Family Chorus
Page 22
‘I never thought about it,’ she said lamely, watching him eat. Then she laughed. ‘And look at you now! Lobster!’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? You don’t have to keep every rule to be entitled to read the rulebook.’
‘I suppose not,’ she said, and looked down at her own plate, thinking of how bothered Bessie would be to see the lobster there. ‘Except that —’
‘Except what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that — I do so hate it all!’ And there was a spurt of anger that made him lift his eyebrows at her.
‘Hate what? Seder nights and not eating lobster?’
‘That makes it sound childish. No, I don’t mean that. I mean — all the labels. The way people behave because — if they know that you’re different.’
‘Who’s different?’ He smiled at her, the clefts in his cheeks deepening. ‘I don’t feel all that different. I’m me, and you’re you, and what has being Jewish got to do with it, either way?’
‘You’ve obviously never had them jeer at you,’ she said bitterly. ‘No one ever called you sheeny, or you’d know what I mean. They’ve done it to me, and I want no part of it any more. What’s being Jewish ever done for me? Why should I bother my head over it?’
‘And you’ve never been in fights with boys from Catholic schools who shout “Christ killer” after you in the streets, and you’ve never lost clients because they don’t want to be smeared with the label of having “one of the Chosen” as their advocates. Being Jewish hasn’t actually done a lot for me, either, if I try to make out some sort of profit and loss account. But I don’t. I am just what I am and there it is. I see no need to repudiate it any more than I see any need to make a great drama of commitment out of it. I’d fear I was behaving like a stereotyped Jew, one of those characters they draw in Punch cartoons, if I tried to work out what being Jewish had or hadn’t done for me. The sort who puts a price on everything —’
Feeling the reproof in him, her face flamed. She looked at her watch, fussing a little with her cuff.
‘Well, it’s not something I ever thought about much,’ she said as off-handedly as she could. ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I really should be —’
‘You’ve got an hour yet, my dear, and well you know it! Don’t give yourself indigestion, rushing off! Have some coffee.’ He beckoned to a waiter, serenely refusing to let her argue with him. ‘You haven’t said yet — will you come?’
‘Where?’
‘To my brother’s. He has a house in Myrdle Street,’ he said patiently. ‘He has a nice wife and three dreadfully spoiled children, but I like them, and we’d all like it very much if you came to us for the Seder.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t. I have a show that night —’
‘Of course you have. But not till midnight. I’d see to it you were back in the West End in good time.’
‘I — no thank you,’ she said, knowing her voice was chilly but not caring. ‘I won’t be able to.’
‘Well, I dare say you ought to be with your sister and the rest of your family, at that. It was just an idea,’ he said amiably. As the waiter poured their coffee he began to talk about a new book he’d read which suggested that people could move about in time in their dreams, as though the theories of the author were the only matters that concerned him in the world. Eventually he took her to the Café to start her evening’s work, and said goodbye in his usual punctilious way without another word about the coming Passover.
She thought about what he had said a great deal, however, in the succeeding days, and actually did go to Bessie’s for the Seder night service, much to Bessie’s surprised delight, because Lexie had refused to do so for years, always finding some excuse not to bother. She sat there with Bessie and Dave and Fanny — Fanny looking rather haggard now and clearly far from her old self — and listened to young Monty chatter about his own doings, and to Joe, home from America for a short while and talking very importantly about his doings too, and marvelled at the effect Max Cramer had had on her. She, Alexandra Asher, to be at a family evening of her own free will? It was really ridiculous and she had Max Cramer to thank for it.
And her lips curved as she ate chopped liver and thought about him. Perhaps there was more to the business of love affairs than she’d thought, she told herself, as the noise of everyone talking at once roared around her. Maybe I should persuade him to be a little more friendly after all.
19
She might perhaps have pursued that thought, might have found more satisfaction in visiting Bessie and the family more often, had not it been for a combination of events that threw her life into a new set of pathways.
