Frozen Billy (6 page)

Uncle Len tried to make light of it. ‘So you'd be handsomely paid, would you, Will, for what any girl would do to her face for free? Be sure that, on the day I finally find Still Lucy, I will be offering your job to Clarrie!'

‘Half the act earns half the money,' Will reminded him. ‘Those were your own words.'

‘I would be fair with you,' said Uncle Len, ‘but half the money never seems to come.'

‘What do you mean? Madame Terrazini pays you. I've seen her.'

‘Oh, she pays me. The worry is, she pays me barely more than she did before. Certainly not enough to pay you.'

‘But—'

I heard the chair legs scrape across the floor. ‘Not now, Will. I have a man to meet in the Soldier at Arms, to talk about business.'

‘Business!' scoffed Will. ‘I see there's still money enough for beer in the Soldier at Arms, and a bet on the horses. Just not enough to pay your partner on the stage.'

Uncle Len laughed. ‘We'll talk tomorrow, Will,' he said. And, with a clatter, he was down the stairs.

I left my bed to console my brother. ‘We'll ask again tomorrow.' And the next night – and the next, and the next after that – I prompted, ‘Go on, Will. Ask Uncle Len to speak to Madame Terrazini about his wages.'

Will simply shook his head – until the night he lost his patience. ‘If you're so sure that there's a point to it,
you
ask him, Clarrie.'

It took a day or two to gather courage. But the next Sunday morning, after bringing Uncle Len his porridge on a tray, along with a fizzing powder for his sore head, I spoke up.

‘Uncle Len, it's been weeks.'

He lifted his head to stare at me with bleary eyes. ‘Weeks, Clarrie?'

‘Since Will left school to help you with the act.'

He went back to digging in the bowl with his spoon. ‘He's a fine lad.'

‘
Very
fine,' I said. ‘But nights on the stage were not what Father and Mother had in mind for him.'

He scowled. ‘Oh, indeed!' he said bitterly. ‘Charles would want better for his only son than to fetch up in music hall like his own wastrel brother.'

‘Uncle Len! Everyone knows you're a brilliant ventriloquist. The best!' I added the next words as gently as I could: ‘But there was a purpose to Will's joining your act. And that was to help support the family.'

‘I'm sure we all support the family, Clarrie.'

There was no other way to say it. ‘I mean with his share of the earnings, Uncle Len.'

‘Alas, Clarrie. As I've already explained, even the extra wages barely stretch to cover my own needs.'

What lent me courage to persist was the memory of my poor brother trailing in night after night, so tired and dispirited.

‘Uncle Len, while your “needs” include so much beer and so many bets on the hors—'

‘Don't hector me!' said Uncle Len. ‘Take your complaints to Madame Terrazini! Ask her how a man can move to the Top of the Bill and still be paid a pittance!' He clutched his head. ‘Now out of the room, Clarrie! Leave me, before I lose my temper.'

Next night, Will sat with folded arms while Uncle Len gnawed at a fingernail with an anxious look.

‘Not getting ready, Will?'

‘Why should I bother to work?'

Uncle Len turned to me. ‘Clarrie, tell your brother to get out of his pet and make haste to get ready.'

I spread my hands. ‘He feels unfairly treated, Uncle Len.'

Outside, the clock tower chimes began. Uncle Len turned to Will in a panic. ‘Hear that? The curtain will rise on an empty stage! What will we live on then?'

‘On Clarrie's wages,' Will said stubbornly. ‘As we do now, with most of your earnings going on your own pleasures.'

‘I pay the rent!'

I might have spoken up then – ‘Only part of it. And for so little of the food that we might starve.' But at that moment, hearing the last chime, Uncle Len dropped to his knees in front of Will.

‘Do you really think I'd see you out of pocket? No! Every week I put aside a share for you.'

‘So where is it?'

Uncle Len rose. ‘Trust me!' he said. ‘I am your only uncle. I love you dearly. I would do nothing to hurt you.' He stretched out a hand to take Will's chin in his fingers and turn the pale face towards him. ‘Will, can you really look me in the eye and call me a liar and a cheat?'

Will tried. I know he tried. But Uncle Len had such a soulful, honest look about him that, after a moment, Will just broke away and stared in the fire.

And I? I let my brother down by standing by and saying nothing. And as I hurriedly helped him into his knickerbockers and shirt, and passed the jars of face paste, I let him down a second time. For in the moment Uncle Len turned away to pick up the carrying box, my brother was brave enough to whisper across to me, ‘Do you believe him, Clarrie?'

And all I dared whisper back was, ‘I don't know.'

Guilt turned to courage overnight. Next morning, I said to Will, ‘I'm going to find the truth,' and went in search of Mavis and Anastasia. I found them cosy in a corner of the dressing room, busily lacing the bodices for the new cancan finale.

‘Here's a long face,' teased Anastasia as soon as she noticed me. ‘Have you strayed in the dressing room to tell us the theatre's on fire?'

