Bone Street/Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
A NEW EXPERIENCE
By the time Jack had reached manhood he was a fine upstanding young man about five feet nine in height, fairly broad in proportion, but his face was the most interesting feature. His frank and honest countenance compelled you to look at him a second time, his eyes were blue, and had the most convincing way of looking at one when he was talking. His hair was now rather darker than when we first made his acquaintance, and could truly be called auburn. He was undoubtedly a fine-looking young man, although mill employment and its subsequent close confinement had left its mark.
The daughters of Marthalice were continually teasing him about a sweetheart—wasn’t it about time he brought her home to see them. “Nay,” he would reply in the same light strain. “I haven’t seen her yet.” But Polly, usually called “The Imp,” was the most unmerciful. Marthalice would frequently intervene with, “Ay, you cheeky hussies. I’m cap’t at t’lad ivver comes here, ye nivver leave him alone.” Then the fun would begin again; they would solemnly protest that they were not “kidding,” but honestly meant it, that they all loved him very dearly, while Jack could feel himself getting redder every minute, until observing his embarrassment they would explode with laughter. But they were real comrades, and never a week went by without Jack paying a visit to Bone Street. There was one change, however, for they were now the proud possessors of a piano, which was a double attraction. So the wringing-machine was relegated to the cellar-head, and “ahr Bella” was having tuition at sixpence a lesson.
Jack was receiving twenty shillings a week, and every week he carefully saved a few shillings, for he was determined to prepare for hard times, realising how very easy it was to get into low water again. Therefore unless boots required repairing, or shirts and socks required renewing, he would take a few shillings to the Post Office Savings Bank, in preparation for a rainy day.
He still attended the choir regularly, and along with the others of the company assisted in giving concerts for the local institutions, and had now learned a few songs which he occasionally sang for the amusement of others. Many times did he visit the hospital ward, where he himself had lain ill, and never missed the opportunity of having a few words with the patients. Indeed, his singing was to stand him in good stead in the future, for in addition to giving him an interest in life, music was helping to develop the finer qualities which had been lying dormant. With this exception life went on in the same humdrum way. Work at 6 a.m., with two intervals for meals, until 5.15 p.m.
Autumn was rapidly approaching, and slack time was looming ahead, the time when workers are dismissed, but this was to be a fairly good year, as the wool was steadily coming in, and there was a good demand in the world’s markets for the finer cloths, but even with the best of an autumn season, there was bound to be short time for some. So the days passed on, the daylight shortened, the mills lit up early morning and afternoon, and one after another they were compelled to go on slack time. By the end of October Jack, too, was on short time, but Clayton’s Mill was more fortunate than others, for they were only playing one day a week. Even that was serious to Jack, as it only left him about sixteen shillings, out of which board had to be paid. True, he had the few pounds saved, but another day a week playing would mean drawing on that to pay his board. Gradually the conviction was being forced upon him that he would be compelled to spend his life working in a factory, and this realisation sometimes brought an angry feeling, but it soon subsided, for he could never be angry for long, and a few minutes’ thought made him realise how much better off he was now than he had been, for there were thousands much worse placed than he, so again he smiled, and determined to keep smiling if possible.
Towards the end of October on one of his “playing off” days he was in the Free Library reading the morning newspapers, when an advertisement struck his eye:
WANTED.—A GOOD BARITONE, FOR THE CHORUS in the forthcoming pantomime,
THE FORTY THIEVES.
Applicants must apply at the stage door of the Garrick Theatre on Monday next at 2.30 p.m.
Before definitely deciding, he determined to consult the choirmaster, and requesting a few minutes’ private conversation at the next rehearsal led him away out of earshot.
“I’m thinking of applying for an evening job,” said Jack, taking the advertisement from his pocket and giving it the choirmaster to read, who after perusing it asked:
“What will happen at work if you get day rehearsals?”
Jack’s face fell at this.
“I’d never thought about that. Do you think it likely there will be?”
“I cannot say,” answered the teacher. “In any case there’s nothing lost by trying.”
“But do you think I’d have a chance?” asked Jack.
“Yes, indeed I do, you have a really good voice, and are fairly tall; and, all things considered, I should say you’ll have a splendid chance. Yes, I’d apply for it were I in your place. Besides, I guess you can do with the money.”
“Rather,” was the reply, “in fact that’s my main reason for thinking about it, for if I play another day a week my wages won’t pay my board money, never mind about anything else.”
“Then you apply, and good luck. I’ll be interested to know how you go on.”
For the whole of that night Jack’s thoughts were on the advertisement much more than the music, until, catching the eye of the choirmaster on him, with an effort he put it out of his mind and concentrated upon the task immediately in front of him.
