‘Where is she?’ shouted Madame Sabina. ‘Where is my daughter, Miss Olsen? Do you know where she is?’
Through the weave of the costume basket, Celeste saw a group of ballerinas stop to watch the diva. She pushed them aside and one nearly tripped over the basket. Miss Olsen sent a seamstress to move it into her workshop.
‘You can’t leave it there for anyone to fall over,’ she snapped.
‘It’s blooming heavy,’ muttered the seamstress as she pushed it into the workshop.
‘Olsen!’ shrieked Madame Sabina. ‘Do you know where Hildegard is?’
‘Madame,’ said Miss Olsen, ‘I believe she is either in rehearsal, or with Anna in her dressing-room.’
‘HER dressing-room? Hers?’ said Madame Sabina. ‘You mean MY dressing-room. And she’s not there. Go and find her – now.’
‘No, I’m sorry, Madame. I cut and make costumes. I don’t chaperone children. And I am in no way responsible for your daughter.’
From the costume basket, Celeste could see the chubby hand of the diva as it made a violent move. There was a clatter. She had flung to the floor everything that had been on Miss Olsen’s worktable.
Celeste hardly dared breathe as a seamstress bent down, inches from her face, and picked everything up.
‘Olsen, you are a two-faced witch,’ shouted Madame Sabina.
The girls felt a jolt as the seamstress moved the costume basket so part of it was under the high cutting table. Now all they could see through the weave of the basket was the hem of Miss Olsen’s skirt and her well-polished, curly-toed boots. Hildegard stuffed a leg of a pantaloon into her mouth to stop her teeth chattering with fear.
‘You should be careful how you talk to me, Madame,’ said Miss Olsen, who now had the wind of injustice in her sails. ‘I know where you came from and what you did. And if ever you dare talk to me like that again, I won’t hesitate to speak out. I have been at your beck and call long enough. And I’ll tell you this for a barrelful of tar: your daughter has the makings of a great singer – far greater than you.’
The seamstresses began to giggle.
Madame Sabina let out a little scream and flounced from Miss Olsen’s workshop. Just when the girls thought they might be able to escape, to their horror they felt a cane tap the side of the basket.
‘There you are, Mr Ross,’ said Miss Olsen. ‘Coffee’s ready.’ Then she said to her seamstresses, ‘You can go for lunch. Don’t be back late.’
Celeste and Hildegard heard the sound of the seamstresses’ boots disappearing rapidly down the stairs.
‘And tell the stage door keeper to send up two porters,’ Miss Olsen called after them. ‘This costume basket is to go to Mr Quigley.’
There was a silence in the workroom which felt to Celeste as if it went on forever. It was long enough almost to make her think that Miss Olsen and Albert Ross might have left too.
Her tummy tumbled when she heard Albert Ross say, ‘You’re a kind woman, Miss Olsen. Kind, very kind. A kind of woman is you.’
‘More of your gibberish, Mr Ross,’ Miss Olsen replied.
‘Albert, call me Albert.’ There was a tinkle of china cups and then he said, ‘There’s no one else here, is there?’
‘No, Albert, you saw me send them away.’
‘You heard her?’ said Albert Ross, ‘the so-called Madame Sabina.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Olsen. ‘The whole opera house could hear her. It was the best performance she’s given in a long while. Now, Albert, you were telling me what happened after the ship was wrecked. You never finished your story.’
Celeste heard two plops in a china cup. Sugar lumps, she thought as a spoon stirred vigorously.
‘Go on then,’ said Miss Olsen.
There was silence then Albert Ross said suddenly, ‘There is someone in here.’
‘Where?’ said Miss Olsen.
‘In that basket.’
Celeste and Hildegard buried themselves as much as they could under the pile of clothes. The lid of the costume basket was opened then shut.
‘Nothing,’ said Miss Olsen. ‘Just your imaginings. If you don’t start, there will be no time for you to finish, which would be a pity. Is the coffee to your liking?’
Now the girls had a view of Miss Olsen’s bloomers and black stockings as she rested her boots on a chair in front of her.
‘You told me about the cabin boy you tried to save – what was his name…? Oh, yes, Noah Jepson. What happened next?’
‘We were returning, limping, from the battle and made it to these icy waters. A storm did what the cannonball could not and we went down with all hands. That sea, even when the sun has been on it, is only ever the temperature of the devil’s blood. Ice cold. One by one the sailors drowned.’
‘Wait,’ said Miss Olsen. ‘Only yesterday you told me it was a passenger ship.’
‘It was both and neither, neither and both. And I hear two hearts beating.’
‘Drink your coffee, Mr Ross. There’s no one here.’
Celeste stifled a gasp when the basket was tapped again.
‘You haven’t been telling anyone else my stories?’ said Albert Ross.
‘Don’t be daft. I had a father who was a sea captain and he talked much nonsense about the great albatross. He said it was the soul of a dead sailor.’
‘Not far wrong. Not far wrong was your father.’ Celeste could hear Albert Ross sniffing the air. ‘There is someone here.’
‘Where, Mr Ross?’
‘In that basket.’
‘But how do you know?’
‘I can hear two hearts beating, beating too fast.’
