The Flower Girl

by Maggie Ford

  There came a light rap on the door.

  ‘Enter!’ Theo’s full tone made her jump. The door opened and the stage manager stood there looking from him to her, his look hostile, seeing her there.

  ‘So what went wrong?’ he enquired brusquely.

  Before Theo could address him, Emma spoke, her explanation tumbling out in a torrent: the fire, the death of a neighbour, her mother homeless, her possessions gone and nowhere to go but the streets and having to find her somewhere to stay, as well as the need to comfort her after the shock of it all. The recollection made her voice waver and break, her lips tremble and her eyes mist over. When she had done, the man cleared his throat, hostility fading.

  ‘Well, indeed, I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Still, we managed. Had a chap step in at the last moment, damned good turn, pretty well liked. I gave an excuse of some accident on your way here. Seems in a way I was right. Accidents can happen. Pretty well unavoidable, I suppose.’

  He gave Emma a glance that wasn’t unkind, and she felt that he was talking for her benefit where otherwise he might have been curt and offhand with Theo on his own.

  ‘Too late, you going on now. Can’t overrun, not to that extent. If I’d known earlier, but having already made the announcement … You being top of the bill, there’s deep disappointment. All I could do is honour their tickets for any time in the coming week provided they’re happy to accept whatever empty seats we have, so long as you can guarantee no more little unforeseen problems, Mr Barrington. This sort of thing doesn’t go down well.’

  He was being nicer, Emma suspected, for her sake, but was still put out. Those performing in theatres like the Oxford didn’t let the management down.

  After he’d gone, silence again descended. Theo’s equipment was to be left, and he put personal things back into a valise without giving her so much as a glance, but the tension was beginning to undermine her. She felt indignation too. He could have waited a little longer, trusting her to turn up.

  She hadn’t the courage to say he’d been over-hasty, or even that her being a little late wouldn’t have mattered. They still could have made it.

  ‘I didn’t plan it,’ she said at last. ‘My mother was in such a state and I couldn’t leave her. I had to find her somewhere to stay. She don’t have no one else but me.’

  ‘Doesn’t,’ he corrected, ‘have anyone else,’ leaving her staring at him in disbelief. How could he worry about something so trivial? And his voice sound so level and calm? Yet she knew he was not calm. Correcting her was proof. When would the storm break? When it did she must be ready for it. She would not be cowed when what she had done had not been possible to avoid. She was in the right.

  Neither spoke on the way back to their hotel. She’d said her say and if he wasn’t prepared to accept that or even forgive, so be it.

  She went to her room, still with neither of them saying a word to the other, not even goodnight. Granted, he had cause to be angry, but there was no need to have made such a fuss, cancelling as he did and upsetting the management. If he had waited a little longer, had trusted her to turn up in time, everything would have been all right. He was at fault, not her.

  His silence was worse to bear than the reaction of the theatre manager. She’d have felt better if he’d stormed at her. It would have given her a chance to answer back. But he just stuck to this unnerving silence.

  Slowly she undressed, washed, rinsed her mouth and got into her nightdress. She thought of the little bottle of port she kept to calm her nerves before a show. A tiny drop would make her feel better now.

  The tiny drop became two, then three. Not having eaten properly all day it went to her head, or as Mum would have said, to her legs, Mum swearing that was where it went to first, bringing on a sort of wobbly feeling. The thought prompted a silly giggle and she felt a little better.

  Lying full-length on top of the bed covers she let the port send its warmth through her stomach, until a light tap on her door made her sit up sharply.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she called.

  The door was opening and she realised she had forgotten to turn the key. As Theo entered as if it was his every right to do so, Emma swung her feet to the floor, gripping her nightdress close to her neck, the warmth in her stomach from the port dissipating as she glared at him.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  He looked almost penitent. ‘I felt I must apologise,’ he began. ‘I was so furious about being let down. It just is not done …’

  ‘You’ve already said that.’ She remained sitting on the bed, staring up at him. ‘I’m tired, worn out by all that’s happened today. I’ve tried telling you about that but you won’t listen. You’re interested in no one but yourself. Other people’s problems just wash off you like …’

  He held up his hand to stop the angry flow, the imperious gesture somewhat spoiling his effort to apologise.

  ‘Now that I have had an opportunity to recover a little and be alone to think, I realise I was wrong. Not wrong that I had to cancel my act but for refusing to hear your side of it.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ she snapped and began plumping up her pillow. ‘I need to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He was obviously not ready to leave. ‘I’ve been remembering how it was when my wife died. I well recall going to pieces the next evening after coming off stage. I tried to carry on but I suppose I was numbed by shock. I felt her death was my fault. I don’t want that to happen again.’

  Emma gave a defiant lift of her chin. ‘I’m made of stronger stuff,’ she said but he wasn’t listening.

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Amelia.’ His tone had softened and he began to move towards her. ‘You are too sweet to be saddened by my foul temper and my deepest wish now is for you to forgive me.’

  What could she say before such a display of humility? This was so unlike him that she allowed him a tentative if tight-lipped smile. She was surprised to receive a similar smile in return, he who seldom did, except to burst into a roar of laughter at some party.

