Mortlock

Mortlock ~ 5 ~

Ernie cumbers, the theatre bouncer, rocked on his heels at the exit. He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement. 'Evenin', Mr Chrimes. Miss Josie.'

Evening, Ernie,' Josie said, smiling. Cardamom nodded back. Ernie looked fearsome to anyone who didn't know him: a gorilla of a man with no neck to speak of, a flat nose and tiny eyes in a hammy face. He wore a showy checked suit and a bowler that looked two sizes too small for his head

But Josie had seen him wipe a year from his eye at some of the sentimental songs preformed at the Erato. She'd also seen him throw drunkards halfway across the street when he'd caught them in the dancers' dressing rooms. Ernie had caught her eye and tipped his head towards the welcoming committee.

A small group of admirers waited for Cardamom outside the back of the theatre, well to do types what Josie could see of their shiny toppers and smart suits. Some of the ladies present were flanked by coachmen.a gentleman with a long white beard stepped forward and shook Cardamom's hand vigorously.

'Sir, a startling act, so well executed,' the man said, his hand still a blur. 'Where did you learn such wizardry?'

'Fom ancient fakirs, deep in the hidden valleys of the Himalayas,' Cardamom replied. He drew himself up to his full height and pulled his hand free. 'From the dervishes and witch doctors of darkest Africa. I have travelled the world studying the dark arts, sir.'

Josie heaved a sigh; she'd heard it all before. She started across the road. A tall, gaunt man, muffled against the winter's night in along scarf and shabby coat, stared back, making her start. A frizz of grey hair escaped from under his battered top hat. Their eyes locked for a second, then he turned, pushed into the crowds milling along he street and was gone.

Josie blinked and shivered. The man had been watching them, she was sure. The theatre attracted more then its fair share of oddballs. She'd point him out to Ernie if he turned up again. She snapped her attention back to cardamoms admirers.

'Mr Cardamom, you must come and relate your great exploits to me sometime.' A lady in a fur stole handed him a card. Josie pulled a face at the way the women gazed into his eyes.

'Nothing would give me greater pleaser, madam.' Cardamom bowed low and placed the card in his breast pocket. Josie just rolled her eyes . No one addressed her; it was as I'd she was invisible.

They were happy to applaud her onstage - why couldn't they say something now?

Josie stood watching as, after a few more pleasantries, the crowd dispersed. Cardamom half raised his hand to wave but no one looked back as they climbed into their waiting carriages. He looks so alone, she thought. He couldn't have looked lonelier if he'd been standing on a windswept moor or a desolate beach.

At times like this she understood him. Sometimes she felt the same - alone. No worse - abandoned.

'Come on. Mrs Yates will be waiting at the door for us,' Cardamom said, turning to Josie. His face had lost all its animation. The show was over. Josie knew that feeling - it was like a paper bag blown full of air one minute, with the air smashed out of it the next.

Cardamom led the way down the alley, back to the only home they knew - Bluebell Terrace. As Josie hurried along the cobbles, she watched Cardamom's retreating back. She hoped his darkest mood wouldn't set in again. Not tonight.

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