by June Francis
She turned and glared at him. ‘Keep your hair on! Where’s your manners?’ She faced Clara once again, ‘A ticket in the balcony, please.’
Clara issued her a ticket and gave her change.
‘Many at the funeral?’ asked Gabrielle as she pocketed the money.
‘No. But those who mattered were there,’ said Clara, feeling a desire to annoy her aunt even further. ‘Your son came, and Mr Bennett and Mrs Black.’
Consternation glinted in Gertie’s eyes. ‘Damn! I suppose they spoke to each other?’
‘Yes. Will you move on, please, madam? You’re holding up the queue.’
Gabrielle moved away.
Clara turned to the next customer and automatically dealt with him whilst thinking about her aunt, wondering whether she had done the right thing in selling her a ticket in the balcony. She would probably get a better view of the orchestra pit from above and was bound to spot Robbie Bennett. But then it was more than thirty years since they had last seen each other, so maybe she might not recognise him.
* * *
Gabrielle was not at all pleased when the usherette directed her to a seat between two large people. Somehow she managed to pull down the tip-up seat and sit down, and immediately became aware of their body odour. Her annoyance grew when a man behind asked her to remove her hat. She would have refused but decided to be reasonable, thinking she must be mad to be doing what she was doing. She had visited at least fourteen cinemas since arriving in Liverpool, taking in matinée and evening performances. She had seen some good films and heard some excellent music, but her money was dwindling. She had left the Stork Hotel and was staying in a boarding house. Soon she would have to speak to her solicitor about taking an income from the farm. Still, she was here now and the orchestra had just launched into a cheerful toe-tapping tune that was very different from so many popular songs that could bring a lump to the throat, such as Ivor Novello’s ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ or ‘Roses are Blooming in Picardy’. This one was ‘Has Anybody Seen My Gal?’ and she remembered hearing it sung in New York. There were a lot of cootchie coos in the lyrics and the tune just seemed to bounce along. Her gaze searched the bent heads of the men playing; violinists, percussionists, wind and brass. It really was an excellent orchestra, playing with a youthful vigour which belied their years. If only she could see their faces properly.
They next played ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ and Gertie’s toes started to tap and she longed to get up and dance, imagining being held by the man who had haunted her dreams for the last few months. He would sweep her off her feet and make her feel loved all over again. Then the music came to an end, the glass shaded electric lights suspended on chains from the ceiling were dimmed and the velvet curtains swung back to reveal the screen. She heard the whirr of the projectors in the box to the rear of the balcony and the orchestra began to play. She took from her handbag a bag of icing sugar coated toffee bon-bons as the title Daddy Long Legs flickered onto the screen. She remembered seeing it in America just before she had left there. A romantic comedy starring Mary Pickford. The film did not completely hold her attention this time and her mind began to drift to that exchange with her niece outside in the foyer. Obviously Clara did not approve of her at all and blamed her for Bernie’s death. She wondered if her mother had managed to get absolution from a priest before she died. She thought of herself joking about her mother standing at the pearly gates and wondered where she was buried. Perhaps she should visit her grave with some flowers. It was June and the right month for roses; yes, that would salve her conscience, although why she should think it needed salving she didn’t know. What had her mother said about Gabrielle owing her? Something to do with forcing her to run away and enjoy some success on the stage and marriage. Her thoughts returned to those days and she felt a mixture of pleasure, sadness and guilt, which she quickly brushed aside. Guilt got you nowhere. Her mother had been an old bitch.
The lights went up and the screen went blank. It was the interval. Soon the orchestra would perform again and the film recommence. Gabrielle blinked and looked down at the orchestra. The musicians were stretching, moving, exchanging words. Probably they were in need of refreshment as were some of the audience by the look of it. She decided that she rather liked being up here in the gods, gazing down on mere mortals. It was then, as she watched the musicians disperse, that her eyes rested on a clarinet player and she experienced a sense of déjà vu that made her feel quite strange. Could that be Robbie? She remembered that he’d had a good head of hair and although this man’s luxuriant hair was white, he also had a distinctive nose. She determined to speak to him. Fortunately, the large man on her right had left his seat, so Gabrielle was able to leave the row of seats reasonably swiftly. She hurried into the foyer where she saw the silver-haired musician smoking a cigarette and talking to Clara.
