Page 1 of The Songbird of Wychwood

GEORGE DANCIE

I opened the oh-so-fancy gift box, drew back the layer of tissue paper, and gasped. The whalebone bodice inside the box was made with crimson silk and tiny embroidered flowers. I hurriedly removed it from the box and held it to my bare masculine chest, moving to and fro, my eyes sparkling with pleasure as I admired myself in the full-length mirror. I loved the feeling of the bodice against my skin and I wanted to know how tight it would be when the ribbons were tied.

My best friend Eloise Fields marched into our shared dressing room. “Oi! That's mine, you scamp! Don't be getting too fond of it!” she scolded, her cockney accent strong. “My beau brought me that—came all the way from Gay Paree, y’know.”

“Which one?” I asked.

In the mirror Eloise directed her gaze at me, and in the reflection, she pouted, confused by my question. “There’s only one Gay Paree,” she insisted.

“No, silly! Which beau? As soon as you come off stage there’s a line of coves at the door. Harold and me are beating them back with sticks,” I laughed.

“Well, yes. I suppose I gets more than my fair share of male attention,” she fluttered her hand as if it was a paper fan, and flashed her eyes.

Eloise’s mother was originally from Morocco and her father was a sailor who hailed from Rye in Sussex. She’d grown up in Lambeth, and even though I’d tried to teach her proper elocution Eloise couldn’t drop her strong cockney accent. She was a small, exotic, caramel-skinned girl with startling ice blue eyes and close-cropped hair dyed platinum blonde. Eloise is twenty-two, she’s a contortionist, and during her act she wears a barely decent costume, matched with a silk sequined cap and slippers. She dances in a sinfully erotic way and bends her lithe body into the most alarming shapes imaginable. It’s quite the talent. Of course, the gents go crazy for her and deliver gifts to the stage door in the hope of getting a date.

I admired myself in the mirror again and met Eloise’s gaze. “Can I borrow this? Just for tonight,” I pleaded, my lashes fluttering as I tried a puppy-dog look to pull at her heart strings. “Please Lou! Miss Georgette’s got a private show.”

“Oh, go on then,” she said reluctantly. “One night only! Gawd, George, you know I could never say no to that pretty face!” Her small soft palms gripped my cheeks as she turned my head and popped a kiss on the tip of my nose. I batted her away then grinned with relief that Eloise had said yes. Paired with a golden blonde wig and the dress I’d just finished sewing, this bodice would look spectacular. I put the beautiful whale bone bodice back in the gift box and put the lid on.

Eloise leaned her dainty backside against the dressing table. “So, where’s this private show then? Is it the private , private show that you always come back from laden with goodies?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” I replied cryptically.

“I can’t believe you won’t tell even little old me?” Eloise mirrored my earlier puppy dog expression and then launched a tickle attack.

“I’m your best friend. Tell me!” she demanded, laughing. I screamed as her bony fingers skated over my naked flesh and I backed away from her. Eloise Fields had the look of a mischievous devil in her eyes. She followed me as I laughed, and tried to escape. We ended up in a giggling heap on the red velvet chaise longue, the only item of furniture in our dressing room that wasn’t heaped with costumes, silk scarves, or gift boxes. Eloise wrapped her arms around my chest and snuggled her head into the nape of my neck.

After a moment of silence when all I could hear was the thrumming of my excited heart, Eloise spoke. “I wish you liked girls, George,” she sighed dejectedly as she clung to me. “I always feel so safe with you.”

I let out a breath. I knew what she meant. We were closer and more affectionate than some married couples, and don’t get me wrong, I loved Eloise, but not in the way that Eloise wanted me to love her.

“Just you be safe at your private show is all. I don’t want you getting into no trouble. I know what the private shows can be like. The men are even more feral when they get you alone and there’s no one to protect you, not like here.”

I patted my friend’s hand, glad to have her looking out for me, but I was also unsettled by the weight of what she’d just said. Had something happened at one of her own private shows that she hadn’t told me about? Eloise was fiercely independent. She took what she wanted from the men who plied her with gifts and she didn’t suffer fools. She was determined to be in control of her destiny, and I admired her for it.

“Is someone giving you grief, love? You know I’m here if one of your gentlemen gets ideas you ain’t into,” I offered. Eloise pulled away and then stood up. She straightened her clothes and in a colder tone said,

“I can look after me-self!” Her sharp tone confused me, but before I could voice my concern she slapped my arse and said,

“Right, I’d best get to rehearsals. You bring my bodice back in one piece, you hear, and I don’t want no wine…or other stains on it!”

