The Cockney Sparrow (17 page)

Augustus turned on her, scowling. ‘Be silent, Lucilla.’

With a low moan, she hid her face against Tom’s shoulder. He patted her on the head as if he was petting a dog. ‘There, there, me love. Your turn will come.’

Lucilla kicked him on the shin.

Augustus thrust Clemency forward. ‘This is my protégée, Miss Clemency Skinner. I am her manager. Shall we talk business?’

Horace pulled a large cotton hanky from his
pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Certainly, but first I need to know if the young lady thinks she could learn the libretto in a very short space of time – by tomorrow evening to be precise.’

‘Absolutely no problem,’ Augustus said airily. ‘Clemency only has to hear a song once and she has it committed to memory. Isn’t that so, petal?’

She nodded, unable to speak. It must be a mistake. This could not be happening to a girl from Stew Lane. She dare not open her mouth for fear that she would wake up suddenly and find that it was all a dream.

‘I’ll help you, Clem,’ Ronnie whispered in her ear.

‘We’ll all help,’ Jack said. ‘You can do it, Clemmie. I’m so proud of you.’

‘I feel faint,’ Lucilla announced, flinging her arms around Tom’s neck.

‘Take her outside. The night air will bring her round.’ Augustus dismissed them with a wave of his hand. He perched on the edge of the desk, leaning towards Horace. ‘Shall we talk pounds, shillings and pence, Mr Claypole?’

‘Certainly, Mr – er – I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name. It’s all this worry. It’s making me quite bilious.’

‘Augustus Throop, but you may call me Augustus. I’d give you my card, but I seem to have left them all at home – in my study, on my
mahogany desk with the tooled leather top and solid brass handles.’

Lucilla uttered a loud moan and slid to the floor.

Tom rubbed his shin, staring down at her with his eyebrows knotted into a frown. ‘What shall I do with her, guv?’

Horace put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some coins. ‘Allow me to pay for a cab to take the young lady home.’

‘That’s uncommon good of you, Horace,’ Augustus said, hefting Lucilla in his arms and passing her to Tom. ‘Take her home and tell the housekeeper to put her to bed.’

‘You should go with them, Jack.’ Clemency cast an anxious glance over her shoulder.

Jack smiled cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry about me, Clemmie. Ronnie and me will stay here with you.’

‘I tell you what,’ Horace said, beaming. ‘I’ll have the doorman escort you all to a box at the side of the stage. Miss Clemency, you’ll be able to watch the performance. You can listen to the great Dorabella and, if what Mr Throop says is true, it will help you to memorise the libretto.’

‘Wait!’ Clemency said, as Horace headed towards the door. ‘I ain’t said I’ll do it yet.’

Stunned silence.

Horace made a gobbling sound from somewhere beneath his starched collar. ‘But – but …’

‘As it happens, I will have a go at it, but on one condition.’

Augustus hooked his arm around her shoulders and his fingers dug into her flesh. ‘Leave the business side of things to me, Clem.’

‘No, Augustus.’ She pushed him aside. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, Mr Claypole, but only if you gives me brother Jack a place in the orchestra.’

Horace peered at her over the top of his specs. ‘A place in the orchestra? But my dear young lady …’

‘Jack’s a brilliant musician. It’s both of us or neither of us. I ain’t budging.’

‘It’s really up to the musical director and the conductor, but I’ll try to arrange for Jack to have an audition. I can’t say fairer than that.’

‘Done.’ Clemency spat on her hand and held it out.

Horace’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down above his collar, and then he smiled, and shook her hand.

In the heady excitement of the next twenty-four hours, Clemency forgot all about Jared Stone and his ultimatum. She had sat enthralled during the performance of the opera, committing the music to memory. Once she had a melody in her head, she had always found it easy to learn the words of a song, but whether she could memorise a whole libretto, together with the actions, and in such a short time, was another matter.

