The Cockney Sparrow (10 page)

‘But, my little jewel, you will still be my star performer,’ Augustus said, patting her on the head.

‘Give over, Daddy. You’ll ruin me curls. I don’t want her singing against me. I’ve always been the main attraction.’

‘And you still are, my love. No one can touch my little princess when it comes to warbling a ditty.’

‘I don’t warble. I’m a soprano like Dorabella Darling. Why, I bet I could out-sing that simpering ninny any day of the week, given a chance. And I don’t want her competing with me.’ Lucilla shot a darkling look at Clemency.

‘Lucy’s right, guv,’ Tom said. ‘She’s the star. You can’t have two nightingales singing their heads off. It wouldn’t look right.’

‘It would end up in a cat fight with hair-pulling and all the things girls do.’ Ronnie cast an
apologetic smile at Clemency. ‘No offence meant, miss.’

She glanced anxiously at Jack. He stopped eating and leaned forward, addressing Augustus. ‘You may not be able to have two nightingales, Mr Throop. But how about a nightingale and a sparrow?’ He winked at Clemency.

Lucilla shook her head. ‘It don’t matter what you call her, she’ll still try to upstage me, Daddy.’

Ronnie cleared his throat. ‘Ahem. If it would look wrong to have two young ladies singing against each other, then how would it look if one of them was dressed as a boy?’

‘A boy?’ Augustus stared thoughtfully at Clemency. ‘She is small enough to pass as a young lad.’

‘She looks like a boy, you mean, Daddy,’ Lucilla said, pulling a face at Clemency. ‘Her chest is so flat you could eat your dinner off it.’

‘I’d rather be mistaken for a boy than a tub of lard,’ Clemency countered.

‘Now, now, ladies.’ Augustus held up his hands, scowling at Tom and Ronnie, who were openly chuckling at this exchange of cattiness. ‘It might work at that. We could give it a try.’

‘What if I says no?’ Clemency whispered in Jack’s ear.

‘Think about it, Clemmie. If you go singing on
the streets, sooner or later you’re going to bump into Hardiman. He’s not going to recognise you so easily if you’re togged up like a boy.’

‘I’d like to see you dressed as a boy.’ Tom pinched Lucilla’s bottom. ‘I bet you’ve got a lovely pair of legs under all them skirts.’

Lucilla slapped his face. ‘Keep your hands to yourself, Tom Fall.’

‘Quiet,’ Augustus roared. ‘All of you. How can a man think when you’re creating such a hubbub?’ He turned to Clemency and his expression softened. ‘Miss Clemency, I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re a very pretty young lady, but you would make a charming boy. I’m certain you could put such pathos into cockney songs such as “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter” and “The Soldier’s Tear” that you would melt the hardest heart.’

‘I can do pathos, Daddy,’ Lucilla wailed.

‘Shut up, daughter.’

Gasping in surprise, Lucilla dwindled into a heap of curls and frills. Quite obviously, Clemency thought, with some satisfaction, the spoilt brat was unused to being scolded. Now was her chance! If she didn’t take it they would be back on the streets. She smiled up at Augustus. ‘I don’t know them songs, guv. But I’ll give it a go.’

‘Well said.’ Augustus slapped her on the back. ‘Now we must find you some suitable clothing,
and begin rehearsals. That is, if we’re to be ready to perform on the streets tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Clemency was about to tell him it was impossible, when she saw the triumphant gleam return to Lucilla’s eyes. She could do it – she would do it. ‘You’re on!’

Lucilla’s smile drooped into a pout.

Augustus rose to his feet. ‘Lucilla, fetch the sheet music from my room. Tom, make yourself useful for once. There’s a dollyshop in Petticoat Lane: go there now and get a pair of breeches, a shirt, a jacket and some boots that would fit Miss Clemency.’ He drew some coins from his pocket. ‘And I want some change.’

Tom took the money. ‘I ain’t no wardrobe mistress. How am I to know what will fit her?’

‘Just say they’re for your young brother, and he’s a skinny little lad of twelve or thirteen. It don’t matter if they fit badly: that will make her all the more appealing. Now get going or do I have to boot you up the arse?’

Tom went off muttering.

‘If good flute players weren’t as hard to find as hens’ teeth, I’d send that young chap packing. Now then, Clemency, or Clem as I shall call you from now on, let us begin. Ronnie will accompany you on his drum and perhaps young Jack would be kind enough to play the melody on his tin whistle.’

