‘My face won’t take a minute, then I’ll do Mikey and Bob,’ Ellen said.

The two men played foot soldiers to her cupbearer. Ellen never said so but I couldn’t help but wonder if they were cousins of hers, those three seemed so thick with each other.

I looked into the mirror over her shoulder at Amazonia, the woman who was me and not me. In the programme she was described as ‘a dangerous savage from darkest Africa’ but beneath Ellen’s cunning paint I was still Zillah. Ellen turned and her pale freckled face appeared alongside mine in the glass. Soon she too would be transformed for the performance. She and the boys who acted as my worshippers used a pot of Stein’s to blacken their hands and faces. I hated the smell of the burnt cork, but it was cheap and it worked and for them there was no need for pretence, the black so obviously grotesque and the red smiles painted on. I didn’t like that the line between me and Amazonia was so blurred. She was a savage. I wasn’t.

‘Get on with you, Zillah. I’ll be along in a minute,’ Ellen said. ‘Now you’re the headliner, it’s not only Barky that gets blamed if you miss your cue.’

III

The Great Amazonia

It was the compère’s job to introduce me to the audience. To tell them what my story was while I stood silent, waiting in the wings with Barky at my side. He started with how I’d been found in the jungles of Africa, captured by an intrepid English explorer. Crillick said it was an essential part of making me seem like a real savage and the crowd fell for it every time.

‘She was brought to London for your delight,’ the compère said. As if anyone had ever thought about what a collection of clerks and shop girls might want.

What did the African make of it all? I wished I could still see him but the lights were down. He was dressed up like a gent, but did he recognise these tales of the jungle? As the compère jabbered on, nerves started to harden like a rock in my stomach. It was the last thing I needed, especially tonight when it was so important to me to be at my best.