Next day he sought a minute’s conversation with the foreman, asking what day he would be playing next week.
“Tuesday,” was the reply.
“Well, can I have Monday off instead, please; I want to go somewhere and Tuesday won’t do,” and as he seldom asked favours, the change was granted him.
The next important part was the selection of a song and practice. Fortunately, he could practice at Marthalice’s, for Bella was quite an able accompanist by now. After careful consideration he decided “The Wolf” would show his voice to the best advantage, so after tea, knowing that Marthalice was always delighted to hear some singing, he took his songs to Bone Street. He knocked and walked right in.
“Good evening, Marthalice; good evening, girls.”
“That’s it, lad, walk reight in,” said the dame “Has ta come to sing to us?”
“Well, I just want Bella to try this song over with me a bit,” answered Jack.
“Sit thi down a minnit then, they’ll noan be long. Sithee, tak’ thi arm-chair.”
But the girls insisted on him helping them to wash up.
“Come on,” said Ruth, “give us a hand, I want to go out.”
“Aye,” said Jack, relapsing into the vernacular.
“I expect tha wants to go courting, tha’rt allus courting.”
Of course there was a scuffle after that, the three girls worsting him.
The washing up done, Ruth went upstairs to change her clothing, while Polly sat down on a low stool beside Jack.
“What’s ta brought ta sing, Jack?” she asked, and on him passing her the song, she looked up at him saying, “Why, tha knows it, what’s ta want to try that for?”
“Oh, just for practice,” he replied.
The little Imp looked searchingly in his face, exclaiming, “There’s summat up, an’ tha’ll hev ta tell us what it is.”
Jack coloured up for he was not desirous of telling, but his blushing betrayed him, whereupon she jumped up clapping her hands and exclaiming, “He has summat on, ask him what it is, mother,” but Marthalice refused to badger him.
“You little monkey, leave t’lad alone, tha’rt allus agate of him.” But Polly would not desist, and when the other girls came down she whispered to them very confidentially “that Jack had summat up his sleeve, but she’d find out, see if she didn’t.”
Jack protested that he only wanted to try his songs over, and he did so, but his test piece he tried several times, taking the runs more easily each time, The Imp watching him intently, while Marthalice, wearing her spectacles, sat reading the evening paper. Jack got quite a shock, for suddenly Marthalice looked up saying:
“I’m cap’t (surprised) tha doesn’t try after this job.”
“What job?” asked Jack absent-mindedly.
“The pantomime job,” she answered innocently.
Jack looked up with a start to see the eyes of The Imp fixed questioningly on him, who, noticing him start, nodded several times to herself. Jack watching could see her lips moving, and expected she would blurt out that she now knew what was up. But she nodded to him confidentially.
“Nay,” he said to Marthalice, “I’m not good enough for the stage.”
“Huh,” she snorted, “I think tha’rt, so there.”
Jack let the subject drop, and taking his place by the fire chatted a few minutes. Bella had gone out to visit friends, when Marthalice suddenly jumped up. “Ee it’s nearly eight, and I mun get some bacon for t’breakfast. Will ta stop in for a minnit, lad, I shan’t be long,” and off she went to the corner shop.
The Imp looked long at Jack, then said, “Are ta going after that pantomime job, Jack?”
Jack thought a minute, then replied, “If I tell you, will you keep it to yourself?”
She nodded yes.
“Honour bright?” he asked.
She nodded her head, gravely wetting her finger and drew it across her throat, signifying that her head would drop off if she told a lie, whereupon Jack confessed that he was going to apply for the job, at which she jumped up and throwing her arms around his neck hugged him. “Oh, Jack, I do hope you’ll get it, and I’ll keep it a secret until you know. Will you tell me first?”
“First of anybody,” he replied, “except your mother.”
Marthalice returned, and with a good night to her and The Imp, he was off.
That was Friday night, and for the next three days there was a very important girl in Bone Street. Whenever Jack was in she would nod her head very importantly, and pass a wet finger round her throat with such a mischievous grin that Jack was afraid the others would suspect something.
At last the important day arrived, and remembering his previous experience when answering advertisements, he arrived at the stage door of the Garrick Theatre three-quarters of an hour before time, and even then found four other men before him. The doorkeeper took his name and address, instructing him to go on the stage, and take his turn with the others. The stage was quite bare, with the exception of a grand piano which occupied the centre. This was Jack’s first time on a stage, and he gazed curiously about. There was a single electric light burning, which while lighting up the stage intensified the gloom in the auditorium. The sheets covering the seats in the stalls showed white and ghostly, but on looking round at the wings he was amazed to see what daubs they were at close quarters. Up above were the flies with the various act drops slung, while the whitewashed walls made a surprising contrast to the gaudiness of what scenery he could see. New applicants were continually arriving, and by the time the proprietor and musical director had come there were more than forty present. The manager, Mr. Frankland, was a small dapper man, very dark, with a carefully waxed moustache. Jack instinctively felt that this man and not the musical director would make the selection. The musical director was a Scotsman named McFee, and although he had the well-groomed appearance common to people connected with the stage, his accent left no doubt as to his nationality.