A couple of weeks after the Passover a particularly crowded Café audience had greeted her act with even more than its usual enthusiasm, and she and Ambrose had to perform two encores. Waiting for her in her dressing room when at last she came off, breathless and very excited, she found a big man with an exceedingly bald head who was smoking a larger cigar than even Alex Lazar usually sported. He got to his feet ponderously as she came in, and Poppy, sitting on the sofa on the other side of the small hot room, got up too, almost as heavily.
‘This is Mr Welch, Lexie.’ she said and set her head on one side, staring at Lexie very fixedly, as though she was trying to tell her something without using words. Then, as Lexie looked from one to the other in obvious puzzlement, she said wearily, ‘He’s with Mr Cochran’s management, dear. C.B., you know.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Lexie said, and Poppy, a little surprisingly, sat down again. Usually as soon as Lexie came off she was bustling about, getting her street clothes organized ready for the change, and generally making sure all was ready and tidy for the next evening. But tonight she just sat on the sofa and stared owlishly at Lexie amid the clutter of the costumes she had worn earlier in the act. Lexie frowned sharply at the sight of them lying there, crumpled and ignored. Poppy had been getting very sloppy lately; she’d have to be told to wake herself up a little.
But now she turned her head to look at Mr Welch. ‘Have we met before?’ she said with an air of fine disdain. She was still feeling very elevated and excited by the tumult of approval she’d been given by her audience, and wanted better admirers than large old men with bald heads, even if they were part of the Cochran management. Then, for the first time, she fully realized what that meant, and looked at Mr Welch with rather less disdainful eyes.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We haven’t actually met, Miss Asher. Wish we had. Still, better late than never, hmm?’ He beamed at her and nodded approvingly at himself.
‘Yes —’ she said. ‘Yes, definitely —’ She stood there for a moment staring at him, and there was a little silence in the hot room, underlined by the racket of voices and music coming, muffled, from the Café beyond.
‘Thing is, Miss Asher,’ Mr Welch said at last, ‘Mr Cochran’d be glad if you could step over to his office in the morning to discuss the little matter of his new revue.’
‘Oh,’ Lexie said, not knowing what to say next.
‘One Dam’ Thing After Another,’ Mr Welch said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lexie blinked, then looked at Poppy who was still sitting on the sofa, leaning back and staring at Mr Welch. She looks odd, Lexie thought, then dismissed the notion and looked at Mr Welch again.
‘Name of the show, dear. One Dam’ Thing After Another. Catchy, hmm? Yes. Should do very nicely, very nicely indeed. We’ve got a great cast, great. Edyth Baker and Sonnie Hale and Mimi Crawford and a lovely score, lovely. “‘I took one look at you —’” he began to sing in a surprisingly thin little voice, ‘— “and then my heart stood still —” Yes, a lovely score. Thing is, we need something else. Dancing, you see. Yes, dancing. And we’ve had excellent reports of the business you’re doing here, and C.B. came and saw for himself, sent me, and here I am. So, if you could just step over to the office in the morning —’
‘You want me for a revue?’ she said, and took a sharp breath.
‘When we go into the Pavilion?’ She was staring at him with her eyes very bright and a little narrowed. ‘How do you mean?’
He was moving majestically towards the door now, his cigar leaving a trail of smoke behind him. ‘Indeed yes. The old man — ah — C. B. wants the show to be as slick as he can make it. So he’s sending the acts that are new to him on the road for six weeks, in his number one tour of The League of Notions. Getting a bit tired that one now, to tell the truth, but the set and the costumes are still good, cost a fortune, so we’re still using ’em as best we can — and then after that you come into the London Pavilion, nicely polished —’
‘I don’t need polishing!’ she said, her face going a little pink. ‘I don’t have to go on number two tours to —’
He lifted one large hand in pacification. ‘Now, my dear, think carefully! Don’t rush into saying things you’ll regret! You may know you don’t need polishing, I may know you don’t need polishing, but Cockie wants to do it this way, and Cockie’s Cockie, hmm? And he’s offering big money, dearie, very big money.’
