A Winter Baby for Gin Barrel Lane Read online

  Jack smiled while following along. Coming to an office, the old man pointed. ‘See him in there, that’s the fella you want.’ Turning with tiny steps the man began to mutter again as he moved on. ‘Now I have to walk all that way back again. My old bones ain’t up to all this gallivanting about!’

  Knocking on the office door, Jack walked in, a smile still on his face at the old man’s grumbling.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  ‘I hope so. I saw in the paper the theatre has a new piano and I was wondering if the other one might be for sale.’

  ‘Ah, a pianist, are you?’ the young man behind the desk asked, his long fingers wriggling along its edge and he smiled.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Jack answered.

  ‘Oh, a learner then?’ The man’s eyebrows drew together as he spoke.

  ‘Erm, no.’

  ‘Then why, may I ask, are you interested in buying a piano?’ The man’s cultured voice rose a tone.

  ‘I’d like one for my premises,’ Jack answered honestly.

  ‘Ah, drawing room? Music room? A soiree taking place maybe?’ A hand waved in the air daintily and Jack almost laughed out loud.

  ‘No. Is the piano for sale or not?’

  ‘As it happens, it is,’ the man said as if he was upset.

  ‘Right, then. Let’s have a look and agree a price, then I can get it shifted.’

  The effeminate fellow gave a shudder at Jack’s brusque approach to business but he minced his way to a room further down the corridor where Jack was given a look at the upright piano, and one by one he tapped the keys gently, ensuring they were all working.

  ‘You’ll never be a pianist!’ the man said with a girly giggle.

  ‘You’ve got that right,’ Jack replied.

  Returning to the office and after ten minutes of haggling, Jack paid the money, received a receipt, and was in the cab rolling away to Hodges’ yard. They were the only people he knew who would have a cart big enough to transport his new acquisition.

  Feeling pleased with himself, he then thought ruefully, Now I have to tell Dolly what I’ve spent her money on!

  31

  While Jack was arranging for the piano to be transported to the Emporium, Ezra Moreton’s two guards had returned.

  ‘All we could find out was what we told you before, boss,’ one said.

  ‘All right, but I’m charging you two to keep your ears open and as soon as you hear anything more, you bring it to me.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ they chorused.

  ‘Right, get out!’

  Alone again, Ezra wondered what the hell was going on. He had to find out what Dolly Perkins was up to.

  Walking out onto the street, he whistled loudly. He waited and in a minute an urchin raced around the corner from Grosvenor Row. The boy was wearing worn-out boots which were too big for him, an old jacket with frayed cuffs and holes everywhere, and trousers which were too short and ended halfway down his calves. His face was smeared with dirt and his hair was a matted mess of tangles. His blue eyes were alert as he came puffing up to Ezra, who could hardly believe the lath-thin frame could hold the boy upright.

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘I want to know if the rumour about Dolly Perkins is true. She’s supposed to be looking to buy another pub. Find out what you can.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Ezra pulled a shilling from his pocket and, handing it to the boy, added, ‘Get some food in your belly.’

  Pulling a forelock, the boy sped off, leaving Ezra shaking his head. Poor little bugger!

  Ezra always paid the string of urchins for running his errands and the symbiotic relationship worked well. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for them, knowing he was rich and they had nothing. As he walked back indoors he thought, Good God, Ezra, you’re in danger of becoming a good man!

  Back at Hodges’ yard, Eli had sent his sons with the strongest cart they had along with a sturdy wooden ramp to collect the piano.

  With an enormous amount of pushing and shoving and with the help of the theatre’s porters, they managed to get it loaded.

  Jack had told Eli he would be waiting at the Emporium when they arrived and had enlisted the help of his staff to unload and push the instrument indoors. He had decided to place it along one wall and although it would take up space, the large bar could accommodate it easily enough.

  There was a lot of excitement as the piano was carefully slid down the ramp outside the Emporium. Crowds of people stood around giving advice as to how it should be done, but Eli’s sons ignored them all.

