All That Glitters (7 page)

‘Today?’ he sneered, ‘I’ve more important things on my plate to see to today than appointing an usherette. A new show is opening tonight.’

She took the form and pencil he handed her and bent her head. Name – that was easy enough, so was age, but when it came to address she bit down hard on the pencil. Graig Avenue? She’d told the lie once today; it had to be Graig Avenue, she had no other option. Taking the form she walked over to the orchestra pit to use the wooden divide to press on. She wrote, ‘care of Miss Phyllis Harry, Graig Avenue, Graig, Pontypridd’. Education – she wrote down the name of her schools and the date of her labour certificate; she’d come close to the top of her class but Homes children were always taken out of school at fourteen. The parish couldn’t be expected to foot the bill for grammar school uniforms, not even for those who won scholarships. Previous jobs – she toyed briefly with the idea of inventing something, then remembered that stories could, and in a place like this, would probably be checked out. There was no point in writing out her life the way she would like it to have been, but she couldn’t risk putting down the truth. If the workhouse staff had been alerted to her absence, and the assistant manager contacted them, they’d track her down in five minutes and return her to the dosshouse or the ward. And after only an hour of wearing ordinary clothes she couldn’t bear the thought of returning to either.

She chewed the end of the pencil to a soggy pulp while she deliberated. The only real option was a slightly revised version of the truth. Cleaning – and mindful of the comment about mending costumes – sewing work in homes. ‘Homes’ could mean many things. She didn’t have to say ‘Children’s Homes’ or ‘Central Homes’. They might even take them to be private. But the sentence she’d written didn’t fill one-tenth of the space they’d allowed for ‘previous jobs’.

She glanced slyly over the shoulder of a girl standing next to her to see what she’d written. ‘Shop work, serving customers, taking money’ – she’d be doing all of that as an usherette, but no one had ever as much as shown her a penny in any of the homes she’d lived in, let alone allowed her to touch one. She licked the end of her pencil thoughtfully and looked around. None of these girls could want or need this job as much as her. Keeping her head low so no one could see what she was putting down, she began to write. A cacophony of sound blasted into the auditorium, causing the few girls who still lingered to jump.

‘Five minutes to start up!’ Norman Ashe shouted to the orchestra as he swept majestically through a side door. ‘Boy,’ he snapped his fingers at the youngest stagehand and shouted to him in a voice designed to carry over the loudest music, ‘run go the dressing rooms. Tell them I’m ready to rehearse the opening scene, though heaven only knows how we’re going to manage with the flats dangling all over the stage like this. It’s absolute bloody chaos.’

‘All forms to be handed to me,’ Joe Evans cried anxiously. Theatrical people were notoriously temperamental, and the manager wouldn’t thank him for upsetting the director of a show on opening night. ‘We’ll let the successful applicants know who they are as soon as we’ve made a decision. All forms to me, thank you. All forms …’

Jane hung back, wanting to be the last to leave, and hopefully make an impression. She handed over her form, but too embarrassed to return the mutilated pencil she slipped it in the centre of the pile he’d laid on a seat.

‘Could you give me an idea of when I’m likely to hear, Mr Evans?’

‘When I’ve had time to sift through this lot.’

‘You must have some idea,’ she pressed boldly. ‘The girl you’ve got now must be leaving.’

‘Not until next week.’

When he’d mentioned ‘a week’ earlier she hadn’t wanted to believe him. Now she did. A week – a whole week! Without knowing for certain one way or the other. A week with debts that needed paying off, no money, no food, no lodgings and nowhere to go.

‘If you give me the job, I’d work for nothing the first week so I could learn the ropes.’

‘Would you now?’ He shuffled the papers together.

‘Well it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Someone new taking over from someone experienced is bound to make a lot of mistakes. Now if I came in, properly dressed of course, and stood next to the girl I’d be replacing for a few days, I’d soon pick everything up. The take-over would be a lot smoother than if you threw someone in at the deep end. It would be better for the theatre and better for me. I wouldn’t get shouted at, and you’d have no reason to shout.’

‘Used to being shouted at, are you?’

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath and plunged in at the deep end. ‘Working for the Master of the workhouse wasn’t easy.’

‘What did you do in the workhouse?’ he peered at her warily.

