Bone Street/Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE FORTY THIEVES
CHRISTMAS Eve and the opening night of the pantomime. Jack and Ernest called at Bone Street for Miss Hinton at five-forty-five, for the show was to commence at seven o’clock, and they found a very different girl from the distracted creature they had rescued that morning.
The other girls were almost as excited over the first night as if they were themselves members of the company, but Mary, with her usual composure, was quite unmoved.
“By gum,” said The Imp, “I hope it’s a success,” to which the others added their complete agreement, and before departing, Mary flung her arms round the neck of Marthalice, and kissing her said, “You dear lady, wish us luck.”
And the old face relaxed. “Bless you, bairn, of course we all wish you luck, and lads as well.” And so with a chorus of “Good Lucks” they went their way.
Arriving at the theatre, they found a queue waiting for admission, although the ordinary doors did not open until six-fifteen, and while Mary sped swiftly to the girls’ dressing-room on the prompt side, the young men made their way to the O.P. side. They were soon dressed for the opening chorus, and at six-forty-five were on the stage. Many of the chorus were already there, all exuding a nervous eagerness for the show to commence. Mr. Susanah and Mr. McFee were discussing matters with the tenseness befitted to the occasion.
Jack’s eyes were wandering round in search of Mary, and presently she emerged from the prompt wing, and making straight to him, demurely dropped a curtsy saying, “Good evening, brave sir.” Jack’s heart throbbed curiously. She was painted, she was powdered. She was attired in a strange Eastern dress, but the eager sparkling eyes, and the glory of her hair hanging to her waist, affected him in a way he had never previously known. He looked behind the paint and powder, and saw there a brave, sweet woman.
She asked, “Quite ready, Mr. Bradley?”
“Yes,” came the reply—he was on safe ground here—“waiting for the rag to go up.”
She laughed. “Rag” was the stage term for the act drop.
All the chorus were now on the stage, with Mr. Susanah in the prompt box with the book of words.
Mr. McFee, attired in evening dress, called them round him for a parting word of advice before the performance.
Mr. Susanah gave a quick look round. The chorus took their position, the principals were in the wings; a push on the button, three taps from the baton, and the overture commenced. As the act drop lifted, Jack from the back of the stage looked curiously at the audience, but beyond the first few rows, there was nothing but a blurred sea of faces. The chorus, with a smile of encouragement from the conductor, set into their work with a will; any nervousness they may have had, had entirely disappeared by now.
The show proceeded, the principals entering one by one. At first the audience were coldly critical, as northern audiences are, but they warmed up at the sallies of the comedian. Each of the principals was accorded encores. By the end of the first act they knew the show was a success. Even the chorus received their share of applause, and the curtain rang down to a hand-clapping house, which called again and again for the principals.
The second half opened with the scene in which Cassim Baba played his dramatic part. It was an innovation for pantomime, but he won his audience completely, and tremendous calls were made for an encore.
Undoubtedly it was a huge success.
Then the finale came, when the chorus marched two and two down the centre of the stage, after which the principals did likewise. Four times the curtain was raised and dropped, and after the final call the company fell to congratulating each other.
Mr. Frankland gave them his very best thanks for a successful show, which induced Jim Chubb to call for three cheers for the boss, which were given heartily. “Once again, thanks, friends,” said the boss, “the show is made, and I hope very sincerely you will all continue as you have started to-night.”
The next eight weeks were very hard ones for Jack, for although it was the slack time in the mill, he was working at least four days a week, which meant rising at five-thirty in the morning, and never getting to bed until after eleven-thirty. This meant very little sleep at least four nights a week. True, there were compensations, for he was saving, and although he had not yet spoken the word to Mary, each pound he saved was dedicated to her. Nor were they saved with a mean instinct; rather was he longing for the day of days to come. Almost all his Sundays were spent with Marthalice and her family. Sometimes in Bone Street, at other times at the home of Ernest, while once Jack gave a high tea at his own lodgings.
He did not allow, nor had he ever, allowed his old friend to bear the extra expense incurred by his frequent visits, for although Marthalice steadfastly refused to take money, that didn’t prevent him bringing in a pie, or a basket of eggs, or what she liked best, a ring of red polony. “Ay, bairn,” she would say, “tha nivver comes empty-handed.” Jack would turn it off with a joke, but there was a deep understanding existing between these two, which made words unnecessary.
Mary was now firmly installed in the home, although as the show approached the last few weeks, she became uneasy of her future, realising she must be looking for another place if she intended continuing on the stage. Almost unknowingly she had woven herself into the hearts of these Yorkshire people, and her good nature made her give of her best to Marthalice. She helped in the household duties, for having been brought up on a farm, she knew how to bake, cook and wash, and being at liberty almost every day, was able to assist with the work of the household. The girls loved her too, while The Imp almost worshipped her, and that love had the effect of toning down the younger girl. There was a reaction in Jack too, for now he realised that he was like Barkis, and was determined to put the important question to Mary soon.
