The Golden Chain

by Margaret James

  It was her turn to go to town this week.

  She did her shopping, gazed in dress shop windows at clothes she couldn’t afford to buy, then bought some flowers for Rose, some toffee everybody liked, and a copy of The Stage.

  There was a long article on experimental drama. It all sounded very heavy, intellectual stuff. Surely there couldn’t be an audience for that sort of thing? Surely people went to see a show expecting to be entertained, not bored or mystified?

  Ewan had gone to Glasgow to act in plays like that. But lying on the stage and howling, or spending an hour staring at the audience and having them stare back – that didn’t sound like the Ewan she had known and, too late, had loved.

  As the bus pulled into Charton, Daisy put away the magazine. But as she shoved it in her shopping bag, on the back page she spotted a short item that made her pull it out again. A new rep in Leeds was due to welcome Ewan Fraser, Sadie Lawrence and Mungo Campbell, all from the Comrades Theatre Company, Glasgow, for the autumn season.

  Leeds, said Daisy to herself, and started thinking hard. If I went to Leeds, perhaps I could sort something out. I don’t know what, but surely there wouldn’t be any harm in writing to the manager in Leeds. If this is a brand new company, they might still be casting. Or they might need an ASM, at any rate.

  When she got home, she wrote a letter.

  Ewan was feeling somewhat disappointed, but resigned.

  They’d been doing so well, but then the backers had pulled out. The houses had been small, admittedly. But the reviews had all been excellent – he now had several folders full of complimentary cuttings – the audiences had been receptive, and he’d learned a lot.

  ‘I still don’t think we should be going to Leeds,’ said Mungo, looking morose and chewing crossly at his finger nails.

  ‘We have to eat,’ said Sadie, who was sitting between them on a wall outside the darkened theatre, chewing at a bridie – she’d bought a shilling bag of them – and drinking from a bottle of beer that they were passing round in a brown paper bag, in case a policeman happened to pass by.

  ‘But is it better to eat than sell our souls?’ demanded Mungo, glowering.

  ‘Oh, don’t go getting ideological with me today.’ Sadie glared back at him. ‘It’s no’ the place or time. Do you want a bridie, or do you not?’

  ‘I’ll eat Mungo’s,’ offered Ewan, reaching for the bag.

  ‘You damn well won’t,’ said Mungo, grabbing it. ‘As long as you two understand – we take this job to earn some money, to get ourselves set up, and then we try to find some serious, honest work again.’

  ‘I think we should be glad that Sandy Taylor happened to see us when he was in Glasgow, and thought we would be useful,’ Ewan told him, wiping flakes of pastry off his chin. ‘I’m going, anyway.’

  ‘Fraser, I’m no’ convinced you’ll be an asset in the coming struggle,’ muttered Mungo, ‘and don’t drink all the beer.’

  ‘Mum, I’ve got an audition,’ Daisy said, a fortnight later.

  ‘Really?’ Rose was peeling vegetables at the kitchen sink. ‘I thought you’d got that theatre business right out of your system. I hoped you’d be staying here in Charton, until we find a man to marry you.’

  ‘Mum!’ cried Daisy, horrified.

  Rose turned round and smiled. ‘I was joking, dear. Your dad and I were saying the other night, it’s time you were getting itchy feet again.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Daisy, relieved but annoyed to be so very easily understood. ‘But you wouldn’t mind if I did a short season now and then?’

  ‘It’s what you want to do, and people should be allowed to chase their dreams.’ Rose sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Alex is much better now, and we did quite well this summer, mainly thanks to you. We can just about afford to hire a part time cowman, and maybe share him with another farmer. The twins are doing more and more now, bless their little hearts. You go for your audition, and good luck.’

  A few days later, Daisy sat on the train to Leeds, wondering if this new adventure was a big mistake. Well, she thought, it wouldn’t show for a while, and if she actually got a job, at least she’d earn some money, and she could send something home.