At two-thirty the manager called to the doorkeeper, “No more, Jones, time’s up, and I’ve plenty here to make a selection from.”
The manager, with the list of applicants in his hand, took a seat on the first row of the stalls; the musical director sat idly drumming the piano. Then the fun commenced.
“First man, please,” shouted the manager, and the first man stepped to the piano carrying his music. One verse of a song was sung. “That’ll do,” rapped out the voice from the stalls. “Next please,” And so they went on, each singing a verse and being stopped. It came to Jack’s turn, and by now he was so interested in the performance that all feeling of nervousness had left him, so he stepped forward to the piano and sang his verse, retiring afterwards amongst the few who had preceded him. Presently he noticed the manager had vacated his seat in the stalls and was on the stage conversing with Mr. McFee, and when only a dozen had been tried he motioned Jack and another to him, and then putting his hand up said, “Gentlemen, it’s no use keeping you waiting any longer. I will make my selection from these two gentlemen.”
Watching the remainder walk away, Jack could not help but feel he had a good chance of obtaining the job, and felt no regrets about the others, for while waiting he had heard their conversation, and gathered that not one of them was more in need than himself.
The manager called the remaining two to the piano, and requested them to sing again, after which he came to Jack informing him that he was engaged, and that if he would follow him into the office he could sign his contract immediately. Jack followed on, and was given a lengthy document to peruse. He could see the words “at a salary of three shillings and sixpence a performance” written in what had previously been a blank space. That was about all he did see, for the document was so lengthy that he decided to sign and read it afterwards, and after being informed that he would receive instructions later as to rehearsals, departed with a copy of the contract. He immediately betook himself to Bone Street to let his old friend share the news. There was no hurry, so at four-thirty he walked in, and flourished his contract in the face of Marthalice with a grand gesture. The good soul looked up in astonishment, saying wonderingly, “Whativver is up wi’ t’lad, is he going daft?” But in order to tease her further, he continued to stride about waving the paper about; then he drew himself to his full height, and read the contract aloud word for word.
“GARRICK THEATRE, BECKTON.
Sole Proprietor and Manager: Theodore Frankland. MEMORANDUM OF AGREEMENT, made this 29th day of November, 190——”
And so on he read till the contract was finished. Having finished reading he threw the contract on the table, and in his exuberance caught hold of Marthalice and waltzed her twice round the room before she managed to pull herself free, and, dropping on the rocking-chair, laughed and coughed and spluttered.
“Well, I nivver did see such a lad. Going on t’stage.” Again she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks, then wiping her eyes said, “But I’ll come to see thi, lad, indeed I will.”
“That you will,” said Jack, perching himself on the arm of the rocking-chair, “in the very front row, too, I’ll see to that.” And then very seriously, “Marthalice, I owe it all to you, I don’t know however I can repay you.” She started to remonstrate, but he went on: “It’s no use you denying it, you’ve been my best friend, ever since I’ve known you. I’d have been in the gutter this minute but for you, and you know it. I hope that some day I’ll be able to repay you, but believe me when I see some of those hungry poor devils going into the lodging-house, I tremble to think what I escaped.” Then observing a quiver of the dear woman’s lips, he hastened to be merry again. “Look here,” he said, “I want to play a game on Polly; she knows I was going after the job at the theatre.” And seeing a question in her eyes, said, “Yes, she guessed the other night what I was practising for, and plumped me with it until I confessed, and bound her to secrecy.”
“Well, I’ll be blessed,” said Marthalice, “the little Imp, to think that she could find out, and then for the pair of you not to let us know; but then there were never any deceiving ahr Polly. Nay, Jack, tha might ha telled me——”
“Well, you see,” Jack interjected, “I decided to wait until I knew my luck, so that if I succeeded you would be surprised and could congratulate me. Now she’ll be coming from work in a few minutes, and I’m going to leave the contract on the table, and sit in the chair looking as though I’ve failed. I won’t talk to her, she’ll wonder what is the matter, until she notices the paper. Then, of course, I cannot keep up the pretence any longer, for she will surely read it. Now don’t give the show away, will you, Marthalice?”
And Marthalice promised to play up to him.