Free All That Glitters by Catrin Collier

‘a ram.’
    This time Jane needed no explanation. The workhouse separated men and women into opposite blocks, in segregated yards. They even ate on different sides of the dining room, across a divide of nurse-patrolled gangway. But women, especially the unmarrieds, gossiped every opportunity they got. She knew exactly what a ram was.
    ‘It’s nothing for Haydn Powell to have half a dozen girls on the go at once, and some of them, well they’re showgirls. And as my mam says, most of them are no better than what you see in Station Yard after dark, if you get my meaning.’
    ‘That’s why my mam didn’t want me going after this job,’ the first girl interrupted. ‘My father was all for it, said it was better than domestic, which is all I’ve been offered, but my mam told my dad that all Variety women are tarts.’
    ‘Tarts?’ The tallest of a group of six dancers echoed indignantly from behind the queue. ‘Tarts!’ she repeated menacingly, looking down from her superior height. Her lurid crimson hair and green eye make-up reminded Jane of an illustration of the witch in ‘Hansel and Gretel’.
    ‘I didn’t mean …’ the girl squirmed in embarrassment.
    ‘Leave it off, Rusty,’ one of the other dancers said as the door opened.
    ‘Don’t worry, sunshine,’ Rusty couldn’t resist a parting gibe, ‘no one will ever mistake you for a tart. The arse end of a cow maybe, but never a tart.’
    An awkward silence settled over the queue, but not for long. Prompt on the strike of ten the door opened and the elderly doorman waved them through. For the second time in her life Jane entered the Town Hall theatre. She climbed the steps quickly, careful to safeguard her precious place in the line. At the top of the stairs the box-office kiosk was shuttered behind dome-shaped glass. Like the Pied Piper, the doorman led the crocodile of applicants past it and down a corridor. On the left Jane noticed an alcove that had been turned into a sweet stall. She had no time to do much more than register jars of barley twists and boiled sweets, before they turned right into another corridor. From somewhere up ahead came the sound of muffled giggles and shrieks of laughter.
    ‘The dressing rooms,’ the girl in pink muttered.
    ‘Wait here,’ the doorman commanded as they reached the end of the corridor. He marched ahead and knocked a door. It opened and he disappeared, leaving behind a heightened air of tension and expectancy. Jane checked the queue; she’d held on to fourth place, but only just. The girls behind her were pushing and jostling in an attempt to move further up the line.
    A youngish, prematurely balding man in shirt-sleeves and braces opened the door and stared at the crowd of girls. He straightened his tie and withdrew. He re-emerged with a resigned look on his face, a sheaf of pencils, a notepad clipped to a board and a pile of papers in his arms.
    ‘Follow me.’
    He led, the girls trooped after him. He pushed a door. And there it was, shimmering in all its crimson gilt glory. Rooted to the spot, Jane could only stand and stare. The lights were set low in the auditorium, the stage was uncurtained and brilliantly lit, illuminating blue boiler-suited stagehands who were heaving on ropes and giant hooks, fastening them to enormous slices of scenery stacked in the wings.
    ‘All of you, front row.’
    Remembering why she was there, Jane rejoined the line only to find she had lost her precious place. She eventually sat, sixth girl from the right-hand end of the row.
    ‘I’m the assistant manager, Mr Evans. Before we go any further, I’ll tell you exactly what being an usherette in the Town Hall means, and what will be expected of the successful applicant. If any of you don’t like what you hear, the door is behind you. Close it on the way out. I’m a busy man, and I’ve no time to waste on anyone who thinks that a theatre is all glamour. The successful applicant must be prepared to work, and work hard. Those