by P. G. Glynn
“At Claridge’s, do you mean?” Nell said ingenuously.
“That is where I meant, although if there is somewhere else you’d prefer to eat … ?”
“Oh no!” she told him, marvelling that he could think she might prefer anywhere to Claridge’s and also that he seemed unaware of Marie having turned him down earlier. “It isn’t that. I’m sure there’s nowhere better. I’d have loved to eat there … but I’ve promised to help my mother prepare for a party and … and Marie will be helping her, too, won’t you, dear?”
“I might be,” said Marie, understanding that Nell was offering her an excuse for refusing dinner without being rude. She had actually half-promised to be at the party, applauding as the old dears staged their acts from yesteryear. But she was in no mood for being among a bunch of fogies. She was more in the mood for putting on her own show – and for hoping that word of it might reach Charles somehow. Otto Berger was not bad looking by some standards, including Nell’s, and there was merit in dining at Claridge’s. Why, for all she knew, Charles might dine there frequently with Madeleine! He might well have been lying when he said how unhappy he was with his wife.
Yes, it was essential for Marie to show him she was not only managing without him but also having a high old time. A dose of jealousy might be just the thing he needed. Marie’s having to suffer still more of Otto’s company was, admittedly, a big drawback but as a means to an end she might manage even that. “On the other hand,” she said casually, “perhaps as Otto’s going home tomorrow, one of us will need to see that his last evening in London isn’t … boring.” Conscious of Nell’s astonishment and Otto’s equanimity she added: “I only said ‘perhaps’. A lot can happen between now and tonight to make me revise my decision to take pity on him.”
11
John Jones loathed Sundays. They were terrible days and always had been, ever since he was a kid having to attend chapel morning and night each and every Sabbath. How rigid his upbringing had been – and in marrying Gwen he had perpetuated this rigidity! As if it were not bad enough that the Betting Laws forbade race meetings and the Licensing Laws curtailed his drinking, Sundays now brought his in-laws over to torment him.
It was not so bad on the weekends when Simpson’s-in-the-Strand needed his services as doorman. Then he at least saw less of Ma and Pa Jamieson. But working just one weekend in three meant two bloody Sundays when he saw them all day as well as all evening. John now knew to his cost that he should have taken a longer look at her mother before tying the knot with Gwen. What a knot it was, tightening all the time into a stranglehold that threatened to choke him. Why hadn’t he known better than to take a harridan to the altar? And why on earth didn’t it occur to him that the wedding was just the beginning? John had looked beyond it to bedding her but no further. The callow youth he had been had not seen how precious it was to be free, nor how marriage to the wrong woman could trap a man and make him bitter. He sometimes felt that his bitterness was eating him up … and until Marie’s advent had often wished himself dead.
Then she had arrived like a breath of spring to remind him that life did not have to be bad. There was a world out there that bore no resemblance to the world he and Gwen inhabited. It did him good to know that Marie was out in that other world making something of herself. Fortunately she was her father’s daughter and Howard’s legacy to her was a sense of purpose: a sense of destiny. John could now see that his own life had always lacked direction whereas Marie’s was directed star-wards. How proud Howard would have been of her! How proud John was, to have her lodging here! He had been prouder than ever since seeing her in OLIVER TWIST at the Tavistock Theatre. The sight of her up there on the stage playing the part of Nancy to the great Charles Brodie’s Bill had reduced John to tears. These had virtually blinded him the first time he saw her and things had been little better the second or third times. He could hardly grasp that that eyeful who was Nancy, rather than an actress pretending to be, was actually his niece. Jones blood flowed in her veins just as it did in his. He found this enormously comforting. It made him feel less of a failure and more of a man.
