Family Chorus

by Claire Rayner

  Benny reddened and bobbed his head and Dave looked at him sideways and shook his head in resignation. ‘Listen, the day Benny’s got anything to say for himself, the sky’ll fall in. Come on, Fanny. I’ve got things to do if you ain’t. Tara, Bessie. Come round the weekend for supper, bring Lexie, hmm? I like the way she’s turned out. Yes I do, Fanny. Don’t go glaring at me that way. She’s a mensch, that one. Won’t let no one push her around. Not even you.’ And he laughed fatly. ‘No, not even you, and good luck to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry Fanny was so stupid,’ Bessie said later as she ironed Lexie’s newly unpacked clothes ready to put them in the wardrobe. ‘I shouldn’t have said to come round, I suppose — but I wanted them to see you as soon as you got home and —’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Lexie said, and peered into the mirror that was resting against the teapot. ‘I remember Fanny was always like that. Doesn’t bother me —’ And she went on plucking out the excess hair that grew between her thick straight brows.

  ‘Bothered her, though,’ Bessie said, and gave a little crack of laughter. ‘I wish you’d seen her face after you went out — a real picture it was! I wish I’d ’a’ stood up to her like that when I was younger — mind you, if I had, I wouldn’t have had you, would I?’

  Lexie lifted her head and stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  Bessie went a patchy red and bent her head to concentrate on the movement of her iron over the cloth. ‘It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry — forget it —’

  ‘Said what? Come on, Bessie. You can say it, whatever it is. What do you mean, if you’d have stood up to her, you wouldn’t have had me?’

  There was a little silence and then Bessie said awkwardly, ‘When Momma died. It was difficult, you a new baby and all — no one knew what to do, and — well, it was Fanny said the boys’d go to her and I’d have you. I didn’t really — well, at the time, I thought — looking after Poppa and you — I was twenty, where did I know how things’d turn out? As it is, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me, not standing up to Fanny.’ And she threw a scared little look at Lexie and then bent her head to her ironing again.

  There was another little silence as Lexie sat and looked at her. She’s almost forty, she thought. Almost forty and what sort of life has she had? Nothing really. And she tried to see her as though she wasn’t just familiar old Bessie who had always been there in the background of her life, but as a separate person, her own person, just as Lexie was her own person. She looks a little better than she used to, Lexie thought, noting the neat suit with the sailor collar, and the silk blouse under it. And she does try to make the best of herself, plain as she is, and her hair’s nice done that way — for Bessie had pulled the front hair down over her ears a little to make it look as though it were fashionably bobbed, though she hadn’t been brave enough to go the whole way, and had pinned the rest of it back in a thick bun. She wore a bandeau round her forehead made of cloth that matched her suit and she looked neat and sensible and agreeable, Lexie thought. Abruptly she said, ‘You ought to wear a bit of powder, you know. And some rouge. I’ll show you how.’

  Bessie stared at her and then laughed and her face lifted, her eyes crinkling, and Lexie said again. ‘No, really. It’d suit you. You could look really nice.’

  ‘Me, with stuff on my face? Never! What’d Mr Lazar say?’

  ‘What does it matter what he says? He doesn’t own you.’

  ‘No, I know, but still — he is my boss and anyway — the waitresses — they’d think it gave them permission, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Well, don’t wear it at work then. Just when you go out —’

  ‘But I never go anywhere but work,’ Bessie said, going on with the ironing. Lexie sat and looked at her and felt guilt rising, and with it anger at Bessie for creating it.

  The anger subsided slowly but it left the guilt still hovering over her and after a moment she said, ‘Bessie — I’m sorry.’

  Bessie didn’t lift her head from her ironing. ‘What for, Lexie? Telling me to wear make-up? No harm in that.’

  ‘For not being here all this time. For being away.’

  Bessie raised her eyes for a moment to give her another of those scared little looks. ‘Well, you had to, didn’t you? The war and all —’

  ‘Yes, of course. The war and all,’ Lexie said and tried again, reaching deep inside herself for the truth she wanted to share with Bessie, and not certain she really understood herself what it was. ‘I mean, about wanting what I want so very much — that’s why I stayed away really. Because of all the wanting —’

  ‘I know,’ Bessie said and turned over the frock she was ironing. ‘Mr Lazar said — I mean, I know.’

