HIS OTHER SON

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  ‘Meg, Meg Johnson.’

  ‘And are you in the business, Meg?’

  ‘I’m an actress… and singer.’

  Crawford nodded. ‘A singer eh? Well perhaps you and I should duet later. What do you say?’

  There was something about the way he looked at her that told her he was not talking about singing. She avoided his eyes. ‘I’d better get back to the party.’

  Crawford started to laugh, and was still laughing when he shut the door to the room. Meg turned and was about to walk back to the party when she stopped. Standing at the end of the landing, having just come up the stairs was the beautiful woman with the cropped black hair. She was staring at Meg furiously. Flustered, but strangely excited Meg walked quickly back along the landing to the stairs. As she reached the woman she said, ‘Excuse me.’

  The woman stood to one side to allow her to pass, but Meg could feel her eyes burning into her back all the way down the stairs. She reached the bottom, almost bumping into Gareth who was on his way up the stairs.

  ‘I was just coming to find you,’ he said, and then looked at her askance. ‘Are you all right? You’re blushing.’ He looked on past her, back up the stairs at Narina Dressler who was standing at the top, casually lighting a cigarette but staring down at them. There was something in the woman’s eyes – a curious mixture of amusement and contempt.

  Meg said, ‘I’m fine, really. Just a little flushed, that’s all. It’s very warm. I think I could do with some fresh air.’

  ‘Come on then,’ Gareth took her by the arm and led her back into the party, through the french doors and out onto the veranda. The cool evening air on her face revived her instantly and she took several deep breaths, filling her lungs and letting the air out slowly.

  ‘Wait here and I’ll fetch us some drinks.’

  She nodded and smiled, and turned to gaze out over the garden. It was huge and floodlit. A gazebo stood in the centre of the sloping lawn, and she noticed there were people inside, sipping drinks and talking. Beyond the garden was the cliff edge, judiciously fenced off, and beyond that the sea. A great expanse coloured crimson by the dying sun. It was a breathtaking view. Her mind was spinning. Finlay Crawford had just made a pass at her. Finlay Crawford!

  ‘He’s ruined many a promising career has that one.’ Mrs Gafney’s words echoed in her ears.

  She shook her head to silence them. She felt faint but would let nothing spoil this moment.

  June Gafney flicked over the pages of the scrapbook. The earliest entry was a cutting from a local newspaper, reviewing a school concert.

  The star of this particular show was eight-year-old Mary Gafney who sang Nymphs and Shepherds with a gusto and confidence that belied her age.

  There were more, many more similar reviews, taking Mary up to the age of fifteen and her first professional engagement in a pantomime. By this time she’d changed her name from plain Mary Elsie Gafney to the more exotic Marie Elise.

  A NEW STAR IN THE MAKING

  …The new production of Cinderella was notable because of the debut appearance in the West End of a young woman whose star is sure to burn brightly for many years to come. Fifteen year old Marie Elise is possessed of a fine singing voice and is also an excellent dancer, but her acting skills brought to the part of Cinderella a touching vulnerability and an emotional depth that is sadly lacking in most modern pantomimes…

  Mrs Gafney opened up a theatre programme and a sob caught in her throat as the pretty face of her daughter smiled back at her from a small black and white photograph. How quickly her daughter progressed from that Christmas pantomime, to taking leading roles in plays by Coward and Rattigan. She was the star of her generation, feted by critics, adored by the public, and dead by the time she was twenty-one.

  WEST END ACTRESS FOUND DEAD

  Police today are investigating the death of the West End actress Marie Elise, who was found at her Holborn apartment yesterday evening. Miss Elise was taken to St Bartholomew’s hospital where she was pronounced dead on arrival.

  Miss Elise was appearing in Blithe Spirit at the Shaftsbury Theatre. Her fellow cast members treated the news of her death with shock and surprise but insist that this evening’s performance of the play will go ahead as planned…

  She closed the scrapbook, then placed everything else back into the suitcase and took it back to the bedroom. Back in the kitchen she poured herself another sherry, downed it in one swallow and poured another, then went through to the hall and picked up the telephone. She dialled a familiar number. A gruff male voice answered.

