The Birthday Present

by Pamela Oldfield

  Ten minutes later, at five to seven a.m., someone rang the front door bell and roused the entire household. Letitia opened her eyes, looked at the bedside clock, kissed the photograph of her beloved Bernard, turned over and went back to sleep.

  Marie awoke, wondered who it was but knew that it was not for her. She decided to stay awake and revel in the happy memories of the previous evening. Marcus had carried her in his arms to dance and had made her feel very important and said she looked glamorous. Bernard had also carried her round but had looked very self-conscious so that when he asked her a second time she had claimed to be too tired and had pretended not to see the relief in his eyes. Steven hadn’t danced with her but she didn’t care because she had never forgiven him for treading all over the sandcastle she had made when she was five years old.

  The bell also awoke Marcus and he went downstairs but Steven was already at the front door.

  ‘It’s for me,’ said Steven.

  ‘How can you tell? You haven’t opened the door yet.’

  ‘I’m expecting someone. Go back to bed, you look awful.’

  ‘You don’t look too good yourself!’ Marcus replied but he turned back and was halfway up the stairs before Steven opened the door.

  As Steven had suspected, Andrew Markham stood outside. Part-owner of Andy’s Supper Room, he was a man in his early forties, thickset with cold, grey eyes and a permanently aggressive expression.

  Steven’s heart quailed but he tried not to show his anxiety. ‘What are you doing here? I told you never to come to my home.’

  ‘And I told you I do what I like and if you don’t want a home visit from me or my brother, you should pay your debts on time – and you haven’t. You owe twenty-three pounds and eleven shillings and I’m here to collect!’ He paused, took a deep breath and went on. ‘And don’t give me any sob story about your dying sister because I don’t give a damn about her. She’s your problem and you’re mine!’ His grey eyes were cold as stone.

  Steven said, ‘Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll—’

  ‘I want it now!’

  ‘I can’t give you what I haven’t got!’ He had lowered his voice and now glanced anxiously behind him in case his brother was lingering out of sight. ‘I’ve had unexpected expenses. My sister has only weeks to—’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you!’

  ‘Christ! You’re a hard-hearted brute!’

  ‘You should have thought of that. You rang up a bill and now you have to pay it.’ He thrust out a meaty hand and instinctively Steven stepped back.

  ‘I’ve told you – I’ll give it to you tomorrow. Twenty—’

  The blow from Markham’s fist caught him under the chin and sent him flying.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he muttered groggily as he tried to pick himself up.

  To his horror, Markham had advanced over the step and was in the hall. He loomed over him. ‘Plenty more where that came from!’ His voice was low but full of menace. ‘How would you like me to break your arm? Or flatten your nose. You wouldn’t be such a pretty boy then! Or I could set a couple of my lads on to you.’

  Steven was terrified. He regretted ever setting foot in Markham’s damned supper room and he certainly regretted running up a tab for food and drinks . . . but from nowhere an idea suddenly came to him. ‘Wait a moment!’ he begged as he scrambled to his feet. ‘I’ve had an idea. You like pretty girls, don’t you, Andrew?’ He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being overheard.

  ‘What if I do?’ He hesitated, his fist at the ready.

  ‘And you take on singers at your place.’ Steven was already feeling nervous about his idea but it was too late to back out now. Time was not on his side. At any moment one of the family or the housekeeper would stumble upon them and awkward questions would be asked. Crossing his fingers he said, ‘Look, get back outside. We can’t talk in here. Someone might overhear us.’

  Reluctantly Markham backed out of the door and on to the step and Steven followed him. Pulling the front door behind him he said, ‘Suppose I could get you a girl – a very pretty girl. Very young. She wants to go on the stage and you could . . . you could help her. Take her under your wing, so to speak. I’m not promising anything but . . .’

  Markham looked interested. ‘Single, is she, this girl?’

  ‘Yes. I could bring her along one evening.’

  He was obviously interested, thought Steven, and let out a sigh of relief. Markham had lowered his fist. Perhaps the danger was past.

  ‘So what’s her name, this singer?’