‘It’s all in there.’ She pointed to her form on top of the pile he was holding, ‘cleaned the Master’s house, and he was ever so particular. Everything, even the garden paths had to be just so. Spick and span without a hint of dirt.’

‘You were an inmate?’

‘Only for a short while after my parents died. I was put there because I was orphaned, but a family friend took me out as soon as she discovered where I was.’

‘Where do you live now?’

‘Graig Avenue with my friend. You might know her. Phyllis Harry?’ She gambled on the name meaning something to him as it had done to Wilf Horton.

He shook his head. Jane breathed a little easier. She’d taken a risk that had paid off. Wilf Horton must have known that Phyllis had a son although she wasn’t married. He’d been all right about it, but some men weren’t. She’d seen what the unmarrieds had to put up with from one or two of the porters. Stupid really, when all most of them wanted to do was put a hand up a girl’s skirt.

‘So, I’ll get in touch with you there if you’re lucky enough to be offered an interview.’

Although she knew she was being dismissed, Jane remained in front of the door, hoping, even at this late stage, that she could somehow talk the assistant manager into giving her the job; she’d rather run the risk of losing everything than live with an uncertainty that meant picking up her workhouse dresses and clogs from Daisy, and haggling with Wilf Horton to take one and sevenpence and his clothes back in lieu of a few hours’ hire.

‘I’ve dreamed of working in a theatre like this, all my life,’ she said as the musicians struck the opening bars of the overture.

‘Because you want to see the shows.’

‘No sir. I know I’d be far too busy working to look at what’s happening on stage. But then, when the seats are being checked before shows, and we’re selling confectionery,’ the word fell awkwardly from her tongue. It had taken her five minutes to connect the word with sweets, ‘I might get to hear one of the songs, or see a costume. I love sewing.’

‘Do you now?’

Jane realised she’d hit a chord, and pushed the small advantage for all it was worth. ‘They save all the fine mending for me at home because I can do such small neat stitches.’

‘Where did you say you’ve been between coming out of the Homes and here?’

‘My friend’s house. She was really a friend of my family, that’s why she took me in. She’s very kind, but she’s not well off and I can’t just live off her. I have to pay my own way. I really need this job …’

‘So you keep telling me.’ He opened the door that led out into the corridor; she dogged his heels.

‘And as I said, sir, sewing, cleaning, serving people, it’s all second nature to me. And as for getting on with awkward customers, well there’s never been anyone I couldn’t calm down after a few minutes.’

‘Probably because you send them to sleep with your endless chatter.’

‘I do know how to be quiet when I have to, sir. I would never say a word during a performance. Not even if I was showing latecomers to their seats.’

‘I believe you.’ He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Sir,’ she looked up at him, wide-eyed and smiling, emulating Deanna Durbin on the film posters. But all Mr Evans saw was a pushy, scrawny kid in a dress four sizes too large for her – her friend’s? – cheap oilcloth shoes, and a large beret that flopped unflatteringly around a head that seemed to be blessed with very little hair, judging by the wisps on the forehead. ‘You will think about what I said, won’t you? About working for nothing and starting tonight?’

‘Evans!’ a voice bellowed from the side corridor.

‘Goodbye, Miss.’ He turned his back.

‘My name is Jane, Jane Jones,’ she called after him, but he’d already gone. A sound filled the air, louder and sweeter than anything she’d heard in a long time. Unable to resist its lure, she pushed open the door and crept back into the auditorium.

The stagehands had shifted an entire scene into place, transforming the white-bricked stage into a moonlit garden filled with blue irises, blue daffodils, full-blown blue roses and clouds of blue and silver fruit blossom. It didn’t occur to Jane that it was impossible for all those flowers to be that colour, or bloom together in anyone season. Transported into the instant, make-believe illusionary world of blossoms and music, it was enough to simply breathe and feel.

A swing decorated with leaves and flowers floated gently down from overhead. Sitting on it, smiling, gorgeous and alluring, was one of the girls who’d entered the theatre while she’d been queuing. Her curls had been fluffed out and were now the same shade of blue as the scenery. Her perfect, bow-shaped mouth gleamed in the artificial moonlight, her silver-painted eyelids highlighting eyes a darker blue than the garden. Dressed in a very short silver skirt and sleeveless blouse, she looked the perfect partner for Haydn Powell, who stood in silvered shirt-sleeves and black trousers waiting to catch her.

