bone-white rosaries swinging from their thick black sleeves.
By the time she reached the coffee house she was exhausted. Hastily straightening her clothes she squeezed past tables and customers with cups in their hands to where the doctor was sitting. Much to Jane’s surprise he was sharing his table with the pomaded strutting dandy from the theatre.
‘Mr Treble,’ said the doctor, pulling back a chair, ‘this is Jane, the assistant I was telling you about. You might have seen her with Monsieur Duflot at the theatre?’
The man dropped his teaspoon with a clatter. ‘Your assistant?
Really?
She looks more like a crawler just freed from the workhouse.’
Biting her lips, Jane looked away, though now thanks to the dandy all eyes were on her. She could see a woman wiping a plate, pausing with the dishcloth, a girl cutting biscuits with her mouth agape, and at a table near the door all four occupants were staring indiscreetly.
‘Now, whatever you might think,’ the doctor told him, ‘the girls always warm to her, seeing past her crooked bones. Jane will sit with them for hours if she has to, talking and calming them down. I am certain you will find her very useful.’
‘I will?’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said, though Mr Treble was now busy admiring the ladies loitering at the counter, cocking his head, slowly licking a finger before passing it over an eyebrow.
‘I think they recognise me,’ he said. As the doctor now explained, Mr Treble was no ordinary gentleman. Mr Treble happened to be ‘Mr Johnny Treble, Cockney Song and Dance Man’, the most popular act of the season, especially with the ladies.
‘Perhaps,’ the doctor whispered, ‘we should be a little more discreet?’
‘What’s that you say?’ Johnny threw a wink towards the girl in the pretty white bonnet, a Bath bun poised between her small open lips.
‘What I meant to say,’ the doctor continued, ‘is perhaps we should not bring quite so much attention to ourselves?’
‘You’re the boss,’ said Mr Treble, looking disappointed. Pouting, he leant back in his chair. ‘Frankly, I can’t wait for this whole awful mess to be finished with. I dream about it,’ he said, staring into the dark brown depths of his coffee cup. ‘Her family are there, it’s always raining, and they’re always after shooting me.’
A few days later at Gilder Terrace, the doctor started to fidget. He looked uncomfortable. He stuttered and played with his cufflinks. In the hall, he beckoned Jane towards him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking at his boots. ‘I’m sorry about the coffee house.’
‘Sir?’
‘Mr Treble’s rude behaviour,’ he said, placing a hand gently on Jane’s shoulder. ‘You must take no notice, he is simply a young man in an awkward situation, but I’ve had words with him, and not only does he send his humble apologies, but this very good ticket for the stalls.’
Jane looked at the ticket pressed between his fingers, and though she had always loved the theatre, the thought of seeing Mr Johnny Treble in all his cockney glory seemed more like a punishment than something to look forward to. But the doctor was smiling, expectant, and how could she refuse it?
‘Thank you, sir,’ she managed, pulling the ticket from his fingers, folding it into four and thrusting it into the dark, crumby depths of her pocket.
It was almost eight o’clock and Jane was on her way to the Alhambra, where at that very minute she supposed Mr Treble would be putting the finishing touches to his greasepaint, combing through that jet-black pomade, fending off the hoards of female admirers – unless they appeared particularly attractive, in which case he would invite them into his room for a tipple
and what are you doing later on?
Jane assumed Mr Treble was in need of the doctor’s services. Some poor girl would be swallowing the tincture. Or perhaps there’d be a queue of them.
Jane didn’t mind going to the theatre alone, though when she saw the
By the time she reached the coffee house she was exhausted. Hastily straightening her clothes she squeezed past tables and customers with cups in their hands to where the doctor was sitting. Much to Jane’s surprise he was sharing his table with the pomaded strutting dandy from the theatre.
‘Mr Treble,’ said the doctor, pulling back a chair, ‘this is Jane, the assistant I was telling you about. You might have seen her with Monsieur Duflot at the theatre?’
The man dropped his teaspoon with a clatter. ‘Your assistant?
Really?
She looks more like a crawler just freed from the workhouse.’
Biting her lips, Jane looked away, though now thanks to the dandy all eyes were on her. She could see a woman wiping a plate, pausing with the dishcloth, a girl cutting biscuits with her mouth agape, and at a table near the door all four occupants were staring indiscreetly.
‘Now, whatever you might think,’ the doctor told him, ‘the girls always warm to her, seeing past her crooked bones. Jane will sit with them for hours if she has to, talking and calming them down. I am certain you will find her very useful.’
‘I will?’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said, though Mr Treble was now busy admiring the ladies loitering at the counter, cocking his head, slowly licking a finger before passing it over an eyebrow.
‘I think they recognise me,’ he said. As the doctor now explained, Mr Treble was no ordinary gentleman. Mr Treble happened to be ‘Mr Johnny Treble, Cockney Song and Dance Man’, the most popular act of the season, especially with the ladies.
‘Perhaps,’ the doctor whispered, ‘we should be a little more discreet?’
‘What’s that you say?’ Johnny threw a wink towards the girl in the pretty white bonnet, a Bath bun poised between her small open lips.
‘What I meant to say,’ the doctor continued, ‘is perhaps we should not bring quite so much attention to ourselves?’
‘You’re the boss,’ said Mr Treble, looking disappointed. Pouting, he leant back in his chair. ‘Frankly, I can’t wait for this whole awful mess to be finished with. I dream about it,’ he said, staring into the dark brown depths of his coffee cup. ‘Her family are there, it’s always raining, and they’re always after shooting me.’
A few days later at Gilder Terrace, the doctor started to fidget. He looked uncomfortable. He stuttered and played with his cufflinks. In the hall, he beckoned Jane towards him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking at his boots. ‘I’m sorry about the coffee house.’
‘Sir?’
‘Mr Treble’s rude behaviour,’ he said, placing a hand gently on Jane’s shoulder. ‘You must take no notice, he is simply a young man in an awkward situation, but I’ve had words with him, and not only does he send his humble apologies, but this very good ticket for the stalls.’
Jane looked at the ticket pressed between his fingers, and though she had always loved the theatre, the thought of seeing Mr Johnny Treble in all his cockney glory seemed more like a punishment than something to look forward to. But the doctor was smiling, expectant, and how could she refuse it?
‘Thank you, sir,’ she managed, pulling the ticket from his fingers, folding it into four and thrusting it into the dark, crumby depths of her pocket.
It was almost eight o’clock and Jane was on her way to the Alhambra, where at that very minute she supposed Mr Treble would be putting the finishing touches to his greasepaint, combing through that jet-black pomade, fending off the hoards of female admirers – unless they appeared particularly attractive, in which case he would invite them into his room for a tipple
and what are you doing later on?
Jane assumed Mr Treble was in need of the doctor’s services. Some poor girl would be swallowing the tincture. Or perhaps there’d be a queue of them.
Jane didn’t mind going to the theatre alone, though when she saw the
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