Tilly Sweetrick
Bandmann Comedy Company posters were everywhere in Madras. They were real performers from London, doing the sort of vaudeville that I knew I was simply made for. They were playing in a real theatre that seated at least 800 people. If the Butcher hadn’t worked us so hard and kept us so poor, I would have been in the audience at Victoria Hall every night. But the Butcher was our slavedriver: each night we performed a different musical, two shows on Saturday and even a show on Sunday. The Butcher and Mr Shrouts hadn’t even found us a proper theatre in Madras. The Moore Park Pavilion was more of a boxing arena than anything else.
Our supplies of limelight ran out in the first week but that wasn’t such a bad thing because it meant I could make out the faces in the audience. I felt my heart leap when I finally spotted Mr Ruse. It had been hard to find ways to talk to people in Madras. The Butcher’s eyes were on me whenever I wandered out to stand by the buffet at the end of the show.
After the performance, I met Mr Ruse on the balcony at the back of the Pavilion, far away from the ticketing area where the Butcher was counting the evening’s takings.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked.
I pushed a hank of my hair away from my forehead and showed him my fading bruises.
‘He beat me the night before we left Bangalore. He knew I’d been talking to you.’
Mr Ruse stepped away from me, and my heart sank. It was like trying to lure a frightened animal out of the forest. I had to be careful not to startle him.
‘The Resident in Mysore received your letter,’ said Mr Ruse, his voice so low that I could barely hear him. ‘He’s written of his concerns to the authorities in Madras.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked.
Then he crooked his finger to indicate I should follow him and he led me to the edge of the balcony. He pointed into the crowd. ‘Those gentlemen down there are with the SPCC here in Madras. Mr St John, Mr Baker, and you might remember Mr Wilkes from Bangalore. They’ll be coming to your performances during the week, to keep an eye on things. While you’re in Madras, people will watch over you. I’m sure Mr Percival will be mindful of that.’
I wanted to tell him how ridiculously useless it was to be watched while we were on stage. As if the Butcher was going to march out and beat us in public! I gritted my teeth and then took a deep breath, trying to curb my irritation.
‘Mr Percival has booked our fares to Colombo,’ I said. ‘We’re to go straight to the station when the curtain falls next Wednesday to take the train to Tuticorin and then the ferry across the strait to Colombo. We shan’t be there long enough to convince anyone of our situation and then he’s taking us to China. We’ll be out of the country on the seventeenth. We’ll never get home if you can’t help us now,’ I said, letting my eyes brim with tears.
I rested my hand on his arm again and gazed pleadingly into his face. He shook himself free, little beads of sweat peppering his brow. ‘I will be back in Madras on Tuesday next week,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t despair, Miss Tilly.’
Mr Ruse didn’t know me at all. I wasn’t going to despair. I was going to make something happen.
The next day, Freddie, Max and I locked ourselves in the change rooms at the Pavilion and came up with a new plan. We were going to force the SPCC into taking action.
That night, I told the others to be ready to work the crowd. As soon as the curtain fell, we ran among the audience, our photos sweaty in our hands. I sent Iris to talk to Mr Baker and Ruby to find someone new while I took charge of Mr Wilkes.
‘Poesy, you have to work on Mr St John. You have to walk him down near the stage door so he’s in place when Max does his bit.’
‘I can’t. I don’t know what to say!’ said Poesy, wringing her silly little hands.
‘You can’t get cold feet now. Tell him Percival’s a beast, that he beats us all. Tell him that the Butcher lied to our parents, as good as kidnapping us. That they all must help us before he takes us out of India.’
‘What if he doesn’t believe me?’
‘Why wouldn’t he? Show him your bruise. That one on your arm.’
‘But you gave me that and it’s only tiny.’
I pushed my hair back and pointed to the welt on my forehead. ‘But the Butcher gave me this. You saw him do it, Poesy. And remember, you’re not Lizzie’s pet any more. There’s no one to protect you. Next time, it could be you.’
She made a little hiccupping noise of grief and then marched down into the stalls.
We’d planned for Max to stir up trouble by baiting Lionel, but the whole thing turned out better than we’d expected and the Butcher played right into our hands. As Lionel walked past Max, Max whispered under his breath ‘Butcher’s Boy’. It was guaranteed to make Lionel mad with rage and Max knew it. Before anyone could stop them, the two boys were on the floor, punching each other furiously. The Butcher pulled them apart and dragged Max into one of the change rooms.
We all heard Max cry out. Not just a small cry of distress. He howled at the top of his voice as if the Butcher was flaying him alive. I ran to the stage door and shoved it wide open, hoping that the audience milling around on the verandah would hear Max’s cries. Eddie Quedda’s face lit with alarm and he hurried towards me, slamming the door in my face. I could hear him speaking outside with Mr St John. Poesy had done her duty and pointed him in the right direction.
‘Who is that crying out? The boy needs assistance. What’s going on back there?’
‘Look, he’s a troublemaker, that one,’ said Eddie, his voice jovial. ‘The boy played the fool on stage tonight, jumping around like a ruddy jumping jack, and he made trouble backstage – against the rules – so I reported him to Mr Percival. Mr P is meting out a bit of discipline, that’s all.’
‘I’ve heard reports, you know. Rumours from Bangalore . . .’
‘They’re rumours, I assure you.’
‘Look, young man, I’m no expert on children but I know the sound of a child in distress.’
‘He’s an actor, sir. He’s going to be louder than your average boy. Mr Percival knows how to handle him.’
Mr St John didn’t persist. He probably needed another whiskey to get his Dutch courage up and working. But I was pleased to see there was still a crowd milling about as we left the Pavilion. You could almost feel the swell of rumours, like distant thunder, gathering force and rumbling through the audience as they drifted out into the warm night.