When the performance ended and the theatregoers spilled out onto the street, Clemency’s ears were still ringing with the strains of the orchestra and the beautiful singing that had touched a chord deep inside her, making her want to laugh and weep at the same time. She felt as though she was floating on a cloud of make-believe. The cold night air slapped her in the face, bringing her sharply back to earth. Ronnie and Augustus were arguing. Ronnie said they should get a cab back to Flower and Dean Street, but Augustus pointed out that they had to return Mickey’s cart, and they set off on foot. Settling down on a pile of old sacks, Jack picked up the flute and began to play snatches of the opera score, and Clemency began to sing. To her surprise, she had already committed some part of the libretto to memory. She barely noticed the chill of the night air, the smell of overflowing drains, stale fish, horse manure and the stench of the river at high tide. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground as she walked by the side of the cart, and when they finally arrived back in Flower and Dean Street, she was much too excited to go to bed.

Fancy was roused, groggy with sleep and grumpy, until she heard that Jack might have a place in the orchestra. Suddenly she was wide awake and smiling as she riddled the dying embers of the fire, and put the kettle on the hob. At midnight they were sitting round the table
with mugs of hot cocoa laced with sugar. With Ronnie’s help, Clemency studied the libretto while Jack played the melodies. In the early hours of the morning, too exhausted to continue any longer, Clemency climbed the stairs to bed. She lay down without bothering to undress and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

When she awakened a few hours later, the memories of last night’s events came flooding back: she jerked upright and banged her head on the sloping ceiling. Giggling, she rubbed her head. Ma was still asleep, lying on her back and snoring softly. Clemency crawled out of bed. As she took off the boy’s clothing and dressed in her old blouse and skirt, she felt as though she were floating several inches above the floor. Her head was buzzing with words and music and she had a fluttery, excited feeling in her stomach. It was still dark but she just had to tell Ma the good news. She went down on her knees and shook Edith by the shoulder.

‘Ma, Ma, wake up.’

Edith opened her eyes, staring blurrily at Clemency. ‘What’s up?’

‘Ma, you’ll never guess what happened last night. I’m going to be a proper singer, on the stage.’

Edith raised her head. ‘Fetch the po, Clemmie. I’m going to be sick.’

Clemency made a dive for the china chamber
pot and held it while Edith retched. ‘What’s the matter, Ma? Are you ill?’

Edith lay back on her pillow, pale-faced and with her eyes closed. ‘Must’ve been something I ate last night. I’ll be fine in a moment. Tell me all about it.’

By the time breakfast was over, the whole house knew of Clemency’s good fortune. She even had a congratulatory hug from Mrs Blunt, who appeared to be having one of her good days. It was then that Clemency remembered Jared Stone’s threat to sell the house if she refused his offer. But she had plenty of time, she told herself, and surely he wouldn’t really go through with it just because she had turned him down. There must be plenty of other young girls who were prettier and much more adept at dipping pockets than she was. He would find someone else, and forget all about her. Anyway, there were much more important things on her mind at this moment, the main one being to learn the part before she had to be at the theatre for a proper rehearsal later that morning.

Lucilla was still sulking, and refusing to leave her room. Tom had a haunted look about him, but Augustus was so filled with enthusiasm for his new role as Clemency’s agent and manager that he did not seem to notice. He sent Tom to the dollyshop to purchase a second-hand evening suit and dress shirt for Jack, declaring that the
newest member of the orchestra must not stink of stale fish. Ronnie made Clemency go over and over the libretto, until she felt her head would burst. And finally, just before midday, Augustus sent Fancy out to find a cab to take them to the Strand Theatre.

As Clemency walked onto the stage, wearing Dorabella’s costume, which had been pinned and tacked in order to make it fit, she was so nervous that she was certain she had forgotten all the words, and that her voice would come out like the screech of a peacock rather than the mellifluous notes of a nightingale. She was, after all, the cockney sparrow, and the audience would be sure to see through the costume and heavy stage make-up. She blinked, dazzled by the flickering footlights, and her throat felt as though it had closed up. She could not breathe and she wanted to run away.

Then someone in the assembled cast began to clap and soon everyone had joined in. She stared around at the smiling faces, bewildered by the tumultuous applause and the cheers. Horace slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘You see, Clem. There’s nothing to fear. Everyone is behind you and they will all help you get through your first performance.’

A girl dressed in the costume of a maidservant came forward. ‘I’m Maisie, the understudy,’ she said in a hoarse voice, pointing to her throat.
‘Lost me voice so I can’t sing. Break a leg, ducks.’

