The Girl from the Opera House Read online

  The Girl from the Opera House

  A short story

  NANCY CARSON

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Published by Avon an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

  Copyright © Nancy Carson 2015

  Cover photographs © fourseasons/istock by Getty 2015, Cover design © Debbie Clement

  Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

  Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008141363

  Version 2015-02-26

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Girl From the Opera House

  Be swept away by THE BLACK COUNTRY CHRONICLES

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  The Girl From the Opera House

  The Opera House on Castle Hill in Dudley was opened in 1899 by the Earl and Countess of Dudley to much pomp and civic ceremony. The new theatre was mooted to be the safest and most convenient one in Britain; the safest because it could be emptied of patrons in three minutes flat; however, its claim to greatest convenience was less clear. Impressive, and some said, pretentious, with its sensational Italianate terracotta architecture, the Opera House was quite unlike any other construction in the town, standing as it was in the lea of the ruined Norman castle that sat perched on a steep and densely wooded hill at its rear. Despite the building’s name, it offered not only operas (its very first offering was The Mikado by the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company), but plays, music hall, variety, vaudeville, and even presented silent films on afternoons.

  As patrons entered the warm and welcoming foyer an attendant with polished brass buttons and an amenable demeanour would greet them, and point them in the direction of the box office with the message, ‘Tickets here, please.’

  The occupant of the box office to which all were directed was Millie Cutler, twenty-six years old and strikingly pretty with big brown eyes. Her lush dark hair was exquisitely cut in a fashionable and thoroughly modern bob, and she possessed a figure that was equally arresting. Such feminine characteristics were considered essential to her position. At work she wore a plain, but very smart dress in black and decorated it with a necklace made of colourful stones that lifted it from the ordinary. And all because the boss, Mr Edward Baring, did not care for his girls to look like the clerks and waitresses from the Station Hotel across the road. In the course of her ticketing, hundreds of people watched and admired Millie, especially men, as they paid for their entrance into the theatre. Consequently, her face was well-known locally. On the street people would recognise her, nudge each other and say, ‘That’s the girl from the Opera House’.

  Millie was in her box office well before the doors opened for evening performances, and remained on duty until the money she had taken had been counted, and reconciled with the tickets sold. She treated every patron to an affable smile, whether the patron was pleasant or not – and all in the course of duty. In short, not only was she presentable, but amiable and efficient too. It was these qualities that continued to commend her to Mr Edward Baring.

  Although she spent a great many of her waking hours in this opulent theatre with its regular changes of shows, actors, actresses, singers and other artists, she never had the chance to meet any of them. She had never seen a performance from start to finish. The only time she was aware of the entertainment was at those instances when the heavy curtain between foyer and auditorium was pulled aside, and she would catch the sounds of the orchestra or a few recited words of a monologue. She had no hankering for the artificial glamour and glitz of provincial show business; she was happy, and considered herself lucky to have regular employment, even though the hours did not coincide harmoniously with those of the rest of society.

  In the autumn of 1920, a handsome man of about thirty, tall, straight-backed and impeccably dressed, appeared at the box office long after the current showing, which was a vaudeville production, had started. He asked if there was a private box available.

  ‘I’m afraid all the boxes are occupied this evening, sir,’ Millie responded apologetically through the gilt grating that separated them.

  ‘What a shame,’ the man replied, and took off his hat. ‘But are there any good seats available elsewhere in the auditorium, somewhere near the stage?’

  Millie thought how refined he sounded, with his rounded vowels and clipped consonants, with no hint of Black Country twang. And he was so good-looking, with his sleek black hair, that she was overcome with a desire to impress him.

  ‘Let me just check for you,’ she answered, and consulted her seating plan which showed the seats sold for that performance as well as those left unsold. ‘Yes, sir, there are a few seats in the third row – row C – almost in the centre, and on the left hand side in the sixth row. Would one of those be all right for you, sir?’

  ‘Excellent, thank you.’ He smiled gratefully. ‘I’ll take just the one – in row C.’

  He duly paid, and Millie sighed as she watched him disappear through the heavy curtain that separated the foyer from the auditorium, to be ushered into the darkness and shown to his chosen seat.

  On the Monday evening of the following week, the same well-dressed handsome man presented himself at Millie’s box office again. Tonight, though, he was in good time to catch the entire programme. She smiled up at him in recognition, and he reciprocated pleasantly from his superior height.

  ‘Good evening, Miss,’ he said. ‘Do you have a private box available for tonight’s show?’

  While trying to look pert as well as efficient, Millie made an exaggerated display of checking her seating plan, even though she was fully aware that one private box was empty; this, just to detain him a little.

  ‘You’re lucky, sir.’ She smiled up at him, wide-eyed. ‘There is one available. Would you like to take it?’

