by Leah Fleming
They’d not spoken of that row over the calendar since the accident. He’d apologised about the portrait and she’d had it reframed and put in his hospital room. Bebe sent him letters and drawings, and he followed the preparations for the RAC Rally in Hastings with great interest.
The Aftons were kind, and Gloria felt ashamed of all her meanness to them. Now she had to prove herself to everybody, stand on her own, show true grit and surprise them for once with her own enterprise.
She’d even gone so far as to try to trace Ken Silverstone. It took every bit of her courage to climb those studio steps in Bradford, but it was all shuttered.
The waitress in the pub next door looked her up and down when she made enquiries and said, ‘I’d not go looking after him. You’re throwing good money after bad, love. He did a stretch in gaol, I heard…Not seen him since. It’s somebody else in there now; a tattoo artist.’
It was a relief to Gloria to know she wouldn’t have to face him again. She felt such a rage inside. If she blamed her mother, she blamed Ken even more. He’d taken advantage of her silly pride, her gullibility and ignorance. Knitting catalogues, indeed! That devil had schmoozed her vanity and flattered her, making mincemeat of her with all his promises. He’d seen her weakness and used it for his own ends.
She’d fallen for the whole kit and caboodle. Nothing in life was without its price and, boy, was she paying for her stupidity. If she ever met him again, she’d kill him! In the films, wronged women like her bought guns and shot their lovers dead. Poor Ruth Ellis got hanged for shooting hers, but now Gloria understood how a woman could do that in rage. She’d seen that same fury in Maddy’s eyes. What have I done? she asked herself. She felt sick.
Gloria didn’t want anything else to do with that sort of life again. She wanted to give Greg a big surprise and show him she was going to stop taking their life for granted. When he got better she’d pull her weight and make amends. It mustn’t be too late to save their marriage.
There was an advertisement in the Yorkshire Post that took her eye, for the opening of a brand-new nightclub and dining club in Scarperton. Greg had shares in that investment. They were looking for a manageress of smart appearance, with catering experience. It would be good to get involved and keep an eye on the place for him. She could sit in on interviews so they got the right class of girl. This was a chance to show that Gloria Byrne could get something right for once, help him in his business. Things were looking up.
Greg sat among the clutter of toys and jigsaws, trying to find a comfortable position for his leg. Everything was healing, but slowly. He’d got crutches to hobble around on. No chance of any driving yet, since his concentration was shot and he felt like a useless cripple.
Gloria was being nice to him, feeding him proper meals, being attentive to his every need, but there was an invisible wall between them. They whispered over the parapet at each other, not wanting to stir things, like polite strangers. He was glad when Charlie visited, bringing news of his garages and the rally season, but Greg couldn’t enthuse. He felt trapped by injury, by disability, and shamed that he was dependent to the point that his wrists were so weak sometimes he needed help to unbutton his flies. Everything was an effort, even though he was officially on the mend. He’d never race again, though. The muscles in his right leg were wasted beyond repair.
The days were long, trying to read business accounts. He got a driver to ride him round all his sites just to let them know he was still on top of the job, but his head ached and he got impatient.
At home there was nothing to live for except when Bebe came bounding in from school. He’d help her read, play ludo and jigsaws and spelling games. He felt like an old man. Then there were the pictures shooting into his eyes. He couldn’t help them but when he looked up at Gloria, he saw only that naked calendar, and it wasn’t fair. She was doing her best to make amends.
Much to his surprise she’d stepped in to take over the refurbishment of the Bamboo Club. It was not one of his better investments, being a little downmarket for his taste. They’d taken the top floor of an old warehouse and transformed it into a Hawaiian bar with a restaurant and fancy food. It was all very smart.
‘You’re not to go swanning around in a grass skirt,’ he snapped at Gloria, as she busied herself around him.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll be wearing a cocktail dress, and we have a bar and a dancing area. It’s all very sophisticated and you’ll love it.’
‘Sounds expensive. I’m not sure Scarperton can support something like that,’ he replied, knowing they’d not been successful in property speculation there.