‘Break a leg?’ Clemency turned to Horace, horrified. ‘What does she mean?’

He gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘Actors believe that to wish someone good luck brings just the opposite. They’re a superstitious bunch, Clem. You’ll soon learn their ways.’ He smiled. ‘Break a leg, my dear.’

The rehearsal was a disaster. Clemency stumbled through her part with much help from the prompter, and whispers of encouragement from other members of the cast, but by the end she was almost in tears, and convinced that she would not be able to perform that evening.

‘Don’t worry,’ Maisie said with an encouraging grin. ‘A bad rehearsal is a good sign.’

‘Oh, crikey!’ Clemency said, sniffing. ‘I’ll never learn all this stuff.’

‘You will, love,’ Maisie croaked. ‘I got a bottle of Hollands in the dressing room. If you need a drop of Dutch courage, you knows where to find it.’ She skipped off stage.

Other members of the cast patted Clemency on the back, offering words of encouragement as they hurried off to their respective dressing rooms. The lead baritone kissed her on both cheeks and the tenor pinched her bottom. She would have run off to her tiny dressing room, but across the footlights she could see Jack sitting in the orchestra pit. He had been following the
score, although he could not read a note of music, but his ear was good and this would be a test of his memory. The conductor waited while the rest of the musicians filed out and then he tapped the music stand with his baton, inviting Jack to play solo. Clemency stood alone, centre stage, with her hands gripped tightly together as she willed Jack to do well. The silver notes filled the auditorium with sweet music. She would not have been at all surprised if the gilded birds on the ornate ceiling had flown down to listen to Jack’s playing. She was so proud of him that she wanted to cry. To look at him as he sat in the orchestra pit making sweet, sweet music, no one would know that he had such a crippling disability. His thick, dark eyelashes made crescents on his high cheekbones as he closed his eyes, and she knew that he was feeling the music to the core of his being. When the echo of the last note had ceased, there was a moment of complete silence, as if the theatre lay beneath a magic spell, lost in time. The conductor mopped his brow with a spotless white handkerchief and he smiled. ‘Well done, Jack. Very well done. I’m proud to have you in my orchestra.’

The afternoon was spent in yet more fittings for the multitude of costume changes that went with the part. Clemency suffered being prodded and pinned, having to stand up, sit down and stand up again to ensure that the hem
was the correct length so that she did not trip up and fall on her face. ‘If you do,’ Florrie, the dresser, explained, ‘you must kiss the hem of your frock.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t it will bring bad luck.’

While she was waiting in the wings for her cue, Clemency was shaking with stage fright. She wanted to run away and hide. She was certain that she would forget every single word and action. And everyone kept pinching her. At first she thought it was pure spite, but the call boy explained in a whisper that it was for good luck. By this time, she was convinced that all theatrical people were quite mad, and that she wanted nothing more to do with them. She was not going to go out there and make a complete fool of herself. She picked up her skirts and was about to turn and run, when someone gave her an almighty shove from behind.

‘That’s your cue, Clem. You’re on.’

She stumbled onto the stage, tripping over the hem of her skirts and blinded by the popping, hissing gas footlights. Her legs had turned to lead; her mind had gone blank. She was doomed to ruin the whole show.

‘You can do it, Clem.’ She heard Jack’s voice in her head. She could not see him across the footlights, but she knew he was down there in the orchestra pit. She felt him willing her on. She
picked up the hem of her beautiful gown and kissed it for good luck.

The performance did not go without a hitch. Clemency missed some of her cues and fluffed many of her words. But she soon realised that she was not alone. The whole cast was on her side, covering her mistakes, and helping her through the performance. Off stage they might bicker and quarrel, thoroughly dislike each other and jealously compete for better parts, but all that was put aside when the curtain went up. The audience seemed not to notice the slight pauses when Clemency had forgotten what she was supposed to be doing, or that she improvised when she had forgotten the words. At the final curtain, the applause was deafening, with repeated calls of ‘encore’. They took six curtain calls and at the last one, the call boy walked on to present Clemency with a bouquet of yellow roses. She did not know whether to laugh or cry as she followed the rest of the cast off the stage.