There was a rumour spreading among the audience at the Palace of Varieties that the girls would actually be naked in the finale. As a result it was becoming increasingly difficult for the preceding acts to command the full attention of the house.

Julian watched from the orchestra pit as Professor Mangassarian, the spiritualist medium, who normally held all present spellbound, struggled to find anyone who would claim as their own ‘a grey bearded gent named William’, or ‘a fair haired child who died of the scarlatina’.

In fact, the girls would not be naked. Julian had seen them during dress rehearsal in the flesh-tone body stockings debuting tonight. They wouldn’t even be dancing, but striking dramatic poses in something called a tableau vivant. The London County Council did not deem any kind of movement respectable in the circumstances.

Mangassarian came to the end of his patience and, in his doubtful Romanian accent, predicted the end of the world before the close of the century. He made a stiff bow before stalking off and, as the curtain fell, the Chairman stepped up from the audience to announce the next act.

Julian made his way backstage to meet Mr Fielding, or Lady Patricia, as he was known. He found him retying the laces on one of his high heeled boots.

Fielding greeted Julian with a warm smile. “Good evening, Mr Barratt. The crowd is lively tonight.” He smoothed the skirt of his gown. “We’re going to have our work cut out.”

Julian had been asked to step in as Fielding’s pianist for this week’s performances when his own had let him down. Normally he stayed away from the stage, keeping to his place in the pit with the rest of the house orchestra. He adjusted his bowtie and flattened his rigidly oiled hair, stumbling over his ‘good evening’.

“Don’t be nervous. You’ll do well enough,” Fielding said kindly, as if Julian was the one about to appear in a green silk gown and ribboned bonnet before hundreds of excitable Londoners.

The Chairman announced Lady Patricia with an abundance of effusive adjectives on the subject of her grace and beauty, and begged the audience to respect the delicacy of her feelings. The crowd responded with whistles and cheers as Julian followed Fielding on to the stage and took his seat at the piano.

He had seen the act before and it always began with Lady Patricia opening a parasol and strolling across the stage, back and forth, allowing the audience to appreciate the perfection of the impersonation. Mr Fielding was slightly built, he had large eyes and girlish lips, and these natural attributes aided the artifice. A corset under the gown sketched a feminine figure and a high wig and make up completed the striking picture of a woman.

The audience were silenced, the naked girls momentarily forgotten; they had never seen anything like Lady Patricia. They knew she was a he, of course; the play bill said so and there were enough clues in the broad architecture of Fielding’s face. But they were accustomed to female impersonators being comedy turns; gruff, stubbled dames or clumpy milk maids. They were not used to the confusion of a man with genuine feminine beauty. Julian knew he wasn’t.

“Forgive me if I seem agitated,” Fielding began, his voice a tone higher than his natural speaking voice, and smoothed soft. “But there is such an uproar back stage. You see, the ghosts the Professor conjured are refusing to leave.” The audience took a moment to realise he was referring back to the last act and then, delighted, cheered him on. “I could scarcely fight my way through them. They were dancing quadrilles for shillings, scaring the performing collies, spilling tea on the Hindoo Princess. Dreadful.”

Patricia turned to Julian. “My pianist, Mr Barratt, slipped in a puddle of ectoplasm. It took six burly stage hands to stand him on his feet.” The parasol twirled. “Of course, I was quite jealous.”

On impulse, Julian performed an elaborate mime of wiping ectoplasm from his eye. Fielding flashed him a smile and moved on, announcing the first musical number.

This brought more confusion for the audience. The song, accompanied only by Julian’s piano, was an old one called, ‘The boy I love is up in the gallery’. It was a pretty love song addressed to an imagined suitor watching from the royal circle, but rendered without the broad comedy for which it was known. He sang it to make the audience shed a tear, even though they could not quite forget this was a boy singing to a boy.

The act finished with another song; this one called ‘I don’t put myself forward too much’. It was delivered by Fielding, with unblinking innocence, even though the cheeky innuendo in almost every line had the crowd shrieking with laughter. There was, Julian realised, something subtle and instinctual about Fielding’s comic timing which kept the audience in his power from start to finish.

After the performance, they listened to the applause die away and Fielding thanked him. His voice fell to its natural pitch and dropped a social class as well. “That was nice work. I wish I’d had you at the last place. Will you be able to help me out for the rest of the week?”

“Of course.”

Fielding offered him a white gloved hand to shake. Then he loaded the parasol and sheet music into a carpet bag and hefted it on to his shoulder. It was not uncommon for artists to perform their act at three or four of the halls in an evening, and Julian assumed he was on his way to his next show.

“Are you going back to the pit?” Fielding asked.

“Aye, for the finale.”

The chorus girls were already gathering; for the moment modestly attired in robes.

“Oh God, yes,” Fielding whispered. “The girls without their drawers on. I’d better go, I can’t compete.”

Julian finished the night with the House orchestra. They were almost drowned out by the cheering and foot stomping that greeted, the tableau vivant. The audience were not deterred either by the girl’s strange motionless posing or by the subtle deception of the body stockings.

~*~

After the show Julian walked with some of the other musicians to the Crown in Charing Cross. The pub welcomed those finishing late at the halls and stayed open to accommodate them. He went to order drinks, while the others found a table with the Lyceum’s string section.

“Hello again.”

He turned to see Fielding leaning against the bar, a glass of brandy in front of him. The carpet bag was at his feet and a garment bag containing his costume, hung from a coat hook behind him.

If anything, he was more confusing to Julian out of his female apparel. He was in grey tailored trousers now, and a white, collarless shirt which hung loosely. He wore an embroidered waistcoat, a yellow silk scarf and he was the only man present who wore no hat. His hair, which was long in the manner of an aristocrat from two centuries ago, fell to his shoulders. Although he had removed his stage makeup, some dark stuff remained around his eyes, highlighting their vivid blue.

“Hello,” Julian said. “Did you go on to another turn?”

“I finished at the Cabbage.” It was the name they all used for the Savoy Theatre, a few steps further down the Strand. It had taken a number of baffling conversations on his arrival from Yorkshire last year before Julian had understood that.

“Do you want another?” He asked, gesturing to Fielding’s drink which was still half full.

“No thanks.” He smiled tiredly. “My wife’s waiting for me at home.”

“Good night then,” Julian said, as he took his drinks. Fielding raised his glass to him, and he found a place on the bench with his colleagues.

Later the crowd in the pub thinned and Julian, glancing across, saw Fielding had not yet left. There was a man with him now and, although he could not hear them, it seemed to Julian they were arguing.

The scene went on without resolution and the second man, who was older than Fielding, took a step closer to him. There was something in his manner that made Julian concerned a fight was about to start. He put down his glass and made his way through the clusters of drinkers to the bar.

“Do as you like,” he heard Fielding murmur, as he arrived at his side. “You will anyway.”

“What is the trouble, sir?” Julian asked of the stranger. He was a large man in both height and physique, and dressed as a gentleman in a grey business suit and bowler hat.

The man did not respond to Julian’s quiet question, or even take his pale eyes from Fielding to acknowledge him. He raised his hand in a slow, deliberate movement and put it against the smaller man’s chest. Fielding gazed back at him with a mixture of fear and defiance but he made no answering move; it was almost as though the touch, light as it was, pinned him in his place.

“Your last chance, Noel,” the man said.

When Fielding still did not respond, the stranger removed his hand.

“Very well,” he said, as if a disputed matter had been settled. He turned and left the pub with an abrupt, ‘good night’.

Julian found himself disturbed by the incident. It was as though he had witnessed a physical fight which the younger man had unquestionably lost.

“Are you all right, Fielding?” He asked.

“Yes.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Thank you.” He paused, as if momentarily lost, and then reached for his coat; a disreputable dark velvet affair, far too big for him, and shrugged it on. “I have to get home.”

He gathered his belongings and left, offering a dazed salute for a goodbye.

After he had gone, a slash of colour caught Julian’s eye, and he saw Fielding’s scarf on the floor. He picked it up; the faintly patterned yellow, light as folding air in his hand. He followed Fielding from the pub, running to catch him up as he crossed the road.

“Excuse me,” he said. “You left this inside.”

At first Fielding stared at the piece of silk as if he did not recognise it. Then he nodded and finally took it, absently pushing it into his pocket. Julian became concerned at his vagueness.

“Shall I walk with you?” He asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Um, shall I walk home with you? You seem a little -.”

Julian could see Fielding making an effort to regain his focus, and he finally looked up at him.

“I’m not a girl, you do understand?” He said.

“I didn’t – pardon me,” Julian stammered. “I didn’t mean to suggest-“

“Well. Perhaps a little.” He regarded Julian thoughtfully. “I don’t live far from here, and I would appreciate the company.”

It was a mild autumn night and the streets were still busy with people out for an evening’s entertainment. Julian noticed many glancing their way, but Fielding seemed oblivious to the interest his eccentric outfit attracted from passers-by along Charing Cross Road.

“You haven’t asked what that performance was all about,” Fielding said.

“It’s not my business.”

“True.” He glanced back, again betraying his nervousness. “He was just trying to get me to work for him.”

Julian wondered why a job offer should be so distressing.

“I live near Soho Square,” Fielding went on. “How about you?”

“Brixton.”

“I’ve heard it smells of vinegar.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“No need to be,” he said, smiling at last. “I can usually do both sides of the conversation.”

They soon passed into the untidy tangle of streets that made up Soho. The district teemed with life at every hour. By day the factories, warehouses and shops ticked along industriously, while in the evening the flash houses and places of entertainment opened their doors; the foreign eating houses began to emit strange aromas, and the pubs filled with artists, musicians, scholars and anarchists.

Julian knew the area well; the Palace of Varieties, where he worked, stood on Cambridge Circus where Soho began and he often spent time here on matinee days between performances. He would have liked to have lived here; it was the place he had imagined when he used to imagine London. But even though the rents were kept relatively low by the area’s poor reputation he still could not afford it.

“Do you have a first name, Mr Barratt?” Fielding asked.

“Julian.”

“And you call me Noel, all right, Julian? Or Jude?”

“No-one ever called me Jude.”

“Would you be interested in being my pianist permanently, Jude? I paid seventeen shillings per night to my last. I know you have to give notice at the Palace but -”

Julian hesitated for only a moment. “Yes, all right,” he answered.

The use of his first name had persuaded him. No one else had since he left his father behind in Yorkshire, all those months ago.