  ‘You ain’t doing that right!’ a man shouted.

  ‘They are,’ another said.

  ‘If they get that thing on the ramp it’ll tip over!’

  ‘No, it won’t. They’ve got all four castors on the ramp. Open yer bloody eyes, man!’

  The argument raged on while two of Eli’s boys stood on the ramp, their backs to the end of the piano. Slowly they moved forward with tiny steps. The heavy iron-framed piano inched its way down the ramp and did not, as some thought it might, roll down out of control.

  They heaved it indoors, sweat dripping from their faces and pooling beneath their armpits, and eventually they man-handled it into place.

  Applause sounded at the feat undertaken by the big burly builders, and Jack paid them well for their efforts.

  ‘You gonna give us a tune then, Jack?’ someone called out as Jack returned to the bar after seeing the Hodges boys on their way.

  ‘Only if you want to go deaf as well as blind!’ he answered as he motioned drinking from a glass. Laughter filled the room and then suddenly the keys began to tinkle.

  The man who had entertained the customers with his trumpet a while ago began to play. By some miracle the piano was still in tune, and before long everyone was singing.

  Jack’s idea appeared to be a roaring success and he nodded, a big grin splitting his face. Bess and Gwen rushed into the bar to enjoy the music and clapped loudly as the refrain came to an end.

  ‘Play another!’ a woman yelled and the man duly obliged.

  Jack was amazed at the sounds filling the bar, from modern songs to classical pieces, and he thought the man was wasted in a gin palace – he should be in a concert hall. He wondered what had brought the man so low that he spent his days trying to kill himself by drinking mother’s ruin, and made a mental note to try and find out.

  It was around tea-time when Jack got the opportunity to speak with the musician. The customers began to stagger out and go home to sleep off the effects of the gin and Jack took that time to speak with the man. The piano was quiet now and the man’s long fingers caressed its keys affectionately.

  ‘You can certainly play that!’ Jack said as he neared the man sitting on the piano stool.

  ‘I learned as a boy.’ The man’s voice held no regional accent and Jack guessed he had been well educated whilst growing up.

  ‘Wyman York at your service.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Wyman.’ The two men shook hands and Jack went on, ‘You should be playing in a big fancy concert hall, not here in a gin palace.’

  ‘I used to play with the orchestra at the Theatre Royal.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I fell out with the musical director,’ Wyman confessed.

  ‘Don’t tell me, you got the sack.’

  Wyman nodded. ‘He wanted to rearrange a time-honoured piece of genius and I told him to go to hell. I said I wouldn’t bastardise such beautiful work because he wanted to make a name for himself.’

  ‘Good on yer,’ Jack said.

  ‘Maybe, but it cost me my job doing what I love most in the world.’

  ‘That’s a crying shame. Could you not have gone to another theatre?’

  Wyman shook his head. ‘That one was my home as well as my workplace.’

  ‘Where do you live now?’

  ‘I lodge with an old woman over by the vinegar works when I can afford it, but…’

  ‘Wyman, are yo
u out on the street?’

  Lowering his head, Wyman nodded.

  ‘Come with me,’ Jack demanded before leading the pianist to the kitchen.

  Jack introduced him to Bess and Gwen then said, ‘Would it be possible to include Wyman when we eat, please?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Bess answered.

  Hooking a finger, Jack beckoned Wyman to accompany him upstairs to a spare bedroom. ‘It’s not much but it’s yours in exchange for keeping my customers happy. What do you think? Do we have ourselves a deal?’

  Wyman looked around. ‘Thank you, Jack, it’s paradise compared to the street.’

  ‘One thing, though, you have to stop drinking my gin.’

  ‘Have you ever seen me drink gin?’

  Jack shook his head and thought hard, then frowned. ‘No, but…’

  ‘I don’t drink, Jack, I come in here to keep warm and blow a few notes on my trumpet.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Well, good on yer. Come on, let’s go and eat.’

