The Urchin's Song (20 page)

Vera smiled at her as she tipped the fat into the big bowl, and as Gertie began to rub in the lard and mix it to a soft dough with the flour and milk, Vera said, ‘There’s a good lass. You’ll make a canny wife for some lucky lad, Gertie.’

Gertie smiled back into the kind, rough-textured face. If she had spoken her true feelings on the matter, she would have told Vera that marriage was the last thing she envisaged for the future. She might not be particularly bright - certainly her last year at school had been a nightmare she wouldn’t inflict on her worst enemy - but over the last three or four years she had come to realise she had talents of other kinds. Practical talents. However, her whole body shrank inwardly at the thought of employing those abilities in the role of a wife. She had seen what marriage meant; subjugation, misery, enslavement. She would never willingly give the control of her life and well-being over to a man unless she could be absolutely sure he wouldn’t turn out like her da. No, she was more than happy in her capacity as Josie’s dresser and companion. Josie’s star was going to be a brilliant one, and she could assist its rise. And no one deserved success more than Josie.

‘That’s grand, lass. Now, roll it out to about a quarter of an inch thick an’ cut it into rounds, an’ we’ll have ’em cookin’ on that girdle afore you can say Jack Robinson. A good girdle cake, nicely browned, is hard to beat. You go an’ call your sister, eh? Tell her to take the weight off.’

Gertie nodded at Vera. Power. Power and prestige; that’s what got you anywhere in this life, and she didn’t need to be top of the class to know that. And what was at the root of power and prestige? Money, that’s what. She’d heard the talk in the dressing rooms; she reckoned she knew more than Josie as to what the big stars earned. Marie Kendall was earning £100 a week three years ago, and even the middle-of-the-road performers were getting anything from £10 to £30 a week in London. And Josie was better than middle of the road. By, she was that. When she sang she could make them laugh or cry or turn somersaults . . .

Gertie finished cutting the last of the scones and brushed her hands on her skirt. Would Josie be vexed if she knew she’d left Vera’s address with Mrs Bainsby in case the agent feller should ask? And then she gave herself a mental shake of the head. Why ask the road you know? Josie’d go stark staring barmy. But it was done now. And she wasn’t sorry. If he was keen enough, he’d follow them here to Sunderland, and if he wasn’t, well, in spite of what Lily had said there must be other agents with as many connections as this Oliver bloke. And now their mam was gone, Josie was free to work further afield.

‘I’ll get Josie then.’ She spoke to Vera’s back; Vera being busy turning the first batch of scones on the hot girdle.

‘Aye, you do that, lass, an’ I’ll pour us all a sup tea. I don’t know about you but me tongue’s hangin’ out.’

Vera’s voice was suspiciously thick and Gertie suspected she was crying again. It was going to be a long few days till the funeral. Horace had had a word with the parson on his way to work that morning, and the parson had been straight round before Josie had even finished laying their mam out. ’Course, the fact that Josie had told Horace to say they wanted a funeral with all the trimmings might have something to do with his promptness. Waste of good money, she called it. You were either going straight to heaven or the other place from what she could make out, and neither venue took any notice of what sort of send-off you had on this mortal plain. Still, she wouldn’t alter Josie’s mind on this, same as she wouldn’t on anything else. Josie thought with her heart more than her head but she had a mind of her own, and that mind was formidable when it was put to anything.

She thought again of the hastily scribbled address she’d left with their old landlady, and found herself biting hard on her lip as she opened the back door and walked across the small yard to the wash-house. By, if Oliver Hogarth followed them here she’d get it in the neck from her sister. Gertie wasn’t sure if she wanted the agent to persist or not now.

Owing to the opening of London’s Hippodrome Theatre in Charing Cross Road on 15 January 1900, it was over ten days before Oliver Hogarth made his way north again. He had been a member of a party which included lords and ladies of the highest rank, and an invitation to a house-party the following weekend after the prestigious opening - which had included none other than the Prince of Wales himself - had meant a further delay before he could legitimately leave London.

He had also had other, less welcome matters to attend to; matters which he had procrastinated about long enough, but which had proved to be every bit as unpleasant as he’d expected. Damn it, women were the very devil. Oliver stared out of the window of the train, scowling at the snowy vista outside the luxurious first-class carriage.