  She’d also get a chance to make it up to Ewan, to say she was sorry for being such a bitch. She was so looking forward to seeing him again. The thought of it buoyed her up and made her smile, even though she was in such a mess.

  When she had the baby, maybe Ewan – but no, she mustn’t race ahead.

  She ate her ham and pickle sandwiches and grimaced at her reflection in the window. In a few hours, she’d be in Leeds, where she’d be eating humble pie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When she arrived in Leeds, she took her case to the left luggage office and paid the clerk one of her precious shillings to leave it there. It didn’t do to turn up at auditions looking too optimistic. Anyway, her suitcase weighed a ton, and she didn’t think she ought to be lugging heavy loads through city streets in her condition.

  If they didn’t want her, she decided, she wouldn’t hang around. She wouldn’t let on that she knew Ewan, or ask where she could find him, or anything like that. She’d simply get the next train home, sitting up all night if necessary. She couldn’t afford a sleeper.

  She wondered how many other people the manager was seeing, if she had any chance, or if she was just chasing wild geese, or wild Ewans.

  Mr Taylor had arranged to meet her in a Victorian pub in Leeds town centre. She’d never gone into a pub alone before and, as she walked across the room, she was aware of being sized up in a way that wasn’t entirely pleasant. Surely it didn’t show, not yet? After enquiring at the bar, she was relieved to find the manager was already there.

  He turned out to be a youngish man – mid-thirties, she’d have guessed. One of the newer breed of actor, manager and producer, he wasn’t an Alfred Curtis lookalike, straight from a Charles Dickens novel. Mr A S Taylor had an open, shrewd and honest face, wore ordinary clothes – no monocles or spats for him – and knew a barber. There was nothing of the theatre about Mr A S Taylor, at least not on display.

  ‘Why did you leave your last job?’ he began, as the white-aproned waiter placed the manager’s pint of best and Daisy’s half of lemonade on the table, and as Mr Taylor scanned her letter. ‘Let me see – you were with Daniel Hanson’s company, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, in London.’

  ‘But you just walked out?’ The manager glanced up and shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone walking out on him before, or living to talk about it, anyway!’

  ‘We had a serious illness in the family, and they needed me at home.’

  ‘The show must still go on, you know,’ the manager said, impressively. ‘This family illness – everything’s resolved now, I presume, and you’re fit yourself?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Daisy assured him, crossing her fingers underneath the table, willing him to take her on and pay her decent money, so she could send some home.

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ he said, ‘because I’d work you hard. As well as playing your own parts, you’d be understudying, walking on, shifting properties, painting scenery, doing anything and everything. The members of this company all muck in, and I’ve no time for prima donnas, male or female – do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  Mr Taylor had Daisy’s cuttings spread across the table, and she thought, at least I’ve had reviews, and that must count for something. Even if most of them are for that awful Blighted Blossoms, and only three for the revue.

  ‘The Telegraph picked you out for special mention,’ the manager continued. ‘But we’re not doing any musical comedy, you know.’

  ‘I want to do straight acting now,’ said Daisy. ‘I’ve prepared some pieces for you, if you’d like to hear th
em?’

  ‘You mean you’d do them here, in the pub?’

  ‘Yes, if you wish.’

  ‘Maybe not, but your enthusiasm is certainly commendable.’ The manager grinned sarcastically, considering her, appraising her and screwing up his face. ‘Very well, Miss Denham,’ he said, at last. ‘I’ll take you on. But you’ll have to sign a binding contract. You won’t walk out on me.’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ said Daisy.

  ‘You’d better not. I’ll set the dogs on you. We’re already running this company on a flipping shoestring.’ But then the manager smiled more graciously. ‘Okay, first read-through at ten tomorrow morning, in the upstairs room here, that all right? I’ll let you have a list of digs.’

  ‘Mr Taylor, may I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I saw in The Stage that you’d engaged some people from the Comrades, Glasgow.’ As she thought of Ewan, Daisy felt her face begin to glow. ‘Did their company fold?’