He found too that he could stomach the Jamiesons far better when Marie was here to help entertain them than when she was elsewhere. It would not be fair to tell her so, though, since his in-laws were his problem, not hers. He never wanted Marie to stay in out of pity for him. He might pity himself, and often did, but she must keep her illusions. John reckoned it would kill him if she were ever to see him as others did. The fact that she thought well of him was the one thing keeping him going. And at the moment he was hoping that this was a Sunday when she would stay in for the evening. Before setting off with Nell on their picnic she mentioned a party at the Sedgwick’s but had not said whether she planned to attend. If she did she’d only be among a bunch of old folk, much as she would here, so with luck John might have her company. He must impress on Marie how blessed it was to be free. She could choose how she spent her evening, whereas he …
John heard the sound of running feet. Could they be Marie’s? Since she seldom walked when she could run or trot there was a fair chance that they might be. His spirits lifting instantly, he looked across the front parlour – over the heads of Gwen and Ma who, two peas in a pod, were seated primly with their knitting on the sprigged sofa – to the window where, if the feet were hers, Marie would soon appear. Sure enough, there she suddenly was, trying to peer through the lace curtain and tapping on the glass to attract attention.
“Why that girl can’t knock on the door like any normal person … ” Gwen began, pursing her lips and making no move to let Marie in.
“Don’t start, woman!” John warned, leaping to his feet and almost tripping over Pa’s outstretched legs as he virtually skipped to greet his niece. Oh, the joy of opening the front door and seeing Marie standing there! “Ah, you’re back!” he said.
“Yes, for a bit,” she told him, standing on tiptoe to give his cheek a kiss. “I’m off shortly to Claridge’s.”
“You are? Who with?”
“That’s a long story.”
“You do surprise me!” he grinned.
“What’s all this?” Gwen demanded, materialising beside him, hands on hips. “I trust you aren’t expecting tea, Mary. You never said you’d be in and we’ve had ours an hour since.”
“There’s a pity!” Marie exclaimed with a distinctly Welsh lilt, sidestepping her aunt and starting upstairs. “I’ll just have to eat out then, shan’t I?”
“Fat chance you’ll have of that,” Pa shouted after her from the parlour. “There’s nowhere open on Sundays.”
“You’re forgetting Claridge’s,” John said with relish from the doorway.
“Claridge’s?” Ma, Pa and Gwen echoed in unison. “The likes of us don’t go hobnobbing with the gentry!”
“No, the likes of us don’t,” John agreed before going upstairs to talk to Marie, “but the likes of my niece do, apparently.”
“His niece,” he heard Gwen snort. “Mary’s his when it suits him and mine when she needs something doing.”
After knocking on Marie’s bedroom door he went in saying: “You’ve certainly put the cat among the pigeons.”
“I have, haven’t I?” she smiled. “Never mind. It’ll be Monday before you know it. I can see you’re having your usual hard time.”
“Let’s not talk about me,” he said, breaking a strict house-rule and sitting on the edge of the bed. He watched as Marie surveyed the contents of her wardrobe and then ventured: “You’re going to Claridge’s with a man, I take it?”
“I am.”
“So will Nell be going, as chaperone?”
“No, she won’t. She’s committed to the party that Mrs Sedgwick is giving for the residents.”
“You aren’t committed?”
“Not as much as Nell is. She’d promised, whereas I’d only half-promised.”
“Isn’t that a somewhat fine distinction?”
“I suppose it is.” Marie bit her
lip. “Don’t go making me feel guiltier than I feel already. I think Nell was disappointed not to be gallivanting with me.”
“With you and …?”
“His name’s Otto Berger.”
“That’s a strange name to go to bed with! Is he a foreigner?”
“For your information I won’t be going to bed with his name, or with him … and, yes, he is foreign. He’s from Czechoslovakia.”
John frowned. “Which side were they on in the war? I rather doubt they were on ours.”
“You’re just like me! That was one of the first things I asked him. He told me that his country is a newly formed republic … and that he wasn’t involved in the fighting. He spent the war in an internment camp in Yorkshire.”
Awareness that she had bypassed his question was fogged by Marie’s initial comment. If only he were just like her! But as ever Marie’s vision somehow ennobled John and he let the issue drop. “Have you known him long?”
She looked at her watch. “For about six hours.”
“Good heavens! Is this wise, then – spending the evening with a man you’ve only just met?”