  ‘Mr Lazar said? What did he say?’

  ‘He said —’ Again there was that note of timidity in Bessie’s voice. ‘He said you were hungry. That that was why you had to do what you do —’

  Lexie stared at her and then laughed, a soft little snort of a sound. ‘Too sharp for his own good, that one. Yes, I suppose so. I do want a lot. It’s more than just wanting. It’s hard to explain really. It’s just that there’s a way it’s got to be for me. Got to be. And I don’t intend to be mean to you or anything, but sometimes, when it’s something to do with a show, when it’s work, you understand, I sort of forget about everything. You and everything. I get this feeling inside and it’s though there aren’t any other feelings and never were. A hot sort of feeling —’

  She bobbed her head back to the mirror and began plucking again at her eyebrows, feeling a wash of embarrassment that was as painful as it was unexpected. Had she explained? Probably not. How could she, when she didn’t really understand it all herself? There was just that welling up of need in her, that urgent hotness that meant she could think of nothing except work, nothing except what she was doing. It was a bit like dancing in a spotlight, she thought then, when the light seemed to form great walls round her and she couldn’t see anything but the brightness, feeling it holding her hot and urgent and yet safe inside its sharp edges, and she looked again at Bessie, at the iron moving so smoothly under her hand, and she knew she hadn’t explained, and probably never could.

  There was a silence between them for while, broken only by the faint hiss of the iron and the crackle of the fire under the other iron on the range, and then Lexie said abruptly, ‘I’m not going back to the show — Madame Gansella’s. She doesn’t know yet.’

  Bessie slapped the iron down on the table and lifted her head to look at her and again the guilt rose in Lexie, for her face was radiant with delight. ‘You mean you’re staying home? Staying with me? Oh, Lexie, that’s —’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lexie said brusquely, and once more turned back to the mirror. ‘Depends.’

  ‘Oh! What on?’

  ‘What sort of job I can get. I want to find a shop with a decent show somewhere. West End. I’ll stay in London if I can,’ and she tried to make it sound casual, as though getting a place in a West End show was the most natural thing in the world.

  And Bessie accepted it that way. ‘Which show?’

  ‘I don’t know, really,’ Lexie said, still with that studied air of nonchalance. ‘Whatever I can get.’ She lifted her head then and leaned back in her chair. ‘What’s on?’

  ‘Eh?’ Bessie stared at her and then grinned again, once more lifting her face into a transient charm. ‘What’s on? In the West End, you mean? Don’t be ridiculous! From where should I know?’ And she went back to her ironing, moving rhythmically and seeming to find pleasure in her activity, as though touching Lexie’s clothes was the same as touching her.

  ‘Don’t you ever go to shows, Bessie? Don’t you go out anywhere?’

  Bessie shook her head. ‘No time. The war, you know — so many of the girls had to go and do munitions and be in hospitals and that, we’ve been short-staffed. I’ve had to help out at the tables in the busy times and that means doing my own work in the office in the evenings. So I d
on’t get home much before ten — or I didn’t. It might be different now. Now the war’s over — oh, Lexie, isn’t it marvellous? It’s all over and none of the family got hurt or anything — though the Zeppelins got one of Dave’s warehouses — and now it’s all going to be all right again.’

  ‘Is it? I hope so,’ Lexie said and stood up. ‘Listen, Bessie, tomorrow I’m starting to sort things out. Going round the agents.’

  ‘Agents?’

  ‘Mmm. Try to get myself a job — but I thought I’d like to see some of the things that are on now. Will you come with me?’

  ‘To shows?’ Bessie went pink with delight. ‘Really? You want me? I’d like that — if I can get away —’

  ‘You see you do,’ Lexie said, and smiled at her. Again there was a fragment of closeness there between them, a pleasure in each other’s company, and Lexie was grateful for it; the earlier feelings of guilt about Bessie had been very disagreeable and she had other things to cope with, other things to think about, than Bessie and her problems.