  ‘I would, rather,’ he answered. ‘How much is it?’

  She told him and he handed over a gold sovereign. In return she gave him change and his ticket.

  ‘So that you’re not disappointed in future, you can always book a private box in advance,’ she suggested. ‘That is if you intend to visit the theatre regularly.’ This would be helpful to him, she thought, and added: ‘In the daytime you can book at Stanton’s music shop in the town, just below the Market Place.’

  ‘Or with you?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes, or from me – during the evenings.’ She smiled, her most dazzling smile.

  ‘Thank you, Miss, I’ll bear that in mind.’<
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  Millie beckoned the usher, who had been watching the exchange, to lead the gentleman to his box.

  The following evening saw a repeat of the events; the well-dressed handsome man appeared yet again. But this time there was no private box available, and only a couple of seats in the stalls. He accepted one, but seemed disappointed.

  ‘Maybe you should’ve heeded my advice and booked in advance,’ she told him.

  ‘I think I ought,’ he responded, and asked her to check on which nights a box would be available.

  ‘For this week?’ she queried.

  ‘Please.’

  It was obvious to Millie that he had his eye on one of the showgirls, or was already a showgirl’s beau and did not wish to put his sweetheart to the trouble of obtaining tickets for him.

  ‘I can offer you a box for Wednesday night’s performance…oh, and there’s one available for Friday night.’ She looked at him appealingly.

  ‘Excellent. Would you be so good as to reserve a box for both shows, please?’

  ‘I’d be glad to,’ she replied. ‘It’s unusual to have a box available for a Friday at this late hour.’

  As he handed over money to pay for them, he said, ‘I’ll take pot luck if I can come on other evenings.’

  ‘Well, enjoy the show…again,’ she said cheerily as she handed him his change.

  Friday night came, and so did the well-dressed young man to take his private box. He greeted her with a wink and a broad smile, almost as if they were confidants, which made Millie’s heart flutter. Millie, after all, was single, and any well-dressed handsome young man was a potential mate, however far removed from her social scene he might appear to be.

  Then, shortly after the show had started, a friend of Millie’s walked into the foyer, with another young woman whom she had not met before. Millie’s friend, Irene Gregson, walked up to the grating at the box office, and placed her handbag on the grating’s ledge. Irene was important to the Opera House, because she was a freelance journalist and would give an account in the local newspapers of the shows put on at the theatre. She normally posted glowing reviews.

  ‘Millie, I know it’s a bit late, but do tell me you have a box available for tonight’s show.’

  ‘On a Friday night?’ Millie replied, rolling her eyes expressively. ‘You’ll be lucky. All the boxes are taken.’

  ‘I’ve got my cousin with me – Clarissa…’ Irene turned to Clarissa and gestured to her to join the exchange. ‘Clarissa, this is my friend Millie…Millie, Clarissa.’

  ‘Hello, Clarissa. I’m so pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Clarissa’s from America. She’s only been here a couple of days, and she just adores vaudeville. I’ve been telling her how great this show is. She was so looking forward to it.’

  ‘What a pity you’ve chosen tonight, though,’ Millie remarked. ‘It’s a full house. If I’d known you were coming I’d have reserved you a couple of seats somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe that review I posted in the Herald and the Express and Star was too ecstatic…Are you absolutely sure there’s nothing?’

  Then Millie had a thought. ‘Wait a minute, Irene. Just keep your eye on the box office for me. I’ll be back in a sec.’

  So Millie exited the box office by the door at its side and slipped through the heavy curtain. On her right was a staircase, plushly carpeted. She ascended it briskly and glided along the corridor at the top, thick carpet still soft under her feet. Her target was the private box occupied only by the well-dressed handsome man. She tapped on the door and opened it. He had a pair of opera glasses to his eyes, which he lowered at once as he turned to see who had violated his paid-for private space.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you sir, but would you mind very much if I asked you to share this box with two young ladies, one of whom is an American visitor, the other a good friend of mine? They’re desperate to see the show.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind at all,’ he responded affably. ‘I’m happy to regard a friend of yours as a friend of mine. Show them in, do.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said sincerely with her usual lovely smile. ‘I’ll send them up straight away.’

  Back in her box office she addressed Irene and Clarissa. ‘You’re in luck. There’s this chap who’s been coming nearly every night lately. I think he’s got a girlfriend in the show, or fancies one of the showgirls. He’s in box four on his own. He says you’re welcome to join him. Go through the curtain and take the stairs on the right. I wish I was going with you – he’s a bit of a swell.’

  ‘A swell, eh? Thanks, Millie. You’re a doll. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing. The swell already paid.’ She tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger, indicating harmless intrigue and a spirit of feminine complicity.