“Probably not, but what has wisdom to do with anything? Otto’s going home tomorrow, after which I’ll never see him again. I sort of took pity on him. He invited both Nell and me, you see, in return for sharing our picnic and when she couldn’t accept I … simply did.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“I should think he can, besides which what harm could come to me at Claridge’s?”
Plenty, in John’s opinion, but he refrained from saying so. He said: “How did you meet him? I gather that you met without any formal introduction.”
“We were introduced, in a manner of speaking. A bee was buzzing around Nell and me on the boat to Kew and Otto dispatched it with his handkerchief, after which he told us who he was and Nell told him who we were. She rather took to him, I think.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Quite the opposite!” While talking Marie had stripped to her chemise and knickers and now sat at her dressing table, starting to brush her hair. “I didn’t take to him at all. If he weren’t leaving England tomorrow I’d be giving him a wide berth, I can tell you, but as he is and as I had no particular plans for the evening in the end I accepted his invitation.” She smiled quite dazzlingly over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
John smiled back. How could he help smiling at Marie when she asked his opinion? Nobody but Marie even listened to him, let alone valued his views on things. “In your shoes I might have,” he said, relieved that the foreigner meant nothing to her. It would be catastrophic for Marie to fall for a man who lived in some far-flung God-forsaken country but, since she seemed in no danger of falling for him and since today was his last in London, John could perhaps overlook the fact that no virtuous girl should accompany a man to his hotel unchaperoned. “And you’ve been looking a bit peaky this past week. At least today’s happenings have put the roses back in your cheeks. He’s staying at Claridge’s, is he, your foreigner – not just taking you there for this meal?”
“He seems to be. Tell you what, Uncle John – Otto Berger will be calling for me here a little later on. So you’ll meet him and can size up whether or not he’s a suitable escort for your niece. If you think he is, I’ll dine with him whereas if you think he isn’t I’ll stay in and give you moral support with the Jamiesons. Will that do as a solution?”
“It certainly will,” said John, all too conscious of the need now for scrupulous honesty. He must be honest upon meeting Marie’s foreigner and not influenced by the fact that it rested on his decision whether Marie went out or stayed in as he most wished. “I’ll leave you then, to get ready for him.”
+++++
It was Pa who saw the motorcar first. “Lawks,” he exclaimed, gazing in awe out of the front parlour window, “that’s a Rolls-Royce, no less. Love-a-duck, if it’s not stopping right outside us! Look Ma, look Gwen, love – it’s a Roller if ever I saw one and now a man in uniform’s getting out.”
“He’ll be the chauffeur,” observed John who, as doorman at Simpson’s, was quite accustomed to such phenomena.
Gwen, who had rushed with her parents to the window where all three were plucking at the lace curtain, squeaked: “Oh my, he’s saluting a real man-about-town who’s getting out now. Mercy me, they’re looking our house up and down!”
+++++
Otto Berger was trying to work out where the house began and where it ended, for what had seemed at first like one long building was now proving to be a series of separate residences. By the time that he lifted the shiny brass knocker and let it drop he had concluded that the house where Marie lived extended to the width of one door and one window. Not that its size mattered to him one whit. He was merely interested. As the door opened he saw that, though small, the place necessitated a servant to keep it in good order.
“Can I assist you, sir?” Gwen, glad that she was wearing her best Sunday frock, enquired of the distinguished gentleman in evening dress. She had insisted on answering the door, assuring John that he would only create the wrong impression. “You’re wanting directions up West, I expect.”
Why he would choose to call at this house in particular if he needed directing anywhere was a question to which Otto could find no answer. He asked: “Marie Howard does live here?”
“You must be Mr Berger,” said John, watching as Gwen’s mouth dropped like a drawbridge and advancing past her with an outstretched hand. “Do please come in. I’m sure Marie won’t be long.”
His handshake was strong and Otto warmed at once to Marie’s uncle. After she had asked deferentially for an introduction and he had discovered that the ‘servant’ was in fact the aunt, he suffered the limpness of her intended handclasp and wondered what a man like John Jones was doing married to such an obsequious woman. It was Otto’s guess that John must view his marriage with considerable regret.
