by Maggie Ford
He looked round, waved at her, then looked back at Josie. ‘Well then, might see something of you in the interval.’
He wouldn’t of course. Those of the orchestra stalls or the dress circle congregated in a different, more fancy bar from those up in the gods. Arthur joined her and together they climbed the thousand and one stairs to the very roof of the theatre, then negotiated the steep and dizzy descent down the steps to their seats.
The orchestra ceased tuning up, got itself together. The curtain rose. The magic began. The players looked such a long way off from where she sat; mere dots, faces not easily recognisable, but the voices carried clean across to the furthest listener – Noel Coward’s studied vowels captivating all, Gertrude Lawrence’s clear diction perfect, Laurence Olivier’s measured, almost whispered drawl, even so reached her quite magically. Josie sat riveted to her seat, hardly noticed Arthur’s fidgeting. He was bored but suffered his boredom manfully.
Enthralled, during the marvellous scene with Gertrude Lawrence and Laurence Olivier, she in full-length mink coat over a flame-coloured silk pyjama suit falling off the sofa on to the stage while fighting with him, Josie felt hot with envy. Even on stage, mock-fighting with Olivier, G.L. was the epitome of all Josie imagined the world of wealthy socialites to be. That scene almost ruined the rest of the play for her; she felt hardly able to watch it for wishing she was Gertrude Lawrence or someone like her. What did she do or where did she go after leaving by the stage door and getting elegantly into her chauffeured motor car? It had to be a chauffeured car. Did she go on to a wild party with other actors, a dinner party maybe? And when she finally returned home to some luxury apartment, did she lounge on an equally luxurious sofa full of soft cushions in silken pyjamas similar to the flame-coloured ones?
All through the play, Josie could visualise her amid the costly comfort of drapes and elegant furnishings, wafting perfume while a maid poured a glass of sparkling champagne for her to sip; the maid going to turn down the bed, folding back silk sheets, plumping up billowing pillows, dozens of them, Gertrude waving a pale nonchalant hand at her, saying ‘That’ll be all, Rawlings.’ Or maybe there was a man with her … Josie shivered deliciously and thought oh, how she wanted so much to be like G.L. and savour all that wonderful opulence, take it for granted as she too sipped champagne …
The audience had broken out into rapturous applause. Josie clapped too, energetically. She remembered it all, yet she hadn’t concentrated as she might. In the interval Arthur had got her an ice cream, lining up for ages for it. She had licked it all through the first part of the second half, hardly tasting the stuff. Now it was all over. Arthur picked up his jacket, left her to put on her own stole, and together they made their way out of their seats up the steep seating steps and down the endless stone stairs amid crowds of others and back into the glittering foyer.
A voice hailed her. ‘I say, there!’ Turning, she saw the young man called Nigel pushing his way through the exiting throng towards her.
‘I say. Didn’t catch a glimpse of you in the bar. I didn’t expect to see you again.’
‘No, we didn’t …’
‘And I don’t even know your name.’
‘Josie.’
‘Charmed.’ He was looking now at Arthur, and Arthur was looking at him, and their expressions were as unlike as chalk and cheese, Nigel’s full of enquiry, Arthur’s bordering on baleful.
Nigel leapt to the rescue instantly. ‘Are you the one Josie, as she says is her name, is going steady with?’
‘Steady?’ Arthur repeated, somewhat stupidly.
‘I take it you are. Well now, look here, my name’s Nigel Hobbs.’
‘Arfer Monk,’ Arthur said.
Nigel blinked no eyelid at the mispronunciation. ‘Look here, we’re going on to a party. Still light out there you know, but Virginia’s parties get going early. Lots of fun. They go on till all hours. She’s having it in her flat in Park Lane. Owns it, you know, so can do what she likes really. So we’re going on there. No point stopping for a bite to eat, she’s got masses of food usually. Bit of a Bohemian, but rather nice. Come along.’