  Bess served tea and plates of hot food in relays so the bar was always manned, and while they ate Jack asked Gwen if she would make up the bed for Wyman.

  ‘I’ll do it now while you have your tea,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Do you need to fetch your belongings?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No, all I have is my trumpet, which I left on the bed upstairs.’

  Bess shook her head in sorrow at the man’s plight and offered him more food, which he gratefully accepted.

  ‘You brought that piano from the Theatre Royal, didn’t you?’ Wyman asked.

  ‘Yes, I bought it today. How did you know?’

  ‘I used to play it a lot. I recognised it.’

  ‘Well, I got it from some bloke who was a bit airy-fairy,’ Jack replied with a grin and a dainty wave.

  ‘He must be new there. The one who gave me the push was a little overweight with piggy eyes and a flat nose. He also had an inflated opinion of himself.’

  ‘May he rot in hell,’ Bess mumbled.

  ‘My sentiments exactly, dear lady.’

  Jack listened to the chatter as he ate. A small seed of an idea began to germinate in his mind…

  32

  Well fed now and grateful to be given a room, Wyman York played joyfully that evening. He had folks singing and dancing, and copious amounts of alcohol were consumed.

  At ten o’clock, Jack instructed him to quit and go to the kitchen for his supper.

  Bess served plates of sausage sandwiches with fried onions and large pots of tea.

  ‘I’ve made your bed up, Wyman,’ Gwen said timidly.

  ‘Thank you, sweet lady,’ Wyman replied and saw the blush come to her cheeks.

  Bess rolled her eyes and continued cooking, and as she did so, said, ‘Frank has put the tin bath in the scullery and we have pans of hot water ready for you.’

  ‘Angels, both of you.’

  ‘Ar, well, this angel will be abed while you take your bath.’

  Wyman laughed.

  ‘Joey and Frank have both sorted some clean clothes and a razor out for you too,’ Gwen added.

  ‘I shall thank them for their kindness as I thank you for the care you are giving me.’

  Gwen breathed a dreamy sigh at his elocution and Bess stifled a titter.

  Once everyone had finished their suppers and the dishes were washed, Gwen and Bess retired for the night.

  Jack helped Wyman fill the tin bath, then he provided soap and towels before leaving the man to bathe in privacy. Wyman emerged from the scullery looking like a different man. With wet hair combed and chin shaved, he felt better than he had in a long time.

  When Jack locked up at midnight and everyone had gone home or to their beds upstairs, Jack and Wyman sat in the kitchen chatting.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me, Jack,’ Wyman said over yet more tea.

  ‘You don’t need to, you’re earning a crust now.’

  They talked on, Jack telling him about his fiancé Dolly who owned the Emporium, and Wyman enthusing about how much he loved music and the playing of it.

  ‘Have you ever written any of your own?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yes, a few pieces, but they’re lost now.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You should write some more.’

  ‘Go back to composing? It’s a thought,’ Wyman mused before he said goodnight and went to his new bed.

  Jack turned off the lamps and went happily to his own bed.

  It had been a good day.

  The next morning, after breakfast, Jack took a cab to the Palace to see Dolly. He had some explaining to do and hoped she’d understand why he’d spent some money on a piano. He wanted to sound her out about paying Wyman a small wage in exchange for his services too. The man was proud and Jack guessed he’d accepted Jack’s offer out of necessity, however, if he could be earning a little money, then any thought of being given charity could be forgotten.

  Greeted warmly by the girl he was to wed, Jack again counted his lucky stars. He told her all about Wyman York and the piano and Dolly listened intently.

  ‘Jack, what a marvellous idea!’

  ‘We should get one for here,’ Sadie put in.

  They really would have to find somewhere private for their discussions, Dolly thought. Then again, weren’t they one big family? And wasn’t it said family should not have secrets from each other?

  Dolly agreed to Wyman being paid for his efforts, leaving the amount for Jack to decide upon. Then Jack explained more about the pianist having been sacked.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Jack Larkin, and I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,’ Dolly said.