A change in Mary’s plans came two weeks before the pantomime ended. As usual, Jack was having Sunday tea with them, and The Imp looking apprehensively at Mary remarked, “Only another two weeks now.” The others followed her eye with varying expressions. Marthalice stiffened. The two elder girls looked appealingly at Jack, while he with an attempt to joke, answered with an old Yorkshire idiom. “Aye, another two weeks and then——”
“Then what,” asked Polly. Looking at Mary, she saw her eyes filling with tears, and the younger girl arose, and impulsively throwing her arms round her neck, cried, “Oh, don’t go ; stop with us, won’t you?”
At this Mary completely broke down. “Oh, my dear, dear friends, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to leave you ever,” and laying her arms on the table, buried her face in her hands
Marthalice silently wiped a big tear from her cheek, but it was Ruth who said, “But why go? I’ve been thinking of this for some time. Why not go in for weaving, there’s good money to be earned when once you’ve learned it, and you can do that in a month.” As if by magic her mother’s face cleared, while The Imp clapped her hands with delight. Mary slowly raised her head, looking enquiringly at Ruth for further information. The latter, gratified at the manner in which her suggestion had been received, continued: “First of all, you find a place where they need weavers, and get a weaver to teach you. That usually costs one pound, and you work a month for nothing. By the end of a month you should be able to mind a pair of looms, and if you can you will get a job where you’ve been learning. Of course it will take a while, probably a few months to become expert, but if the work is in you will earn at least fifteen shillings a week.”
She looked from her mother to Mary, and then to Jack.
“I think that is a splendid idea,” said the latter; “but could you stand the mill?” he asked Mary.
“I’ll have a good try,” she replied, “for oh, I do want to stay.”
“And so you will, bairn,” said Marthalice. “I’ve a bit of influence yet, and if I don’t find you a shop to-morrow, well, somebody will get into trouble,” and she patted Mary’s hand encouragingly.
They all beamed upon her, while Ruth’s face shone with pride, for hers was the solution of the difficulty, and Mary looked lovingly at them all as she said: “Thank you, dear friends, you are all very good to me. I was told that when I came to Yorkshire I would find a strange people, and indeed you are, but strangely kind. Yes, I have discovered you all, and I think myself lucky to be amongst you.”
The removal of the load soon became apparent, and when Ernest and his mother came later for an hour or two, it was a boisterous crowd who welcomed them.
Ruth’s young man came also, and didn’t they have a happy time. The table was pushed into a corner, and they reproduced the pantomime. Mary was principal boy and girl, Ernest tried to emulate Jim Chubb and failed miserably, his very failure bringing forth roars of laughter, while Jack producing some wrinkles with soot, essayed the tragic Cassim Baba, and was hooted and groaned at. The Imp had picked up a few steps, and arrayed in a costume of Mary’s, including tights, tried her very best at toe dancing. The two old ladies, seated in their chairs by the fire, heartily enjoyed the proceedings. Then they had real music, and with the assistance of Mary, who knew the air, they even managed to sing “Who will o’er the Downs” as a quartette. This received a real encore, and another song was given.
Supper was laid, and over the meal they discussed Mary’s future. Ruth’s young man advised them to try Randal’s weaving shed, and to ask for the weaving overlooker, using his name as a reference; for that particular overlooker, being an acquaintance of his, would help if he could. Marthalice asked if Albert thought the idea was a good one, and he replied he did. “Naturally he would,” said The Imp, “seeing that it was his blushing bride to be who had made the suggestion.”
Marthalice and Mary were off just after nine next morning, and the value of an introduction was soon shown, for when they found the overlooker at Randal’s he was not particularly anxious for a learner, as he had only started one the week previously, but being desirous of pleasing his friend, he agreed to accede to the request.
“When could you start?” he asked Mary, who looked at the elder woman for assistance, who promptly replied, “In t’morning.”
“Right,” said the overlooker, “be here at six-thirty. I expect you know that you’ll have to pay one of the weavers a pound for learning.”
“That’s all right,” said Marthalice. “She’ll be here in t’morning. Who mun she ask for?”
And probably impressed by the old lady, he took them into the weaving shed and introduced Mary to the girl who would be her teacher for the next few weeks. The latter was a pretty blonde of about twenty-two years, but although so young she was a very capable worker. The overlooker spoke, at least his lips moved, but Mary could hear nothing for the deafening rattle and whizz of the machinery; the shuttle speeding from one side to the other adding its share to the noise.
The weaver had evidently understood the overlooker’s words, for she nodded, and putting her mouth close to Mary’s ear asked, “Ever worked in the mill?”
“No,” replied Mary loudly.
The other laughed, saying, “Don’t shout, I can hear you. You’re not a native of Beckton,” she continued.
“No,” was the reply, then with a smile, “but I hope to settle here.” The smile won her future mentor, who smilingly replied:
“Right-o, I’ll mek a weaver of ye. Half-past six in t’morning. Don’t be late,” she cautioned, and the two took their departure, Mary looking round with interest as they passed through the shed.
Arriving outside the mill, Marthalice said, “Tha’ll want some mill skirts, so if tha likes we’ll buy thi some, because ther isn’t time to mek ’em, or else we would. You see, I don’t like buying things ready-made, cos they don’t sew ’em right.” So a pair of mill skirts were purchased, soaked in water to take out the lime, and put through the mangle, and dried ready for morning.