by Maggie Ford
‘Miss Evans?’
The fat man stood barring her way as she made with the rest of the chorus towards the dressing rooms.
Daisy paused, seeing the flash of small teeth bared in a smile, was immediately put on guard. ‘Yes?’
‘I am sorry to stop you…’ The voice bore a French accent. ‘I ’ave been watching you with interest from where I ’ave been sitting in the theatre. I introduce myself…Monsieur Maurice Graude…’ His bow possessed a peculiarly French gracefulness, despite his bulk.
‘I am seeking for a troupe of good dancers to take to France, to Paree, and I wonder, Miss Evans, ’ave you ever considered to work in France, in Paree? If you ’ave, ’ere is my card…’
With a flourish, a fawn-coloured card was extracted from a wallet taken out of his breast pocket to be put into her extended hand. ‘If you find yourself interested in work in Paree, you will contact me at that address. Already I ’ave five girls. I need six, and you will make an excellent six. If I do not ’ear from you, Miss Evans, I shall look for some other one to take your place. I ’ope you avail yourself of the offer, so for now – au revoir, mademoiselle.’
For a moment dumbfounded, Daisy watched him incline his head once more, but as he turned away, she galvanised into life.
‘Mr…’
‘Graude.’ He smiled his small-toothed smile.
‘Mr Graude, I don’t do Folies Bergère stuff.’
‘Stuff.’ He mulled the word over as if it amused him, the smile broadening. ‘Ah, oui, stuff. No, mademoiselle. This engagement is for – for a – what you say – a musical. It is at the Chatelet. It is a fine large theatre. The musical is Pauvre Ma’amoiselle – it will run for many weeks, months. It will be very successful, I think. For you, together with five other English girls, a good place in the chorus. After that…’
He gave a huge shrug of his shoulders as though to say she could reach unscaled heights should she wish to.
Daisy’s brown eyes glowed. ‘Can I let you know soon?’
‘By tomorrow morning. Oui?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed. She was on her way. To Paris. She wondered if she might bump into Cissy there. What a surprise that would be.
Chapter Thirteen
The whole country had come out in support of the miners in a nationwide general strike. Nothing moved: buses stood empty in their depots, trains in their sidings; services became non-existent with streets uncleaned, dustbins unemptied, milk and bread and coal undelivered; offices closed, and a brick through the window of any shop employing outside labour to keep it open.
On the Thames, while the larger tug companies had hardly any of their fleet working, with only a few of their men willing to handle them, the smaller companies had no such problems, apart from an immediate hunt to get coal which became in short supply almost overnight with nothing being delivered to the yards from the pits. Some of the big companies took their tugs across the North Sea to Flushing in the Netherlands for their coal, but those like Eddie and his father, being small concerns, had to get theirs where they could.
At least with so few tugs on the river, there was plenty of work. There were also risks. The strikers, seeing the tugs as an essential service threatening to undermine their cause, were ready to do battle with anyone, employee or owner, who dared take their vessels out to the big ships lying idle with no one to handle or offload. Even with the navy doing what it could to protect the tugs, there were fights.
The strike was in its seventh day when Eddie found Bobby Farmer, Cissy’s brother, sitting indolently in a coffee shop, sporting a black eye. He grinned, delicately touching the spot when Eddie enquired about it.
‘Bit of trouble down at the docks. They’ve brought the army out. The bloody army, mind you! Like we was the enemy. It’s gettin’ beyond a joke. Then of course I went and said the wrong thing, didn’t I?’
He gave a rueful grimace. ‘I went and said I know the miners are ’aving a rough time of it. They’ve got my sympathy. But we ain’t nothing to do with mining. My life’s on the river and going on strike fer miners ’alf across the country, ain’t going ter put bread on my table or pay me rent. And this could go on fer months. What d’we all do when we ain’t got a crust to give our kids? Mind, I’m not fer breaking a strike when it’s a good cause. And I admit this one’s a good cause. It must be, to ’ave the ole country come out on strike…’
He paused to take a gulp of his tea, wincing at the effort to get his lips around the cup. He put it down.