‘Well, we …’
Nigel’s crowd were leaving, some already getting into taxis. Nigel was moving inexorably further away, backwards, needing to follow them. Josie made a decision as she saw a golden chance slipping away because of Arthur’s hesitancy, and leapt in, interrupting him.
‘We’d love to come.’
‘Then right.’ Nigel had taken her by the arm, had wrapped it about his own, was pushing through the crowd taking her with him, as Arthur followed on behind, scared of losing them both.
The next instant she and Arthur, Nigel and his now somewhat more sober friend, were in a taxi, speeding away into the still sunny evening against which the electric signs of Piccadilly glowed pale and unreal.
Josie found herself glancing with more frequency at the golden clock over an ornate mantelpiece, its hands creeping nearer ten o’clock. She didn’t want to leave. The centre of attention for most of the time she’d been here, at first she had wondered why she had come. The luxury flat was bereft of anyone who looked like a guest other then those she and Arthur were with. Piles of food were being brought in by outside caterers while the fabled Virginia, whoever she was, a bandeau around her black wavy tresses and her dress hardly able to keep on her thin breasts as she hurried energetically from room to room ordering about the caterers and the waiters whom she had obviously hired for this occasion, whatever it was, ignored Josie completely. Though she had ignored Nigel and his friends too, apart from a casual wave of a hand to indicate they please themselves what they did until more people arrived.
As they did, Nigel introduced Josie, forgetting poor Arthur who took himself off to a chair between a window and a corner and managed to stay there for the rest of the evening, sipping sparingly of a mere glass or two of wine.
With the rich young people gathering around her at Nigel’s instigation, Josie found herself being asked about her home in Leigh, which she had let slip, what she did for a living, how big was her home and ‘how many people fitted into it?’ their tone one of utter disbelief.
‘Fascinating!’ someone said, and looking at her dress, asked, ‘And where did you buy such a singular creation, dear?’
Her heart swelling with pride that her dreas should receive attention as though it were a Chanel creation, she told them honestly she’d made it.
‘My, you must be so clever!’ gushed one girl whose dress was most obviously Chanel and whose delicately bleached hair had cost her a fortune to have done.
Another of the cluster around Josie had also remarked on the dress, saying, ‘I must get you to run up a dress for me. I could put heaps of work your way. You could make a fortune!’
Josie preened, putting on an accent she hoped passed for cultured. ‘I like to think I have something of a gift for it.’
‘You most certainly have, darling.’
From time to time she overheard other comments, the voice carrying, and if she hadn’t felt she knew otherwise, meant for her to hear: ‘Makes her own dresses, can you believe?’ ‘Is that a fact?’ ‘I couldn’t put two stitches together – just get mine from Paris and have done with it.’ ‘She is unique, though, don’t you think? I wonder where he found her?’
One comment: ‘Nigel’s a one for picking up odd sorts,’ fortunately she didn’t hear.
To her, Nigel was attentive the whole evening, guiding her from one cluster of people to another, introducing her as ‘my little Josie’, his slim, cool fingers entwined in hers. She felt like Queen of the May, celebrity of the year. It was a most wonderful feeling, her first-ever venture into the world she had always only dreamed about, and everyone was so kind, so attentive and so amused by everything she said.
But now it was fast approaching ten o’clock. Even Cinderella hadn’t needed to leave until the stroke of midnight. But Cinderella hadn’t had a train to catch all the way back to Leigh and a father to go off
at her for being out so late and him worried sick where she might have got to. She wouldn’t lose her lovely dress as midnight struck, but she might as well do, going back to that dismal world, that tiny dull house after all this grand glittering opulence. Gertrude Lawrence was after all only a dream. But at least Josie knew she must be thankful to have sampled a tiny fraction of that dream. Trouble was, she wanted more.
The hands of the clock on the ornate mantelshelf had moved on ten more minutes. Arthur still sat in his corner. He was looking at her. As she looked back at him, he jerked his chin at the time. Josie nodded. She would have to go. She felt suddenly guilty ignoring him the whole evening, but she had been having such a lovely time, the centre of attention as she joined in conversations and nibbled at food she had never tasted before in all her life and making everyone laugh uproariously as she pulled a face at this or that delicacy. Caviar had nearly brought the house down, and aspic too, people hurrying to get her some other titbit from the laden buffet table to see her reaction. She had played on it, revelled in it. But now it was over. Arthur was getting up, coming over.
