Family Chorus

by Claire Rayner

  When she opened the doors and saw the cablegram envelope on the mat she was quite unfussed at first, just picking it up and going to the kitchen to get a glass of iced tonic water before attempting to open it. Not until she was sitting in her big cool living room with the glass, beaded and inviting, in one hand and the cablegram in the other, did she realize that there might be some significance in it.

  Max was away for a couple of days, in Paris, where there were complex negotiations going on over his clients’ Suez holdings, and as she stared at the flimsy envelope the thought rose in her mind on a wave of cold fear; could Max be in some sort of trouble — ill, perhaps? He’d been looking far from well lately and she’d fretted over that, wanting him to see doctors, but he’d pooh-poohed her anxieties and told her it was just the pressure of work at the moment. As soon as this silly fuss was over they’d go on a little holiday: the Balearics, maybe. He’d never shown her the island of Majorca, and she’d love it — and now she looked at the envelope and, setting down her glass with a little clatter, with shaking fingers she tried to tear it open. He was ill, he had to be. Why else a cable? And then even as her commonsense told her that his clerk, Bill Alderton, who was travelling with him, would have phoned her from Paris if there was anything to worry about, she saw the name at the bottom of the sheet of paper she had managed to pull out of the envelope, and breathed again. Then felt a shock of anxiety tighten in her once more.

  ‘ARRIVING HEATHROW 9 A.M. WEDNESDAY 8 AUGUST STOP CAN YOU MEET STOP MOLLY.’

  Molly, coming to London? After all this time? She smoothed the cable on her lap and stared at it as though the intensity of her gaze could uncover more information, but the words just stared back at her, laconic and demanding. Can you meet. Coming to London. Can you meet.

  Max won’t be back in time, she thought, panic lifting in her. Oh, my God, he won’t be back in time. It’s tomorrow she’s coming, tomorrow morning, and she wants us to meet her and Max isn’t here. I’ll have to tell her, send a cable, she can’t come —

  It was absurd to be so alarmed. Deliberately she put the cablegram back in its envelope, pushed it into the pocket of her cotton dress, and leaned back in her armchair to sip at her cold drink. Absurd. Why be so alarmed? She’s your daughter, not someone to be afraid of — all right, you haven’t seen her for a long time, but she’s still your daughter. Older and wiser now. The old sillinesses that used to be between us must have dwindled by now, the old antagonisms surely dusty and dead. If she didn’t want to see me, she wouldn’t be coming.

  It’s Max she wants to see, her private voice whispered, and she shook her head irritably. The old habit she’d once had of talking to herself inside her head was something else that should be dead and dusty by now; it was ridiculous to be reacting like this to a promised visit from someone she cared about. Ridiculous. And she went into the spare bedroom to see what would be needed for Molly’s arrival. There was no sense in getting agitated, she told herself as she plumped pillows and set towels ready in the bathroom. I’ll go tomorrow morning, and when Max gets home on Thursday, he’ll be agreeably surprised. We’ll all have a cosy weekend talking — and finding out why she’s here, the little voice whispered malevolently, and whether she’s making some sort of mischief. And again she stifled it, refusing to pay it any attention. But it wasn’t easy.

  It was almost inevitable, she told herself bitterly, that circumstances should make her be late at the airport. She’d allowed all the time she could possibly have needed, only to find herself in a snarl of rush-hour traffic at Shepherd’s Bush that brought her late on to the Great West Road and even later to the terminal building. Parking the car was an agony of frustration as she found herself caught behind a dawdling old Morris which couldn’t make up its mind where it was going or how it was to get there, and when at last she did reach the arrival sector for transatlantic flights she was breathless, tight and tremulous as a newly tuned violin. She felt that if anyone touched her she would emit a high-pitched sound, that all round her the very air shook with her tension. She saw Molly at once, standing beside a trolley on which four handsome matching cases were stacked. She had a flight bag slung easily over one shoulder, and looked as fresh and unruffled as though she had just stepped off a tube train after a ten-minute hop from the West End to Regent’s Park. There was a little space around her, in spite of the hubbub of the airport lounge, and people were staring, whispering to each other, clearly recognizing her and yet not certain who she was. Her films, after all, hadn’t been particularly good ones, and her parts in them hadn’t been all that spectacular, yet she was still a familiar face, and passers by were clearly aware of it.