  ‘Hello, lover,’ she slurred. ‘I’m lonely. D’you want to come over?’

  ‘Okay. Twenty minutes,’ the gruff voice said.

  June Gafney wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled at the receiver. One day, Finlay Crawford, she thought, you are going to get what’s coming to you. But she knew she was too frightened to go against him, and the knowledge of that fear made her despise herself. She sat down in an armchair in the cramped lounge, sipped her sherry, opened the scrapbook again and waited for the doorbell to ring.

  When Gareth returned with the drinks Meg was still staring out at the sea, but her thoughts were turned inwards. She was thinking about Finlay Crawford, worrying about the woman with the cropped hair, and puzzling over the pale-faced girl who’d led her to the locked door at the end of the burgundy painted corridor. It was such a confusing jumble of thoughts, all vying for dominance in her mind, that her head began to ache.

  ‘Cooler now?’ Gareth asked her

  She nodded and thanked him for the drink.

  They both turned as someone stepped out onto the veranda. Meg recognised the short, rotund figure immediately.

  ‘Clifford!’ Gareth said, and shook the man’s hand enthusiastically.

  ‘Good to see you again, Gareth. Martin tells me you’re on at the Palace,’ Clifford Stein said.

  ‘In the Showstoppers show, yes. Only chorus but...’

  ‘It’s a living, yes?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And is this young lady also in the show?’

  Meg felt herself wilting under the man’s gaze. His face was fat and florid, his forehead covered with a thin film of perspiration. He peered at her myopically through a pair of thick-lens spectacles, and there was something in that look – something Meg found unwholesome. She could feel his eyes boring through her clothes, undressing her.

  Gareth introduced her and she shook the man’s slightly clammy hand. She resisted the urge to wipe her palm afterwards.

  Stein was still staring at her lasciviously when he spoke next. ‘Come inside, both of you. I’ve persuaded Finlay to give us an impromptu recital.’

  As if on cue the opening bars of Moonlight Becomes You drifted out to the veranda, and Finlay Crawford’s rich baritone filled the night air. Stein stood between them and encircled their waists with his arms, propelling them inside. As they moved towards the open door Meg felt the man’s fat fingers fluttering slightly – they felt like fat, damp slugs crawling up her body. She shuddered and once inside pulled away from him.

  A group gathered around the piano. Almost everyone in the room was there, all paying homage to the great man. Crawford himself proved to be not only a wonderful singer but also a very adept pianist, his hands stroking the keys with astonishing dexterity.

  Meg stood on the periphery of the group, letting herself be carried away by the music. It was only by chance that she happened to glance back at the veranda. Clifford Stein was back outside, talking to the woman with the cropped black hair. They seemed to be having a heated exchange, and Meg could see that the woman was crying. Stein had her by the shoulders and was shaking her, bellowing something into her face, but what it was Meg had no idea. Finlay Crawford possessed a strong voice and a bravura piano technique, and his sound filled the room, obliterating any ambient noise.

  As Meg watched, the woman broke free from Stein’s grasp and swung her hand, aiming for his face. Stein caught her wrist in mid-
air and started to laugh, mocking her. Suddenly his face contorted and he pulled her to him, bringing his mouth close to her ear. Whatever he said to her Meg had no way of hearing, but judging from the look on the woman’s face it was something dreadful. Her eyes widened and for an instant they seemed to be filled with abject terror. She began to cry again and Stein released her. The woman ran down the steps to the garden and Meg lost sight of her. She looked back at Clifford Stein who stood on the veranda, smoking a cigarette, an untroubled expression on his face.

  Suddenly Meg felt she did not want to be here any more. There was something going on under the veneer of gaiety and bonhomie that was making her feel uncomfortable. She could not pin down what it was, but everything she’d experienced tonight seemed designed to unsettle her.

