Page 42 of The Songbird of Wychwood

“He wasn’t a journalist, and I weren’t selling stories to him. He is a publisher though, and he wants to sign the rights to print my songs and music. Seeing as my songs are my own, their ain’t any trouble with doing it. I just wanted to let you know it’s happening…out of courtesy.” Grayson’s expression changed at hearing that. I held my hands up in a calming gesture.

“It could be good for the both of us, Mr. Grayson. You said that there could be a tour for my act, and if punters would buy the song sheets after so they could play them on the piano at home, that would be more money coming in.”

Mr. Grayson was silent for a moment longer before he rose from his chair and walked around the desk to face me.

“Have you lost your bleedin’ mind, boy? You ain’t doing no deals with any publisher,” he exclaimed. He poked his tobacco stained finger at me. “Don't you realize I own you George Dancie?” he spat those words with such cruel malevolence I involuntarily took a step back.

“Did you really think I let you stay here out of the goodness of my heart?” he mocked. “Your mum was a good enough tumble, god rest her soul, but you boy, as soon as I heard you sing, I knew you were my big ticket.”

Did Mr. Grayson let Violette stay because they’d had an arrangement? Could he actually be…my father? I shuddered. No, that could not be. I looked nothing like the greasy bag of bones in front of me.

Grayson pointed his skinny finger at me and wagged it. “And don’t look at me like that George Dancie. I know what you’re thinking. No, I ain’t your sire. I got two brats of my own and they’re more than enough. You can’t pin that on me! You’ve got a, shall we say…benefactor…yes. A fellow who’s made sure you kept a roof over your head. And while I ain’t responsible for you, I am your boss, and you’d be nothing without me. Don’t you forget that! You’re my big ticket, lad and everything you’ve made here belongs to me, you hear!”

I was discombobulated for a moment and distracted from what I needed to say. “What do ya mean, a benefactor made sure I keep a roof over my head? I remember, clear as day, after ma passed you told me I won’t see Violet’s boy on the streets.”

“And, ain’t that the truth? I didn’t put you on the streets. Why? Did you think I…cared about you like you was me own boy?” Grayson laughed and it was an ugly, hateful sound.

“Use your loaf, George, ain’t no one in this city lives for free!” Mr. Grayson shook his head as he walked back around the desk to his chair.

I was confused, and horrified to realize how guileless and naïve I’d been. In my innocence I’d taken all Mr. Grayson had told me over the years at face value. But everything I’d believed about my situation was wrong. I wasn’t living at the Middlesex for free, or because of a kind hearted gesture on Mr. Grayson’s part, because he cared for my mother and me. No, I had a benefactor somewhere, and he’d paid for me to live at the theater and learn my trade. Who the hell was this fellow?

Mr. Grayson slumped into his chair and wagged his boney finger again as he barked. “You tell that publisher to sling his hook. He ain’t poaching you. You’re mine George Dancie and I won’t hear another word on the matter. Now, piss off and let me get on!” he said finally and then he flicked a hand to shoo me away like I was a pesky fly.

Stunned, I automatically did as I was told. I turned and walked out of Grayson’s office. I kept walking through the warren of stygian hallways until I got to the dressing room I shared with Lou. We were supposed to be rehearsing a new number together, where she’d dress as the gentleman, and I was the lady he’s trying to court. The door was ajar so I knew Eloise wasn’t in her smalls. I barged in and saw Eloise had been trying on spectacles and a moustache for her character. I slumped on the chaise longue and put my hands over my face.

“Didn’t go well then?” she sighed, and I groaned in response.

“I’ve got a bleedin’ benefactor!” I exclaimed.

“Eh, what?”

“There was I thinking Mr. Grayson let me stay upstairs out of kindness, when what’s really going on is someone’s been paying him to let me stay here!”

Eloise turned away from the mirror, her fake moustache askew, “You’re havin’ a laugh!”

“True as day, that’s what he said. And he also said I have to tell Percy to sling his hook and every song I write here belongs to him.”

“That can’t be right. Did you ever sign a contract and agree your terms of employment?”

“What, no, I didn’t sign nothing. He never asked me to. It’s like I’m just part of the furniture, you know, just like Harold! Did you sign a contract?”

“Course I did, everyone here has a theatrical agent to negotiate terms. I’m guaranteed at least one spot per show for the next year. I’m paid a set wage for each performance and I have two days off each week.”

My god, I was as dense as a bag of hammers. Why did I even think I’d survive outside of the Middlesex when I knew nothing of the legalities of show business? I’d never worked in another theater, so I hadn’t needed an agent to get me work.

“I got some advice from a lawyer my Pa used to drink with,” Eloise explained. “He looked through the contract Mr. Grayson offered me and negotiated with him for me.” Eloise pulled off the spectacles and moustache. “Gods, I just knew the bastard had to be up to something skeevy.” She strode over to the chaise and sat beside me.

“Think about it George. What’s he hiding? Why would Grayson get upset about you meeting with a publisher? Why does he think he owns everything you do here?"

My mind was whirring but I couldn't fathom what Eloise was alluding to.

"Have you ever published your songs before, George?"

"Course I ain't. They’re mine,” I said, bewildered. “I keep the original score but write out a few copies of the music for the orchestra, for the separate instruments, that’s it. I’ve never published nothin’. That’s why Percy wants to look after my songs and see it done right."

"Come here," Eloise said as stern as I'd ever heard her. I followed her from our dressing room and down the hallway towards the stage, but then she diverted to the door that lead to the auditorium. The round tables were folded up, and pushed to the side, and the chairs were moved to the outskirts of the vast hall. A large swathe of canvas covered the middle of the floor and the chandelier was down, ready for cleaning. But bright sunlight poured in through the glass windows and doors in the foyer. It bounced off the crystals of the chandelier and sent rainbows around the room. Eloise headed for the orchestra pit in front of the stage. She leaped the small divide, and then I heard the rustle of paper.

"Here," she thrust a manuscript at me.

“I noticed when I was talking to Jerome about the piano accompaniment for my next dance. He had this on top of his piano.” I took the page from her and held it out to the sunlight. It was the manuscript with the piano music for the song I wrote for my character Dixie Normus, titled "My Cowboy’s Gun.” I brought it closer to see that, in smaller type below the title it said, 'Words and Music by Alfred Grayson'.

“What the bloody hell is this?" I cried in horror.

“Did he pay you? Did you give him permission to publish your songs and take the credit?”

“What? No, no, course I didn’t. I’d have told you if I had. And I ain’t seen an extra penny from him for publishing. What…what the hell is this?” The page shook in my hands. I was outraged and disgusted by this betrayal.

"Oh, there’s more. Look, he’s listed as the composer on all of these songs,” Eloise said, holding up a bundle of manuscripts she’d collected. “Grayson kept you as his star act cos he’s had a little scam on the side."

I was dumbfounded. My songs were part of me and he stole them and made money from them right under my nose. My chest felt tight and I couldn’t breathe. I eased onto the floor, sat with my legs crossed as I stared at the printed manuscript with some other bugger’s name claiming it was their work, when it most certainly was not.

“What should I do? I don’t know what to do?” I said miserably.

Eloise hopped back over from the orchestra pit into the auditorium. She sat beside me and pulled me into a side hug. “It ain’t right love, and we can’t let the bastard get away with it. You need help from someone with a good head on their shoulders. Someone who has a lawyer at his beck and call, and I know just the gentleman who can help you!”

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