the urge to stretch out a hand and touch her shimmering black hair. The girl smiled – revealing the whitest teeth he had ever seen – and thrust out a slim, elegant hand in the direction of Burlesque, each finger adorned by a beautifully manicured and varnished nail.
Burlesque looked at the hand in bemusement and then, reluctantly, took the girl’s fingertips in his own mitt and gave the hand a cautious shake. Vanka could understand Burlesque’s trepidation: when people shoved a hand in your direction in the Rookeries it was usually wrapped around the handle of a knife.
‘My name’s Ella Thomas,’ the girl said softly.
‘An’ I’m Sportin’ Chance,’ said Burlesque’s girlfriend, sticking out a hand whilst simultaneously giving her beau a filthy look. Sporting obviously wasn’t keen on competition, especially good-looking competition.
‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Chance.’
‘An’ I’m delighted to meet yous, Miss Thomas,’ interrupted Burlesque. ‘An’ this is my mate, Wanker.’
‘Colonel Vanka Ivanovich Maykov: Licensed Occultist,’ Vanka corrected as he took the girl’s hand and shook it. He cursed himself as he did so: he had been so smitten by her beauty that he had forgotten to use an alias, and for all he knew she could be an agent of Skobelev. But gazing into those wonderful limpid eyes, he didn’t think so: no one so lovely could be so venal. As he shook the girl’s hand his cold reading techniques came into play. Her skin was so soft that he knew she’d never done a decent day’s work in her life: she was either a gentlewoman fallen on hard times or an expensive hooker. Unfortunately his instincts told him to put his money on her being the former.
Shame.
‘‘Ow may I ‘elp you, Miss Thomas?’ smarmed Burlesque. ‘I’ve come to audition as a jad singer.’ The girl’s voice tinkled like a bell through the room.
‘A jad singer?’ Burlesque almost choked.
A frown creased the girl’s perfect forehead. ‘Yes, you’ve a notice on the door of your pub. It says you’re looking for a chirp… a jad singer. I understand the auditions are being held here.’ ‘Well, forgive my surprise but yous don’t look much like a jad singer. They tend to be bigger than wot yous is.’
The girl smiled her wonderful smile. ‘Well, I guess I’m one of the new generation of less-big jad singers.’ She thought for a moment. ‘People tell me, Mr Bandstand, that I’ve got a good voice and I can sing just about anything, so why don’t you try me out?’
Burlesque eyed the girl sidelong. He was probably, Vanka thought, trying to establish if the girl’s suggestion that he ‘try her out’ was a double entendre. Disappointment flared on the impresario’s face: he’d obviously decided it wasn’t.
‘D’you dance?’ Burlesque asked suspiciously.
‘Sure, I can dance.’
Sure?
From the moment she had opened her mouth Vanka had known she was just too good to be true. There was definitely something of the Yank about her, and Yanks, as everybody knew, were too independently minded to be reliable. Most of the bastards were Royalists too.
Her being a Yank would definitely be a problem: Burlesque didn’t like Yanks. But Vanka had never heard of a Shade Yank before. Maybe Burlesque didn’t like Shade Yanks. But then Burlesque didn’t like anybody, be they Anglos, Slavs, nuJus, Shades, Polaks, Krauts, Russkis, Frogs, Eyeties, Wogs, Chinks or Nips. Burlesque was an equal-opportunity racist. He was probably wondering if the girl might be an undercover agent working for Shaka… or, worse, a Suffer-O-Gette assassin.
Burlesque continued his interrogation. ‘You tell jokes?’
A moment’s consideration. ‘I guess I could do.’
‘Right, let’s see you outta that shooba,’ said Burlesque, nodding towards the girl’s thick fur coat.
The girl paused, then with a shrug stood up from the chair and wriggled out of her coat. She shuffled self- consciously on her feet as Burlesque gave her body his usual forensic examination.