  During a break in Finlay Crawford’s impromptu cabaret she turned to Gareth. ‘I’m sorry but I think I’m going to go home now. I have a splitting headache,’ It was a lie but she did not want to tell him what she’d witnessed on the veranda – at least, not here. ‘Could you call me a taxi?’

  ‘I’ll get our coats,’ he said.

  ‘No, please. You don’t have to come with me. You stay on. I’ll be fine on my own.’

  A troubled frown creased his brow. ‘I’m not happy with you going off by yourself.’

  ‘And I’m not prepared to drag you away from your friends. I’d never be able to live with the guilt.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m a big girl now. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.’

  Gareth bit his lip. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m certain. Go and call that taxi.’

  Finlay Crawford started another song, and was staring intensely at Meg, a slight smile playing on his lips. Meg turned away and walked out into hall. When Gareth returned a short while later she saw to her dismay that Clifford Stein was with him.

  ‘Gareth tells me you’re not feeling so well,’ Stein said solicitously.

  Meg was dismissive. ‘It’s just a headache,’ she said. Stein was the last person she wanted to talk to.

  ‘Can I get you anything? An aspirin perhaps?’

  ‘No, really. I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. I probably shouldn’t have come.’

  The butler approached and whispered something into Stein’s ear. ‘Thank you, Jarvis.’ Stein turned to Meg. ‘Your taxi has arrived.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Meg made to move towards the door.

  Stein stepped into her path. ‘I’m having another gathering here Sunday. Gareth tells me you won’t be working, so would you care to come along? I can’t promise it will be as lively as tonight, but Finlay and Narina are staying on for a few days, so I’m sure it will be far from dull.’

  Meg hesitated. She wanted to say no, but couldn’t without appearing rude. She looked to Gareth, willing him to bail her out, but he was nodding his head slightly, urging her to accept the invitation.

  ‘Thank you,’ Meg said. ‘I’d be delighted to come.’

  Stein’s face split into a wide grin and he slapped Gareth on the shoulder. ‘You see, Gareth. I said I could persuade her into accepting.’ He turned to Meg. ‘Gareth was convinced you’d say no. I’m glad you didn’t. Three o’clock suit you?’

  Meg smiled slightly and nodded.

  Stein stepped aside. ‘Splendid. I look forward to seeing you again.’ He took her hand. Bending forward slightly he put it to his lips. Not an actual kiss, but the faintest of touches. Even so Meg felt her skin crawl. There was something unsavoury about Clifford Stein.

  As she turned the key in the front door a feeling of foolishness overwhelmed her. How could she have been so naive, so gauche? This wasn’t Sevenoaks and the people she was mixing with tonight were the cream of the theatre-world, not a ragbag of fading repertory actors.

  Yes, she’d seen Clifford Stein apparently behaving like a bore, but she didn’t know the circumstances of the altercation, and he’d been perfectly charming to her. As for her feeling that there was something unpleasant going under the surface of the sociability, the long lonely ride home in the taxi convinced her it was nothing more than her imagination working overtime – like seeing the face in the mirror and imagining it was the same girl she’d seen at Stein’s house. She had to get a grip.

  To make matters worse she found that when she went to pay the taxi-driver he told her that Stein himself had covered the fare. She would have to send a letter of thanks and apology to Clifford Stein, and she would have to apologise to Gareth also. Leaving him in the lurch like that was unforgivable.

  She turned the key and pushed open the door, then groaned as she saw Mrs Gafney emerge from her room.

  ‘You’re back early,’ she said. She was holding a half-filled schooner of sherry. Her cheeks were flushed and her words slurred.

  ‘Yes,’ Meg said. ‘I had a headache.’

  Mrs Gafney snorted with laughter. ‘And I’ve used that one in my time, believe you me!’

  Meg ignored the innuendo. ‘Besides, rehearsals start tomorrow, and I want to be fresh.’

  A gruff male voice called from the landlady’s room, ‘June! Are you coming back or what?’

  ‘All in good time, Bill. Turn the record over and pour me another drink,’ she called back, then stared blearily at the glass in her hand and laughed again.

  ‘Well,’ Meg said, ‘goodnight.’

