Dear God I hope I am
dreaming. All my senses are alert – even my sense of smell is reminding me that
this is familiar, this is the same place, the no-place, the no particular time
or place that I have visited that smells of nothing but fear. How can I smell
fear in a dream? In nothing but darkness, and men shouting, and doors banging.
Somewhere, far away, a lantern is swinging. Soon the pain will begin, and I
must fight. I must wake up before they come for me. I must wake up before the
dawn that I am dreaming shines unforgiving light into this void of a nightmare.
I must wake up. I must.
There were at first some suspicions among the neighbours
that Ernest or his Mother had been somehow involved in the girl’s disappearance
as well as her recovery, but she pointed an accusatory stubby finger at three
of the largest and slowest lads from her house, and they confessed quickly,
which did not save them from a beating. Ernest wandered back to his room still
half dazed, and ate a bowl of soup in silence. Then he asked his Mother what
she had meant about the dreams.
‘Have you ever had a dream like this before – where you knew what would happen when you woke up?’ she asked him.
Ernest thought carefully. ‘Yes. Lots of times, when I was small – I always knew what you would make for tea, or what I would see during my day – different things, like a kite flying over the church, or a hailstorm from a clear sky.’
‘Yet you never told me?’
‘I suppose I did not think that these dreams were unusual. Perhaps I thought that everyone dreams in the same way.’
‘Oh my dear boy. I cannot tell if I did the right thing, in keeping you apart, or if I should have let you learn a long time ago that not everyone thinks as you do.’
‘I heard of a lady – a psychic. She can predict the future, they say. She talks to the dead. Do I have the same - ability?’
‘Nobody can talk to the dead, Ernest. The woman is a fraud.’ His Mother stood up, her back straight. ‘She is at best play acting for profit, at worst evil in her intentions. What you can do is not the same. Not at all. You cannot will it.’
‘Have you ever had a dream like this before – where you knew what would happen when you woke up?’ she asked him.
Ernest thought carefully. ‘Yes. Lots of times, when I was small – I always knew what you would make for tea, or what I would see during my day – different things, like a kite flying over the church, or a hailstorm from a clear sky.’
‘Yet you never told me?’
‘I suppose I did not think that these dreams were unusual. Perhaps I thought that everyone dreams in the same way.’
‘Oh my dear boy. I cannot tell if I did the right thing, in keeping you apart, or if I should have let you learn a long time ago that not everyone thinks as you do.’
‘I heard of a lady – a psychic. She can predict the future, they say. She talks to the dead. Do I have the same - ability?’
‘Nobody can talk to the dead, Ernest. The woman is a fraud.’ His Mother stood up, her back straight. ‘She is at best play acting for profit, at worst evil in her intentions. What you can do is not the same. Not at all. You cannot will it.’
No, the boy cannot
will it, Rosalina, but I can. Sometimes. I can hear you now, or imagine that I
can. Perhaps what I can dream is not one word the same as your conversation,
but I would stake a large wager that I have caught the substance. And your
perfume. How can you smell the same now as you did then? Roses for a rose. You
are wrong, my rose. You can talk to the dead. Most of us are surrounded by the
dead, we talk to them, sing to them, pray to them every day. But if we are
truly cursed, or perhaps truly alive, the dead talk back to us. Do they not,
rose of my heart?
Ernest wondered what was happening to him. Here he was, yet
again going somewhere without his Mother’s knowledge, let alone her permission.
He had not sought it, because he was sure it would not be given. Going against
her wishes, even unspoken ones, caused Ernest pain. He was naturally a good and
obedient child, and he wanted nothing more than the accolade of being a dutiful
son. But since he had begun to question his Mother and to think more about his
history, he was starting to walk his own path. Perhaps he was just growing up.
Or perhaps, he thought as he pattered through the streets in the opposite
direction to his home, perhaps this was another behaviour that he thought was
normal, but was in fact peculiar to him.
But all Ernest wanted to do was watch his new friends perform their variety show. Maggie had warned him against it, but he was sure that he would be able to understand and tolerate whatever was on show. After all, he did not work in a genteel profession, and most of the audience for the Cabinet of Talents would be his workmates. In his new clothes he looked more grown up, for sure, albeit very small. He knew that other boys his age went to these music halls, for they came back singing the latest songs and acting out comic routines. Ernest, as a friend of the artistes, felt he should attend to support his friends, and to be able to talk to them again about their routines. Ernest smiled at the thought that he might be a helpful critic to them.