‘I have a question,' I admitted. ‘About my uncle.'

They glanced at one another. ‘Has he been unkind?'

‘No, no,' I assured them. ‘Though he can be a little irritable when he's tired.'

Again, their eyes met. ‘Tired!' scoffed Anastasia. ‘More likely, when he's—'

Mavis frowned at her hastily, and she hushed.

I interlaced my fingers. ‘Still, I was wondering . . .'

‘Spit it out, Clarrie.'

‘About his wages . . .'

Anastasia burst out laughing. ‘Shall we guess Clarrie's question, Mavis? “How can my Uncle Len be Top of the Bill, and
still
come home each night with empty pockets?” '

They laughed again. I felt the blood rush to my face.

‘So when he tells us Madame Terrazini pays him only a pittance more . . . ?'

‘He has a strange view of a pittance!'

‘And if he tells us that he has put aside a share for my brother . . . ?'

Mavis shook her head. ‘Len's heart's in the right place, Clarrie. He'd truly mean to make good his boast. But then he'd hear some tip about a horse, and spend it all, and not even know how much he'd cost himself.' She leaned towards me over her lacing. ‘Remember that, to your uncle, numbers are like alphabet letters. They fly straight out of his head. You could pour gold on Len, and he'd not thrive – not while he lives a few doors from the Soldier at Arms – without your mother's firm leash around his neck!'

I had my answer, so I crept away.

That night, I told Will, ‘It seems Len's such a foe to numbers and such a friend to ale, he truly thinks he's poorly paid.'

And that was the end of the matter. None of us spoke of money after that. But from then on, it seemed as if the last of my brother's enthusiasm drained away. When Uncle Len said, ‘Time to get ready, Will,' he'd scowl and delay, and from his mouth would come a tide of sullen muttering that Uncle Len was hard-pressed to pretend he hadn't heard. The very air in the house seemed to turn sour, and laughter vanished.

Once, as I was coming up the stair, I heard my brother's voice, fierce and tense. The door was open. I stood in the doorway, laden with groceries, and saw him leaning over the carrying box.

‘Will, what are you saying?'

Hastily my brother shuffled back. ‘Nothing. I was just setting Frozen Billy's collar in place.'

I could have told him, ‘Will, I could hear from the doorway.' But what would I have said after that? ‘I heard you say it, Will. Clear as a bell. “You are the very devil, Frozen Billy! If you were quick and breathing, I could free myself. But how can I ever kill the unliving?” '

The longer I thought about it, the more anxious I became. In my concern, I took to following Will and Uncle Len to the theatre each night. I'd clear the supper things, and sweep the rooms. Then I'd lock up behind, and hurry through the dark streets to get there just as the acrobats came to a finish.

Sometimes I ran into Madame Terrazini in the narrow carpeted corridor behind the stalls. She'd nod a greeting. I'd give a quick bob of curtsey in return, and hurry past to watch my poor brother grin and grimace his way through yet another show.

The act lasted twenty minutes – never less, and never a moment more. I think Uncle Len was ever mindful of Will's growing bitterness, and feared he might clamp shut his mouth the instant the last minute passed.

But the more Will glowered, the more Uncle Len's wits deserted him. Now, even when some wag shouted down from the cheap seats in the balcony, poor Uncle Len would stand and hesitate (while Frozen Billy blinked). It would be left to my sharp brother to think of something he could weave into the act to please Madame Terrazini with some fresh laugh, till the banter picked up again.

Still, Frozen Billy always won the argument. But by then I had usually left my hiding place – deep in the shadows at the back of the stalls if the theatre was full, hidden in folds of velvet curtain if one of the boxes was empty. I'd hurry down the carpeted passages and through the green baize door that is the barrier between those who pay to be entertained and those who are paid to entertain them, and come backstage.

So I was always there for Will when, clicking and clacking the wooden clapper hidden in his pocket to sound even more like a doll, he finally stumbled off the stage each night, the laughter ringing in his ears, and, falling in my arms, burst into tears.

The Sixth Notebook

O
ne Sunday I lifted the cocoa tin to wipe the oilcloth beneath, and found myself staring in envy at the girl with the beautiful black face and shining smile.

I turned to my brother, who was morosely churning out the weekly pack of lies to our father. ‘Will, what would make you happiest in the whole wide world?'

He didn't hesitate. ‘For Frozen Billy to fall under the wheels of a carriage and be broken in pieces.'

I clapped my hand over his mouth. ‘Ssssh, Will!'

He tugged away. ‘Oh, come on, Clarrie. Uncle Len won't be listening. He'll be dead to the world –
again
.'

I knew he was right because only a few minutes earlier I'd pushed the bedroom door open a crack. I was sliding in the boots that he'd left by the fender because I so hated it when he woke with a sore head, and started his fretful shouting. ‘Clarrie, girl! Where are my stage boots?'