  She was wearing clothes that were clearly not English: exceedingly well-cut yellow cotton trousers and over them a matching shirt and jacket. None of it was creased, and her hair and face were in perfect order. Although Lexie herself had dressed carefully that morning she was suddenly aware that what she was wearing was all wrong: a Mary Bee dress in cream silk, waistless and elegant, and, she had thought, perfect for this heavy August weather, but in comparison with Molly’s relaxed chic she felt fussy and overdressed.

  Moving a little more slowly now, not wanting to seem agitated, she began to edge through the crowd, and then, suddenly, there was a shrill cry of, ‘Ooh, look, Joe — there’s that lady from the telly — you know, from that there The Name of The Game — what’s ’er name — Alexandra Asher —’ And then there was a woman pulling on her arm, asking for her autograph, and she looked down at the scrap of grubby paper that was pushed under her nose and felt a lift of — what? Embarrassment, or triumph? Dealing with being recognized and asked to sign things had been part of her daily life for years now. Her television show got good ratings, and even when it was off the air for the summer, as it now was, people knew her. Usually she found recognition rather tiresome, not wanting to smile and be charming to complete strangers, but now, as she realized that Molly had seen her, the sense of triumph overwhelmed the moment of embarrassment. I mayn’t look as relaxed as she does, she thought as she smiled brilliantly at the woman in front of her and signed her scrap of paper with a flourish, but I’m not negligible. This’ll show her.

  But when at last Lexie reached Molly’s side, Molly made no mention of the little episode, only smiling and bending to kiss her cheek. Her own face was cool and she smelled faintly of Joy perfume, expensive and fresh, and she said easily, ‘Lexie, my dear — how good of you to come out like this. I guess you had a tough time getting here, hmm? The plane, would you believe, got down on time.’

  I won’t apologize, Lexie thought furiously. I won’t. I’m here — that should be enough — and she smiled at her.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘Was it a good flight?’

  ‘Not bad at all. Where’s Max?’

  ‘In Paris,’ Lexie said, and there was a malicious edge in her. I’m glad he’s not here, she told herself as she looked round for a porter to take the luggage to the car park. She’ll have to put up with me and like it.

  Again the familiarity of her face came to her rescue as a porter saw her, and, deliberately ignoring other eager passengers, took the luggage with much jollity and heavy jokes about knowing the name of the game, and at last they were moving out of the mêlée. Still Molly made no mention of the attention Lexie was getting from passers by, and that helped Lexie enormously. She had been thrown off balance by being late, had got off on the wrong foot, but it was getting easier by the moment. I can cope, she told herself as the luggage was loaded into the car and Molly settled herself in the passenger seat and Lexie tipped the porter. I can cope. We’ll be all right.

  They talked commonplaces most of the way into town, and Lexie was glad of that. She was a regular driver, but London traffic, which seemed to get thicker and more clotted with each day that passed, still alarmed her a little and she needed to concentrate. By the time she at last drew up outside the flat she felt better than ever. She’d slept little last night, worrying about how
she and Molly would talk to each other, how they would be together, but it was all right now. They were going to be all right — and she showed Molly to her room as easily and as cheerfully as though they’d seen each other only a few weeks ago, rather than a few years.

  ‘I’ll make you some breakfast,’ she said, as Molly stood in the middle of the pretty little room, looking round. ‘Your bathroom’s just through there.’ She pointed along the hallway outside. ‘You’ll find me in the living room there, when you’re ready. Make yourself comfortable and —’ She hesitated at the door, wanting to communicate her sense of relief at how easy their meeting had been, in spite of her anxiety, and said diffidently, ‘I’m so happy to see you, Molly. It’s been much too long. It’s all been so silly — it would be lovely if we could be — well, happy together. I hope we can, and I’m so glad you’re here —’

  Molly looked at her for a moment and then ducked her head in a way that made Lexie feel suddenly odd, for it was one of her own gestures, and she recognized it as such. She’d seen her own programmes on television, knew her own mannerisms all too well, and to see one of them reproduced in this way was extraordinary.