Noel smiled. “At last something good has happened. I’m glad, and I’ll try not to involve you in any more pub fights.”

They ignored the calls of the street whores, and the Italian roast chestnut merchants as they walked up Greek Street toward Soho Square and its lonely patch of green. There was a pub close to the square, its first floor reaching across a narrow road to form a crooked archway. Fielding turned here into Rose Street; a busy passageway leading back to Charing Cross Road.

The house stood in a row of tall, narrow buildings across from a chapel and mission house. When he failed to locate the key in his multiple bags and pockets Noel knocked at the front door. The population of the house were evidently used to this and mobilised to wake his wife. She opened a top floor window and threw down a set of keys. Julian caught a glimpse of a young woman with sleep-tousled blonde curls wrapped in a floral shawl before the window closed again.

“That’s my Lizzy,” Noel said, sadly. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Palace, Jude. We can talk business. Thank you for the escort.”

Julian wished him goodnight and began his walk back to Brixton.

~*~

The audience at the Palace were calmer that night, and consequently Professor Mangassarian was in a better mood. The visiting spirits were less interested in the apocalypse and more in finding lost pocket watches, stirring up family feuds and talking about the weather. There was no doubt they were English ghosts, Julian thought.

When the act finished, he went backstage to find Noel. He was there, but seemed to have just arrived and, worse, was not yet dressed or made up.

“I’m nearly ready,” Noel said in the face of all the evidence. It was clear he had been drinking, and his eyes were wide with panic.

To Julian, who admittedly had no experience of such matters, he seemed to be at a frighteningly early stage in the engineering miracle required to get a woman dressed. He wore a petticoat, hooped and shaped to give the skirt a fashionable silhouette. A stagehand tightened the ribbons of his corset, another adjusted his wig and held the gown ready for him to step into. Julian stared, it was disturbing to see Noel like this; somewhere between man and woman, and impossible to look away.

Julian could hear the Chairman rounding off Lady Patricia’s introduction, seemingly unaware of the need to delay, and suddenly the stage manager was at his shoulder.

“Barratt. You go on,” he ordered.

“What? No. I can’t.”

“Go and talk some nonsense or something.”

As the Chairman walked back to his table in the pit, Julian found himself propelled on to the stage. He stared at the miles of audience before him, and realised he was inhabiting one of his most anxious nightmares. He gripped the piano and slid onto the seat.

The applause died away into a questioning silence, and still Lady Patricia did not appear.

“Erm. Good evening. Ladies and gentleman,” he began. “I expect you’re wondering where she is. Lady Patricia, that is. Aye, well, she is not here yet. So sadly, you’ll have to wait.”

The audience were silent, evidently believing this to be part of the act.

“The Lady Patricia. My good lady wife. The missus.”

Laughter rippled across the stalls and galleries. Perhaps this was the variety of nonsense required. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he started talking anyway.

“I never know where she is, from one evening to the next. People tell me she strolls about town, twirling her parasol, flaunting her womanly attributes. It never used to be so. How fondly I remember when I was a dashing young sailor and she, a friend to all the seamen.” The laughter grew surer. “And I thought she liked nothing better than to spend her evenings at home with me and the younguns; the girl, Daisy, the boy, Lily Rose, all of us at the piano, singing the old songs.”

His mind went suddenly blank so he started a tune. A huge, dirty laugh went up from the crowd as he began an overly melancholic version of a famous comic song called, ‘what’s in this sausage?’

“You don’t want to know where I’ve been, husband.”

Lady Patricia made her entrance as the song came to an end. Noel was perfectly apparelled, and as composed as if he had been taking tea with a duchess.

“My mother warned me against marrying that Yorkshire pudding,” he said, taking his place at the centre of the stage. “A common sea dog, but I was taken in by his hornpipe. It was a sight to behold and no mistake.” He cut into the guffaw that went up from the audience. “That’s not innuendo! He really can dance.” Julian feared he would be called upon to demonstrate but Noel moved on.

“I regret it now, of course. You should see him, going about the house in nothing but his inexpressibles, frightening the servants. My mother always said, her girl could do better than that. And aren’t I everything you could want from a woman?” He paused. “With a little something extra.”

He waited out the whistles and calls, smiling and laughing along with the audience. “I can’t be expected to stay home each evening; the truth is, I’ve an eye elsewhere.” It was the cue for the first song and the act carried on to its original plan.

Afterwards Noel slumped against a wall, pulling off his hat and wig. His own hair escaped the pins restraining it, and fell messily loose. The girls in the next act, gathering for their cue, cast him worried glances.

“Sorry,” he said. He looked pale under the hastily applied make up. “Sorry.”

“What happened to you?” Julian asked.

“I missed my first two turns,” Noel answered. “I hope you still have your position here because there probably won’t be any work with me soon.”

“I’m going to give my notice now.”

You had to be reliable to survive in the halls. Something must have happened since he saw him last, to have caused this lapse.

Noel looked at him with an assessing gaze and then sighed, pushing himself away from the wall. “Then I had better get to the Cabbage.” He began to pack up his belongings, hastily pushed into a corner by the stagehands. “You were good on stage, Jude. It was sprung on you without warning and they really liked you. Sailors are always funny.”

Julian told the manager he was resigning before he went back down to the orchestra pit, agreeing to stay until they found a replacement.

~*~

Julian stopped outside the theatre after the show to adjust his cap and fasten his coat. There was a blustery wind at work, and it suddenly felt like winter. He turned at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Ahoy, Captain.”

Noel was waiting in the pale glow of an electric street light. He was out of costume but not burdened by bags and sundry as he had been last night. He held his blue velvet coat tightly around him against the weather, and what looked like an omnibus conductor’s cap was jammed down on his head.

“I thought you were going to call me Jude.”

“I am going to.” He saluted, drunker than he had been before. “Good evening, Captain Jude. Can I buy you a pint to apologise?”

“Buy me one to celebrate,” Julian said.

“Our new arrangement?”

He nodded. “What else?”

“True, what else is there?”

“Where’s your costume?” Julian asked, imagining it abandoned at the Crown or in a gutter.

“I went home. I wanted to see if –.” He waved a dismissive hand, making his sentence take an abrupt detour. “- if Lizzy might be home.”

They stopped at a nearby pub where there was space still to be found at the bar. Noel ordered a large brandy and water for himself and a dog’s nose for Julian; a half pint of ale with a penny worth of gin in it. Londoners were fond of this dangerous combination and, Julian reflected, they thought they were hard in Yorkshire.

“Cheers,” Julian said, raising his glass when Noel had only stared into his drink and not spoken.

“Forgive me,” Noel said. “I’m poor company tonight.”

He tapped glasses with Julian, and took a long swallow of drink, before subsiding into silence again.

“What happened, Fielding?”

“Noel,” he said. “Please.”

“Noel.”

“Lizzy’s gone.” He answered Julian’s questioning look. “She left me. This afternoon. I’ve lost a pianist and a wife in the space of two days. She always said I was careless.”

“Can’t you try and speak to her?”

“No, she made that clear enough.”

“Things are said in the heat of the moment that are later regretted.”

“You are wise, Captain. But not this time. Someone has told her about me. About my past, I mean.”

“I’m sorry,” Julian said. He took his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket, and went about the ritual of lighting up. Noel watched him.

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

“It’s your private business,” he replied.

“Always the gent,” Noel said. “Are you the only piano player not interested in gossip?”

Julian puffed on the pipe to get it going. “This is to do with the man who threatened you in the pub last night?”

“Yes, everything is about him.”

“Can he damage you further?”

“He doesn’t want to damage me. He thinks he’s in love with me.”

Julian felt his face redden. “You shouldn’t speak of these things,” he whispered.

“I’ve embarrassed you.” Noel picked up his glass and rolled the brandy around it slowly, before swallowing it down. “I should go, I’m too drunk. We’ll celebrate another time. If you still want to work with me, that is.”

Julian watched him go. It was not that he did not know these things went on; especially since coming to London, and living and working among the hall folk. But the glimpses he had caught and the coded comments he had heard, were all as tangible as one of Mangassarian’s spectres. Certainly no one had uttered such a careless, unambiguous declaration in his presence as he had heard from Fielding’s lips. It almost made it real.

He suddenly thought of his father, who viewed London as effectively a different planet. What would he make of Noel Fielding? What would he think of his son now, at home in this strange world?

But it was his own ignorance that frustrated him. There was a planet in the night sky he had no name for. This was not unusual; the whole universe was as unknowable. He believed he would never master sexual relations, just as he would never master so many parts of life others found ordinary and natural. An embarrassing encounter with a prostitute in Leeds when he was twenty had only confirmed this expectation.

Leaving the pub, he headed back toward Trafalgar Square and his omnibus. His way, as usual, was hindered by the crowds of young men and women out on the town. The factory workers and costermongers, noisy and boisterous; the courting couples, clinging to one another in the harsh wind in easy, laughing intimacy and he thought of the loneliness that seemed to travel with his new friend.

He wondered who he would rather pass his time with. He had left his home town because everything there had seemed so clearly defined. In the little fishing town at the ends of the Earth everyone had seemed so sure of themselves and what they should be doing. The boys and the girls, the men and the women; everyone knew their place.

He had never known his. Awkward and shy, all he could do was play the piano. Here in London, where the gentlemen mixed with the lower orders in the halls, the lines seemed so much less clear.

He began to understand how he belonged on the borders where the lines blurred; just as Noel did, with his boy’s body and pretty girl’s eyes. He let his bus pass by, and after a moment’s deliberation turned back toward Soho.

~*~

A pea soup and hot eel stall had opened up across from the house in Rose Street, and it drew a small crowd. The stall holder shouted his wares; his top hat, long white hair and weather hardened face deterring as many as the stall’s enticing scent attracted.

Further along, outside the old church organ factory, there was a coffee stall, and the smell of this was also strong and alluring. Customers from the Mission House and from the wider Soho street life, drank here from tin cups, and ate bread and butter and cake.

He found Noel on the step of his house, holding a cup from the stall. He seemed to be protecting himself from the chill with the floral-patterned shawl his wife had been wearing the night before.

“I was rude,” Julian said quietly. “You answered my question and I was rude.”

“You were right and I don’t think before I speak.” Noel smiled. “But I’m glad you’re here. Are you going to come in?”

He handed his cup back to the stall holder, and brought Julian inside with a hand on his shoulder.

