The Birthday Present

by Pamela Oldfield

  Marie threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. ‘That’s wonderful, Marcus. And will you ask her tomorrow?’

  ‘I promise. Mind you, I may not be able to stay there with you for the week. I may have to come back for my work but I could pop over to bring Rose back, of course. We can’t expect her to sacrifice her plans for long.’

  Marie was nodding enthusiastically. ‘But at least I’ll be with Mother. I shall feel . . . safer with her and not so anxious. And I like Gerard. I can see why Mother fell in love with him.’

  For a moment her optimism wavered. She had thought many times that she would never have time to fall in love and she felt that God had cheated her a little but she had never spoken of the matter to anyone and never would.

  She watched Marcus leave and then she settled down in bed and smiled into the darkness. She couldn’t believe that Rose would refuse but prayed earnestly to God, asking for His help. Then, to make doubly sure, she crossed her fingers anyway. Suddenly she had something to look forward to.

  Rose felt that it was taking forever for Monday to arrive but it came at last and so did the taxi. She was disappointed to discover that, contrary to her expectations, Steven had not come with it, but at least the great moment had arrived. Her father came to the front door to wave her off and the next-door neighbour, Mrs Trilby, shouted ‘Best of luck, Rosie!’

  Throughout the journey, Rose talked non-stop to the driver, explaining the circumstances of her ride, and she felt that he was properly impressed. She was longing to arrive but dreading the interview in case she was turned down. It would be such a humiliation.

  ‘Here we are, miss, and I’m to wait outside and take you home.’

  Rose stared out of the taxi window and was suddenly lost for words. It was not quite as she had pictured it. The sign over the double doors said ‘Andy’s Supper Room’ but it definitely lacked that show business magic she had expected. The painted sign looked a little faded but there were lamps at the edges of the sign and she tried to convince herself that it would look exciting after dark.

  The driver said, ‘This is it, miss. I’ll be waiting. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ Feeling breathless, Rose stepped down on to the damp pavement, which was littered with used tickets and crumpled sweet wrappers. Rose climbed out of the taxi, carefully avoiding a small pile of dog mess, thanked the driver and assumed a shaky smile.

  She was wearing her best clothes and carried her costume, a new parasol and shoes.

  The driver watched her. ‘Well, go on then!’

  Rose took a deep breath, pushed one of the doors open and went in. She found herself in the dark and had to wait for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. She could smell cigarette smoke, stale beer, fatty food and lingering perfume. From somewhere nearby an elderly woman appeared. She was scrawny, a little stooped, her grey hair was scraped back in a bun and she carried a tin of polish and a cloth.

  ‘You Miss Lamore?’ She peered short-sightedly at Rose.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were now better focused and she could see that there were dim lights ahead at the end of a foyer.

  ‘He’s waiting in his office. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The woman hesitated. ‘Watch yourself, dearie. Just a word of advice, like. He can come on a bit strong, can Mr Markham. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. I will. I mean I do.’

  ‘I’m Connie. I do bits and pieces for His Majesty!’ She laughed wheezily as they made their way past the bar and cut diagonally across the supper room which held about a dozen large round tables, each one piled with upturned chairs. ‘Ever heard of Madame Moyna? That was me in the old days. I used to tell fortunes. Before that I was a dancer in the chorus, here, for Mr Markham’s father. He was a nice old boy. ’Course it was a bit grander in those days. Better artistes. Better clientele. Better everything. Sign of the times, isn’t it, dearie?’

  Rose bumped into something in the gloom and there was a loud clatter.

  Connie said, ‘It’s the umbrella stand. No matter . . . Now where was I? Oh yes. I had an accident – fell down some steps – and my dancing days were over.’

  ‘How awful for you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I survive.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘I hope you do. The last girl lasted three weeks, then got the sack. Uncooperative. Markham’s got a one-track mind. He thinks women were invented for his amusement! He can’t help it and he’s no worse than lots of men I’ve known. Know what I mean?’

