by Maggie Ford
Mum was putting another coal on the fire. ‘Yes, I got it.’
Not a thank you. Just that she’d got it. Almost like a condemnation. Emma bit back a ready retort and found herself stuck with a problem of how to hand over the three guineas she’d brought along for her. It was a lot of money to Mum and would probably raise the question of how she came by such wealth, her mother looking on it as money for favours, as she’d once called it.
‘Mum, how are you off for money?’ she ventured cautiously. ‘Only I have …’ The question was interrupted.
‘Talk posh nowadays, don’t we? Did ’e teach yer ter talk like that? Too good ter talk the way yer was brought up?’
‘Mum!’
‘Don’t s’pose any of us are good enough for yer now. Must’ve ’ad ter work hard ter talk like that. So ’igh an’ mighty now, I wonder you even bothered ter come ’ere at all.’
‘I come because I wanted to see you.’
It didn’t seem to matter now how she spoke. Clearly Mum was giving vent to pent-up anger remaining from when she’d gone off into the blue. She’d often told herself that it had been as much Mum’s fault, virtually telling her to go, as it had been hers in going. She used it as a shield against her own conscience and it had never occurred to her that Mum too was blaming herself and in taking it out on her was hiding behind her own shield.
So many times, suffering the pangs of that fight, Emma had wanted to make reparation yet feared repulsion, the things said to each other too harsh to put away as easily as all that. So many times she had wanted to ask face to face how Mum was, rather than by letter, letters never answered, in their way confirming the reception she’d get. Again as a shield, she had brushed aside the thought that Mum too must have been hurt, must have wondered about her daughter, unable to forgive yet missing her. Now she was finding out, and it was proving painful.
‘I just want to know how you are, that’s all. If you need anything.’
That too was dangerous, a reminder of the silence that had grown between them since her leaving home.
‘If yer was asking ’ow I’ve been all the time I ’aven’t seen yer, I was down with a rotten cold over Christmas. But of course, yer wouldn’t know about that, would yer, never coming ter find out.’
‘I was so busy.’ God, how must that sound?
Her mother went on as if she hadn’t heard. ‘I got a bit of goose grease for me chest what the butcher was kind enough ter give me fer a penny, which was good of ’im.’
Was Mum really trying to put on the poverty-stricken bit? What had happened to the money she’d sent? It would have covered a doctor’s bill, and more.
‘I dosed meself with some cough mixture Mrs Abrahams upstairs had left over and give ter me. I was in bed fer two days. Ben was no ’elp. All ’e did was go on about ’aving no dinner cooked for ’im.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ demanded Emma. ‘You know where I’m living. You’ve got me address on the letters I’ve written to you. I could easily have bought some cough medicine and whatever else you needed.’
‘Didn’t think ter bother yer, you bein’ so busy.’ Emma looked at her mother’s back as she bent to lift the now boiling kettle off the trivet with a piece of cloth shielding her hands from its hot handle.
‘I don’t s’pose yer want a cuppa before yer go?’ She turned to glance at Emma, her expression blank, but the question broadly loaded with a hint that pierced right through Emma.
Her question about money and help had been totally ignored, but Emma wasn’t prepared to let it go as easily as that.
‘Look, Mum.’ She knew she was about to say all the wrong things but she was rankled. ‘I know you don’t approve of what I do, but despite what you think, I’ve kept respectable. Whether it offends you or not, Mum, I’m leaving some money on the table for you. You can do what you like with it. Throw it in the gutter or give it all to Ben if you want.’
The money she’d sent her at Christmas had probably been given to him, which was why Mum was pleading poverty now. ‘I’m trying to do something for you. I want to see you better off,’ she added, but her mother dismissed it with a flick of her work-worn hand.
‘I don’t need yer money.’
The kettle held firmly in Mum’s hands, prevented the three glittering guineas being picked up and thrown back at her, but she might as well have done, the way she completely ignored them. It was the last straw to Emma’s efforts to appease. ‘Well, it’s up to you,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ve got ter go. I’ll have yer tea another time.’