‘It’s time yer went, Josie. You’re goin’ ter miss yer train.’
Nigel swung round from chatting to someone, his fine-boned, darkly handsome face creased wilh startled disappointment. ‘You’re not going, already?’
Josie forced a smile. ‘I have to. I’ve a long way to go to get home.’
‘But I can take you in the old Rover. All the way home. It’ll take us only a quarter of the time a train would take.’
The temptation was overpowering. To ride home in a car, a Rover, even if it was old. For a moment she hesitated. She tuned to Arthur, then back to Nigel. ‘Could you drop Arthur home on the way?’
‘No bother at all.’ He smiled towards Arthur, but Arthur had a scowl on his narrow face.
‘No fanks. I can git a bus.’
Josie felt embarrassment for him flood all over her. He couldn’t even bother to correct his speech, just for that short sentence. It occurred to her for the first time that he didn’t even notice how he spoke. Humility ignited a flame of anger within her.
‘Well, I’ve decided to stay. You can go if you want, Arthur. Nigel will take me home.’
‘I certainly will.’
She watched as Arthur turned without a word and shouldered his way through the clusters of guests with their drinks in their hands towards the door. Instantly guilt consumed her. She couldn’t let him go like that. He’d treated her to a theatre, sat bored all through Private Lives, not his cup of tea at all, yet hadn’t uttered a word of complaint, and here was she selfishly pushing him aside.
‘Just a minute,’ she said to Nigel. She pushed past everyone, hearing an amused comment: ‘Where’s she going?’ but, no longer interested in being the centre of attraction, she ran out of the door after Arthur. She was just in time to see the private lift door closing, enough to catch a glimpse of his face, its expression. It was tight, sort of anguished. Then the two edges of the lift door met and she heard the light whine of it descending.
For an instant she wanted to run down the stairs and catch him at the bottom, but with two flights of stairs, he’d be already gone. But she needed to at least try. Standing there uncertain, she heard a voice calling from the door of the flat. ‘Oh, there you are! Everyone’s wondering where you went to, darling.’
The decision made for her, Josie turned and, still full of remorse, followed the speaker back into the hot, overcrowded, over-perfumed apartment.
The next hour did its best, but Arthur refused to be forgotten if purely in a conflict of arguments within herself. After all they weren’t engaged or anything. She could please herself. Had they been engaged it would be a different matter. He had paid for their theatre tickets but she had offered to pay her share and he’d refused to take it, so she didn’t owe him anything. But none of it made any difference, all she could see was him walking home, alone, head down, hands thrust into his pockets and there was a hesviness in her breast even as she laughed and chatted.
Arthur began to be replaced by another anxiety, small prickles of panic started to arise as the clock showed five to eleven. She’d been out all day. Time enough to have been home by now. She told Nigel so, carefully. What if he wouldn’t now take her home?
‘What?’ Nigel burst out ‘It’s an unearthly hour to leave any party.’
‘Well, when does it finish?’
‘God knows. Could go on all night. Virginia does tend to throw some long parties, could go on forever. Sunday tomorrow, you see. Usually stay the whole night, fall down in some corner, and tomorrow pop off to someone’s county place to round everything off, tennis party or something. If it doesn’t rain. Then we lounge about. Billiards, cards, or generally mess around. It just rounds off the weekend, sort of.’
He was so nonchalant, easy with himself. Did money make people like that? No care in the world, not even for anyone else. Had he forgotten that, unlike the sort of people at this party, she must be home at a certain time? Surely not all rich people had such easy views about time and having fun. There had to be some more staid rich people about. What sort of crowd had she got herself in with? A trip up to the bathroom, fabulously furnished with black tiles and pink suite, confirmed the sort of crowd. As she opened the door, two bodies lay entwined full length on the floor before her, the girl with her breasts exposed, her legs in the air, the man with his trousers and pants around his ankles, his naked buttocks heaving up and down. ‘Oops!’ the girl cried and let out a giggle as Josie hastily closed the door, feeling hot all over.
