A Winter Love Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  If he wanted to keep Bonnie in his life, and he did, for as long as was humanly possible, then he had to play a part. The part of a non-threatening, caring but not too caring big brother. And gradually, as months had passed, it had worked. And if nothing else their careers had soared because of it. The number of nights he spent working on musical arrangements for the band and even composing some of his own stuff, often into the early hours, to dull the burning in his loins and lustful thoughts he found hard to control, had paid off. Their broadcasts attracted huge audiences now and their records sold well; they were up there with the biggest bands in the business like Bert Ambrose, Billy Cotton and others.

  And this in a time that was strange for the dance-band world as a whole, Art reflected sombrely, sitting back in his chair and pushing his empty plate away as he lit a cigarette. Some bandleaders were having a tough time economically, and he knew that many musicians were being asked to take cuts in their salaries. It was generally acknowledged that the record industry in particular had plunged into a state of depression, but as yet it hadn’t really touched him and he was grateful. He was still able to pay his musicians top whack, and Bonnie’s weekly pay packet had risen to thirty pounds, partly because she was worth it but also, he admitted to himself, because he didn’t want her to be enticed away by someone else. It haunted him, that possibility.

  He stretched his long legs out under the table, staring somewhat morosely across the room. He was quite aware that he’d schemed to make Bonnie feel indebted to him over the time he had known her, manipulating circumstances to his own advantage now and again, and he had no intention of feeling guilty about it. Bonnie had, after all, benefited from everything he had done.

  Quite soon after she had begun working with the band, he had taken her to his bank and arranged for her to set up an account of her own. The bank manager, a personal friend, had agreed to advise Bonnie on financial matters himself, should the need arise in the future.

  He had also encouraged her to learn to drive, feeling that a motor car of her own would make her less vulnerable than using taxis or buses. He had recommended a local driving school and also taken her out in his own car a few times when she was finding some particular aspect hard to grasp. It had been a sweet torture, having her so close, but it had helped cement their friendship. And when she had passed her test, it had been he who had driven her around to various car showrooms and garages until she’d found exactly what she was looking for – a smart midnight-blue Austin that she had paid for outright.

  That had been a good day. His expression softened. Bonnie had been so excited about the car that she had let her guard down and agreed to have dinner with him to celebrate, and he had taken her to a chic little restaurant where he’d played the role of amusing dinner companion. He’d delivered her back to the wretched boarding house she insisted on living in, although she could well afford to rent or even buy a flat of her own now, without so much as a goodnight kiss; his reward being when she’d shyly told him she’d had a wonderful time and had reached up and touched the side of his face for an instant before darting into the house. The gesture had been nothing, not really, except that it was the first time that he could recall her voluntarily touching him. Ridiculous, but like a schoolboy he had felt he never wanted to wash his face again.

  Damn it, he was the world’s biggest fool. He drew deeply on his cigarette before rising abruptly from the table and walking through to the garden once more.

  Here he was, a man at the top of his career who could bed any number of women, and he was as celibate as a monk in a monastery. What the hell was he doing?

  He flung himself down on a garden chair set under the cherry tree and scowled up into its branches. He was lusting after a woman who was oblivious to him in a romantic sense. And then he caught at the thought. But that summed it up, didn’t it? That was the rub. It wasn’t lust he felt for Bonnie. He knew all about that carnal urge – it had first stirred when he was a callow youth still wet behind the ears – but the emotion he felt for Bonnie was something much more than lust. Love. He stubbed out the remains of the cigarette under his heel, grinding it to little pieces as though he could extinguish his feelings for her in the same way. And he would if he could. He had seen first hand what love could do to a man. His mother had run off with her fancy man when he was nine years old and it had broken his father, but in the six years it had taken for his father to drink himself to death, he wouldn’t hear a word said against her.

  Art shook his head. She had left them both without a word, a note, anything, disappearing into the blue yonder with a used-car salesman of all things. It had been his father’s mates who told him what had been going on under his nose while he’d worked all hours at the docks to give her the easy life and nice clothes she wanted. But his father had died with her name on his lips. Art had vowed then that he would never let any woman make a monkey out of him, and he hadn’t. Not until he had stood in a dark car park one night two years ago and heard an indignant female voice declare that she had no intention of getting into a car with him. He’d been a goner right then, he just hadn’t known it.

  ‘Mr Franklin, there’s a Mr Odell on the telephone for you.’ Annie interrupted his thoughts, standing in the doorway to the French doors as she dusted her floury hands on her apron.

  Looked like there was a pie for lunch, Art thought hopefully. Annie had such a light touch with pastry it melted in the mouth. He stood up and followed her into the hall where the telephone resided, and as he walked he felt a frisson of excitement in the pit of his stomach. He had been waiting for this call for a few days. Odell was on the television side of show business, and although reception was confined to a limited area in the south-east of England it was still a good media to break into. He had been negotiating the possibility of mounting a stage show on television with Odell. A stage show was nothing new to him; most big dance bands had been doing it as part of their livelihood for a long time. He had a small file of top-class dancers, jugglers, magicians and other visual acts that he’d used before and although the band was the main turn and paid accordingly, he knew the other acts would leap at the chance to perform on television, unable, as they were, to make the transition to radio as musicians had.