  They went to the theatre every night for a week, with Bessie getting more and more excited and interested in all she saw. There was Tails Up at the Comedy Theatre, put on by the French revue king André Charlot, and a riproaring Cochran show at the newly opened London Pavilion. There was the long-running Maid of the Mountains at Daly’s with Josie Collins a dream in the lead part, a performance which left Lexie wide-eyed with envy and hope for her own future, even though her daily trudge around the agents’ offices was proving totally fruitless. They saw a Védrenne show at the Royalty and voted it dull, and a magic show of Maskelyne’s at St George’s Hall, which entranced Bessie and bored Lexie hugely, for there was no dancing in it. By the end of the week Bessie was exhausted, though delighted with it all, and Lexie was a great deal more thoughtful than she had been. It clearly wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d imagined to get that London job on which she’d set her heart. Perhaps it was just as well she’d told Madame Gansella she was just going on holiday rather than that she was leaving the show. Even something as third-rate as Babies on Parade was better than no job at all.

  On the Saturday night they ended their theatre-going marathon at the Shaftesbury Theatre, seeing Arlette, a George Grossmith musical with enough dancing to please them both and enough scene changes and effects to captivate Bessie in particular, for she found the trickery of the stage especially fascinating, and constantly whispered to Lexie for detailed explanations of how this effect worked, and how that quick change of costume had been engineered. Afterwards they went out to supper.

  That had been Bessie’s plan, and she had announced it importantly during the second interval, and after a moment of demur Lexie had agreed. At the beginning of the week she had been angry when Bessie had insisted on paying for their tickets for the shows they saw, feeling she was being babied again. However she had agreed when Bessie had pointed out so reasonably that she had been earning a lot from Mr Lazar, who paid her most punctiliously for the extra work she had been doing, and that she had so little time to spend it that it was a pleasure to find some activity that would let her enjoy being extravagant. By Saturday night Lexie no longer felt any discomfort at all when Bessie delved into her bag and paid for everything. Anyway, Lexie had so little cash after her years with Madame G. that she had small choice in the matter. And after Bessie had paid for so many stalls in so many theatres, what was a supper, after all?

  But it wasn’t just an ordinary supper for which Bessie was paying, as Lexie found. They walked down Shaftesbury Avenue towards Piccadilly Circus, pushing their way through the strolling crowds out in force despite the chill of the winter night, and still liberally sprinkled with the khaki and dark blue of uniforms and not a few men in hospital blues, even though the war was over. The people around them were determinedly cheerful and all set on making the most of a night out Up West, and Lexie’s own spirits lifted a little as she caught the infection from the good-natured crowds who jostled and laughed their way along the brilliantly lit street with them, passing the bright shops and the theatres and the restaurants spilling their glitter out on to the grey November pavements.

  When Bessie turned into the Trocadero at Piccadilly Circus Lexie stopped short. ‘Here?’ she said. ‘No, really, Bessie, this is too much! You don’t have to spend this sort of money! We can find a tea shop somewhere, have a poached egg or something — that’ll do perfectly well for me —’

  But Bessie shook her head with an air of barely contained mystery, and took her arm and urged her inside. There was little Lexie could do to stop her, for Bessie was clearly very determined and very excited, with patches of high colour in her cheeks and her eyes glittering a little in the reflections from the silver and crystal inside the big restaurant.

  ‘We are expected,’ Bessie said rather grandly to the tall flunkey who greeted them, and she showed him a piece of pasteboard which she had taken from her handbag. At once the man bowed, a little less imperious now and indeed somewhat obsequious, and turned and led them across the floor, threading a way between the tables as Bessie and Lexie followed. Lexie was suddenly aware of her rather simple blue frock and coat and wished she’d worn a proper hat tonight instead of the squashy beret she had on. It had seemed so fashionable and right earlier when she’d put it on, very dashing and Pearl Whiteish, and she’d been pleased with her appearance, but now in a room full of men in evening dress and women much bejewelled and coiffed, some with diamond-studded fillets round their brows and feathers in their headbands, she felt positively dowdy. Oddly enough, Bessie didn’t look particularly out of place in her severely cut suit and deep-crowned hat with the tall feather, and Lexie thought again how much Bessie seemed to have changed over the past four years.