Finally he reached the Apollo theatre, on the South bank of the Thames. He had not been there before, but had only to follow the crowd to find the queue for admission. Squeezing in between two burly costers, he also managed to get into the stalls without payment, saving himself a penny. The back half of the stalls had been cleared, and here Ernest wormed his way to the front of those standing, holding on to the back of the last row of wooden seats. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, layered with the sooty smoke from the cheap candles that gave some illumination along the sides of the theatre. The stage had a row of gaslights hissing in front of it, giving their own aroma to the mix along with sweat, beer and tangerines – the preferred snack of the audience, partly because they were easy to lob at the stage. Ernest twisted round to look into the circle, and saw quite a few women and girls sat prominently in the front rows, very much dressed up, their bodices glittering with pearl buttons and gold thread. Down in the stalls the crowd was nearly all male, with a few wives seated on the wooden benches. The standing crowd were rowdy, tanked up and out for a good time, and very impatient for it to start. To the side of the stage was a man in full evening dress playing the piano, but he could hardly be heard above the hubbub. The theatre seemed full, but more were being admitted and there was no sign of a show on offer, other than the faded stage curtain twitching. The audience began to cough in an exaggerated fashion, and then to loudly shuffle their feet. Only when this grew into organised boot stamping did the gaslights go up, as those nearest the candles got up to extinguish them. As these house lights were put out, there was a moment of quiet and the pianist came into his own, sweeping up and down the keys as the curtains slowly parted. But this was the only respect the artistes were likely to receive. The dancing girls, with Petunia at the centre of her six petals, arranged themselves quite modestly on the stage, and any music that went alongside their act was lost in a roar of catcalls, stamping and whistling. Ernest held on to the seat back and braced himself against it to avoid being crushed. Petunia waved a finger sternly at the audience as she wiggled her hips, but then gave up the act altogether and marched to the front of the stage. She waved the petals off into the wings, and then stood quite still with her arms folded. The theatre, finally, grew quiet.
‘That’s more like it.’ She said. ‘Give a lady wots her due, and bleedin shut it!’
‘I’d like to give you wots due my darling’ came a shout from just behind Ernest.
‘You ere again? Ain’t you getting any at home?’ said Petunia. ‘Well you ain’t getting it ere.’
She waved to the piano player, who struck up again, and the petals shuffled slightly nervously back on the stage. The whistles continued, but the calling was much reduced. Ernest began to see what Julian had meant about a costermonger audience. They were indeed a tough crowd.
But all Ernest wanted to do was watch his new friends perform their variety show. Maggie had warned him against it, but he was sure that he would be able to understand and tolerate whatever was on show. After all, he did not work in a genteel profession, and most of the audience for the Cabinet of Talents would be his workmates. In his new clothes he looked more grown up, for sure, albeit very small. He knew that other boys his age went to these music halls, for they came back singing the latest songs and acting out comic routines. Ernest, as a friend of the artistes, felt he should attend to support his friends, and to be able to talk to them again about their routines. Ernest smiled at the thought that he might be a helpful critic to them.
Finally he reached the Apollo theatre, on the South bank of the Thames. He had not been there before, but had only to follow the crowd to find the queue for admission. Squeezing in between two burly costers, he also managed to get into the stalls without payment, saving himself a penny. The back half of the stalls had been cleared, and here Ernest wormed his way to the front of those standing, holding on to the back of the last row of wooden seats. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, layered with the sooty smoke from the cheap candles that gave some illumination along the sides of the theatre. The stage had a row of gaslights hissing in front of it, giving their own aroma to the mix along with sweat, beer and tangerines – the preferred snack of the audience, partly because they were easy to lob at the stage. Ernest twisted round to look into the circle, and saw quite a few women and girls sat prominently in the front rows, very much dressed up, their bodices glittering with pearl buttons and gold thread. Down in the stalls the crowd was nearly all male, with a few wives seated on the wooden benches. The standing crowd were rowdy, tanked up and out for a good time, and very impatient for it to start. To the side of the stage was a man in full evening dress playing the piano, but he could hardly be heard above the hubbub. The theatre seemed full, but more were being admitted and there was no sign of a show on offer, other than the faded stage curtain twitching. The audience began to cough in an exaggerated fashion, and then to loudly shuffle their feet. Only when this grew into organised boot stamping did the gaslights go up, as those nearest the candles got up to extinguish them. As these house lights were put out, there was a moment of quiet and the pianist came into his own, sweeping up and down the keys as the curtains slowly parted. But this was the only respect the artistes were likely to receive. The dancing girls, with Petunia at the centre of her six petals, arranged themselves quite modestly on the stage, and any music that went alongside their act was lost in a roar of catcalls, stamping and whistling. Ernest held on to the seat back and braced himself against it to avoid being crushed. Petunia waved a finger sternly at the audience as she wiggled her hips, but then gave up the act altogether and marched to the front of the stage. She waved the petals off into the wings, and then stood quite still with her arms folded. The theatre, finally, grew quiet.
‘That’s more like it.’ She said. ‘Give a lady wots her due, and bleedin shut it!’
‘I’d like to give you wots due my darling’ came a shout from just behind Ernest.
‘You ere again? Ain’t you getting any at home?’ said Petunia. ‘Well you ain’t getting it ere.’
She waved to the piano player, who struck up again, and the petals shuffled slightly nervously back on the stage. The whistles continued, but the calling was much reduced. Ernest began to see what Julian had meant about a costermonger audience. They were indeed a tough crowd.
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