  Rose hoped that she didn’t. Surely not, she thought anxiously. Steven had vouched for the man, hadn’t he? Andrew Markham was Steven’s friend so surely Connie was exaggerating.

  Ahead of her she saw the stage with its draped curtains and immediately she pushed aside her doubts. This was ‘theatre land’! It was ‘show business’! It might be a little drab but this was the first step on the ladder.

  Connie turned left, knocked on an ornate wooden door, opened it and said loudly, ‘Miss Lamore’s here, Mr Markham.’

  ‘Send her in.’ The voice was gruff.

  Just like that. No please or thank you. Rose felt a slight frisson of disappointment. In her mind she had rather glorified Andrew Markham and marked him down as the man who would set her on the road to stardom. She had hoped for a ‘benevolent uncle’ type who would nurture her talent. Now, it seemed, Mr Markham had less than perfect manners and a low opinion of women.

  She went into the room and as she passed Connie, the woman winked at her and wagged a finger to remind her of the warning she had given. Rose found herself in a large room lit solely by table lamps, each in red silk with gold fringing. The carpet was thick, the walls were covered in gold and red paper and there appeared to be no windows, but there was a door at the far end which was partly covered by a heavy curtain. The room was heavy with cigar smoke and she choked back a cough.

  Andrew Markham was sitting at a huge mahogany desk and made no attempt to get up and greet her. He was a large, bluff man with a ruddy complexion and massive shoulders. He was, Rose realized, what her father would call a ‘bruiser’. As she crossed the room towards him she saw that his clothes were obviously expensive, and a diamond flashed in his tie pin, but there was no way he was a gentleman. Not that it mattered, she told herself quickly. He was the owner of a supper room and that made him a sort of theatrical agent and that was what she had been looking for. Now she had found him and there was no point in being critical.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Markham,’ she began. ‘It’s very kind of you to—’

  ‘I’m told you can sing.’

  ‘Yes. I write a lot of my—’

  ‘Let’s hear something then.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. ‘Can you dance?’

  ‘Er . . . I haven’t had lessons but I—’

  ‘Get on with it then.’ He was smoking a cigar. Regarding her through narrowed eyes and so far he hadn’t smiled once.

  But he doesn’t have to be Prince Charming, Rose told herself, glancing round for a pianist. ‘Isn’t anyone going to play for me?’

  ‘Nope. Do your best.’ He leaned back and blew smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘I like to wear my costume—’

  ‘There’s no time. Just get on with it.’

  Dismayed, Rose forced a smile and struck a pose. She sang the first few lines of her parasol song and her voice quivered with nerves. She struggled on but already Markham was holding up his hand.

  Rose waited, her heart fluttering with anxiety. She knew she had performed badly but he had made her nervous and she was annoyed with him for being so unhelpful.

  ‘Not bad. We’ll see how you go. Now, let’s see what we’ve got. Pull up your skirt, Miss Lamore.’

  She hesitated but assumed this was normal and obeyed.

  ‘Hmm. I bit on the skinny side but never mind. Forget the dancing lessons. You’ll never make the chorus line. Now let’s see what you have up top. Get your jacket off and unbutton your blouse.’

 
‘Unbutton my blouse? But why?’ She removed her jacket, watching him cautiously. ‘No one is going to see—’

  ‘Just do it and hurry up. I haven’t got all day.’

  She stared at him in disbelief. Was he within his rights to ask such a thing?

  Removing his feet from the desk he got up from the chair and came towards her. He said, ‘You obviously don’t understand the way this works, Miss Lamore. You want the job, you do as I tell you. Play your cards right and I can make it all happen for you. This is show business – like it or lump it. I pay the wages, you see, and I call the tune! You give a bit, I give a bit. You play along and you’ll become a star. You argue and you’re out the door as fast as your skinny legs will carry you.’ He ran his hands up and down her bare arms and laughed when she shivered at his touch. ‘Well, well! I do believe we have a virgin here!’ He smiled broadly. ‘Am I right?’

  Stammering, bright-cheeked with embarrassment, Rose protested that it was none of his business but that simply broadened his smile.

