by Nancy Carson
‘That looked like birth certificates,’ he said, immediately suspicious that maybe she was trying to hide something she’d unexpectedly discovered. ‘Let’s have a look.’
‘They’re nothing,’ she proclaimed dismissively. ‘I know what all that stuff is. Just rubbish to be cleared out.’
‘So what is it?’
‘Nothing. I told you.’
‘If it’s nothing you might as well let me see,’ he said reasonably.
‘Oh, just forget it, for goodness sake. Go downstairs and make a start there, else we’ll never get done.’
‘It’s evidently got something to do with you, Eleanor,’ he persisted. ‘Let me see it.’
‘It’s nothing to get excited about, Stephen. Just my parents’ birth certificates.’
‘So let me see.’
‘No.’ She pressed herself against the drawer so that he could not open it without forcibly shifting her.
Stephen sighed with frustration. ‘Eleanor, the way you’re acting, it looks to me as if you’re trying to hide something. Now if you’ve got nothing to hide, let me see what’s in that envelope.’
Realising his request was perfectly rational and that she had little option but to comply or endure another argument, she conceded. ‘Well turn your back first,’ she said.
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody juvenile, Eleanor. Open the damn drawer.’
‘Then turn your back…please?’
He turned his back.
When she’d opened the draw and he could hear that she was holding the envelope in her hand, he turned round quickly and snatched it off her. She screamed her protest and tried to snatch it back, but he held it out of reach.
‘Now, just calm down while I have a look,’ he said rationally and took the envelope into the bedroom. Apprehensively, she followed and he sat on the edge of the bed. Again, she tried to snatch it away from him like a petulant child.
‘I don’t want you to see in there, Stephen. Please?’ It was an earnest appeal now. ‘Will you please give it back to me?’
‘Is it some sort of incriminating evidence?’
‘No, of course not. But there’s no need for you to see.’
‘Well, hard luck, because I’m going to.’
Accepting defeat and preparing herself for the barrage of unwanted questions that would inevitably follow, she allowed him to open the envelope and draw out the papers. He opened out the first one.
‘Ah! Brent’s birth certificate, by the looks of it.’ He read the headings and the entries aloud. ‘Name if any – Brent William. When and where born – Thirteenth June 1908, High Street, Chipping Camden. Name and surname of father – Arthur Roland Shackleton. Name, surname and maiden surname of mother – Emma Shackleton formerly Price. Occupation of father – Silversmith… Fancy, Eleanor, Brent’s father was a silversmith… Signature, description and residence of informant – Arthur Roland Shackleton of High Street. When registered – Fourteenth July 1908.’ He looked up at her. ‘So what’s wrong with that?’
She shrugged, a look of defeat clouding her usually defiant eyes, her hair uncharacteristically straying over her face after their struggle.
‘Now let’s see what else there is in here.’
She snatched at the envelope again and this time she retrieved it. Immediately she darted from the bedroom, ran into the lumber room and tried to lock herself in. With all the strength he could muster, Stephen managed to prise the door open before she could get it closed, for he knew she was headstrong enough to barricade herself in with tea chests. Once in the room he grabbed her wrists hard and firm to prevent her from tearing up the envelope and everything it contained.
‘Drop it,’ he yelled angrily. ‘Drop it, Eleanor or I swear I’ll give you such a hiding.’
‘Lay another finger on me and I’ll kill you,’ she screamed and her face was red, her eyes ablaze.
‘Drop it, you damned minx!’
He grabbed one wrist with both hands and twisted the flesh till she shrieked with pain and let go of the envelope. As he picked it up she pummelled him, kicked him and screamed, then fell in a heap on the floor, sobbing and complaining that she had never been treated so shabbily in her life and she hoped he would die. Unmoved, he returned to the bedroom and, breathless, sat on the bed once more. He took out the rest of the documents one by one and scrutinised them.
A marriage certificate! Well, how interesting!
