The Leaving Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  Something very peculiar was happening to his stomach, peculiar and exceptionally pleasant. He managed to raise a quizzical eye. ‘More handsome than Douglas Fairbanks?’

  ‘Ten times handsomer.’ She laughed. ‘You should have gone into the movies.’

  ‘Then I would have been eaten alive.’ He sniffed pathetically. ‘I’m not as tough as I look.’

  ‘I know you’re not. You’re like a chocolate with a soft centre, all gooey and sweet inside.’

  Quite how it happened, Levon could never remember, but within a very short space of time, he was making love to Peggy in the white bedroom with the lace curtains. ‘I’ve always wanted to do this,’ he groaned as he lowered himself on to her glorious, throbbing body.

  ‘And I’ve always wanted you to,’ Peggy gasped.

  Later in the afternoon, Levon left the room to collect a bottle of champagne. A few hours afterwards, Peggy went to fetch another. That night, they slept together on top of the lace cover - it was too hot to get underneath - making love with an inhibited passion that Levon, for one, had never known before. The following day, they decided to return home by train. He booked a sleeping compartment with two bunks and they made love all the way to New York.

  ‘Thank you, Peggy,’ he began, as they stood in Grand Central terminal, joshed by the crowds, in everyone’s way. The noise was horrendous. After all they’d been to each other, he was scared to touch her in case anyone he knew might see.

  Peggy put her fingers over his mouth. ‘Don’t thank me, Lev, and I won’t thank you,’ she whispered. ‘We both have done exactly what we wanted. And, Lev, I don’t expect us to do it again now we’re on home territory. You’re not the sort of man to have an affair, I know that.’ She shrugged her majestic shoulders. ‘But should you ever feel the urge, you know where I live. ’Bye, my darling.’ She kissed him briefly on the lips and was gone.

  ‘Tamara, my love, I have brought you another daughter.’

  For some reason, Levon kept remembering the words when he returned from Los Angeles, the tropical paradise where nothing seemed real. He recalled the night he’d taken a couple to a ship moored by the docks. ‘We’re going to Europe,’ the man had told him. He’d been unloading their luggage when a young woman had asked him to take Anne to Bleecker Street.

  When he’d arrived home with Anne, Tamara had emerged from the bedroom wearing the bloodstained frock she’d had on the night they’d found Larisa. He’d loved Tamara then, and she’d loved him. But Anne had come between them and would always be there, even now when she was thousands of miles away. It was scarcely Anne’s fault that their marriage had faltered. But who was to blame? Tamara had shown a side to her personality that he’d never known existed, a ruthless, selfish side. Perhaps he too had acted in a manner she found repugnant. He’d loved Anne in the same way as he’d loved Larisa, but Tamara hadn’t looked upon her as a daughter, only as another woman, a rival.

  And now it was worse. She was cross with him for staying away so long, scorned him for coming home by train. ‘I’d made arrangements, Lev,’ she complained. ‘It was Dean Miller’s party and I promised we’d be there.’

  ‘At a child’s birthday party?’ Had he been expected to play Blind Man’s Buff and Musical Chairs?

  ‘All the parents were there - apart from you.’ She glared at him. ‘We had cocktails in the lounge while the children played downstairs.’

  ‘So, I should have risked my life on a plane so as not to miss Dean’s party?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Lev.’ She twisted her shoulders contemptuously.

  The gesture offended him, and the nasty expression in her eyes. ‘Am I to have no life of my own, Tamara?’ he asked coldly. ‘Do you expect me to be at your beck and call every minute I don’t spend in my office? Would you like me to retire so I’m available twenty-four hours a day? And don’t say, “Don’t be silly, Lev” again, or I shall walk out of this house and never come back.’ He half hoped that she would, in which case he would go and live with Peggy in her apartment over the academy and be happy again.

  Instead, after a few seconds of contemplation, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Lev, but we took on John and he has the right to have his father around. I would have thought you’d understand that,’ she added, her voice not quite so harsh. Perhaps his threat had frightened her.

