‘Of course I didn’t, but I did keep Hanny company for a while until the midwife came.’ She could feel herself trembling and went over to the drinks’ cabinet and poured herself a sherry with a shaking hand. Then she thought that perhaps Seb might want a drink and turned to ask him.
‘I’ve had one… or two, maybe three.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘What were you doing there so long? Are Hanny and the baby OK?’
Alice gave a delighted smile. ‘She’s fine and there’s not just one baby but two. One was hidden behind the other, so they’ve a boy and a girl. Isn’t it wonderful?’ She took a sip of sherry. ‘Hanny’s going to have her hands full but at least Bert’s mother will be able to help her.’
Seb stared at her with a fixed expression. ‘You said Bert’s mother.’
Alice was taken aback. ‘Did I? I didn’t realise.’
Seb stood up and thrust his face within inches of Alice’s. ‘I remember him being a handsome devil when I saw him in court. You still have feelings for him, don’t you?’
Alice denied the accusation. ‘I hate him. How can you believe otherwise after the way he behaved towards me? Mrs Kirk mentioned him, so that’s likely the reason his name slipped out.’
Seb seized her by the chin, causing her to spill her drink. His undamaged eye glinted with an angry light. ‘It seems to me that you haven’t forgotten that smarmy devil.’
Alice wrenched herself free. ‘For goodness’ sake, Seb. I told you I hate him. He’s dead, thank God. Don’t let his memory cast a shadow over our lives now. It’s you I love. Let’s see to the children’s stockings and go to bed.’
‘How can you still love me looking like this?’ He dug his fingers into his scarred cheek. ‘Even Ma doesn’t want to see her ugly son at Christmas.’
‘She’s written?’
‘Yes. Martin says they can’t leave the animals and he doesn’t believe in Christmas, anyway.’
‘What was the other post?’ She gulped a mouthful of sherry. He walked unsteadily over to the occasional table and took a card from it. ‘My long-lost Liverpool cousin and granny have sent us Christmas greetings. What do you think I should do about it?’
Relieved that he appeared to have calmed down, Alice remembered what Hanny had said about Joy saying something along the lines that Clara was a decent sort. Perhaps meeting her might turn his attention away from himself. ‘You could write back thanking them and asking after your grandmother’s health. I thought she was on her last legs but if the card’s from both of them, she must still be alive. Perhaps they look to you because you’re the only man in the family now.’
Seb’s mouth tightened. ‘Some man! How can I help them if I can’t even help myself with this damned arm?’
She said rashly, ‘You probably can do something. Just make a decision and give it a try instead of… of…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Instead of moaning, were you going to say? I’ve thought of doing something about it.’ He threw the card in her direction. ‘If you want to write to her, do so. But I don’t want the old woman in my house. According to Ma she was a cruel demanding bully.’ He walked out of the room.
Alice sank onto the sofa, wishing the day could have ended on a lighter, happier note. At least Hanny had been safely delivered and she and Kenny now had the children they had always longed for. Also Freddie was home safely. She had forgotten to mention him to Seb. Perhaps Freddie did hold the key to unlocking the secrets that troubled her husband. Assuming he would allow him to get close. Alice was feeling desperate: if Seb was going to be moody over Christmas it was going to take all her willpower to keep a smile on her face for the children’s sake. Once the season to be jolly was over, she would write to Clara O’Toole and suggest a Sunday in January for her to come to lunch. Perhaps she should also invite Freddie to tea that day.
Chapter Twelve
Clara was humming ‘Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries’ as she left the house for work. She was feeling slightly nervous but was looking forward to getting started at the Palladium. Christmas had come and gone and she was relieved it was over. Her grandmother had been as miserable as sin with no whisky or tonic to imbibe, and she had laid the blame firmly on her granddaughter’s shoulders, saying that she was a tight-fisted young Scrooge. On Boxing Day, Clara had met up with her friend Jean and been invited back to her aunt’s home. Unfortunately, the family had lost a son, so although they had made her welcome, the atmosphere was sadder than it was at home. She had been relieved when it was time to leave.
When she arrived at the Palladium, it was to find a number of people in the foyer with Mr Walsh. He was talking to a tall, well-built, blonde-haired woman.
