couples billing and cooing, and all dressed up like bright fantastic birds, she felt a pang of envy. She was wearing her blue dress. Mrs Swift hadn’t offered her the loan of a sash, or the brooch, and though she rarely thought about her own appearance – something in her opinion not worth thinking about, if your bones didn’t grow straight, or your hair sat like a nest of brown feathers – tonight she felt like disappearing, like swallowing herself into nothing. Squashed between the outskirts of the crowd and the cold iron ribs of a radiator, she watched strings of families, bickering, laughing, whispering, making her think about the old days, when her family might have done the same.
When Jane was eight or nine, they had been to see a theatre troupe in Battersea Park. Arthur, still holding the tickets, had disappeared with a man he knew from some tavern or bar-room; Ivy limped, her new boots chafing her heels, eventually slumping under an elm tree and peeling the offending, stinking leather from her feet; Agnes and Jane rushed about anxiously, as people with tickets in their hands strolled towards the canvas awning where the stage was set and music could be heard. Where had their father got to? Didn’t he want to see the Paradise Singers, the Blazing Minstrels, or Pip the Dancing Dalmatian? Eventually, with almost no time to spare, they saw the shadow of him meandering over the hill. Ivy managed to get to her feet, though she refused to put the boots back on, much to the girls’ embarrassment, and by the time they’d rushed to buy cones of toffee and had found their seats, which were thankfully on the end of a row, the music started and everything was forgotten.
Inside the Alhambra there was a thick woolly heat. Girls selling nuts and cards of cheap matches walked down the aisles, yawning and indifferent. A programme-seller was being harassed by a man in a squashed felt hat. The stalls were not as boisterous as the gods, and though Jane had a very good view of the stage, she missed all the banter of the cheaper seats. Here the women gave her filthy sidelong glances, though the men didn’t care to sneer at the cripple sitting alone –
She’s quiet enough and clean enough, isn’t she?
– waiting as they were for Miss Sally Albright, the charming blonde soubrette with big saucy eyes and shapely ankles. Shopkeepers’ wives talked loudly about days at the races and their daughters’ elocution lessons. A woman called Joy had just lost her wedding ring. ‘I wouldn’t care,’ she said, with tears in her eyes, ‘but I’ve only had that ring five minutes.’
Jane could hear the murmurings behind her, the voices blending into a rumble from the floor to the heavenly ceiling. She lifted her eyes. The painted sky was darkening and the stars began to sparkle, as if they were really sitting outside. The conductor tapped his baton, the band started up, and some of the audience quickly sprang to attention, though plenty carried on with their chattering and cajoling, or went stepping over people’s legs to get to the girl selling chocolate, who had only just appeared.
As soon as the curtain opened, sweeping the dust from the stage, Jane was quickly sucked into the pleasure of it all. What on earth had she been thinking? All right, so Johnny Treble might have strutted like a prize-winning cockerel and hurt her feelings, but look at all the magic! She had a free ticket (Edie and Alice would have grovelled for it), the evening off work, and sixpence from Mrs Swift for refreshments.
The stage was filled with coloured light, and girls dressed like blooming spring flowers danced complicated patterns, pink tulips gliding between rows of nodding daffodils, heralding the spring. Some of the men were already starting to whistle, and it seemed that even in the stalls they liked to show their appreciation long before the curtain call, laughing at the long-nosed comedian with the suit made from dust rags, gasping at the girl who
When Jane was eight or nine, they had been to see a theatre troupe in Battersea Park. Arthur, still holding the tickets, had disappeared with a man he knew from some tavern or bar-room; Ivy limped, her new boots chafing her heels, eventually slumping under an elm tree and peeling the offending, stinking leather from her feet; Agnes and Jane rushed about anxiously, as people with tickets in their hands strolled towards the canvas awning where the stage was set and music could be heard. Where had their father got to? Didn’t he want to see the Paradise Singers, the Blazing Minstrels, or Pip the Dancing Dalmatian? Eventually, with almost no time to spare, they saw the shadow of him meandering over the hill. Ivy managed to get to her feet, though she refused to put the boots back on, much to the girls’ embarrassment, and by the time they’d rushed to buy cones of toffee and had found their seats, which were thankfully on the end of a row, the music started and everything was forgotten.
Inside the Alhambra there was a thick woolly heat. Girls selling nuts and cards of cheap matches walked down the aisles, yawning and indifferent. A programme-seller was being harassed by a man in a squashed felt hat. The stalls were not as boisterous as the gods, and though Jane had a very good view of the stage, she missed all the banter of the cheaper seats. Here the women gave her filthy sidelong glances, though the men didn’t care to sneer at the cripple sitting alone –
She’s quiet enough and clean enough, isn’t she?
– waiting as they were for Miss Sally Albright, the charming blonde soubrette with big saucy eyes and shapely ankles. Shopkeepers’ wives talked loudly about days at the races and their daughters’ elocution lessons. A woman called Joy had just lost her wedding ring. ‘I wouldn’t care,’ she said, with tears in her eyes, ‘but I’ve only had that ring five minutes.’
Jane could hear the murmurings behind her, the voices blending into a rumble from the floor to the heavenly ceiling. She lifted her eyes. The painted sky was darkening and the stars began to sparkle, as if they were really sitting outside. The conductor tapped his baton, the band started up, and some of the audience quickly sprang to attention, though plenty carried on with their chattering and cajoling, or went stepping over people’s legs to get to the girl selling chocolate, who had only just appeared.
As soon as the curtain opened, sweeping the dust from the stage, Jane was quickly sucked into the pleasure of it all. What on earth had she been thinking? All right, so Johnny Treble might have strutted like a prize-winning cockerel and hurt her feelings, but look at all the magic! She had a free ticket (Edie and Alice would have grovelled for it), the evening off work, and sixpence from Mrs Swift for refreshments.
The stage was filled with coloured light, and girls dressed like blooming spring flowers danced complicated patterns, pink tulips gliding between rows of nodding daffodils, heralding the spring. Some of the men were already starting to whistle, and it seemed that even in the stalls they liked to show their appreciation long before the curtain call, laughing at the long-nosed comedian with the suit made from dust rags, gasping at the girl who
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