As he read it his hands started trembling. It confirmed the marriage on 10th May 1931 of Brent William Shackleton, aged 22, bachelor of Chipping Camden, to Eleanor Christiana Beckett, aged 18, spinster of Evenlode. He ran his sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the bead of sweat that was irritating him and growled in abject disappointment. So she was married after all; exactly as he had believed all along.
He was profoundly disturbed and angry that Eleanor had lied to him, but he tried his utmost to keep his anger under control. For a few minutes he sat, trying to consider what it all meant, listening to Eleanor’s sobs coming from across the landing. Rationally, he tried to put it all into perspective. The situation was actually no different to that which he had understood it to be before her suggestion of marriage. Merely, Eleanor had lied when she told him she was not married to Brent. It was a lie that could have had far-reaching consequences but, in her desire now to be married to himself, maybe it would not be so difficult to forgive. In fact, he felt flattered that a girl as beautiful as Eleanor was prepared to go to such lengths to have him.
He decided to call her.
‘Eleanor!’ He deliberately sounded placid. ‘I found your marriage certificate. It’s all right. So you are married after all. It doesn’t matter. It was a nice idea that we should wed, but if we can’t, we can’t. We just carry on like we have been. Let’s not fight about it anymore. I’m sorry if I hurt you…Eleanor…’
He got up and went to the lumber room. She was still lying on the floor in the foetal position, unkempt, bereft of dignity with her skirt up revealing her slender thighs. She was quiet now.
‘Eleanor, it’s all right,’ he said kindly, reasonably and stooped down to stroke her arm. ‘Come on, get up off the floor. It doesn’t matter…’ He gently stroked her thigh.
She looked up at him with the uncertainty of a thrashed child, her eyes red from crying.
‘I mean it,’ he went on. ‘It doesn’t matter. So you’re still married. So what?’
She raised herself to the sitting position and pulled her skirt over her legs. ‘Oh, Stephen…I knew this would happen if you saw that marriage certificate…’ She gave a great heaving sob and he felt extraordinarily sorry for her. Her elegance had disappeared along with her self-esteem. She seemed so vulnerable that he all he wanted was to protect her. ‘The truth is, Stephen – and you have to believe me – I’m not married to Brent…Stephen, I swear to God. On my life…’
She began to cry again and he wrapped his arms around her consolingly.
‘I told you, it doesn’t matter, my love.’
‘You’re not listening to me, Stephen,’ she blubbered frustratedly. ‘Why aren’t you listening to me? I’m telling you the truth, I’m not married to Brent.’ She broke down again, unable to stem the flood of tears, unable to speak for sobbing.
Stephen took the handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed her eyes, then handed it to her so she could blow her nose. ‘I don’t understand, Eleanor,’ he said when she had calmed down. ‘Your name is on that marriage certificate. It clearly states that you’re married to Brent Shackleton, and yet you turn round and blatantly claim you’re not. Were you ever divorced?’
She shook her head.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I was never married, Stephen.’
‘But it says here you were. There can be no doubt about a marriage certificate, Eleanor.’
‘It wasn’t me, Stephen. Don’t you see? It wasn’t me.’ Another burst of tears…
Stephen said: ‘Are you saying you are not Eleanor Christiana
Beckett?’
She nodded her head against his chest and wept more. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ she whimpered.
He looked at her with incredulity. ‘Then who the hell are you?’
‘I wish I could tell you, Stephen…I wish I could tell you but I can’t…Believe me, Stephen, my love, I can’t tell you…I really can’t.’
‘So what happened to this Eleanor Christiana Beckett he married?’
‘She died.’
‘She died? Of what? When? Under what circumstances?’
‘I don’t know, Stephen. Ask Brent! I don’t know.’
‘So why have you assumed her identity, Eleanor? Christ, how can I still call you Eleanor? Give me a clue as to your real name, for God’s sake.’
She was in half a mind to tell him. Get it over with now and be done with it. But she shied away from the truth. She could not tell him. Not yet.