  ‘No, Tamara, you took on John. I don’t recall you asking my opinion on the matter.’ He walked out of the room, feeling as if he’d scored a victory, but not wanting to score anything, not with Tamara, whom he’d once loved with all his heart, but no longer loved at all. He wondered what it would be like if he’d never brought Anne home. Would they still be living in Grammercy Park, quietly, uneventfully, mourning their lost daughter, growing old, but still loving each other in the old, sad way? He wasn’t quite sure if that’s what he would have preferred.

  On Tuesday, he went to the theatre to see Roses are Red for the third time. It was easy to buy a single seat at the box office on the night. He had a feeling Peggy would be there with her students. They’d seen it once, but she wanted them to see it again with the new dancers in place of Anne and Herbie. ‘I’ve heard the man is brilliant, not nearly as good-looking as Herbie, but with loads of charisma. The girl’s not a patch on Anne.’

  But there was no sign of Peggy or her students in the cheap seats they usually occupied. He’d either got the wrong day or the wrong week. He’d wanted them to meet as if by accident, just to see her lovely, expressive face, reminding him of the way things had been over the few blissful days they’d spent together. Peggy had made him feel like a man again: with Tamara he was a mouse.

  With a sigh, he settled in his seat and looked at the programme. Herbie’s part was now being played by a Flip Ungar and Anne had been replaced by Rosalind Raines.

  Peggy was right, he realized two and a half hours later when the show came to an end. Until tonight, he’d considered Herbie to be a fine dancer, but Flip Ungar had the fire of genius in his lithe frame, the ability to express the subtlest emotion by a single movement or the expression on his face. Rosalind Raines was more than adequate, but she didn’t have her partner’s passion or Anne’s unique talent.

  Zeke Penn had put in his usual brilliant performance, but Levon noticed he didn’t appear at the end to take the curtain call. He recalled the other times he’d seen the show when Zeke had stood between Anne and Herbie, holding hands. Anne had loved Zeke, insisting on referring to him as her friend. Was it possible he was too embarrassed to come on without her and Herbie? Or were the rest of the cast, all white, shunning him?

  Levon determined to go backstage and shake Zeke’s hand. It’s what Anne would have wanted. She’d be upset if she knew Zeke was missing out on the applause that was his due.

  He waited until most of the audience had gone before venturing behind the curtain where he asked a stagehand manipulating scenery the whereabouts of Zeke Penn’s dressing room.

  ‘You mean the nigger?’ the man curled his lip. ‘He’s gone. Goes every night halfway through Act Three when his part finishes. Good thing, too. The producer should’ve got a white guy for the part. I’m not the only one here who don’t like mixing with niggers.’

  Levon turned away. The prejudice against Negroes in America appalled him. He wanted no part of it, but was reluctant to speak out, worried he’d be called a ‘nigger lover’. It was possible to lose friends that way, not to mention clients.

  The stagehand was eyeing him with animosity. The mere fact he’d asked for Zeke had put the man’s back up. Levon ignored him and made for the stage door rather than return through the theatre; it was easier to get out that way. He followed a crowd of excited young people whom, he understood, were on their way to the nearest coffee bar. They made him wish fervently that he were young again. The one at the rear, a boy of about eighteen, held the door for him, and Levon did the same for the man following behind.

  ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ the man asked when they were outside in the gru
bby little alley that ran behind the theatre. He was a small, hunched figure with long greasy hair combed over a bald spot.

  ‘I was at the opening night party.’ They pushed their way through the small crowd of admirers waiting for Eric Carrington and Patricia Peters to emerge. ‘I’m a friend of Anne Murray - and the Blinkers.’ A memory clicked into place. ‘You’re the producer, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first.’

  ‘Yeah, Conrad Abel. Are you really a friend of Ollie Blinker’s?’ The man looked at him keenly. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t look the type.’

  Levon wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. ‘Anne and Herbie were at Peggy Perlmann’s academy together. That’s how we met.’

  ‘That’s right, you were Anne’s guardian or something. How come you let her go live with the Blinkers? That guy is an out and out crook. Ended up fleeing the state in order to avoid that dirty business with the Mayor. Least, that was one of the reasons.’

