by Hazel Gaynor
And now I have to tell you that I am afraid. I have a dreadful feeling that I won’t see England again, that I won’t see the great chimneys of the cotton mills or the blackened faces of the miners coming home from the pits. I think this is it, dear girl. And if it is, I want you to be brave and strong and I want you to go on and marry a man who is worthy of you and who will care for you and tell you he loves you when he wakes each morning.
You mustn’t be frightened by these words. I have thought about keeping this letter somewhere safe so that they will find it when I go, but then I worry that it won’t be found and you will never know what it was I wanted to say to you. So I am sending it now, and if my fears are wrong, and I live on, then I will write again, and again and again, and I will keep on writing until the stump of my pencil runs out and the candle dies, and we will carry on, my darling girl, as best we can.
Think of me often.
Yours always,
Teddy
X
Somewhere in France. April 1918
I don’t know how much longer I can stand it here, Dolly. I feel like I am a small boy again and I cry out in the night for my mother. I want to be tucked up warm in my little bed. I want to feel your hand in mine. I want to lie down and sleep.
Pray for me, my dear little girl. Pray for us all.
Teddy
X
Despite my efforts to forget and move on, I can’t. The memories and the pain come flooding back with every word until the tears fall fast down my cheeks. He called me Little Thing. How my heart ached to hear him speak those words to me once more.
I was twenty years old when Teddy was demobilized and returned to England, but it was not the return I had imagined. I was not the naïve girl who had waved him good-bye. I was not the same girl who had spent years waiting for him to return. Waiting for Teddy, thinking about Teddy, writing to Teddy—it was all I ever did. “When Teddy is back,” “after the war,” was all I ever said.
Teddy returned a broken man. His body wasn’t damaged; he carried his wounds on the inside. Shell shock, they told us. The empty stare. The tremble in his arms. The damp stain at his groin. It was so painful to see. I tried my best to help him heal, but I too was damaged. I carried my own invisible scars and it is hard to mend someone else when you, yourself, are damaged beyond repair.
That was why I had to leave.
Teddy always knew I would. He said my feet were too restless to walk forever along the narrow laneways of Mawdesley. “When the war is over, you’ll go,” he’d written. “Mawdesley isn’t where you belong. You’ll find a bigger stage to dance on than the village hall. And when you do, I’ll be watching in the audience, and I’ll clap and cheer, and blow kisses and throw roses at your feet.”
But life doesn’t always work out the way we hope.
There is no stage.
There are no roses.
I rest my cheek against the bedroom window, blowing a warm breath onto the cold glass. It fades too quickly. Everything is slipping away from me.
What do you hear, Dolly? Please tell me. Fill my ears with life again.
“I hear hope, Teddy,” I whisper. “I hear hope and love and adventure.”
The pages of Perry’s discarded music remain unplayed beneath my pillow. I still haven’t told him that I took them from the litter bin and I still haven’t heard Mr. Somers’s band rehearse.
Today is the day.
Taking my courage in my hands and a bundle of table linen in my arms, I make my way along the staff passageways that lead to a curtain at the back of the ballroom stage. I make a small gap at the edge of the curtain and peer around.
Half a dozen musicians are in full swing. Trumpet, banjo, violin, drums, trombone, and piano all mingle into a perfect melody as they play a favorite number of mine, “Tiger Rag.” My feet tap in time as I gawk at the Oriental carpet and the huge ferns and palms that tower toward the ceiling at each side of a curved staircase. It reminds me of an illustration of an exotic Egyptian palace in The Adventure Book for Girls. Adventure lives in places like this; in the marble columns and crystal chandeliers, even in the scuff marks left by dancing feet on the wooden dance floor.
I wait until the band finish their last number and begin to pack away their instruments and then I whisper from my hiding place.