“Of course,” he added. “If you come in, you can never leave.”

Julian nodded. “Aye, well, I haven’t much on.”

Fielding occupied two rooms on the top floor of the building. Following him into the first room, Julian felt as though he had wandered into the boudoir of an Arabian princess. Fabrics of every kind and colour draped across the furniture, swept across the windows and walls and nestled in baskets on every spare patch of floor. Noel lit an oil lamp and, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, Julian saw that a dozen bright coloured gowns hung from a line along one wall.

“Lizzy’s a dressmaker, she makes my stage costumes,” Noel said, nodding at a sewing machine in the corner of the room. “Or she did.”

“Why do you do it?” Julian asked, as he wandered the room taking in the exotic collections of curios; mementos of theatrical productions and a travelling life. “I mean why are you a female impersonator? Your voice is good enough on its own and you’re funny.“

“It’s how I began, I suppose. And I like to dress up.” He shrugged. “What about you? You’re talented; why are you playing piano in a music hall?”

“Because I can’t be a female impersonator with this moustache.”

Noel laughed. “Well you are a manly man, it’s true, but I’m sure we can do something with you. If I can do it with this horses’ face.”

“You look perfect,” Julian said, before realising and blushing profusely.

“Thank you, kind sir.” Noel adopted Lady Patricia’s purr while at the same time hunting in the sideboard. He found glasses and half a bottle of brandy, and they at last drank to their new arrangement.

“Here’s something to make you feel at home,” Noel said, beckoning Julian into the adjoining bedroom.

An iron bed at the centre of the room, wrought with climbing ivy, was adrift with blankets and sheets. Bottles, powders and creams covered a dressing table. Men’s and women’s clothes, under and over garments all made a scandalous jumble in an overflowing chest of drawers. Yet more clothes crowded onto chairs and packing chests, while several migrations to the floor were underway.

The wardrobe standing open and half empty was the only clear sign someone had recently moved out. Julian knew enough not to assume Lizzy would be back for all the feminine items.

In this room the walls were covered by a patchwork of unframed oil paintings in bold colours. Almost without exception the images were of animals, with large disturbing human eyes peering from tangles of jungle creepers, or crouching on city window sills looking in. The creatures were both real and imagined, but even the familiar ones such as the monkey or fox seemed hyper-real, as if at any moment they might mutate into something magical. There could be no question of who the artist was.

Julian whistled. “They’re like creatures from a dream.”

“Weird aren’t they,” Noel said dismissively. “Imagine what it’s like living inside my head. But never mind that, what of this?”

Julian soon saw the reason he had been brought here. A piano took up almost the whole of one wall, it was an upright but still disproportionately large for the room. Its top was evidently the epicentre of bag and parasol storage, but its lid was open, and its seat clear.

“It belonged to my parents. They couldn’t take it with them when they immigrated to the New World, so my uncle kept it for me until I had a place for it.”

Julian’s room in Brixton would have been too small for a piano even if he had been able to afford one. His landlord allowed him to use his when he was in a generous mood, but that wasn’t often.

“Look, your little eyes have lit up. You can come and play to your heart’s content whenever you like.”

“Only say it if you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Noel said, laughing. “I will like it.”

Julian looked at the half-empty wardrobe. “What about your wife? She will come back and not like it.”

“Lizzy won’t be back,” Noel said, his smile disappearing. “It was no marriage to be married to me, and she’ll realise it soon enough.”

“But weren’t you kind to her? Didn’t you share your wage with her? Care for her when she was sick?” Julian wondered how he was so certain Noel would have done all these things; wondered how he was no longer a stranger after barely a day of friendship. “Did you give her reason to be unhappy?”

“I loved her as I could, you’re right, but it wasn’t enough.” Noel chewed at a thumbnail. “Now, you play while I go and find us some food. I’ve had nothing but brandy since yesterday, and my landlady will be keeping a dish warm.”

Julian took his seat at the piano and picked out a scale, pleased with the tone and tuning of the instrument.

“If you hear swearing in German, stop,” Noel called as he left. “Heinrich’s got a gun.”

Conscious of the threat, Julian played a quiet piece he had been composing. It was so far nameless and wordless, but he thought its sentimental air might work well in the halls.

Noel returned with their supper and listened while Julian played. “What’s that?” he asked when he had finished.

“Just something I made up.”

“You compose as well? But that’s beautiful. You should do something with it.”

“If you like it, you can have it. I’m no use with lyrics -”

“I am! I can write some words.”

“Well then, the tune belongs to Lady Patricia.”

They made space at the cluttered living room table to share the bacon and greens the landlady had provided. Her white cat crept in and sat at their feet, waiting expectantly for scraps.

It was good not to eat alone. The thought surprised him; he had always preferred his own company. His post-show suppers were normally bought from a street vendor, and taken in his room while the acrobat troupe who also lodged in the house, made alarmingly energetic noises in neighbouring rooms.

Noel was evidently still troubled by recent events, and his enthusiasm for the meal was short-lived. He ate some bread and butter before giving up and tearing strips of meat for the cat.

“The man in the pub yesterday –“ Julian started.

“Mallory.” Noel interrupted, pouring tea for them both from the pot he had brought upstairs with him. “His name’s John Mallory.”

Julian frowned; he thought the name familiar from music hall lore. “Is he the Mallory who used to own a club in High Holborn? The one the police closed for immorality.”

“Yes, that’s where his infamy lies. But that was eleven years ago. He manages acts these days, here and in Paris, though I don’t know if he is any more respectable. I doubt it.” Noel stabbed at some greens before putting his fork down without eating. “I’m going to talk to him. There’s no point trying to hide, I don’t know why I thought I could.”

“Shall I go with you?” Julian found himself asking.

Noel smiled. “Thank you, but I don’t think so. It would just make him angry.”

“If he’s likely to get angry –“

“When I knew him I was just a slip of a girl, he needs to know I don’t scare so easily now. But don’t worry, he won’t misbehave, he wants to be friends.”

“Who is he to you, Noel?”

“Oh Jude, that’s a long, nasty story which I don’t think you really want to hear.”

Julian fell silent. He suspected this was true.

“When I was seventeen, I might have starved on the street, or earned a shilling in ways you wouldn’t approve of. Mallory saved me from that. He’s not entirely the moustache-twirling villain you’re imagining.”

“Aye, but only because he’s clean shaven.”

Noel raised an eyebrow. “Is this you being a blunt Yorkshire man?”

“You’re right, it’s not my business.”

“No, I like that you’re honest. He wants to be my manager. I’ll just tell him I manage myself, and he’ll shove off and bother someone else.”

Noel seemed even less convinced of this than Julian was.

“I’d better go,” Julian said when he had finished his meal. He had missed the last bus and had more than an hour’s walk ahead.

“Don’t be a plank, stay here,” Noel said. He pointed to an unstable mountain of fabrics in the middle of the room. “There’s a sofa under there, I’m almost certain.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“Are you very tired?” Noel asked.

“Not at all.”

“Then will you play your tune again?” Julian didn’t have to be asked twice.

By the time Julian lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes, the brandy bottle was empty, the lamps extinguished and a pale daylight lit the room.

They had finished putting words to the music, and it had become a romance of wry humour and tenderness. Noel momentarily forgot his worries, and had laughed infectiously as they worked. He had a knack of creating pictures in words, but Julian surprised himself by contributing dark comedy to their lyrics.

Julian woke in the early afternoon, to the strange sight of Noel standing over him in what appeared to be a white lace-trimmed nightgown under a red velvet dressing gown.

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” He asked closing his eyes.

“Shut up. Have you got rehearsal?”

“No.”

“Go back to sleep then. I’m going out.”

Julian forced his eyes open again. “To see him?”

“Yes, it’s all right.” Noel examined a handful of his hair. “I’ve got to dress.”

“You do, I agree.”

“Oh what do you know of it.”

“Be careful, Noel.”

“I will.”

[nextpage title=”Chapter 2″]
Chapter 2

Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf
And like a yellow silken scarf
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

Noel never spoke about his meeting with Mallory, or about their subsequent meetings over the next two months. Julian was anxious about it, but he never got clear answers to his questions, so in the end, stopped asking.

In every other respect, he was enjoying his new life. After a week the Palace found a replacement pianist, and Julian left the orchestra to work permanently with Noel. At first the act remained the same, but gradually they introduced the new songs they were writing together. They also developed their Mister and Missus routine which the audience loved, even though they presented a marriage that made Punch and Judy’s look harmonious.

Their partnership, in reality, soon found its own eccentric rhythm. Julian woke early each morning and left for Rose Street, taking the omnibus with the clerks and shop keepers when he could afford it, and walking when he could not.

He had his own key now and he let himself into Noel’s rooms, where he went directly to the piano. He had the next few hours to himself to practice and compose, watched over by Noel’s menagerie of creatures. They crept into his writing too; he found his compositions turning stranger and wilder as his mind tuned into their calls and howls, their scratching claws and flapping wings.

Noel refused to consider rising earlier than noon, so Julian became used to his surfacing dreams providing an accompaniment to his work. He also got used to a sleep-hazy Noel, at last awake and in his questionable nightwear, following the mysterious paths of his waking rituals; all to do with tea, hair and excavating for lost clothes.

They would usually rehearse for an hour or two in the afternoon, and then, on days when there was no matinee, see to whatever business required attention before it was time to leave for the evening shows.

To Julian’s disquiet, Noel often spent this time with Mallory. He knew a meeting was scheduled because Noel became silent and preoccupied. Bathing and dressing carefully before he left; intent and seriousness replacing his usual joy in the task. When they met again, at their first engagement, he would only ever admit to having taken tea.

Julian knew Mallory often came to see the show, but Noel took care to keep them apart. On these nights, Mallory’s Brougham carriage would be waiting at the stage door for Noel, and their customary post-show visit to the Crown had to be foregone.

Autumn turned to winter, and Christmas day was a rare, free weekday. They spent it together anyway, eating goose and steamed pudding around Noel’s landlady’s table with the other Rose Street lodgers. Julian, trying not to catch Noel’s eye while Heinrich, their resident anarchist, tried to persuade him to the theory of spontaneous order and sell him a pamphlet.

The white cat curled up on Julian’s lap as he sat at the landlady’s piano afterwards, and he and Noel entertained the group with songs. It was a mismatched crowd but Julian almost felt as though there was somewhere he belonged.