  Without warning he pushed her back against the desk, grabbed her blouse and, fighting off her hands, tore open the buttons. He took a long look and she was deeply thankful for the chemise she wore.

  ‘Pretty enough, I daresay!’ he said, daunted by the row of small buttons. ‘We’ll save something for another day. I think we can do business. Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays.’ Rose had backed away, clutching her blouse, her face scarlet. ‘We’ll call you “Miss Rosie Lamore – an innocent abroad”! We’ll play up the virgin angle and they’ll have their tongues hanging out for you!’

  The virgin angle? Rose was mortified. ‘Um . . . I don’t know. Steven didn’t say I’d have to . . . that is, I’ll have to . . . to think it over.’ She sidestepped him and reached for her jacket which she pulled on with shaking fingers. ‘My father . . . He might object. I’ll have to ask him . . .’

  Ignoring her distress, Andrew Markham retreated to his desk, picked up a pen and scribbled on a notepad. ‘Rehearsal Monday, two till three . . . We’ll supply some extra clothes. Don’t bother to write the songs. Let’s say half a crown a night for the first six weeks, a little more if you do well. If not you’re out.’ He grinned at her and Rose was reminded of a wolf. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, Miss Lamore, but I’m a good teacher. Ask Connie Wainwright. She’s seen it all. She’ll tell you. There’s not much I don’t know about this business. Do what I say, and you just might make it.’ He stepped back, examining her critically with his head on one side. ‘But you’ll have to lose the “hare in the headlights” look! Innocent, yes, but you have to look sexy with it. That’s what you have to aim for.’

  He laughed suddenly and Rose had to resist the urge to turn and run. She tried to smile but her face seemed stiff and unresponsive.

  He reached forward and tilted her head with one finger. ‘But you don’t know yet what sexy means, do you? Don’t worry. I’ll soon enlighten you. Steven Bennley was right. I can make something of you – if you let me. And you will if you know what’s good for you!’

  Rose, still poised for flight, hesitated. Seven and sixpence for three spots and an hour’s rehearsal Mondays. Could she bear to accept his conditions? Could she afford not to accept them? Already her insides were trembling but if this was show business she told herself she must learn to live with it. Presumably this was the lowest rung on the ladder and the higher you went, the better you’d be treated, but it was a disappointing start. She had expected some respect for her small talent – a little appreciation – but Andrew Markham had showed her nothing but contempt although he had said she was pretty and he could make something of her. Her instincts were to turn and run but her head told her to at least give it a try. Six weeks, he had said, so if she could suffer the indignities for that long she might well find things improving.

  ‘Yes or no?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She intended to say ‘Thank you’ but the words wouldn’t come. At least he wasn’t asking her to sign anything that might prove to be legally binding. She took comfort from that thought.

  He shouted ‘Connie!’ and the door opened at once which made Rose suspect that the old woman had been listening at the door.

  The interview seemed to be over. Markham was fumbling in a drawer of the desk, paying her no attention. She stammered a ‘Goodbye’, hurried from the room and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Connie smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ll get used to him, dearie. We all do.’ She whispered. ‘Don’t let him worry you.’

  Rose was moving firmly towards the door to the street through which she had entered. She was shocked and her confidence had taken a knock. Did she really know what she was doing, she asked herself. Was show business really as grim as this or was Andrew Markham an exception to the rule? And why on earth hadn’t Steven warned her what to expect? Or had he? Maybe in her enthusiasm she had overlooked any warnings he might have given her. Or perhaps he had no idea how he treated women.

  Connie had followed her to the door. ‘I was wondering, dearie, where you live, because bus fares can run away with the money.’

  ‘Albert Street, in Stoke Newington.’ She spoke distractedly, shocked by the interview and full of doubts.

  Connie’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a fair old trot!’ She had reached the umbrella stand and began to pick up the half dozen brollies that Rose had knocked over on the way in.

  Rose said slowly, ‘I may not be coming. I may not take the job.’

  Connie straightened up. ‘Not taking it? Why ever not?’