‘How big?’
‘Fifty a week,’ the big man said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, flicking his glance at Poppy, and then smiling at her with a wide avuncular grin. ‘Yes, dearie,’ he whispered. ‘Ten big white ones every week. I dare say that’ll help you feel better about six weeks on the road, hmm? You’ll get it for the tour as well as for the show, and travel and digs expenses outside London, you understand. Find your own people, of course —’
‘I always do.’ Lexie looked swiftly at Poppy, but she was now leaning back with her eyes closed. ‘It’s my act and no one else’s. No one else runs it or chooses the people I use, or pays ’em —’
He nodded approvingly. ‘Good business head you’ve got, dearie. Yes.’ He clapped his hat on his head, and spoke now in a normal voice. ‘Excellent. Well there it is, if you’re interested. Just step round to the office in the morning. About noon, you know. Not too early. Contract’ll be ready as soon as you are —’
She stood and stared at the closed door after he’d gone, trying to do the arithmetic in her head. She was getting thirty pounds a week at the Café and out of that finding six for Ambrose and four for Poppy. She’d thought that was big enough money, twenty a week for herself. She’d been paying her own rent for a long time now, hadn’t had a penny from Dave, was finding all her own costumes and still had a little over to tuck away. But fifty a week on the road, all expenses found — she wouldn’t need to pay Ambrose and Poppy any more than she was paying now, certainly not till they got back to London and could start the supper show going again too. Fifty a week from Cochran, and thirty a week from the Café de Paris — the money danced before her mind’s eye. Suddenly she threw her arms into the air and cried, ‘Whoopee!’ clapping her hands over her head as she performed a sharp little pirouette. Poppy opened her eyes and said drowsily, ‘Hmm?’
Lexie stared at her, suddenly sobered. Had Poppy heard what Welch had said about money? It would be a damned nuisance if she had. She’d expect more for herself and probably tell Ambrose too — perhaps a small increase for them wouldn’t be such a bad idea at that. Another ten bob for Poppy, maybe a quid for Ambrose.
‘Did you hear what he said, Poppy?’ Lexie went as casually as she could across the room to her dressing table and began to fiddle with the hooks and eyes at the back of her costume. ‘Did you hear? Not bad, hmm? Come here and get me out of this, will you? What’s the matter with you tonight, for heaven’s sake? You look like the cat’s nightmare —’
‘Not feeling too good,’ Poppy mumbled and made no effort to get up. ‘Been feeling a bit off for days —’
Lexie turned and stared at her sharply. ‘How do you mean off?’
‘Sick. Keep throwing up —’ Suddenly she lumbered to her feet and went across the room in a sort of half fall, half run to the basin in the corner and began to heave noisily while Lexie stood at the mirror, trying not to look at her or to hear the ghastly noises she was making. Poppy ill? It was ridiculous. Poppy was never ill — she must have been drinking or something.
Water rushed into the basin and Poppy went back to the sofa and collapsed on to it, leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed. Her face was grey and sweating, and Lexie, still standing by her mirror, bit her lip, not sure what to do. She felt suddenly very young and helpless, as though she were a small child again at dancing school and her all-powerful, all-knowing teacher had collapsed at her feet. She was frightened, and being frightened made her angry.
‘For God’s sake, Poppy!’ she shouted. ‘Have you been drinking or something? You ought to be ashamed of yourself — you’re supposed to be working, not carrying on like that — for God’s sake, stop being so —’
Poppy opened her eyes and stared at her, and now the fear in Lexie increased as Poppy dragged herself first into a sitting position and then to her feet. She stood swaying for a moment, her gaze fixed on Lexie’s face, and then, horribly, her eyes rolled upwards and. she fell with a heavy thud at Lexie’s feet.