~*~

January 1895 saw winter at its deepest. The daylight hardly seemed to penetrate, and solid ice formed in the water jug each morning. The first snow fell in the middle of the month, starting as Julian made his morning omnibus journey, settling quickly and thickly on the pavements and melting on the horses’ manes.

That morning, Noel woke after Julian had been at the piano for only an hour. He lay awake listening to him play, only rising when Julian stopped to rest and light a pipe.

At the bedroom window, Noel watched the snow turning the disordered landscape of rooftops clean and white.

“I’m going to the Square,” he said. “To look at the snow before it goes to sludge. Come with me, Jude.”

“All right,” Julian said, a little reluctantly. “Aren’t we going to work on West End Wolves?”

“It can wait an hour,” Noel said, amused at his dedication. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“You want an eel, boy?” The pea soup man shouted to Julian as they passed his stall. His top hat was trimmed with snow and the bird that habitually roosted on his shoulder fluffed its feathers and withdrew into itself, staring out with black beads for eyes. “What about you, young lady?”

“What about you getting your monocle polished?” Noel called back.

“Why is he always here?” Julian asked, not expecting an answer.

“His name’s Hitcher,” Noel said, tipping back his bus conductor’s cap, so flakes fell against his face. “Mallory’s paying him to spy on me.”

“Are you sure?” Julian asked, shocked.

“He can’t help it, he’s possessive.”

“How can you be so easy about it?”

Noel sighed. “I’ll tell you all, if you want to hear it.”

The garden at the centre of the square was deserted but for a fluid population of street children conducting snow wars across the empty expanses. When a new front in the battle opened on to the street, Noel and Julian had the square to themselves.

They walked together, making the first tracks in the untouched fall where the children had not ventured. It fleetingly reminded Julian of the moors outside Whitby. When snow fell there, the roads were impassable for days and the whole town came out to help dig sheep from the drifts.

“I’m thinking about going back to Mallory,” Noel said when they found a seat in a little sheltered arbour.

“Back to him? Do you mean he would manage the act?”

“That,” Noel said carefully. “But not only that. I would go and live with him.”

“But who is he?” Julian exclaimed. “Why has he this power over you?”

“Do you want to know the story?”

“I…yes.”

“Are you sure, Jude? Because once you’ve heard it, you won’t be able to unhear it and I don’t want to chase you away.”

“You won’t,” he said. “I mean it this time.”

“All right.” But he did not seem to know where to start. “Let’s get a drink, shall we? You’ll need one in front of you for this, and I’m not from Yorkshire so I’m about to freeze to death out here.”

They got no further than Hercules Pillars, the pub at the end of Rose Street, settling at their usual table by its fire with their drinks. The pub was beginning to fill with a lunchtime crowd of working men and, heads close, they spoke in lowered voices.

“It may be hard for you to believe,” Noel began. “But I wasn’t always the respectable citizen you see before you.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Yes I thought you would be.” He wound his hair around his finger and began. “Remember I told you my parents were in the New World? Well, they left for America when I was sixteen. I grew up in Kent, and I’d been working in their tailoring business until then. I didn’t want to go with them, so before they left, they bought me an apprenticeship with one of the tailors in Lambs Conduit Street. I often wonder how life would have turned out if I had followed that path, but it came to nothing. Something happened and I lost my position.”

“What happened?”

“Another story for another time. But it was bad enough that I couldn’t get another respectable position. But I was young and hardworking, and I could get less respectable jobs. I worked at the penny gaffs round your way in Waterloo and the Old Kent Road. First collecting entrance fees and working back stage, and then taking part in some of the theatricals. If you can call them that. You know the places, don’t you? Some of the entertainments are of the lowest kind.”

The stagehand wages were poor, and we all slept in the room they were using for a theatre; a freezing basement below a pub. The pay wasn’t enough to live on and I needed to make more money. I soon discovered I could earn a month’s wage in a night by going outside with some of the customers.”

He waited for Julian to understand his meaning. “You mean you –?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, this isn’t a pretty story. But I had long known my preferences did not lie with women, so it wasn’t a particular hardship to get on my knees in a back alley. And you are looking confused, Jude. Bless you for that.”

Julian had not actually considered it possible for a man not to desire women. He had thought of what went on between men in the secret clubs, and in places like the lavatory of the Crown, as a kind of hobby. Like croquet. He decided, just this once, not to reveal his ignorance.

“Go on, Noel.”

“Anyway, one of these men who came looking to buy a boy was John Mallory, and he noticed me. The club he owned put on female impersonator acts, and he offered me a job there as a waiter. We would all dress as ladies and go among the customers, selling them drinks and charging a shilling for a dance, or whatsoever they wanted. When I was younger I looked very feminine and some of them like that. Maybe it makes them feel they are not going with a boy at all.”

The story was already worse than Julian had anticipated. He thought of his father, the only teacher the poor children had in their town. He remembered how he would listen patiently with a grave expression and clasped hands, to the tales told to him by his pupils and their families, how he would do his best to help, and never chastise or judge.

“Do I go on?” Noel asked, catching his expression.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s all right,”

Noel smiled gratefully. “Mallory took a shine to me. He told me not to dance with the customers anymore, and had me stay at his house; a beautiful place in Bloomsbury, which he still has. When I was at home he had me wear women’s gowns and made all his servants call me ‘Miss’.”

“Good God,” Julian murmured.

“I didn’t mind the dresses,” Noel said. “I’m a hopeless case, Jude, you know that. The other business I just found funny. Of course I had to sleep in his bed, as well. That didn’t bother me too much either; I had known what it was like to be hungry and homeless and now I was sleeping in clean sheets and dining like a king. Please don’t look so shocked. I couldn’t bear it if I disgusted you.”

“You don’t,” he answered honestly. “It’s just we don’t have this sort of thing in Whitby.”

“I don’t advise you to take a wager on that.” Noel paused to swallow a mouthful of brandy as he found the right words to continue. “The nicest thing Mallory did for me was pay for singing lessons. I think he wanted to turn me into his own accomplished lady. Eventually I went from being a waiter to a performer and Lady Patricia was born.”

I learnt his kindness was on condition of complete obedience. I had to do everything he wanted. If I didn’t I found myself locked in my bedroom, in true romantic heroine style. Imagine that! I started to resent him; I wasn’t even twenty years old, after all. I began to socialise with the customers, just as he had told me not to. I was punished, of course, this time with a whip.”

“Noel.”

“Don’t get upset,” Noel whispered. “It was a long time ago.”

This was about the time the club was raided by the police. You’ve already heard this part of the story; Mallory was arrested for keeping a disorderly house.”

They arrested staff and customers too, and it was only by good fortune I wasn’t there at the time. I decided to leave, and luckily, I acted quickly, because although the club was shut down, Mallory escaped criminal charges. I took what I could carry, and what money I could find and left London by the railways. I didn’t see him again for more than a decade.”

“Where did you go?”

“Everywhere. I went to Glasgow first; it was the furthest place I could think of. I got a job in one of the music halls there, and then I travelled with a troupe. It wasn’t the Savoy, but I learnt my trade. I met Lizzy in Manchester when she joined the company as wardrobe mistress. I used to help her with the costumes and we got on well. I really did love her, I thought marrying her would be a way to put the past behind me. It worked for a while, but you can’t pretend forever.”

We came back to London two years ago. I’d been travelling for nine years, by then. I had started getting offers to take the Lady to the West End theatres, and Lizzy wanted to settle somewhere so she could open up a shop.”

I never thought I’d see Mallory again. I thought he would have been transported or sent to prison, but he had been living freely between Paris and London and managing his business. It didn’t take long for him to find me when he returned home this time.”

“And the first thing he did was break up your marriage.”

“No, the first thing he did was poach my pianist. He wanted to make a point.”

“And you are seriously considering going back to him?”

“He wants me, Julian,” Noel said, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible. “No one else does. I’m thirty years old, I’m not a pretty child any more and still he wants me, I never expected that.”

“But can’t you see, he thinks of you as his property?”

“He wants me to sing and he wants me to wear silk. Those are the two things I like doing most.”

“And what if, one day, you do something he disapproves of?”

“What happens in any marriage?” Noel sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand. If you’re like me, there aren’t many choices.”

Julian had actually forgotten he was having a conversation about a practice he never usually allowed himself to even think about. He did not dwell on it, all he knew was he could not allow Noel to give up his freedom to this man.

“Noel, please,” he said. “He’s dangerous; you know it better than anyone.”

“He’s changed since then, we both have. He’s respectful and considerate and I’m not so rebellious as I was. I’m dining with him tonight, after we finish at the Royalty, come with us.”

“Noel, I -”

“Come with us. You’ll need to meet him if he is to manage the act.”

“I have met him, remember.”

“Please, Jude.”

~*~

The request was made so urgently, Julian could not refuse, but he was not happy to find Mallory’s Brougham waiting for them outside the theatre when their last show of the evening was over.

The snow fall of the morning had been flattened into ice and the driver walked the nervous horse the short distance to Kettners, the animal’s snorting breaths loud in the muffled quiet of the snow covered city night.

Julian was more discomfited than usual in the evening suit he had worn on stage, but Noel was lively and talkative. He wore his blue velvet coat and, under that, a burgundy smoking jacket liberated from the Palace’s costume department, his scarf was artfully draped and a silk rose blossomed from his button hole. For reasons Julian had never felt strong enough to explore, Noel had taken to carrying a doctor’s bag about with him. This he clutched to his side like a faithful dog, the only sign he gave of nervousness.

Mallory appeared relaxed and at ease, perfectly groomed in his dress suit and great-coat. Once again Julian was struck by his imposing presence. He had charisma, but there was steel in his pale blue gaze; the eyes of a man who could take a whip to a young lover.

The word lover, even silently in his mind, brought a flush to his cheek. He finally, vividly understood this was what the two men sharing the carriage with him had been to each other, and were now for all he knew. Noel appeared unbidden in his imagination, on an ivy covered bed, naked and breathless, his creatures come to life around him, Julian’s own arms reaching for him.

Dining out was a rare event for Julian, and he had no experience of a restaurant like this. The private room Mallory had reserved was papered in muted gold and green and lit by twinkling electric lights in gilt candelabra. It made too small a space to be comfortable in. The menu in French brought him out in a cold sweat, as did the quantity and variety of wine glasses before him.