Clemency looked to Jack, who gave her an
encouraging smile. She was still not sure that this was going to work. Singing in the pub was one thing, but dressing up as a boy was a shocking idea. No decent girl would expose her legs above the ankle, unless they were like those dancers from the Pavilion Theatre; but they performed on the stage, not wandering half-naked amongst the London crowds. Clemency stood, undecided, watching Augustus supervise Ronnie who was moving tables and benches to the far end of the kitchen, out of Fancy’s way. It seemed as though they were being swept along on the tidal wave of Augustus’s enthusiasm, helpless and adrift like the flotsam on the Thames. She was beginning to feel that picking pockets was the easy option.

The situation worsened when Lucilla returned with the sheet music and thrust it into Clemency’s hands. She pretended to study the words, but the letters danced up and down in front of her eyes, darting about the page like hundreds of tiny tadpoles. She tried to catch Jack’s attention with a mute plea for help, but he was intent on learning the tune as he listened to Ronnie beating out the rhythm on his drum and humming the melody. With his quick musical ear, Jack picked up the tune within minutes, but Clemency was still struggling to form the letters into words.

Lucilla snatched the song sheets from her hands with an impatient groan. ‘Give it here. I’ll
show you what a true professional can do.’ She threw back her head, took a deep breath and gave a stirring rendition of ‘The Ratcatcher’s Daughter’: a tragic tale of a girl who sold sprats in the street, and her star-crossed love for a vendor of white sand. Resisting the temptation to wipe the condescending smile off Lucilla’s plump face with a slap, Clemency knew that she had to listen at least once again in order to remember the words. She sat on her itching hands and forced a smile. ‘That were lovely. Can you sing it again?’

Lucilla stared at her suspiciously and then she tossed her curls so that they bounced around her head like tightly coiled watch springs. ‘Did you hear that, Daddy? The sparrow admits that I’ve got the best voice.’

Augustus puffed out his chest. ‘No doubt about that, petal. Let her hear you sing the ditty once more.’

By the time Tom returned with the second-hand clothes, Clemency had learned the whole of ‘The Ratcatcher’s Daughter’ and ‘The Soldier’s Tear’. Jack had no difficulty at all in picking up the tunes, even though he freely admitted that he could not read music. Augustus did not seem to think the worse of him for this. Clemency could see that Fancy was more than impressed, despite the fact that she was in deep trouble with Mrs Blunt, who scolded her volubly for watching the
rehearsal when she ought to have been preparing the vegetables for supper. Fancy suffered a clout round the head that would have felled a grown man, let alone a slip of a girl. Clemency could see that this angered Jack, but she thought that Fancy deserved to be taken down a peg or two. Now if Augustus were to give Lucilla a good thumping, it would make her even happier.

The clothes that Tom had bought in the dollyshop smelled horrible, and a shower of fleas spattered onto the flagstone floor when Clemency gave them a good shaking. Mrs Blunt happened to be standing nearby and she cried out in horror. She made Clemency take them outside into the area, instructing her to beat the garments against the wall, and not to bring them back into the house until the last flea had been shaken out. Shivering and inwardly cursing Tom for not examining the clothes, Clemency stood outside in the cold whacking the jacket and breeches against the wall until she was certain that nothing living could have survived. She hurried back indoors and undressed, folding her blouse, skirt and cotton shift neatly, and placing them on the mattress beside Edith, who was lying on her back, snoring. Clemency shrugged on the calico shirt, which did not feel too different from a blouse, but when she pulled on the fustian breeches she shuddered as the coarse material scratched her legs. Having her lower
limbs encased in material felt strange, and looked even odder as she stared down at them. She felt a blush rising to her cheeks, even though there was no one to see her in this peculiar garb. She took the peaked cap and tucked her long hair into the crown, wishing that she could examine her appearance in a mirror, and then deciding that perhaps it was better this way. She was pushing her bare feet into the boots, which were two sizes too large, when Edith stirred and opened her eyes. She jerked into a sitting position and screamed. ‘Who are you boy? Get out of me room.’

‘Ma, it’s me. Clemency.’

Edith peered at her. ‘It sounds like Clemmie, but it can’t be.’

Clemency tugged off the peaked cap, allowing her hair to tumble about her shoulders. ‘It is me, Ma. Augustus wants me to dress like a boy so I don’t put his lardy-Lucy in the shade.’

‘Well, I never. I thought the drink had done for me brains and I was seeing things.’

‘No, it’s me all right. But I wish the boy what first owned these clothes had washed hisself now and again. They smell something horrible.’

‘What have we come to, Clemmie? What dreadful depths has that brute brought us to?’

