The Birthday Present

by Pamela Oldfield

  He avoided her gaze. ‘I hesitated and she at once—’

  ‘You hesitated?’ Appalled, she sat up straighter, clutching her necklace. ‘Good heavens, Bernard. Have you taken leave of your senses? A hesitation speaks volumes! How could you have been so foolish? The poor young woman must have thought that you had doubts! Don’t you see that? What did she say?’

  ‘That she still loved me and . . . and that it wasn’t too late. She would forgive me for everything and we could make a fresh start.’

  ‘Oh Bernard!’ She fell back in the chair, staring at him. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. Only weeks before the wedding and everything arranged. Your father will be furious when he knows.’

  ‘Why does he have to know? Why can’t it stay between the three of us?’

  As his meaning became clear, hope shone in her eyes. ‘You didn’t tell Letitia all this?’

  ‘No. I lied to her. Does that please you?’

  Alicia thought about it, a hand to her head. At last she said, ‘What did you say to Carlotta . . . exactly?’ He hesitated and she groaned. ‘Oh Lord! You didn’t give her hope, did you?’

  ‘Of course not. I said that it was much too late to change things and that I do love Letitia but . . . but that I hoped she would always remain my dearest friend. My closest friend.’

  His mother now had one hand protectively across her throat. She was shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘Tell me you didn’t say you hoped she and Letitia would become friends!’

  ‘Why ever not, Mother?’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘You are being melodramatic!’ he said irritably. ‘You know how I hate it when you do that!’

  ‘And you are being extremely optimistic, Bernard, not to say foolhardy. Answer me this question with total honesty – did you tell Carlotta that you still loved her?’

  He jumped to his feet and stared down at her, his face reddening. ‘I may have said something of the sort but . . . I couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings. I think I said I loved them both in different ways. Something tactful like that. I’m not a complete idiot although you obviously think I am!’ He was glaring at her now. ‘What the hell does it matter what I said to her? I’m marrying Letitia and that’s the end of it. Carlotta understands that. She was very reasonable about it. Now I really can’t take any more of this . . . this inquisition. Excuse me!’

  He turned and almost ran from the room, through the house and out into the garden. He headed for the summer house where he threw himself down into one of the faded chairs. ‘Well Bernard,’ he told himself, ‘that didn’t go so well, did it! First Carlotta, then Letitia and now Mother! You’ve upset everyone except Father but Mother will now upset him!’

  The cat appeared and looked up at him warily. Bernard stared down at him. ‘Where did we go wrong, Tabsy?’ he asked shakily.

  The cat blinked and, with a deep sigh, Bernard leaned down and picked him up. At once the cat settled down in his lap and began to purr and as he stroked it, Bernard wondered enviously if he would ever feel that happy.

  As soon as Rose had sent Marcus back to his family, she set off in the direction of Garret Street where the landlord lived at number seven. To her surprise she was invited in by an elderly lady who led the way to an ornately decorated sitting room, severely shaded by heavy curtains in faded brown and only one gas light which flickered and spluttered as if it was on the verge of going out. On the mantelpiece a large mahogany cased clock showed the time to be three minutes to one although Rose knew it was much later.

  ‘My son will be with you in a moment,’ the old lady announced. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Er . . . I’m very well, thank you.’

  ‘You’ll never regret the lessons, you know. Everyone says that. It’s quite an asset in later life.’ She clasped her mittened hands and nodded encouragement.

  Rose began to think that she had come to the wrong house. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Granger, the landlord of number twenty-three Albert Street.’

  ‘Ah! A landlord, is he? Nothing surprises me. I always said he could turn his hand to anything. He was only eleven when I said to my husband, that boy has the potential to . . . Oh, here he comes.’

  Footsteps sounded in the passage and the door opened to admit a tall, thin man. He regarded Rose with surprise.

  ‘I’m Rose Paton, the daughter of your tenant at twenty-three Albert Street. My father . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Arrested for receiving. I remember you – you’re his daughter.’ He regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity. ‘You take after your mother, I assume.’