In the end Mallory ordered for them all, and course after course arrived. Sole, slices of tongue, and chicken in rich sauce were apparently only the beginning. Each course had its own wine, and each its own special pieces of cutlery.

Mallory also took responsibility for the conversation, giving the appearance of gracious interest in someone far lower down the social scale.

“So Mr Barratt, where do you reside?”

“I have a room in Brixton.”

“Goodness, how do you stand it? The factories in Lambeth and Southwark release the most noxious filth.”

“Then, why do you visit south of the river, Mr Mallory?” Julian asked evenly.

“Mal lives near the British Museum,” Noel cut in. “He thinks it makes him an intellectual.”

“And Noel believes living among the foreigners and revolutionaries means he can break all the rules.” Noel laughed, but Julian heard a clear note of rebuke.

“And do you find work easy to come by?” Mallory asked.

“I’ve been fortunate and never had to search for it,” Julian replied. “I got my place in the Palace orchestra soon after I came to London, and now I’m with Mr Fielding.”

“When Fielding becomes one of my clients, I can see about getting you a new position. There is always a need for a pianist of your calibre.”

“Why would I need a new position?” Julian asked. It had not occurred to him Mallory might, in taking Noel on, break up their working partnership. Evidently it had not occurred to Noel either.

“What’s that, Mal? Julian’s part of the act now.”

Mallory put down his champagne with studied casualness. “I have plans for your female character. They do not involve comedy, and you will be accompanied by my musicians.”

“You don’t understand,” Noel said, more firmly, the seasoned performer in him finally awakening. “Lady Patricia can’t do without Julian. The audience comes for both.”

“I understand perfectly,” Mallory said coldly. “But if that is the case then it would be impossible for you to become one of my…clients.”

“Mal?” Noel said. “You don’t mean it. I thought you liked us.”

“You’re still welcome to come to me of course. But I’m afraid I can’t use this good gentleman.”

“I see.” Noel was silent for a moment, staring into his plate of asparagus. Then he looked up. “I’m sorry, Jude.”

Julian said nothing, surprised by the wave of anticipatory sorrow washing over him.

“I wasted your time today.” Noel got to his feet. “We should have been rehearsing our new song. Perhaps we can start afresh tomorrow.”

“Aye,” he said, surprised again by the turn of events. “I see no reason not to. Good evening, Mr Mallory.”

He pulled loose his bow tie, and followed Noel out of the private room without looking back.

Outside, Noel walked slowly away through a fresh fall of snow, flakes settling in his hair before melting away. Julian lingered by the restaurant doorway, wondering if he should leave him to his thoughts, wondering if he might be regretting the unconsidered decision he had just made.

Noel stopped and turned when he realised he was alone. He trudged back to Julian.

“Come, Captain,” he said softly. He linked his arm with Julian’s and they walked together through the snow-bright Soho streets.

“I know I’ve made a fool of myself,” he said later, after last bells at the Crown, as they went their separate ways at Trafalgar Square. “It’s just there are some things I don’t want to always live without.

~*~

They were back at the Palace for their last show of the night. It had been a long day, as Saturday matinee days always were, and they were waiting for Professor Mangassarian to finish before they could begin.

They had been ready to go on for half an hour. The corset lacing, at which Julian had become an authority, wig adjusting and make up applying had all taken place two halls ago at the Alhambra.

For the first time in the five months Noel and Julian had been working together, Lady Patricia was the finale act. The not-naked girls had closed the first half to make room for her. It wasn’t worrying Noel, of course, but Julian was fretting quietly.

“I have a message for Rachel,” the professor said, and a young woman near the front stood up to cheers and applause. “It is your grandmother. She asks you to return the clock to the mantelpiece in the parlour.”

“She always did like it there,” Rachel admitted.

“We’re not getting on before midnight if he keeps this up,” Julian muttered, wishing he could free himself of the constrictions of his bow tie.

“I know,” Noel said. “The dead ought to stay dead. Not manifest themselves all over the place, passing opinions on domestic interiors. Gods these shoes are biting tonight.”

“I’m not surprised with those heels. You should get some stout walking boots, sir.”

“Brute.”

On stage, Mangassarian appeared to go into a trance, and with a hand to his forehead, announced his intention to ‘open his mind’. He had once told Julian, he did this to give himself time to make sense of the different voices competing to be heard. Just as if it were all real.

“Leave your tie alone, Jude.” Noel said, knowing he was tugging at it without even bothering to look. “You’re worse than the cat with its collar.”

“I don’t think I should be wearing an evening suit anyway.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before,” Noel said smiling.

“If I’m supposed to be your uncouth husband, surely a shirt collar would be best.”

“But I’m dressed up like a Christmas tree, so you should be too.”

“Oh, you’re always -”

“Look,” Noel interrupted. “He’s drawing a veil.”

The professor, as usual, finished his act by announcing he would now ‘draw a veil’ between this world and the next. He bid the audience goodnight, the curtain dropped and the Chairman stepped up on to the stage.

“My apologies, madam,” Mangassarian said to Noel, who rolled his eyes. “The dead would be heard tonight.”

Then he turned to Julian. “Pardon me, Mr Barratt. Your father is here. He wants you to know, he is staying for the show.”

Noel understood his meaning before Julian did. “His father is alive,” he said crossly, moving Julian out of the way as the piano was pushed on by stage hands.

“He says he is sorry about the letter,” Mangassarian added obscurely, before leaving them.

For a moment, Julian thought his bowtie really was going to choke him. Noel seemed to understand this. He pulled the tie loose and slipped it off him. He replaced it, Julian noticed afterwards, with his yellow silk scarf, which had formed part of his own outfit, tying it into a version of a cravat.

“He’s a charlatan,” Noel hissed, taking his hand and leading them on to the stage.

They finished the evening in the Crown, celebrating their first time at the top of the bill and their two encores. But Julian could not help but dwell on what Mangassarian had told him. He resolved to write home and, he told himself, it would all be cleared up.

In his heart, though, he knew the ghost conjuror had spoken the truth. He had felt a hand on his shoulder while at the piano that evening, resting where his father’s hand used to when he practiced as a child.

So when he reached his lodgings, he was not surprised to find a letter waiting for him. The letter had been forwarded from an address in Clerkenwell, where he had stayed when he first came to London. His cousin, who had written it, must not have known his new address and the report of his father’s sudden death from a fever was two weeks old. He had not had a chance to say goodbye, he would not even have a chance to go to his funeral.

He poured himself a drink from the brandy bottle he kept for the coldest nights, and sat at the table, burning a candle to its wick and drinking. He fell asleep there and woke in the early hours, cold and sick. He crawled into bed, still in most of his evening suit, Noel’s scarf gripped in his fisted hand.

~*~

He was woken by a banging at the door. Shock and sadness came flooding back with consciousness.

“Open up, Barratt.”

He got up to let Noel in. His head ached and he was finding it hard to open his eyes. Noel’s spring flower shirt, in shades of green, mauve and yellow did not help.

“I’ve no idea where I am,” Noel said. “Couldn’t you have lodged any further from civilisation?”

“Come in, Noel.”

“Also there’s a man balancing on one hand on the bannister outside your room. Did you know about this?”

“Why are you here?” Julian asked, sinking back on to the bed.

“You didn’t come to play the piano, I was worried.” He examined the empty brandy bottle. “You’ve been pickling yourself. What’s going on?”

Julian found his cousin’s letter among the bedclothes, and gave it to Noel. Then he put his head in his hands.

“Oh, Jude.” Noel sat down on the bed next to him. “Do you suppose he was there last night, after all?”

Julian had been fighting tears, but this set off a flood of choking sobs. A hand in his hair, stroked gently for as long as it took him to control himself.

“Look, why don’t you get dressed and come back to Soho? Get out of this rat’s nest.”

“I was just going back to bed.”

“You’ll feel better after you’ve had something to eat. Then you can sleep if you want to. Come on, you can’t stay here.”

The warmth and colour of the two rooms in Rose Street drew him as strongly as they always did and he agreed.

He changed while Noel tutted over the condition of his dress suit. He bundled it into his doctor’s bag to take with him and, no doubt, put to right in time for tomorrow’s performances.

They travelled on the omnibus back to the West End. The trees along the roadside were blossoming as brightly as Noel’s shirt in the sunshine. Julian was sure only yesterday they had been bare. Perhaps winter really was at an end.

Noel made toasted cheese and heated soup for them both. Julian felt better after the comforting meal, eaten in his friend’s unobtrusive company. Then Noel pottered about while Julian drifted in and out of sleep on the sofa.

He woke, when the sun had already set, to the landlady’s cat making itself comfortable on his stomach. Noel had left a cup of tea on the pile of magazines and music scores which served as an occasional table. He sat up, rearranging the cat, to drink it.

Noel wandered over from the bedroom in his velvet dressing gown. He lit one of the lamps, and then curled himself up next to Julian on the sofa. Noel bathed more than any sane person, and apparently this was what he had been about while Julian dozed. He unwrapped his hair from a towel, and began brushing it dry.

“You’ll have to go home for a while, won’t you?” Noel said.

“Aye,” Julian agreed. “There’s the will. My father owned our house and he had an annual income. Now both my parents are gone –“ He stopped himself as this train of thought became too difficult. “I can stay for the engagements we have this week though, and you’ll be able to find another pianist while I’m away. I could ask –“

“We can take some time off, Jude. You must have as long as you need.”

“There’s no need for you to wait for me. It’s the Lady’s show. She’s what they come for.”

“That’s not true,” Noel said. “It is as I told Mal. Nothing works without you anymore. We are of one blood you and I.”

Afterwards he returned to that moment, trying to understand why he did what he did. The lingering affects of alcohol could be blamed, and the smell of Noel’s newly-washed hair, all almonds and spice. But in reality he had no comprehension of why he leaned over and kissed Noel softly on the lips, because it was done completely without thought.

He remembered Noel leaning into the kiss, but he was also the one who ended it, pulling away with a small gasp, and waiting, unblinking, for Julian to react. He leapt to his feet, disrupting both cat and tea cup.

“I- I’m sorry. God. I’m sorry.”

When he fumbled for shoes and jacket, and ran to the door, Noel did not try to stop him.

Hitcher was there as he came out of the house, still tending to his pea soup and hot eels. “Goodnight, boy,” he sneered, and his black bird spread its shabby wings and took flight in a jagged circle above their heads.