A mixture of confused emotions exploded inside Gabrielle and she spoke in a voice that seemed to vibrate and fill the foyer. ‘Am I right in thinking that you’re Robbie Bennett?’
‘Oh no,’ muttered Clara.
Robbie removed his cigarette. ‘Bloody hell! Clara was just warning me that you were here, Gertie.’
Warned, him! The words echoed in her head and she felt hurt by him all over again. ‘I call myself Gabrielle these days. I never expected to see you again!’ she said, her eyes blazing. ‘You swine!’
‘Hey, language, Gertie. We’re in company. I know I shouldn’t have left you the way I did but I came back for you once I’d made some money, but you’d gone.’
‘You expect me to believe that? I was only eighteen and in a foreign country. I believed in you and you let me down. Take that!’ She flung her bag of bon-bons at him.
Clara gasped as icing sugar cascaded onto the shoulders of his dinner jacket and down the lapels. ‘Look what you’ve done! I’ve got to appear out front in this,’ said Robbie. ‘Where’s your sense of dignity, woman? Ouch!’ He dropped his cigarette, which had burnt down and scorched his fingers. ‘Now see what you’ve done.’
‘I’ll go and get a cloth,’ said Clara, hurrying off.
Gabrielle let out an outraged screech. ‘It’s only what you deserve. We were in love.’
‘Maybe, for a short while,’ said Robbie, dropping his voice. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Gertie, I’d prefer it if you stopped making a show of yourself and me. I’ve got to go out front and play.’
Before she could respond, Clara appeared with a damp cloth. He wiped himself down quickly and made a swift exit from the foyer. Clara turned to her aunt. ‘Satisfied?’
There were tears in Gabrielle’s brown eyes, so like Clara’s. ‘I’m going to fetch my hat and then I’m leaving. If you had any sense you’d stay clear of men. None of them can be trusted.’ She walked away, making for the stairs up to the circle.
Clara returned to the pay box, unlocked the door and let herself in. The foyer was now deserted, even the doorman seemed to have vanished. She finished counting the takings. A task that had been interrupted. She entered the amount in the ledger and then bagged the money before unlocking the door. She had barely stepped over the threshold when a voice said, ‘Give that to me!’
Clara clutched one of the heavy bags against her chest and shook her head. The man had bright red hair beneath a cap but sported a fair moustache. He was dressed all in black. ‘Come any closer and I’ll scream,’ she said.
A laugh escaped him and he produced a gun. ‘One peep out of you and you’ll be sorry.’
Her heart thudded as she stared at the weapon. ‘You’d shoot me just for a few pounds?’
‘More than a few pounds, I should think, ducky.’ He took several steps towards her. She shrank back against the door of the pay box, clutching the bag of money to her chest like a shield. He grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her towards him. With part of her mind she was aware of the smell of peppermint and eau-de-cologne and was reminded of Easter Sunday and grappling with Bert. She let the bag of money slide downwards. She knew
when it landed on his foot because he swore and hit her with the gun. ‘Pick that up,’ he ordered, thrusting her to the floor.
Suddenly there was the pad, pad, pad of footsteps on the stairs and then a voice said, ‘What the bloody hell is going on here? Leave that girl alone.’
‘Keep out of it, old woman,’ he said menacingly.
‘Old woman!’ cried Gabrielle, outraged, and she flung her handbag at him. It struck him on the arm and the gun went off. Despite her throbbing head, Clara managed to grab the money bag and crawl towards the pay box.
The door of Mr Walsh’s office opened. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked. A bullet whistled past his head and embedded itself in the door jamb. Hastily, he retreated into his office and locked the door behind him.
Gabrielle and the gunman faced each other. She had a really bad stinging pain in her left armpit and could feel blood trickling down her side and she felt quite faint. Only now did it occur to her that she had behaved stupidly, risking her life for her niece. A girl who didn’t give a bugger about her. ‘You don’t really want to kill me,’ she said, trying to sound convincing.
