As the farmer’s missus had said, the only good thing was the view.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I said to myself. My dreams began to disintegrate along with my savings. There was no way I could afford to buy this place and bring it into the twenty-first century. It needed a fortune spent on it, a fortune I didn’t have.
I went outside and closed the door with regret. I had to be sensible. The view from the front step was spectacular. The icy-white cliffs, the gorse, the endless rolling blue sea of the bay that stretched to the horizon, dotted with sails like tiny swans. I breathed in the wonderful air, scented with salt and sea thrift and honeysuckle, determined wafts of sweetness. There was time here to be oneself, to flatten out the creases of a bad day. We’d got to manage somehow together, all of us next door. We’d make it work.
I closed my eyes to a sudden shaft of dazzling sunlight, brighter than the rest.
‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘You look like a Viola, coming out of the sea, bemused and confused.’
I heard the click of a camera. Joe looked at me over the viewing sight. He was wrapped in his leather flying jacket, a woollen scarf up to his ears, dark cords tucked into sturdy walking boots. He grinned at me over the camera, floppy hair blowing in all directions.
I could not believe what I was seeing. He was here. Somebody pinch me.
‘Joe?’ I breathed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘They told me to come clothed for the deepest Dorset countryside. Inches-deep mud and country lanes, they said. Haven’t seen any cows yet.’
‘The farm at the end of the lane is dairy. We often meet the cows on their way to the pasture, covered in mud and sludge.’
What a stupid thing to say. I hadn’t seen him for more than ages, heart bleeding in all directions, and here I was talking about muddy cows. Get your brain together, girl. Be amusing. Ask him in. Don’t let him go.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked. ‘I never told anyone.’
‘A little bird told me. Or was it a simple deduction? Management sent you a dismissal letter, therefore they must have some other address. You weren’t at your flat then. I did check. So here I am. My car is at the end of the lane.’
‘Oh yes,’ I breathed. ‘They held a next of kin address.’
‘How are you?’ He didn’t know what to say either. We were starting again at A for asymmetric information. But his eyes were bright with interest.
‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘And you? Aren’t you supposed to be in New York? Directing some new show? That’s what they told me.’
‘Yes, I am supposed to be but I’m not. I’m here, as you see. Some unfinished business to attend to.’
‘Who told you that I was here now?’ We’d get this sorted out first, at least.
‘Hilda. All those evening calls you made. She was curious, in the nicest way, of course. You used her mobile and she noted the number, as you do. She was the kind friend who called and told your mother about the first After Dark show. And you know how middle-aged women like to talk. Quite a long chat, apparently.’
‘I did wonder.’ And I couldn’t move. I was glued to the doorstep. Joe was here, in the real, flesh and blood, breathing. Was I going to do anything about it or was I going to let this man slip through my fingers again?
‘We live next door,’ I said. Pathetic. A chat show host who didn’t have a decent line of communication to say when she needed it. ‘The other cottage.’
‘So I thought.’ He nodded towards the second cottage, sizing it up. ‘This one is practically a ruin. Nice view of the sea though, and a very good sized garden. It has several possibilities.’
‘Possibilities that are beyond me even with what After Dark pay me. Would you like a cup of coffee? I’m still a domestic goddess.’
He moved towards me and lifted me down from the step. ‘I haven’t come all this way for a cup of Fairtrade coffee, however well you make it. I’ve come for you, Sophie darling. And I’m not leaving without you.’
He bent his head and kissed me. It was a kiss that went on and on, eclipsing time. I could no longer think straight. Joe had come for me. He had travelled thousands of miles across the Atlantic and finished up along a muddy lane, windswept and cold, and was kissing me like we were never going to stop.
I clung to him as his arms folded even tighter round me. The keys to the cottage dropped to the ground with a faint tinkle. Joe, Joe, my darling man, was here, holding me and kissing me. I hoped this was going to last forever.
I wanted it to last forever.
‘Excuse me, mister,’ said a small tight, accusing voice. ‘But that’s my mother you are kissing.’
‘Mark,’ I said, surfacing. ‘It’s all right.’
Mark was standing about ten yards away, the usual wrecked schoolboy look, shirt hanging out, tie at half-mast, dragging a bulging sports bag at his feet. But there was no denying the look. The same eyes, the same floppy hair, the same arrogant stance. They stared at each other as if a curtain had opened.
‘It’s not all right,’ said Mark.
I felt Joe stiffen in my arms. He was searching the boy’s face, looking at a picture image of himself. His eyes were dark and as unreadable as the deepest night sky. It was a shock but he was taking it on board, trying to work it out.
‘This is Mark,’ I said, my voice full of pride. ‘This is my son. He beats me at gin rummy, criticizes my show, forgets where he’s left his bike, loses his gear, bosses me about like someone else I know. My son, who’s growing up fast.’
‘You had a baby?’ Joe was incredulous. ‘When did you have a baby?’