“Mr. Somers? Psst. Mr. Somers.” He glances up from the piano but doesn’t see me. I step out from behind the curtain and walk toward him. “Excuse me, Mr. Somers. I’m very sorry to bother you, but you did say for me to come and listen to a rehearsal.” He looks at me, bemused. “I heard you playing the trumpet outside the deliveries entrance.”
A look of recognition flashes across his face. “Ah, yes. The maid who got herself a free concert al fresco. I wondered when you might appear. So, how did it sound?”
I step a little closer, the bundle of linen still in my arms. “It was lovely. That last one’s my favorite.”
“Mine too. Well, I’m jolly glad you heard us.” He closes the lid on the piano and steps down from the stage. “Nothing like a little music to see one through the day in good spirits.”
“Actually, I wondered if I might ask you a favor, sir.” My heart thumps beneath my apron. I’ll be in terrible trouble if anyone sees me here.
Mr. Somers narrows his eyes. He wears little round spectacles that look comical against his rosy cheeks. He reminds me of a pet hamster my cousin used to keep. “Well? Spit it out.”
“It’s just . . . well . . . I wondered if you might play something for me.”
“For you?”
“Yes.” I feel silly for even asking.
“Of course. Which one would you like?” He opens the piano and sits on the stool, his hands poised over the keys. “Well?”
“Oh, no! Not one of your pieces.”
He looks a little offended. “Mine not quite to your taste?”
I blush. “No. I mean, yes.” I balance the linen in one arm and fish the folded sheets of music from my pocket. “It’s just that I found some music a while back and I’ve never heard it played.”
“Found?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” He looks at me, and shakes his head. “Well, we can’t have unplayed music. That won’t do at all. Music is nothing without an audience. We must have people to hear it; otherwise it is just markings on a page. It is the audience that brings it to life.”
I hand him the folded sheets. He looks at the shabby state of them and frowns.
“They got a little damp,” I explain. “I rescued them from a litter bin.”
“A litter bin?” I nod. He smooths the pages before placing them on the music stand above the keys. “Well then. Let’s see if their rescue was worthwhile.”
I take a deep breath. Standing in this beautiful room where I am not permitted to be, I feel heavy with anticipation. It is desperately important that the music is special; memorable. My instinct to rescue it has to have been worthwhile. I close my eyes and listen to the rise and fall of the notes, the gentle trill of the top keys, the melancholy of the sharps and flats. The melody is beautiful; haunting. I stand perfectly still and listen to every note until Mr. Somers’s fingers come to a rest and the final chord echoes around the room.
He speaks first. “It is quite beautiful, don’t you think?”
I nod, afraid that if I speak I will burst into tears. I want to run to Perry’s apartment and tell him how lovely it is and how beautifully Mr. Somers played it and how silly it was of him to throw it away like that.
Mr. Somers hands the pages back to me. “Do you know this P. Clements chap? He has quite a talent.”
“I’m getting to know him.”
“When you next see him, tell him I know a producer looking for a song just like this for a new production.”
“Really? Oh, yes. I’ll tell him. And thank you, Mr. Somers.”
I take the pages from him and turn to leave.
“And, miss.”
“Yes.”
“You mi
ght also ask him who the piece was written for.”
“Oh, I don’t think it was written for anyone. He seemed very unattached to it.”
He laughs and stands up, closing the lid of the piano gently over the keys. “But of course it was written for someone. Every piece of music is written for someone: a lover, a friend, a friend you wish was a lover. Ask him. Whoever he was writing this for, he needs to write for them again. There is life and loss in this music. Real life. Real loss.”
I tell him I will ask and step back behind the curtain. I rush down the corridors and staff stairways to continue my rounds before anyone sees me.
The melody follows me around the hotel for the rest of the day, playing over and over in my mind, and all I can think about is how delighted Perry will be when I tell him.
Yet something nags at me. Who did he write it for?
29
DOLLY
“It’s only by trying and failing, by losing something we really love, that we discover how much we want it.”
The following Sunday, I rush to the Strand Theatre to give Perry the good news. Mrs. Ambrose beams at me from behind her little window at the ticket office.