Clemency went down on her knees and wrapped her arms around her mother. ‘We won’t let Hardiman beat us, Ma. If you didn’t
recognise me, then he won’t neither. I’m going to make more money singing for me supper than I ever did from dipping for him to line his blooming pockets, not to mention that old crook Minski. We’ll be all right, Ma. You’ll see.’

That evening, Augustus led his troupe to perform on the main concourse of Liverpool Street Station, in time, he said, to catch the office workers hurrying to catch their trains. At four o’clock it was already dark and very cold. They set up under the clock, and Lucilla began with ‘Home Sweet Home’, which Clemency thought quite appropriate, but the passengers seemed more intent on actually getting home than listening to someone singing about it. Augustus took the hat round, but came back grim-faced and ordered Ronnie and Tom to play something more cheerful. They began to play ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’, but the lively music only seemed to make the travellers move faster towards the platforms, and on a bitterly cold January evening, no one wanted to stop and dance, let alone toss their hard-earned coppers into the hat. After almost half an hour of bone-chilling standing about, Augustus pushed Clemency to the front.

‘“The Ratcatcher’s Daughter”, young Clem. Give it all you got.’

Lucilla tugged at his coat sleeve. ‘Let me do it, Daddy.’

‘Save your voice for later, poppet-pie. Now. gentlemen, one and two and three …’

Clemency felt desperately self-conscious dressed as a boy, and she was certain that everyone would be able to see through the disguise, but there was no going back now. With her heart thudding against her ribs, beating out a much faster rhythm than the one that Ronnie was playing on his drum, Clemency launched into the cockney ditty. At first it looked as though they were going to be ignored, but then one person stopped to listen and another, until there was a small crowd grouped around them. Responding to the audience, she threw herself heart and soul into the tragic tale of the ill-fated lovers. The cathedral-like acoustics of the railway station sent her pure soprano voice echoing across the platforms. She had become so emotionally involved in performing the song that she was barely conscious of the tears that trickled down her cheeks. It was only when she sang the last note that her spirit returned to the cold reality of the station, the clouds of steam hissing from the engines and the sooty smell of hot coals. A muffled sob from someone in the crowd broke the momentary silence and then someone began to clap. It rippled round the onlookers like the pattering of rain on the glass roof. Then coins began to jingle in the cap that Augustus was
handing round. Ronnie patted her on the back. ‘Well sung, nipper.’

‘I could have done it just as well,’ Lucilla snapped, cuddling up to Tom. When he said nothing in reply, she nudged him in the ribs. ‘Couldn’t I, Tom? I could have done it just as well.’

‘If you say so, ducks.’

‘Daddy!’ Lucilla gave Tom a shove that sent him staggering back against the wall, and she flounced over to Augustus. ‘Daddy, he’s being mean to me.’

Augustus shook the cap, staring into its greasy interior. ‘Is he, pet? That’s nice.’ He turned to Clemency with a broad smile. ‘If we go on like this, my dear Clem, I will be a happy man.’

Clemency wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her nose was running and she could not feel her feet. ‘Can we go home now?’

‘Home? My dear boy – I mean girl – we’re just starting. We’ll make our way towards the Strand. Fleet Street is always good for a few bob, and we’ll catch the queues waiting outside the theatre. If we do as well all evening, I’ll treat everyone to a pie and mash supper. I can’t say fairer than that.’

It was almost midnight by the time they returned to Flower and Dean Street. Augustus led them home at a brisk marching pace, twirling his malacca cane, which doubled as a conductor’s
baton, and stepping out with boundless energy. Lucilla leaned heavily on Tom’s arm and Ronnie walked behind them, dragging his feet. It was all that Clemency could do to keep up with them. She plodded along, barely noticing where she was treading, regardless of the piles of horse dung, dog excrement and rotten vegetables that lay mouldering on the thoroughfares and pavements, awaiting the arrival of the early morning street sweepers. The night sky seemed to have compressed the smoke from thousands of chimneys into a thick blanket, which rested on the tops of the flickering streetlamps. Clemency’s throat was sore and she was certain that she was losing her voice. She was painfully aware that the ill-fitting boots had rubbed blisters on her heels. Augustus led them up Petticoat Lane, cutting through Wentworth Street where prostitutes solicited from shop doorways. The banks and businesses in the City might be sleeping, but here the narrow alleys teemed with the nightlife of the underworld, but Clemency was too dog-tired to worry about who might be lurking in the shadows. The terrifying phantom of Jack the Ripper meant little to her at this moment. All she wanted was to crawl into whatever sort of sleeping arrangement Mrs Blunt had thought fit to give her. She knew she would fall asleep as soon as she laid her head on the pillow, always supposing that she was to have the luxury of a pillow.