by Maggie Ford
Theo, with more money than ever before, could now well afford to splash out on a rented luxury apartment in town for them both. In a rush of apparent generosity, he had rented a single flat across the hall for Martin.
‘I must have you on hand when we need to rehearse,’ he told him, and, like Emma, Martin nodded compliantly. With Theo’s tendency to awaken in the dead of night to rehearse something that was on his mind, he’d only need to knock on Martin’s door.
‘I could have found my own place,’ Martin said to Emma in private. ‘And a blessed sight cheaper.’ Theo’s generosity wasn’t so magnanimous that he didn’t expect Martin to fork out two-thirds of the rent himself. ‘Still,’ Martin shrugged amiably, ‘I’m in the money now, thanks to him, so I suppose it’s only fair. And at least I can close my door when I want.’
Emma tried to let it wash over her but she couldn’t help feeling envy. Yes, Martin could close his door on Theo’s world, if not very often. She would have no such freedom, with Theo assuming that he and she would live in this apartment together and finally be wed. Why such creeping reluctance at this coming marriage, she had no idea, yet it was growing more pronounced with every passing day.
The apartment had only two bedrooms, one a mere box-room for storing stage apparatus. The rest comprised a bathroom, a tiny kitchen with a hatch through to the small dining room and lounge that looked down on busy traffic. Theo had engaged a woman to come in to cook and clean for them.
At least they were in London. It was nice too to go down to the foyer and step out on to a street full of people passing to and fro about their business. Emma dreaded the end of this present engagement when she would be dragged back for ‘a rest’ in the country with its lonely birdsongs and its vast sky and its looming, open spaces. This was her home, this noise and bustle, dodging traffic, horse-drawn vehicles now vying with the odd motor-powered one.
Theo was talking of buying a motorcar. She hoped not. It would mean being able to get in and out of London easier, spending more time at his house. She didn’t think she could stand that.
The Wednesday after settling into the apartments she at last had an opportunity to see her mother. ‘After all this while away, I must,’ she said as she got herself ready. He wasn’t pleased.
‘There are certain moves I need to perfect,’ he said. ‘The Pavilion is an important engagement – our first since returning to this country.’
‘They’re always important,’ she snapped back. ‘Tell me one that isn’t. And just for once I want to go out!’
‘I need you here to rehearse, Amelia.’ It wasn’t an appeal, it was a command, and it was the last straw. She rounded on him.
‘I’m sick of rehearsing! It never stops!’ She was already donning her hat, rearranging veil and feathers with agitated energy borne of irritation. She saw his lips tighten at her sharp tone. She was sharp these days, but she felt justified. He was making love to her and treating her generally as if she were already his wife, so why shouldn’t she express her feelings? There could have developed a fierce argument but he suddenly mellowed.
‘I planned to take you out this evening,’ he said. ‘Covent Garden Opera House is staging Puccini’s new opera, Madama Butterfly. A little treat.’
Treat! Didn’t she see enough of theatres? But it would be a novelty to be the other side of the footlights for once. She knew she should be grateful, and she was, and she would enjoy it, but all she wanted was a few hours away from him. ‘I’ll be back by midday,’ she said, securing her millinery with a hatpin. ‘Is Martin coming with us tonight?’ she asked.
‘No.’
She looked at him narrowly. Why had he said that so abruptly, as if she’d touched a sore point? She shrugged – probably just Theo being Theo.
Emma looked at her mother as if she must be lying. ‘What do you mean, he’s been in prison?’
Having asked Mum how she was as she came in, and being told, ‘I’m orright,’ in a flat tone, her next words were to ask after Ben as she prepared to settle down for a morning’s chat, perhaps tell her mother about America, taking it that she’d be interested. Now, taken aback, all she had to say was being blown away.
Her mother’s expression didn’t alter from its grim look. It was almost as though she blamed her for whatever had happened to Ben. Perhaps for not being on hand when whatever had occurred, happened.
‘Like what I said. Been in prison.’
‘But why? How? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You weren’t ’ere ter tell, were yer?’
