Her Turn to Cry

by Chris Curran

  She went to sit at the dressing table, wincing at her reflection. God, she looked awful.

  ‘Sid is obviously a lecherous old bastard, and it doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to see you can’t stand to be near him,’ Marcus said.

  With her hands in her hair she stared at herself in the mirror, trying to see the whole truth in her own face. Brylcreem, stale beer, and rough tweed smelling of sweat and wee. ‘There’s things from when I was a kid I just can’t remember and other things that …’

  ‘You don’t want to remember or even think about?’

  A deep breath, pushing her hair back and meeting his eyes in the mirror. ‘Please, Marcus, let it be for now. I think if I can find what really happened to my mum the rest might sort itself out.’

  He picked up the empty cup and plate. ‘OK.’ At the door he turned. ‘What about talking to Deirdre then? She and Irene were your mum’s friends.’

  Joycie had lived with Irene and Deirdre after her dad died: shell-shocked by what had happened to him. And although Irene was full of stories about her life in the theatre, they rarely mentioned either of her parents.

  ‘We could take those photos of you wearing the jewellery Irene left you. I’m sure Deirdre would love that.’

  ‘Yes, let’s. I should go and see her anyway. I ought to have visited her and Irene more often. They were so good to me. But, Marcus, please throw away the card Sid gave you. I want to forget all about him.’

  ***

  Marcus handed Deirdre the brown envelope with the photos of Joycie wearing Irene’s necklaces. As she looked at them Deirdre’s tiny hands shook and her eyes, when she raised them, were full of tears. ‘Oh, Joycie, you look lovely. Irene would have been so pleased to see them on you. She always loved them, and she loved you too, sweetheart.’ She reached over and gripped Joycie’s hands. Her own were cool, the skin stretched paper-thin over the bones.

  Joycie looked around at the room. It hadn’t changed at all, still too warm and too crowded. Little tables covered with knick-knacks, empty candlesticks, and photo frames. More pictures on the upright piano, which was still open with some sheet music propped on it. Deirdre couldn’t play, but Joycie could see she’d kept everything as it was when Irene was alive.

  The time when Joycie lived here after her dad died was mostly a blur of misery, but Irene with her stories and songs, and Deirdre with her fry-ups and stodgy puddings had made it a bit more bearable. Irene had paid for Joycie to go to secretarial college in Chelsea. When she was spotted by Marcus and started earning as a model she repaid the tuition money, but she visited Irene and Deirdre less and less, telling herself she was too busy, but knowing it was because they were part of a past she wanted to forget.

  She sipped her sweet Cinzano. In Irene’s day it would have had a big slug of gin added. She hoped Deirdre was all right for money.

  Deirdre was holding out one of the photos and a pen. ‘You will both sign them, won’t you, to join the collection?’ She waved her hand at the pictures all around. Joycie recognized the old ones like Charlie Chester and Dame Myra Hess, but there were some more recent photos too: Helen Shapiro, all bouffant hair and big smile, and Marty Wilde in a leather jacket attempting an Elvis lip curl.

  She put her name on the photos opposite Marcus’s adding: with all my love to dearest Deirdre XXX. The signatures would make the photos worth some money, but Deirdre wouldn’t want to part with them so Joycie decided she’d send her another batch telling her to do what she wanted with them. If Deirdre sold them no one need know, and it would be a way of helping out without hurting her pride.

  Leaning back in her chair she was aware that Marcus was watching her, waiting for her to say what they’d come for. Deirdre refilled her own glass and waved the bottle first at Marcus and then at Joycie, who shook her head. ‘Deirdre?’ she paused feeling a tremor deep inside, but forcing herself on. ‘I was wondering if you knew anything about that bloke my mum ran away with. I’ve met her sister, you see, and she said Mum never mentioned anyone.’

  Deirdre put down her glass. ‘So she’s seen Mary, has she, the sister?’

  ‘No, but she seems to doubt there was a man in ’53.’

  ‘Well, I’m only going by what everyone said. They all seemed sure there was someone. Your mum was a lovely girl, of course, but we all knew things weren’t quite right between her and your dad even though you could tell they really loved each other.’