I placed a hand on my chest “I would never!” I gasped theatrically. We both laughed because we knew, given the chance, I most certainly would!

****

My mother, Violette D’Ancie, was originally from Paris. She told me she’d trained with Madame Vignon-Chauvin, one of the most sought-after costumiers in France. Violette had come to London to work as a theater costumier, but life hadn’t turned out as she’d expected. Ma told me that for a start, London was more expensive than she’d thought, and so her savings dwindled fast. Eventually Violette made some friends with connections to the theater. But not long after, she fell pregnant with me. I had no idea who my dad was, but my ma was a looker and I gather that a talented, beautiful French girl new to London must have turned a few heads!

When I was a nipper we never stayed in one place for long, but I grew up around theater people, from those that mopped the stage, limelighters, and riggers to musicians, actors, and actresses. When I was eleven, we finally found a home at the Middlesex Music Hall on Drury Lane in the heart of Covent Garden. The proprietor, Mr. Alfred Grayson was quite the impresario and I believe he had a soft spot for my mum. Mr. Grayson let Violette and I live rent free in one of the rooms above the auditorium. Ma just paid for fuel and food, which was quite the rare agreement if you ask me. And now I come to think about it, maybe everything wasn’t as above board as I’d thought when I was a kiddie. I don’t know if anything happened between Grayson and my mum, I was a nipper at the time so what would I know of the goings on when I was in bed? Whatever arrangement they had, ma did it to ensure we had a roof over our heads, and she got regular costume work. All I remember was that Mr. Grayson was nice to me and he kept me busy in the theater. I’d run errands and help with props and painting scenery while Violette sewed costumes for productions all over London.

Ma spoke to me in English and French, and she made sure I learned to speak and write in both languages. Our orchestra conductor at the time, Mr. Otto Franz taught me how to read and write music. I loved it so much that I started writing songs in private. By the age of fifteen I was a jack-of-all-trades and I’d probably had a go at every job in the theater, apart from being the compere. That was where Mr. Grayson was in his element, using his silver tongue to pull the punters in and keep them wanting more!

Ma told me that my first stage performance was when I was just three-years-old. I can’t recall which theater we were at, all I remember is that she dressed me up like a little girl and I had to skip onto the stage and be a nuisance during a comedy act. I remember it vividly. I swear, the first time I got a reaction and hundreds of punters roared with laughter cos of something I did, I knew this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my days. I loved the attention, and as I grew up I found I was good at mimicking what I saw other performers do.

Life was grand at our music hall; we were a family of sorts. And then, my world came crashing down when my mum got sick with Influenza and passed away. I was so sudden; she was sick for a few days and then she was gone. I was sixteen when I became an orphan. Ma never told me who’d fathered me, and with her gone I didn’t know what I would do. Mr. Grayson took pity on me and said I could stay in our room above the auditorium.

“I won’t see Violet’s boy out on the streets, and you know what, it’s always a comfort to know someone’s in the theater at all times. You can be my watchdog, George. You can make sure the ghost light stays lit and all,” he’d joked as he ruffled my curls. I hadn’t laughed, but was so grateful to keep our room. I promised to be good, look after the theater out of hours, and I’d keep working hard.

It takes a lot of work to put on a play, but once the first night’s done muscle memory takes over and it’s a doddle. Putting on music hall show is a different kind of animal. We have comedians, ventriloquists, aerial acts, jugglers, illusionists, singers, and dancers. We have to keep the show fresh so our punters come back time and time again. Our stage manager Arthur Formby says it’s like conducting chaos.

With all of the lifting and carrying I did each day helping around the theater, by eighteen, I was starting to put on a little muscle. I’d grown up into a tall, athletic young man. I had mousy brown wavy hair and golden-brown eyes, just like my mum.

