by Irene Carr
‘We’ll have to run!’ Sophie countered as she grabbed Peter’s hand.
He broke into a lope alongside her, but demanded, ‘Why? There’ll be another tram in a minute.’
‘I have to catch this one. I’ve got to get home by ten.’ He understood that. It was common for girls to have to be home by that time or earlier.
Peter had been courting Sophie for some months now. She would meet him at the Wheatsheaf corner where she had waved to him at the end of their first meeting. Then they would go walking, often down the long road to the sea and then along the promenade. Sometimes it strained Sophie’s patience, as she would have prefered to go for a coffee somewhere but she was fond of him.
They took the steps up from the promenade two at a time, crossed the road and ran along past the Italian ice-cream parlour and the other shops and cafés they never entered because Peter did not have money to spare for ice-cream or coffee. There were few people about on this midweek winter’s night, though the cafés would be full at the weekend. The few in there now peered out through windows misted with steam at the young man and the girl running hand in hand.
They jumped aboard the tram, panting and laughing, as it started to pull away, and climbed to the top deck. When the conductor came for their fares Sophie asked, as usual, for ‘Fawcett Street, please.’
Peter said, ‘Make that two.’
Sophie glanced at him, startled, because she had persuaded him right from the start of their courtship that they would part at the Wheatsheaf: ‘It’s too far for you to have to come back when you need to get up for work the next morning.’ Up to now she had not met him at weekends.
He saw that glance, and as he took the tickets from the conductor he said, ‘I just want to make sure you get back all right. We’ve got some dark nights now we’re into the winter. I’ve felt a bit guilty letting you go home on your own this last month.’
Sophie thought of trying to dissuade him, then decided she probably could not. Besides, it might lead to an argument and Peter’s bewilderment – and curiosity. She did not want him probing into her background, so she remained silent but thought rapidly – and came up with an answer. They got down from the tram together in Fawcett Street and Sophie led Peter round the corner into the High Street then across the road to the Ballantyne Hotel, where she knew her mother was working late that night. She stopped outside the swing doors and said, ‘Here we are.’
Peter stared, impressed. ‘You live in here?’ He looked through the glass of the doors into the spacious foyer, thickly carpeted, with the grand staircase beyond. ‘By, lass, you’ve got a good place to work.’ He automatically assumed that Sophie was a member of the staff ‘living in’.
She was grateful that she did not have to voice the lie. A quick glance around told her that neither her mother nor anyone in the hotel who knew her was watching. She leaned forward and kissed Peter. ‘Goodnight. See you next week?’
‘Aye.’ His gaze followed her as she crossed the foyer and he saw the girl behind the reception desk smile at her and say something. He did not hear the words: ‘Hello, Miss Sophie.’ He waited until she had disappeared into the recesses of the hotel and then started on his way home. He turned up his jacket collar against the rain that was falling more heavily now and walked across the bridge to save the penny tram fare, whistling softly all the way.
The record shop was full on Saturday morning. Sophie sifted through sheet music for sale, humming to the record being played. She broke off to say, ‘We were soaked on Wednesday night.’
Helen Diaz asked, ‘You and Peter?’ She was privy to the affaire and had made a threesome on occasion, reluctant despite Sophie’s insistence but relaxing in the face of Peter’s welcoming grin.
Once he had said to her, ‘You’re a bit younger than Sophie, aren’t you?’
She had answered, straight faced, ‘A bit.’ In fact it was just a week.
Now Sophie nodded. ‘We walked along the sea front. It rained all night. He’s a bloody nuisance sometimes.’ She got a disapproving stare from Helen because of both the language and the sentiment, but went on absently as she selected a sheet of music and searched in her purse. ‘There are times when I want to go somewhere but he can’t afford it so I pretend I don’t care. He won’t let me pay for him, he’s so bloody proud.’
Helen snapped angrily, ‘He’s a nice chap!’
Now Sophie looked at her, startled. ‘I know that.’
‘Then how can you talk about him that way?’
‘Because it’s true. I didn’t want to go out that night but I’d promised, so I went. I would have loved to have gone in and had a cup of coffee somewhere instead of squelching along with my shoes full of water, but I knew he didn’t have the money and I wouldn’t embarrass him by asking. I’m fond of him and I like talking to him and . . . you know . . . but that’s all. I’m not in love.’
Helen was silenced for a moment, then she asked, ‘No? But what about him?’ and walked out.
Sophie hurriedly paid for the sheet of music and a record and dashed after Helen but could not see her in the Saturday crowds filling Fawcett Street. She walked back to the hotel disconsolately, telling herself that Helen was wrong, that there was no harm in what was to Sophie a casual affaire.
As she pushed through the swing doors she followed a woman in a fur coat who crossed the foyer on high heels with a long-legged, hip-swinging stride. She paused at the reception desk and asked, ‘Can you show me in to Mrs Ballantyne, darling?’
The receptionist blinked at her but Sophie said from behind, ‘I’m just going in to see her. I’ll take you.’