  The following Thursday, when Millie arrived at the theatre for work, one of the ushers, Arthur Taft, greeted her. ‘That Miss Gregson dropped by this afternoon, Millie. She said I was to pass this to you.’ He handed her a note.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Arthur.’

  She opened it. It read: ‘Dear Millie, I’m giving a private party for my American cousin Clarissa this Saturday night at the Station Hotel. Lots of people are invited and I’ve fixed up a band, so there’ll be music and dancing. I do hope you’ll come. I owe you. Irene xxx.’

  Arthur looked at Millie expectantly, hoping to share the secret.

  ‘I’m invited to a party, Arthur,’ she grinned.

  ‘A party eh? That’s nice. Just mind what you’m up to.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Arthur, paternally. ‘But it’ll be a nice change for you, eh?’

  ‘Yes, if only I’d got something decent to wear.’

  ‘Go on with you,’ he answered dismissively. ‘I bet you got loads of lovely frocks.’

  ‘But not evening wear, Arthur.’

  ‘So wear summat else. You always look nicely turned-out. You could wear a tater sack and still look smashin’.’

  She smiled, but looked thoughtful. ‘Mmm…I’ll have to sort through my wardrobe.’

  The Station Hotel was a mock-Tudor building at the bottom of Castle Hill and on the opposite side of the road to the Opera House. Thankfully, it was not far from Millie’s house in Caroline Street, so she would be able to get home quickly later.

  When her stint in the box office was over, Millie changed her clothes, spruced herself up and refreshed her lipstick. She crossed the road to the Station Hotel as a tram rattled past, and entered the reception with its sweeping staircase. A gentleman behind a desk greeted her with an enquiring smile, and she asked him where Miss Gregson’s party was being held.

  ‘In the assembly room at the back, me dear,’ he told her. ‘Quickest way is to go through the saloon bar and through the door at the other side, then across the corridor.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and launched herself in that direction, her black coat flying open to reveal a short red dress, tight at the hips, that fitted her to perfection. As she hurried through the saloon bar, paying no heed to the men who were supping there, she heard her name called.

  ‘Millie?’

  She turned to ascertain whose voice it was because it had a disturbingly familiar ring to it.

  ‘George!’ she gasped. ‘Fancy seeing you here. I’ve not seen you since—’

  ‘What brings you here, Millie? It’s lovely to see you – and looking so gorgeous. Are you married yet, or what?’

  ‘No…still living with my mother.’

  ‘Well, well, well! Let me get you a drink.’

  ‘Sorry, I must dash,’ she said, defiantly excusing herself, for she had no wish to be detained by George Harrington, for he did not deserve her company. ‘I’m meeting some friends and I’m already late. It’s nice to see you again.’ There – that should give him the hint and put him in his place. ‘Goodbye.’ She hurried through the rest of the saloon bar and dashed through the door at the other end.

 
Millie was quite breathless at having met George Harrington after so long. He had changed somewhat. He had always been good-looking and a lot of fun, but now he seemed drawn, pale and melancholy, as if he wasn’t being looked after properly. He had entered her life six years ago when she was twenty-years-old, long before her employment at the Opera House. Millie had fallen head over heels in love with him, and he with her, and they became engaged to be married. She gave herself to him entirely, and despite the horrors of the war, their intimacy rendered their world more beautiful and their romance more magical. Then, in 1916, he was conscripted and ended up in France, which broke Millie’s heart, because she feared she might never see him again. She suffered anxious weeks and months despite his regular letters. As it happened, she did not see him again, because he returned from France at the end of the war in 1918 with a French wife, Aimée. Of course, he’d had the decency to let her know, but that had not helped at all. Yet Millie’s heartrending distress gradually lessened, tempering into disappointment, and in time disappointment changed into the appreciation that after all she now lived quite contentedly without him. Yet seeing him again out of the blue unsettled her.

  She entered the assembly room and a blue haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air. The electric lighting was subdued and all around, people were drinking, chattering and shrieking with laughter. Those not engaged in the mirth were dancing to the rhythmic strains of ‘When My Baby Smiles At Me’.

  Irene spotted Millie and waved frantically to gain her attention. Millie saw and made her way to the table Irene was sharing with her American cousin and two other young women, sisters introduced as Vera and Violet. All of them looked lovely.

  ‘We’re being wall-flowers,’ Irene greeted loudly, so as to be heard over the music and laughter. ‘Discussing men, mostly. What would you like to drink, Millie?’

  ‘I think I’ll have gin and orange,’ Millie replied.

  Irene caught a passing waiter and ordered drinks for everybody at the table. As they talked Irene kept mentioning some chap she referred to as Augustus, and Augustus’s name kept cropping up regularly thereafter.