‘You shouldn’t have bloody interfered.’ He fired again but in that instant, she swooned and slid to the floor. The bullet splattered the plaster work on the wall behind her and when he would have fired again the trigger clicked harmlessly.
The lavatory door opened and the doorman came out. His face was the colour of putty but when he saw the woman lying on the floor and the gunman pocketing a gun, he said, ‘Hey, what have you done?’
The would-be-robber ignored him, stooping to pick up something and then stalking out. The doorman went after him but by the time he reached the pavement, there was no sign of the man.
He went back inside and called, ‘Clara, luv, where are yer, girl?’
She stood up and saw her aunt lying on the floor. There was no doubt in Clara’s mind that her aunt had risked her life for her. She shoved the money bag inside the pay box and ran to her aunt’s side. The sight of the blood soaking through Gabrielle’s clothing again reminded her of the day of the kidnapping when Mr Moran had been shot.
‘Go and tell Mr Walsh to phone for an ambulance,’ she said.
‘Will do,’ said the doorman.
As Clara stemmed the blood with the cloth Robbie Bennett had used to wipe his jacket, she wondered if this was what war did to some men. Turning them to violence if they couldn’t get what they wanted.
Mr Walsh appeared at her side. ‘What happened, Clara? Did he get away with the takings?’
She shook her head and then wished she hadn’t. The sudden movement sent pain shooting inside her skull and she bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent a cry. ‘I wouldn’t give it to him, he threatened me with a gun and when I still held on to it he hit me. He might have killed me if my aunt here hadn’t thrown her handbag at him. The takings are in the pay box.’
He looked relieved. ‘He was probably that wig thief. There’s a reward out for him. Pity we weren’t able to catch him. Even so, you deserve something for stopping him getting away with the money. I’ll speak to Mr Ellis about this. I’ve sent for my own doctor and the police. Both should be here soon.’
Gabrielle began to stir. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked up into Clara’s bruised face. ‘What happened?’ she muttered.
‘You fainted. Not surprising considering you were shot.’
Her aunt laughed weakly. ‘I remember now. What a bloody fool I am.’
Clara smiled. ‘You’re a heroine, Aunt Gertie. You saved my life.’
‘Gabrielle,’ she corrected with a touch of asperity. ‘I’ll not answer to that name. Did he get away?’
‘Yes.’
At that moment the doorman reappeared with a policeman. ‘He’s going to be wanting to question you but I’ll tell him he’ll have to wait until a doctor’s seen to you both and you’re at home.’
‘Home where?’ Gabrielle winced. ‘I can’t see my landlady wanting me turning up there with a policeman in tow, and as for the farm, I can’t go back there. Too many unhappy memories.’
‘Then you’ll have to come to our house for now.’
Gabrielle laughed weakly. ‘You are joking?’
Clara did not answer because the policeman was approaching, followed by another man carrying a black bag. He appeared to take in the scene immediately and approached them. ‘Let’s be having a look at you,’ he said.
Clara moved out of the way and spoke to the policeman. He looked to be in his forties and told her that he was Sergeant Peter Jones. ‘If you can tell me what happened, miss? It’ll save me bothering you later.’
They sat down and she told him what had happened. He noted down her description of the would-be-robber, raising his eyebrows at her mention of bright red hair and a fair moustache. ‘It sounds like the wig thief all right. Pity the doorman didn’t prevent him escaping.’
‘There was a strong smell of peppermints about the man and that makes me even more certain that he was Bert Kirk, who is a very violent man,’ said Clara.
He gave her a sharp look. ‘You sound like you know this man.’
Clara told him everything she knew about Bert and suggested that he look for the bullet that had missed her aunt. ‘I think it hit the wall. If it matches the one taken from Mr Moran’s shoulder it will prove they came from the same gun, won’t it?’
‘You been reading Sherlock Holmes, miss?’ he said with a touch of humour.
She smiled, liking the man. So many men of his age would have talked down to her but he took her seriously and went to look for the bullet.
