before a footman escorted the offender out of the theatre. Bernard, the manager, always concealed a piece of chalk in his right glove which left a warning mark so that, should the young man try another entrance, he was recognised and refused admittance. Bernard had been using this ploy for years and it amazed Josie that the clientele never tumbled the ruse.

Bernard was fond of telling of the time, some eleven years before, when the London County Council insisted on the foyer at the back of the circle being closed due to it being a frequent haunt of 'ladies of the night'. Regular habitues protested in a forcible manner and a small riot ensued, when barriers were torn down by das.h.i.+ng young fellows led by a certain Winston Churchill, now an MP, Bernard told them. Young Winston had then marched at the head of a procession round Leicester Square, which carried debris as trophies. Josie could never quite work out if Bernard was applauding the act by the young man or decrying it, and as yet no one had had the nerve to ask the imperious Bernard which it was. Nevertheless it was a good story in view of Churchill's venture into politics, and one which Bernard derived great satisfaction from telling.

She and Gertie pa.s.sed Bernard on the way to the dressing rooms and as always he was charm itself to the two women. However, they had heard him put more than one rebellious performer in their place and he could be formidable. He had been a polished artiste himself years ago, with a good light baritone voice and reportedly somewhat handsome and always immaculately dressed, but when he'd been offered the chance to step out of the fickle world of the halls and into a steady job as manager, he'd taken it.

Once dressed in the silk and satin of her stage clothes and with her face freshly made-up, Josie found she was too het up to sit quietly in the dressing room with Gertie drinking tea as was their custom. The euphoria caused by the wonder of finding Ada and Dora again hadn't abated in the slightest, but all the talk of the old days they'd indulged in that afternoon had set her thinking about Barney so strongly she couldn't force him out of her mind no matter how hard she tried. She knew from experience that only regret and pain would result from giving in to this, and she needed to be strong tonight when she talked to Oliver.

'Come and watch Annabelle with me from the wings. This dressing room is too stuffy, and you haven't seen her act all the way through yet, have you?' Josie pulled Gertie to her feet, the excitement of the day all too evident in her animation, but once outside the dressing room the cloak of decorum and sedateness expected from someone in her position settled over her. She wondered how often other people ran and skipped and danced in their minds whilst giving an outward impression of dignified composure.

Annabelle was already climbing into her large gla.s.s tank filled with water when they reached the wings of the stage, looking as pretty and graceful as ever, and her husband, Gerald, resplendent in full evening dress, had begun the first of his announcements of each feature of her performance which was accompanied by a little discourse. 'The lovely Annabelle La Belle is now opening and shutting the mouth underwater; gathering sh.e.l.ls underwater; sewing and writing underwater; eating underwater; drinking from a bottle underwater . . .'

'This is a good bit.' Josie nudged Gertie whose gaze had wandered to the audience. 'Gerald borrows a lighted cigar from someone in the front row and gives it to Annabelle, and she smokes underwater for a minute or more before reappearing with the cigar still unextinguished. Bernard asked Gerald how they did it but he won't let on.'

'Josie.' Gertie's gaze had narrowed and she didn't look at the tank. 'Is that . . . No, it can't be, can it? Not today of all days.'

The tone of Gertie's voice rather than what she had said checked the laughing comment Josie had been about to make as Annabelle puffed away under the water with every appearance of contentment, and as her head turned and her eyes followed Gertie's, the same thought sprang into Josie's mind. It can't be. It can't be him. After four years or more, how could he choose this particular day to come to London?

Her heart thudding fit to burst Josie sank back against the thick velvet curtains at the side of the stage. Of course it was him. Every fibre of her being had known it the second she had laid eyes on the big handsome man in the second row of the stalls. He looked . . . well. She would not acknowledge that her mind had used the word 'wonderful' instead. Oh, what was she going to do? What on earth was she going to do? Barney. Barney.

She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time as she raised her hands to her burning cheeks. Oh, to see him again. To have him so close she could reach out and touch him. She felt faint for a moment, and it was only in that blinding second of truth that she acknowledged exactly what Barney meant to her. What he had always meant to her. She had often thought in the last years that Oliver was a man who should never have married, but now she knew that truth could be applied to her, at least concerning every other man but the one sitting in the second row of the theatre. She had fought her feelings for Barney every day since she had first laid eyes on him as a bairn of twelve, and for a moment it was a relief to admit it to herself.

And then she brought herself up very straight, and as Gertie's head turned and her sister looked at her, saying, 'It's Barney, la.s.s. What are you going to do?' Josie answered stiffly, 'Sing. That's what I'm paid to do, after all.'

'You know what I mean.'