‘But I can air me views, can’t I? Trouble was, what with troops being there an’ all to rile ’em up even more, someone didn’t see eye to eye with me. So he thumped me in one of ’em instead. That was as we was ’aving a bit of a clash with some of them troops. Turned into a real bloody fight ’ere and there. Might not’ve ’appened except for them bringing out the bloody army. They’re still up there now, at the East India Docks – trucks an’ soldiers, all done up in tin ’elmets and bloody gas capes, and rifles. Like a second world war’s broken out. Christ knows who they think they’re going ter shoot with them rifles of theirs.’
‘You should’ve kept your nose clean,’ Eddie advised as he sipped his scalding coffee. ‘Kept your mouth shut.’
Bobby laughed. ‘Yeah, I should’ve. But it was worse than that. My Ethel weren’t none too pleased, seeing me black eye. I told her I’d caught me eye on the safety bar of the bus I was comin’ home on as it stopped suddenly. She was all sympathy at first, then she suddenly said, “There’s a strike on. There ain’t no buses running.” Gawd, she didn’t ’alf ’it the ceiling, ’cos she knew then I’d been in a fight. I really thought she was goin’ ter black me other one.’
Eddie smiled appropriately, but while Bobby had gone on about him and Ethel, Eddie’s thoughts had lingered on Cissy and the opportunity given for him to ask about her. He did so, but received a sad negative headshake.
‘Not a whisper.’
‘Nothing at all?’ It was hard to credit she still hadn’t been in touch with her family. On the odd occasions he’d run into Bobby, the reply was ever the same. ‘Not a whisper.’
‘Hasn’t no one even tried to find her?’ he continued, but Bobby as on other occasions looked grim.
‘Like I said, ’er dad won’t let any of us even mention ’er name. I don’t understand it, Eddie, he’s the nicest, amiablest, easy-going bloke anyone could wish ter meet. But on this, it’s like trying ter punch yer way through a brick wall, to get ’im to come round. Though I tell a lie when I said we ’aven’t ’eard. She sent us a Christmas card. It came from a place called Biarritz in France, but there wasn’t no proper address on it. Dad threw it straight on the fire when ’e saw it. Made Mum cry, though she didn’t make much fuss – just turned away. But I saw tears on her cheeks.’
‘What’s the rest of your family say?’
‘The boys…you know kids. Harry don’t properly understand and Sidney – he’s fourteen now – more interested in ’is mates and don’t care. May – she misses Cissy. But then, she’s all boys. Got no time.’
‘And you?’ Eddie’s heart was racing hopefully. A Christmas card – it had to be a start. ‘Ever thought of trying to trace her yourself?’
‘I’ve got other worries.’ The laugh sounded a little bitter.
‘But she’s your sister,’ he persisted. ‘Biarritz, you said?’
‘I’ve got me troubles, Eddie.’
‘What troubles?’
‘Ethel.’ Bobby’s eyes had grown strangely hollow. He bit his lips for a moment, then, his voice dropping: ‘I ’ave ter tell someone or I’ll explode. Y’see, me an’ Ethel…We – well, we don’t get on that good. She don’t ’ave anything to do with me…you know, that way. Not since the baby was born. She blames me for it being a gel. She blames me fer her ’aving it. She blames me fer…blames me fer everything. Fer not loving ’er, she says, for the life we’ve got. Fer everything.’
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Eddie could say, trying hard not to let
his mind wander to the more urgent matter of Cissy. Everyone had their troubles. He hadn’t meant the conversation to go this way.
‘It’s not just that.’ Bobby leant forward. ‘Eddie, can you keep something to yerself?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, it’s…I’ve gorn an’ met someone else. Her people ’ave a fish shop across the river. Good bit of fish an’ chips they do there, and I often went in when I was over that side. Well, me an’ ’er…you can guess the rest. We’ve been goin’ out together, secretly, fer about six months. Now she’s pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.’
Eddie nodded sympathetically. There was nothing he could do, no advice he could or wanted to give. All he wanted was news of Cissy.
The little biplane stood on the tarmac, its propeller whirling fast enough to be just a silvery circular blue. Everything looked terribly flimsy, the struts between the wings so thin, like string, the wings themselves shuddering. The whole plane shuddering. Cissy felt her bones melting.