It had made a hole in the plaster and so he found it easily.
He put it in an envelope and said that he would make a report to his superiors and most likely they would get in touch with their counterparts in Chester and ask them to inform Mr Sebastian Bennett about the injury to his mother and what had taken place here. ‘An eye needs to be kept out in both cities for such a dangerous and wily criminal,’ he added.
The doctor declared Gabrielle’s injury only a flesh wound and said that she could go home but must rest. He gave her some pills to help her sleep. The sergeant said that he would see them to their front door. An offer Clara accepted without consulting her aunt, who was looking haggard. She thought it was time Gabrielle had someone to look after her and planned, in the morning, to seek Freddie’s opinion about how best this could be done.
* * *
‘I suppose that was Mam’s bed I slept in last night,’ said Gabrielle, easing herself down onto a chair at the table.
‘Who else’s?’ said Clara, smiling at her aunt. She was still wearing her niece’s spare nightie and, although her silver streaked black hair was mussed up, she was looking less drained this morning. ‘The lodger has Mam and Dad’s old room, but Gran didn’t die in her own bed, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘I took a couple of those pills the doctor gave me and went out like a light, so I didn’t even think of it last night. Otherwise I might have expected her to haunt me.’ A wry smile twisted Gabrielle’s handsome features and she smoothed back her hair with a hand that shook. ‘Holy Mary, mother of God, Clara, you look like you’ve been in the wars, too! The side of your face is black and blue.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ said Clara, placing a plate of salt fish and buttered bread on the table in front of her aunt. ‘I took one look at myself in the mirror this morning and nearly died of fright.’
Gabrielle laughed and then gazed down at the breakfast and said, ‘This takes me back. It was a favourite of me dad’s when he was home from sea.’ She picked up a fork in her right hand and began to break up the fish. ‘This won’t do, you know, Clara. I can’t have you spoiling me. One, I don’t deserve it and two, I’m used to looking after myself. Anyhow, I’m definitely not staying here a second night.’
‘That’s up to you,’ said Clara with a shrug. ‘Are you planning on going back to your hotel?’
‘Moved out of there an
d into a boarding house on Mount Pleasant, but I can’t stay there much longer. My money’s running out, so I need to see my solicitor.’ She lifted her head and glanced across the table at her niece. ‘You wouldn’t mind making me a cup of tea, would you? I’m a bit parched.’
Clara said, ‘I’ve already made a pot. I was just letting it draw.’ She got up and poured the tea and placed a cup in front of her aunt. ‘You’re going to need help to pack. If you leave it until this evening, I’ll be able to help you. Besides, Sergeant Jones wants to have a word with you, so he’ll probably turn up here later.’
‘Holy Mary, that means I’m going to have to get dressed and tidy meself up.’ She grimaced. ‘You haven’t a blouse I could borrow, have you? The blood’s ruined mine and it was one I bought in New York. I loved the colour and it’s a really nice crêpe de Chine.’
‘I’ll see what I can find, but don’t expect anything posh,’ warned Clara, remembering what Joy had told her about Gabrielle thinking herself a cut above others, but so far this morning, she hadn’t seemed a bit snobby.
‘I’m grateful for anything,’ said Gabrielle. ‘As soon as I’ve finished this and drunk my tea, I’m going to have to start getting myself ready. As much as I hate to ask for it, I will need your help for that. Under my arm’s painful and I do feel a bit stiff.’ She added, ‘By the way, do you know where my handbag is?’
Clara shook her head. ‘You threw it at the gunman.’
‘Then it must still be at the picture house.’ She scowled.
‘Mr Walsh has probably picked it up. We could see about it later.’
Gabrielle nodded.
Clara thought that the sooner they were both dressed and ready for company, the happier she would feel. Freddie would be here soon and she was hardly going to look her best as it was when he arrived.
But Sergeant Jones was the first to turn up and did so around about one o’clock. Clara had expected Freddie at twelve and hoped nothing had happened to him. She invited the policeman in and offered him a cup of tea. He thanked her and sat down, looking at Gabrielle. ‘And how are you feeling today?’
