Paradise Court (13 page)

Ernie thrilled to it all. He joined in the words of the songs which
he could sing under his breath as he pedalled his bike for Mr Henshaw, belting them out now to the swelling sounds of the orchestra. After the show, he and Rob would swagger off to the stage door and join the swells. He was picking up the routine, learning the jargon. Best of all, he would meet up with Daisy and walk her home.

‘C'mon, Ern!' Robert sprang to his feet as the final curtain fell. He was eager to beat the crowds. Hettie and Daisy didn't know they were here tonight, so it might prove more of a problem to get backstage. He'd have to signal through the window before anyone else arrived. Hurrying up the aisle, he expected Ernie to be hard on his heels.

But Ernie had difficulty with huddles and knots of people. They put him off his stride, standing there blocking his way. He hesitated, felt confused then flustered, then lost sight of his brother up ahead. Still, he knew where to go, he told himself. He knew to head for the stage door down that dark alley, where he'd find Robert ready to tell him off for getting lost. He nodded his head to a series of simple instructions which he gave himself as he headed out of the hall.

Robert slid easily past the groups of unhurried spectators gathered under the stone portico in feathered finery and Sunday jackets, unwilling to spill out on to the streets. Only one or two bunches of people had beaten him to it and were hanging about on the corner, or setting off in cheerful twos and threes on their long walks home. He glanced back, annoyed with Ernie, who'd been swallowed up back there. Bleeding idiot, he thought. Slowly he drifted to the corner, ready to light up a cigarette and hang about until the kid showed up.

But things didn't work out. A group of shadowy figures in a side doorway attracted his attention. He recognized Syd Swan's tough-looking outline lounging against the wall, chin jutting out, eyeing him up and down. He saw Whitey Lewis and a couple of other thugs, all obviously on the prowl tonight minus their injured leader. They'd spotted Robert too. It was time to make himself scarce.

Robert spun on his toes, hitched his collar and darted into the traffic. A passing omnibus made things easy for him; he nipped on to the open platform, swung round on the pole and waved a cheery goodbye to his pursuers. But his luck wasn't in after all. A snarl-up of traffic at the next junction brought the bus to a halt, and Syd and company had by no means given up. He could see them belting down the pavement towards him, jackets flying open, arms working like pistons. They meant business. Robert swung down from the platform with a shrug of apology at the approaching conductor. He had to beat it on foot if he was to come out of it clean. Lucky for him, he knew his way around, down to every last nook and cranny.

Ernie struggled on alone. The women's long skirts got in his way, the men would tell jokes standing bang in the middle of the aisle. No one seemed to care that he'd lost sight of Robert. When finally he broke through the foyer out into the street, his brother had disappeared. But Ernie clung to the idea of going to meet Daisy. That's what they did after a show; he didn't need anyone to remind him of that. He even knew the way.

Slowly, long after the main crowd had drifted off, he finally reached the familiar corner. Down this alley, at the far, dark end away from the lights, he would meet up with Robert, Robert would tell him off and then they would go inside and see Daisy.

Hettie was out of sorts as she made her way home after the show. She'd had to cold shoulder lecherous Archie Small, all because Daisy wasn't around to divert his attention. He was a slug in a cellar, slimy little man. Even the manager, Mr Mills, came looking for Daisy to give her her wages. And when it came time to link up with her for the walk back to Duke Street, could she be found? ‘Silly cow's gone walking home with some new beau, most like,' one of the other girls offered. ‘Let's hope he's a gent.' ‘Fat chance,' Hettie said. Daisy might have thought to let her know. She was practically the last to leave the place, losing all this time looking for her, asking everyone where she was. Hettie banged the
door and hurried off up the empty-alley. Even the stage-door johnnies had given up and gone home, it was so late.

She met Robert coming towards her, going at a steady trot, head back, elbows out.

‘What the bleeding hell you doing here?' she barked.

He stopped and doubled over to regain his breath. Behind him the street was empty. ‘We seen the show,' he gasped. ‘But then I ran into a spot of bother back there. Nothing serious.' He stood up, hands on hips.