  ‘He’s . . . He’s not the sort of man I ever expected to work for. He was rather rude, Connie, if you know what I mean.’

  Connie shrugged bony shoulders. ‘You mustn’t take it too hard, you know. I’ve met much worse in my time and you just learn to take the good with the bad. And he does know a lot of people in the business. Useful people.’ She patted Rose’s arm. ‘I tell you what – I’ve got a spare room just round the corner. You could stay with me and I’d keep an eye on you. He goes too far and you tell me. How would that be?’

  Rosie wavered. ‘I suppose it would make things easier.’

  Connie pounced. ‘A shilling a week for the room and sixpence extra if you want me to do you meals.’

  Rose got the impression that the old woman had made this deal before and probably more than once. ‘That’s very kind but I shall only be coming over three days a week and I don’t want to leave my father on his own.’ She didn’t say that this was because she didn’t entirely trust him not to get himself into trouble.

  Connie persisted. ‘But think of the money you’d save on fares and you’d be here, on the doorstep so to speak for extra rehearsal, costume fittings, dance routines. Oh yes!’ she went on, noting Rose’s surprise, ‘there’s always an ensemble number at the end which includes all the performers. You’d have to attend that. You see, it’s not quite as easy as you might think. The final ensemble number only lasts for three weeks and then Jarvis works out a new routine.’

  ‘Jarvis?’

  ‘You’ll like Jarvis. A bit precious, you might say, but he knows his stuff. He does a bit of everything – choreography, plays the piano, he even gives singing lessons on the QT so Mr Markham doesn’t find out. Kids mostly. Sixpence a half hour lesson. Bit of extra cash always comes in handy.’

  In spite of her doubts, Rosie now allowed herself to be drawn into the picture Connie painted and her initial fears about Mr Markham were fading. It appeared that other people worked for him and survived so perhaps he was not quite the monster she’d imagined.

  Sensing her dilemma Connie said, ‘Why not give it a week or two? If you don’t enjoy it you can throw in the towel. Some girls do and no harm done. No questions asked.’

  ‘You didn’t throw in the towel.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m a tough old bird. But he’s been good to me. My little attic flat belongs to him. The whole house does, in fact, but I get mine rent-free in exchange for the work I do here and I can rent out the spare bedroom.
He reckons he owes me!’ She gave a short cackling laugh and tapped her nose. ‘I made myself useful over the years. Say no more!’

  So maybe there was better side to Andrew Markham, Rose thought cautiously. It all sounded wonderfully exciting, like stepping through a door into another world. And without being callous, the idea of her own room so near to the Supper Room sounded more attractive than staying at home with her father. But she had to be realistic.

  ‘I’ll give it two weeks,’ she told Connie, ‘but I’ll have to stay home with my father. He’s not really fit and he needs me. I’ll see how the money side of it works out.’ She held out her hand and the old lady shook it.

  ‘Thanks for everything, Connie. I’ll see you next week.’

  As Rose drew nearer to number twenty-three she was aware of a growing anxiety. Mrs Trilby from next door was standing outside with a man she didn’t recognize and when they saw Rose the woman waved urgently, which seemed ominous. Her first thought was that her father was ill. She thanked the driver and jumped from the taxi full of dread. The expressions on their faces told her that there was bad news to come.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she cried. ‘Where’s my father? Is he all right?’

  The man, she now realized, was the landlord, Herbert Granger, whom she had met occasionally when the rent collector had been absent and the owner had called instead.

  He said, ‘It’s not good, Miss Paton, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh! He’s not dead? Oh my Lord! Don’t say he’s . . .’

  They exchanged uncomfortable looks and Mrs Trilby said, ‘No, no, dear. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Then what? In the hospital?’

  The landlord said, ‘Mrs Trilby will give you the details. Please call by when you can to discuss things.’ He raised his hat, turned and hurried away.

  Rose stared at her neighbour who said, ‘Suppose I make us a pot of tea?’

  ‘No!’ Rose was struggling to find her key. Failing, she banged on the door and shouted, ‘Pa! It’s me, Rose!’