His thoughts as he stumbled home, incoherent as they were, sparked between London and Yorkshire. The river was a black ribbon tonight, it gave off a foul odour, he could not imagine why he was here; why he had left his father to die alone, why he was playing the halls for the drunken mob. He had allowed himself to mix with degenerates. He was becoming a degenerate himself. He made a decision.

When he reached his lodgings, he wrote a letter to Noel apologising for his behaviour. He wrote that, as a consequence, he considered it necessary to end their partnership. He would honour their existing engagements, but then he would be returning to Yorkshire permanently. He posted the letter immediately, because he did not trust himself not to weaken and change his mind.

Unsurprisingly he slept poorly that night. He thought of his father, wondered with a shiver what he might have made of the strange show he had created with Noel. He thought of Noel, his cheerful kindness, his brilliance, his true friendship; a friendship of like minds, as he had never known.

He thought of how it was to touch him, of stars exploding and planets colliding, and could not banish the thought.

~*~

He spent the following day making arrangements for his journey to Yorkshire; buying his train ticket and giving notice to his landlord. He dressed for the evening’s engagements, having to borrow a rather interestingly sewn suit from one of the acrobats. It was adapted for the performance of cartwheels, contortions, tumbling and the like. He could as easily have performed one of these feats as ask Noel for his own suit back.

Their first engagement of the evening was to have been at the Alhambra in Leicester Square, but at the stage door, Julian learned Lady Patricia was no longer on the bill.

“Your missus came up and cancelled,” the manager told him. “Family emergency, she said. Flanagan and Tucker are stepping in.”

“What about tomorrow?” He asked.

“All cancelled.”

Julian went on to their next two venues, both on the Strand, and heard the same story. There were no more bookings.

He would not see Noel again.

Not wanting to go home, he spent the passing hours of the evening at the Crown.

“Ah, Mr Barratt. What cheer?” He looked up to find Mangassarian at his table, drink in hand. “May I join you?”

“Aye, Professor,” he said, honestly glad of the company. “Are you finished for the night?”

“Indeed. And I understand you are off the bill for the time being. The audience missed you.”

“My father died,” Julian said, and Mangassarian was gracious enough not to look smug.

“It was not a difficult passing for him,” he said kindly.

“Thank you.” Julian hesitated. “How did he seem to you?”

“Content and at ease. He wasn’t angry or bitter as some of them are on the spirit side. A nice gentleman.”

“Yes,” Julian said. “He was.”

Mangassarian had always been easy company to drink with; not expecting too much from the conversation. His accent never seemed so strong when he was off stage. After a brandy or two, it was hardly there at all.

“Are you really Romanian, Professor?” Julian asked.

“Along the line,” he said vaguely.

“Is Mangassarian really your name?”

“I go by many names.”

“Oh?” Julian replied. “What are they?”

“You may call me Rudolph, if you wish.”

Julian wished Noel had been here to enjoy this. He had to stop doing that.

“Your father told me one other thing,” the Professor said. “You had to go on stage, so I could not mention it.”

“What was it?”

“He said he liked your wife.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your dark-haired wife, who wears red velvet. I’m sure I have that right. He is happy you have found love.” Julian stared at Mangassarian; he found his expression earnest and innocent. “Is your love dark-haired?”

“You must have been mistaken,” Julian said. “I don’t have a love.”

End of part two

[nextpage title=”Chapter 3″]
Chapter 3

The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

Julian received a reply from Noel, delivered with the first post the following morning.

My dear Jude,

I read your letter with sorrow.

You have no need to apologise; you had received a shock and cannot be blamed. You would never say so, but if I was responsible for what happened, please find it in your heart to forgive me. It was never my intention to mislead or embarrass you.

You will know by now that I have cancelled our engagements. I saw no point in prolonging your discomfort. But if you could reply with your address in Yorkshire I will make sure you have your portion of our remaining salaries as they come to me. I do not expect to be at Rose Street for much longer, so reply with haste.

Thank you my Captain, for sharing your beautiful music with me, and thank you for your friendship. These months we have had will always be precious to me.

Yours always, NF, April 1895

Julian found it impossible not to cry again.

He folded the letter and put it into his jacket pocket. Later, in the afternoon, he took it out to re-read. There was something about the short, despondent note nagging at him. Why did Noel not expect to stay in Rose Street? He loved living there, at London’s chaotic centre, and he had never considered moving in all the time Julian had known him.

Except once, when he had spoken about going back to Mallory. Julian feared he was, again, planning this move.

He remembered months ago, crossing a pub to intervene in a dispute on behalf of someone he barely knew. Mallory had frightened him before he knew anything about him; he had seemed powerful, violent, and endlessly dangerous to Noel.

What kind of life would Noel have with Mallory? Julian was certain it would not be the one he envisaged. Noel was no fool, but there was a childlike quality about him; Julian had seen how he tended to take an uncomplicated view of the people he came across, accepting them at face value. He would believe it possible to build a life with Mallory because, for some reason, Mallory wanted him to believe it.

Why, he wondered, was Hitcher’s stall still permanently pitched at Rose Street? Months had passed, and he was still noting every coming and going. Why did Mallory still care to keep him on, if not because he had not yet given up on Noel?

When Julian left the house for the omnibus stop, it was with the intention of talking Noel out of the plan he was sure he was formulating.

~*~

His fears were confirmed when he arrived in Soho. Outside the house, a lad was stacking cases and boxes on to a cart. Upstairs, the flat door stood open; Noel was not there but Hitcher was inside, a vile intrusion. He leaned on his cane, supervising the packing up of Noel’s possessions by a gang of boys, who could only be his sons.

The place was transformed. The beautiful gowns that had hung along the wall of the living room had all been taken away, exposing fading wallpaper beneath. The chaos and clutter that so spoke of Noel had gone. The world had been drained of all colour and all life.

He pushed passed Hitcher into the bedroom. Here, the contents of drawers and wardrobe were being tipped into boxes. One boy was taking Noel’s paintings from the wall and tossing them into a crate. Furious, Julian snatched one away from him. It was the little crouching monkey.

“Take care with these. They’re not a pile of eels.”

Hitcher appeared in the doorway. “Something amiss, squire?”

“Yes. No. Where’s Mr Fielding?”

“He was here just a moment ago, sir,” one of the boys piped up, earning himself a hard stare from his dad.

Noel was not in the house or in Hercules Pillars, but he wasn’t hard to find. He rarely passed unnoticed, and one of the regulars had seen him wandering in the direction of Soho Square.

Julian found him on a bench there, sitting stiffly on the edge of the seat. He wore a black jacket that was too big for him, and something clenched around Julian’s heart when he realised it was his own, crumpled evening jacket.

“You’ve got monkey,” Noel said. Julian still had the painting, held protectively under his arm.

“They’re not treating your creatures very gently.”

“Poor things,” he replied.

He shifted over to make room on the bench, but Julian, who had suddenly remembered the embarrassment of the kiss, was too anxious to sit down.

“Have you come for your suit?” Noel asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m not going to need it again; I’m going back to teaching music.”

“You’re better than that. You mustn’t stop composing.”

“What about you? What are you giving up?” Noel only shrugged in response. “He’ll hurt you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But you do. He did before.”

Noel sighed. “Sit down, Jude,” he said. “I’m not contagious.”

Julian did as he was told.

“I know you think he’s a demon, and I don’t blame you. But, he’s different to when I first knew him; kinder, and gentler.”

“He was neither the times I met him.”

“Not by your standards, it’s true. No one could be. But we spent a lot of time together, and he was good to me.” He lowered his voice. “It wasn’t all tea and cucumber sandwiches. You do understand that?” He glanced at Julian when he didn’t answer. “Perhaps you don’t, you always think of me as better than I am.

“Noel, I wouldn’t trust him to pour you a cup of tea. You deserve better than someone who only wants to control you.”

“Honestly, I never knew you were such a romantic. Every second marriage is like this.”

“And are the others happy ones?” Julian asked.

“That’s not an option for me, is it?”

“Yes it is,” he said.

“With who?” A spark of interest lit Noel’s dulled, sad gaze.

“No, I mean –“ Julian hesitated. “What I mean is. No one is forcing you to go, you’re financially independent, you don’t need him.”

“Oh.” Noel turned away, giving up on the argument. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t.”

When the silence became too much, Noel shrugged off Julian’s jacket, leaving it to fall onto the bench. “It doesn’t matter, Jude,” he said. “Don’t worry.” Then he walked away, without looking back.

Later Julian watched from the upstairs window of Hercules Pillars as the last of the carts left with Noel’s belongings. He saw Mallory’s Brougham draw up, and Noel get inside.

With the monkey painting held carefully, and his jacket forgotten, he started walking; following the carriage on foot, at the horse’s halting pace, to Bloomsbury. He saw Noel alight, and one of Mallory’s servants admit him to a fine, Georgian town house.

He watched the house from a safe distance, but he did not see Noel again. Eventually, when darkness had settled, and the lights in the house were extinguished, he reluctantly left.

~*~

Over the next week, before his return to Yorkshire, he made frequent visits to Bloomsbury. Each morning he concealed himself by a neighbour’s fence, and watched the comings and goings of Mallory’s household.

As the sun rose he saw the first sleepy appearances of maids and delivery boys, the scrubbing of the doorstep, the polishing of the brass, the tumble of coal into the cellar. And once, as the curtains of an upper window opened, a glimpse of a young woman, brushing long dark hair.

Mallory left the house every day at half past ten. Julian normally gave up his vigil shortly after; at least temporarily persuaded Noel was no longer in immediate danger.

He could not rest so he began to walk. He walked miles each day, with no destination. His routes were haphazard and he hardly noticed his surroundings. Once, he followed the river so closely his feet were wet, but he had no consciousness of the floating traffic of barges and steamers that must have been there.

All he did was listen to the whispering sound of a small, inner voice. The voice had always spoken to him, but he had let it go unheeded. He now heard it urgent and insistent, above all other thoughts.

It had been trying, he knew, to send him back to Noel, even though this wasn’t in any way possible. It just wasn’t. Noel had gone to Mallory of his own volition. He had gone because he hated to be alone and he had, once again, been deserted. But Julian couldn’t stay. The kiss they had shared could not be talked about, or even thought about. It was sin, crime and shame all together. So he had to leave. He had to leave, no matter how loud the voice screamed at him to stay.