He spotted Clara almost immediately and said, ‘Ah, there you are, Miss O’Toole, come and join the team.’ He beamed down at her. ‘Now, I like to think of those in my charge as a family who will support each other, so come along, come along.’ Clara blushed as the others stared at her. ‘Let me introduce you,’ he said, beckoning her over.
She walked over to where they were gathered in the vicinity of a couchette and a low table, on which there were several cups and saucers and an ashtray. First he introduced the tall blonde as his wife, Miranda Walsh. Then he waved a hand in the direction of a man who looked to be in his late forties. ‘This is Alan Cormick, our doorman. He fought in the Boer War.’
Clara recognised the grey-haired man with a large moustache from her visits to the cinema and smiled. He winked at her. ‘Welcome to the team,’ he said.
She thanked him.
‘Next to him is Peter Grant, our projectionist,’ said Mr Walsh.
Mr Grant was also an older man but he was sallow-faced with bags under his eyes and only nodded briefly in her direction. She responded with a shy hallo.
‘Our four usherettes, Amy, Iris, Joan and Dorothy.’ One had reddish-brown hair with a round face and pouty lips, another was fair with freckled skin, then there was one who was mousy-haired, and the last was a brunette. ‘Pleased to meet yer,’ they chorused.
‘And this young man…’ Mr Walsh clapped a hand on the shoulder of a carroty-haired youth with a spotty face, ‘is my brother’s boy, Teddy. He’s learning the trade and he’ll be starting in the projection room as Peter’s assistant.’
Despite Teddy being a couple of years younger than Clara, he looked her up and down with bold yellowish-brown eyes. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss O’Toole. I presume you have a Christian name?’
‘Clara,’ she answered stiffly.
Mr Walsh rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, I want to do a run through of our grand reopening. You, Miss O’Toole, will be in the cash box and will have to be nimble-fingered and have your wits about you. There’ll be quite a crowd and the auditorium can hold nine hundred people. We’ve some important folk coming. Mrs Walsh will be overseeing the refreshments, but first she’ll show you the ropes, so you shouldn’t have any trouble. But she will keep her eye on you and come to your assistance if need be. Amy and Iris, you’ll be downstairs. Naturally, take folk’s tickets and show them to their seats as politely and speedily as possible. Joan and Dorothy, you’ll be upstairs. Alan, Peter, you know what to do. Teddy, you’ll do as Peter tells you.’
‘Will the Palladium Orchestra be playing and will there be any turns?’ asked Clara.
‘Turns, Miss O’Toole!’ exclaimed Mr Walsh with a chuckle. ‘Surely you mean variety acts by top stars.’
‘We’ve a new musician in the orchestra, haven’t we, Mr Walsh?’ said Iris, the pouty-lipped usherette. ‘Lost a clarinet player to the flu.’
‘Sadly, that is true,’ said Mr Walsh with a sigh. ‘But on the other hand, Mr Bennett is an even better musician and can also play the piano. He worked in America for years and did extremely well there. But now he’s returned to Liverpool to help support his widowed sister, who has several children.’
‘What a nice man,’ said Amy.
‘Well, yes, thoughtful,’ said Mr Walsh, nodding vigorously. ‘Anyway, folks. Our special guests will be arriving at five-thir
ty on the dot on New Year’s Day. The performance will start at six-fifteen and there’ll be an interval at eight.’
‘Are we having one of Charlie’s films?’ asked Amy eagerly.
‘Of course, that goes without saying,’ said Mrs Walsh, her face alight with enthusiasm. ‘He’s one of England’s own, isn’t he? Even if his films are being made in Hollywood.’ She stared at Clara. ‘Don’t you just love make-believe, Miss O’Toole?’
‘I do,’ replied Clara swiftly, warmed by Mrs Walsh’s friendliness. Up until then she had considered Mrs Walsh a little austere and possibly stuck-up, but her smile had changed her face completely and now to her relief, the older woman appeared approachable.
‘Will it be a two-reeler?’ asked Teddy. ‘And what about the experiment?’
‘Patience, my boy. I was coming to that. But it won’t be tonight.’
‘What won’t be tonight?’ asked Amy.