Looking at her without her coat, Vanka was sure his guess that she was a down-on-her-luck gentlewoman was correct. She was wearing a very sober outfit, just the sort of thing a young lady from a more refined background might wear. The dress was the epitome of decorum, being restrained in both its colouring – dark grey – and its skirt length – only an inch above the floor. Unfortunately the decorum didn’t end there: her bosom was ensnared in an all-encompassing bodice – which was unusual for women in the Pig. Even the bustle was small. All in all it was an outfit that only those of the most proper and conservative of outlooks would be seen dead in: it was the sort of outfit women got buried in.
But proper and conservative though her dress was, it couldn’t disguise the fact that the girl’s figure went in and out in an appealing manner… very appealing indeed.
Burlesque was less than impressed. ‘Gor, your frock’s a bit drab innit and you’re a bit skinny for this singing lark. People coming to see a singer wanna see a bird wiv a bit ov flesh on ‘er. ‘Course you ‘ave got a nice set of charms.’
‘Charms?’ the girl asked in a puzzled way.
‘Tits,’ explained Burlesque with commendable brevity. ‘Yeah, it’s good that you’ve got a decent upper ‘amper. My punters like their singers to bounce around a bit, iffn you knows what I mean.’ He winked at her and miraculously she didn’t run for it. ‘You’ve got to wiggle ‘em abart when yous singing.’ Suddenly he stopped and looked at the girl suspiciously. ‘Yous ain’t a Suffer-O-Gette is you? I’ve been getting sum funny letters from Suffer- O-Gettes lately.’
‘I most certainly am not a Suffer-O-Gette, Mr Bandstand. And with regard to my… charms, I came here this evening to audition as a singer not a stripper.’
Spirited, Vanka liked that. He decided to come to the girl’s aid. ‘You were saying you wanted to take the Pig upmarket, Burlesque, that you wanted to get out of the bump and grind business. Miss Thomas, here, certainly looks refined.’
‘All right,’ said Burlesque with a resigned sigh, ‘let’s see wot you’re abart. ‘Ave a word wiv Arthur.’ He nodded towards the stage. ‘He’s the bloke on the piano. You got your book wiv you?’
The girl had, and with a confidence that belied her youth she gave Burlesque a determined nod and walked to the stage.
Vanka had never heard the song before. It was a jaunty little number called ‘Falling in Love Again’. It seemed that the band hadn’t heard it either, and to begin with they were foxed by the song’s peculiar waltz time. Eventually though they got into what the girl called ‘the groove’ and her performance, to Vanka’s untrained ear, was remarkable. Remarkable and highly unusual.
She didn’t have one of the big blowsy voices usually possessed by women singing in Burlesque’s pubs: hers was more subtle, and nuanced. She managed to quiet the room, even the gabbling hookers sitting gossiping at the back of the pub. She was a stunningly different singer. The problem was that Burlesque wasn’t comfortable with ‘different’.
When the final notes of the song faded away he sat immobilised by indecision. ‘I dunno,’ he said eventually. ‘People coming to the Pig like their singers big an’ loud. Waddya fink, Wanker? Should I give ‘er a gig?’
Vanka gave an incredulous shake of his head. ‘Burlesque, she’s the most amazing singer I’ve ever heard. Of course you’ve got to give her a gig. Give it a couple of weeks and the Pig will be packed.’
Burlesque remained unconvinced. ‘I dunno…’ He trailed off and then, obviously struck by inspiration, his face lit up in a smile. ‘I tell you wot, luv,’ he shouted towards the girl, who was still standing rather awkwardly on the stage, ‘as this is a burlesque show yer auditioning for, ‘ow would you feel about singing charms out? I could bill you as the “Naked Nightingale” or some such.’
Vanka buried his face in his hands. His interpretation of ‘upmarket’ and Burlesque’s were obviously very different.
‘Absolutely not.’ There was a decided frost in the girl’s voice.
Burlesque’s face darkened. ‘Why not? It’d get a lot ov punters in.’
‘I don’t care. It isn’t dignified. It’s not jad singing. It’s pornography.’
Burlesque wasn’t used to being told no by a woman. Like most men in the Rookeries he was used to women doing as they were bloody well told, especially women who wanted a job from him.
‘Don’t be a soppy cow. It ain’t pawnography; it’s show business. And the fings I want yous to show are your tits.’