  ‘Why not? Just think if we could get the theatre to employ him again.’

  ‘How would Wyman feel about you interfering in his life? Have you thought about whether he would want to return there at all?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure he’d love to at least have the choice.’

  ‘Would it not be better to talk it over with him first?’

  ‘I suppose. Yes, I think I’d better.’ Jack’s initial excitement waned a little.

  Seeing this, Dolly ventured, ‘Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a word with the musical director and see what he says. After all, it wouldn’t be a good idea to get Wyman’s hopes up.’

  ‘I knew you’d see it my way.’ Jack beamed and, giving his beloved a quick kiss, he left her in peace. This time he had a man to see about a pianist.

  The theatre door was opened by the same bent old man. ‘Not you again!’

  ‘Yes. I’ve come to see…’

  ‘You know the way. Come in – bloody cold seeping in!’ Closing the door, the porter waved a hand. ‘Get along with you.’ He shuffled away, muttering, ‘Folk coming and going all the bloody time! Kids today, got no respect for their elders. I’m getting too old for all this running around!’ Jack walked the length of the corridor with a grin on his face.

  With a tap on the door, Jack walked in.

  ‘What is it you want this time, a kettle drum?’ the man asked.

  Jack had no idea what that was and said, ‘Mr…?’

  ‘Renoit. Charles Renoit.’

  Jack sniffed at what he felt sure was a made up name, then said, ‘Mr Renoit, my name is Jack Larkin and I’ve come with a proposal.’

  Intrigued, Renoit pointed to a seat with ladylike fingers, and listened carefully as Jack explained about Wyman York being dismissed from the theatre and the reason why.

  ‘My God! I thought he’d died! My predecessor emphatically told me the man had passed on!’

  ‘Well, he ain’t, he’s at my gin palace as we speak, banging out tunes on that old joanna I bought from you.’

  Renoit grimaced then jumped to his feet and began to pace the room, his hands flapping around like fish out of water. ‘We cannot allow that to continue. I’m sorry, Mr Larkin, but I must insist the maestro be returned to the Theatre Royal immediately!’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say that.
That’s what I had hoped you’d say. Now, may I suggest you come and ask him?’

  Renoit and Jack hurried to the waiting cab, which set off directly for the Emporium. On the way, Jack was bombarded with questions he couldn’t answer. Where had Wyman gone after he’d been sacked? How had he lived? Was he still at concert level with his playing?

  Arriving, they climbed out of the cab and Renoit stared in horror. ‘He lives here?’

  ‘He does now,’ Jack said. ‘Let’s go by way of the back, the bar will be packed with drunkards.’

  As they made to move they heard Wyman begin to play.

  ‘Chopin!’ Renoit gushed. ‘Exquisite!’

  Following Jack into the kitchen and having been offered tea, which he accepted, Renoit sat and listened to the music with his eyes closed. Tunes came one after another and the man wept openly, apparently mesmerised by the beauty of the playing.

  Bess and Gwen exchanged a look which said they agreed with the young man’s sentiments.

  Jack went through to the bar and asked Wyman to join him in the kitchen. He agreed and smiled at the groans from the punters, who called for more.

  In the kitchen he was introduced to Renoit and Jack explained what he had done.

  ‘You must come back to the theatre! I absolutely insist!’ The man was flapping his hands around again and Wyman chanced a glance at Jack, who was doing his utmost not to laugh out loud.

  ‘I simply cannot allow you to continue to waste your talents in this place!’ Then turning to Jack said politely, ‘No offence intended.’

  ‘None taken, it’s a good living for me,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Young Mr Larkin has been very good to me,’ Wyman said.

  ‘I’m sure, but Maestro, please – you have to come home!’

  ‘Jack?’ Wyman asked.

  ‘I concur, that’s why I approached Mr Renoit in the first place. You should be in that orchestra if not out there on the stage by yourself.’

  ‘Then I agree, and Jack you will always have my thanks. May I ask a favour?’