  ‘Rosie Lamore. She’s . . . she’s very new. Sings at The White Horse and writes some of her own songs. She could be big with the right manager.’

  ‘Hmm . . . And she’s, you know, willing? She knows what it takes and who she has to please?’

  Steven managed a short laugh and resisted the urge to feel his jaw which was very painful. Perhaps the blighter had broken it. If so he would have to fake a fall downstairs and blame it on the accident. ‘That’s for you to find out!’ he said. ‘All I’m saying is . . . if you forget the money I owe, just this once, I’ll introduce her to you. The rest is up to you.’

  ‘Forget the money? Pull the other leg!’

  ‘She’s got real talent. If you signed her up . . .’

  There was already a gleam in Markham’s eye, thought Steven. He set great store by his good looks. He thought of Rose and felt a twinge of conscience but tried to convince himself that he was doing Rose a favour. ‘Plenty of talent.’ Yes, he must concentrate on the fact that he was trying to promote Rose’s career. Marcus must never suspect the truth.

  ‘And pretty and young?’ Markham narrowed his eyes. ‘If you send me a scraggy old tart . . .’

  ‘Would I do that to you?’ Steven was sweating. He hoped none of his teeth had come loose.

  Markham grunted. ‘Bring her round Monday afternoon. If I don’t reckon her, or she doesn’t understand what’s expected, you still owe me! If I take her on, we’ll call it quits.’

  He turned and walked away and Steven closed the door with a hand that trembled. As he made his way into the drawing room to pour himself a stiff drink, he told himself it would all turn out for the best. He had tried to do his brother’s friend a favour. That was all. It was up to Rose now. No one could blame him if things went topsy turvy.

  In number twenty-three Albert Street, the day had also started badly for Alan Paton. He was also awoken from a heavy sleep by someone at the front door. He sat up and looked at the alarm clock.

  ‘What the hell? Five past eight?’ He threw off the bedclothes. ‘I hope it’s not Baby!’ he muttered as his mind raced. If it was Baby it meant trouble.

  He pulled on his trousers as the banging continued and, abandoning the idea of a shirt, rushed downstairs to open the door.

  Two police constables stood on the step and his fears multiplied.

  ‘What?’ he demanded, trying to brazen it out. ‘I suppose you do know the time!’

  ‘Morning, sir.’ The older man glanced past him into the hall. ‘Wondered if we could come in and have a nose round. See if you’ve—’

  ‘Well, the answer’s “No” so beat it.’ He hoped he sounded both confident and innocent, and regretted the absence of his shirt and shoes.

  Ignoring his comment, the two constables pushed past him and made their way along the passage to the living room, leaving him to trail behind them. His heart thumped uncomfortably. Was this a random call or did they know something, he wondered. If they had got Baby and he had blabbed . . . His mouth felt dry but he knew he had to bluff it out. If they knew nothing about the stolen goods, his best bet was to act innocent and outraged.

  ‘You lot got a warrant?’ he blustered. ‘Cos if not then . . .’

  ‘A warrant?’ The young constable stared at him. ‘Now why would you think that, sir? Got a guilty conscience, have you?’ He grinned at his partner.

  The older man said, ‘Want to get anything off your chest? Come clean,
as we say. Confession is good for the soul, sir. Did you know?’

  They began to poke around, opening and closing the drawers, looking under the table and behind the chairs. One of them glanced up at the water tank and Alan’s heart rate speeded up. He said, ‘Want to rip up the floorboards, do you? Think I’ve got a dead body stashed away under there? Or enough explosives to blow up Buck House? Be my guest!’

  Distracted, the older man glanced out of the window into the garden, his eyes narrowed. To his partner he said, ‘Take a look round the shed.’ When he had gone, he said, ‘Your friend Baby is in a bit of bother and is down at the police station trying to explain away some stuff stolen from Colonel Fossett. Know anything about that, Mr Paton?’

  ‘Stolen stuff?’ He tried to look innocent. ‘No I don’t, and if you ask me you’ve got the wrong man. Me and Baby – we’ve both been straight for years and you lot know it.’