“‘We?” Who's we?'

‘Me and Ern.' Robert's face, which had been relaxing into a grin, narrowed again. ‘Why? Ain't you seen him?'

Hettie shook her head. ‘No. He ain't waiting by the door neither, if that's what you think. I just come from there.'

Robert frowned. ‘Bleeding idiot.'

‘It ain't his fault,' Hettie said. ‘And I keep telling you, don't call him names!' Then she thought, standing out on the street, listen, I bet that's where Daisy got to. Wouldn't you just know!'

‘What?'

‘She's met up with Ern and walked him home. I been looking everywhere for her.'

Brother and sister turned and began to walk the route home. Hettie was tired after her second performance of the day, and Robert still looked warily about. ‘You sure about this?' he asked. ‘What if Ern got himself well and truly lost back there. What'll Pa say?'

Hettie stopped and sighed. Come to think of it, she couldn't see Daisy playing nursemaid to Ernie if there was anything else in the offing. ‘Let's go back and check,' she agreed. It would only take ten minutes and then at least they'd be sure. They began to retrace their steps.

The alley was deserted, dry and dusty in the September night. Never silent, it rustled with small, unexplained noises behind drainpipes, along the gutter. Hettie picked up her skirts arid trod gingerly. ‘I hate it down here when it's all gone quiet,' she said.

‘C'mon,' Robert urged. He wished he'd never had the stupid idea of bringing Ernie along in the first place.

‘He ain't here.' Hettie pursed her lips. Robert had gone to check in the deepest shadows down by the high window and he'd come back none the wiser.

‘He ain't gone inside, has he?' Robert pushed at the door, which stood off the latch.

‘Here, you can't go in there!' Hettie pulled him to one side and sailed in. ‘Wait here. I'll go.' She negotiated the familiar obstacles of ladders, ropes and cables cluttering the long corridor, and smelt the old stale smells of cheap perfume, dust and sweat.

‘He ain't here!' She sent a loud whisper back to Robert.

‘Try the dressing room!' With growing irritation Robert stood hunched by the door, ‘And bleeding well be quick about it, will you!'

‘If he ain't in here, I'm off home. You can tell Pa anything you like, it ain't nothing to do with me,' Hettie moaned. The girls' stage dresses looked drab and creased in the low light which fell from the corridor into the room; purple, crimson and emerald all merging into shadowy grey. ‘Ain't no one here!' she called back.

But something made her check again. Things weren't quite right. A rail of dresses was swung out from the wall, and a screen which the girls used to change behind had tipped forward against it. Hettie went to investigate, fumbling to set the screen upright. But she came across a large object stopping her. She pulled the whole thing free and began to scream.

Robert ran. He used the doorpost to brake and swung himself into the dressing room. Hettie was stumbling towards him, hands to her face. In the far corner of the room, clear of the rail and screen, she'd exposed the object and dropped to her knees over it. She'd touched the blood on the white face, she'd knelt in a pool of it and drenched her skirts before she jerked on to her feet and staggered back screaming.

Robert caught hold of her. He stared at the body. Blood poured from the neck and chest, the face stared up at the ceiling. ‘Oh my
gawd!' he moaned. Hettie had buried her head against him. He clung to her. ‘It's Daisy, ain't it?'

The light from the corridor caught the corpse in its full glare. The mouth hung open, the blank eyes stared. One arm was flung wide across the floor.

More footsteps ran down from the direction of the stage. Fred Mills had been on the point of locking up when the screaming started. Now he came running. He saw the body. He'd telephone the police, get help. This didn't happen, it was something you read about in the newspapers, Jack the Ripper stuff, really nasty.

‘She was a lovely girl,' he told the sergeant. ‘One of my best lookers, a good dancer. She had a voice like a bird.'

At the end of her meeting Frances said goodbye to friends on Union Street. She walked through the back closes off Blackfriars Road with Billy Wray, a newspaper vendor in the market with an ailing wife; one of the organizers of the lecture she'd attended that evening. As they came through on to Duke Street, they too parted company and went their separate ways.