  Marcus leaned forward. ‘So Irene never said anything to you about a man when Mary disappeared?’

  ‘No, and she just couldn’t understand it.’ She turned towards Joycie. ‘You should ask Sid’s wife, Cora. I’m sure she mentioned a fancy man, but I don’t think we ever heard his name.’

  Deirdre insisted they stay for sandwiches and cake, and they promised not to be strangers, but when they were outside in the Morgan again Joycie said, ‘Well that’s it: another dead end.’

  Marcus put the keys in the ignition. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to see Sid, but why not try to speak to Cora? I could see her if you like. I think she took a shine to me.’

  Joycie managed a small laugh. ‘You noticed that, did you? OK, but make sure she doesn’t get the idea we want to be friends.’

  A rap on the driver’s window, and when Marcus rolled it down a male voice said: ‘It’s Marcus and Orchid isn’t it? Wonder if I could beg an autograph. Name’s Bill, if you wouldn’t mind putting that too.’ There was something familiar about the voice, but it wasn’t until Marcus had signed and passed the brand new autograph book over to her that she saw the man’s face as he bent his tall frame down by the window and smiled in at her.

  She scribbled her signature, aware that he was moving round the front of the car to get to her side. Then she had no option but to roll down her own window and pass the book to him, trying to avoid his eyes.

  He pressed her fingers for a moment as he took the book, his own hand very cold as if he’d been standing outside for some time. She felt his breath against her cheek. ‘Keep bumping into each other, don’t we, Orchid?’ he said. ‘Glad you got home safe the other day. Take care of yourself, won’t you.’

  He released her hand and stood back, his trousers as sharply creased, shoes as well-polished as they’d been when she’d seen him in Manchester.

  Chapter Four

  On the way home Marcus kept asking her what was wrong, but she couldn’t tell him until they were safe inside. He made some tea, and when he was sitting opposite her at the tiny kitchen table he lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings, which usually got her smiling. But not today.

  ‘That man, the one with the autograph book, he was in Manchester at the corner of my aunt’s street. He spoke to me, obviously knew who I was.’

  ‘Well that’s peculiar. Any idea who he might be?’

  ‘I’ve never set eyes on him before.’

  Marcus leaned back, staring up at the smoke rising to the ceiling. ‘Most likely a journalist. Unless it’s one of your fans. He looked a bit old for that, but you never can tell.’

  That was as likely an explanation as any. It was disturbing to think of people becoming obsessed with her, but it had happened before. As for journalists, her fear was always that they’d get wind of her father’s suicide and, of course, what led to it – his arrest and imprisonment.

  When she first started modelling that was one reason she’d changed her name. They’d given out the story that she was an orphan, which had been good enough so far. And the journalists were more interested in the romance between her and Marcus than poking into her background. The received wisdom was that she adored him, but he wouldn’t commit himself and was still playing the field. It wasn’t fair on Marcus because it was she who wouldn’t – couldn’t – commit, but he laughed it off, saying he didn’t mind people thinking he was a bit of a Casanova.

  ‘Shall we report him to the police?’ Marcus said.

  ‘What for? He hasn’t done anything, and both times he’s been very nice to me. It just doesn’t f
eel right.’

  Marcus swallowed back his tea and jumped up. ‘OK, go and get your glad rags on. Let’s have some dinner and get drunk. Forget about all this for a while. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow doing that shoot for Cecil Beaton.’

  ‘Oh God, I can’t believe I’ve forgotten about Beaton. I’ve been nervous about that for weeks. Should really stay in and get a good sleep.’

  Marcus came behind her chair and pulled it back. ‘Oh no, you need to be distracted, and I don’t want you too gorgeous for darling Cecil. He may be an old queen, but if he makes you look wonderful you might decide to dump me.’ He kissed the side of her neck and as she headed for the stairs reached out to slap her bum. She managed to evade his hand, charging up two steps at a time, and thanking God yet again for letting her meet him.