  The tall flunkey stopped and said something to the occupant of a table at the edge of the dance floor, and Lexie craned to see who it was, but she couldn’t, for he had a bulk as imposing as his manner. Then the man bowed and stood back to show them to their seats, and revealed Alex Lazar sitting there with another man, both of whom stood up and bowed as the women sat down.

  ‘Lexie, it’s a pleasure to see you! After all this time you still look lovely — delicious, in fact. I love your hat, my dear — so smart and yet casual. Lovely!’ He beamed at her and then at the man on his left. ‘You know Bessie, Peter, of course, but you haven’t met her little sister, I think. The dancer I told you about. Shake hands with Peter Hyman, Lexie. He’s an old friend and colleague and he’s André Charlot’s dance director. Thought you two ought to know each other. Waiter! We’ll have a bottle of champagne. I’m in the mood for it tonight —’

  13

  ‘What did you say?’ Lexie said it very loudly and the buzz of noise in the room stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. Every head turned and every pair of eyes stared at her.

  ‘What did you say?’ she said again, and took a few steps forward, so that she was right inside the room instead of just in the doorway. Ahead of her the rows of lights around the mirrors glittered, reflecting from the sequins on the costumes, and showing every squalid detail of the cluttered sticks of make-up and dirty powder puffs on the tables so brightly that she wanted to blink, but she didn’t. It was important to hold her gaze, to show no sign of any weakness. That mattered. It mattered a lot.

  ‘Mabel Leary, it was you who said it, I think. So repeat it. I’m a what, did you say?’

  ‘Oh, leave it alone, Lexie,’ someone muttered, and one or two of the girls tried little giggles, but Lexie, wearing little more than a chiffon scarf and a headdress made of feathers, stood as straight and still as ever, staring fixedly at the tall girl in the middle of the room.

  The girl shrugged and lifted her eyebrows. ‘Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves,’ she said in her nasal little voice, and gave an inane giggle. ‘Anyway, it’s true. So there’s no call to stand there looking like that, stupid cat.’

  Lexie took a deep breath and was across the room so fast that she hardly realized she’d moved
until her hand made stinging contact with that sneering face. At once there was uproar as the girl broke into a loud wail. The others rushed to comfort her while a short fat woman came pushing her way through the hubbub from the back of the room.

  ‘What’s bloody goin’ on ’ere, then?’ she bawled, pushing the girls aside as though they were inanimate objects. ‘I’ve told you I won’t ’ave no fightin’ in my dressin’ rooms, and if this don’t stop right now I’ll ’ave Mr Chariot in ’ere and the ’ole bleedin’ lot of yer’ll be out on yer arses and serves yer bloody right — Mabel, shut that bleedin’ row. You — Lexie. What’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Ask her,’ Lexie said contemptuously, and turned away to the mirror and started to take off her headdress as though nothing had happened. ‘Ask her, if you can get her to stop whining long enough to get a word in edgeways. Ask her what she said and then see how you feel about telling Mr Charlot.’

  ‘Well, it’s true. She is a sheenie and she is canoodling with that other bloody sheenie, and they do stick together. an’ if you want to tell Mr Chariot that, Ethel, then you go ahead and do it. And see where it gets you. They’re all the bloody same, these sheenies. Stick together like flies in a bleedin’ jampot.’

  Ethel turned her head and looked at Lexie, and for a moment Lexie saw it there too, deep in her eyes. The flicker of a sneer, the same sort of look that was on the others’ faces, and she felt again the desolation of aloneness, a desolation that had been increasing with every week that passed until now, in midsummer with the thermometer outside constantly in the eighties, she seemed to feel cold all the time.

  In all the years with Madame Gansella she had never had reason to think about the fact that she was Jewish. In the early days, when the show had been Juvenile Jollities, they had all been as she was, from the same narrow streets, with the same sort of families, the same voices, the same tones, and the same likes and dislikes in food and drink and chatter. All Jews together. And even after the others had gone home to London at the start of the war and Madame G. had had to recruit local dancers, there had been no problems. People from country towns, as the newcomers were, had seen the established members of the company and Madame Gansella and Lenny Ganz themselves as exotic simply because they were Londoners, with a rich metropolitan gloss that made them shine in their eyes. The fact that they were East End Jewish Londoners had meant nothing to them.