‘We’re going to try showing two films,’ said Mrs Walsh excitedly.
Mr Walsh threw up his hands. ‘I was going to tell them.’
‘Will it be Mary Pickford; America’s sweetheart?’ asked Dorothy, her eyes shining. ‘I love her. Is there going to be a dog in it, as well?’
‘No, it’s a Lillian Gish and it’s a drama,’ said Mr Walsh, turning to his wife. ‘They’ll love it, won’t they, Mrs Walsh? It’s a real tear-jerker.’
‘They certainly will.’
‘So who are these special guests?’ asked Peter, the projectionist.
‘Our backers and the press for a start. We want them to give us a good write-up to bring in the audience,’ replied Mr Walsh, adopting a serious manner.
‘Shouldn’t you have given them a pre-showing then?’ asked Clara. ‘So they could have told their readers in advance about the films?’
Mr Walsh’s expression told her that was an idea that had occurred to him, but he only said, ‘Good thinking. We did send them the distributors’ flyers and also information about our very special guests, so it should be in the Liverpool Echo this evening. The reporters should be here on the opening night. Most local people know what a wonderful place this is to spend an evening. An excellent film programme, comfortable seats, a marvellous orchestra.’
Mrs Walsh turned her bright eyes on her husband and clasped her hands against her bosom. ‘Now, dear, will you tell them who the main guests are… I can still hardly believe they agreed to come.’
‘I will, I will.’ He raised himself up on his toes and then lowered himself down again. ‘Dorothy Ward and Shaun Glenville,’ he said in a rapt voice.
‘Gosh,’ said Clara at the mention of the husband and wife team who were famous throughout the country for their appearances in plays, musicals and pantomime. ‘Aren’t they appearing in Jack and the Beanstalk at the Olympia in the New Year?’
‘Correct, Clara,’ said Mr Walsh, rising up on his tiptoes again and clasping his hands behind his back. ‘As it happens, one of Shaun Glenville’s drinking pals is a friend of mine and he had a word with him about our reopening.’
‘I can scarcely believe it,’ said Iris, her eyes glowing. ‘Will Dorothy Ward sing for us, d’you think?’
‘Of course. I thought we could decorate the place a bit before the opening night. Put up some garlands and a banner and get some balloons.’
Dorothy wriggled her shoulders with excitement. ‘It sounds like it’s really going to be a grand occasion,’ she said.
Clara could not agree more.
Shortly afterwards, Mrs Walsh instructed Clara in what was expected of her as a cashier. She ushered her into the cash box and told her the cost of the various seats; three pence, sixpence and a shilling, and showed her the rolls of tickets. Also, she brought out the cash bags in which she would need to place the takings. ‘You’ll be given a float before each performance and you must keep a note of that and take it out of the amount of cash you finish up with at the end of the evening. You will need to balance the price of the tickets sold with the takings. You’ll bring the bags to the office to do that and either I or Mr Walsh will assist you until Mr Eaton’s return.’ She produced a keyring containing two keys and fingered the largest. ‘This one is for the door of the cash box, because you’ll need to lock yourself in.’ She adopted a more serious note. ‘We don’t want anyone getting away with the takings. This way you and the cash will be safe. One must be so careful. There are lots of desperate people around since the war. Hopefully the films we show will help to alleviate some of their misery.’
Clara could see the sense in what Mrs Walsh said and looked forward to being part of the exciting media of cinematography. She could not wait to get home and tell her grandmother about it.
But Clara had barely set foot in the house when Bernie called out, ‘There’s a letter for you from Chester.’
Clara almost ran into the kitchen. ‘Have you opened it?’
‘It’s on the mantelpiece, propped up against the cat.’ Bernie took a swig from her hip flask.
Clara stared at her and then reached for the envelope resting against a cat painted bilious green, orange and purple, and wasted no time in opening it.
Dear Clara O’Toole,
I hope you’ll forgive us for not answering your last letter but life here since my husband has come home has been hectic. Sad to say he doesn’t feel up to meeting your grandmother and is of the opinion that his mother won’t wish to see her either. I’m sure you’ll understand if you know anything of the background to their falling out.