  He continued to move forward until he was able to reach out and touch her arm gently. ‘I am forgiven, then?’ he asked quietly.

  She conceded with a small nod. The touch on her arm was sending a small shiver of pleasure through her. She told herself it was because their differences had been settled, but that wasn’t the whole truth.

  He had sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. Leaning forward, he drew her gently to him and laid a kiss on her cheek, his trimmed beard softly caressing her skin.

  ‘I loathe seeing your lovely face spoiled by anguish,’ he murmured. ‘You must always be adorable and never fade.’ His arm tightened a little about her, drawing her even closer and she gave no resistance when his lips touched her neck.

  ‘I have become ill with love for you, my sweetest sweet,’ came the slightly dramatic whisper. ‘Do you feel the same for me, just the slightest?’

  She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head against his cheek and she heard him give a deep sigh of contentment. ‘My darling,’ she heard him say and felt herself gently but firmly borne back down on to the pillows. His hands were brushing lightly over her body, a caressing touch, slow and lingering, which felt so wonderful.

  His lips pressing on hers, automatically her arm went about his neck. He had become a faceless lover for whom she suddenly yearned. There even came fear that he might pull away from her as he’d done before. But this time it seemed that his need for her was now strong enough for him to overcome his strange prejudice. There came another wild thought even as she felt him grow strong and hard against her: had he indeed quenched his anger just to have his fill of her?

  It was that thought that made her begin to squirm, trying to push him away, half out of fear of being proved to have given in willingly and have him look at her in disgust the moment his urge had been fulfilled, and half in true fear of this her first time ever being taken by a man, and this man in particular.
r />   He was ignoring her whimper of protest, his movements becoming urgent, almost selfish as he joined with her now, bringing sharp stabbing pains in her insides that made her gasp and cry out and frightened her even more. It felt almost as though he was taking some revenge out on her, all the time his head was buried in the curve of her neck and shoulder.

  His movements were becoming even fiercer, the pain sharper, she heard herself crying out for him to stop, but he wouldn’t, or couldn’t. It was as if she were some thing on which he had to relieve himself, that she meant nothing to him but that, her feelings dead to him.

  Finally he let his body collapse heavily upon her. Seconds later he’d flung himself away to lie on his back breathing heavily. That he was still clothed while her nightdress lay dragged up around her upper body, leaving her fully exposed, somehow made it all seem degrading and she heard her own distressed whimper, ‘Oh, my,’ tremulously uttered several times. Her mind felt numbed. For possibly the first time in her life she felt defenceless and vulnerable. It was as if she were someone else lying here and this man, someone she didn’t know.

  At the sound of her whimper, he turned to look at her, and leaning over her, took the hem of the nightdress and carefully drew it down to cover her, such gentle consideration after such violence that she turned her face from him with unexpected tears of shame trembling on her eyelashes.

  ‘My dear.’ He said no more

  Turning from her, he got to his feet, his back to her as he adjusted his own clothing. Still without looking at her, he moved to the door to stand facing it without opening it.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked.

  She found herself unable to answer. She felt damp and uncomfortable and distressed.

  ‘I am very much in love with you, you know,’ he added, then still without looking at her, opened the door and went out, leaving her full of disbelief at what she had let happen. And not once, after that initial tender embrace, did she remember him kissing her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Despite yesterday’s fiasco, Theo was greatly admired, and with his contract at the Oxford to run several weeks yet, the management was happy to see him back for both Saturday matinée and evening, continuing as normal.

  Full of self-satisfaction these days, he said to Emma when she spoke about his being pleased, ‘Without me, their takings would halve and they know it. They are fully aware that I am a draw.’

  He was in a good mood. Last night with her had assuaged his anger about Friday and he seemed to be looking at her in a different light. As for her, it brought an odd sense of power over him that she’d never had before.

  ‘I have to go and see how my mother is,’ she told him bluntly in the hotel’s breakfast room. To her amazement he put up no argument, and merely nodded as he continued eating his scrambled eggs.

  ‘I promise to be back here before lunch, well before the matinée,’ she conceded for good measure, as if he had in fact protested.

  Despite the need for haste, she took a hackney cab to Whitechapel. A thick, pea-soup fog had descended in the early hours of the morning and was still lingering. Horses knew what they were about in fog, motor engines did not, and for once horse transport was quicker.

  Her mother was in better spirits than she’d expected, and it came as no surprise to find that Ben had already settled himself in. In fact he’d been there since last night, now with a proper bed of his own.

  ‘After you left, I went back,’ Mum explained, a little apologetically. ‘I know you put yerself out for me, but I couldn’t leave ’im there. So I toddled back and found ’im still there and made ’im come back with me.’

  She spoke as if he was still a kid in need of her protection. But, she supposed, Mum’s first would still be her baby despite being twenty-one.

  ‘Does Mrs Blacker know?’ she queried. Mrs Blacker was no fool. If the two of them were being underhand, it wouldn’t take long for her to find out and give them their marching orders. But she was being prematurely cross.