Downstairs, she pleaded with Nigel. His reply was, ‘An hour or two late shouldn’t matter.’
‘I must go. Please.’ Perhaps if she left on her own there might still be a train. But it would take an hour or more to get home.
‘Listen, old thing, I said I’d take you home in the old Rover. We’ll get you home in time if you’re really worried what your old man will say.’
‘Can we go now? Please.’
She watched him give a sigh, glance at his gold watch, then look around the chattering, laughing gathering, and give a second sigh. ‘I’m getting bored with all this, anyway. By the time I get back from taking you home, it might have livened up. But you’ll be missing a treat tomorrow, I can say. Well, come on then. Get your wrap, darling, and we’ll be off.’
The old Rover turned out to be spanking new and shiny, just his joke. Open-topped, it took her breath away speeding a little too fast through the city and the suburbs and even more so through darkened towns, villages and country lanes. In no time at all they were leaving the Southend Road and were in Marine Parade where he glided to a stop at her command.
‘I can walk from here.’ She felt suddenly ashamed of the tiny narrow High Street of Leigh and its all-pervasive reek of decaying fish coming from the banks of empty cockle shells by the sheds, its line of tiny terraced houses.
Whether he divined her thoughts or not, she wasn’t certain, but he said, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, this is fine.’
He leaned over. ‘Then this is fine with me.’
His arms came around her, his face closed on hers and he kissed her mouth, a long slow kiss, his mouth a little open. For a moment she wasn’t sure what it was in her mouth, warm and wet and slippery. Then she realised with a shock that it was his tongue, forcing through her lips, exploring hers. At the same time as the shock hit her, she felt his hand on her breast, already pushing away the material of her dress and bra, making contact with her bare flesh.
She let out a squeak, stifled by his mouth on hers, put her hands on his shoulders to try to force him away. She was relieved to feel his grip lessen, his lips leave hers. But it was merely to say, ‘Come, isn’t this what you asked me to take you back for?’
‘No.’
His reply was a low chuckle. ‘No? I like it’
‘No!’ she yelled again. Her hand came up and across, the slap on his cheek resounding in the quiet night.
Josie was sobbing. ‘Because I’m not that sort of girl, even if you thought I was.’ Her hand flew to what she hoped was the outside handle of the open car. By some good luck she found the unfamiliar object, pushed it down and the door flew open. She followed, almost falling. Free, she slammed the door to. Bold now, recovered, she bellowed at him.
‘I might come from people less well off, but I think our principles can knock yours into a cocked hat. Who did you think you were?’
It now dawned on her that all those wonderful comments about her dress, her way of life, the offer to have her run up a dress just like it for someone, all that had been fun at her expense. To them she was an oddity, a curio, the lower classes seen at closer quarters, as people go to a zoo to see something they might never encounter in the wild.
He was looking at her. In the reflected light from his headlamps she could see his expression. It was one of wonder not derision, respect not contempt
‘Look, I like you a hell of a lot, Josie.’
‘You’ve a rotten way of showing it, making me feel like a prostitute.’
‘But I do like you. I’d love to see you again, Josie. I’m sorry for trying to do what I did. I just got it wrong, that’s all. Look, how about tomorrow?’
‘No thank you,’ she said haughtily, and turning on her heel marched off with all the dignity she could muster, adjusting her dress straps as she went She half feared he would follow, but he didn’t. As she turned into Billet Road, with only a few more yards to go, she heard his car start up, a deep soft throb, the sound of the motor finally fading into the distance.
Only then did tears come into her eyes, the black water of the estuary through a gap in the houses misting up before her gaze. She’d been such a fool, on the verge of being offered a wonderful life with him. Her dream would have been fully realised and she could have been taken away forever from this dull little fishing village whose only excitement was holiday visitors in the summer.
