juggled sharp meat knives. And when Johnny Treble appeared, the theatre started roaring, and even Jane felt giddy as he strode to the front of the stage in a chequered suit, tipped his hat, revealing the black oily slick of his hair, and sung about his sweetheart, who (according to the song) he hadn’t even met yet. ‘
I wonder where she is? I wonder what’s she doin’?
’ By the end of the number, all the girls were on their feet shouting, ‘I’m here, Johnny!’, ‘Here, Johnny!’,
‘Me!’
At the interval Jane remained in her seat, brushed by those on their way to the bar, the hairy overcoats, dusty skirts and the overdone lace so frothy that when one woman hesitated to call out to her friend, Jane thought she might be suffocating. Didn’t they know how old-fashioned they looked? If Agnes had been with her, they would have been laughing at these so-called ladies all night.
When her row had all but vanished with their oranges and cheroots, their fat velvet purses and well-thumbed programmes, most of which had been concertinaed into make-do fans, Jane could stand and stretch, could wiggle her feet and look high into the gods, which by now were very nearly empty.
Eventually, the orchestra reappeared, the crowds hurried back, some with beer stains on their jackets or ash on their neckties, and the second half flew. Some of the men, now half cut from their visit to the bar or the nearest public house, were swaying on their feet as Miss Sally Albright twisted her pinkie into her dimples and fluttered her buttery lashes, her singing voice like a six-year-old lisping, her dance steps simple, mechanical. As she pulled the sides of her dress to make a childish curtsey, those still in their seats leapt to their feet with a cry.
When the next act appeared, an oriental illusionist, the crowd seemed deflated, fidgeting, rifling through their toffee bags, lighting fresh cigars, and this restlessness continued until Mr Johnny Treble appeared for the finale, reaching his white-gloved hand to a swooning woman in the front row (how Ivy Stretch would have envied her!), singing, swaggering, dancing and clicking his heels, until the theatre was in uproar and Jane’s hands were so sore from clapping she had to rub them over her arms.
The pavements were shining with drizzle. Moving down the steps, Jane followed a loose knot of people walking into the yard, flushed and hopeful, to where the stage door stood open a couple of inches, a rod of bright light splitting open the pavement. Jane wondered if the doorman would still be sitting at his desk, feet up, or would he be standing like a policeman on guard, because didn’t they know Miss Albright was exhausted, wanting nothing more than a cup of cocoa and a warm pillow? And Mr Johnny Treble, though he might have looked full of beans, was just about ready to drop. ‘Still, he might sign your programme if you ask him nice enough, steady now,
steady
, he can’t do you all at once.’ From where she was standing, Jane could see women on their tiptoes waving handkerchiefs and programmes, men leaning with one foot against the wall, trying their best to look nonchalant. ‘Is he here yet?’ asked a woman. ‘I can’t wait for him all night, though heaven knows I’d like to.’
The drizzle fell over her face, catching on her lashes, blurring the lights from the hoardings and the thick yellow glow of the naphtha lamps. She walked with her hands in her pockets, which seemed to make her sway less noticeable, past the bulging taverns, the laughter trailing around the corner, where the chestnut man, sparks flying from his brazier, had a damp hungry crowd all wanting a cheap bag of supper.
Jane took a short cut down an alley, the throngs petered out, and she became aware of a ringing in her ears and the echoing of her boots. Hoops of pale mist hung around the street lamps. She shivered. At the top of the street, she walked on tiptoe and peeked through the windows of the houses, seeing a man
I wonder where she is? I wonder what’s she doin’?
’ By the end of the number, all the girls were on their feet shouting, ‘I’m here, Johnny!’, ‘Here, Johnny!’,
‘Me!’
At the interval Jane remained in her seat, brushed by those on their way to the bar, the hairy overcoats, dusty skirts and the overdone lace so frothy that when one woman hesitated to call out to her friend, Jane thought she might be suffocating. Didn’t they know how old-fashioned they looked? If Agnes had been with her, they would have been laughing at these so-called ladies all night.
When her row had all but vanished with their oranges and cheroots, their fat velvet purses and well-thumbed programmes, most of which had been concertinaed into make-do fans, Jane could stand and stretch, could wiggle her feet and look high into the gods, which by now were very nearly empty.
Eventually, the orchestra reappeared, the crowds hurried back, some with beer stains on their jackets or ash on their neckties, and the second half flew. Some of the men, now half cut from their visit to the bar or the nearest public house, were swaying on their feet as Miss Sally Albright twisted her pinkie into her dimples and fluttered her buttery lashes, her singing voice like a six-year-old lisping, her dance steps simple, mechanical. As she pulled the sides of her dress to make a childish curtsey, those still in their seats leapt to their feet with a cry.
When the next act appeared, an oriental illusionist, the crowd seemed deflated, fidgeting, rifling through their toffee bags, lighting fresh cigars, and this restlessness continued until Mr Johnny Treble appeared for the finale, reaching his white-gloved hand to a swooning woman in the front row (how Ivy Stretch would have envied her!), singing, swaggering, dancing and clicking his heels, until the theatre was in uproar and Jane’s hands were so sore from clapping she had to rub them over her arms.
The pavements were shining with drizzle. Moving down the steps, Jane followed a loose knot of people walking into the yard, flushed and hopeful, to where the stage door stood open a couple of inches, a rod of bright light splitting open the pavement. Jane wondered if the doorman would still be sitting at his desk, feet up, or would he be standing like a policeman on guard, because didn’t they know Miss Albright was exhausted, wanting nothing more than a cup of cocoa and a warm pillow? And Mr Johnny Treble, though he might have looked full of beans, was just about ready to drop. ‘Still, he might sign your programme if you ask him nice enough, steady now,
steady
, he can’t do you all at once.’ From where she was standing, Jane could see women on their tiptoes waving handkerchiefs and programmes, men leaning with one foot against the wall, trying their best to look nonchalant. ‘Is he here yet?’ asked a woman. ‘I can’t wait for him all night, though heaven knows I’d like to.’
The drizzle fell over her face, catching on her lashes, blurring the lights from the hoardings and the thick yellow glow of the naphtha lamps. She walked with her hands in her pockets, which seemed to make her sway less noticeable, past the bulging taverns, the laughter trailing around the corner, where the chestnut man, sparks flying from his brazier, had a damp hungry crowd all wanting a cheap bag of supper.
Jane took a short cut down an alley, the throngs petered out, and she became aware of a ringing in her ears and the echoing of her boots. Hoops of pale mist hung around the street lamps. She shivered. At the top of the street, she walked on tiptoe and peeked through the windows of the houses, seeing a man
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