been watching his ropes but turned to see the flames, and the audience rose as one person, their shrieks louder than Bella’s.
Aurora grabbed the fire bucket, but it was only sand, and she did not know what to do with it. When she tried to bat at the fiery wings her kimono sleeves shrivelled up in a smoking ruin that she tore off and stamped into smoke before running back to help—but it was Verrall, running down to the stage, who did the only thing possible. In the clanking rush of the fire-curtain’s descent he grabbed the girls’ arms and dashed them backstage to the alley door—dislocating his shoulder as he shoved it open—and threw them out and down the steps into the snow, landing all in a squalling heap, Verrall shouting with pain, flaring bits of silk drifting like ash.
Snow fell blindingly around them, and the girls lay looking up almost peacefully into a whirl of whiteness, separate dots spinning down, small hisses as the separate flames went out.
9.
In One, in Two, in Three
JANUARY-MAY 1915
The Walker, Winnipeg
The Orpheum, Winnipeg
The Pantages, Winnipeg
Personal advice: let your conduct at all times be that of ladies and gentlemen. This same suggestion holds good while you are around the theatre, as the manager knows everything that goes on in the back of the curtain, even if he never comes back there.
FREDERICK LADELLE, HOW TO ENTER VAUDEVILLE
Bella leaned on the train window to cool her forehead. Burnblisters from where she’d slashed at the flames pained her right hand and arm, and she was edgy and sore with her monthly visitor as well. She hated that—something she’d wanted so badly to come; wasn’t that just a little sermon for you. Nothing was wrong, only that she was tired of being nervous. Pressed against the window-ledge, she ground her fist into her eye socket. Nothing was wrong; the theatre had not burned.
Clover sat upright, as still as the train allowed, a cold statue of herself to take away the heat of the fire from her hands, puffed and seeping. Perhaps—she did not know, after all—perhaps Victor was the kind of person who hated a scar.
Aurora had closed her eyes, determined to sleep. She ached everywhere, and the bandages on her wrists chafed. Once they got to Winnipeg she would have to pull herself up into liveliness, to charm Mr. Walker into taking them without their props. Those beautiful wings, gone. They still had their white dresses and tartan sashes. They had Whispering Hope, Buffalo Gals, Danny Boy—what they’d started with, and what Gentry had given them. Yes, but they were much better now than they had once been. Almost singers. She breathed slowly and refused to worry. She thought of Jimmy, but stopped that as well. Her stomach was tight enough.
Beside her, Flora made lists of what must be done. Kimono silk found, purchased, painted, made up; or ought they to cross Poor Butterfly off? Her pencil hesitated. A smoky smell clung to their hands and clothes, unless that was an illusion. She had forgotten to ask Aurora what payment they would be getting at the Walker. Leaving her lists, she stared out at the snowfields going by, going by. Winter again, always winter on tour. Seeing the fields as she left Madison; seeing Paddockwood in winter, seeing Arthur lying face down, a black suit flung on the snow.
Real Snap, Real Vim
‘The Butterfly number was piquant, but we felt it had staled a little,’ Aurora told C.P. Walker with languid confidence, sitting in his spacious, high-ceilinged office—the first elegant manager’s office they’d seen. He pressed a box of bonbons on her, and when she refused, on Bella, who took two.
Mama leaned in and took a chocolate in dainty black-gloved fingers. ‘My dear girls are not a variety act, after all.’
Aurora gave Walker a modestly glowing look, inviting him into her confidence. ‘Gentry Fox, who has been so kind to us, has given me first trial of a number of new songs, which we have paired with old favourites to present a simple, evocative medley with an elegantly distinguished air.’
She wondered if she’d gone too far there.
But Mr. Walker smoothed his foxtail moustache and bowed, according them carefully gauged status: recognized artistes, strong pedigree, some standing on the circuit and the admiration of their peers. No fame, but perfectly respectable openers for the Walker Theatre.
‘Elegantly simple,’ he said. ‘I like the sound of that. I tell my artistes, the single most important job is to know your material.