Yes, she knew what Gertie meant, and her sister's tone had told her Gertie didn't appreciate the facetiousness, but at the moment all she could deal with was the immediate future in terms of her performance. Barney might be here but nothing had changed. She was a married woman.

'Ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Annabelle La Belle will now adopt an att.i.tude of prayer.'

Gerald's voice filtered through her whirling thoughts, and as Annabelle sank to her knees under the water, folding her hands with every appearance of rapt devotion while the orchestra played 'The Maiden's Prayer' and rays of crimson and green light shone into the tank indicating morning and evening prayer, Josie made every effort to pull herself together. The conjurer was on next, and then Clarence, who had toured in burlesque before turning from singing to dramatic monologues. Clarence had revived Charles G.o.dfrey's lurid sketch The Night Alarm which was ridiculously melodramatic, and featured a burning building, a horse-drawn fire cart, a maiden in distress and three songs, and the audiences loved it. With any luck, he would receive his usual encores which would give Josie time to compose herself.

'Come on, Gertie.' As Annabelle hopped out of the tank and bowed herself off, Josie was already retracing her steps and Gertie had no choice but to follow her.

Would Barney try to see her in between shows? Once in the privacy of her dressing room Josie sank down on to a stool, and Gertie walked across to the small stove in one corner and began to brew up without any prompting, her little face expressing her concern. He had obviously come to this particular theatre because he knew this was where she was appearing, Josie thought, but she didn't flatter herself that he was down in the capital just to see her. No doubt he had some business here - or perhaps he was visiting someone? Again her heart began to pound. She hadn't noticed anyone with him, but then again she hadn't looked any further than his face. The thought that he might be with a lady friend was so unbearable Josie brought herself up sharp. She addressed the tight feeling in her chest which the mental picture of Barney and another woman had caused, saying silently, Don't be so stupid. He's a free man; he can have as many women as he likes and it is absolutely nothing to do with you. You've no right to have even a moment's objection.

'So . . .' Gertie considered she had been quiet long enough. 'I'll ask again. What are you going to do?'

'Nothing.' This time Josie didn't try to prevaricate. 'If Barney wants to see us no doubt he'll make that plain, and it would be nice to see an old friend, wouldn't it? But he might not have time anyway. Did . . . did you notice if anyone was with him?'

There was a definite bite to Gertie's voice when she said, 'No, I did not notice if there was anyone with him,' and Josie knew she'd offended her sister by not talking about her real feelings. But she couldn't, she just couldn't. To voice what she felt for Barney, even to hint at it or display any agitation at his presence here would be wrong. And certainly a betrayal of Oliver.

She felt she was going to cry and was forbidding herself to do so, added to which she was exhausted. But then in view of all the day had held, was that surprising? And she'd been working so hard lately; here at the theatre, at the little receptions and soirees Oliver promoted so strongly, and other musical events. Now there was another of the weekend parties in front of her which Oliver described as 'the most agreeable form of social intercourse known to man', and she herself described as boring.

She knew exactly how every hour would be spent. People would be called by their valets or a maid of the house at eight-thirty - never a minute before or a minute after - and these servants would arrive bearing in their left hand a neat bra.s.s can of shaving water for the male guest, and in their right hand a neat bra.s.s tray of tea, toast and Marie biscuits. The male guest, blinking plethoric eyes above his silk eiderdown, would munch his share of the biscuits and sip the tea, before donning his Afghan dressing-robe and slouching his way along the pa.s.sage to the bathroom. His lady wife would dress with a.s.sistance from the maid, and then they would both descend the inevitable red pile staircase to breakfast. The smell of last night's port would have given way to the smell of the morning's rows of little spirit lamps. These would be gently warming rows of large silver dishes heaped high with food.

Oh, the food. Josie sighed wearily. Around the centre table prepared for perhaps twenty-five to thirty guests and bright with Malmaisons and toast racks would be another four or five smaller tables. One for the hams, tongues, galantines, cold grouse, pheasant, partridge and ptarmigan. There was always ptarmigan. A further table would hold fruits of different calibre, and jugs of cold water and lemonade. A third table contained porridge utensils. A fourth coffee, and pots of Indian and China tea. The latter were differentiated from each other by little ribbons of yellow (indicating China) and red (indicating Britain's magnificent Indian Empire).

Discussions on how he or she had slept were taken very seriously, and then there would be morning coffee later, luncheon, an afternoon stroll, tea served in some gallery or other, bridge, dinner, and then a little musical diversion at which Josie was always commandeered to perform. Finally, at midnight, devilled chicken would be served and people would disappear to their rooms in ones and twos.