  ‘Well, for your information we haven’t got the wrong man, Mr Paton, because the pawnbroker identified him as the man who pawned a valuable clock the day after it was nicked! He claims he bought it from a man in a pub. Now isn’t that original!’

  He stepped into the scullery, opened a few cupboard doors and looked inside the oven. ‘Dear oh dear! This oven needs a good clean. You want to speak to your housekeeper!’

  ‘Oh that’s very funny, that is. You should go on the stage.’

  The second man returned from his visit to the shed, shaking his head, and was sent upstairs to ‘take a gander aloft’. Alan was beginning to recover from his fright. They knew nothing. Baby had kept his mouth shut, thank the Lord! But using the pawnbroker! That was sheer stupidity and he would have something to say about that when he saw Baby.

  They waited in silence until the constable confirmed that there was nothing to be discovered upstairs.

  ‘I hope you haven’t made a mess of my bedroom.’

  ‘It’s a lot tidier, sir, but you should try opening the window to let the fresh air in. Smells of old socks!’

  ‘Open the windows? I couldn’t do that.’ He was growing bolder now. ‘A burglar might climb in!’

  ‘You’d know about that, wouldn’t you sir!’

  They both laughed, drifting along the passage in the direction of the front door.

  When they’d gone Alan gave a sigh of relief. He was grateful that Rosie was away at the party but she was bound to hear about it from the nosy neighbours. He’d have to tell her but he was going to get away with it. He mopped his face with a grubby handkerchief. That had been too close for comfort.

  When Rose arrived in the dining room she found Letitia eating toast and marmalade.

  ‘Come and join me, Rose,’ she said with a smile. ‘Marcus has already eaten and is in the garden. Steven is his usual uncommunicative self at this time in the morning. Marie is sleeping late but that’s to be expected. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes thank you. I looked in the wardrobe – I hope you didn’t mind – and saw all the old toys.’

  ‘Not at all. Help yourself to eggs and bacon from the sideboard. Or there’s stewed prunes.’

  Rose hesitated. ‘I don’t know how much time I have. Marcus is calling a taxi.’

  ‘Let it wait. You must eat.’

  As Rose tucked into her breakfast with enthusiasm, Letitia said, ‘Perhaps you would like to come to our wedding. Poor Marcus has no real friends so he could invite you.’

  Rose looked startled. ‘Oh no! I mean, I’d love to but . . .’ What on earth would she wear? she thought desperately.

  Letitia went on as though she had not spoken. ‘It will be a grand affair, Rose. The da Silvas are a very wealthy family. Very highly admired. Marrying Bernard will transform my life. Not long now so I’m praying that Marie will still be with us, of course, and fit enough to attend.’

  She reached for the toast rack and helped herself to another triangle. ‘The trouble is, Rose, that she wants to spend time with Mother in France. Marcus is prepared to travel with her but she really needs a woman to help her with . . . the womanly things of life – if you understand me. Personal things that a man doesn’t need to know about.’ As Rose opened her mouth, Letitia rushed on. ‘And I refuse to accompany her. I know how it will be – she will arrange to go for a week and will then beg to stay on with Mother for another week and then another, and I will be stuck there with her when I should be here seeing to the wedding arrangements.’

  Rose took a chance. ‘Why doesn’t your mother come here instead?’

  There was a long pause and then Letitia said, ‘Because I refuse to have that man in this house and Mother won’t come without him!’ She was breathing rapidly and avoided Rose’s gaze.

  Rose, concentrating on her breakfast, said nothing but she recognized the sudden anger and wondered what was behind it.

  As though reading Rose’s mind, Letitia forced a smile. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Rose. All families have secrets and the Bennleys are no exception. Please forget I said what I did. There was no need to involve you in our problems.’

  Rose searched for a way to change the subject and reverted to the wedding itself. ‘Are you marrying in a church near here?’