Yes, that was it, still regarding her as gallivanting off, no matter what she said or did. She sat down with a jolt on the edge of one of Mum’s elbow chairs, leaving her to continue standing, as if that would add more weight to the remark.
‘You could have written to tell me,’ she accused, jerking the hatpins from her hat to take it off and lay upon the seat of one of the nearby dining chairs. This visit promised to be longer than she’d thought, as Mum was required to explain what had happened during her absence and this involved discussion on the why and wherefore.
‘What did he do to be sent to prison?’ she repeated. ‘How long for?’ Hopefully it would have been a couple of weeks or a month for affray and disturbing the peace. Knowing Ben, it was very easy for him to disturb the peace.
‘Got three months fer burglary,’ her mother said. ‘The other bloke got two years, fer being the one caught with the money he stole still on ’im.’
Her tone grew bitter. ‘He should of been the one ter get two years. It was ’im what planned it. But he got some other silly bugger ter do ’is dirty work for ’im. But yer know Ben, wriggle out of anything.’
‘What made him do it?’ She knew Ben was a tealeaf, but he certainly couldn’t have needed the money. ‘I’ve been sending money to the both of you, regularly. And it wasn’t small amounts either. He didn’t need to steal.’
In fact she’d been so well paid in America that she’d been sending more money than they’d ever had in their lives, even when her father was alive. They should be living in comfort, the pair of them. The fact was that she could see by glancing about her and at her mother, that Mum didn’t look a bit as though she was living in comfort. She was no longer all that well dressed, and while the place was neat and tidy, there was no sign of any new bits and pieces. Maybe she was tucking it away for that ‘rainy day’ she was always worrying about, unable to believe this sort of money could go on.
Emma had sent the money over by a sort of money order, leaving her mother to sort it out, no doubt getting the kindly Mrs Blacker to put it through her bank into English money. Mum had no idea of banks. Perhaps it was all in savings, Mum spending nothing on herself. Mum turning into a miser? No excuse for that. Emma felt mildly irritated.
‘What have you been doing with all that money I’ve been sending?’
With a weary gesture, her mother sat down on one of the tall-backed, upright chairs and Emma noticed for the first time how tired and drawn she looked, as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of her. Yet her tone was still angry as she answered Emma’s question.
‘It was all that money you was sending ’im what probably started it.’ So Mum was in a way blaming her for Ben’s shortcomings. It was unfair. ‘Yer know what he’s like. Seeing ’imself in the money, spendin’ it like water, throwing it around, gambling, and when he lost, borrowin’ it off mates. Yer know what gangs around ’ere are like, what he’s got in with?’
She paused and Emma nodded, saying nothing as she continued, ‘Got inter debt and couldn’t pay it back and they came after ’im for it. He came ’ome ’ere all beaten up one night around the end of April. Said they’d threatened ter do for ’im if they didn’t get their money.’
Mum fiddled for a while with the bit of trimming on her black skirt. Emma waited in silence.
‘I couldn’t give it to ’im,’ Mum went on at last. ‘I ain’t got that sort of money. Not even with what you send. ’Undreds it was. I suppose that’s wh
y he went nicking, ’im an’ this other mate. Goin’ ter halve the takings down the middle.’ She continued fiddling with her skirt trimmings. ‘I s’pose Ben was lucky none of it was found on ’im. He just made off, but the other bloke got caught red- handed with all this rich geezer’s stuff on ’im. Place up West. He blabbed on Ben, but Ben didn’t ’ave no money on ’im, so they let ’im down lightly. Gawd knows why. But he can talk ’imself out of anything, charm a bird off a bush when he so needs to. Came out last week.’
She gave a little sigh. ‘I’ve been all this time tryin’ ter pay it back to the blokes what he borrowed off. I still ain’t done. They want interest now. I just can’t do it.’
No wonder Mum was looking worried. ‘You let me go on thinking you two were all right and all the time you’ve been struggling like this?’ Emma said in disbelief. ‘You could have written, Mum. You should have warned me and I’d have been able to sort him out.’
