‘Language,’ he said, but there was no real reproof in it, for he was staring at her with his face crumpled with concentration. ‘Christ! A Cochran show! And here’s Poppy — oh, hell, I can see why you’re so mad! What do we do?’
‘If I knew the answer to that I’d know everything,’ she said savagely, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and hunching her shoulders as she tried to think.
There was a brief silence between them and then he said, ‘Bessie?’ tentatively. She turned her head and stared at him.
‘Bessie? What about her?’
‘Well, I mean, she’s always been interested in the act, hasn’t she? Always been dead keen on you doing it, and getting on? Well, tell her what’s happened, get her to come on the road with us. Bet she could do it for you. It’d be better’n trying to get someone else, wouldn’t it?’
‘Someone else’d be impossible. It took Poppy long enough to get the hang of those changes in the Toytown number. There’s seven of ’cm, for God’s sake! We only managed to get so many in because we did ’cm one at a time. It took two months, don’t you remember? Try and do that in a couple of weeks before we go on the road and we’re in real trouble!’
‘I bet Bessie’d manage to learn it,’ he said, turning to go. ‘She’s always been quick on the uptake, your sister Bessie. If anyone can do it, she can. Anyway, who else can you get? When do we have to go?’
‘Week or two!’ she said. ‘But I’m supposed to sign a contract tomorrow. Today, dammit. Oh, hell, what can I do? It’ll have to be Bessie — I’ll get hold of her before she goes to Alex’s. That’ll give me time to get over to the Cochran office by noon —’
‘I’ll come with you —’ he began, but she shook her head at once.
‘No need,’ she said sharply. ‘No need at all. It’s my act, remember. You just work for it. I’m the one who decides what happens, not you. I can go on my own.’
‘And suppose I say I won’t come with you?’ he said, thrusting his lower lip at her, as sulky as a child. ‘What’ll you do then?’
‘Get another man,’ she said at once. ‘And it won’t be as difficult as getting another dresser and road manager, believe me. So make up your mind. Are you on or not?’
‘Another quid a week?’
‘Another quid a week.’
‘Make it thirty bob.’
‘Not till we come into the Pavilion. Then I’ll think about it.’
There was another silence, then he grinned and shrugged. ‘What can I do, ducks? Without another shop waiting, I’d be mad to let this go. And of course if we put in a supper show as well as the revue, I get double, don’t I?’
‘Oh, hell, how can I say no? Depends on what we do! But we can talk about it. Right now, I’ve got to worry about getting us into the damned tour — go home, do me a favour. I’ll go over to the East End, see Bessie first thing. I’ll see you at the Café, usual time, let you know what’s happening. ’Night —’ She nodded sharply at him, not caring whether he stayed at the hospital or left, and went, walking away down Newman Street towards Oxford Street where she should be able to find a late cabbie plying for his last fare of the night.
It wasn’t until she was almost in Chelsea that she remembered she hadn’t gone up to the ward to see Poppy. And by then, she told herself, it was too late to go back.
20
‘I told you,’ Bessie said again wearily. ‘I keep on telling you, it’s not just that Alex is away in America and I have to stay here to keep an eye on everything. It’s Fanny. She’s not fit, you see. The cancer. Dave took her to Harley Street and the doctor said there was nothing he could do. Just a matter of time. How can I go?’