Putting that aside, I would be happy to see you and hopefully you will be able to meet Seb, as well. I’d best warn you that he’s been very badly injured: one side of his face is scarred and he’s blind in one eye. He also has a weak arm. I’m hoping that meeting you will be good for him. He never had any real family life until we were married.
I’ll say no more but please come and take us as you find us. A Sunday will be best. I suggest the second one in January. Come for lunch at 2 p.m. Please let me know if this suits you.
Yours sincerely,
Alice Bennett.
‘Well?’ demanded Bernie. ‘Is it from him? What does it say?’
‘It’s from his wife,’ said Clara, lifting her smiling face from the letter. ‘She’s asked me to lunch the second Sunday in January.’
‘Hasn’t asked me, though,’ mumbled Bernie. ‘And you don’t look too pleased about it.’
‘I am pleased, but I feel sad for them both because of his injuries.’ Clara sighed. ‘Anyway, as far as your going is concerned, it’s not as though you’d manage to get there, with the way your legs are.’
‘I could in a motor. If that young man who brought me home would fetch me.’
‘He doesn’t live with them.’
‘No mention of Gertie?’
Clara hesitated. ‘She hasn’t given me her address if that’s what you mean.’
‘I want to see her again before I die.’
Clara’s lips twitched. ‘Better than when you’re dead. I’ll see what I can do to persuade them to give me her address.’
‘So you’re definitely going?’ said Bernie. ‘Despite it’s going to cost you.’
Clara nodded and felt a soaring excitement at the thought of visiting Seb and Alice and their children. But first there was the grand reopening at the Palladium to enjoy.
* * *
‘Look, look, look,’ stammered Amy, her nose pressed against a glass pane. ‘D’you think her stole is real silver fox? And what d’yer think of her gown?’
‘It’s lovely,’ said Clara, watching Dorothy Ward smiling at Mr Walsh as he shook hands with her husband, Shaun Glenville, outside the front entrance. She could hear the oohs and ahhs of the crowd outside and saw the actress wave her hand in the direction of those gathered there. ‘I love that ice-blue satin frock she’s wearing.’
Iris giggled. ‘It’s generally him that wears the gown but he’s got a penguin suit on this evening.’
‘It’s their motor I’m interested in,’
said Teddy, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘I’m going to have one like that when I’m rich.’
‘When being the operative word,’ said Dorothy, with a wink at Clara.
Mrs Walsh suddenly appeared. ‘Come on, come on, get in line if you want to be introduced.’
Clara ran her hands down the skirt of her maroon uniform and did as she was told. A thrill raced through her at the thought that, in a few minutes, she might get to shake the hand of a celebrated actress whom she had admired from newspaper articles and the billboards. She wondered what her Aunt Gertie would think of it.
They were coming!
There was the tap-tap-tap of high heels and the famous couple were inside the foyer. The electric light sparkled on the necklace at Dorothy Ward’s throat as she allowed her fur stole to slip off her shoulders to reveal her bare shoulders and neck. Clara wondered if the gems were real diamonds or just paste. She gazed admiringly at the actress as Mr Walsh introduced his wife to the stars before passing on to one of the musicians. He was the new one from America and was wearing a dinner jacket and bow tie. He must have said something funny because both husband and wife laughed.
Clara smiled, thinking back to their first meeting yesterday. She had thought he must have been a heartbreaker when he was young because he was still a handsome man with a thick head of silver hair and there were scarcely any wrinkles on his face except for a few laughter lines. He had asked her opinion about the piece of music he had played earlier and she had told him that it had filled her head with pictures of hustle and bustle and then of horses galloping. His brown eyes had twinkled at her. ‘That means I’m doing my job properly.’ He had spoken with a slight drawl.
The other musicians came next and then it was the projectionist’s turn to be introduced. Clara was next in line to Teddy and she was aware of his impatience, but they passed him over swiftly and then she was face to face with them.
‘How nice to meet you, Miss O’Toole. And what is your opinion of the silent screen?’ asked Shaun Glenville in his lovely Irish accent. He was a well-built man with a fighter’s nose, which might have given him a pugnacious expression if it hadn’t been for his smiling eyes. ‘Do you think it will ever replace live theatre?’
When the Clouds Go Rolling By Page 13