  ‘I wasn’t Anne’s guardian,’ Levon said stiffly. ‘She merely lived with my wife and I when she first came to America.’ He felt the urge to walk away, to escape the producer’s offensive questions, but something prompted him to stay. For all his faults - and there were many - most people seemed to like Ollie. He was keen to know what this man had against him.

  There was a roar from behind; the two leads had come out of the theatre together. The crowd fell upon them, demanding autographs. Conrad Abel moved a few feet away; Levon followed. ‘What did Ollie do to make you dislike him so much?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Dislike!’ The word was almost spat out. ‘I don’t dislike the bastard, I hate him. He took Anne out of the show without a moment’s notice. She just didn’t turn up one night. When I phoned the apartment, the maid said they’d all gone to California. It wasn’t just the Mayor he was running away from, but the show’s backers. They were insisting I keep Flip Ungar and tell Herbie to get lost when his ankle got better. Blinker found out and wasn’t prepared to see his precious son dumped.’ The man was virtually apoplectic; spittle was running down his chin. ‘I only took Herbie in the first place because Blinker pressurized me into it.’

  ‘I knew nothing about this,’ Levon stammered.

  ‘Not many people did.’ His fierce expression softened. ‘I liked Anne, she’s a nice kid, not a bit like the fucking prima donnas - male and female - I usually have to deal with. Ollie’s only using her to sell his own kid: “You can have Anne Murray, but only if you take Herbie Blinker with her.” ’ This was said in a perfect imitation of Ollie’s New York accent. ‘And now I hear they’re married. That’s a laugh.’ He snorted.

  ‘Why is it a laugh?’ Levon asked.

  ‘Herbie Blinker slept with five girls from the chorus that I know of. He might well have been through the lot. One got pregnant and had to leave the show. I suspect his fond daddy paid her off.’ He snorted again, an ugly sound. ‘I suppose Ollie thought it’d be safer if his sex-mad son had a wife: it’d mean no common or garden hoofer could get her claws into him. So the devious bastard arranged for him to marry Anne.’

  There was another furore outside the stage door. Flip Ungar had come out and half a dozen young girls were throwing themselves at him. His partner, Rosalind Raines, stood to one side, ignored, and clearly not very pleased about it. She caught Levon’s eyes upon her and made a little moue with her brightly painted lips.

  Close up, Levon thought she looked familiar, but fireworks were exploding in his brain and he didn’t give the woman a second thought. All he could think about was Anne and what had happened to her - and what was going to happen in the future.

  ‘Who was that guy talking to Conrad in the alley?’ Olive asked Flip when they turned into 42nd Street. Her name wasn’t yet amongst those in the lights that twinkled outside the theatres, but it was fourth down on the posters pasted to the walls: Rosalind Raines.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Flip replied.

  But Olive never forgot a face and she already knew who the man was: the taxi driver she’d paid to take Annemarie to Bleecker Street all those years ago. He didn’t look like a taxi driver now, all done up in a posh suit. How come he knew Conrad Abel?

  Oh, what did it matter? All that mattered was she had an important part in a Broadway show. It hurt a bit that Flip was getting all the glory - nobody ever waited outside the stage door for her - but it was a small price to pay and she didn’t really care. Well, not all that much.

  ‘Nowhere,’ Ollie Blinker screamed, ‘nowhere in the script does it say that Anne is a hooker and Herbie a pimp. Are you trying to turn this into a dirty movie, Collins?’

  ‘No, sir, but Mr Vandervelt thinks the script is too bland. He wants to give it a bit more fizz.’ Abe Collins rubbed his perspiring brow with the back of his hand. It was murder having two people yelling directions in his ear: Ollie Blinker during the day; Hughie Vandervelt at night when he watched the rushes.

  ‘Fizz!’ Mr Blinker’s red face turned purple. ‘What the hell’s fizz? I want to make an entertaining movie, one that will make people laugh and feel happy. According to the script, Herbie and Anne are at college; they wanna put on a show to raise funds for an operation for a dying kid. The concert’s a success, the kid gets better, and Herbie and Anne get married. The End. The End,’ he repeated forcefully. ‘There’s no hookers, no pimps, no tight skirts or low-cut frocks, no nightclubs with Anne singing suggestive songs. All the songs are nice songs, the sort that folks’ll want to sing to their kids. That’s why it’s called When Angels Sing, not When Angels Sin. It’s gonna be a nice movie. Tell Mr Vandevelt to shove his script up his scrawny behind. We’re using mine from now on, otherwise I’ll take my script to another company and get them to make the movie. Understand, Collins?’