  He picked up the telephone as his heart beat loud in his ears. James Odell had other dance bands he’d used in the last year or two for fairly lavish productions; whether he would be prepared to give him a chance he wasn’t sure, but he wanted this. It was a natural progression after all, and television was the future. He could see it snowballing in the next years, although if Hitler provoked a war, as he was sure he would, that would put a spanner in the works.

  ‘Art?’ James’s lazy voice gave nothing away. ‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it? How are you?’

  ‘Good, good. And you?’

  They went through the social niceties, Art aiming to keep his impatience out of his voice, and then James drawled, ‘So, that little thing we discussed recently? How soon can you pull a show together for me?’

  Art’s heart leapt. ‘Today too soon?’ he joked carefully.

  James laughed. ‘A little. What about a fortnight from now? Two half-an-hour shows in the same week? Can you handle that?’

  ‘With bells on.’

  ‘Great. Look, I’m at Alexandra Palace this afternoon. Call in, would you, and we’ll go through the formalities. And you’d use that vocalist you favour, Bonnie May, wouldn’t you? I feel the cameras would like her.’

  ‘Sure thing, James.’

  ‘See you later then, about three? Good man. Bye, Art.’

  Art put down the telephone, a big grin on his face. Wait till he told Bonnie and the rest of the band. Once they had a foot in the door of television there’d be no stopping them, he felt it in his bones. He knew what his public wanted – it had been one of his strengths from the early days. He’d always believed in paying top dollar to get the best people, and television was where it would pay off big time.

  He imagined the l
ook on Bonnie’s face when she knew she was going to be on television and his grin widened. If he was a fool then he was a successful fool, and that was something . . .

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bonnie looked at herself in the mirror of the dressing room and had to laugh. The thick, dark, revolting make-up that was necessary for television was truly horrible, and the vivid yellow cocktail dress she was wearing which would appear white on the screen was a pretty vile colour too. The first time she had been made up by one of the make-up artists at the television studio some months ago she had been horrified, convinced her appearance had to be some cruel practical joke in spite of the girl insisting everyone had to have the same, but when she had seen Art and the others she had relaxed. They looked like weird clowns too. And she had had enough to think about that day without worrying about her appearance, the barrage of instructions she’d received from the studio manager ringing in her ears. She had to stick to her chalk mark on the floor and not wander about; she had to remember to sing to the camera as though it was the audience; if she forgot her words – heaven forbid – she mustn’t, on any account, freeze but just carry on and ad lib; the performance went out live of course and thousands of people would be seeing it. The directions that went with appearing on television had been endless, and so very different from anything she had experienced before. But she had got through.

  She slid off the make-up stool after thanking the girl who had caked the thick foundation and powder on, her eyes already feeling gritty under their heavy layer of shadow and mascara. She didn’t like it, but at least she was used to it now, and once she was on stage and singing nothing else mattered. That hadn’t changed. And this was the last television show for some time as the band was off on tour to Holland in a few days at the beginning of February. Unlike Art and the rest of the band she had never been abroad before, and the prospect both excited and worried her. But at least she would be away from England for three months. It was silly perhaps, but since Art had first told her they were going to do a television performance, she had been worried that her grandmother might find her, and a sense of foreboding had dogged her days and nights. Try as she might, she couldn’t throw it off.

  She took a deep breath and prepared herself for this last show. It had been different when she had performed in the London clubs and concerts or on tour, and even radio hadn’t concerned her in the same way. You could remain anonymous with the radio broadcasts. Oh, your voice was well known of course, but people couldn’t see you, they didn’t know what you looked like. She had liked that. And she knew that when Art had told her about the television opportunity he hadn’t got the reaction he’d wanted. She had stared at him, the colour draining from her face, before asking in a small voice if she had to sing with the band.

  Poor Art. Bonnie smiled ruefully. She had taken the wind out of his sails good and proper that day, and although he had tried to be patient and understanding at what he had put down to nerves, she knew he had been cross with her. Anyone in his position would have been. So she had done the television appearances, telling herself that of course her grandmother wouldn’t see her and neither would anyone who knew Margarita. Not that it was her grandmother who was the problem, not really, much as she disliked her. It was the thought of coming face to face with Franco that made her feel sick.

  Art was waiting for her in the corridor outside the female dressing room as he had from that first appearance back in October, and not for the first time she wondered how he could still manage to look so handsome plastered in a make-up that was almost mauve in natural light. The heavy foundation made his white teeth look even whiter as he smiled. ‘Last one for a while,’ he said softly. ‘Looking forward to the tour?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled back. Art was like all the other members of the band – he treated her as though she was a little sister he had to look out for, and at first she had appreciated this. She still did, of course she did, she told herself firmly. She’d discovered that musicians were a friendly, gregarious sort of people who, although they took their music deathly seriously, were always ready for a joke and a bit of fun. But Art . . . He never chaffed her like the others. They would pull her leg and wind her up on occasion, but Art, although friendly and kind, always seemed to keep her at arm’s length. And that was fine, just fine. It was what she wanted, especially knowing of his reputation with the ladies. Or it was what she had wanted.