‘I want you to still call me Eleanor,’ she said in little more than a murmur.
He sighed profoundly and swore to himself as he sat down on a tea chest and ran his fingers through his hair in bewilderment. Exactly what had he stumbled across? He did not like it. He did not like it one bit. But, unless Eleanor deigned to tell him who she really was, he would never know.
‘Come on,’ he said kindly. ‘Let me take you home.’
To some extent, Eleanor’s claims that she was never married to Brent Shackleton were so ardent that they set his mind at rest, and he began thinking tentatively once more about instigating arrangements for their marriage. Perhaps he had misjudged her. Certainly, he had been too hard on her recently. Her absolute insistence of the truth of her story, her relentless self-righteousness, were convincing, and he was filled with renewed confidence and affection. He had not been let down or taken advantage of, after all. Despite her other quirks, she seemed to be honest and forthright. That was worth a great deal.
Just one thing; why was she still refusing to reveal her identity? It did not make sense. It made no sense at all. What did she need to hide? Unless she was the daughter of somebody important and well-known, of course; the daughter of somebody in the public eye. That would make sense. A judge, maybe; a high-ranking politician or policeman; a bishop or an archbishop. Naturally, he could forgive her for trying to protect the good name of somebody like that. But if she confessed, it would be to him only, and he was not likely to shout it from the nearest church steeple and embarrass anybody; he would be the very soul of discretion. After all, it was in his own interest.
Of course, he wanted to know who she was. He was breaking his neck to know. But this not knowing and her utter refusal to tell him was putting another undeniable strain on their relationship. Deliberately, he had been off-hand with her in an effort to induce her to relent. He had been cold, even turned his back on her in bed, confident that she would acquiesce and confess her roots. But she had confessed nothing. Not so far. Now, it was looking as though she never would.
The problem was, if they were to get married she would have to prove her identity. He even sneaked back to Brent’s house alone one day and searched the drawer that had contained those other revealing documents, but he had found nothing. An extended, albeit brief search of the entire house had revealed nothing either. Everything had gone. It was strange, because he would have expected to turn up some old photographs, but there were none. All he could conclude was that Eleanor, in her zeal to hide all evidence, had beaten him back to the house and removed everything while he was busy at work. Perhaps she had destroyed it all, prior to emptying the house in the next week or so.
It was such an important issue and it had to be resolved, but Stephen saw only one way of possibly unearthing the truth. And he would set about doing it within the next few days, when work might allow him a day off.
Eleanor, meanwhile, was incensed that Stephen was treating her so inconsiderately after their traumatic discovery of Brent’s marriage certificate. She was telling the truth when she said she had never been married to Brent. She was a single girl, eligible to wed, always had been. The fact that they had always allowed everybody to believe they were a married couple was their business, had always been their business, and nobody else’s. Why could Stephen not respect that?
Now he was being perpetually horrible to her. He was rude, insensitive, arrogant even, and she did not like it. It was not the best way to ensure her continued love and admiration. Rather, it provoked her into displays of bad temper and melancholy; moods she was finding harder to overcome. But he deserved to be on the rough end of it with his nastiness and his sarcasm and his continual goading with taunts of who she really might or might not be. She knew who she was. Why did he have to know? He could love her just as easily. She was still the same person, the same Eleanor he had fallen in love with, even if her real name was not Eleanor. What’s in a name, after all? It’s just a handle to be turned by, a sound to draw your attention when somebody calls you.
Maybe he had heard that new record by The Owls and the Pussycats on the wireless. She had heard it, a few times. It was a lovely song. Although it peeved her no end to admit it, since the announcer had said it had been written and was performed by Miss Maxine Kite, a beautiful English songstress who was faring remarkably well in America with her band. Maybe Stephen entertained the stupid notion that the song, ‘From Tears to a Kiss’, was aimed at him. Vain, pompous idiot! Men were like that; believing all the women they had ever known were incurably in love with them for all time. Serve him right if she married Brent or something.