‘But, Bessie, for God’s sake!’ Lexie almost shouted it and Bessie turned her head to look at the glassed doorway that led into the tea shop, her lips pursed anxiously. ‘For God’s sake,’ Lexie said again, more quietly. ‘It’s just for six weeks! I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t have to! I told C.B. about Poppy, told him I’d already asked you and why you said you couldn’t help me, and he still said unless I put the Toytown number in there’s no deal. I’ve got to do it, and I can’t do it without you. It’s not as though we’ll be at the ends of the earth. No further north than Leeds, and probably no further west than Cardiff. If you had to get back in a hurry you could — and I don’t suppose you’d have to, anyway. I mean, I’m sorry Fanny’s ill and all that, but she’s been ill for ages. It’s nothing new —’
Bessie stared at her, her face very still and expressionless. She’s looking marvellous, she thought. The child must be exhausted, but she looks marvellous. Those new deep cloche hats suit her, make her face look even more fragile and pretty, and I like the new skirts on her. I can’t think of anyone else who could wear that crooked hem and still look so elegant. Oh, if only I could just say, ‘Yes,’ if only I could just walk out of here with her and see her laughing and happy the way she used to look when I said she could do whatever she wanted to do, when she was little, when she was all mine. I wish she were mine again.
‘But I can’t,’ she said, and her distress and her longing made the words come out flat and mulish, not at all as she meant them to. She felt tears lifting in her and had to school her face to control them, so that she looked mulish as well as sounding it. Lexie felt as though a great wall of rejection had reared itself between them. Fear nipped at her again and brought with it its constant companion, anger.
‘You never cared about me, never!’ she burst out. ‘All you ever do is suck round Fanny and Dave — and much Fanny cares about you, and as for Dave — they never cared a damn about you and you know you hated her — you’d never let me go and see her, because you were so jealous — but now you carry on as though you cared about her more than anyone!’
‘That’s not true!’ Again Bessie’s self-control made her sound sulky rather than distressed. ‘You always came first with me and you still do. You always will, even though you’ve gone to live on your own and —’
‘Oh, it’s that again, is it?’ Lexie jumped to her feet and began to march around the office, skirts swinging as she turned on her heel at the end of each traverse of the small floor. ‘Getting back at me because I wanted a place of my own, didn’t want to live in that horrible flat in Hackney any more. I hated that flat! I still do. It’s horrible. It stinks of food all the time and it’s so dreary — so what if I wanted something better? Is that so terrible? If you really cared about me as much as you pretend you’d be glad I had my own place, you’d be thrilled that I had something better. But not you — you’re so jealous and selfish you don’t care —’ Now she stood still in front of Bessie glaring, her face white with anger and her eyes glittering with tears she wouldn’t weep.
Bessie shook her head, saying nothing. She couldn’t, for the flood of words had left her as gasping as though it had been a real flood of icy water. Her breath seemed to have been snatched out of her mouth and she sat there with her face as white as Lexie’s own, able only to shake her head.
‘All I’m asking of you is six lousy weeks, that’s all! If you do it for me I can get this tour, get a really super place in a new Cochran revue, get a real foothold in the West End, and all you can do is sit there and shake your head like some stupid great cow. Oh, I hate you, you know that? I really hate you! You put on all this show of being the person who cares for me, keep on and on about how only the best is good enough, but when I set out to get it you just stand in the way. You do all you can to stop me! You’d rather suck round horrible Fanny and Alex Lazar, who isn’t even a relation, than do anything for me! You’re a selfish pig and I hate you.’ Again all Bessie could do was shake her head, this time in a pathetic attempt at denial.
‘I’ll never ask you to do anything for me again,’ Lexie spat it out. ‘Do you hear me? Just you keep out of my way. I’ll manage on my own. I don’t need you, I never did!’ She turned, pulled open the door and went storming out through the tea shop, scattering waitresses like startled birds as she w
ent rushing past them, and leaving Bessie frozen in her small office.
Even before she reached the end of Tottenham Court Road regret was gnawing at her. To have said such horrible things to Bessie was dreadful. She stared at the street and its traffic, seeing it blurred through her tears, and feeling sick too as she remembered Bessie’s face and that still whiteness. How could she have been so horrible to her?
And how could Bessie have been so horrible to me? she asked herself, needing to whip up her anger again, needing the fury to overwhelm the guilt that was now steadily, inexorably, rising in her. Is it so much to ask, to come away with me for six measly weeks to give me the best chance I’ve ever had? Is it so much?
Yes it is, when she’s got to stay here, the little voice that lived deep inside her whispered. If Fanny’s dying, what can she do?