‘From the top, maestro?’ he shouted into the orchestra pit.

‘When the others see fit to join us,’ Norman Ashe snapped peevishly from the front row. He clapped his hands. Half a dozen girls dressed in the same outfit as the girl on the swing crowded on stage and arranged themselves in elegant but wooden poses amongst the painted foliage.

‘Opening bars, then over to you Haydn.’

The music played. An expectant hush descended, then there was only Haydn’s voice, sweet and pure as it rose to the rafters.

‘Tonight just let me look at you … Don’t talk … Don’t break the spell …’

Jane caught her breath. Inching towards the last row she fumbled her way into a seat. The first verse ended. Haydn held out his hand, the girl on the swing remained rigid, unmoving. He danced a few steps to the next girl and launched into the second verse. The background dissolved into unrelieved blackness as Jane absorbed every gesture he made, every note he sang as he danced gracefully from girl to motionless girl. His shoes gleamed like polished black ice, his eyes glittered, twin sapphires under the lights. It was only a moment, an instant in time, but it lasted long enough for Jane to fall hopelessly, completely and irrevocably in love. With the magical, exquisite moonlit garden. With the electrifying atmosphere … and with Haydn Powell.

‘Miss Jones.’

She jumped to her feet. The seat banged noisily behind her.

‘Stop … Stop!’ Norman yelled furiously. ‘We’ll continue only when the management cease their noisy partying in the back stalls. He cast a diabolic eye at the assistant manager.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jane apologised, speaking so fast she stumbled over her words ‘ … I know I shouldn’t have stayed but -’ This was worse, far worse, than the time she’d been caught stealing currants from the pantry in the Children’s Homes. ‘But …’ she stammered, desperately searching for an excuse that would stand up to scrutiny.

‘This way,’ Mr Evans commanded, ‘before you disturb them even more than you already have.’ She followed him out into the corridor. A man stood there, stiff, imposing in an evening suit, starched collar and black bow tie. Jane had never seen a man in evening dress before. She stared curiously until the stern look in his eye caused her to remember her manners and lower her head respectfully.

‘You told Mr Evans you’d be prepared to start tonight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘One of our usherettes has let us down. Said she was going to work until the end of the week, now she can’t. You know what kind of show we are running here at present?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What kind?’ he barked intimidatingly.

‘A Revue, sir. The posters said nudes.’

‘Your mam doesn’t mind?’

‘I’m an orphan, sir.’

‘Living with?’

‘Friends.’ Mr Evans supplied hastily.

‘Right, one week’s trial. See to it, Mr Evans.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Twelve and six a week to start,’ he bellowed, as if Jane was about to argue the matter. ‘If you prove satisfactory, you’ll be kept on.’

‘Thank you sir.’ Jane looked up at him in bewilderment. ‘Does that mean I have the job sir?’

‘What do you think I’ve been talking about, girl?’ He glowered at her, wondering if he’d hired a simpleton.

‘Starting tonight,’ Mr Evans supplied helpfully.

‘I’ll be earning tonight?’

‘You’ll have to work a week in hand. First wage packet will come a week next Friday.’

She swallowed hard: she’d just have to find some way of borrowing money against her wages. It wouldn’t be hard now she had a job. After all, she’d done it with the clothes.

‘My cap and apron, sir?’

‘You’ll have them when you come on shift at four. Anything else?’

‘Just one thing,’ her brown eyes sparkled triumphantly as the enormity of her achievement finally sank in. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’ She turned to the assistant manager. ‘And you, Mr Evans, sir. I won’t let you down.’

‘If you do, you’ll be out of that door quicker than you came through it.’ Joe Evans assured her sourly. ‘Make sure you’re here at four, on the dot.’

As she walked away, head up, treading on air, she didn’t see Joe Evans take out his pocket handkerchief and mop his brow. When the usherette who’d already given notice had sent a note round to say that her mother wouldn’t countenance her working even one night in a den of iniquity frequented by lecherous men whose only interest was in peering at naked female flesh, it had been the final disaster in a disastrous morning. If the girl thought she was lucky so be it. He wasn’t going to disillusion her by telling her that they would have been prepared to take on a two-headed octopus five minutes ago. Even so, he hoped he wouldn’t be within earshot if the manager ever found out that he’d taken on an ex-workhouse girl.