‘Wait and see. It’ll soon be the hot spot where businessmen take their clients. It’s really exotic inside.’
‘You don’t have to do it,’ he argued.
She didn’t need to work. There was always a property to sell if his recovery slowed him down, but it was good to see her taking the initiative for once.
‘Oh, yes I do, this is my chance to prove I’m not just a cracked ornament,’ she offered, clearing away the tray on his lap with a sigh.
This is your chance to leave me, he thought meanly, a chance to find another rich sucker to sponge off. In his heart he sensed their marriage might be over. Everyone thought them the perfect couple but they had nothing in common, no shared interests, nothing but Bebe, and they kept up appearances for her sake alone.
Trapped indoors, he found himself looking out onto the garden with frustration. There were a few trees, a bare lawn, a clump of pampas grass, pleasant enough, but he found himself longing for grey stone walls, rough tracks, and most of all the hills. How he missed those Dales, the open roads, sheep grazing dotted like mushrooms over the green hills.
Here was a tame suburban landscape making him feel trapped like a budgie in a gilded cage. He thought of Sowerthwaite and Brooklyn Hall. Bebe would love to see all their childhood haunts. But the thought of Madeleine stopped him. He couldn’t bear her to see the wreck of a man he’d become.
No use feeling sorry for himself when the accident was his own stupid fault. Be patient, he thought. Maybe it was time he put back what he had taken out of life. Lying in the hospital bed had made him notice those in there far worse off than him. All he ever worked for was more and more things. Was this the right example to set his daughter? Surely there was more to life than business?
Plum read Maddy’s letter with amazement and disbelief, then slowly reread each section. It was like some film script.
Maddy had miscarried Dieter Schulte’s baby when they’d not actually even had sex? Gloria had helped her deliver in the night…the night Pleasance died, then hidden the body? They’d fallen out–she didn’t say why–oh yes, over Gregory. That made sense of so much at the Festival. Now Greg was injured, the Byrne marriage was in trouble…The hostel was closing but she had another brainwave.
What did they think of allowing it to be used for young unmarried mothers as a place of safety to prepare for motherhood and care for their babies?
Oh, Maddy! Do think carefully over this, Plum’s heart cried out. You may have brave new ambitions but Sowerthwaite might not be ready for revolutionary ideas. There was bound to be opposition and protests, letters to the paper accusing them of encouraging immorality on their doorstep. Small minds were full of fear and suspicion.
If only I were nearer, Plum thought, but Steve’s clinic was doing so well and this was such a beautiful country, and they were so happy together. All she could do would be to write letters and help with the funding.
Maddy might need to get some support from the local Church. If Plum wrote to Vera and Archie, and Audrey at the Mother’s Union, or perhaps Steve wrote to the new doctor’s practice…There would be all sorts of red tape over benefit books and maternity provision official inspections, but in principle it sounded a wonderful if bizarre enterprise. It could be a place where the girls could go with their babies in safety and seclusion and not be objects of ridicule and punishment.
To do it well, Maddy might have to use the Brooklyn, not the Old Vic. It was more private. How apt that would be now as a place of refuge. Maddy and her good causes: when was she ever going to find her own heart’s desire and settle down?
There was no mention of any romance with Barney Andrews, the solicitor. He’d get a shock when she brought this scheme to his attention.
Plum wrote her reply with care.
‘A word of caution, my darling. Think it all through and be prepared for trouble. Thank you for telling me all this: trusting me with all your troubles, using me like a rope to hang on to. I feel so honoured,’ Plum wrote.
If any meaning could be made of the miseries of her own childlessness it was that she could now be a mother to her niece, the closest thing that Maddy would ever have since Dolly Belfield died. The poor girl had had to bear so much on her own. Surely it was time she found a little happiness for herself?
If the Bamboo Club wasn’t quite the Cafe Royal, it was about as near as Scarperton would get to sophisticated nightlife. For a start the whole thing was on the top floor of a woollen mill warehouse on the wharf of the Leeds-Liverpool canal. It was in the centre of town, more back street than top end, but that didn’t stop it being well patronised by the young ones out for a night on the town, for men’s nights out, and commercial travellers on expense accounts, looking for some entertainment out of hours.
