rel="nofollow" href="#u6a86a7e5-c68b-55a4-8c32-003a61d4f12c"> Chapter Two
Sarah and Margaret travelled to London after dark so that no member of the company would see them go. The station was quite near the hall where the Fortescue company was playing Maria Martin or The Murder in the Red Barn. It was always popular and, such scenery as there was, easy to set on the stage, so they usually opened a season with it. There was no part in the play for Margaret so no one would miss her, but Sarah’s and Margaret’s hearts beat very fast as they crept out of their lodgings and down the village street. When they reached the station they hid behind the shed where left luggage was stored but, even so, and though it was not likely any member of the company would come to the station at that time of night, they clung to each other, jumping at every sound.
When at last they were safely in an empty carriage and the train was chugging out of the station, Sarah let out a breath so held in that, as it came out, her jet necklace rattled.
‘It’s not that I think what we’re doing is wrong,’ she whispered. ‘I mean, Mr Fortescue couldn’t have stopped us going if we wanted to.’
Margaret agreed. ‘Of course it’s not you, it’s me. I don’t suppose I can leave just when I want to, I’m only a student and I did sign a paper.’
‘Well, we needn’t trouble about that now,’ said Sarah hopefully. ‘I can’t see Mr Fortescue going to the police, he never would.’
‘Well, he can’t if he wants to, he doesn’t know where I’ve gone. Funny, I always seem to be running away. Did I tell you about escaping on the canal?’
‘You did, I don’t know how many times, and I’m not going to hear it now. We’re going to settle down and have a sleep, for we have walking to do when we get to London.’
London, even in the evening, seemed very crowded to Margaret. The traffic was almost all horse-drawn, and to Margaret, crouching against Sarah for safety, it seemed as if at any moment everything would spill on to the pavement, especially the great carts filled to overflowing with garden produce making their way to Covent Garden. And as for the people! It seemed as if all Londoners went out walking at night. Margaret was to learn to love London in all its moods, but that night she was tired, and the unexpected rush and roar were too much for her. Not that she complained, she would never do that, but she did tremble, and Sarah, in spite of her thick full skirt and innumerable petticoats, felt this and sympathized and took, for her, a world-shaking decision.
‘We’ll take a cab to Lou’s,’ she said.
The cab, when at last they got one, smelt of hay, for a sackful was under the seat for the horse’s dinner, but after the noise in the street, to Margaret it was pure paradise. However, she did not overlook her arrangement with Sarah.
‘Don’t forget to add what this costs to what I owe you, Mrs Beamish.’
Sarah smiled. ‘When you have work we’ll fix everything,’ she said comfortably. ‘There’s one thing I’ve been thinking of, though – you’d better call me Sarah from now on. You see, all Lou’s friends just call her Lou and they will call me Sarah. You see, Mrs is just what I call myself, like many do in the profession when they are not so young as they were.’
‘Is it far to Lou’s house, Sarah?’ Margaret asked, emphasizing the name.
‘No, dear, it’s near Covent Garden. That’s where the fruit and that is going. It’s a big market. But you told me you’d been to London before, so you must remember Covent Garden.’
In the darkness Margaret blushed. She knew that sometimes she exaggerated to make a better story.
‘I have, but I didn’t stay the night. You see, Hannah, the one who brought me up after the vicar found me on the church steps …’
‘With three of everything of the very best quality,’ Sarah quoted.
‘That’s right,’ Margaret agreed. ‘Well, she had to bring me to London to the third-class waiting room at Paddington Station. There a terrible woman from the orphanage met us.’
‘So that’s all of London you’ve ever seen?’
‘That’s right,’ said Margaret.
Sarah took one of Margaret’s hands in hers. ‘Now don’t worry, love, we’ll soon be at Lou’s and, if I know her, she’ll have taken the time off to welcome us and there’ll be tripe and onions for supper and, until you’ve tasted Lou’s tripe and onions, you haven’t lived.’
Afterwards Margaret could not remember much about the arrival at Lou’s. She remembered climbing innumerable stairs, at the top of which stood Lou. She was very like Sarah but twice as fat. She remembered the smell of tripe and onions which filled Lou’s room at the top of the stairs, and she remembered Lou and Sarah hugging each other while Lou said: ‘A card’s come, they’re seeing her tomorrow,’ and shoved a card into Margaret’s hands. On it Margaret read:
DOLPHIN THEATRE
Mr Thomas Smith will see Miss Margaret Thursday on Tuesday next at 11.30 a.m.
Sir John and Lady Teaser and their daughter lived in spacious apartments over The Dolphin Theatre. It was, Sir John found, infinitely less tiring to live where he worked than have to drive to and fro to somewhere more fashionable, which was what Lady Teaser would have liked.
That Tuesday morning Sir John was enjoying a late breakfast when Lady Teaser swept into the room. She gave him a kiss.
Lady Teaser – her name was Ada – was an imposing-looking woman of a statuesque type. She had been an actress and had made a name for herself in a small way. But when she married Sir John Teaser she had given up her career for she was sure, if they both put their minds to it, that John would rise to be head of his profession. Because she had stopped acting that did not mean she had lost all ambition: she was very, very conscious that if she had gone on, she too might have reached the heights. Anyone who knew her and forgot this was making a very great mistake.
Now, as she had come in and because the day was beautiful and Ada, judging by the kiss, in a good temper, Sir John turned the conversation to his new play.
‘I’ve left the sorting-out of possible little girls to Tommy. He won’t let any of promise pass by him, but it is proving difficult to find exactly the child I want. He has had no luck so far; I gather they are all curls and dimples.’
There was a pause, which Sir John prayed Ada would fill, but when she spoke it was not to say what he wished to hear.
‘If you are still hoping I will allow Katie to play the part, you are wasting your time. Our little girl is being brought up to be a fashionable young lady. When she is old enough she will be presented at Court, and later she will marry a suitable husband, preferably a member of the peerage …’
Sir John laid a hand on Ada’s shoulder. ‘I know, dear, that is what you hope, but think back to the old days when you were an ambitious child, imagine what you would have felt if you had been given the chance to play the leading part in a beautiful play.’
Ada shook his hand off her shoulder. ‘When I was a child the question did not arise, and if it had, my father would not even have considered it.’
Sir John tactfully did not point out that Ada’s father, a poor man, would probably have jumped at the offer. ‘I shall not override your wishes, Ada, you know that, but I do beseech you to think of Katie. She is an exceptionally gifted child and, though she has heard nothing from either