‘I promised Mr Denham I’d look after you.’ Ewan told the others he’d be back, and they waved him and Daisy off with several crude remarks.
They caught the bus back to the boarding house where Daisy meant to make herself some cocoa, eat whatever sandwiches the landlady had left for them, then have an earlyish night.
‘What’s the matter, Daisy?’ Ewan asked, as they walked down the road towards the ladies’ lodging house.
‘Nothing, I’m just tired,’ said Daisy. ‘Thank you for coming home with me. What will you do now?’
‘I was beating George at darts, so maybe I’ll go back to the pub.’
‘All right,’ said Daisy. ‘Ewan, have you heard any more about who might be playing Mr Morgan’s roles?’
‘I hope it will be me. I don’t think I could stand to watch if Frank or George kissed you.’
‘They’re both to old to play Jack Grove.’ Daisy stood up on tiptoe and kissed Ewan. ‘So it’s almost certain to be you.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Ewan, as he gave her one last hug. ‘Sleep tight, and dream of me.’
Daisy put her key in the lock, opened the door and walked into a scene.
‘I don’t care what the manager told you, I’m not going anywhere else this evening,’ said the owner of a broad, strong back and head of coal-black hair. ‘We’ll sort it out tomorrow morning. I’m sleeping on the sofa in your sitting room tonight.’
‘This house is ladies only,’ said the landlady. ‘I never have any men.’
‘My dear Mrs Fisher, whatever do you think I’m going to do?’ the person with the coal-black hair demanded, in a low and drawling voice that sent delicious shivers down Daisy’s spine. ‘Fry your canary, rape your parlour maid?’
‘I’d be very grateful if you wouldn’t use that sort of language in my house,’ said Mrs Fisher, who looked flushed and cross. ‘Good evening to you, Miss Denham. I didn’t see you standing there. Your Mr Curtis, he called round last week to ask me if I could put up a Jessie Trent. He told me all the other boarding houses were full up, so he was desperate. I agreed, of course, because I thought he meant a lady. But here’s this man, instead.’
The man turned round and looked at Daisy. ‘It’s J-e-s-s-e,’ he said, and sighed resignedly. ‘Jesse, as in the outlaw Jesse James and father of King David.’
Daisy gazed into a pair of dark brown eyes, in a face which wasn’t hard or heavy – which was in fact fine-boned and delicate, but definitely a man’s.
‘M-Mrs Fisher,’ she began, painfully aware that she was stammering, but unable to do anything about it, ‘s-surely you won’t mind if Mr James here – I mean Mr Trent – sleeps on your sofa, just tonight?’
‘I do mind, as it happens.’ Mrs Fisher grimaced. ‘I never have any men here,’ she continued irritably. ‘I don’t like men. I never have, they leave a bathroom in a shocking state, bits of bristle stuck all round the basin, whiskers in the plughole, scum around the bath. They never lift the seat – ’
‘I’m house-trained, Mrs Fisher,’ Jesse Trent assured the landlady, in his lovely, slightly mocking voice. ‘If you let me stay, I promise on my honour I’ll behave myself.’
‘You’d better, Mr Trent.’ Mrs Fisher turned to Daisy. ‘Well, Miss Denham, if you and the other ladies wouldn’t object? I suppose it’s late – ’
‘I don’t object at all,’ said Daisy.
‘Very well, I’ll find a couple of blankets,’ muttered Mrs Fisher. ‘But tomorrow, Mr Trent – ’
‘I’ll leave at crack of dawn.’ As Mrs Fisher bustled off, Jesse Trent smiled gratefully at Daisy. ‘Thank you for sticking up for me, Miss Denham.’
Daisy couldn’t speak. She stared at Jesse, hypnotised. Whoever loved, she thought, that loved not at first sight?
She finally stammered her excuses and went to bed. But, though she was so tired, she couldn’t sleep. When she got up next morning she was feverish, hot and cold by turns. She was hungry, but couldn’t have eaten anything at all.
She heard Amy and Julia stirring in the rooms below, but she stayed in bed until she heard the front door slam, which she hoped meant the newcomer had gone.