  ‘Their audiences were falling off, and the management had to cut its losses.’ Mr Taylor shrugged. ‘It’s not surprising, really. They were doing gloomy, left wing drama for half empty houses.’

  ‘How did you find out about them?’

  ‘I happened to see them when I visited my sister up in Glasgow, and I thought – great power, great commitment, but terrible material. There are some very fine young players among them, very enthusiastic, not afraid to take some risks, and clearly keen to learn. So I was glad to snap them up.’

  The manager shook his head. ‘Good Communists these chaps might be, all burning with the fire of revolution. But empty bellies have no ears, and starvation’s not an appealing prospect in whatever cause. So three of them were happy to take my filthy capitalist shilling. Miss Denham, do you happen to have a pen?’

  Daisy walked back to the railway station, got her case, then spent another threepence on her bus fare to the theatrical boarding house that Mr Taylor said was sure to have a vacancy.

  When she saw her room, she realised why. It made the place in Clapham look like a palace. She wondered just how ruinous a house would have to get before it actually started falling down.

  As well as all the usual insect life, the place was home to dozens of rats and mice, and two lazy, clearly ineffectual ginger cats who were never brushed, had forgotten how to groom themselves, and whose fur got into everything and lay in orange clumps on every surface.

  But it was cheap, the landlady was friendly, and the food at supper turned out to be plentiful, if stolid: lots of mashed potato with greyish, lumpy sausages full of gristle, then prunes and tapioca, all washed down with dark brown builders’ brew.

  So, she decided, 14 Milton Mansions would have to do for now. She sent Rose a postcard to say she had arrived, and would be staying for a while.

  Anxious to make a good impression, she was first to arrive the following morning. ‘Just go on up, my love,’ the barman said, when she rang the bell and said she was with Mr Taylor’s show.

  As she climbed the creaking stairs to the rehearsal room, her heart was hammering and her palms were damp. What would Ewan say, what would he do, was this a big mistake? She’d been so keen to see him that she hadn’t thought it through. What if he just nodded, if he scowled, or if he cut her dead and turned away?

  But it was too late to run. She’d signed the contract with its penalty clauses, so she couldn’t afford to leave. She had to see at least this season through. Maybe nobody would notice if she got a little fatter day by day?

  The dusty, yeasty scent of the rehearsal room above the dingy pub brought a flood of memories rushing back. She found herself inhaling deeply, savouring the smell, and letting herself think back to those rehearsals with Mr and Mrs Curtis, who had been so kind to her and taught her such a lot, and with whom she’d had her first professional chance, even though they’d paid her almost nothing, even though they’d turned out to be crooks.

  She stared out of the dirty window at the busy street below, remembering Amy striking attitudes, stroking and patting her spun-sugar hair as if it were a favourite pet, and Julia with her everlasting lipstick.

  She thought of Frank and George in their silk shirts and pretty ties, their make-up carried in boxes that had once contained Havanas, so they wouldn’t look like deviants, and get attacked by thugs. She thought of Jesse, dark and dangerous as a panther, prowling round the stage, of Ewan in a panic because he couldn’t find his violin …

  Then the door behind her opened, Daisy turned, and suddenly he was there.

  He’d grown a little taller, and he moved more gracefully as he came into the room. But he was still the same old Ewan Fraser, copper-haired, green-eyed, well-made and handsome. Now those green eyes positively glowed, with what she hoped was pleasure to see her standing there.

  ‘H-hello, Ewan,’ she began, looking at him somewhat nervously.

  ‘Daisy?’ Ewan stared a moment longer, blinking as if he couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes. But then he smiled, a warm and welcoming, thrilled-to-see-you smile, and she knew it was going to be all right. ‘I didn’t recognise you for a moment,’ he continued, beaming. ‘It’s because you’ve had your hair cut. It’s wonderful to see you!’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you!’ cried Daisy, who was now feeling almost faint with happiness and gratitude, whose arms were open wide, in her mind already in his embrace.