‘I want to know how your story ends. What happened to the lad you were trying to save?’
‘The cabin boy was only a little chap with wonky legs. I did my best to keep him alive, finding bits of the boat for him to hold onto. Noah Jepson. Written on my heart, that name. He couldn’t swim. He kept asking me if Neptune was a kind man, because he was certainly heading that way.’
‘Did the boy live?’
‘I gave up my soul, my sight, to save him and still he drowned. He didn’t even try to save himself.’
‘No, no,’ said Miss Olsen, ‘that’s fairy tale nonsense. So the boy died?’
‘Yes, he died.’
‘Where does the albatross come into your story?’
‘I told you that. You weren’t listening. The boy was lost and I was about to follow him to my watery grave, when a great albatross came swooping down, pecked out my eyes and took my soul.’
‘Rubbish! No bird could do that. Fairy tales are for children – I’m far too old for such silliness.’
‘So I came home to my wife and daughter,’ said Albert Ross.
‘Now that’s more the ticket,’ said Miss Olsen, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll put a drop of rum in your coffee – to warm the cockles of your heart.’
‘Some would say I haven’t got one,’ said Albert Ross. ‘I came home to my wife and daughter a blind and broken man and learned to be a piano tuner. But my wife wanted more. She wasn’t a good woman, my wife. She left me. I followed her. I know her.’
‘Do I know her?’ said Miss Olsen, sitting down again. ‘Who is she?’
Albert Ross laughed.
Celeste’s legs were stiff and Hildegard had cramp in her foot. They were both wondering how much longer the torture would go on for when they heard the porter’s voice.
‘Miss Olsen,’ he said, ‘we’ve been sent to collect the costume basket for Mr Quigley.’
‘Sometimes, Miss Olsen’, said Albert Ross, ‘it’s best you leave the story be.’
‘The basket for Mr Quigley, Miss Olsen?’ repeated the porter.
Suddenly Miss Olsen’s boots moved with speed.
‘Oh dear, I nearly forgot. I mended his jacket.’
She opened the lid of the basket again. Hildegard could see her quite clearly and if Miss Olsen had happened to glance down she would have seen Hildegard’s terrified face staring up at her. But instead she dropped the jacket into the basket, closed the lid and fastened it. The girls felt themselves moving.
Before Miss Olsen’s voice faded away entirely, they heard her say, ‘I have some very nice fabric for a new waistcoat for you, Mr Ross. Come on, finish the story.’
The porters struggled down the stairs to the clown’s dressing-room, Celeste and Hildegard trying not to fall on top of one another.
They heard the porter knock on the door.
‘We never close,’ called the clown. ‘Come on in, it’s open house.’
The porter pushed the costume basket inside.
‘What have you got in there, Mr Quigley?’ wheezed the porter. ‘The crown jewels?’
Celeste put her hand over Hildegard’s mouth to stop her giving their hiding place away. But knowing the basket to be fastened shut was too much for her. The second she heard the door close, she screamed.
‘Let me out, ple-e-e-ase, Mr Quigley. Please let me out.’
Quigley opened the basket and burst out laughing when he saw the girls.
‘You two could work this up as a comedy act – the audience would love it.’
He laughed again at their solemn faces. ‘Come on, girls, worse things happen at sea.’
Quigley escorted Celeste and a very shaken Hildegard back to what once had been Madame Sabina’s dressing-room. Anna had been anxiously looking for them.
‘They’re all right,’ said Quigley. ‘Just a little crumpled after hiding in my costume basket.’
Anna gathered up the girls.
‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t here – it won’t happen again,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay with you all the time, I promise.’
It was too much for Hildegard. She burst into tears which became sobs, her whole body shaking.
She managed to say, ‘Mama isn’t here, is she?’
‘No,’ said Anna. ‘Mr Gautier took her home. He assured me that she promised not to come to the theatre again, not while the pantomime is on.’
‘Mama’s always nice to other people. Until she knows their secrets, then she turns on them.’ Hildegard blew her nose and said, ‘I’ve just thought of something cheerful.’
‘What?’ said Anna and Celeste together.
‘Celeste didn’t light up when we were in the costume basket. That would have been terrible. If she had, we would have been discovered straight away.’
Anna dried Hildegard’s tears and she lay on the day-bed and fell asleep.
Celeste said very quietly to Anna, ‘Albert Ross was once married and had a daughter.’
‘Is that important?’ asked Anna.
‘I don’t know. We heard him tell Miss Olsen that his wife wasn’t a good woman. Miss Olsen asked if his wife was someone she knew. He didn’t answer but I wondered if he was talking about Madame Sabina.’
‘That’s a ridiculous notion,’ said Anna.
‘Is it?’ said Celeste. ‘Do you remember I told you about the box of chocolates? When Madame Sabina saw who it was from, she threw everyone out of her dressing-room, including Hildegard, who had nearly choked on an emerald ring. On the card was written, To Hildegard from Papa.’
An opera house is a place of gossip, a small world where minor incidents become major events. The seamstresses made sure that Madame Sabina’s performance in the wardrobe department that afternoon was the subject of most conversations in the opera house that evening.