‘He was here when I arrived – talk about an early bird – and he sounds as if he comes from Yorkshire,’ Amy told the rest of the people standing or sitting in the damp rehearsal room above a dirty spit-and-sawdust pub. Jesse Trent himself was closeted downstairs with Mr Curtis, sorting out his contract.
‘Anyway,’ went on Amy, ‘it seems his company was flooded out of its last place. They couldn’t find other venues, and so they’ve all dispersed. He found us because that miser Curtis was desperate enough to put an advert in The Stage.’
‘So aren’t we glad he did?’ Julia put on yet more lipstick, even though they were only doing a read-through, and the cast all wore old slacks, old skirts, old jumpers, and most looked very morning after a heavy night before. Ewan was especially pale, and so were Frank and George.
‘All right, people, settle down.’ Mr and Mrs Curtis came in with the newcomer, who looked bright and cheerful, not hung over in the slightest – unlike the other men.
‘This is Mr Trent, who’s kindly agreed to join us at short notice,’ Mr Curtis told them.
‘He’ll be replacing Mr Morgan, who as we all know has managed to find himself a far superior engagement,’ added Mrs Curtis waspishly.
Jesse Trent smiled genially all round, and Daisy’s heart did somersaults.
‘So Mr Trent will be Jack Grove in our new drama Blighted Blossoms,’ continued Mr Curtis, ‘and he’ll be David Masefield in our new light comedy Down the Drain. All right, boys and girls, pick up your scripts and walk.’
They began the read through. In the new drama Blighted Blossoms, Daisy played the innocent girl corrupted by her brother’s devious friend, and every time she glanced at Jesse Trent she could understand how this could happen. Jesse was attractive, handsome, charming, worldly-wise – a fatal combination …
‘How old, do you think?’ hissed Julia, as they watched Jesse and Ewan who, to his great and obvious disappointment was playing the girl’s brother, read a scene.
‘Let me see, now. Twenty-eight, perhaps, or maybe thirty?’ Amy stubbed out a cigarette. ‘Older than you and me, my love, but none the worse for it.’
‘A charmer, but a bastard, too. Plenty of experience, I’d say. But I always like that well-worn look, and I – ’
‘Miss Hart, if you don’t mind!’ Mrs Curtis glared at Julia, and then at Daisy. ‘Miss Denham, have you lost your place?’
‘No, Mrs Curtis,’ Daisy fibbed, and started turning pages rapidly.
‘We’re on Act 1, Scene 3,’ snapped Mrs Curtis. ‘Do wake up, my dear – and concentrate!’
Daisy found it hard to concentrate on anything but Jesse Trent’s dark eyes. Julia was right, he looked well-worn, but he was also so good-looking that he made her think of fallen angels, tarnished but still beautiful and bright.
He wasn’t as tall as Ewan, but he was well made and didn’t carry any fat. He moved like a dancer, lithe and light upon his feet.
He smoked, of course – and so, like all the other men, he smelled of cigarettes. But, since he smoked Sobranies, the scent was quite a novelty. Everybody else smoked British gaspers, Capstans, Woodbines, Craven A.
Then it was time for Daisy’s opening scene. ‘Ready, Miss Denham?’ Jesse’s voice was low, caressing, husky without being harsh, warm without being suggestive.
‘R-ready,’ whispered Daisy, and choked out her first line.
When they reached the kissing scene, the tension in the room became electric. She was aware of Ewan’s gaze – proprietorial, jealous. ‘Relax,’ said Jesse, as he held her in his arms and tipped her back a little, but not enough to make her feel off balance. ‘You’re doing very well.’
&n
bsp; But Mr Curtis didn’t think so. He didn’t like the way that Daisy moved. She was supposed to be girl of twenty, he said crossly – supple, graceful, yielding – not a crone of eighty with lumbago and a buggered hip.
He said although she had to be an innocent, he wanted her to be much more flirtatious. She tried to be flirtatious, but then he told her not to look so arch. She wasn’t the Christmas fairy in a blasted pantomime.
She ended up kissing Jesse Trent a dozen times or more, and every time she kissed him she was aware of Ewan’s angry glare. It was burning through her cardigan and scorching holes into her back.