  ‘Yessir, Mr Blinker, I understand.’

  ‘This is like having cream cakes shoved down your yapper for the best party of ninety minutes,’ Hughie Vandervelt roared that night, as he and Collins watched the rushes. A tall, extremely thin man in his forties, his hair had turned prematurely white. Not that anyone could remember it being any other colour. Hughie Vandervelt wasn’t a popular man in Hollywood and his strange hair was put down to the fact he had acid running through his veins instead of blood. ‘It makes me wanna puke. It’ll make the entire audience wanna puke. It’s got no soul. It’s got no fizz.’

  ‘Mr Blinker said he’s pulling out if we don’t do it his way,’ Abe said nervously.

  ‘He won’t pull out,’ Vandervelt sneered. ‘He’s already spent too much and he can’t afford to start again with someone else.’

  ‘I can’t see Mr Blinker going with the hooker and pimp line, Mr Vandervelt, sir, I really can’t.’ Abe was desperate. He couldn’t stand another day like today - and yesterday and all the days before. Being a movie director wasn’t quite the dream job that people supposed. ‘He wants a blue skies movie where the sun never stops shining and nothing bad ever happens.’

  Hughie reached for the script to make more changes, but must have thought better of it. He withdrew his hand. ‘In that case, let him have it,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I can always disown his stupid movie. But wrap it up as fast as you can, Collins. We’ve already wasted enough time.’ He snapped his fingers, as if expecting his director to wrap it up there and then.

  But Ollie Blinker refused to be rushed. He demanded an orchestra to accompany the songs, dismissing the piano in a rage. ‘It’s pathetic,’ he screamed. ‘Pathetic.’ He wanted more costumes, more extras, grander sets. Staircases had to be built or borrowed from other companies’ sets, a balcony was required for Herbie to swing from, a church for Anne to sing in, a hospital for the kid who was sick, and an angel in full regalia to visit him during the night he thinks he’s about to die, while a choir sang full-throated in the background.

  Abe Collins, used to shooting Hughie Vandervelt’s tawdry, dimly-lit movies in a couple of rooms with a single camera and a handful of actors, and taking no more than a fortnight to do it,
was beginning to enjoy himself. This was what being a director was all about; using his imagination, improvising now and then, creating something that might not exactly be a work of art, but was a million times better than the crap he normally churned out. Mr Blinker, whom he was beginning to like, provided another two cameras, extra lighting, and an overhead gantry.

  Hughie Vandervelt had stopped watching the rushes, but fumed at the ever-increasing costs - Blinker paid for the equipment, but he was responsible for the wages of the actors and crew. Costs were mounting daily, he complained between gritted teeth. Abe pretended to sympathize, but privately he was indifferent to everything apart from the making of When Angels Sing.

  ‘How Ollie and Herbie can play golf in this weather is beyond me,’ Lizzie panted. She wore a full-length kaftan, a straw hat as big as an umbrella, and sunglasses, leaving the minimum amount of skin exposed. It was Sunday afternoon and the movie had been put on hold for the day. Ollie would have continued, but the crew had mutinied and insisted on a break.

  Anne said it was beyond her, too. The men had really taken to Los Angeles, but the women couldn’t get used to the place. With Lizzie, it was the heat. She couldn’t bear to go out and remained in the house all day on her own, feeling lonely without her New York friends. Anne didn’t mind the heat, but she didn’t like making movies.

  She and Lizzie were sitting in canvas chairs on the patio at the back of the house where the sun only shone in the morning and it was as cool as it was possible to be on a Los Angeles afternoon. The heart-shaped pool shone brightly in the distance. Anne wouldn’t have minded a swim, but she didn’t want to desert Lizzie: Sunday was the only day she had company.

  ‘How’s the movie going?’ Lizzie enquired. ‘Whenever I ask Ollie, he just goes into a tirade about that Vandervelt chap, and Herbie says he doesn’t know.’