The black-tie rule soon faded, as did the Henry Fiske trio in favour of a jukebox, a visiting steel band and a jazz ensemble.
Phil Starkey, who managed it with his brother for the consortium, spared no expense with the décor but the entrance up the wooden stairs was still a bit cheap, covered as it was with visiting celebrity’s photographs and film posters.
Charlie Afton drove Gloria to the club on the first night just to check it over for Greg. They’d made a fuss of him, giving him a special seat at the front for a cabaret singer, a girl called Marlene Mallon, who could belt out a song just like Alma Cogan.
They’d gone to town or a bit over the top on the Caribbean bar area, with high stools and a straw hut, lots of netting and shells, which were a devil to dust, but in the twilight of lamps and tables it all looked authentic–as authentic as Yorkshire could make it. Gloria kept tabs on all the details, making sure the hostesses took coats, set up drinks, found tables and generally looked decorative.
Sometimes they were open until dawn with a lock-in, and there was a taxi laid on to take the girls home. Sometimes when it was quiet they all had to help clean in the kitchen and pretend they were busy.
Greg was always asleep when Gloria let herself in, kicking off her high heels with relief and sponging off her make-up in the mirror. It was work of a sort, making sure the till receipts tallied. She was not at all convinced about the club’s future and was concerned by the rickety stairs.
Television was killing trade. It wasn’t like the old days, when pictures and dancing were the only entertainment. There were decent pubs in the town serving meals. Rock’n’ roll was all the rage, not Victor Sylvester and Vera Lynn. Phil was talking of having speciality acts, conjurers, men-only nights, anything to bring the punters in.
The bar girls were younger than Gloria, single pretty things in tight skirts and frilly blouses. They looked on her as an older married woman and brought their troubles to Auntie Gloria as if she knew how to guide them.
‘He’s having a stripper in next Friday night,’ whispered Betty as they were primping up tables. ‘Some poor little scrubber from Bradford, poor cow–men-only night, but it’ll be us as gets the bother when she’s got them all worked up.’
Gloria felt a flush of concern at this news.
‘Is it true?’ she tackled Phil later. ‘Stripping doesn’t go with the Bamboo Club, does it?’
‘We’ve got to liven things up and get more punters in,’ he said.
‘Why’s everything shuttered up?’ she asked, noticing that all the windows were boarded up.
‘Keeps it all dark in the summer. I’m in charge here, you know,’ he sniffed, sensing her disapproval.
‘Have we had the safety brigade round lately?’ she replied. She wanted to make it clear that she was not some slapper to be bossed about
‘Soon…Don’t worry, Mr Byrne’s investment’s safe. If we go bust, he can allus sell the mill on. We just need to move with the times, rock ’n’s roll nights and bring the young ones in. It’ll be a full house on Friday.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there, but it isn’t quite what we imagined,’ Gloria said, knowing if Greg knew there was a striptease she be in trouble. She didn’t much like the smoky atmosphere or the heat, but she’d see it through a while longer until Greg was back on his feet again and running things. Then she’d jack it in.
Phil was cutting corners to make a profit. He was only doing what others did when pushed. She’d have to stick it out and see how it went.
Greg was going out with Charlie, his first outing for weeks, so Bebe was sleeping at the Aftons’. It was good to see Greg smartened up, even if he was on crutches. Gloria pecked him on the cheek and headed off to the bright lights of Scarperton, dressed up as usual in her little black dress with the V-neck, and fishnet stockings and black courts. It was a warm dry night; they’d not had rain for weeks. There was a stiff breeze blowing as she drove across the hill into the town. It was not a night to be stuck indoors, but a job was a job.
Everything was normal–setting up the glasses, checking supplies, clearing away tab ends, menus at tables. They made snacks and easy-to-cook meals served with chips and beer and Coca-Cola, espresso coffees and spirits.
With the lights full on, Gloria noticed how shabby it all looked. How had she ever thought this was sophisticated? It was little more than an out-of-hours drinking den.