His walks always returned him to Bloomsbury, aching, hungry and exhausted. Mallory normally returned from his business day at four or five o’clock, but often went out again at dinner time. He never brought Noel to dine with him, and Julian began to suspect Mallory was preventing him from leaving the house.

There were times he could barely stop himself banging on the door and demanding to see Noel; when he believed he would have no peace unless he saw him for one last time. But he knew it would probably be dangerous for Noel if he did, and anyway, seeing him once would not be enough. This realisation alone resulted in at least one sleepless night.

It was the morning of the day he was due to travel, when he at last knew what to do.

He had started, through wakeful nights, restless days, and a panicked sense of running out of time, to understand and define his feelings for Noel. He stared at the walls of his room and learnt to compare them to the feelings a husband might have for a wife. Revelation though this was, it did not begin to express the overwhelming desire he had to be with Noel now he was away from him.

And instead of denying his feelings, instead of picking up and running, as he was still instinctively inclined to, he recalled the taste of Noel’s lips and invoked the single-mindedness Yorkshire men prided themselves in. He began to question his belief that these feelings were wrong.

Who had told him they were? Not his father, whose ghost at least, was at ease with the idea. He had learned it from those who believed themselves qualified to tell others how to live their lives; churchmen, politicians, and those newspaper writers who were speaking so unkindly of Oscar Wilde during his current troubles.

What right had they to tell him how to behave when, he was (reasonably) sure, none of them had ever kissed Noel, none of them…loved him…and so did not have any idea of what they were talking about?

If Noel wanted someone, could he not have Julian? He knew he was poor and dull, and ignorant of the world, but as long as Noel liked him even the tiniest bit better than Mallory, he could save him from a terrible fate and, he finally realised, save himself as well. He abandoned his packing and left his lodgings.

He waited until late morning, when Mallory was sure to be out, before knocking at the door of the Bloomsbury house. The last few days of distracted roaming had taken a toll on his appearance, and the butler seemed startled to find him on his master’s doorstep.

He became more nervous when Julian asked to see Noel, and informed him the gentleman was indisposed. But Julian was persistent, and when the butler unexpectedly admitted to having seen and enjoyed Lady Patricia’s performance on one of his evenings off, he was ushered inside.

He was shown into a finely decorated parlour, at the front of the house, and left alone to wait. The house was quiet, but he was sure he heard the sound of a key unlocking a room on the floor above.

When Noel finally appeared he was wearing a pale, blue gown of Lady Patricia’s, but no wig or stage make up.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly, closing the door and standing against it, as if to stop anyone else entering. “And what happened to you, you look ill?”

“Why are you dressed like that?” Julian asked. “Are you performing this afternoon?”

“No, I -” Noel sighed. “At the moment. I can’t seem to get to any of my other clothes. They’re locked away somewhere.”

Julian stared at him.

“He’s a proud man, and he hasn’t forgiven me for leaving him before. I’ve just got to make him trust me again.”

“But he’s locked you up too, hasn’t he?”

Noel hushed him as his voice rose. “Be quiet. Please. It’s just going to take time.”

“Noel,” Julian said. “I can’t leave you here.”

“You can, I’m well and I’m here by choice. Tell me what you want and then, I’m sorry, you’ve got to go.”

Julian gathered himself, taking a bold step closer to Noel so they faced each other by the parlour door. “You said before, that a happy marriage isn’t possible for you.”

“Oh Jude, I can’t keep arguing with you –“

“Have one with me,” Julian said. “Have a happy marriage with me.”

“What?” Noel’s eyes were wide, and Julian’s own words, said out loud frightened him too.

“Live with me. I –“

“I don’t think you understand,” Noel said. “I’m not looking for a friend; no one could be a better friend than you. It’s more than that.”

“I do understand. If I could, I’d put a ring on your finger.”

“You’re serious,” Noel breathed. He closed his eyes, and moments passed before he spoke. “No,” he said.

“Noel?”

“But I thank you.” His hand closed around Julian’s and Julian gripped it hard in return. “You’ve always held my heart.”

“But then, why not?”

“It’s not what you want. You need a good Yorkshire wife who won’t embarrass you in the street, not a soft southerner who doesn’t know whether he’s a boy or a girl.”

“No, I’ve thought about it, all those things don’t matter. We were happy. Weren’t we?”

Noel smiled. “We were.”

“I – I kissed you.”

“It was a beautiful thing.”

“Then, I don’t understand”

“Jude, listen to yourself. I’ve made you wrong.”

“It wouldn’t be wrong,” Julian said firmly. “How could it be wrong?”

Noel looked surprised; it was evidently not a question he had ever entertained. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’ve never been more certain.”

“When did you last sleep? You’ve just lost your dad, you’re not yourself.”

“I am myself,” Julian claimed dizzily.

“Aye Captain, there’s no other like you,” Noel soothed. “But it would be impossible. This kind of life isn’t for you.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, at last defeated.

“Yes,” Noel placed a soft kiss on Julian’s cheek. “I’m sure.”

He was standing on the pavement staring at the stony facade of the British Museum when he came to his senses.

~*~

Julian had little choice but to travel to Yorkshire as he had planned. He found comfort in the familiar landscape of hills and estuary, and in the broad vowels and unexpectedly warm welcomes of his countrymen. But he always carried a yellow silk scarf in the pocket of his jacket, and each time his hand brushed across its gossamer surface, he ached with guilt and regret.

His father’s house was a cottage, away from the town. It had its own half-acre of land, which his mother had kept as an orchard up until her death. Julian had grown up used to the space, and a solitary existence as an only child, but now he found it eerily empty. For the first few days he could not accustom himself to the absence of carriage wheels and horses hooves outside his window, or to not encountering acrobats at their ablutions in the bathroom.

His cousin had dismissed the maid and housekeeper, keeping only the gardener on. He did not re-employ them, to air the rooms or hold the dust at bay. He could not feel at home or at ease anywhere while Noel was alone with that man.

There was an upright piano in his father’s study; the one Julian had learnt to play on. He rarely ventured into other rooms, sleeping on a daybed there.

His mother had framed the maps his father collected, and hung them on the study wall. He passed his nights, tracing great journeys across the continents by the light of a burning out hearth fire; the complaining calls of the seagulls keeping him awake as they never used to.

The work of executing the will was unending. There seemed to be countless letters to write and records to check. He tried to work in the weeks that passed between anything happening. He did not teach music as he had told Noel he would, because he did not intend to stay, but he tried to compose. He spent hours at the piano, sometimes working but, as often, puffing at his pipe and gazing out of the large leaded windows on to his mother’s orchards.

Things went a little better when he took Noel’s monkey painting, and hung it above the piano. It frightened him that his ability to create depended so much on another person. A person he might never be allowed to speak to again.

He returned to London less than three months after he had left, despairing of ever concluding the business of his father’s estate. The few scores he had written while in the north were in his suitcase. They were meant as music hall songs, but he had lyrics for none of them. He believed they needed a lighter hand than his own.

He found Noel’s old rooms had become vacant again, and he spent most of what was left of his savings on the rent of them. It was not the magical place he remembered, not without Noel; but the wrought iron bed was still there, as was the piano and the overstuffed sofa. He hung the monkey painting in its original position above the bed. It was a start.

Julian learnt from his landlady that Lady Patricia had recently returned to the stage. So after his first night, in what he could only think of as Noel’s bed, he spent a mild summer morning walking around to the West End halls.

He found him on the bill at three, and buying one of the few remaining tickets, he went to see the first show of the evening, joining the mayhem of the upper circle.

Noel came on stage in one of his old gowns, a red and silver creation of Lizzie’s, lucent under the stage lights. The unruly crowd hushed as he appeared.

The quality of Noel’s female impersonation had undeniably improved and, even from these poor seats, it was possible to see why. He always looked more feminine the thinner and lighter he was, and now there seemed almost nothing left of him.

The act had also changed. The cheeky humour had gone from the Lady’s delivery, and the songs seemed more serious. Noel’s voice, accompanied by his old pianist (the traitor), was still strong, and the audience were appreciative, but to Julian, there was something missing. Noel had always known he was a better comic than singer; he would not be enjoying this.

Julian too missed performing their own songs, and daft husband and wife comedy. By the end they had been so in tune with one another they would wander far from the script, feeding off the responses of the audience and their own natural synchronicity. Sitting alone with his piano, as much as he loved it, did not compare.

Noel whispered something to his pianist before announcing his final song, ‘the boy I love is up in the gallery.’ When Noel seemed to look straight at him, Julian felt as though he was waking from a dream.

He waited at the stage door, with the same sense of unreality. Noel had never been far from his thoughts in the time they had been apart, but it was hard to imagine finding him solid and human, and close enough to touch.

When he saw him, he was still in costume, and he had his pianist with him. They were hurrying to a waiting Brougham. Noel’s eyes widened as he saw Julian, but he walked on without acknowledging him.

He understood immediately why he had been ignored. He understood the precarious position Noel must still be in. But tonight he was incapable of keeping away. He waited at the second theatre until after the show, standing among a small crowd by the stage door, so he could see without being seen.

But when Noel left with his pianist, he must have been feeling equally reckless; he stopped and sought Julian out. Julian approached, putting out his hand. Noel hesitated, glancing back at the traitor before taking it.

“Mr Barratt.” Noel said, greeting him formally. “Do you have business here?”

“Good evening, Mr Fielding,” he replied. “I have written some music, and thought perhaps you might be interested.”

“I’m sorry, no. Everything is arranged by my manager.”

“The songs have no words.”

“That is sad, but I can’t help you. Good evening, Mr Barratt.”

He went to the third theatre because he did not believe in Noel’s distant words. They told a different story to the white-gloved hand, which had so fiercely and desperately gripped his own.

This time Noel left by himself. He had changed out of his costume, and was dressed for dinner in a suit, a long green velvet coat and felt hat. There was an element of coordination to the ensemble which was somehow disappointing. If he didn’t pick out his six favourite things from the wardrobe, regardless of occasion or coordination, perhaps dressing up wasn’t as much fun any more. Or perhaps he still had no say in the matter.

Noel’s eyes were as expressive as they ever were, and Julian saw he was glancing pointedly at the carriage waiting a few steps away at the kerb.

“Perhaps I was not clear, Mr Barratt,” he said.

Julian held out the yellow silk scarf. It had been folded into the pocket of every jacket he had worn since their final performance.

“I apologise for disturbing you again, but you dropped this at the Strand.”