It was then that she met Ernie. Astonished to see his tall, ungainly figure half-stumbling up the road, she ran to catch him up. ‘Ern, what you doing out this time of night? Where's your hat? What happened?'

Ernie plodded on, as if dazed. ‘I lost Rob,' he told her. He sounded dull and miserable. ‘I never saw where he went.'

‘The nuisance!' Frances said under her breath, determined to give Robert a piece of her mind. ‘You mean to say he dumped you and never came back to find you?' she cried, seizing Ernie by the elbow and heading firmly for home. That was the sort of thing Robert would do; dump poor Ernie if he bumped into a few friends and got tempted by the promise of drink and girls.

‘I lost him. I never saw where he went,' Ernie repeated. He was looking into the distance, straight ahead.

‘Well, never mind now. We're here.' Frances ushered him through the door of the Duke and straight upstairs. Midnight had chimed on the church dock as they walked the final stretch. The last drinkers had already left the pub.

Upstairs, Frances was glad to find that Jess was still up, greeting them with a smile and the offer of a cup of tea. ‘Thanks!' Her hat and jacket were already off and hung on the peg. She turned and
smoothed Ernie's dishevelled hair. ‘Ern here could do with one, couldn't you, Ern?'

‘What happened to you?' Jess stared at his pale, blank face. ‘You look like you seen a ghost, Ern! For God's sake get him sat down nice and comfy, Frances. No, on second thoughts, you fetch that tea. I'll sort Ern out.' She bustled to help him out of his jacket and unbutton his waistcoat. Then she gentry stroked his cheek. ‘C'mon, Ern, it ain't that bad, surely.'

Frances soon came back from the kitchen. She still felt livid with their feckless brother. ‘That Robert went and dumped him. Took him out for a treat up the Palace and left him. I just found him wandering back all by himself. It ain't right!'

‘No.' Jess wanted to soothe away Ernie's hurt. ‘But don't tell Pa,' she said to Frances. ‘There'd only be a row.'

‘Hm.' Once they'd straightened Ernie out with a hot cup of tea, Frances began to calm down. ‘Did Ett get back home yet?'

‘No. Sadie came in and went off to bed like a good girl, but that's all.' The sisters looked at one another, puzzled frowns on both their faces, but the ticking clock, the sound of Duke locking doors below lulled them into security.

‘We'd best get you off to bed then, Ern.' Jess rose and pulled him to his feet. ‘No point hoping he'll manage by himself tonight,' she told Frances. Sometimes he went all quiet and helpless, and you had to treat him like a little kid.

‘Just wait till he comes home.' Frances gazed at the back of Ernie's stooped head as Jess took him gently off to the bedroom shared by the two brothers. ‘He ain't never learned to use his head, that Robert,' She settled with her feet up, nursing her cup of tea. The lecture had contained lantern slides of the Seven Wonders of the World. Billy Wray had given a good talk, considering. Frances drifted off into her own world.

Jess sat Ernie down on the edge of his bed. ‘C'mon, Ern, let's take your boots off.' He sat passively while she unlaced them. ‘Give us a hand,' she urged. But he stared straight ahead, sitting in his shirt-sleeves, his collar unbuttoned and loose around his neck. So Jess struggled and finally held both boots in one hand, ready to
take them away. ‘Wait here while I go and put these down on a bit of clean newspaper, Ern.' She was surprised by the nasty, greasy fed of the uppers. They would need a good clean.

In the bright kitchen light Jess set the boots down on paper and went to wipe her hands at the sink. Her fingers were stained a sticky red. For a moment she spread her palms and stared in disbelief. Then she went straight back to Ernie's boots to scrape and scrub at them with the paper, anxious now to wipe them clean. She screwed the paper into a tight ball, went to the kitchen range, which they always kept lit for cooking, and thrust it far into the back of the fire, holding it there with the poker. She took the boot polish from the cupboard, blacked Ernie's boots and polished them until they shone. Finally, she washed her hands at the sink.