Sometime in the day the men would have gone shooting and the ladies would gossip; similarly in the evening the men would often hang back when their women retired to bed and some serious gambling and drinking would take place. And there were some couples who did the rounds every weekend of their lives. Josie winced at the thought. Well, she'd had enough, she suddenly realised. She didn't know if it was seeing Ada and Dora in their little house and marvelling at their quiet bravery, or Barney's unexpected appearance which had brought with it memories of Betty and Frank's existence and a whole host of other recollections, or yet again that she was just heartily sick of Oliver's set, but this weekend party would be her last. She loved her work, she thoroughly enjoyed the time she spent with Lily and the other ladies in the house at the back of the Caledonian Market, but this other life was just not real. She needed to be with her own folk again, it was as simple as that.

She would make it clear to Oliver she wanted to do a tour of the north which included a good portion of time spent in Sunderland. He wouldn't like it but then that was nothing new.

And then, as Gertie silently handed her a cup of tea, Josie faced the fact that she was purposely thinking about everything but the main issue hammering at her consciousness. Barney was here. In a few minutes she would have to step on to that stage and sing and smile and flirt a little with the audience as though this was just another night. But it wasn't. It wasn't. Oh, Barney. Barney.

By the time Josie did step on to the stage some fifteen minutes later she was every inch the famous music-hall star, and no one was to know she was blessing the fact her corsets commanded her to keep her back straight and her shoulders from drooping.

Barney knew his eyes were devouring her and that he was shaking slightly, but he could no more have stopped his body's reaction to the sight of the woman who had been a constant torment, mentally and physically, for the last few years than he could have stopped breathing. She had been lovely four years ago but now she was exquisite, a G.o.ddess. No, no not a G.o.ddess, he corrected himself in the next moment; she was too warm and lovely to be put in the same realm as aloof and remote immortal beings.

How could he have stayed away four years? He must have been mad. He should have come before. Betty couldn't hide her feelings like Vera, and the last couple of times he'd spoken to his stepmother he had sensed she suspected all wasn't well between Josie and Oliver, although nothing had been said directly. Or was he just imagining it because he wanted it to be that way?

Was Josie aware he'd moved back down to Sunderland from Scotland? When he had left the highly coveted position as manager of the Empire in Glasgow for the post of manager at the Avenue Theatre in Gillbridge Avenue, he had made Betty his excuse.

His stepmother was finding it hard to cope with her brood now the lads were older, he'd explained to the owner of the Empire when he'd told him of his decision to leave. He felt it important her bairns had a man about the place some of the time - the three eldest boys in particular. The twins and Robert were working at the docks for an individual who was well known for sailing close to the wind, and any bad habits needed to be nipped in the bud right now. The man had said he understood but had expressed regret at Barney's going, a regret, he'd gone on to say, that would be echoed by his daughter. Barney had made no comment to this. Penelope was a nice la.s.s and they had had some good times together, but as far as he was concerned she had never been under the illusion there was anything permanent in their friends.h.i.+p. And friends.h.i.+p had been all he had offered Penelope. The ones who had come and gone at the Empire and had wanted something more physical than friends.h.i.+p had known the score too.

Who had ruined him for any sort of meaningful relations.h.i.+p? Not Pearl. No. Surprisingly he hadn't found it hard to put the years of torment with his wife behind him. No, it had been the woman standing on the stage in front of him now who had effectively wrecked his life.

Oh, that wasn't fair. He felt his guts twist with self-disgust. It wasn't her fault. What was the matter with him, for crying out loud? He had become a married man within months of their meeting and she had been nowt but a child at the time, and after he had realised how he really felt he had known Josie would never have stood for a hole-in-corner type affair which would have been all he could have offered her; Pearl had considered divorce a mortal sin.

Josie had just finished singing 'Two Lovely Black Eyes', striding from side to side of the stage as she had sung and reducing the audience to howls of laughter, but now, after the applause had died down, she moved to the centre of the stage under the rays of one limelight from the centre of the roof and a spontaneous hush fell over the a.s.sembly. This was what she did best, Barney thought. The few times he had heard her sing in the past she'd held the crowd in the palm of her hand when she was still like this.

She began to sing 'The Things You Can't Buy With Gold', gazing up above the spectators as she leaned forward slightly, her body accentuating the sentimental refrain. Barney's throat tightened, and her face, lit by the silver light, began to draw him as the rest of his suroundings melted away. She had the voice of an angel. He found he was holding his breath. It was even better than he remembered. He dragged his eyes away from the slender figure on the stage for a moment and saw his fellow listeners were transfixed too. How could such a powerfully emotive voice come from such an ethereal frame? And what the h.e.l.l was he doing here? She wouldn't look twice at him, whether she was unhappy in her marriage or not; the world was her oyster. He had been a fool to come, such a fool, but she hadn't seen him. He could still make his escape and she would be none the wiser.