  ‘It’s good to be here,’ Molly said. ‘I’ve meant to come any time this past six years but somehow —’ She shrugged and turned away to the bed, beginning to take off her jacket. ‘You know how it is in this business. You can’t always do what you want. If you go too far away from the coast you miss out on what’s going on, the parts there are — you know how it is —’ Her voice trailed away and she looked over her shoulder at Lexie and smiled briefly.

  ‘I know,’ Lexie said. ‘No need to fret about it. I’ll make some breakfast —’

  ‘Only coffee and juice, please,’ Molly said. ‘I couldn’t cope with anything else.’ Lexie nodded and went away to find Mrs Potter, her daily help, and get her busy squeezing oranges.

  Molly took a long time unpacking and Lexie waited in the living room with her head thrown back on her chair, trying to make up her mind about how she had reacted to her overtures of affection. Had she welcomed or dismissed them? It was extraordinary how contained a person she was, how little she communicated even though her face was an open one and her expression animated. She’s got a good façade, she thought, staring at the window. A good façade. An actress’s façade. Was she acting with me? Dammit, was she acting with me? And some of the unease that had filled her at the airport came creeping back into her.

  And with it a little shock of guilt. I was hateful, she told herself, hateful. More concerned with how I looked, with the effect I was having on her, than with seeing her. Why do I do it every time? From the moment she was born I’ve got it wrong. And I so much want to get it right now. She’s a beautiful woman, she’s a talented woman, and I want to love her without any complications. I want to love her as a daughter and every time I get it wrong —

  Beside her the phone shrilled. She jumped and then picked it up, just as Molly came out of the spare bedroom at last, along the hallway into the living room. Lexie smiled at her, not seeing her very clearly because her eyes, dazzled by the window at which she had been staring, had shaded everything with a blush of green.

  ‘Mrs Cramer?’ the phone clattered at her. ‘Hello, is that Mrs Cramer?’

  ‘Bill,’ she said, and at once the lurch of anxiety was there. ‘Bill, where are you? Where’s Max?’

  ‘No need to worry, Mrs Cramer.’ Bill’s voice sounded clipped and very distant and she had to strain to hear him. ‘He just felt a bit under the weather, so he’s coming home early. I’m staying here to tidy up — he should be with you by about nine tonight. Flying out of Orly as soon as he can get on a plane. He’s at the airport now — will you tell him, when you see him, it’s all worked out as he wanted? Chesterfields closed at the rate he set, and as long as the bank and Davidson get the figures before business starts in the morning, there’ll be no problems. Would you mind repeating that, Mrs Cramer? It’s really very important —’

  ‘Chesterfields closed at the rate he set, and the bank and — who was it — Davidson — must get the figures before business starts in the morning. I’ve got it. Bill, what’s the matter? How do you mean, under the weather? What’s been —’

  ‘Really, nothing to worry about, Mrs Cramer,’ Bill said, and she knew he was lying. ‘He’ll be with you by nine at the latest, maybe earlier. Be sure he gets the message — it’s really vital —’ The phone clicked and the dialling tone buzzed in her ear as she sat and stared at Molly and the greenness in her vision faded, leaving everything looking dull and ominous.

  ‘It’s Max,’ she said after a moment with as much brightness in her voice as she could put into it, and knowing it sounded false. ‘He’ll be home earlier than I’d hoped. Tonight instead of tomorrow —’

  Molly’s face lit up and for the first time the façade slipped, and she looked young and eager. ‘Really? That’s fantastic! Oh, I am glad — I was real disappointed not to see him there at Heathrow. Does he know I’m here?’

  ‘No,’ Lexie said absently, still looking at the phone. ‘No. He — that was his clerk in Paris. It’ll be a great surprise for him —’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Molly said and lifted both clenched hands in the air in an odd little gesture of jubilation. ‘Yes — can we meet him at the airport?’