He would have thought Stella had quite enough to occupy her without kicking up about his departure from her life, or to be more precise, her bed. Since she had married Stratton she’d acquired all the social privileges she’d ever wanted, and the man was clearly besotted with his beautiful wife. Seven large trunks she’d brought on that last weekend, and he had noticed half-a-dozen changes of clothing on the first day alone. With Godfrey Stratton being a member of the Prince of Wales’s inner circle, Stella now dined out or entertained every night, and last year alone the Strattons had spent a short time in Paris, several weeks in Biarritz, and several more cruising in the Mediterranean before returning to London at the beginning of May for the Season. Then there had been the move to Ascot in June for the races, their stay with the Duke of Richmond for the racing at Goodwood in July and then the regatta at Cowes. A month’s cure at Marienbad; Balmoral for the grouse and deer throughout October, and then the whirl of Christmas parties at which the entertaining had been more relentless than ever. Why the hell did she think she needed
him
?

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the thickly upholstered seat and letting his breath escape in a long slow sigh. That scene she’d created, it had been wearying. But then he had to confess that for some long time now he had become weary of the lady herself. Stella had been a novelty when he’d first got involved with her some five years ago, he admitted it, but the attraction of having a cultured, charming mistress with the right family history, who behaved like the worst bawdy whore he’d ever had in private, had soured on him this last year. Perhaps even the last two. Her passions had become like her rages, exhausting and distasteful. He didn’t like displays of jealousy, in a man or a woman, and Stella was jealous to the core.

Still it was done now. He understood Godfrey had business in Madrid and that Stella was going with him. When she returned in a few weeks’ time, he hoped she would be calmer. Whatever, the affair was finished.

He stretched his long legs, settled himself more comfortably in the seat, and put his ex-mistress out of his mind with a ruthlessness that was typical of the man himself. Born of aristocratic parentage but to a father who had gambled away a vast country estate before killing himself and his wife in a yachting accident, Oliver Hogarth had found himself penniless and homeless at the tender age of twenty. The benefits of a first-class education and influential friends had proved invaluable however, and Oliver had found he was adept at making full use of both. He also discovered a leaning towards anything theatrical, and a natural flair for knowing what the common - and not so common - man liked. By the age of twenty-five he was well on the way to making his own fortune, and by the age of thirty had secured some of the biggest stars on the music-hall stage in his own net.

However, the trait which had ruined the father was in the son, and although Oliver was a more proficient and skilful gambler than the late Squire Hogarth, he also had a weakness for the fairer sex - which had proved just as expensive a vice as the gambling. Nevertheless, Oliver was able to indulge in a lavish way of life that had made him, at the age of thirty-eight, a wealthy, attractive but deeply cynical man.

So what was it, he asked himself now, straightening in his seat and calling one of the waiters to bring him a double brandy, what was it that had captured him about this young girl, this Josie Burns? True, she was beautiful, and had a presence to go with the exceptional voice, but then so did half the artistes in the music hall. She appeared intelligent enough on brief acquaintance, and not too forward. The promiscuous ones were entertaining enough, but he avoided taking them on his books, knowing such women created difficulties at some stage.

The brandy came and he swallowed half the glass immediately. If he told anyone he was chasing off up the country again after some chit of a girl who had refused him once before, they wouldn’t believe it. He wasn’t sure if he believed it himself. She might have talent but it was raw at the moment; she needed moulding and shaping if she were to compete with the likes of Marie Lloyd, Marie Kendall, Vesta Tilley and the rest of them. But the potential was there.

His guts contracted as the same excitement he’d felt on that night in Hartlepool gripped him once again. It’d been a long time since he’d felt like this, and even longer since he’d considered taking on the task of grooming an artiste himself. He had others he could call on for that. But this time . . . this time he just might indulge himself. A picture of a young sweet face and wide, startled, heavily lashed brown eyes flashed before him and he swallowed the rest of the brandy, his mouth curving slightly in a wry smile. Yes, he just might make an exception for Josie Burns.