  Clacton-on-Sea – May 1954

  It’s a lovely sunny morning, but Dad was late home last night so he’s still in bed. Joycie is making some tea because he likes to wake up to a cuppa and a fag. There’s a knock on the door and it’s Sid. He walks straight in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, Charlie boy,’ before he slumps into a chair next to the table, pulling an ashtray towards him. ‘Any tea in the pot, Joycie love?’

  Sid lights up, and Joycie puts a cup in front of him as Dad comes out of the bedroom, rubbing his face. His hair has no Brylcreem on yet and is falling over his face. ‘Crikey, Sid, give a bloke a chance to come round.’

  Joycie turns back to the little kitchenette, taking some bacon slices wrapped in greaseproof paper from the wooden meat safe, and trying to close it gently so the thin metal grill on the front doesn’t rattle. Sid is talking about the act and she listens in. When she hears her own name she listens harder.

  ‘We need to sharpen up a bit and I’ve been thinking. I know you don’t like leaving Joycie at home on her own.’

  ‘I don’t, but it’s not fair making her hang about at the theatre every night either. It’s all right when Irene’s on the bill, but now she’s away I worry about Joycie when we’re onstage.’ Joycie can’t see his expression, but she can imagine him raising his eyebrows at Sid. She knows he doesn’t trust some of the men in the show.

  ‘Well what about this then?’ Sid pulls a floppy tweed cap with a big curved peak from his pocket and gestures for her to come over to him. ‘Try this on, love.’ When she looks at her dad, Sid laughs. ‘Go on, darlin’ make an old man happy, eh? It won’t bite you.’

  Her dad nods although his forehead is creased, and he gives Sid a sidelong glance. Joycie feels silly, but she puts on the cap and obeys the directions from Sid’s waving cigarette to push her hair up into it.

  Sid turns to her dad. ‘She’s got so tall lately and with trousers and a jacket she’d look just like a boy. A second stooge, see, that’s something a bit different, which is what we need. There’d be some pocket money in it for her too, if it works out.’

  He’s grinning at Joycie, and her heart does a little flip at the thought of being onstage. She loves the show and hates staying at their lodgings all on her own.

  ‘So how do you fancy it, love? Being part of the act with me and your dad? You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

  Her face is throbbing with heat as she pulls off the cap, and all she can do is nod.

  Chelsea – April 1965

  Joycie arrived home exhausted. Cecil Beaton had been kindly and old-school courteous, his voice reminding her of actors in pre-war films. It had been clear however that he didn’t think much of her looks, and he had spent ages rooting through boxes of scarves, fur hats, and wigs, obviously trying to find some way to disguise her flaws. Then he’d posed and reposed her until she could hardly stand.

  After they finished he made her a gin and It, served without ice in a champagne bowl that made her think of the glasses Irene had let her drink Babycham from when she was sixteen.

  She made herself some tea, slipped off her shoes and sat with her feet curled under her in front of the telly. There was nothing worth watching this early in the evening, just a boring programme showing bits of news too dull or silly for the main bulletin. But at least it distracted her enough to calm her thoughts.

  Marcus was seeing Cora right now. He’d called Joycie at Beaton’s house, much to the old gent’s annoyance. ‘I rang her office, and when I told the secretary it was a private matter she put me straight through. I asked Cora if we could meet and that I’d prefer if she didn’t mention it to Sid.’

  ‘I can imagine what she thought.’

  ‘Well, let’s just say she agreed pretty smartish, and we’re meeting at a pub where she says Sid never goes. I’ll see you about eight. If not send out the search parties.’

  It was ten past eight when the Morgan pulled up outside, and she had to force herself not to rush to the door. But he wasn’t alone. She heard him talking loudly as he rattled his key in the door, obviously trying to warn her. ‘As I said, Cora, I’m not sure if Joycie will be in.’

  She jumped up, pushing her feet back into her shoes and was in the kitchen with the door closed before they came into the hall. Feeling ridiculous to be hiding like this she listened as Marcus got Cora settled on the sofa with a sherry: ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll just check if Joycie’s upstairs.’

  When he came into the kitchen he pulled a face and whispered, ‘Sorry I had no choice. She says she’ll only speak to you.’