‘Miss Denham, please don’t look so worried,’ said Jesse, several hours and many kisses later, as they were all packing up to leave. ‘Everyone knows kissing on the stage is difficult, especially when you don’t know the kisser very well.’
Jesse’s dark eyes sparkled, Daisy noticed, and his smile was warm, appealing and sincere. ‘Miss Denham, is there any particular problem, anything I can do to help?’
‘I haven’t kissed anyone on stage before.’ Daisy felt the blush creep up her neck, and hated herself for being so gauche and young. ‘But I dare say I’ll get used to it.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
‘I hope you’ve got your digs fixed for tonight?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’m staying with the other boys. The landlord’s found an attic room for me.’ Now Jesse’s smile was gently mocking, wry and confidential. ‘So,’ he added softly, ‘all you ladies will be safe.’
‘Coming for a little snifter, Daisy?’ George Reed came bustling up and put his arm round Daisy’s shoulders. ‘I should think you need it, after all that effort! Alfred’s so pernickety. You’d think we were playing Drury Lane, not the Alhambra, Stoke. Mr Trent, it’s opening time, so what about a beer or two?’
‘Frank just asked me, thank you, George.’ Then Jesse grinned, revealing sharp, white teeth, and Daisy’s heart did handstands. ‘I think he said the Hope and Anchor, didn’t he? I need to talk to Alfred for a moment, then I’ll be on my way.’
‘Mmm, look at those shoulders,’ Amy said to no one in particular, as Jesse strolled back across the room to talk to Mr Curtis.
Look at him move, thought Daisy. He’s so graceful. I’d love to see him dance. Or dance with him, a little voice inside her head said speculatively.
‘Frank and George and Alfred,’ whispered Julia. ‘He’s only been here twenty minutes, but you’d think he runs the show.’
‘We’ll have to keep our eye on Daisy May.’ Amy lit a cigarette and sniggered. ‘Look at her, standing there all goggle-eyed. I’d say that girl’s been smitten, and I can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’
Ewan’s anger took him by surprise. He’d stood there watching closely as Trent had kissed his girlfriend, and he had seen their lips had merely touched, that there had been no inappropriate groping or grabbing on the part of Trent.
Daisy had been nervous. She’d clearly hated being scrutinised as she was playing something as intimate as a love scene, but as a professional actress she had tried to get it right.
So why was he so furious?
The others had all gone, determined not to waste a single moment of precious drinking time. But he’d hung back, and Daisy had hung back with him, making a performance of doing up her coat and winding a woollen scarf around her neck.
They’d walked into the street in silence.
The monster had appeared from nowhere, like a genie spooling from a bottle, and everything had spun out of control. He’d meant to talk – just talk, not shout, not lose his temper. He wanted to explain how he was feeling, let Daisy know how much it had upset him to see her kiss another man. He didn’t want to yell, he didn’t want fly into a rage, he didn’t want other pedestrians to stop and ask her if she knew this man.
But the monster didn’t want to talk.
It wanted to pick a fight.
‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ she faltered as the monster ranted, so then he was ashamed, because she looked so small and frightened. ‘I was acting, Ewan. I didn’t mean it.’
‘You looked as if you did!’ the monster shouted, and waved his arms about.
‘Ewan, don’t be silly.’
‘Silly?’ howled the monster, growing angrier by the second. ‘My girlfriend stands there kissing another man, and obviously enjoying it, then tells me I’m silly?’
‘Ewan, stop it.’ Daisy touched his sleeve. ‘Please don’t shout at me. People are looking at us and pointing.’
‘I don’t care,’ the monster growled.
‘If you’re going to carry on like this, I’m going to join the others.’
‘Go, then – I’m not stopping you.’
‘Why don’t you come, too?’
‘I’m going for a walk.’ The monster jerked away from Daisy, turning on his heel and striding off, uncomfortably aware that she was standing staring after him. He wanted to go back. He wanted to apologise for shouting, to say of course he knew she had been acting.
But the monster wouldn’t let him do it, and he kept on walking.
‘We have a letter from Daisy, Rose!’