But of course, Mum wouldn’t have known about it until Ben came home knocked about. But she ploughed on. ‘I might have been able to stop him doing what he did and going to prison. Why didn’t you write to me?’
Instantly she was aware of the way her mother’s back went up. As soon as she’d spoken, Emma realised that she already knew the answer. She’d need to tread cautiously in order not to humiliate her mother further.
‘I wasn’t goin’ ter air me dirty linen in public,’ came the stiff reply. ‘Yer washed yer ’ands of this family when yer went off with that bloke of yours. I know yer’ve always seen me orright, but I ain’t one ter go cryin’ ter outsiders fer ’elp.’
‘I’m not an outsider, Mum, I’m your daughter, and it is my business to see you all right. You and Ben.’
She knew why Mum hadn’t written and the excuse she’d given had nothing to do with not wanting to air dirty linen in public or anywhere else. It was the writing – she was not totally illiterate but unable to spell and with hardly any knowledge of grammar as there was so little schooling for the children of the poorer classes. Mum, being the eldest, had been needed at home to look after the younger ones. Her only tuition had been later in life and she still felt the humiliation of partial illiteracy. It was better not to try to write than to risk ridicule. Mum had always been a proud woman. It was why she had been so adamant about her own children not missing school.
‘Just a line or two would have done,’ Emma said inadequately.
Her mother shrugged. ‘Well, he’s out now, so it don’t matter no more.’
‘It does when you’re paying back his debts for him,’ she said. Already she had pulled a book of cheques from her reticule. She was at ease with banks and cheques these days. ‘How much does he still owe?’
There was an obstinate silence. Mum had to be prompted again before Emma was told, reluctantly, and even she gasped at the amount. When Mum had said hundreds, she hadn’t exaggerated. Tightening her lips, Emma wrote out the sum and handed the cheque to her mother. ‘I could get it out in cash myself,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think I’ll get the time and you need it urgently. Ask Mrs Blacker to cash it for you. She’ll oblige.’
Her mother looked uncertain. “She’ll think I’ve come inter money.’
‘Does it matter? Explain to her.’
Her mother’s thin lips became even thinner. ‘I ain’t tellin’ her all me business. Besides, she thinks Ben went off ter stay with someone. She even put me rent down again. Now he’s back she’ll put it up and when she sees how much is ’ere, she’ll wonder. Might even think of asking more rent. I ain’t explaining where he went to.’
Emma could understand that. ‘I’ll cash it and bring the money round to you tomorrow,’ she promised. Tomorrow was going to be a problem, Theo with his eyes on her all the time. The Pavilion looked to be taking up his whole time, all their time, but this was urgent.
‘Make sure Ben gives it to the people he owes it to,’ she warned. ‘And not sink it on the odd rum that’ll become three or four, or more gambling.’
Her mother looked sly, colluding with her. ‘Don’t worry, love, I don’t think he wants another bashing like that one he ’ad. That put ’im on the right track about ’imself and ’is big ideas. I just ’ope he’ll settle down now.’
Emma was back next day with the money, despite Theo forbidding her under pain of virtual death.
‘She’s got a bit of a problem on her hands,’ she told him, ‘and I’m sorting it out.’
She hadn’t told him what the problem was. If he knew he would hit the roof. Theo was generous with her, never stinted her with money, bought most of her clothes for her and made sure she wanted for nothing. He also felt it his duty to keep an eye on what she spent, and had taken it upon himself to look into her savings now and again, concerned about her financial wellbeing, questioning her about anything that seemed to be amiss. That he could do this irked her. But they were engaged to be married and he took it as his right to protect her, much as a husband was expected to protect and guide a wife. But he wasn’t her husband yet.
‘I’ve got a duty towards her,’ she said firmly.
‘You have a duty to your profession,’ he thundered back. ‘You have a duty to me.’
‘I’ll be half an hour, Theo,’ she snapped. It angered her that while he demanded she consider him, he considered only his own self, so it seemed. ‘Anyone would think,’ she continued to mutter, ‘that the theatre would collapse without me being here every second of the day, going over and over all the things we’ve been through hundreds of times before.’