Halfway down the short flight of bare stairs she saw the door below begin to close, the woman caught on the hop, and as she passed, Emma called out pointedly, ‘Nice ter see yer again, Mrs Lovell!’
It was February and she could hardly wait to be seventeen. That evening, Theo’s agent having at last got him an engagement at the prestigious Alhambra in Leicester Square, Theo was introducing her to people she had never even dreamed she would ever come close to, much less meet. An impresario, a wealthy financial backer was giving the party in honour of his wife’s birthday. Theo had been invited, was being greeted like a lost friend by those he’d not seen for two years and in whose circles he’d once moved.
Knowing no one there and feeling rather like a fish out of water, Emma stayed close. She had never been one to lose out on conversation, but amid these milling groups of people, all talking furiously and no one apparently listening, little notice was being taken of her. To become separated from Theo would be to end up standing by herself, lost, everyone drifting by, their interest centred on each other. It didn’t matter that she was beautifully dressed in a cream-coloured, low-cut gown of soft soie-de-chine that Theo had chosen for her; she was no better dressed than any of the ladies here, and in fact most were far more richly attired than her.
Her glass of champagne in her hand untouched, she clung to his arm as a rotund, middle-aged man touched him heartily on the shoulder, taking his attention away from her.
‘Hullo, Barrington, old man, I saw you at the Alhambra. I heard all about your appearance before His Majesty, no less! I must say, what a splendid reintroduction. You’ve always gone in with both feet, and with a new assistant too.’
The small eyes focused beadily on her for a second and she lifted her chin in response, refusing to blush, but already he had turned back to Theo.
‘Saw her go through her paces. She’s good. She’s certainly got the makings. You have her well trained, old man, no doubt about that!’
Theo, holding a large glass of brandy, barely glanced at her. ‘She’s a damned sight brighter than first I imagined her to be.’
In pique, Emma withdrew her arm from his, telling herself she might as well not be there at all, as Theo’s companion went on heartily, ‘So, what happened to the young man, the assistant you had? I remember him – he used to be good.’
Theo’s reply was swamped by the invasion of a tall female in a rose silk evening gown, shoulders exposed by a low décolletage with a fichu of lace, a painfully pinched waist necessitating her to wave her cream silk fan at her cheeks with frantic energy. ‘Oh, here you are, Claud!’ She bore down on the man, probably her husband by his look of resignation, to drag him away to another group in some other part of the crowded, stuffy room.
Emma was glad to see the back of him and perhaps have Theo to herself. It wasn’t to be. A rakish-looking, fair-haired man with a pale, upright moustache, immediately took his place, but was a little more considerate in his admiration of her.
‘Lovely girl, Theo. Aren’t you going to introduce me then?’
Formally introduced, Mr Bertram Calforth gave her a gentlemanly bow. ‘Amelia Beech – nice name. Is it your own or your stage name?’
‘It’s really Emma,’ she answered readily. ‘Short for Emily. Theodore calls me Amelia and I suppose it is my stage name.’
She saw Theo look at her with a dark frown and said no more.
‘I expect you’re an asset to him, my dear,’
said Calforth. ‘You are quite adorable.’
She found herself quickly propelled away from her admirer, Theo’s attitude grown suddenly strained.
‘Watch people like him,’ came the harsh warning. ‘Go off and mingle with a few of the women and don’t let your eyes roam too much or his sort could get the wrong impression of you.’
But she didn’t know any of the women and wasn’t about to barge in on their conversations. Besides, though she spoke well enough now, they’d been speaking well all their lives and she would just show herself up.
Theo had moved off to join a group where he’d espied a couple of old friends, leaving her on her own. She felt sure it had been deliberate. He had turned odd from the very moment Calforth had taken notice of her. Upset and frustrated and without him next to her, she was lost. He had been most unfair to her, and it wasn’t as if she had batted her eyes at the man, though she might have simpered a little at being called adorable in such a nice way.