“What we lack in grandeur we make up for in atmosphere,” simpered Gwen as she led the way through to the parlour. “We might only be Marie’s aunt and uncle but we treat her as well as if she were our daughter.”
Otto was next introduced to an older version of Gwen and to a fat man in shirt-sleeves and braces who bristled with self-esteem. His sympathy for John increased.
“Have you been staying long at Claridge’s?” John asked him as they all stood ill-at-ease.
“Just three weeks. I must admit that since meeting your niece I’ve had cause to wish my time there were not due to end tomorrow.”
“Why’s that?” asked Pa, thumbs behind his braces, fingers flapping.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Ma. “He’s soft on our Mary.”
Gwen saw it was up to her to show this illustrious visitor that her family knew how to conduct itself in company. “Sit down, do,” she invited Otto, indicating Pa’s well-worn chair and all but curtseying. “Whatever must you think of us, keeping you stood there when you could be taking the weight off your feet?”
Unfamiliar with the expression and remaining standing, Otto thanked her courteously, saying that his weight did not trouble him. Then he queried of them generally: “Who would not be … soft on Marie? But I was also expressing regret about leaving in the sense that it means missing her play. You’ve all seen her as leading lady in OLIVER TWIST, naturally?”
“John has,” said Gwen, somewhat abashed. “As for the rest of us, we don’t hold with that sort of thing.”
“Which sort?”
“All that play-acting!” Recovering quickly from her embarrassment and warming to her theme she told him: “Mary lives in cloud cuckoo land and never knows what time of day it is, let alone how decent folk live. If I’d had any hand in it I’d soon have stopped her in her tracks. Of course she’s a Jones, though, not a Jamieson,” Gwen ended with a contemptuous sniff.
“Is that so?” asked Otto as if this surprised him. He now turned to John, saying smilingly: “So Marie is your niece
? How proud of her you must be! She is a true star of the theatre, Nell tells me. What is your opinion of her as Nancy?”
“Leaving aside my bias,” John said with an answering smile, “or, rather, trying to, I’d say she’s the best there has ever been. Marie doesn’t need to act, you see. She breathes a character in and then becomes whoever she’s supposed to be.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Marie told Otto from the doorway. “Uncle John’s heavily prejudiced, in case you hadn’t guessed. Did you wonder whether I’d ever be ready?”
They all turned to look at her. Otto, who had begun wondering when she would come to his rescue, was virtually dumbstruck. Wearing a white Crepe de Chine dress that was a perfect foil for her hair, worn tonight swept on to the crown of her head, she looked like a Grecian goddess. His heart hammering as if he had never set eyes on a beautiful woman before, he eventually said: “Ah, there you are! I’ve been well looked after by your uncle … and aunt.”
Pa, vexed at not getting a mention, asked: “Where did you say you are from, Mr Berger?”
Otto hadn’t said but now, still bemused by the sight of Marie and by her seeming oblivion to the degree of her incongruity in these shabby surroundings, he answered: “I come from Czechoslovakia.”
“Is that far from here?” asked Ma.
“Not if measured by a crow’s flight,” said Otto, turning the full force of his attention on John and asking him: “Have I your permission, sir, to escort your niece for the evening? You have my word that I’d take the utmost care of her, delivering her safely to your door at a time of your choosing.”
It was not for want of trying that John could find no reason for refusing permission. In his considered view Otto Berger, foreigner or not, was a gentleman. He had proved this both in his handling of the Jamiesons (who from the look of perplexity on all three faces were still pondering a crow’s role in measuring distance) and in his choice of vocabulary when addressing John. He was the better man, no question, and yet when making a request of this sort saw fit to lower his status and say ‘sir’. Didn’t this deference, together with his promise to bring Marie home at a civilised hour, say enough about him to put John’s mind at rest? “I accept your word,” he said with great dignity. “Marie should be safe in your hands: you seem an honourable man to me.”
