He looked at his programme. There in the list of the dancers was the name. The part of the girl was to be danced by Margarita Sorya. So that was her name: Margarita Sorya. She was a Margaret, as he had thought, but she was his, meant to be his, given back to him from the grave by some miracle of life. She was the other half of his uncompleted being. She was there on the other side of the old, torn, mothy, red-and-yellow curtain, probably talking with her husband, he thought bitterly, or in some foul and littered, cold dressing-room, trying to get changed for the next ballet. She would probably be in that. It would be
“Madam,” he said, “will you please put your cigarette on this ash-tray?”
“I’ve not finished it yet,” she said.
“I know, madam,” he answered, “but the orders of the police are that no one is to smoke here. But there is a fine yard at the back, if you should want the use of it. You could smoke there and welcome.”
She relinquished her cigarette with the remark, that she had never before been in a place where she couldn’t smoke.
Frampton went out into the rain. Somewhere within a few yards of him, in one of the ignobler dens of that mean building, was his Margaret given back to him. He was in such a turmoil that he knew not quite what to do. Going back presently to the entrance corridor, he saw Tiger Mike talking to the young man who took the tickets. He was talking about the lady who had smoked.
“She said: ‘I’ve never before been in a place I couldn’t smoke.’ Indade there’s few times that painted Jezebel has been in the inside of a church. Did ye mark her nails now? All done up red as though she’d been scratching her lips. Can I do anything for ye, sorr?”
“Yes,” Frampton said, “indeed you can. Might I have a few words with you?”
“Deed you can. Will you just run round to the light boy, young fellow, and say it’ll be all of twenty minutes before there’s one of ’em ready?”
The young man went off into the heart of the gloomy building. Frampton was alone with the Tiger.
“You haven’t changed much since I saw you win your title,” Frampton said. “I’d like to shake hands with you, if I might be allowed.”
“Indeed, I’ll be proud,” the Tiger said.
“This company,” Frampton asked: “I gather you had trouble in getting here.”
“Trouble, is it? Begob, you’re right, sorr. We’ve been in one long mess and that’s the truth. The manager, that was, cleared out on us with the gate. He’s the boy let us in about these tickets. Then our lorry broke down on the road, and our ’bus, that we tour in, went the wrong road. Still, here we are.”
“How about lodgings for the night?” Frampton asked. “Have they all got lodgings in this place? It’s a noisome hole.”
“Ah, they’ll find some place,” the Tiger said, “between the act and to-night’s show; they’ll all find some place.”
“You mean they haven’t yet?”
“Not a one of them. But there’s pubs and places. It’s nothing. They’ll find spots. There’s always places in England’ll take ’em. The police’ll fix them, if they can’t find any for themselves.”
“It’s no great fun running round a place like this in a storm,” Frampton said. “It will be dark by the time this show’s over. Do you mean to say these poor souls have to change from their dancing things, fly off to find lodgings, get food of some sort and then fly back to the evening show?”
“They’re used to it. It’s nothing. Use is second nature.”
“Have you any place to go?”
“Sure, sorr. I go to my garage: he’s promised me a bed.”
“I could give five of them shelter,” Frampton said. “I’m not married, but I’ve got a big house doing nothing, and I could take them to and fro. You may think perhaps I’m running a bawdy house. I’m not. I’m interested in the show and would like to help. It’s going to be a bad night. Do you go on to Sulhampton to-morrow?”
“No, Sorr, we’d go on to Sulhampton Monday morning.”
“I’ve got a housekeeper,” Frampton said. “She’d look after the women.”
“I doubt there’s many housekeepers is used to this sort,” Mike said.
Frampton had thought that, too, but he was ready to try.