She sipped her champagne for something to occupy her other than just staring vacantly at glittering chandeliers. She also managed to avoid a chance glance from any of the flushed-faced men in tight, starched collars and formal dinner jackets, and being ignored by ladies upright in their restrictive corsets, as hers was restricting her, the new S-bend shape purported to be safe and comfortable but seeming to be neither.
She thought of her mother. Her heart began to ache with longing to know again the normality of the place she’d once called home. Nothing here seemed normal, everyone putting on airs and graces, the women talking in high-pitched voices, fans fluttering, men’s voices booming, an orchestra playing medleys no one was listening to, the chink of drinking glasses and the aroma of an excellent buffet mixing with the delicate perfumes of the ladies and the brilliantine pomade of men’s hair, and over it all the blinding glitter of the chandeliers. Suddenly she wanted none of it. Who did she think she was, mixing with these people, looking to be as famous as Theo expected to be again one day? Suddenly she wanted to run away from it all.
Standing by a high, narrow window with its deep blue velvet curtains, she felt her eyes mist with longing for home.
‘Emily?’ A familiar voice swept away threatening tears, replacing them with surprise and guarded suspicion.
‘What’re you doing here?’
There was an easy though not unkindly smile on Martin Page’s lips. ‘I was invited, like you.’
‘Why?’ she queried stupidly.
‘I still have friends in the business.’ He leaned against the frame of the window, disarraying the curtains. ‘And my family is quite well connected, if not in theatrical circles, but it helps. I guessed Theo would be invited now that he’s becoming known once more. Amazing how easily you can get back into the swim of things once you’ve played before royalty. That goes for you too, Emily.’
He’d spoken the name in all seriousness. It sounded rather nice on his lips. ‘You knew about that?’ she asked.
‘Everyone knows about it,’ he replied flippantly. ‘I also gathered he was at the Whitechapel Pavilion after that. Bit of a comedown, I thought at the time, but big oaks from little acorns … that sort of thing. But now you and he are at the Alhambra. Wish it was me, but good luck to you both.’
Emma nodded her acceptance. ‘And what are you doing now?’ she asked, savouring the relief of having someone to talk to whom she knew. She could have heaped blessings on Martin Page’s head for this unwitting and timely arrival. Suddenly she noticed how attractive his smile was.
‘In the theatre you mean?’ he queried, gazing around. ‘Nothing. I’m back in the family business at the moment – coffee importers, pretty big. But sitting in an office can’t compare to playing before an audience, hearing that applause, even if you are just a conjuror’s assistant. That’s the magic! As you have probably found out. There’s nothing like it.’
He looked momentarily so sad that she felt it flow over her too.
They fell silent. She wanted so much to probe deeper into the whys and wherefores of the rift between him and Theo, to ask if there was any truth in his denial of guilt regarding Theo’s wife, but that was out of the question and somehow she knew Page was innocent. Finally she said, ‘Do you think you two might get back together?’
He shrugged, still gazing around the crowded room. ‘You probably know by now what a strange person he can be – not the easiest man to get along with. He might be different with you.’
She wondered. He was a strange man. The way he had suddenly forsaken her here this evening, merely because a man had admired her. Yet did he not want her to be admired? Wasn’t that his aim? And the odd way he’d kept her at arm’s length after being on the point of making love to her that night of the King’s empty proposition. To be jealous of a king! He could not know what he had awakened in her that night. And now, it seemed, he didn’t care. It was as if that evening hadn’t happened.
‘You don’t appear to be enjoying yourself all that much,’ Page was saying. Emma came to herself with a start and sighed.
‘All these rich people, the way they seem so at ease with each other.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t you believe it. Every one trying to outdo the other, everyone on edge in case they lose out to someone else. I’ve seen this charade acted out so often in my father’s walk of life. You can get sick of seeing it. There’s none of this parrying among the poor. I almost envy them.’