  Joycie didn’t bother to pretend she’d been upstairs, just walked into the sitting room and plonked herself on the armchair opposite Cora. She was looking even more tarted up than usual: for Marcus’s benefit Joycie guessed. Her legs were surprisingly slender for such a well-upholstered woman, and she stretched them in front of her, glancing down with a tiny smile at her sheer black nylons and patent stilettos.

  ‘Hello Joyce, darling, I’m sorry to crash in on you two lovebirds like this, but Marcus tells me you have questions you want answering about your mum, and I thought it was only right to come and see you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Joycie knew it was probably just an excuse to nose into their lives.

  Cora opened her handbag and brought out a gold lighter and a pack of cigarettes. They waited as she lit up and took a long drag and a dainty sip of sherry, leaving a smear of lipstick on the rim of the glass. Joycie guessed she would have preferred a port and lemon.

  When Cora spoke it was in an exaggerated whisper. ‘Joyce, dear, I’m wondering if you wouldn’t rather we talked on our own.’ She turned to Marcus with a brilliant smile and a flutter of lashes. ‘No offence, sweetheart.’

  Before he could speak, Joycie said, ‘It’s fine, Cora, Marcus and I don’t have secrets.’ If only that were true. She kept secrets even from herself. Marcus moved back to the window seat, making it clear he was giving them space.

  ‘You were wondering about the chap your mum ran off with, were you?’

  ‘If there was one. I’ve spoken to my aunt.’ Cora raised her eyebrows at that, but said nothing. ‘She’s sure Mum was coming to them on her own and bringing me with her. My aunt is convinced there was no other man. But Deirdre says you seemed sure about it and that you knew the bloke.’

  Cora picked a tiny fleck of something from her tight black skirt, inspecting it as she spoke. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you?’

  Joycie leaned forward. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Well I’m sure it’s no news to you that your mum usually had a boyfriend somewhere on the scene, so when Charlie said she’d run off with the latest we didn’t question it.’

  ‘But Deirdre said it was you who told everyone.’

  A shrug. ‘My darling, Sid and I just wanted to make things as easy as possible for you and your dad so we were happy to spread the word.’

  Her heart was drumming so hard she could barely speak. ‘So who was he?’

  Cora leaned back on the sofa with a shrug. ‘Search me.’

  A fierce spurt of rage. ‘If you don’t know anything, why the hell did you insist on seeing me?’

  ‘I must say, Joyce, I never expected gr
atitude from you, but there’s no need to be rude. Your young man,’ she gestured towards Marcus, ‘said you were tearing yourself apart about it, and I thought I might be able to help.’

  Marcus coughed in the background, but Joycie didn’t look at him, just stood and said. ‘I need help to find out what happened to my mum and if you can’t do that then there’s no point in us talking.’

  She walked to the door, but Cora didn’t move, just raised her empty glass to Marcus. ‘Wouldn’t mind a fill-up, darling. And then, if you don’t mind, me and Joyce need a minute alone.’

  He poured her another drink, squeezed Joycie’s shoulder, saying, ‘I’ll be in the darkroom. Give me a shout when you’re finished,’ and went out, closing the door behind him.

  Cora eased off one of her shoes and rubbed her foot, then did the same with the other and looked up at Joycie still standing by the door, her hands clenched. ‘Look, darling, I can see what it must be like, not knowing, but sometimes it’s best to leave things be.’ She waved her hand to take in the room. ‘You’ve got a good life now, and there’s no call to go upsetting yourself by raking up the past.’

  ‘Please, Cora, just tell me everything you know.’

  Cora patted the sofa, and Joycie sat next to her, breathing in a fog of Chanel No. 5. ‘All right, you win.’ Cora didn’t quite say the words, you asked for it, but her expression did. ‘Don’t get me wrong, no one could blame your mum for wanting some male company.’ A little pat on Joycie’s knee. ‘Your dad obviously wasn’t interested any more, if you know what I mean.’

  Joycie moved away from her touch. ‘Not really, Cora.’ Why make it easy for her?

  Cora pressed her fingers to her lips and gave a delicate cough. ‘You know why they put Charlie in prison, don’t you?’