Day 23 - 1393 words

‘So you’re not brothers, then?’ one of the new dancers asked Ernest, nodding over to Gabriel.
‘No. We just happen to have the same birthday.’
‘And look like twins.’
‘Gabriel and I have different parents.’
‘Same Dad?’
‘Now, look. That’s enough.’ Said Ernest, ‘We aren’t related. My Mother came from the East End, and Gabriel…’
‘Was the adopted twin wot done good.’ Smiled the girl.
Ernest smiled back. ‘You’ve read too many of those sensationalist novels.’
‘Not I. I ain’t never read nothing more than a poster. But I’ve seen all the shows. There’s a new one out about Sweeney Todd, and one about Jack the Ripper. I’m going to blow this gaff – dancing with the old folks – and get a juicy part in that. Victim Number Three. Come outside with me, and I’ll let you hear my scream.’
Ernest was saved from having to decline this, by the arrival of Sals. She was still unmistakeably Sals, with her bright green eyes and her dark hair, but she was slower, dignified, the epitome of feminine charms. Dressed in a long aesthetic style robe, embroidered all over with lilies, she looked like a damsel from a painting, graciously stepping out into the world to talk to mere mortals. The small boy that Maggie had mentioned went before her. He was dressed up like a page in dark maroon velvet, and basked in Sals’ light.
Ernest got to hug Sals first, before Gabriel could untangle himself from the arms of two dancers and get across the room to her. She greeted him with a formal curtsey, then held out her arms and pulled him in towards her. ‘My you’ve grown up.’ She said, finally releasing him.
‘Children do that.’
‘Don’t get smart, young man. You’re still young enough to get a smacked bottom from me. Although now you might enjoy it.’
Ernest blushed, and Sals laughed at him. ‘Aww, still sweet and innocent. Thank God for that, my treasure. Don’t you go being in too much of a hurry to grow up. Look at Gabriel, thought he knew it all, and where has it got him?’
Ernest wondered what Sals had heard, but he kept quiet and stood back to allow Gabriel and Sals to greet each other.
Later, Ernest walked with Sals down to the river for some fresh air. This time there were no admirers to be dodged, and they strolled in amicable silence down to the water.
‘I always think that I’m looking at it from the wrong side, over here.’ Said Sals.
‘I can understand that. And not just when admiring the Thames.’ Said Ernest.
Sals looked at him. ‘Very deep.’
‘A lot has happened, in the course of my growing up.’
‘I heard about your Ma. I’m sorry. It must have been tough for you as a little un.’
‘Thank you. Maggie told me about your  - friend – the Vicar. I’m sorry about that.’
Sals sniffed. ‘He was my husband. Well, still is, really. One of the reasons I give up the soldier routine – can’t have a vicar’s wife on the stage, running about in breeches.’
‘Oh. I see. Maggie said…’
‘Never mind what she said. She didn’t approve of him from the first, and she don’t understand it.’
‘That might be true, but she has a point if your husband erm…if he wanted someone else.’
‘Has she been telling tales about Solomon and little boys, again?’
‘She did say something, about you having to rescue the boy…’
‘Well it ain’t that simple. Some things, I could live with. A weakness like that, well. We could work round it. But he don’t know what he wants. He could dither till Domesday. Is it my problem – am I all wrong for him, or is it him? Or is it a trial sent from above?’
Sals skimmed a pebble expertly across the viscous water. ‘And all the time he’s deciding why he’s put on this earth, I’m not getting any younger. No kiddies – you know. Probably never will, now. So I thought I may as well bring up the little un. Lewis, he’s called.’
‘I see.’
Sals looked at Ernest. ‘I think you do. I think you listen properly, at least.’ She heaved a sigh, and then smiled at him. ‘So how’s your love life?’
Ernest shrugged. ‘There is a young lady I like. We walked out together for a while. Now we write letters. Gabriel sees her, at parties and so forth. I have got out of the habit of attending such occasions. Or of being invited to them.’
‘Might I suggest you cut your losses?’ said Sals, politely.
‘I think she has.’
‘Ouch.’
‘She’s still the woman I’m going to marry.’
‘Well better go and remind her of that, cock, before she forgets your lovely face. Especially if the charming Gabriel is cosying up to your girl.’
‘I’m not sure that he is…’
‘I’m sure he is, love and I’ve never met the girl. But I know Gabriel -  If someone else has got something good, he wants it for nothing.’

When Ernest got home, he took out the leather –bound box that Effie had sent to him for his birthday, and put all of Effie’s letters to him inside it, carefully bound with a red ribbon. The next morning Ernest took Sal’s advice, and wrote to Effie, inviting her to attend the next show of the Cabinet of Talents with him. True, he thought, it was more fish and chips and the cheap seats than a box at the Opera, but if Effie was going to be Ernest’s wife she needed to become more realistic about what she could expect to have spent on amusements for her.  For politeness’ sake and to show the proper formalities of courtship were being observed, Ernest also invited Effie’s Mother. Fortunately, she was sensible enough to decline the invitation for herself, while writing in her note that Effie would be delighted to attend.

Is that him? Or is it me? I used to adore the theatre. This could be one of my dreams. I can see a stage, the ropes and flats and all the tackle that makes the magic happen for the audience. I have not dreamed about the theatre for years, but I can still recall the thrill of sitting in the dark, when the lights are blown out and anything, any human emotion, can be presented in front of me. So this might be my dream; but I think it is his. He has been so good, since his last fit of wildness. He has been minding his Ps &Qs somewhere out in the real world, and stamping down on any wildness inside him.  It cannot work for ever. The lock will give.  Where are we going, son. What show will we see? I am sitting just behind you, in the stalls. There are red petals underfoot. On the bare stage and actress in a white dress is scrawling chalk circles and crosses on the paper walls and the wooden floor. Ah, my Rosalina, my sweet flower. Your son misses you in his heart, poor soul. But no – it is not her. The young woman who turns round has blood dripping from her fingers, splashing out across the stage, pouring from her mouth as she screams, ripping her dress, shredding her soft blue sash. White feathers fall from the ceiling, and everyone in the audience applauds and stamps and whistles, as the actress is dragged, lifeless, from the stage.

Ernest bought an engagement ring, before he took Effie to see the show. He could not think of a better atmosphere in which to make her his fiancée. But that was before his dream of Effie in the centre of a pool of blood, with white feathers covering her, falling on him so that he woke up choking. After that image he lacked the nerve to ask her for his hand, while at the same time berating himself for being superstitious and foolish. And so for the next two years Ernest paid attention to Effie, without getting anything in return from her in the way of many gestures of affection, or any talk of their married life together. He wondered what she was waiting for. Several times he had got near to proposing, but always the moment seemed to evade him.