  His mother interrupted eagerly. ‘She’s come for her lesson, William. I was just telling her that playing the piano is an asset you will always appreciate. I started to play when I was six years old . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘Mother, that was William. He taught the piano, not me. He died. Do try to remember.’

  ‘William died?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Herbert, your other son. Now please go and give Mrs Lake a hand in the kitchen while I sort out this little problem.’

  Although he spoke kindly, the old woman looked at him fearfully. ‘Herbert?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ He held the door open for her.

  She said, ‘How silly of me.’ To Rose she said, ‘I get a bit muddled these days.’

  Rose smiled. ‘Life can be a bit of a muddle for all of us.’

  ‘Off you go, Mother.’

  ‘Yes, dear. I’m going.’ She smiled at Rose and whispered, ‘Good luck with the lesson. You’ll be fine.’

  Rose, already feeling fraught, fought down an urge to cry for the second time that day. Was there anyone in the whole world who was not feeling lost and bewildered, she wondered, and began to consider her visit here a mistake.

  Herbert Granger said, ‘Sit down, Miss Paton. You’ve come about the rent arrears, I assume.’ He waited for her to sit, then followed suit. He chose a high-backed chair and crossed his legs. ‘The bailiffs are due at your house at eleven tomorrow morning. If you are in you will be able to discuss with them which furniture they remove. If not they will have a key and will remove . . .’

  He speaks nicely, thought Rose, and he dresses well. Reluctantly she was impressed, both by his appearance and his manners. His trousers were well cut from good quality cloth and his high-collared white shirt was spotless. His shoes shone and his fingernails were neatly manicured.

  She heard herself ask the all-important question. ‘How much do we owe?’

  ‘In monetary terms it’s sixty shillings, which is three pounds.’

  ‘I can’t pay it. You know that my father has been arrested? He may be . . . away for some months.’ He nodded, his face stern. ‘I have an idea, Mr Granger. I shall have to find other accommodation – a rented room – and will not be needing any of our furniture. Neither will my father for the foreseeable future.’

  He raised his eyebrows and Rose felt that he was impressed with her little speech and she at once felt a small surge of confidence. ‘This is my suggestion, Mr Granger. If you work out the value of all the furniture, you could deduct what we owe, keep all the furniture – since I have nowhere to store it – and give me the difference.’

  If he was surprised he hid it well. ‘And why should I do this?’

  ‘Because then you could rent out the house as furnished instead of unfurnished and I could use the money to start paying the rent for a furnished room somewhere.’ She had Connie’s spare room in mind. ‘It would be to your advantage as well as mine.’

  He was watching her closely without giving any clue as to his possible answer. At last he said, ‘What do you do for a living, Miss Paton? When you are not negotiating financial deals, that is.’

  ‘I’m an artiste, Mr Granger. My stage name is Miss Lamore and I sing. If you want to find out more come to Andy’s Supper Room Monday, Wednesday or Fridays.’ She added untruthfully, ‘I’m something of a favourite, although I say it as shouldn’t!’ It wasn’t exac
tly a lie, she assured herself, because she certainly would be a favourite before long. She rather hoped he would check up on her one evening. It would be fun to spot him in the audience. He might even call out to her during the applause. ‘Well done, Miss Lamore!’

  His eyes widened. ‘An artiste? A favourite artiste! Well, well!’

  While Rose was trying to decide whether or not he was mocking her, the door opened and his mother came in.

  She said, ‘Oh sorry, William. I was looking for . . .’

  He said, ‘Miss Paton is a singer, Mother, in a supper room. Isn’t that exciting?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear, very exciting. Mrs Lake says to ask you . . . ?’ She frowned.

  Rose jumped to her feet, unwilling to watch any further confusion. She would be old herself one day, if she lived long enough, and this glimpse into old age was not encouraging. ‘I have to go,’ she told the landlord. ‘May I have your answer, please?’

  He said, ‘I agree. Call in again tomorrow around this time. I’ll have a look at the furniture in the meantime and will leave the balance with my mother if I cannot be here myself. Mother, will you please show Miss Paton out?’