“Back again, Miss Dorothy?”
“Yes. Back again.”
She winks and chuckles to herself, setting her chins dancing. “Glad to see it. Go on up. He’s in.”
I bound up the three flights of stairs and stop outside flat three, where I press my ear to the door and listen to the now familiar sound of piano keys, the same chord over and over, the lid being slammed shut, the keys reverberating in protest. My hand is raised to knock, but I hesitate. I get the feeling I’ve come at a bad time.
I jump backward as the door opens. Perry’s hand flies to his chest. “Goodness, Miss Lane! You gave me a fright. I’d begun to think you weren’t coming today.”
“Sorry. I got delayed.” Our eyes meet. I’m a giddy child beneath his gaze. “You’re obviously heading out. I’ll go.”
He reaches out, touches the sleeve of my coat. “Don’t go. Please. I was only leaving because you weren’t here.”
His words dance in the space between us, twisting and turning with the suggestion of so much more. Color rushes to my cheeks as I glance down at my shoes. I try to suppress a smile.
“Well, I’m here now.”
“Yes. Yes, you are.”
He stands to one side and holds the door open. I step into the small apartment and just as I did the first time I came here, I feel instantly at home.
Perry closes the door behind me and dashes about, picking up cushions, pushing teacups and tumblers to one end of a table, and throwing open the curtains. “You must excuse the mess. Mrs. Ambrose hasn’t been in today. Take a seat.” He pushes a pile of sheet music off the end of the battered velvet couch. I perch on the edge as he stands in front of the fireplace, hands on hips, as awkward as a schoolboy. “Tea?”
“If you’re making some.”
While he clatters about in the small kitchenette, I glance around the room. I’d expected something much grander after seeing his sister’s apartment, but Perry’s little flat above the theater isn’t much bigger than my sleeping quarters at the hotel. It is chaotic and eccentric. Candle wax spills over the edge of empty bottles of whiskey and absinthe. Ashtrays overflow with spent cigarettes. Discarded shoes loiter beneath chair legs. Scrunched-up balls of paper form a drift around the wastepaper bin. A teetering pile of novels leans against the fireplace and a teetering pile of music books rests against the sofa. Rugs are scattered about the floor and draped over chairs. A bizarre collection of art hangs on the wall and small ornaments sit on any available space on the shelves and mantelpiece. The room smells of Scotch and cigarettes, just like his pages of music when I’d placed them on the hearth tiles to dry.
O’Hara’s veins would pop out of her neck if she could see this place, but I find something quite lovely about the chaos. It is full of character. Full of a life. In some ways, it makes the suites at The Savoy seem rather bland.
Eventually, Perry emerges with a tea tray, setting it down on a nest of tables beside me. Two generous slices of cherry cake are piled on a plate decorated with roses. The teacup is cracked and the pot dribbles when he pours. It reminds me of Mam’s teapot at home, how she’d fussed and apologized as it dribbled over Teddy’s trousers the first time he visited. “It’s the flaws that give things character, Mrs. Lane. Everyone talks about the teapot that dribbles. Nobody talks about the teapot that pours perfectly. If I were a teapot, I know which I’d rather be.”
I take a bite of cherry cake. “It’s very good,” I mumble, dropping crumbs into my lap.
“Mrs. Ambrose makes it. Secret recipe. Says she’ll take it to her grave just to annoy her sisters.”
He sits down and stands up again, pacing about the room, unable to sit still. He’s always the same. I found it distracting at first. Now I find it quite charming.
“I have a confession to make,” I say. Even the words make me blush. I shuffle in my seat.
He sits in the seat at the large bay window. “Oh?”
“Do you remember the first time we met, when we bumped into each other in the rain?”
“Yes. You knocked me down.”
I sigh. “I helped you up.”
He smiles. “Of course. How could I forget?”
“Do you remember putting your pages of music into a litter bin?”
“Ah. Yes. Miserable piece of rot.”