  ‘Was it a big house then? Ostentatious job was it? Gold taps in the bathroom and a bidet?’

  ‘It’s a nice house, yes. But no, the bathroom is very plain, very tasteful.’

  ‘What about the bedroom then?’ Mrs Gafney said, and belched loudly.

  ‘Mrs Gafney!’ Meg said indignantly.

  ‘June! Come on! I’m getting cold!’

  The landlady ignored him, swaying slightly. ‘I would have thought a pretty girl like you would be right up Finlay bloody Crawford’s alley. I was young once, you know… and pretty. Likes a pretty face does Finlay.’

  Meg shook her head. She wasn’t going to get any sense out of the woman tonight. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Gafney. But you’re drunk and I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’

  The woman belched again. Meg winced as the stink of sherry wafted over her. Mrs Gafney leaned forward and patted her arm. ‘Sorry, love. No offence, eh?’

  The telephone of the hall table rang and Mrs Gafney swore loudly, the oath echoed by the disembodied voice in her room. ‘Who could that be at this time of night?’ She picked up the receiver and barked a hello into it. She listened for a moment, said, ‘Who?’ then laughed bitterly and handed the receiver to Meg. ‘It’s for you.’ she said and staggered back to her room, slamming the door behind her. A second later Meg heard a glass smash and the sound of swearing from behind the closed door.

  ‘Meg Johnson,’ she said. ‘Hello?’

  There was silence for a long moment and Meg was about to speak again when Finlay Crawford said, ‘Meg?’

  ‘Oh.’ Meg was in a slight state of shock. Whatever could he want with her?

  ‘Your friend Gareth gave me your number. Actually I had to twist his arm and offer him all manner of favours before he would let me have it. I hope you don’t mind me phoning you so late, only one minute you were there and next you were gone. I didn’t get the chance to properly say goodbye. Clifford tells me you were taken ill. Nothing serious I hope.’

  ‘Just a headache. It’s almost gone. I think the night air did me good,’ she said.

  ‘Well that’s splendid. Look, would you think me awfully presumptuous if I asked you to meet me for coffee tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I would. Anyway, I can’t tomorrow. I have rehearsals.’

  ‘And don’t they allow you a meal break during rehearsals? They allow you time off for lunch, don’t they?’

  ‘No… yes… I don’t know,’ Meg said.

  ‘Well, perhaps you can ring me tomorrow when you know what time your break is.’ He reeled off a telephone number before Meg could pick up a pencil and scribble it down on the pad next
to the phone. Meg asked him to repeat it.

  Crawford did so, slowly enunciating each number. ‘Have you got that now?’

  Meg read it back to him. ‘May I ask why?’ she added.

  ‘Why what?’ Crawford said.

  ‘Why you should want to take me for coffee?’

  There was a pause, and it sounded as if he was laughing softly. ‘Call it idle curiosity,’ he said at last and hung up.

  Meg stared at the handset, listening to the soft purr of the dial tone. Finally she shook her head and set the receiver down in its cradle.

  ‘Idle curiosity,’ she repeated. She wasn’t sure she was keen on that. She pulled herself up short. ‘Oh, stop it!’ she chided. ‘It’s just coffee!’

  According to the rules of the house breakfast was served during the hours of seven thirty and nine thirty, with guests being required to vacate their rooms between the hours of ten thirty and four pm. Meg entered the dining room at eight. There were six tables laid for breakfast, one occupied by a young couple she hadn’t yet met. In fact, apart from Gareth, she’d neither seen nor heard any of the other guests at the boarding house, but then being billeted in the roof of the house that was hardly surprising. The young couple turned and smiled as she entered the room and Meg wished them good morning. Pleasantries over the couple turned away, devoting all their attention to each other. Meg wondered if they were newly-weds here on their honeymoon.

  A few minutes later Mrs Gafney bustled in, wiping her hands on a floral-print apron. She placed a pot of tea down in front of Meg. ‘Eggs, bacon, sausage and mushrooms suit you? I can do you a slice of fried bread if you like, or a fried tomato.’