My boy! She wept copiously in the empty carriage as the train hissed and steamed noisily towards Hull. Whatever am I thinking of, leaving him with strangers? She excused it by telling herself that she only wanted the best for him: warm clothes, plenty to eat, school, basic essentials that I can’t afford. He needs a settled existence, not a nomadic life such as I’m leading now. But how stupid was I to think that my parents would have a change of heart after they turned me out all those years ago? She knew why she’d fooled herself into hoping, though. She was fraught, more so than when he was a baby. I’ve run out of ways and means to survive.
But how do you know the Robinsons will keep him, her conscience nagged uneasily. Suppose they pack him off to a children’s home or somewhere else? How can I find out whether or not he’s happy, and how will I know if he stays with them, or, worse, goes off alone to find his fortune? He has so many outlandish thoughts in his head, brought on in part by Arthur Crawshaw, who encouraged him and was forever telling me he deserved a different life. And I know that – she sniffled away her tears – but I can’t provide it.
She stood on the platform when the train arrived in Hull, wondering what to do next. It was late; there probably wasn’t a train or a connection to take her back to London; besides, she was uncertain whether she wanted to go so far away, out of reach of him. And what will I do without money? The room at the Hedon Arms had been reasonable but she had little left in her purse. I have to get a job. It’s as if I’ve stepped back ten years. She shivered and looked about her. Another train had just arrived and disgorged its passengers, and people were heading for the concourse.
Thoughtlessly she followed them; many of them were chattering as if some had travelled together. She heard their high-pitched laughter, saw the heavy bags that the women were struggling to carry, and a hesitant surge of hope turned up her lips: these were theatre people. But it was mid-week; why were they not at a performance?
She tagged on behind, wondering where they were heading. She had played in Hull, but that was over ten years ago. It had come about quite accidentally: she was working as a cleaner and was brushing the seats and clearing up rubbish after a performance; the theatre manager had heard her singing one of the more sentimental songs from the show and told the director. He had listened to her and had been considerate. He had seen how frightened and nervous she was and had given her an audition and then said he would try her out; she would fill in a gap for a performer who had gone off sick. He had sent her to see the wardrobe mistress for something to wear and she had enjoyed the experience of being on stage. He had given her a recommendation in case she should decide to move on, which she subsequently did – with his company.
‘Come on.’ Someone carrying a violin case rushed up by her side. ‘We can maybe share a cab with someone.’
She looked up at a tall man with fair hair curling on his collar and began to hurry beside him towards the cab stand. When he put a hand on her elbow to help her into a cab with an open door she didn’t object but sat down next to a young woman who moved up for her and shifted her bags with her feet.
‘Thank Gawd,’ the young woman said. ‘I thought we’d never get here. If I’d known Hull was such a long way from London I’d never have agreed to come.’
‘The theatre audiences are good,’ Delia murmured. ‘Or at least they always were. I haven’t been here for some time.’
‘Oh, really? I’ve never been so far north before but thought I’d give it a try. London’s pretty well booked up for the winter season. My agent missed out on a few gigs, so I’m going to sack him as soon as I find somebody else. What’s your name? Will I have heard of you?’
‘Delia Delamour,’ she murmured. ‘I’m a singer. What about you?’
‘Josie Turner. I’m in a dance troupe – well, we were a dance troupe but our numbers are dwindling so now we’re only three. Hope the management don’t mind too much.’ She looked at the man with the violin case and smiled sweetly. ‘You look familiar,’ she said archly. ‘Are you famous?’
‘Giles Dawson,’ he said equably. ‘No, I’m not famous; I’m filling in for a violinist who has gone off sick. You might have seen the back of my head in an orchestra pit.’
The smile dropped from the young woman’s face and she turned away, disappointed, to look out of the cab window. Dawson glanced wryly at Delia and then grinned.
‘What kind of music do you sing, Miss Delamour?’ he asked.
‘Romantic and light opera,’ she said quietly. ‘Not comedy. I’m not inclined to be amusing.’
‘Pleased to hear it,’ he said. ‘I don’t care for music hall songs.’
‘I’m … not booked,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve come on the off chance. Who’s top of the bill, do you know?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. They’ve been closed for a week doing repairs. I only got the telegram yesterday afternoon asking if I could fill in. I happened to be free so I said yes. I’ve heard that the management were having difficulty getting performers as most are already committed, so you might