‘Yes, it happens, you know, it’s how you produce children. Mother Nature helps along. Now he’s this grubby schoolboy, wanting his tea. I’ve made his favourite chocolate muffins. You can have one too, if you’d like to come in.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’ It was almost an accusation.
I looked straight at Joe with a dozen years of pain in my eyes. ‘How could I? Why should I? You had gone. A cold, snowy morning, remember? And I didn’t know where. You were a penniless actor, out of work. I barely knew your name. Don’t you remember anything?’
‘Yes, I do. You gave me your lunch.’
‘I gave you more than a lunch.’
Joe turned to Mark. ‘How old are you, young man?’ he asked.
‘Eleven,’ said Mark. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-six but with a mental age of about five sometimes.’
Joe tried to say something that would help, but there were no excuses he could use. It was too late for apologies. I didn’t want apologies.
‘When I cut your hair in the wings and saw the true shape of your face, I remembered you from that snowy night,’ said Joe slowly. ‘I’d always known that I knew you from somewhere but couldn’t place the time or where. The years have been so full of people and work. But I said nothing, thinking it was probably something you wanted to forget, since you so obviously disliked me.’
Joe let his arms drop from me and I felt the cold, like a door being left open. He went towards Mark, hesitating, still absorbing the look of him. Joe was so tall, he towered over Mark. But my son drew himself up and looked at the man with a steely eye. He had the same strength, the same granite eyes.
‘Mark. I know this must be a strange moment for you, for both of us, for all of us. But I’m Joe Harrison. I think I’m your father.’
My Mark, my wonderful Mark, bless every solid inch of him, was not thrown at all. He looked his father straight in the eye, unflinching. ‘So where have you been all this time?’ he said.
*
Joe bought the cottage next door, employed an architect who knocked down a few interior walls, but it took an army of builders to transform it into a comfortable house, a home where we three could live with space, without falling over each other. He gave me the medieval picture, velvet in all shades of gold, and we hung it in the windowed conservatory, built on the side of the house where it caught all the sun.
The taste fairy had made a last minute appearance at my christening and I found beautiful material in old rose, honeyed cream, periwinkle blue that went with old pieces of furniture I found at auctions with the patina of polished dreams. Mark changed his bedroom decor every few weeks. I said he could do what he liked as long as he kept it clean. He was currently into black and white with splashes of scarlet.
Joe built a long pine studio in the garden where he could work. His new business for designing sets and costumes for shows all over the world grew and flourished. This is where Mark often works with him, because Mark can also paint, draw and design. As they both soon found out once the hostilities ceased.
We discovered one of Mark’s secrets. He had designed and made some of the scenery for the school play. ‘Those trees are mine,’ he’d whispered. He’d brought them home after the performance and planted them in the garden where they stood like sentinels till a Force 7 southeasterly blew them down.
Prompt Cornered goes from strength to strength but three evenings a week in London is enough for me. Joe sometimes comes with me and Mark spends the nights with his Gran where he still has a bedroom.
‘Perhaps Mark could teach me to play poker,’ she said. ‘But I’ve no intention of losing my pension. I’d rather win off him. Cheeky monkey.’
Drama coaching at various local schools is absorbing afternoons. The kids are beginning to find the magic of Shakespeare and other great writers. No one shouts at me now, ‘Prompt! Line!’, but I’d be their stand-by prompt if I was asked.
My unashamed passion for words is not diminished by Prompt Cornered. The viewers like sound-bites from the classics and I can’t stop them surfacing. They email me, asking for the source of my quotes.
It was a surprise when I found that Fran Powell was booked to be my guest one evening on Prompt Cornered. She had a nerve. Apparently she had asked to be a guest several times. I was worried because I didn’t trust her an inch. She had an ulterior motive up her sleeve, I was sure. Nothing much had happened in her career since her removal from Twelfth Night, though I’d seen pictures of her in the tabloids, leaving clubs and first nights, tottering on pavements in four-inch heels.
‘Say you don’t want her,’ said Joe.
‘It might be all right. She might be desperate for publicity. She’s done very little since that Celebrity spot. It seems to have ruined her chances.’
‘Don’t be so trusting. Say no.’
It wasn’t that easy. The production executives thought Fran might be an up-and-coming star worth cultivating. They were taken in by her glamorous blonde looks and smooth-talking approach. She could be convincing.
I was back to being a bag of nerves. Joe insisted on coming with me but stayed standing in the wings.
‘Don’t let her get the better of you,’ he said. ‘Don’t mention that infamous letter. Remember it’s your show and don’t let her monopolize it.’
‘But she might.’
‘Ignore her and anything she says. Be ready to move on.’
I was wearing my trademark slim trousers and tunic in some slinky silvery-grey material, casually thrown scarf. They always found me gorgeous scarves, Sophie’s scarves, they said now. I’d lost weight. No more sitting about in the prompt corner, eating chocolate, and all that cycling up and down hills. I was getting my puff back. And I had a new bike with gears. Hilda helped me find the slinky clothes and her mother watched the show. They often discussed the show together with my mother. They had become my fan club.