‘I can’t, Langley. I can’t get in that thing!’
‘I’ve never, never known such a baby!’ came Effie’s high-pitched voice behind her.
Effie, clad in a leather jacket and jodhpurs, sheepskin-lined helmet and huge goggles, the brown tones set off by a long, bright pink gauzy scarf, had just been up in the thing, shrieking with delight behind Ginger who’d held a full pilot’s licence for two years. Pamela and Faith had both been up and returned to earth raving about the experience.
Ginger was standing in front of Cissy, grinning. ‘It’s as safe as houses. I promise on my honour not to go too high or loop the loop.’
Langley’s arm pressed hers reassuringly. ‘Go on, darling. Take the plunge. It’ll be all right. Go and have fun.’
‘Oh, do go on, Cissy darling!’ echoed Effie. ‘Take the plunge and have fun and Langley will be so tremendously proud of you. You will be tremendously proud of her, won’t you, Langley?’
He shook his head indulgently, chuckling at her caustic witticism while Cissy smouldered. Effie was going back to England next week, and good riddance. Margo coming out could never be as awful as her; Margo, from what Cissy remembered, was an intense sort of person – a femme fatale, but now she had lost her menace. Langley had been so ardent in his lovemaking of late and had bought Cissy so many lovely things, it seemed that no one could ever threaten this relationship now.
She let him guide her to the noisy plane as it stood juddering on the tarmac. Donned in a warm jacket and leather helmet similar to Effie’s but without the gaudy pink scarf, she pulled the goggles down over her eyes as Ginger eased himself with accustomed agility into the front cockpit, leaving Langley to help her climb into the cramped rear one.
Langley stood back, shouting above the growing roar of the engine. ‘You’re going to love it!’
She read his lips rather than heard him and gave a nervous wave, feeling she really ought to be hanging on to the sides of the cockpit in case she fell out, the strap around her seeming far too inadequate.
This summer in Paris, she had felt so reckless, tearing off in fast open cars, often sitting on the rear of the back seat; in Biarritz she’d stood in a speedboat, bumping alarmingly up and down over the waves with spray dashing her face; she’d been to the top of the Eiffel Tower and leaned precariously out over the highest parapet for a bet of a rope of seed pearls belonging to Pamela, relying only on Langley to keep a tight hold of her while the city below seemed to swing around her.
Everything adventurous, she felt nothing could frighten her again. But this was something different – nothing solid between the floor of the cockpit and the world a thousand feet below.
She saw Ginger’s thumbs go up, signalling take-off. The tiny plane roared into life; began to move forward, to gather speed. Soon the tarmac was speeding past, faster than any car, the aircraft shuddering as though it would snap in two. Faster, faster. Suddenly the juddering ceased, the ground dropped away. Cissy gasped, her breath drawn into her lungs almost involuntarily. She held it, eyes shut. She felt she was leaning backwards, even before the plane began to climb.
The wind was rushing past her ears. The engine didn’t sound quite so loud, though still loud enough, still roaring at full throttle. Opening her eyes, she glanced over the side to see how high they were. It was the worst thing she could have done. She had somehow imagined to see the ground about as far away as it had been from the Eiffel Tower. It wasn’t. It was miles below her. The tower had at least been her terra firma. Here there was none.
‘Oh, Ginger!’
But they were levelling out. The terrifying sound of the engine was moderating to a droning sort of whine; the wind in her face felt comforting, its rushing in her ears quite steady. It brought a sudden feeling of exhilaration. The world below didn’t seem to matter any more. She was in safe hands. Ginger had a full pilot’s licence.
‘Oh, Ginger,’ she sighed, ecstatic, adoring the world from above. Who would have thought two years ago that she would be flying high in the sky in a plane hired especially for her and her friends…yes, friends – even Effie from this height. Even Margo.
‘Cissy!’
Cissy swung round at the call. She had been out shopping for shoes and had bought a hat instead, a deep cloche, cream-coloured, with a tiny brim covered with fawn applique. It had cost the earth, but Langley had given her his chequebook and said to use what she wanted.