“Well, that’s the thing. I took those pages out of the bin. I kept them.”
“You did what? Why on earth would you do that?”
“I’m not sure. It just seemed such a shame to throw them away. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. What I wanted to tell you is that I asked somebody to play the music.”
Now he’s intrigued. He walks toward the fire and sits in his favorite threadbare old chair. “Who?”
“Debroy Somers. He’s the pianist and leader of the hotel band.”
“Somers? Of the Savoy Orpheans?”
“Yes.”
“I know him. Decent sort of chap.”
“Well, the thing is, he played your music. In the Grand Ballroom.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And he liked it. He liked it very much.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And so did I! I thought it was lovely. Really lovely.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. Perry pokes at the fire as I sip my tea. I hope he isn’t cross with me.
He runs his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe you took them out of the litter bin! And that you kept them all this time.”
“Well, I did. Here.” I take the crumpled pages from my purse and pass them to him.
He unfolds them, smooths them out on his lap. “Well, I never. You really did.”
“But that’s not all. Mr. Somers said he knows a producer looking for a piece of music just like it. He thinks it could be perfect for a scene the producer has been struggling to find a number for.” Perry stands up and walks to the piano as I speak, setting the crumpled pages onto the music stand. “And he asked if you’d written any lyrics to accompany the melody. Oh, and he also said that whoever the song was written for, you should write for them again because they clearly bring out the best in you.”
I’m babbling. I take another bite of cherry cake to make myself stop talking.
Perry says nothing. He seems distracted.
“Would you play it for me?” I ask.
He hesitates for a moment before settling himself at the stool. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Lane.”
He plays beautifully. The song sounds even better in his tiny little apartment than it did in the splendor of The Savoy ballroom. As he plays, I walk to the window. I can see Waterloo Bridge and the OXO Tower. I watch people and clouds scurry past.
When he finishes I turn around and clap. “See! It’s lovely.”
“I suppose it’s not bad. Not as bad as I seem to remember, anyhow.”
<
br /> He joins me at the window, standing so close that our shoulders almost touch. My heart quickens as we stare at the moody sky together. “What do you see when you look at the clouds, Mr. Clements?”
He thinks for a moment. He’s getting used to my strange questions. “Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“You won’t laugh?”
“I won’t laugh.”
“I see a piano.”
I laugh. “A piano?”
“Yes. It’s always music with me. I can’t help it. I see sharps and flats. I see unwritten music, notes and melodies. Have you ever seen the starlings gathering on the telegraph wires on a summer’s evening?”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed them.”
“Well, I don’t see starlings. I see a stave of music, each bird a note for me to play.” He blows warm breaths onto the windowpanes and draws musical notes with his fingertip. “Sharps. Flats. Crotchets. Minims. My head is full of music when I’m standing here looking at the sky. But when I settle at the stool and try to write, to play, I feel suffocated by expectation. The notes disappear. They drift away like clouds and I can never find them again.” He rests his forehead against the glass. “The others make it seem so easy: Coward and Berlin and Novello. They produce hit after hit and all the while here I am, scratching away with nothing to show for my work. Why is it so hard, Miss Lane?” He turns to look at me. “Why?”
“Because that’s when we really learn, isn’t it? When things are difficult. When it’s a struggle and we’re not sure. That’s when we find out whether we care at all.” I blow a breath onto the window and draw a butterfly with my fingertip. “It’s only by trying and failing, by losing something we really love, that we discover how much we want it.”
The bells across the city chime the half hour. We stand, side by side, watching our childish scribbles fade on the glass.
“Thank you, Miss Lane.”
“For what.”
“For reminding me.” He sits down in the window seat. I sit beside him. “During the war I was always waiting for tomorrow or thinking about yesterday. I was always somewhere in my future or pining for my past. It’s hard to shake that off. Loretta says I need to live for the moment. She says I shouldn’t spend the rest of my life waiting for my life to start. Does that make any sense to you?”
