on his side, but I could see Jenny Pierce’s purple bit of fluff quivering away as she went at it.
As a matter of fact I do have an appointment myself this evening with a gentleman . . .
I snorted. She might have had a face like a docker’s nancy but at last she’d found a use for that nasty tongue of hers, I thought. And it’s not as if the ‘gentleman’ had to look at her. After all, you don’t have to watch a kettle to bring it to the boil.
I’d enjoy telling Lucca all about that later. But then I thought better of it because he didn’t always appreciate me talking low. In fact, when I tried my new song on him he’d been furious and we’d had a right set-to. I think the wings were a peace offering.
The orchestra started up and the punters began shouting and laughing even louder.
The first act up was Dismal Jimmy, a droll Scot whose convoluted stories were usually a sure way to settle the hall. Only tonight it didn’t work. The air was full of hoots and cat-calls as Jimmy finished up and Mrs Conway came on in her Britannia rig. Fitzy had promised her the slot before mine by way of compensation.
‘I’m not here for tough old game. Where’s the fresh meat?’ called a voice from the dark.
‘Fuck off, horseface, and give us all a break,’ another added, more loudly. He seemed to be speaking for quite a lot of them. People in the gallery started to stamp and the gaslights shook in their brackets.
Within seconds The Gaudy was in uproar and, from my cage, I could see that Mrs Conway was in tears. Fitzy – all shiny buttons and straining mustard velvet – came bounding on stage right, whispered to her and patted her off. Then he turned to the punters and smiled. His big, red greasy face looked like a harvest moon with the pox, so it did.
He waved his hands in the air and called for a ‘bit of quiet in the hall’.
The shouting stopped but the stamping continued. Fitzy nodded, more to himself than to anyone else, then he took a step forward and cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present to you this evening a performance of dazzling aerial artistry, a display of death-defying courage never matched before in this theatre or any other. With the voice of a nightingale, the grace of an angel and the body of Venus herself . . .’ He stopped and rubbed his hands suggestively as low, appreciative whistles ripped through the hall. ‘May I present to you, The Limehouse Linnet herself, Miss Kitty Peck!’
There was a drum roll and the hood covering my cage was whipped free by hands stationed at the ends of ropes at four quarters of the hall. The limelights came up strong and for a second I was almost blinded. I’d never sat in the cage in the dark that long before starting up.
But there wasn’t even time to blink. My music struck up and immediately I began to dip and twirl into the first stages of my routine. I’d done it so many times now I didn’t have to think. Not about the grips, not about the balances, not about the swaying and creaking of the glittering cage and not about the empty seventy foot between me and the heads of the punters below.
At first they were quiet – stunned, I think. And then the whistles and the cat-calls started up – very appreciative they was. Not like the ones for Mrs C.
And then I started to sing . . .
I’ve got a tidy nest
But I’m looking for a cock
Who can help me find the key
To my tiny little lock?
I lost it in the park
When I was tugging on a worm
Now I’m looking for a gentleman
Who’ll do me a good turn.
Chapter Seven
Pickpocketing was a favourite. That red-haired woman I noticed on the first night was a regular dipster. Watches were her thing, but I saw her lift ’kerchiefs, pocket books and even a jewel dangling from a smart lady’s ear. I didn’t mean Red any harm – she was a grafter, I’ll give her that. At the end of that first week me and my cage were moved to The Carnival – a low sort of hall
As a matter of fact I do have an appointment myself this evening with a gentleman . . .
I snorted. She might have had a face like a docker’s nancy but at last she’d found a use for that nasty tongue of hers, I thought. And it’s not as if the ‘gentleman’ had to look at her. After all, you don’t have to watch a kettle to bring it to the boil.
I’d enjoy telling Lucca all about that later. But then I thought better of it because he didn’t always appreciate me talking low. In fact, when I tried my new song on him he’d been furious and we’d had a right set-to. I think the wings were a peace offering.
The orchestra started up and the punters began shouting and laughing even louder.
The first act up was Dismal Jimmy, a droll Scot whose convoluted stories were usually a sure way to settle the hall. Only tonight it didn’t work. The air was full of hoots and cat-calls as Jimmy finished up and Mrs Conway came on in her Britannia rig. Fitzy had promised her the slot before mine by way of compensation.
‘I’m not here for tough old game. Where’s the fresh meat?’ called a voice from the dark.
‘Fuck off, horseface, and give us all a break,’ another added, more loudly. He seemed to be speaking for quite a lot of them. People in the gallery started to stamp and the gaslights shook in their brackets.
Within seconds The Gaudy was in uproar and, from my cage, I could see that Mrs Conway was in tears. Fitzy – all shiny buttons and straining mustard velvet – came bounding on stage right, whispered to her and patted her off. Then he turned to the punters and smiled. His big, red greasy face looked like a harvest moon with the pox, so it did.
He waved his hands in the air and called for a ‘bit of quiet in the hall’.
The shouting stopped but the stamping continued. Fitzy nodded, more to himself than to anyone else, then he took a step forward and cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present to you this evening a performance of dazzling aerial artistry, a display of death-defying courage never matched before in this theatre or any other. With the voice of a nightingale, the grace of an angel and the body of Venus herself . . .’ He stopped and rubbed his hands suggestively as low, appreciative whistles ripped through the hall. ‘May I present to you, The Limehouse Linnet herself, Miss Kitty Peck!’
There was a drum roll and the hood covering my cage was whipped free by hands stationed at the ends of ropes at four quarters of the hall. The limelights came up strong and for a second I was almost blinded. I’d never sat in the cage in the dark that long before starting up.
But there wasn’t even time to blink. My music struck up and immediately I began to dip and twirl into the first stages of my routine. I’d done it so many times now I didn’t have to think. Not about the grips, not about the balances, not about the swaying and creaking of the glittering cage and not about the empty seventy foot between me and the heads of the punters below.
At first they were quiet – stunned, I think. And then the whistles and the cat-calls started up – very appreciative they was. Not like the ones for Mrs C.
And then I started to sing . . .
I’ve got a tidy nest
But I’m looking for a cock
Who can help me find the key
To my tiny little lock?
I lost it in the park
When I was tugging on a worm
Now I’m looking for a gentleman
Who’ll do me a good turn.
Chapter Seven
Pickpocketing was a favourite. That red-haired woman I noticed on the first night was a regular dipster. Watches were her thing, but I saw her lift ’kerchiefs, pocket books and even a jewel dangling from a smart lady’s ear. I didn’t mean Red any harm – she was a grafter, I’ll give her that. At the end of that first week me and my cage were moved to The Carnival – a low sort of hall
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