Fran came on tightly wrapped in swathes of gossamer chiffon, cleavage thrust forward, skirt so short it was nearly banned. Her brittle blonde hair was a confection of sugar. She sat on the sofa, folding her legs into an openly enticing invitation. I could see the host sweating with apprehension.
‘Hello, Fran Powell,’ I said, trying to sound warm and pleasant. ‘Welcome to Prompt Cornered. We used to know each other quite a time ago.’
‘Yes, before I became a celebrity. I was a hard-working, struggling actress then, the understudy for Twelfth Night. You may remember I took over the leading part of Viola at the Royale, without any notice, on the opening night. Joe Harrison, that famous New York director, cut my hair in the wings and guided me through the whole show. He said I was marvellous. I think you were the prompt, though I didn’t need a line from you. I was word perfect.’
I could only stare at her. Words deserted me. She had the nerve of a polecat. I swallowed an astonished gasp. What should I do? Contradict her in front of a million people? Pitch a fight? I let it go.
‘Tell me what you have been doing lately,’ I asked smoothly, very Glenn Close. The camera man winked at me. He was hoping for a bunny-in-a-boiler scene.
She rattled off a series of non-starters, sit-coms already forgotten, walk-ons that actually got cut. Her face was an advertisement for Botox. I noticed a ladder near her nylon-clad bony knees and actually felt sorry for her.
‘Of course, I keep getting offers from New York,’ she prattled on. ‘Joe Harrison is constantly offering me parts on Broadway but I don’t like the flying. He keeps phoning. Sad, isn’t it? To let all these wonderful opportunities go by. But he says I’ll be a star very soon. And he should know, shouldn’t he?’
Joe was standing off the set, glowering, watching a monitor.
‘How disappointing for you. Flying is not that bad. Planes are safer than cars, they say. Would you like a drink, Fran? Coffee or tea?’
It was part of the ritual. My assistant, a nice girl called Ginny, brought on a properly laid tray (my mother’s long-distance influence) and poured out the drinks while we talked. Ginny had ambition. She always made the most of the ritual, almost Japanese in style.
Now, I was never quite sure what happened. I never moved. I never could. I was always too frozen with fright, even after all these soporific nights on the sofa. Ginny swore she did nothing wrong and I believed her.
But suddenly the tray went flying. The whole tray catapulted through the air. Coffee, tea, milk, the lot, fell into Fran’s lap. Now, it must have hurt, no protection from gossamer skirt across her legs. Coffee splashed up over her chiffon-draped bosom. She screamed.
She not only screamed. She foul mouthed **** and **** and a lot more of *******. They bleeped her out and a couple of hefties heaved her off the set, to hose her down. She was opaque with rage, phoning her lawyer, threatening me with law suits.
I was left on the sofa to fill in for another five empty minutes while Ginny mopped up. Which I did, no trouble at all, thanks to the Bard. As Elinor would say, easy as pie, piece of cake, very clipped Bette Davis.
‘Poison Powell Fran,’ said the team at the de-briefing. ‘We won’t ask her again. We’ll go through the video with a fine-tooth comb. Our lawyers will soon sort her out. We know her type. We saw what happened. It wasn’t your fault at all. You were completely blameless, Sophie. You kept your cool.’
‘I was watching,’ said Joe, grimly. ‘She deliberately tipped the tray in your direction when the camera was focused on you. But you know what aluminium trays are like. They are so light. It did a weird bounce on the arm of the sofa and whooshed back onto her.’
‘Thank goodness you were there,’ I said, sipping water, glad of Joe’s assurance and support. ‘But I feel sorry for her. Her career is going nowhere.’
‘And nowhere even faster when news travels round that she’s a trouble-maker and a liar. Lots of people remember that you played Viola for the opening night. One day you’ll spot her serving in a café or managing a launderette.’
‘I’ve told management our good news. They don’t seem to mind at all. If I’m going to look a little larger around the stomach area for a few months, then it’ll be all the more like a late, late night, very sexy and cosy programme, they said. And I can take a couple of months break whenever I need to.’
‘How about Viola for a name if it’s a girl?’
‘I fancy Olivia,’ I said. I put my dreams in his pocket where I knew they would be safe. ‘How about
Toby for a boy?’
‘Or William?’
Telling Mark was not quite so easy, but when we did tell him, he looked at both of us, sort of grown-up, way out and lofty, but grinning and kicking a stone about with his foot. He wriggled inside his sweater, obviously taking in the news.
‘Wicked,’ he said, nodding. I was glad he’d learned a new word. There was hope.
I could sense his brain ticking off the possibilities.
‘Can we have a puppy, too?’ Mark asked, cashing in on the euphoria.
Copyright
© Stella Whitelaw 2009
First published in Great Britain 2009
This edition 2012
ISBN978 0 7090 9722 8 (epub)
ISBN978 0 7090 9723 5 (mobi)
ISBN978 0 7090 9724 2 (pdf)
ISBN978 0 7090 8914 8 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Stella Whitelaw to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Midsummer Madness Page 22