As he’d come out of the brand new cowshed, built a hundred yards from the bailiff’s cottage across the cobbled yard, Alex had met the postman at the gate.
One day, he thought, Rose would have to accept it. Daisy had been right to go with Mr and Mrs Curtis. Rose and he had brought her up to think for herself, be strong and independent. So they couldn’t complain because she’d turned out dogged and determined. Now she was doing what she loved, and – it would seem – doing it well, working with a professional company. If anything, they should be proud.
He put the other letters on the kitchen table and picked up the Farming Times, from which he was trying to teach himself to be a dairy farmer. He hoped that using most of the insurance money to build a modern cowshed and a dairy had been the right decision, and his herd of Jerseys was going to prosper, whatever Michael Easton said.
‘Goodness, what a pile.’ Rose lugged a basket full of washing over to the copper. ‘I hope it’s not all bills. I always seem to be paying bills. Cattle feed and visits from the vet and school fees for the boys, it’s never ending.’
She turned to shout upstairs. ‘Stephen and Robert, up you get!’ she called. ‘Your father needs you to do some jobs for him before you go to school. Come on, I shan’t tell you again!’
‘You also have a letter from America,’ said Alex, as he started sifting through the brochures, catalogues and all the inevitable bills. ‘Who do you know there?’
‘I don’t think I know anyone. Unless...’
Rose picked up the foreign-looking envelope, and saw the childish writing. She slit it open, scanned it quickly, then sat down, looking winded.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘I never thought we’d hear from her again. She – she wants Daisy back. She says – ’
But Rose didn’t finish, because the twins came thundering down the stairs and burst into the kitchen fighting and demanding breakfast. So it was impossible to discuss the matter any more.
More than anything, Ewan wanted Daisy back.
As Trent and Daisy rehearsed their scenes together in Blighted Blossoms, he tried to tell himself they were acting, that it seemed so real because they were so good at it.
The monster didn’t agree. The monster wanted action and a showdown. Ewan found if he didn’t keep a tight grip on himself, the fury would start building up inside him, turning him into somebody he didn’t recognise, and definitely didn’t want to be.
It had been such an easy conquest. The bastard didn’t even have to try. He only had to look at Daisy and her eyes lit up. Daisy was so good at playing the part of an infatuated girl because she was infatuate
d herself.
In some ways, he was happy to be playing Daisy’s furious brother because he was so angry anyway, and it was a good way to let off steam. He was only sorry the stage directions didn’t demand he took a swing at Trent. But maybe it was just as well – he’d probably have knocked out half his teeth.
I’ve got her, haven’t I, said Trent, but only with his eyes. What are you going to do about it, eh?
Ewan didn’t know.
Chapter Nine
The company moved on, playing to half-empty theatres all around the Midlands.
When they arrived in each new place, Julia and Amy got painted up and went round all the shops to hand out playbills and a few judicious complimentary tickets, dragging Daisy along with them, and hissing at her to stick her flipping chest out, and to stop looking thirteen.
The men were sent out after dark to stick up posters on fences, walls and hoardings, on lamp posts and where there were signs which said no bill sticking here.
Today it was the morning of the dress rehearsal for the drama Blighted Blossoms. The only rehearsal on a stage, in fact, so everyone knew they’d have to get their moves right, cues right, props assembled, entrances and exits all worked out, while Tom the dour stage manager had to sort out the scenery and lighting, in a few short hours before they opened for the paying public that same Monday night.
Daisy had meant to get in before everybody else, to see how big the stage was, or how small, to see what kind of dressing room she’d have – the usual sort of horror with peeling paintwork, grubby washbasin and splintering matchwood furniture, or something even worse, ankle deep in pigeon droppings, with no running water and no electricity, up four steep flights of stairs.
But she found Jesse there already, sitting on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs and looking as if he’d grown there.
‘Good morning,’ she began, aware that she was blushing scarlet, which she always did whenever Jesse was around.
‘Hello, Miss Denham.’ Jesse smiled, and his smile made Daisy’s heart turn cartwheels. ‘Where’s everybody else?’
The Golden Chain Page 10