But Fanny’s been like that for ages. Ages and ages. She looked ill at the Seder night, and she’s still not dead. Anyway, what matters most? Someone dying or someone’s whole life, someone’s whole career? What matters most, the person you’re supposed to love best, or a sister who always treated you badly?
That’s why Bessie’s got to take care of her, the little voice whispered disconcertingly. Because she hated her so much at the beginning. That’s why you’re so angry now. Because you hate Fanny too, you always have. And now she’s got Bessie dancing on her, and Dave as well, and —
Don’t think about Dave. Think about how you’re going to get the tour sorted out now Poppy can’t go, and Bessie won’t —
You didn’t go to see Poppy, the little voice whispered. You went to see Cochran and you went to see Bessie, but you didn’t go to see Poppy.
She had reached Oxford Circus by now, walking blindly through the jostling spring morning crowds, her small bag firmly tucked beneath her arm and her long legs striding out, totally unaware of the way passers by, men in particular, turned to stare after her. She only stopped now because a policeman on point duty held up one beefy arm to control the pedestrians so that the great drays, the swaying vans and the grumbling motor cars could get through. As she pushed against him he looked down at her and said reprovingly, ‘Now then, miss, can’t go breaking the law, now, can we? an’ the law says you got to wait till I lets you go through.’ Impatiently, she turned on her heel and went marching back the way she had come, still too distressed to do anything but keep moving. Where she went didn’t matter, as long as she kept moving all the time. She had a crazy idea that if she stood still her anger, guilt and bitter disappointment about the tour would all boil up into a great conflagration that would burn her up completely.
Quite why she thought of Max then she didn’t know. Had it been the policeman’s invocation of the law? Or was it something as simple as the window she was passing, with its neat gold lettering reading, ‘Solicitor, Commissioner for Oaths’? Whatever it was, the idea, once in her head, couldn’t be dislodged, and as she reached the end of Newman Street again she stopped. After a moment’s hesitation she stepped into the roadway to hail a cab. He’d advise her what to do, and maybe make her feel better about how horrible she’d been to Bessie.
His office was in Bedford Row, on the top floor of a tall red brick house that once had been very elegant but was now a little shabby. As she climbed the mahogany staircase she began to feel some of the peace she so badly needed leaking out of the quiet building and into her. She could hear the occasional muffled clatter of a typewriter, the distant sound of a telephone bell buzzing, and muttering voices, but the level of sound was low and even her own footsteps fell silently on the dull red drugget that covered the stairs. It was as though the building had something of Max about it, offering peace and strength and, oddly, time. If I talk to Max, she told herself absurdly, I’ll find the time I need to sort it all out. The time to find a new dresser. The time to visit Poppy and tell her I didn’t mean to be so hateful and take no notice of her illness. The time, above all, to go to Bessie and make it all right again, to make her see why I had been so angry and said such awful things.
At the top of the stairs the silence was even greater. No sound of typewriters or telephones or talking came from the other side of the glass engraved door with its quiet statement, ‘Max Cramer. Solicitor’. She stood there hesitantly for a moment, almost afraid to go in. It had been a mistake to come. What could Max do to help? But then an image of his face with those narrow clefts and friendly eyes lifted in her mind’s eye and, without thinking further, she tapped on the glass.
There was no answer, so after a moment she turned the knob and pushed the door open. Beyond it the office was empty, the typist’s desk adrift with paper, and the chair pushed back as though its occupant had only just left it. After a moment she stepped inside and said experimentally, ‘Max?’
The silence continued. She walked across to a half open inner door, pushed it open and looked in.
It was a handsome room, high of ceiling and very ornate of cornice, and as cluttered as it was handsome. Bookshelves bulged with leather-bound spines and there were piles of papers on tables and chairs everywhere. On another wall was hung a great Court Calendar, adorned with scribbles in various coloured inks. In the middle of the room a tall roll-topped desk was set, its front gaping open. Sitting in a swivel chair behind it, with his feet propped upon the desk, was Max. His head was drooping forwards and he was clearly fast asleep.