It was snowing again when the train pulled into Sunderland Central, and as Oliver alighted and glanced about him, he sighed irritably. Damn gloomy place. How he hated visiting the provinces! It was only just after two in the afternoon and already the lantern oil lamps, placed strategically every few yards along the platforms, were burning of necessity.

He had only brought a small portmanteau with him for his planned overnight stay, and after declining the assistance of a porter he strode out of the station before hailing a horse-drawn cab. After asking the driver to recommend a good place to stay, he dropped off the small travelling bag at the hotel in Fawcett Street, then told the man to take him to Northumberland Place, at which point he settled back in his seat and contemplated the forthcoming meeting with the young woman called Josie Burns.

 

‘It always comes in threes. Didn’t I say to you just t’other night it always comes in threes, lass, after Horace had that fall? But I didn’t expect this. By, I didn’t. How’s Betty takin’ it, lad?’

‘Bad.’ The monosyllable carried a wealth of feeling.

Vera nodded slowly. ‘First Shirley, then Horace nearly breakin’ his neck, an’ now your da. What we’ve done to deserve this packet I don’t know. An’ you say Reg an’ Neville’ll be off for a few weeks?’

This was directed to the man sitting next to Barney at the kitchen table. ‘Aye.’ Amos, Barney’s elder brother, was very like Barney in appearance, or had been a few years ago. Now his face - although clean and scrubbed - carried the unmistakable stamp of the pit. His brow and nose were marked with small blue indentations from the coal he worked, and his eyes were rheumy and pink-rimmed. ‘Reg’s arm is broken an’ our Neville copped it on his legs. Right mess, the left ’un is, but Nev’s not sayin’ much. After what happened to me da, it’s nowt.’

Vera nodded again, glancing at Josie who was sitting at the side of her. In Josie’s face she saw reflected her own shock and distress.

A fall of the roof at the coal face had taken two miners’ lives - Frank being one of them - and injured six more. Not an uncommon occurrence in the precarious labyrinth of low tunnels where hundreds of men worked six days out of every seven, hemmed in below millions of tons of rock, slate and coal, but nevertheless, devastating to the families concerned. Labouring long, exhausting hours in the darkness, often soaked to the skin or crouched hewing narrow seams, it wasn’t always possible to swiftly obey the warning that the tell-tale creaks and groans in the roof gave to the colliers. Explosions, foul air and accidents involving the props and equipment took a heavy toll, and suffocation and poisoning were among the swifter deaths the mine could inflict.

Vera spoke to Amos again as she said, ‘Was . . . was it quick?’

‘Aye, lass, it were. If nowt else, that’s summat to thank God for.’

Thank God? Barney shifted restlessly in his seat. He wouldn’t be thanking Amos’s God for any of this, by, he wouldn’t, but he didn’t doubt for a minute that his brother had meant exactly what he’d said. Reg and Neville played in the colliery’s brass band in their spare time, but Amos’s bent was in quite a different direction. Right from a young lad he’d had religion, had Amos, Barney reflected silently. The rest of them had played the wag from Sunday school when they’d had the chance, but not Amos. He’d met his wife through the church and she was as bad as him; he still did a bit of lay preaching on the odd Sunday according to their da.
Da.
Oh Da, Da, Da . . .

He forced his mind away from the mental image of his da’s broken, twisted body which had been in his head ever since he had heard about the accident at the pit, and returned to the issue of Amos’s God as his brother talked on to Vera. Maybe there was something in this religion thing after all, he thought bitterly; of his da and three brothers, Amos was the only one who had emerged from the pit whole and unhurt. Mind, he’d heard Amos preach once, and his brother had said something which had stuck with him somehow. ‘The sun shines on the righteous
and
the unrighteous,’ that’s what he’d preached, and Amos had maintained God had no favourites.

He’d pulled Amos’s leg after, about the sun bit. ‘Not much sun on you most days, man,’ he’d said. And Amos had looked at him with the Robson green eyes, and answered, ‘There’s nowt else but the pit round here for most of us, lad, an’ I thank God I’ve got work, good honest work, an’ with a bunch of right good mates an’ all. There’s worse things than bein’ underground, an’ worse worries than whether the props’ll hold.’