I recall the day I got my break as if it was yesterday. Arthur had a strange twinkle in his eyes when he told me that Mr. Grayson wanted to see me in his office. I was worried cos that was never a good thing. I wracked my brain, wondering what I could have done wrong. When Violette had passed, Grayson’s attitude towards me changed. He became colder, and these past few years he’d hardened somewhat towards me. I hated Grayson’s office. It was as messy as a rubbish heap and stank of stale old man and tobacco. The walls used to be white at one time, but Grayson seemed to let the upkeep of the whole theater go when he didn’t have my ma to impress. Now, the office walls had a sickly yellow tobacco stain and the lead paint was bubbling and peeling in places. Mr. Grayson spent more and more time locked in his office these days, and I assumed he was planning tours for his travelling acts and dealing with finding new blood for our show. Apparently, Mr. Grayson had a wife, two kiddies, and a nice house just outside of town, but you wouldn’t think it as he was always out and about. I found the office door was open and so I walked in to see him sitting behind his messy desk “You asked to see me boss,” I said. Mr. Grayson glanced up from his ledger.

“I’ve had a grand idea, lad. Just a tick,” Grayson said holding his hand up to make me wait until he’d finished writing. I stood quietly before his desk curious to hear what this idea was. The desk was a catastrophe, loaded with paperwork, invoices, receipts, and several thick ledgers. His secretary had walked out a few months ago and so far, there was no replacement. It was a regular occurrence but I could understand why secretaries didn’t want to work in close quarters with a greasy old cove like Alfred Grayson!

When my boss put his pen down and looked up he said “Georgie,” with fake affection. I hated it when anyone called me Georgie. ‘ Mon petit Georgie’ that was what mum used to call me, and so hearing that name reminded me that she wasn’t here anymore. It made me miss her something awful. I gritted my teeth and listened to my boss.

He sat back in his chair and considered me with dangerous eyes. “I bet you don’t think anyone hears you when you’re standing in the wings singing along with the acts.” I felt heat rise to blush my cheeks. I was so embarrassed that I’d been called to Mr. Grayson’s office for this !

“I bet you don’t think anyone hears you playing that old piano in your room, neither. I do. I see, and hear everything that goes on in this theater, my lad!”

I was mortified and my eyes fell to try and discern the pattern that was still faintly visible on the old worn carpet beneath my feet.

“Don’t be shy, boy! You’ve got quite the singing voice,” Grayson added with condescending amusement. “And you can’t be doing odds and sods around the theater all your life. It’s about time you got your act together.”

I didn’t understand. Was I finally out on my ear? “P…pardon?” I said, shocked and a little terrified of what he would say next.

“The stage, boy, the stage!”

Oh! I’d longed to be a performer on the stage, but I knew which side my bread was buttered, and I’d worried that if I got on Mr. Grayson’s nerves by asking to perform, he might finally kick me out. And so, I was dumbstruck by what he said next.

“I’ll give you a trial, let’s say a week, you go on as a warm-up act and sing something pretty to get the punters in the mood. I’ll pay you an extra shilling per night. How does that sound?”

I was currently on a three bob a week for being a jack-of-all-trades, and of course, I was the night watchman too!

“Yes, yes, thank you Mr. Grayson…thank you for the opportunity. I won’t let you down, sir!” I stuttered with delight. I walked out of his office feeling like I was ten foot tall.

And so, I started my time as a music hall performer by singing a few popular songs each night as filler between the main star attractions. The reception I got was muted at first, but good enough that Grayson let me keep it going. And I did.

I’d done the warm up spots, singing other people’s songs, for two-years before I got bored and finally decided on a new direction. Those two-years were my schooling, and now I was ready to bloom. For my new act I’d created characters, and matched them with songs that I wrote myself. I’d always been told I could pass for a girl so for my first turn I was dressed like a Catholic nun character I called Sister John Thomas. I began by walking on stage in a nun’s costume. I stood in the middle of the stage, blessed myself, and opened a hymn book. The audience appeared shocked and confused. And to my amusement, some even started booing. Then, I began belting out a well-known song, Oh, How the Money Rolls in , with a few changes to the lyrics I’d penned myself.

My brother’s a rent boy in Chelsea

My mother’s a tart in the Strand

My father sells his arsehole

Up the Elephant and Castle

And charges just tu’ppence a hand

My uncle’s a vicar in Stepney

Saving all the young girls from sin

He’ll sell you absolution for a shilling

And oh, how the money rolls in, rolls in,

And oh, how the money rolls in!

The punters sang along and laughed so hard at my vulgar lyrics that they nearly brought the roof down. That night when I came off stage Mr. Grayson looked at me all funny, like there were stars in his eyes.

“I think you’ve found your calling Sister,” he joked as he clapped me on the back, and he was right. Finally, I was doing what I was supposed to do.

****