‘I shall collapse without you,’ he echoed, his voice becoming gentle.
Hers did too. She knew what he meant. ‘You won’t be without me, Theo, I promise.’ But when she touched his arm he pulled away.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ she said abruptly, hurrying off before he could say anything more. What could he say beyond telling her to leave and not come back, and he wouldn’t do that. He was deeply in love with her. Her worry was that she wasn’t sure she felt exactly that way about him.
There was no sign of Ben at her Mum’s. Keeping out of the way. Mum must have told him about the money, but Emma had never seen her so grateful as when she clasped the handful of large white five-pound notes to her bosom.
‘I’m taking it to them so-and-so’s meself,’ she announced. ‘I don’t trust ’im with this. Ain’t been ’ome not much more’n a week and drinkin’ already. He could booze it all away and be back where he started, an’ I’ve just about ’ad enough of ’im!’
Emma felt her fear for her clutch at her heart. ‘You can’t go having dealings all on your own with people like that,’ she said, but her mother gave a grim smile of determination.
‘What can they do ter me, an old lady?’
She wasn’t old, and with her washed-out hazel eyes alight with fiery intent, her tall thin figure stiff as a weather-dried stick, she looked a match for the devil himself.
‘If they try anything on me, they’ll get what for. Besides, no matter what sort they are, they’ve all got mothers. They won’t ‘arm me.’
Looking at her, Emma had to agree.
It was a week since she’d last been to see her. She was aching to find out how everything had gone, but Theo was so wrapped up with his act, and so much was expected of Emma and Martin, that she could hardly go off just when she pleased. He was after all the source of her success. Without him she wouldn’t be where she was today, she would be still in the slums, probably thinking of marriage to some struggling, pasty young man instead of into the wealth and security assured by this now celebrated and powerful man. She owed everything to him. There would be other opportunities to see her mother, and after all, she told herself, as Theo put her and Martin through their paces endlessly, Mum had done far less for her than she’d done and was still doing for Mum.
She rested on the trust that Mum must have successfully handed over the money, though there was not a peep from Ben, not one word of gratitude. Knowing him, she hadn’t expected any,
rather he was probably grudging her the ability to bale him out, seeing himself as belittled, indebted to her, a woman, his little sister doing for him what he failed to do for himself.
It was three more weeks before the end of their contract would allow her some brief respite to hurry off to see how her mother was.
She found her barely able to hold herself together. And again no one had told her.
‘We’ve been asked ter leave,’ Mum said in a small, brittle voice when Emma had hardly come through the door, before she’d even had time to take off her outdoor things.
‘Why, what’s happened?’ she asked, disturbed by the sight of her mother.
‘It’s Ben,’ came a defeated reply.
Emma stood in the centre of the room. ‘What’s he been up to now?’
‘Everything.’ Mum wandered past her, crossing the room to plump up the cushion on the elbow chair and returning to reposition a vase on the small sideboard, remaining there staring at it with her back to Emma as if to face her would have crumbled her efforts to hold herself together.
‘Prison’s changed ’im,’ she said. ‘He knew when we first came ’ere to mind ’is p’s and q’s or we’d be asked ter leave. I told ’im, no matter if he was drunk, he wasn’t ter bring his ways back ’ere, and he listened. I don’t know what being in prison did. Still got that swagger and all that big talk what makes the ladies fancy ’im. He’d even twisted Mrs Blacker around ’is little finger when he put on the charm. But now …’
She paused, knowing she must admit yet another failure, another problem to her daughter, Ben’s shortcomings always at the root of all her problems.
‘Since coming out,’ she continued still with her back to Emma, ‘he’s back on the drink. I know we’ve lots of drunks and troublemakers round ’ere, but now he’s coming home in the early hours of the morning, soused to the eyeballs, waking up the other people ’ere who’ve complained to Mrs Blacker. To give the woman her due, she didn’t say much at first, but it was only a matter of time.’ Emma said nothing.
