it.’ Percy appeared from nowhere, waving flustered despairing hands.
Six young ladies flitted from the dressing-room, attracted by their leader’s voice, all dressed in pale blue frilly skirts and tights, and waving wands. They watched their young leader carefully; when she glared, they glared, a titter from her, a titter from them.
‘Who are you?’ the little girl demanded of Auguste.
Auguste now realised she was a matron of about thirteen, rather than the eight that her short pinafore dress and ringlets suggested. ‘Auguste Didier, master chef,’ he replied as best he could, half choked by Fernando’s embrace.
‘That’s a stupid name. What’s a master chef?’
‘One who cooks better than anyone else.’
‘Not better than my ma.’
‘I can see that,’ he replied politely, eyeing her podgy build.
It was not lost on her. ‘I don’t like you,’ she announced, a gleam in her eye. ‘Come on, fairies.’
From the auditorium he heard Thomas Yapp shouting with quavering voice: ‘Little Emmeline and Her Fairies.’ The roar that went up did not bode well for a mere child, and Auguste found it in his heart to be sorry for her.
Sometimes winkles and whelks sounded positively wonderful. He detached himself from Fernando, dashed to Will’s dressing-room to check he was not alone, and then hurried back to the eating-room. As he did so, he heard the Shad well Mob in full voice, highly delighted at such easy prey. Auguste wavered, decided he could not miss the downfall of Little Emmeline, and crept into the back of the pit. He saw the girl’s stout figure inits white pinafore dress and black stockings. He saw it instantly change its stance as she fixed her beady eyes on the Shadwell Mob. A softer, gentler Emmeline materialised before his eyes. She cast her eyes up to her Maker – and the gallery. She quavered. ‘Oh please, don’t shout me down. My ma’s sick and so’s my baby brother, and Pa said he’d beat me if I don’t come home with me money. Oh please . . .’ She spread confiding little hands, as her trusting eyes appealed to her audience. There was a silence; the Shadwell Mob were temporarily shamed, but still suspicious. Little Emmeline squatted down to the conductor, carefully showing white frilly drawers, and whispered. A solitary violin began to play, and in a childish untuneful pipe Little Emmeline began to sing. Her fairies, used merely to their usual routine of dance, and their leader’s monologues, hastily adapted themselves to a suitable mournful pose.
‘Oh Father, dear Father, come home with me now . . .’
Auguste tore himself away from this fascinating scene, and returned to his true domain. Lizzie hardly seemed to notice he’d been absent, a fact that suggested more about his predecessor in the job than Auguste himself.
He found himself obediently whisking plates of shellfish and tubs of jellied eels onto tables at her command. One plate was dextrously commandeered by newcomers lurching into the eating-room.
‘Lizzie, dear heart, come hither and let me chuck you under your chin.’ The elder of the two, a man in his early sixties, slumped at the table. ‘Beer, young man,’ he ordered of Auguste. ‘Gone are the days,’ he observed sadly, ‘when a dozen servants served my every whim.’
‘Garn,’ snorted Lizzie, as she dashed to the table plonking down pie and mash twice.
‘It is true, Miss Lizzie. But pray tell me what has happened? Mine eyes dazzle, you’re transformed. You glow. Have you fallen victim to this rich man’s whim?’ A glance at Auguste, who informed him grimly, ‘She has not. I am temporary chef to this establishment. Auguste Didier.’
‘
The
Auguste Didier?’
Auguste instantly warmed to him. Perhaps he had misjudged this character. ‘The same.’
‘He’s bamboozling you,’ Lizzie said indignantly. ‘’E’s never heard of you, no more than I had.’
The man rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘’Tis true, I fear. Permit me to introduce
Six young ladies flitted from the dressing-room, attracted by their leader’s voice, all dressed in pale blue frilly skirts and tights, and waving wands. They watched their young leader carefully; when she glared, they glared, a titter from her, a titter from them.
‘Who are you?’ the little girl demanded of Auguste.
Auguste now realised she was a matron of about thirteen, rather than the eight that her short pinafore dress and ringlets suggested. ‘Auguste Didier, master chef,’ he replied as best he could, half choked by Fernando’s embrace.
‘That’s a stupid name. What’s a master chef?’
‘One who cooks better than anyone else.’
‘Not better than my ma.’
‘I can see that,’ he replied politely, eyeing her podgy build.
It was not lost on her. ‘I don’t like you,’ she announced, a gleam in her eye. ‘Come on, fairies.’
From the auditorium he heard Thomas Yapp shouting with quavering voice: ‘Little Emmeline and Her Fairies.’ The roar that went up did not bode well for a mere child, and Auguste found it in his heart to be sorry for her.
Sometimes winkles and whelks sounded positively wonderful. He detached himself from Fernando, dashed to Will’s dressing-room to check he was not alone, and then hurried back to the eating-room. As he did so, he heard the Shad well Mob in full voice, highly delighted at such easy prey. Auguste wavered, decided he could not miss the downfall of Little Emmeline, and crept into the back of the pit. He saw the girl’s stout figure inits white pinafore dress and black stockings. He saw it instantly change its stance as she fixed her beady eyes on the Shadwell Mob. A softer, gentler Emmeline materialised before his eyes. She cast her eyes up to her Maker – and the gallery. She quavered. ‘Oh please, don’t shout me down. My ma’s sick and so’s my baby brother, and Pa said he’d beat me if I don’t come home with me money. Oh please . . .’ She spread confiding little hands, as her trusting eyes appealed to her audience. There was a silence; the Shadwell Mob were temporarily shamed, but still suspicious. Little Emmeline squatted down to the conductor, carefully showing white frilly drawers, and whispered. A solitary violin began to play, and in a childish untuneful pipe Little Emmeline began to sing. Her fairies, used merely to their usual routine of dance, and their leader’s monologues, hastily adapted themselves to a suitable mournful pose.
‘Oh Father, dear Father, come home with me now . . .’
Auguste tore himself away from this fascinating scene, and returned to his true domain. Lizzie hardly seemed to notice he’d been absent, a fact that suggested more about his predecessor in the job than Auguste himself.
He found himself obediently whisking plates of shellfish and tubs of jellied eels onto tables at her command. One plate was dextrously commandeered by newcomers lurching into the eating-room.
‘Lizzie, dear heart, come hither and let me chuck you under your chin.’ The elder of the two, a man in his early sixties, slumped at the table. ‘Beer, young man,’ he ordered of Auguste. ‘Gone are the days,’ he observed sadly, ‘when a dozen servants served my every whim.’
‘Garn,’ snorted Lizzie, as she dashed to the table plonking down pie and mash twice.
‘It is true, Miss Lizzie. But pray tell me what has happened? Mine eyes dazzle, you’re transformed. You glow. Have you fallen victim to this rich man’s whim?’ A glance at Auguste, who informed him grimly, ‘She has not. I am temporary chef to this establishment. Auguste Didier.’
‘
The
Auguste Didier?’
Auguste instantly warmed to him. Perhaps he had misjudged this character. ‘The same.’
‘He’s bamboozling you,’ Lizzie said indignantly. ‘’E’s never heard of you, no more than I had.’
The man rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘’Tis true, I fear. Permit me to introduce
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