Little Stars Read online

‘That man’s being silly,’ said Diamond.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said. ‘I think we’ve made a mistake, Diamond. I don’t want to be a music-hall star any more. I’m glad Mrs Ruby turned us down. When this stupid Samson person has finished his spiel, I think we’ll make a bolt for it.’

  ‘Now it’s time to stop all this jesting,’ said Samson Ruby. ‘I’d better get on with the job in hand.’

  ‘It should be your job, Hetty,’ said Diamond loyally.

  ‘Let’s go, Diamond. Come on,’ I said, seizing her hand. We felt our way in the dark towards the door at the back of Mrs Ruby’s box.

  ‘It gives me great pleasure to introduce the first of tonight’s artistes. He’s a little chap with a great big heart, and the twinkliest toes that ever trod this stage. Ladies and gentleman – if there are any in the audience – please put your hands together to welcome little Master Flirty Bertie, our pocket-sized princeling.’

  ‘Hetty? Aren’t you coming?’ Diamond hissed.

  ‘Just wait a second,’ I said.

  I watched a small young man bounce out onto the stage, waving his straw hat in the air, his white spats and black patent boots moving so fast they blurred. His hair was slicked flat with pomade, his eyes were ringed with black paint, his cheeks reddened with rouge. I recognized him instantly, even in this bizarre guise. It really was my own dear Bertie!

  HE WAS GREETED by a roar of applause. He threw his hat in the air in acknowledgement, grinning broadly. I knew that grin so well!

  I hadn’t even said goodbye to him when I lost my position with Mr Buchanan. I tried to seek him out, but I’d given up easily, telling myself that he had other girls interested in him, especially the ones in the draper’s shop nearby. He wouldn’t miss me one jot.

  Maybe that was true. But I’d missed Bertie. I realized now that I’d actually missed him terribly. It was so strange to see him strutting his stuff on stage, doing an elaborate dance while singing a funny song with a very catchy chorus:

  ‘Bertie’s my name and flirting’s my game,

  I’ve an eye for every girl. Don’t give a fig!

  I have a little chat, then give ’em a pat,

  Yes, it’s bliss,

  Trouble i-i-i-s-s-s,

  I’m slightly small and they’re all BIG!’

  A succession of very tall, glamorous girls swished up and down the stage as he sang. They were dressed in bright red costumes that showed a great deal of their shapely legs, and wore white kid boots with very high heels. I guessed they were dancers from another act, but they made a perfect foil for Bertie.

  He winked and grinned and raised his hat to them, though he barely came up to their waists. He tried dancing a waltz with one, which looked very comical. It was even funnier when he attempted to kiss another – he had to jump up to reach her lips, his legs shaking with the effort.

  He performed slickly, his timing perfect. He could have been on the stage all his life. It was hard to picture him in his striped butcher’s apron, juggling sausages and chops.

  ‘Is he your Bertie?’ Diamond whispered.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said proudly, though I wondered if he would even remember me. He was the same Bertie, and yet so different now. He was a true music-hall star. I was a nobody. Mrs Ruby had turned me down flat, and now I could see why. My childish patter would never work for this adult audience.

  I’d been so proud working as the ringmaster for Tanglefield’s Travelling Circus, but now I saw I’d simply been an infant novelty in a very small affair. I certainly couldn’t compare myself to Bertie. I suddenly felt I’d failed at everything I’d tried. I’d been a very poor servant, argumentative and slapdash. I’d made a passable market trader, but I’d only lasted five minutes. I’d been a reasonable attraction at Mr Clarendon’s Seaside Curiosities, but there was no skill involved in lying on a patch of sand pretending to be a mermaid.

  You’re a child of Satan, Hetty Feather. You’ll never amount to anything at all!

  Had Matron Bottomly been right all along?

  I bowed my head, struggling not to cry.

  ‘Hetty?’ Diamond whispered anxiously. ‘Are you all right? Don’t you feel very well?’

  I sniffed fiercely. ‘I am fine,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you care for your Bertie’s act?’ she asked.

  ‘I think he’s very talented.’

  ‘I wish I was talented,’ said Diamond. ‘I’m not a child wonder any more, am I?’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Ruby thought I was hopeless.’

  ‘You were just a little under-rehearsed, that’s all,’ I said. ‘I am the hopeless one. I can’t do any acrobatics, I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t even announce any more, not for a great big rowdy crowd like this.’

  ‘Nonsense, Hetty,’ said Diamond firmly. ‘You can do everything!’

  She said it with such utter conviction that I was suddenly cheered. I had no business being down-hearted and self-pitying. I couldn’t give up now. I had Diamond to look after. Perhaps I could still figure out some way to make us music-hall stars.

  I watched the following artistes with great concentration. I’d been right about the tall girls. They danced in a very bold way, showing off their long legs in a line like cut-out paper dolls. I couldn’t be a dancer – I was only half their size.

  Peter Perkins was a comedian, wearing a tweed suit, with a bowler hat perched on the back of his head. I didn’t understand half his jokes, but the audience seemed to like him and laughed in the right places. I couldn’t be a comedian because I didn’t know the right sort of jokes to entertain a crowd like this.

  Signor Olivelli, the maestro of Italian opera, was extremely bald and extremely stout and extremely old. It looked as if he’d been a maestro a very long time ago. I expected his voice to be wavery and cracked, but it was still incredibly powerful. He gave a very energetic performance, waving his arms about, his shiny head flung back, his chin vibrating. The crowd didn’t act like opera lovers, but they sang ‘La-la-la’ to the familiar bits. Several men did their own Signor Olivelli imitations. I hoped he was too wrapped in his performance to notice. I certainly couldn’t sing operatically.

  Then there was Araminta, the Exotic Acrobatic Dancer. She wore another very brief costume and didn’t even have fleshings covering her legs. She waved them around a lot, doing the most extraordinary high kicks, so that her knee pressed against her powdered nose. I knew for a fact that I couldn’t do that.

  ‘Could you do that, Diamond?’ I asked, because she was remarkably bendy.

  ‘I’d have to be cricked really hard and it would hurt,’ said Diamond. ‘But I’ll try if you really want me to, Hetty.’

  Araminta then arched backwards and walked like a crab.

  ‘You can do that, Diamond, I’ve seen you do it a hundred times!’ I said.

  Araminta climbed onto a little platform, still bent over backwards. She bent even further – until her head stuck right through her legs in the most peculiar and disconcerting fashion. She revolved like a bizarre top while the audience squealed.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly do that!’ said Diamond.

  ‘And I wouldn’t want you to either. She looks revolting, all tied up in a knot,’ I said.

  There was a ventriloquist act next – Benjamin Apple and Little Pip. Little Pip was a bizarre doll with a very pink face, red cheeks and a big square mouth. He sat on Mr Apple’s lap and spoke in a strange high-pitched voice.

  ‘Is he a real little boy?’ Diamond asked.

  ‘No, he’s a painted doll,’ I said.

  ‘But he can talk! Dolls can’t talk, not even Maybelle.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s really talking. The Apple man is doing the talking for him.’

  ‘Mr Apple’s mouth isn’t moving, though.’

  ‘I think it is, just a very little bit, only we’re not close enough to see.’

  ‘No, I think Little Pip’s a real boy, a very tiny one. I like him!’ said Diamond.