  Lexie shook her head. ‘I don’t know what time he’ll be there. He’s got to get a place on a plane. No booking, I gather. So we’ll just have to wait —’ She smiled at Molly as gaily as she could. She mustn’t know, she was thinking feverishly. She mustn’t know Max isn’t well, oh God, she mustn’t know. And she didn’t know why she was so anxious to keep her anxiety about him to herself, or why it was so imperative that Molly shouldn’t share her fear. It just was, and somehow she had to contain her feelings for the rest of the day.

  She didn’t know quite how she was going to do it, because the anxiety was biting very deeply indeed. Max who was never ill, Max who was always so punctilious about business, to come home before a piece of work was finished — it was terrifying.

  But Molly solved the problem for her. She drank the orange juice Mrs Potter brought her and then refused the coffee. ‘I can’t do without some sleep, Lexie,’ she said and yawned hugely. ‘I thought I could cope with this change in times, but it’s knocking me out. Can I go to bed? Would you mind?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Lexie said eagerly, gratitude sharpening her cordiality. ‘Of course go to bed. Then when Max gets here you’ll be fresh and ready to see him — though he may be a little tired, of course. He’s been working rather hard in Paris —’ Oh, please let it be overwork, just overwork, she prayed inside her head. Let it be overwork.

  ‘Great,’ Molly yawned again and then, with an air of great casualness, said, ‘I have a script with me. It’s for a new film — I have to consider it. Would you care to read it while I sleep? I’d be glad of an opinion —’

  Lexie nodded uncertainly. ‘Well, yes, if you like. Not that I’m any sort of expert. I mean, I’ve always been a dancer and singer. Not an actress. My television shows — they’re just games. I’m not used to scripts really — but if you like —’

  ‘I would like. Let me know specially what you think of the Georgina character. I’d really like to know.’ Once again she yawned and stretched and got to her feet. ‘I’ll go to sleep then. Call me as soon as Max gets here, won’t you? I’ll fetch the script for you —’

  She went and brought the script and dropped it into Lexie’s lap, and then left her. And when Mrs Potter too took her leave and the flat lay around her, hot and still in the heavy August afternoon, the only way to control her worry over Max was to read. She might as well read Molly’s script as anything else, she told herself. So she opened its green cardboard cover and began.

  46

  By the time she’d finished reading, the noises from the street outside had changed, the afternoon’s slow rumble giving way to the shrill din of the rush hour, finally mellowing into the mid-evening purr a
s people made their way into the West End for theatres, restaurants and cinemas. The only sounds inside the flat were the rustle of the pages as she turned them and the occasional rattle of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

  The heaviness that settled on her, she decided, wasn’t just her anxiety about Max and the seemingly interminable waiting for him; it was the script. It took her a little while to get into the rhythm of it: the terseness of the dialogue, the camera directions written in language she didn’t fully understand — what was MCU? she wondered, and then decided it was a medium close-up, and puzzled out that POV was point of view — but slowly the story caught her, and the characters began to prowl around in her mind.

  It was a story of two women, a mother and her stepdaughter. At first it seemed to be just a sentimental tale of feminine love, but then it changed, became more sinister, as the mother’s character, Georgina, showed signs of being first odd, and then, as the tale developed, a person of almost monstrous wickedness — malicious, manipulative and sly. Lexie read on eagerly, needing to know why Georgina was as she was, fascinated by the woman’s evil effect, and was almost startled to find how gripped she was as the true depths of the older woman’s depravity came out.

  But it was the part of the daughter, named Alice, which really haunted her. A marvellous part for an actress, she found herself thinking: a girl who was both vulnerable and tough, eager and yet frightened, bursting with a hunger for sex and unable to recognize what it was that drove her. She and Max had been to see the film Baby Doll only last month and, sitting now in her living room in her quiet London flat, Lexie felt the same sense of brooding Southern American angst in this script that she had found in that Tennessee Williams’ film, and she actually turned back to the title page to see if this too was his work. But though it wasn’t, it had the same power, the same gloomy intensity, and she felt its strength still with her as she closed the last page and leaned back in her armchair.