“I -, yes I wondered what had become of it.”

Julian made sure Noel heard the rustle of the paper folded into the scarf. The note inside contained an address. He did not dare write a message.

“Thank you, Mr Barratt.” Noel said, stuffing the scarf into his pocket and hurrying away as the carriage door opened.

He waited at home on the following day, but received no callers. In the evening he met Mangassarian for a drink in the Crown.

Of all in London he was the only one Julian had kept in touch with. Mangassarian wrote surprisingly cheerful letters about the hall folk and their gossip, feeding Julian’s growing need to return to that life. He never mentioned any further communications with deceased members of his family, and Julian thought this for the best. Life was confusing enough without the opinions of the dead. Noel had been right on that particular score.

“Have you spoken to Fielding recently?” He asked Mangassarian, as casually as he could.

“He no longer speaks to me,” the Professor said. “Or makes the dancers laugh in the wings. He barely even scratches the head of his friends the collie dogs. His manager spirits him away after every performance. And always I have his grandmother in my ear, asking why the Yorkshire man is not there.”

“Damn,” Julian said, almost on his feet. “I’m going to go and get him.”

Mangassarian shook his head. “Let him find the right time to come to you. To receive a visitor would, I believe, cause him a great deal of trouble.”

~*~

It was three long days later on Saturday night that Julian came home from Hercules Pillars to find Noel waiting for him.

He was sitting on the floor in the lamp-lit near-darkness outside Julian’s rooms, the cat stretched out by his side. He stroked its fur with tense thoroughness, and although he smiled his eyes were those of a hunted animal.

“What cheer, old friend?” Noel asked, his greeting hesitant.

He was wearing a suit and his long green coat, but as he got to his feet, Julian could see he had dressed in a hurry. He had no jacket or hat, his shirt was collarless, and his hair unruly from where he had hastily removed his wig.

“Can I come in?” Noel prompted gently.

Inside, Julian lit candles, and at last found his voice. “Are you staying?” He asked.

In the flickering light he saw Noel’s smile had dissolved.

“Jude,” he began. “I know you didn’t mean those things you said at Mallory’s house. I know it was a bad time for you. I just need a day or two –“

“Please stay. Please Noel. Don’t go back to him.”

“I’m not. I mean I can’t. He’s away on business, and I gave his driver the slip after the final show. The girls at the Palace helped me, they smuggled me out. He would kill me for that. But I won’t have to bother you for long, I -”

“Stay with me.”

“Jude –“

“Stay with me. Stay.”

Noel bit his lip and, finally, gave a half-nod of ascent.

“I’ll never leave.”

For a long time they stood close, Noel’s fingertips making soft circles through the taller man’s hair, Julian’s tears dampening the velvet of his coat.

Later, Julian unlaced the ribbons on the corset Noel had not had time to take off when he escaped the theatre, and he rolled down the stockings he still wore under his suit trousers. He gave him his dressing gown to wear and, with warm water, he washed smears of half-removed makeup from Noel’s face. It was impossible not to notice how thin he was now, how frail the normally invincible body seemed to be.

Julian poured him a brandy and sat beside him on the old sofa. He put his arm around Noel’s shoulders. His courage had failed him the last time they were here together, it would not again. Noel responded cautiously, moving close, moulding his body to Julian’s.

“I don’t understand,” Julian said. “Why didn’t you leave him before?”

“It wasn’t so easy. I had nothing of my own, no clothes except the Lady’s, no money, no room except a locked one, not even a pair of shoes to get to the end of the road in.”

“My love.” The unfamiliar endearment fell easily from Julian’s lips, and he felt Noel’s shiver as his own.

“And I am a bit simple. I still thought I could make him trust me. But it was hopeless; I can only think it was all done for revenge. Right from the beginning it was all he wanted. I should have listened to your warnings.”

I was fortunate his business was in difficulty and he wanted me back on the stage, otherwise I don’t know when I would have been able to get away.”

“What else did he do to you, Noel?” When he had helped him undress, Julian had seen bruises.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“I’ve never wanted to kill anyone before.”

Noel burrowed further into Julian’s embrace. “Someone will one day, but not you, gentle Julian. We must be careful, though; he will come for me. He will come for you too.”

“He won’t succeed.”

“Aye Captain, I believe you. I’ve been so lucky to find you, and I bring you nothing but ill-fortune.”

“No, Noel. You’ve saved me.”

Noel looked up at him in wonder. “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you? You are truly easy with this?”

“My eyes are open at last.”

“What would your father think?”

“He approves of you. Or so I hear.”

“From our friend the Professor? How odd, I don’t even approve of me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Noel. Why should you always think this way?”

“When did you become so modern?” Noel stared into the dark gold of his drink. “What a day that was, Jude. When you arrived at Mallory’s house, with your wild eyes and marriage proposals. You said our being together wouldn’t be wrong.”

“It can’t be,” Julian insisted. With this, if nothing else, he was on steady ground.

“My whole life has been secrecy and artifice. I’ve always believed everything about me was shame and disgrace.”

“You were so young, and all you had was him,” Julian said. “No wonder you thought you should be suffering. I was luckier.”

“But Jude, speak to me honestly. Are you certain of what you’re doing? What kind of life you’ll be leading?”

“Aye, believe me.”

“I’m not a girl, you do understand?”

“So you say.”

“Shut up. All right, perhaps a little.”

“Be what you are, Noel. And wear what you like; you can go about as Sarah Bernhardt for all I care.”

“Bernhardt was last season. But I like that. I like that you don’t care about the clothes. For him, they were everything.”

Finally, in the silence there was only Noel’s breathing, and in the candlelight there was only Noel’s head lightly against his shoulder, as natural as if this was where it always rested. Julian’s hand drifted through Noel’s hair until he knew by the change in his breathing that he fell asleep.

He inched sentinel arms around him, marvelling at the miracle now unfolding in his life.

Why had he come to London almost two years ago? He had felt settled enough at home, following the well-worn paths of his life, never aware of being unhappy. He taught music to children, worried about winter moth in the apple trees, played organ for the church choir every Sunday and accompanied the local orchestral band from practice to pub each Thursday evening.

But as his thirty third year passed without event, he planned his journey south. He was conscious of seeking modest adventure; he had wanted to participate in life as others did and not always watch from the outside, he had wanted to find somewhere to belong.

But it was only now he understood all this was but the surface of his desire, it was only now he knew the true reason he had come to London. He had come to find Noel.

“Jude?” Noel whispered as he awoke.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you have a bed in these fine rooms of yours?”

“Yes, Noel. I have decided to keep it in the bedroom.”

“Always so conventional,” Noel yawned. “Then, let us go to it.”

“I, yes -”

“You don’t want us to?”

“No, it’s not…I’ve no idea what I’m doing,” he confessed, blushing.

“Ah well,” Noel murmured, still mostly asleep. “Six positions before sunrise should see you right, young man.”

“Oh, right. Yes.”

“At ease, soldier, just a joke.” Noel reached up to cover Julian’s mouth with his own. Warm and brandy-tasting, the kiss was a promise.

He took Julian’s hand, and by the last, burning out light, led him to the bedroom.

~*~

As it transpired, they had to quickly abandon London, only returning months later when it was safe again.

As Noel had predicted, Mallory did not take his escape well. Julian was twice aware of being followed by a stranger as he left the Rose Street house. He kept to the busiest streets but was sure his shadow stayed with him, melting away into the crowd when he turned to look.

Then a fire started when Julian was alone upstairs. As Noel returned home one day, he saw the top-hatted figure of Hitcher fleeing by the front door, his black bird an omen in the darkening sky. Running in, Noel discovered the landlady’s ground floor sitting room alight. The fire had not spread and he quickly extinguished it.

He rushed up the smoke-filled stairs, expecting to find a dead body. Instead he found a live one, gazing out of the window and wondering why his pipe smelt so strong today.

He had flung himself into Julian’s arms, and held tight to him. Julian had never before seen Noel unable to master his emotions, and tried inexpertly to comfort him. Noel could not speak at first, but Julian eventually smelt the smoke in his hair and clothes and guessed what had happened.

“We have to leave London,” Julian said, when they had helped the landlady salvage what they could of her room, and prise her indignant cat out from the top of a cupboard. “Just for a time, until it’s safe.”

“With what? Mal has all my money, your lawyer has yours, and you’ll not see your security deposit on these rooms, you can be sure of that.”

“Could we join a touring company?”

“It would take time to arrange and I don’t think we have any to spare.”

“We can go to Yorkshire,” Julian suggested finally. “I have a house there. It stands alone in its own small grounds. We would never be disturbed.”

“Jude, you can’t take me to Whitby. Look at me.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Be serious. I can’t be normal, even if I try. They won’t turn a blind eye.”

“They won’t understand. Most of them don’t know this exists.”

“You can’t rely on that anymore, Jude. Everyone’s heard of Oscar now.” It was true, the talk in town had been of little else. “In fact you’d probably be better off taking Oscar with you.”

“What if I didn’t come to Yorkshire with a man, what if I came with a woman?”

“Oh,” Noel said. “I see.”

The success of Noel’s impersonation relied partly on his skill, and partly on people tending to see what they expect to see. Lady Patricia retired and Mrs Barratt took the stage. He dressed plainly, spoke little, and wore a wedding ring when he walked with Julian to do the marketing or to watch a band play in the public gardens. Those they met were too polite to comment on the teacher’s son and his unusual looking wife.

But mostly they stayed home together; in the bedroom mapping one another’s bodies, and in his father’s study, writing songs and planning their return to the halls. When he was not upsetting Julian by trying on his mother’s crinolines, Noel took up his paint brush and began a new menagerie.

They stayed in Yorkshire for almost six months before receiving news from London. Mangassarian reported the coast clear for their return following Mallory’s hasty departure for France, encouraged by the interest the police were taking in some aspects of his business. Mangassarian seemed to know a lot more about it than he was letting on. Julian wondered who had been whispering to him; perhaps even the spirits of the dead wanted rid of Mallory.

Mangassarian talked a lot about other universes and other worlds. Julian found his letters wistful. He liked to present Spiritualism as a science but beneath this surface, was a longing for a more understanding world; a warm, kind place with room for an oddity such as he.

Julian understood the longing because once he had shared it. Now the only universe he needed existed in Noel’s eyes, the only warmth was provided by a yellow silk scarf.

End

Jackie Thomas

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The Yellow Silk Scarf