Ernie still sat in the very same place when she got back to him, but it was less than a minute more before she'd eased him between the sheets and drawn his eiderdown up to his chin. He stared at the ceiling, numb and silent. ‘G'night, Ern,' she whispered. ‘I got to go check on Grace now. You get off to sleep and we'll sort things out in the morning, eh?'

‘What d'you suppose Ern was up to?' Frances asked when Jess returned. In a roundabout way her daydreams had brought her back to the subject. She remembered breaking off from her lively conversation with Billy and seeing poor, lonely Ernie up ahead. ‘When you think about it, there's a whole hour missing between him losing Robert and ending up back here. It don't take an hour to walk that little stretch!'

Jess shook her head. ‘Don't ask me.'

‘No need to bite my head off.'

‘Sorry.' Jess found it hard to get rid of the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The boots bothered her. She was sure it was blood on them.

Duke came up and told the girls to get off to bed. It was his habit of a lifetime never to retire until all the family were in and accounted for, so he sat in his shirt-sleeves, poring over the latest reports of the war in France. At two in the morning Robert and Hettie walked in looking as if the world had come to an end.

A solitary policeman came down the court still later into the night to give the O'Hagans news of their daughter's death. ‘I drew the short straw there,' he told them back at the station. ‘This scraggy woman comes to the door, which anyhow don't shut tight on account of its hinges. She opens it a crack and I says, “I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs O'Hagan, but your daughter Daisy has been murdered.” There ain't no nice way to put it. The woman looks at me like she ain't heard. I can see through the door that the whole place is a tip. I tells her she can go along to the mortuary in the morning and see the body, and we'll do our best to find out who did it. I still ain't sure she's heard. But then she nods and closes the door on me, and I can hear my own footsteps going back down them stairs, knock-knock against the bare boards and out into the street.'

His sergeant nodded. ‘Good lad. Needle in a bleeding haystack this is, though.' There was paperwork to do. He opened the black ledger and chose a pen.

‘What is?'

‘Finding the bloke what done it. It could be any one of them hooligans done her in, the way them girls carry on after a show. I know, I seen ‘em often enough.' Dutifully he wrote down the details: 9 September 1914. A quarter to twelve. Summoned to the Southwark Palace Music Hall by the manager, Mr Frederick Mills. Body on the premises. Female. Nineteen years. Stab wounds to throat and chest area. Identity: Daisy O'Hagan of Paradise Court, music-hall dancer and singer. Time of death, half-past eleven approximately.

‘Ain't you got no one particular in mind?' The young police constable was recovering from his experience as the bearer of bad tidings. He supposed it was something else you got used to in this job.

The sergeant sucked in air loudly and shook his head. ‘Well, I never took to the manager, Mills, for a start.' He finished writing, blotted the page and closed the book. ‘All that stuff about what a lovely girl she was. Who's he trying to kid?'

‘I can see you don't reckon much to her, Serg?'

‘They're all the same, them showgirls.'

‘What about the witness?' The young man's imagination was more fired up by the murder than his more experienced boss's. ‘You reckon he had anything to do with it?'

‘Parsons? Ain't come across him before. He was pretty worked up all right. Dunno. The sister was in a proper state and all.'

‘It couldn't be a woman what done it, could it?'

‘Don't see why not. Like I said, it could be any bleeding one!'

Their work finished for the night, they buttoned their capes and left the sombre brick building with its barred windows and iron railings. At least they could get away to their Sunday roasts and walks in the park. Not like the poor O'Hagans, they said, walking in step away from it all.

Hettie sat up all night. The rising ride of hysteria she'd felt as she knelt by Daisy's body soon passed. Afterwards she was acutely aware of every detail; every word Fred Mills gabbled to the sergeant, the phosphoric flash of the police photographer's camera, the rubber gloves of the surgeon as he inspected the corpse, until she'd been bundled out into the corridor, baldly questioned and packed off home.

Now it seemed she was floating free in her mind, telling her own body to stop shaking, ordering her hand to raise the glass to her mouth. You know it's true, she raid herself. You saw poor Daisy lying there in a pool of her own blood. She never went on home like you thought,

Robert whispered the full story to Duke. The shock had given even him a bad knock.

