Chapter Fifty-Seven

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

T om watched them from the edge of the stage. Nikolai sang the first lines of ‘The Sunrise Song’ in Marakovian in honour of the Crown Prince, then switched to English as Lillian joined him. Mabel entered stage right, to a warm round of applause, and added her trumpet line to the melody. Nikolai and Lillian began to dance, Lillian with her head back and her arm out, the edge of her gown hooked to her wrist so the gold shimmered and rippled around her, and Nikolai, assured and graceful, carrying her around the floor, his expression one of unfeigned admiration for his wife.

The chorus of children came on, and Lance, Stella and Harold and Josie descended like kindly gods from their judging platform to join the throng. Lance and Stella waltzed together around Lillian and Nikolai, while Harold twirled with Josie, a broad smile on his face.

After the final verse, the competitors joined them on stage: the fisher-man and Baby June, a romantic tenor and an operatic soprano, the violin couple and, of course, Sally Blow and Clive with his accordion, his sharp, serious little face lightened by the smallest of smiles as he ran his fingers over the keys. Sally looked off stage, caught Tom’s eye and smiled.

Sally looked back out at the audience. The steady glow which had begun when she stepped out on stage for her number, and had become a full roaring flame as she sang, was still burning. She felt as if she must be ablaze with it now.

She was on stage, not to sweep it down after someone else had performed, but by her own lights, and sharing it with Lancelot Drake and Stella Stanmore.

Mr Porter signalled the smashing, raucous and uplifting chords which ended the song, and as the applause and cheering crescendoed, Stella and Lance, Harold and Josie came to the front of the stage.

Stella stepped slightly upstage of them, her long silvery gown swinging round her ankles, and she lifted her arms.

‘Your Royal Highnesses, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, we have one final, crowning delight for you this evening. You’ve heard what we think – now it’s your turn. It’s time for you to vote on your favourite act of this evening, and let us know who the next recording star of Empire Records will be.’

‘Now,’ Lance said, stepping forward, ‘we’re a modern lot, here at The Empire, so I’m delighted to say we have the most up-to-date equipment to help us out. Little Sam, if you wouldn’t mind?’

The children parted, and Little Sam – all six feet of him – appeared, hauling a contraption on a trolley that looked as if it had been stolen from the fairground: all light bulbs and candy stripes. Sally laughed, delighted, and covered her mouth, glancing down at Dougie in the front row. He was beaming.

‘Yes,’ Lance went on, leaning forward and mock serious, raising one elegant eyebrow. ‘The Empire Theatre’s own clap-o-meter! Cheer the acts you like, and roar your heads off for your favourite, and it will be most scientifically recorded right before your very eyes.’

He stepped back and Josie, in blue chiffon, stepped up.

‘Ready, Sam? So, without further ado, let’s hear it for Mr Fairweather!’

The clap-o-meter glimmered, the bulbs chasing their way around its curved edge and the arrow shot up and hovered pointing straight at the roof. Josie announced the next act and the arrow wavered around the same angle. When she announced Baby June, though, it tilted over halfway and the lights flickered on and off in excited pulses.

‘Baby June Dudley, coming out ahead!’ Josie announced.

Sally looked across the stage at Baby June, who smiled, pouted and waved.

Then Harold announced the next names. Sally felt a strange buzzing in her ears. The violinists got about the same as the tenor, then the fisherman came close to Baby June. Then it happened.

‘And now, my lovelies! What do you say to our girl, the one and only Rose of Highbridge, Sally Blow?’

The auditorium exploded with cheers. Dougie, Belle, Alfred and Mr and Mrs Blow leapt to their feet, and half of the audience with them. The clap-o-meter shot round to the far side of the dial in a blaze of white light and ringing bells.

‘We have our answer!’ Harold called. ‘Your Royal Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen, the search for a star has found its winner – Mrs . . . Sally . . . Blow!’

Chin up, Sally Blow.

Sally lifted her eyes and tried to take it all in, caught in the deluge of it. She was hugged from all sides. She ruffled Clive’s hair, and found herself steered to the middle of the stage, deafened by the noise, and then Lancelot Drake was, with a bow, presenting her with a whole bouquet of roses.

‘I think you’d do very well in these new talking pictures,’ he said to her with a flash of that devastating smile.

Sally looked again at Tom, standing in the wings, appearing as baffled and happy as she felt.

‘Yes,’ she mouthed to him, and he put his hands to his heart. Then she looked at Lancelot Drake; he was wearing that same smile he’d worn outside the theatre that night three years earlier. ‘I’ll discuss it with my fiancé, Mr Drake,’ she said.

‘We’d better give them another song,’ Stella laughed, ‘or they’ll never go home.’

A strange electricity ran along Tom’s arms and legs – a shivering, shimmering delight. He heard the door open behind him and turned round to see Mrs Cook talking to the wardrobe assistant, Milly. Even in this haze of happiness, with Mr Porter beginning the introduction to ‘When the One You Love Loves You’, he registered something in the set of their bodies which concerned him.

‘How is Grace doing, Milly?’

Milly looked pale in the shadows, but smiled tightly at him. ‘I need more linens. Mr Treadwell won’t be leaving the building, will he?’

‘Of course not,’ Tom replied. ‘Should I fetch him?’

‘Not yet,’ Milly said, then disappeared back into the gloom.