  ‘Indeed I will.’ She was all smiles. ‘Come along, dear.’

  They parted cheerfully on the doorstep and Rose hurried home, glowing with a sense of cautious triumph. Her father might not be too pleased but he was not in a position to carp since, had it not been for his stupidity, she would not be in this situation. First thing in the morning she would get in touch with Connie and then she would return by eleven to pack a few of her belongings and anything she felt her father might want, such as clothes, when he came out of prison. It was surprising, she told herself, buoyed up by her small success, just how easily a problem could be turned around if you put your mind to it.

  Rose arrived at the church with fifteen minutes to spare and huddled beneath her father’s black umbrella, thinking about poor PC Stump and his dead wife and child. The rain was little more than a drizzle but she had taken great care with her hair and didn’t want her curls to frizz. Finding herself alone in the church she had returned to the churchyard where she huddled in the lee of the building, immediately beside the church porch out of reach of the brisk wind.

  Alone with her thoughts, some of the previous day’s pride had faded and she now suspected that accepting Connie’s spare room had probably been a step too far. Small, barely furnished and without even a rug, it smelled of damp and there was an ominous stain on the wall which hinted at a leaky roof.

  Connie, naturally, had been delighted by her decision to move in and had asked for four weeks’ rent in advance but Rose had persuaded her to take three instead. Would she, she now wondered, be able to stay there for four whole weeks? Could she bear it? Too late she realized that she should have asked to see the room before committing to renting it. The first evening’s ‘supper’ had consisted of a thin mutton stew with onions and carrots and a large chunk of bread. They had shared the meal in Connie’s living room, accompanied by loud snores from her ancient dog – a small mongrel.

  Her self-pity was now interrupted by the first mourners who trailed sadly past her without so much as a curious glance. She waited until the clock above them struck three when the funeral procession arrived and the coffin was carried into the church by six unhappy people. Rose followed them in and sat in solitary splendour in the back row.

  There were no choristers but the vicar did his best. For Rose it was an ordeal. It brought back sad memories of her mother’s funeral. Rose was almost glad she was dead because she was spared the humiliation of her husband’s arrest and the knowledge that he had broken his promise to stay on the straight and narrow.

  PC Stump sat in the front row, separated from his sobbing mother by his small daughter. Or was the sobbing woman his mother-in-law? Or a sister of the deceased, maybe? He wore a black suit and looked smaller than he did in his uniform.

  Rose looked at the coffin and wondered where the dead child was – tucked into the same coffin as the mother, presumably, because there was no smaller coffin. Safe in her mother’s arms, thought Rose, and felt a little comforted.

  After the service they made their way to the new grave and the umbrellas went up again. Rose caught the young widower’s gaze across the grave and gave a little nod because a smile seemed so inappropriate, but as soon as she got the chance, she dropped her single rose on top of the coffin and slipped away, leaving the family to their private grief.

  She paused at the church gate and glanced back and the realization hit her that before long she would probably be attending Marie’s funeral, and she stumbled from the churchyard with two large tears rolling down her face.

  Five

  Monday afternoon found Andrew Markham lolling in a chair in his office, smoking a cigar. Through the smoke he regarded Connie whom he had just summoned. She stood in front of him, not having been invited to sit, and clasped her hands anxiously.

  ‘So, Connie,’ he said. He had sat through the afternoon’s rehearsal. ‘What do you think of her? Our Miss Lamore, the people’s favourite!’

  ‘Oh, she was good, wasn’t she!’

  ‘Was she? Is that your considered opinion?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  He wondered what had happened to her since the two of them had been more than friends. Then she had been a bright spark – a beautiful, somewhat fiery individual, full of confidence. A challenge, in fact. He had set his heart on having her but she had tried to resist his approaches. Poor Connie. She had thought it a game. She had wanted a romance. A chase. He had soon put her right. It had taken a few hard slaps – more than a few, in fact – before she understood who held the whip hand.

  He said, ‘So you don’t think her legs too thin?’