  ‘Ewan, there you are at last.’ A small, dark girl who had a pretty pixie face came bursting in, ran up to Ewan and hugged him round the waist. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I had to buy some gaspers.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Standing up on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek, leaving Daisy in no doubt that these two must be lovers.

  Then she turned to Daisy, curiosity in her hazel eyes. ‘You must be the new girl, come from Dorset, I believe? I just saw Sandy in the paper shop. He told me he engaged you yesterday.’

  Daisy was struggling to choke back her shock and disappointment. ‘Yes, that’s right, I’m Daisy Denham,’ she eventually managed to reply.

  ‘I’m Sadie Lawrence.’ Sadie’s grip round Ewan’s waist grew tighter and, as Daisy watched, the knife of jealousy in her heart began to twist in earnest.

  ‘You were in a musical, weren’t you?’ Sadie continued, in a tone suggesting that being in a musical wasn’t far removed in general iniquity from kicking helpless kittens.

  ‘I was in revue, but I’ve done serious drama. I – ’

  ‘Oh, yes indeed, I’m sure you have, you’ll be an all-round entertainer.’ Sadie pursed her lips. ‘Ewan, we have ten minutes before the read-through, and there’s something we need to have a little talk about. In private,’ she added, tugging at Ewan’s arm and dragging him towards the fire escape.

  Ewan shrugged at Daisy, smiled again, but then went off with Sadie.

  Two more members of the company came up the stairs, followed by two more, all chattering and laughing, then a heavy, sullen-looking man in worker’s corduroys and a collarless cotton shirt.

  Sandy Taylor came in last, brought them all to order, then introduced the newcomer, giving a brief resumé of Daisy’s career so far.

  Daisy couldn’t help but notice Daniel Hanson’s name provoked a shudder in a couple of the players. Phoebe had muttered darkly about him, too. Perhaps she’d had a lucky escape from him?

  Then scripts were handed round, and soon the read-through was well under way.

  ‘Miss Denham, are you all right?’ asked Sandy, when they broke for lunch.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ lied Daisy. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re looking very pale.’

  ‘I’m always pale,’ said Daisy, smiling hard.

  Daisy felt rather sick and ill all day. She started wondering if this was the famous morning sickness. If it was, could
you have morning sickness all through the afternoon?

  She had awful stomach cramp as well, the kind of griping, twisting agony that made her want to retch. Maybe she was in for months of this? But then, that evening, when she went to bed, she found she wasn’t pregnant, after all.

  Instead of feeling the relief she knew she should have done, however, Daisy felt bereaved, and lonely, sick at heart. A baby would have loved her, would have been someone to love.

  She realised now how much she needed loving, and somebody to love. Since she’d known she would be seeing Ewan, she’d fantasised about them starting over where they had left off. Maybe, she had thought, even though the baby wouldn’t actually be his child, they could be a little family …

  But it seemed that Ewan hadn’t wasted any time in moping and in being broken-hearted, as she had arrogantly feared. She needn’t have felt guilty about going off to London, after all.

  She cried herself to sleep that night.

  Ewan still couldn’t believe it. When he’d walked into that dusty room above the pub, he thought he’d seen a vision. It was only the arrival of the others that convinced him he wasn’t actually dreaming.

  She was just as pretty, but she didn’t look the same. She was taller, her face had lost all of its childish roundness, and she looked grown up, world-weary, sad. He wondered what had happened in London, if she’d ever tell him, if he needed to go and murder Trent.

  ‘Ewan, what are you thinking about?’ asked Sadie, as she was getting ready for bed that evening. They’d booked themselves into a boarding house as man and wife, Sadie kicking up a bit because she didn’t want to pretend she was married, but eventually understanding that, if she wanted to sleep with Ewan on a regular basis while they were in Leeds, this was the way it had to be.

  ‘I was going over my lines,’ he said, and walked towards the window.

  ‘That new girl, she’s quite pretty.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ewan didn’t know if he should confess, but also knew that if he must, this was the time to do it. ‘She was in the company I was with before I came to Glasgow, actually.’