‘How come you was there, you and Ett?' Duke asked. There were misgivings in the old man's mind. He didn't like Robert being mixed up in this.

Robert had to confess how they went back looking for Ernie. ‘He got home all right in the end, didn't he?' he asked suddenly.

‘Ssh! Yes, no thanks to you. I seen him coming up with Frances about midnight. Keep your voice down.' Duke didn't want to wake the others. He shook his head and glanced across at Hettie. ‘What
we going to do with her?' She was sitting across the room from them, upright and quiet, but seemingly out of touch with her surroundings.

‘Leave her be.' Robert knocked whisky to the back of his throat, felt it burn. ‘She'll soon come round.'

Next morning, shock waves rippled up and down the court. No one could believe it. Poor Daisy O'Hagan was dead, stabbed through the heart by some unknown villain, her young life ebbing away in the dingy back rooms of the dark, deserted Palace. That bright, fresh young girl done away with in some dark corner; it was a cruel thing for everyone who knew her.

Hettie had sat through the night. ‘I ain't going back to the Palace,' she told Frances. ‘I decided I don't want to work there no more.' Her hands were folded in her lap. Frances, seeing her shiver, had thought to put a shawl around her shoulders. Now they'd all heard the horrible story and were letting the news sink in.

‘Oh, Ett, that's a shame.' Frances had always recognized that her sister had talent, right from being a small child. The music hall was her life. ‘I don't see why you should give it all up just because of this.'

Hettie never blinked.

‘Ett? Listen, the life suits you, don't it? You like being up on that stage with the other girls. Wait a bit. Don't make no rash moves.'

‘It ain't the same after what's happened.'

‘Not now it ain't, course not. But just wait a bit.'

‘I thought you never liked the place?' Hettie turned towards Frances. It weren't never good enough for you. You never liked Daisy much neither, did you?'

‘Oh, Ett, how could you think that?' Frances's arms went around her sister and she hugged her close. ‘I thought Daisy was a lovely girl, only just a bit lively sometimes. I never said nothing against her!'

‘You never had to. She was scared stiff of you, Frances. She said you always made her feel like she had to sit up straight and talk
proper.' Hettie recalled all the laughing remarks. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘I know. I can't help it, Ett,' Frances said humbly. She cried too. ‘I'm so sorry for what's happened!'

‘And you'll go up today and tell Mr Mills for me? I ain't never going back, Fran.'

Frances nodded and blew her nose. ‘No more singing and dancing,' she agreed.

‘I thought you'd be over the moon.'

‘Well, I ain't, Ett, believe me.'

But she went up that afternoon and gave the news to Fred Mills. He was sorry, he said, but he couldn't really blame Hettie. A lot of the girls were very scared by the murder and worried it would be their turn next. ‘And they ain't even seen it, not like your sister, Miss Parsons.' He frowned. ‘I had to clear up a lot of the mess myself. Very upsetting. I'm telling them to take more care who they hang round with from now on. You never know.'

Frances spoke to him in his small, dingy room behind the box-office. His face was grey as he stood and shook her hand; a little man whose confidence was demolished. She received an extra week's wages on Hettie's behalf. ‘Hettie seems to think ifs her fault, Mr Mills,' she confided. ‘She thinks if she'd tried a bit harder to track Daisy down last night and walk home with her like normal, this would never have happened.'

‘We could all think that about ourselves,' the manager confessed, his features blank and unreadable, his voice flat. ‘Tell her not to think it though. It don't do no good, and it weren't her fault. Tell her that.'

Frances nodded once and went on her way. She walked out through the foyer, under glass chandeliers, between rows of laughing faces. Glossy, smiling photographs of the stars beamed down; the comedians, singers and showgirls seemed to follow her with their eyes.

No one had been able to prevent Hettie from going to see the O'Hagans. Jess was busy with Ernie, who still hadn't recovered
his bearings from the night before and was going around in a dream. She'd pushed the business about the boots firmly to the back of her mind and locked it away. Now she tried in vain to get him to eat toast and drink tea. The poor boy seemed lost in a mental maze and refused everything.