It wasn’t until she and Ambrose and the stage manager had together managed to get Poppy smuggled out of the back entrance of the Café de Paris (‘Can’t have the customers knowin’ someone’s got the ’eaves, for Gawd’s sake,’ the stage manager had said. ‘Get the old cow out of ’ere fast as you can.’) and into a cab so that she could be taken to the Middlesex Hospital that Lexie could think clearly again. Ambrose, already changed into street clothes, offered to go with her, his face anxious and seeming to show genuine concern.
‘I’ll see you there,’ Lexie had said curtly, and set about getting out of her costume and changing and then tidying her dressing room as best she could. It took a long time, because the act demanded several fast changes and the frocks she wore all had cunningly hidden closures that were designed to be undone very swiftly indeed, but ensuring they were all ready to be put on and the secret fasteners prepared took time and understanding of the system involved. So it was well after three in the morning before she at last reached the big echoing casualty department of the hospital.
Ambrose was waiting for her, his coat round his shoulders in a casual sweep and sprawled on one of the long wooden benches that were arranged in rows in the great tiled hall. She stood at the door for a moment staring at him, not sure what to say or do. The smell of lysol, soap and ether was thick in the air and she felt a moment of fear as long-buried memories of childish injuries and painful remedies at the London Hospital in Whitechapel rose in her and she felt again that stab of anger that had made her shout at Poppy earlier. Bloody woman, what right had she to do this, to make such a fuss, such a nuisance of herself?
Ambrose had turned his head to watch a doctor go by, his long white coat flapping importantly, and he caught sight of Lexie. At once he jumped up and came hurrying across. His heels clacked on the tiled floor and she thought, absurdly, I could work out a super tap dance routine here. That echo makes it sound syncopated — great —
‘She’s dreadfully ill, Lexie,’ Ambrose said, and there was a note in his voice that fed her anger even more. He sounded excited and mournful at the same time and almost triumphant. ‘She won’t be able to work for ages, the doctor said, if at all. She’s got some liver thing —’
‘Drink,’ Lexie said sharply, and her voice echoed in the big room even more than Ambrose’s heels had. ‘She always drinks too much —’
‘Oh, no, Lexie! No more than the occasional tipple! I reckon we get more from cocktails than she does from her gin and water!’
‘Oh, of course she does! Anyway, what does it matter? If she can’t work, she can’t. It’s a damned nuisance, though —’
‘My God, but you’re hard, Lexie!’ Ambrose said, almost admiringly. ‘I’ve always known you were tough, but blimey —’
‘Oh, shut up! I’ve no time at all for your chatter. Where is she?’
‘They’ve put her in a ward,’ he said sulkily, and began to put on his coat. It was a long camel-hair affair, which he wore with great casualness, pulling its collar high to his ears and tying the belt tightly so that the skirts swung widely with every step to display his Oxford bags as clearly as possible. ‘I’ve been up to see her there — they let me in because she’s so ill, and there’s no relatives around. I dare say they’ll let you in as well, if you want to.’ He tugged the belt even tighter and turned to go. ‘I don’t suppose you do, though, seeing you reckon it’s all her own fault.’
‘Oh, of course I’ll go and see her. Of course I will — the thing is, I don’t know what to do about tomorrow —’
‘Tomorrow? The show? You’ll have to borrow the girl who looks after the snake act, I suppose. Not that she’s much of a dresser, I don’t suppose. More of a pet-shop keeper.’ He giggled, and again the echo in the great tiled space mocked her.
‘That’s the least of the problem,’ she said savagely. ‘I didn’t get the chance to tell you before — we’ve got the offer of a six-week tour of a Cochran show, before coming to the London Pavilion with his new one. We could still do the supper show at the Café, make big money. I was going to tell you — you can have another quid a week, starting as soon as we tour, and all expenses found on the road. But without Poppy how the hell can I do it? Bad enough managing the changes when you’re working from a dressing room where everything’s set out in advance and you know where you are — but doing those changes when you’re living out of a damned skip? Can you see it? I bloody well can’t —’