  ‘I asked ’er before I went ter find ’im,’ she was informed. ‘I told ’er that after what happened he was ’omeless too, and she said it’d be orright but she’d want a bit more rent from us. So, well, I ’ope you don’t mind, Em.’

  ‘How much more?’

  ‘Another three bob.’

  Emma drew in a deep, slow breath, not to show her feelings. Nine shillings! She couldn’t blame Mrs Blacker and in time the woman would realise that her extra charge had probably been too little once Ben started his tricks. How long would she put up with bawling and yelling when temper got the better of him along with a bit too much to drink? But Ben could put on the charm when he wanted, like he did with the girls, especially this one he called Clara. He’d probably keep on the right side of Mrs Blacker, knowing which side his bread was buttered – a nice place like this.

  Emma let her breath out gently and nodded her assent. She could afford it, but it would have been nice if she’d been asked rather than told.

  It was good to be back out of the damp but slowly yielding midday fog that would descend again by late afternoon, chill and clinging, but in weather like this even a hotel bedroom was acceptable. Mum’s new place was already cosy by comparison – trust her to immediately turn three small rooms into a home.

  Emma opened her door to Theo’s knock and stood back for him as he came in, he assuming it to be his right. ‘How is your mother?’ he asked, surprising her. He’d never referred to her before.

  ‘She’s settling in,’ Emma said as he went over to gaze through the window at the few horse vehicles passing below in Broadwick Street, growing more visible in the thinning fog. ‘I think she’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps we can concentrate for an hour or two on my act without any interruption before we leave for the theatre.’

  It was a sharp dig. Flexibility hadn’t lasted long. ‘I’ll need to have lunch, Theo,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t you have something with your mother?’

  ‘I hurried back here as soon as I could,’ she said, ‘because I didn’t want to be late.’ It was her turn to be pointed, but he ignored it.

  ‘I’ll have tea and sandwiches brought up. After the matinée we will have something more substantial and this evening I will take you to supper.’

  That was it, he never asked – he assumed, he arranged. He made no more references to her mother’s welfare and she volunteered none as he took her through those moves he considered required attention.

  Once or twice he was needlessly sharp with her though she couldn’t see why he should be – she’d made hardly a mistake. Nevertheless, she let it go. But when, as they finished, he remarked, ‘Not too bad and I feel a little happier, but had you been here yesterday afternoon, we might have avoided doing it over again today,’ her temper got the better of her.

  ‘You’re not going to let me forget, are you?’ she pushed aside the plate of sandwiches he was now offering, her appetite vanishing. ‘I thought you’d put it behind you.’

  ‘I have,’ he said, calmly helping himself to one of the neat little triangles of cheese and pickle though he did not lift it to his mouth.

  ‘I thought that after last night,’ she rushed on, ‘after you made …’

  ‘Eat,’ he said, pushing the plate under her nose. ‘You’re no good to me, Amelia, if you faint away from hunger during my act, and cause another disaster.’

  ‘Another disaster!’ She was on the verge of upending the plate but controlled herself. ‘I’d say a disaster of your own making. I arrived a little late-ish, that was all, and we still could have gone on, but you’d already gone ahead and cancelled. There was no need for all that drama.’

  ‘It’s past now,’ he said, putting the plate back on to the occasional table. ‘You will drink some tea.’ He began pouring it for her from a cream-coloured teapot, adding milk and sugar from the matching porcelain and even stirring it for her as though she was incapable of doing it f
or herself.

  ‘I don’t want any tea, neither.’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ As he stood watching her without speaking, she felt the blood rush to her temples in a fierce gush of rage. ‘You enjoy tormenting me, don’t you? It makes you feel masterful, don’t it? All right, doesn’t it. But I won’t be some submissive little plaything of yours to have every last little error I make held over my head for the rest of my life while you go ahead enjoying your pleasure of me!’

  She saw him frown. He put the cup down on the table and moved towards her. The intense blue of his eyes seemed to cloud over.

  ‘The rest of your life, my dear?’ His tone was low. ‘I hope very much to be allowed to share the rest of your life with you.’

  She wasn’t to be fooled by that. Before he could touch her, she turned her back on him, snatching up her hairbrush from the dressing table to furiously brush her hair, the dragged-out hairpins making it fall long and heavy about her shoulders.

  In the mirror she could see him come to stand behind her. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders. His eyes, now bright, regarded her in the mirror to hold her own with their hypnotic glow.

  ‘You are so lovely, Amelia. Far too lovely to spoil it in pique.’

  One hand had moved to fondle a thick lock of her hair, preventing her from continuing to brush it. ‘I am too fond of you, my dear, to spoil what we have with argument. Forget yesterday and think of more pleasant things.’

  Emma said nothing, her brush lying idle as he went on: ‘You were so loving with me last night. I was overwhelmed. Say you are happy?’

  Emma remained silent, refusing to fall into his arms, as he’d no doubt expected, not when his plea for her to be happy was so full of magnanimity rather than the other way around.

  ‘Theo, I must start getting ready.’

  He took his hands from her shoulders. ‘First you must eat a little. At least for your own sake, if not mine.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said, huffy still.