It was a wonderful feeling, he was so generous. He behaved as if they were engaged, although he hadn’t bought an engagement ring as such – two rings, but not for that hand yet. Whenever they made love, he’d speak to her like a man speaking to a fiancée, and though not making plans for the future, talked of being together always. He treated her so protectively, even when making love, except for one time a couple of months ago when he hadn’t been so careful, but so wonderful, she hadn’t thought at the time. When she did, she’d been terrified. But her periods appeared as if nothing had happened.
When she told him of her fright, he had resumed his caution, saying they couldn’t have anything like that happen. She understood. The way he spoke sometimes, she knew one day they’d be married, she would be proudly introduced to his parents and her life would be settled and wealthy as his wife. If she did fall pregnant, they’d marry just that bit sooner. Though his insistence on being careful after that scare had saddened her a little because she would have felt so proud carrying his child knowing she would be his wife, she forgave his not being keen for anything to happen outside marriage; loved his sometimes old-fashioned views.
Cissy stretched her neck to see who had called her and watched the figure come hurrying towards her, arm raised, hand waving frantically. On recognition her heart missed a beat with disbelief.
Daisy, as large as life, in a frilly pink jabot blouse, a cluster of artificial carnations in the lapel of her black jacket, and the shortest of white pleated skirts, rushed up with a ready embrace.
‘I bet you’re surprised. Fancy seeing me, eh?’
Cissy extricated herself. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m living here. In Paris.’ Beneath the brim of her pink hat, her brown eyes danced. ‘Oh, Cissy, I’ve got such a lot to tell you. Can we go somewhere for a coffee and a good chat? Do you mind?’
‘No, not at all.’ She felt stupefied by Daisy’s sudden appearance. ‘There’s a place just round the corner.’
Over coffee and gateau with Daisy smoking a cigarette in a green Bakelite holder the whole time, she related all that had happened to her since Cissy’s leaving: the Covent Garden audition, the one at Drury Lane, the stars she’d met and the talent scout who’d got her a prominent part in the chorus here in Paris, the Chatelet.
‘I didn’t hear anything more for months,’ she regaled. ‘I thought he’d forgotten all about it, or that it was merely one of those fairy tales some of them spin you. Then suddenly…well, here I am. I’ve been here about a month. Fancy not bumping into you before now.’
Cissy, still slightly over-awed at Daisy’s being here, listened happily enough until she mentioned it being exactly a year since Eddie Bennett had gone to Cohens to ask if she knew where Cissy was.
‘I told you all about that in one of my letters,’ Daisy continued, daintily removing a smear of gateau from her upper lip with a middle finger and studying the cream on it before sucking it clean with a small kissing sound and wiping the finger on a napkin. ‘It don’t seem all that time ago. So much has happened. I just didn’t know what to say to him. It was awful, having to tell lies. Well, not exactly lies. I didn’t even know then where you were except that you’d said you were going to Paris. But when I did get your address, I certainly wasn’t going to pass it on to him – not unless you wanted me to. Well, I told you about it in my letter, didn’t I?’
As Cissy nodded, Daisy took a deep intake of breath and cigarette smoke. ‘You didn’t tell him though, did you?’
Cissy shook her head, and Daisy ploughed on. ‘Well, I expect you’re nicely settled now with your…what’s his name, the one you came out with?’
‘Langley.’
‘Yes.’ Daisy swallowed the last of her gateau and drank the last of the coffee in her cup. Laying her second cigarette in its holder on the glass ashtray, she lifted the slim silver coffee pot, holding it poised. ‘More coffee, Cissy? There’s some left.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll have to be on my way.’
The coffee pot was replaced. ‘And so must I. Have to get back for the first house this afternoon. It’s all go. But I do love it. I love it here.’ She stubbed the cigarette out in its ashtray, removing the burnt end and popping the holder into her handbag. ‘I’ll get the bill. My treat. Look, can we meet next Saturday morning? It’d be lovely having someone I know in Paris. There are the other few girls in the show who’re English, but there’s nothing like being with an old friend, is there? Shall we meet?’