  ‘Oh no! . . . At least, maybe just a bit.’

  He sucked on the cigar and blew out a smoke ring, watching it float upwards, smiling a little. Poor old Connie. She still needed to humour him.

  ‘So you thought her voice reasonable? Or nothing special . . . or disappointing. Weak, perhaps.’ Pointedly, he waited for her opinion.

  ‘Er no . . . that is . . . it’s early days. It’ll grow stronger. Her voice, I mean. She’s never had a singing lesson.’

  ‘And what about the rest of it? You reckon she’ll be agreeable to my suggestions? The after-show performance, as you might say?’

  Connie knew immediately what he meant, even without the leering tone and the wink. She swallowed. ‘I couldn’t really say. She’s very young and—’

  ‘All the better! I like them young and tender. A revelation for both of us.’ He laughed. ‘A bit more than a revelation if she says “No”, eh?’ He snatched the cigar from his mouth and leaned forward. ‘Bit of a revelation for you, wasn’t it, all those years ago! But you fought back. Proper little scratch cat!’

  She said nothing, startled by the outburst.

  ‘Oh, don’t look so scared, woman. She won’t be the first or the last to be taken by surprise – and I’ve got a bottle of champagne to soften her up. She won’t be in a fit state to argue. She won’t want to argue.’

  He leaned back in the chair. Poor old Connie She was a shadow of her former self – scrawny now, haggard, her spirit crushed many years ago. Closing his eyes he visualized Miss Lamore. She owes me a lot, he reminded himself. No real talent, a waiflike, child’s body and no voice to speak of. But she was pretty and she had blonde curls. He would let her think she was on the way to a glamorous future.

  Connie looked at him uncertainly. ‘I’ll be off then, shall I?’

  He waved her away, pulled out his gold watch and studied it. Only a few more hours and Rose would learn that there was more to show business than she had ever imagined.

  That same afternoon, Steven was running a nervous finger round the inside of his collar as he waited for the solicitor’s answer to his question. Mr Gideon was a neat little man, young, with a thin frame and plain features, and had been with the firm since he was twenty, which
made him around twenty-three. Steven heartily disliked him. Unfortunately, the man had a strong grasp of the workings of the trust and Steven always felt he was going to enjoy refusing his requests. He was never pleasantly surprised, but this time Steven felt it to be a matter of life and death.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bennley, but as I have told you before, the wording of the trust fund is perfectly clear.’

  Steven, having eased his collar, now found himself almost breathless with fear. This refusal was going to cost him dearly. He had to make the man understand that this time it was different. This time he was in fear of a possible beating – all depending on Rose – but obviously he could not put that into words. If Rose rejected Markham, Steven could expect the worst. And when Marcus found out, there would be hell to pay. The only way to prevent damage of one sort or another was to repay the debt.

  He said, ‘Mr Gideon, I don’t think you quite understand the seriousness of the problem. It is absolutely imperative that you advance me the money I have requested. It’s a business matter of the utmost importance. A . . . a pledge is involved and I like to think I am a man of my word. You surely understand that.’

  ‘Mr Bennley, you are being very guarded about this business matter but even if you were to give me each and every detail, my answer would have to be a refusal. I am not allowed to tamper with the trust in any way. You are asking me to behave unethically.’

  Steven looked at him with something approaching hate. How satisfying it would be to lean across the desk and punch the smug little man in the face! Without the money, he, Steven, would receive much more in the way of physical force. He imagined himself lying in the gutter being kicked and stamped upon by two thugs who were paid to cause their victims maximum pain and distress. Worse still, poor innocent Rose might find herself at the mercy of Andrew Markham and he desperately wanted to prevent that from happening. In a rash moment he had used Rose to save himself but he was ashamed of that fact now and was desperately trying to rescue the situation. If he could persuade this wretch to advance him the money he would go straight over to Andy’s Supper Room and hand it over. He would then find Rose, take her on one side and give her a serious warning about the sort of man Markham really was so that it would then be up to her. She could walk away from it all or take her chances. He would be glad to wash his hands of the affair.