She stood and looked at him and then, in spite of her still seething anger and her misery, her lips curved. He looked absurdly young, hardly older than a child sitting there, and she let a little snort of amusement escape her. At once he moved, bringing his feet to the floor and standing up in one sleek movement.
‘What is it?’ he said curtly. Then, as he registered who it was, his shoulders relaxed and he looked at her in amazement. ‘My dear!’ he said, and brushed both his hands over his hair to restore its tidiness. ‘My dear Lexie! How very strange!’
‘Why strange? Have I a smudge on my nose?’ She needed to seem relaxed, even flippant. She tried to laugh at him, and pulled her hat off, shaking her thick hair free of its confines to cover up her confusion.
‘I was dreaming of you,’ he said. His face lit into a rather sheepish grin. ‘Rather a ridiculous dream, to tell the truth.’
‘Really? Tell me about it.’ She looked round for somewhere to sit down, and moved across the big room to a horsehair sofa set between the tall windows.
‘Not interesting enough to tell you about, though it was interesting to me. But why are you here, my dear? It’s always a joy to see you, of course, but I never expected to have you march into my office. Certainly not during a lunch hour when my clerk and typists have gone and left me in charge, and I’ve cheated enough to snatch forty winks. Very embarrassing.’ He came across to sit beside her.
‘I thought you always went and ate vast lunches with your clients,’ she said, leaning her head back on the sofa’s slippery headrest. She was beginning to feel weary, as at last her anger settled down from a white-hot fury to a dull aching glow and last night’s lack of sleep caught up with her. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t obeyed this stupid impulse. What could Max do, after all, to help her?
‘Only when I can’t avoid it,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter, Lexie? Tell ine about it.’
‘About what?’ She tried to sound light-hearted.
‘Whatever it is that brought you here in this state. You look devastated — tell me about it.’
She shook her head, opened her mouth to speak, shook her head again, and then to her horror the tears started and she could do nothing to control them. They ran down her cheeks, dragging her mascara with them, and clotted in her throat to huge sobs. Then she was shaking and weeping with great gulping noises and hating the way her face had crumpled and her nose and eyes were running.
Blessedly he said nothing, but just pulled a big handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to her. Gratefully she buried her face in it and took a deep breath. The smell of him, a mixture of soap and cologne and
an undefinable something that was just him, filled her nostrils and made her belly suddenly ache with a need to touch him. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, and without thinking she lifted her face and then her arms and threw herself forwards so that he had to take hold of her. She put her hands round his neck and pulled him forwards so that she could set his cheek against hers and, as its warm rather rough surface touched her own wet one, she felt a surge of need for even closer contact and she turned her head and opened her mouth to find his.
It was as though he were another person, and not his own dearly familiar self at all, for his reaction was shattering in its immediacy. He seized her as her lips touched his and pulled her so tightly against him that she couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter because she didn’t want to breathe. She wanted only to have his mouth on her mouth, and his tongue hard and urgent, pushing against hers. And yet it still wasn’t enough. She let go of his neck, slid her hands down to take hold of the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him against her. She let her hands do as they chose to do, and they reached inside his jacket fumbling for his shirt buttons, as he kissed her even more urgently. She pulled away from him now, not because she wanted to escape him but because she wanted to lie back and feel his weight on her.
How long that desperate hungry clawing went on she didn’t know. All she was aware of was the taste of him, the smell of him and the weight of him as her hands went pushing further and further and then, suddenly, it was over as he pulled away and almost leaped off the sofa and went across the room, pulling at his shirt and jacket as he went.
‘Max,’ she said after a moment. She sat up and ran her hands over her head, then touched her lips with her forefinger, for they felt bruised and swollen. ‘Max? Come back — come and hold me. I want you —’
Family Chorus Page 23