It was Emma’s turn to scoff. ‘You don’t know half of it. You only see us from a distance, too far off to see that we’ve got the same needs, only ours is to survive, physically not socially. Grab that job before someone else grabs it.’ She heard her tone becoming heated. ‘My Mum scrabbling under market stalls for bits enough to make a meal before some other woman can get her hands on them, and scratch her eyes out to get to them if need be. Oh, there’s enough parrying goes on all right in my world!’
It was her world, in spite of having moved on. It was in her blood and at this moment she didn’t care who knew it, even him.
Martin was nodding apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. People like me can talk a lot of bunk sometimes.’ He brightened. ‘Look, can I get you another drink?’
Emma realised that she had an empty glass though she couldn’t remember having sipped until it was all gone. She smiled her acceptance, and as he hurried off to get her another drink, all at once she found this party a wonderful place to be.
Chapter Nineteen
Hardly had Martin left than she saw Theo moving towards her through the throng. He was a good head taller than most and Emma could see a set expression on his face.
‘There is someone I wish you to meet,’ he stated as he reached her. He took hold of her upper arm in a strong grip that refused any protest, but protest she did, mildly, but at the same time puzzled by his purposefulness.
‘I was just waiting for …’ she began, but he cut her short.
‘It doesn’t matter. This won’t take long.’ Before she could protest further, she was being escorted rather than guided between the chattering guests, who moved aside in some surprise before the urgent progress, like sea spume before the bows of a great ship, coming together again as they passed.
Reaching two couples in deep conversation, total strangers to her, Emma found herself brusquely introduced, confused, unable to catch their names, and then left with them, they looking as stunned as she was. One of the women smiled at her and made a kindly attempt to acquaint her with the conversation they were having, but Emma’s eyes were following Theo’s progress back to where he’d found her.
Through a gap in the crowd she could see Martin taking two glasses from a waiter’s tray, turning as Theo reached him. Her attention taken for a moment by the lady who had first spoken to her, the next time Emma looked, Theo and Martin were in animated conversation. She wondered what about, but when she looked again moments later, there was no sign of Martin, and Theo was shouldering his way back.
It was now seven months since that
evening and she hadn’t seen Martin since, though she often wondered about him, what their conversation had been about and why he’d left without saying goodbye. No doubt he was back in a stuffy office on his family’s importing business, but in a way she felt vaguely indebted to him for having momentarily brightened her evening. But with 1904 proving to be the finest year of her life, her mind was often distracted elsewhere. Theo was in great demand. Throughout spring and summer they’d done a lot of travelling, long weary train journeys from one city to another, Manchester, Edinburgh, Brighton, Leeds, back to London, then off again, different places, different hotels, the humble days of boarding houses left well behind. When in London, Emma made a point of going to see her mother, but there was no pleasure in it and it felt as though she was putting her head in a noose; she felt foreboding, reluctance, misgivings, and was hardly able to wait to get away.
Mum hadn’t changed. No longer were there arguments and she seemed to have accepted her idea of what her daughter had become, just as she accepted the money Emma sent her, these days with grudging gratitude. The place looked spick and span as always but now embellished with all those little bits and bobs that went to make two rented rooms into a home. There were now good meals on the table and money enough for gas and other little luxuries.
Her brother was still the same as ever, making sure of his share of what Emma sent to her mother. He boxed, gambled, lived on the seamy side of life, dock work put behind him.
‘Bloody peanuts!’ he spat when Emma tried to remind him that honest work shouldn’t be sneezed at, to which Mum shrugged, somewhat pointedly, as though she thought Emma could talk.
Promising that soon she’d be able to find Mum somewhere better to live brought another shrug and the response that she was all right here and wouldn’t feel easy living elsewhere on another’s money. Emma shrugged too and let it go.