Then she saw the girl, a pinched little thing, heavily made up, dyed black hair wrapped in a scarf like a gypsy, not a bad figure. She looked continental: all bust and no bottom, with skinny legs, but so young. Not much more than sixteen or seventeen.
She trotted into the powder room with her gold-spangled costume over her arm but she was shivering.
‘You OK?’ Gloria asked, seeing her nervousness. ‘You’re the act tonight? You have done this before, haven’t you?’
The girl nodded weakly. ‘For my fella. It’ll be all right.’
Trust Phil to get someone on the cheap, Gloria sighed to herself. ‘But there’s going to be a room full of rugger buggers baying for your blood if you don’t do it right,’ she added.
‘I have to do it. It’ll be right,’ said the girl, popping a pill into her mouth. ‘Got a bit of bellyache,’ she smiled wanly.
That’s all we need, a novice being led to the slaughter. Gloria didn’t know why but she felt very protective of the kid. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Joan, but I’m called Jules tonight. All spangles and jewels…get it? Can I change in here?’
The crowded bar was full of beefy rugger players, shouting and calling. It was not the usual crowd on a Friday night. They were all tanked up with beer before they arrived. There’d be brawling and scuffling.
Gloria followed the girl into the toilet, concerned. ‘You’ve not come alone, have you?’ she asked.
‘Nah! Me fella brought me. He got me this gig, trained me up, and he’ll be watching outside. If I do it right, there’ll be more work and I need to work. I have a babby, one year old, she’s with me mam. They don’t know I’m doing this. They think I’m working down the pub. If they find out, Mam’ll go spare.’
‘You sure you want to do this?’ Gloria persisted, sensing trouble. She’d be like a lamb to the slaughter if the kid got nervous and performed her act too quick.
‘What’s it got to do wi’s you? There’s nowt wrong with my body. I don’t mind gawping punters. My fella will step in if they get cheeky.’ Julie stared back at her with suspicion. ‘Have you got a problem with it? It’s none of your business so let me get sorted in my own time. Piss off!’
Glor
ia shrugged, leaving her to her fancy dress, opening the door with her shoulder into a sea of faces. It was just too smoky and fumy tonight, too noisy and too boisterous for her liking. When Julie made her entrance they’d go wild or boo her to death. Suddenly Gloria felt uneasy. There was a look on that kid’s face. What had her fellow done to make her strip off against her will? This was no Gypsy Rose Lee in the making, no sophisticated burlesque act, but a sleazy, desperate attempt to please her man. What did that remind her of?
Then she saw him standing with Phil, leaning over the bar, and their eyes locked in recognition; as plump and self-satisfied as ever, his black hair slicked back. Ken Silverstone.
‘Bloody hell! Gloria…fancy seeing you here, but then not so much of a surprise. Are you the second act? You’re still a looker…’ He assessed her up and down with relish.
‘So little Jules in the back’s your protégée, then? Why am I not surprised? Another little sucker fallen for your tricks,’ she sneered. ‘She’s only a kid, Ken, but then you always did like ’em young and tasty and green as grass.’
‘Now don’t be bitter, love. We can’t stay young for ever. You must be hard-pushed to be up at this time of night. What are you now, the barmaid?’ He sniggered, but she wasn’t having any of this
‘Phil, this gentleman is troubling me,’ she said, slapping an order on the bar. ‘Will you take care of him or will I?’
‘Shut up, you tart! I’m Jules’s manager. I’ll not take any cheek from this old scrubber. Why, I could tell you a thing or two about her that could make your pecker stand up and salute!’ Ken laughed, seeing the look on her face.
‘That’s enough, sir. Mrs Byrne is one of the owners here,’ said Phil, sensing trouble between them. Gloria’s dander was up at the insult. She was shaking with fury, her flame-haired temper beyond control.
‘We don’t want your sort in this establishment,’ she roared, grabbing the nearest tin tray and walloping Ken so hard he staggered back and knocked the table over. The kerosene lamp hit the dusty straw thatch, turning it quickly into flames.