  ‘No. Bernard’s Uncle Henry and Aunt Sarah are hosting the occasion in their ballroom – they are quite hopelessly rich – as their wedding present to us. Isn’t that wonderful?’ She laughed. ‘They live at Longley Manor – the family home for generations. The churchyard is full of tombstones bearing the da Silva name! They have acres and acres of land. They have no children so one day Bernard will own it all – you might say we shall be the master and mistress of the manor!’

  There had to be a reason, thought Rose, why she was prepared to marry a rather stuffy man. Obligingly she said, ‘How wonderful!’ and wondered what Bernard’s parents were like and whether he had sisters and brothers. The door opened and Steven joined them. He looked pale and ill at ease and Rose assumed he was suffering from the excesses of the party the night before. She smiled and wished him a ‘Good morning!’ but his sister was less forgiving.

  ‘You look like death!’ she told him crossly. ‘It serves you right for drinking so much. You never know when to stop.’ She looked at Rose and shook her head. ‘Do you have a younger brother?’

  ‘No. There’s just me. And my father, of course.’

  Letitia was watching her brother through narrowed eyes. ‘You look terribly pale. Perhaps you should go back to bed.’

  He put a hand to the left side of his jaw and said ‘Toothache!’

  Rose said, ‘It does look a bit swollen. Poor you.’

  Steven hovered by the table but made no effort to eat. Instead he said to Rose, ‘I may have some good news for you. A friend of mine . . . that is, a chap I know, name of Markham, runs a supper room. Nothing flashy but you could do worse . . . I mean, you have to start somewhere in your line of business . . .’ He stopped to clutch his jaw, then pulled out a chair and sat at the table opposite Rose.

  Letitia stared at him, shocked. ‘Not Andy’s Supper Room? Heavens, Steven! That’s seriously seedy! What on earth are you suggesting?’

  He looked at her angrily. ‘How would you know what it’s like? You’ve never set foot inside it! Have you? Tell the truth!’

  ‘I’ve never wanted to set foot inside it but I have heard of it. It’s on Marlborough Street, a couple of miles from here. A run-down hall with a few tables—’

  Rose interrupted their exchange, her heart fluttering with excitement. ‘What about this place, Steven? You said I have to start somewhere. What did you mean?’ She crossed the fingers of both hands.

  Letitia dabbed her mouth with her serviette and stood up. ‘I’ve heard enough. Take whatever he says with a pinch of salt, Rose.’ She made her way towards the door and then turned back. ‘Anyway, thanks again for last night’s entertainment. Everyone was very impressed and Marcus is like a dog with two tails. I’ll send you an invitation in due course.’

  When she had gone Steven frowned. ‘Invitation?�
�

  ‘To the wedding.’

  ‘Oh that!’

  ‘I may not be able to come but—’

  ‘Look here, Rose. About this chap I know – he called here earlier and I mentioned you. He’s going to do me a favour and give you an audition – if you’re interested. Take no notice of my sister. She’s a stuck-up piece – and worse since she got engaged to Bernard. What a crashing bore that man is! I can’t see what she sees in him unless it’s the money, the aristocratic family, hobnobbing with the famous at society events!’ His mouth twisted sourly.

  Rose said, ‘An audition? You mean I get to sing some of my songs? And then what?’

  ‘Well, if he likes you I suppose he’ll give you a spot in his stage show. But –’ he held up a warning finger – ‘I can’t promise anything. You have to understand that. All I’m doing is mentioning you and you have to take it from there. Make your own decisions. What I mean is, if he likes you . . . as a person . . .’ He glanced away as his voice trailed off.

  ‘It sounds wonderful! Really, Steven, it sounds too good to be true!’ Her eyes shone as her mind filled with fantastic visions. She had hoped the private booking would lead to further such engagements but this leap seemed incredible. A personal introduction to a man who owned a supper room! ‘Will he . . . I mean, do you mean paid employment?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Rose. As I said, all I did was pass on your name and say you were promising. The rest is up to you. Depends how good you are.’ He winked. Crossing to the window, he thrust his hands into his pockets and stared out of the window. ‘Don’t blame me for anything that . . . that goes wrong. If it does, I mean. It’s a tough business, show business. You take the rough with the smooth or you get out.’