Still, they must be doing well financially if they were famous in the United States. Everybody seemed to have a high old time of it over there if you believed what you read in the papers. Pictures of perpetually smiling women with perfect teeth and wonderful hairstyles. Refrigerators and electric washing machines in every magnificent, spacious home, everybody driving big, gleaming cars, central heating to keep you warm in the winter, perpetual sunshine in the summer.
And look at Brent…He wasn’t so bad. He was better than most, actually. At least he spoke to her civilly – most of the time. And they did have that gloriously sinful, sexual rapport that was surely lost now, dammit. Maybe she would never capture it again with another man. Certainly, she had never quite attained the same exhilaration with Stephen, for all his prowess, vigour and tenderness.
So what had drawn her to Stephen in the first place, for it was not his looks? Not that looks were so important for a man.
No, it was money.
Of course, it was money. Or, to be absolutely precise, Stephen’s potential to make money; his potential to afford her a comfortable, stylish way of life where she could be looked up to and admired, and kept in the manner to which she aspired. That was all she required. And why, with her looks, should she settle for less? In return, she was prepared to offer her body to the ultimate scrutiny, allow him to do things to her that were…well, just as enjoyable to her as they were to him, really.
Money had driven her with Brent, too, eventually.
Not at first, though. At first, she had given him her body out of sheer curiosity; a desire to know what having sex felt like. But, having done it once – and she had been an indecently young girl then – she had wanted to do it again. To experiment. And so had he. Before they knew it, they had both become unhealthily addicted. And so the addiction had prevailed, like some incurable affliction that blinded them to reason, to morality and to decency. Afterwards came the money and that was when she bewitched him utterly with her sexual prowess to gain a share of that money. But the idiot had squandered it, left them penniless.
Now Brent had hit on another crock of gold. Who would have believed, when she left him for Stephen, that the fool would turn out to be incredibly successful as a jazz musician in America, when back home he was nothing then but a mediocre trombonist in the CBO with no hope of riches. Did he look back now on those times before he squandered everything and regard it all as pathetically trifling now? Almost certainly he did. For now he must
be really coining it in.
But, still obsessed with money when Brent had none, she had prostituted herself with Stephen. No doubt she would prostitute herself again, to the highest bidder, if Stephen carried on belittling her this way.
With hindsight, it had not been a brilliant decision to leave Brent. With foresight, she could have avoided this impossible situation now. For she could not get married to Stephen after all. To do so she would have to reveal her identity.
And that, she finally decided, she could not do.
Chapter 29
August in New York in 1937, like in most years, was sweltering, with temperatures into the nineties and humidity that was almost unbearable. At Brent’s instigation, The Owls and the Pussycats renegotiated their rates at the Plaza Hotel and, happy that they were getting a better deal than before, resumed living there in apartments on their return from Chicago. Kenny and Dulcie not surprisingly ended their affair and he moved out of the brownstone they had been sharing. In the meantime, Dulcie returned to the family mansion on Fifth Avenue, to her parents’ great joy and relief.
The band had no engagements in August. They needed rest. The break afforded Maxine time to concentrate on writing new songs, including the two for the gangster movie. It would also give Brent the opportunity to work out the musical arrangements and the band the chance to rehearse the numbers, in plenty of time for the recording session on the first Monday in September. That was the theory at least.
In practice, it worked out somewhat differently. Maxine completed the songs – entitled ‘Does He Ever Think of Me?’ and ‘Gently, Mend My Broken Heart’, but so far Brent had made no effort to work up the arrangements. She reminded him of his responsibility when he returned to their suite one sizzling Friday afternoon. He had been out all day and had been drinking.
She was sitting at the grand piano they’d had brought into their apartment. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to do the arrangements for the film songs?’ she asked, trying to sound casual. It was actually a meaningless question now, but Brent was not aware of that; she had asked it merely to make a point.