  No, she still did want that, she reaffirmed in her mind as they walked along the corridor together. Anything else would be impossible. Art would never settle down with one woman, she knew that. Oh, what was she thinking? She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as he opened the door into the recording studio and stood aside for her to precede him. She didn’t want a relationship with Art or any man, a relationship that would inevitably include that. Or did she?

  She stitched a smile on her face as one or two of the band called out to her.

  The trouble was that being around him made her feel as though she didn’t know which end was up most of the time, and it wasn’t exactly comfortable. And now they were going on tour for three months, which meant close proximity practically every waking moment.

  She took her place at the microphone, checking the chalk marks on the floor as she did so and then glancing at the cameramen who gave her the thumbs-up sign. She was starting the show with ‘The Folks who Live on the Hill’, followed by ‘September in the Rain’ before the other acts Art had hired came on, with ‘Blue Moon’ in between the magician and two male tap dancers. The comedian was the last of the turns, and then she would finish the show with ‘A Song at Sunrise’ which seemed to have become the band’s signature tune.

  As always, before the actual moment when she started to sing, her stomach was inhabited by a host of butterflies while the studio manager called out instructions, technicians did their last checks and everyone settled into place. Then the band struck up behind her, she opened her mouth and the words flowed effortlessly from her lips as she inhabited the song.

  It was raining when Bonnie and some fellow performers left Alexandra Palace later that night, an icy, chilling rain that was verging on sleet. Bonnie was deep in conversation with one of the female dancers who also originated from the north-east, and they were reminiscing about the Winter Garden at the rear of the museum and library building in Sunderland’s Mowbray Park. Bonnie’s father had taken her there as a little girl one day, and she had been fascinated by the huge conservatory full of tropical plants and flowers with an aviary and a pond teeming with goldfish. It was a precious memory.

  Art and a couple of the boys from the band had been waylaid by a group of giggling young women who were asking for autographs, a regular occurrence these days. Bonnie had her own admirers too who sent letters and flowers and sometimes made themselves known at Art’s nightclub or on tour, but clearly the bad weather had put all but the most ardent fans off tonight. And then, with her mind half on what Peggy, the dancer, was saying, she heard her name called from somewhere behind her.

  She turned, expecting it to be one of the bunch of people around Art who had spoken, only to stand transfixed as she watched two figures approaching her. Like a mouse before a snake she was frozen at the inevitability of what was about to happen.

  Margarita’s face was wearing an expression that could only be described as triumphant, but Franco, a step or two behind her, was deadpan. Bonnie didn’t speak, not even when they stopped a couple of feet away and stared at her, not until Margarita, her dark eyes burning with venom, said, ‘Still bold as brass, I see, you dirty little thief. Risen high, haven’t you, but them as rise have further to fall.’

  ‘Hello, Grandmother.’

  The coolness of her voice surprised even herself, but then hadn’t she been waiting for this day? After the first glance when she had taken in Franco behind Margarita, she hadn’t looked at him again. But instead of falling to pieces as she had imagined would happen if she ever saw him again, a welcome numbness had put iron i
n her backbone. She despised and hated this man, and the feelings she had for her grandmother were just as fierce. In their different ways the pair of them had used her and robbed her of her childhood but she was no longer a child and she wasn’t afraid of her grandmother any more.

  ‘Don’t you dare come the fine lady with me, girl. I know who and what you are.’

  Peggy was standing open-mouthed beside her and one or two other people had drawn closer, sensing something was going on, but it was Art, who had turned towards her when Margarita had called her name, who now took control. He had reached them in a few strides and at a glance had taken in the confrontation. He took hold of Bonnie’s arm as he cast a glance at Peggy and the others, saying, ‘Show’s over folks, goodnight,’ and to Margarita and Franco, ‘Follow me, please.’

  Bonnie let him lead her down the steep slope away from Alexandra Palace and she was aware that Margarita and Franco had fallen into step behind them, probably too surprised to do anything else. Art at his most commanding was formidable. She kept the numbness wrapped round her like a cloak and concentrated on the physical action of walking, and it was a minute or two later when Margarita said behind them, ‘What’s going on? I want to talk to my granddaughter.’

  ‘All in good time.’ Art didn’t lessen his pace or turn round, and no one spoke again until he led them through the doors of a public house a little while later.

  Again Margarita said, ‘What’s going on?’ but Art didn’t reply. Bonnie knew where she was – a crowd of them often came to this pub for a meal after rehearsals and the landlord was friendly and obliging, always providing sandwiches if the kitchen wasn’t open for hot meals. It was near closing time but Art walked over to the bar, still keeping her within the crook of his arm and not looking to see if the other two followed.