The woman swung around on one heel, the open fur coat swirling to show a clinging, close-fitting rayon dress beneath and wafting a wave of expensive perfume towards Sophie. She now saw that this was not a young woman and that the heavy make-up only concealed from a distance the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. But that did not matter. There was a style and flamboyance about her that Sophie had not seen before. The woman was dark haired and her wide mouth smiled at Sophie. ‘That’s kind of you, darling.’
Sophie returned the smile and said, ‘Her office is through here.’ She led the way, pausing only to tap at the open door, and as Chrissie looked up from her desk Sophie announced, ‘There’s a lady here to see you, Mother.’
Chrissie’s welcoming smile dissolved and turned into a face of stone. The woman brushed past Sophie to enter the room, but turned her head, again with that wide smile, to say, ‘Mother? Then you must be Sophie.’
‘Yes, I am.’ She looked from one to the other, puzzled.
Chrissie said, without expression, ‘This is your grandmother, Martha Tate.’
Martha settled in an armchair before Chrissie’s desk, crossed long legs in sheer silk stockings and pulled off kid gloves. ‘You’ll have heard of me as Vesta Nightingale.’
Sophie put her hands to her face and breathed, ‘Oh, yes!’
Now Martha smiled at Chrissie. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Chrissie thought her mother had changed little. She looked a little older, although the make-up hid most of the signs, and a little harder, but she had always been hard. This was the woman who had abandoned Chrissie as a child, only came to her for money or help, cared only for men and her own pleasures. Chrissie said, ‘It has,’ thinking, Not long enough. She asked abruptly, ‘What do you want?’
Martha took a silver cigarette case from her bag, extracted a Players with scarlet-tipped fingers and lit it with a silver lighter. She blew smoke and explained, ‘I’ve got a week at the Empire here. I thought you could put me up.’
Chrissie saw Sophie lower herself into a chair by the door, her eyes fixed on Martha’s face. ‘Sophie, will you run along to the kitchen and fetch some tea for all of us, please?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Sophie smiled at Martha and hurried out.
‘Actually, darling, I’m not too keen on tea at the moment. I see you’ve got a drink there . . .’ Martha’s gaze flicked to the bottle-f
illed cocktail cabinet against one wall.
Chrissie replied, ‘Help yourself,’ but Martha was already crossing to the cabinet with that hip-swivelling stride. She poured gin into a tumbler and added a token splash of tonic. Taking a gulp from the brimming glass to save it from spilling, she returned to her seat.
She smiled at her daughter. ‘That’s a bonny lass you’ve got there. She does you credit.’
Chrissie warmed to that praise and said, ‘She’s a good girl.’ She hoped she was right.
Martha said, ‘She’s your daughter so I’m sure she is. You always had your head screwed on the right way. You deserve everything you’ve got now.’
‘Thank you.’
Martha tapped ash from her cigarette and asked, ‘So I suppose you can let me have a room here on reasonable terms? Usually I’d go to the Palace with the rest of them on the bill . . .’ The Palace was the biggest hotel in the town where most of the ‘theatricals’ stayed. ‘There’s not so much work around these days. The cinemas are killing the old variety halls, so I have to economise a bit.’
Chrissie hesitated, weakening, and told herself that what was past was past and if her mother had fallen on hard times . . . Martha Tate, dressed to the nines and steadily drinking gin, was scarcely an object of pity, but . . . Chrissie said doubtfully, ‘I expect we can find a room.’
‘Lovely.’ Martha’s smile stretched wider. ‘I’ll square up with you in the New Year when business picks up.’ Chrissie knew what that promise was worth. Martha, relaxing now, helped herself to more gin and settled in her chair again. She glanced at the framed photographs on Chrissie’s desk. ‘That’s Sophie, of course, and that’s the chap you married – you knew what you were doing there. That one looks like his father.’
Chrissie supplied, ‘Matthew.’
Martha reached out a hand to the last photo, picked it up and examined it. ‘And this is Tom?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I wouldn’t have believed it possible. He looks more like his father than the other one, but from what I’ve heard he was somebody else’s mistake.’ Martha swallowed gin and drew on the cigarette, blew smoke and pushed the photo back on to the desk.
Chrissie flinched, and held her tongue somehow until the first flush of anger had gone – but it left behind cold rage. She slid from behind the desk, stalked to the door and flung it open. ‘Get out!’
Martha Tate stared at her, red lips parted and trickling smoke. ‘What?’
‘Get out!’ Chrissie shouted.
Martha’s head jerked back as if slapped. In genuine bewilderment she asked, ‘What’s got into you now? You said you’d put me up . . .’
‘Not here or anywhere, any time! Now get out of here and out of my life! I swear to God I’ll drag you out by the scruff of your neck if I have to!’ She meant it, and Martha Tate saw that she did, so she rose and flounced from the room. Chrissie watched her walk, still swaying but hurrying now, along the passage and across the foyer. Then she became aware that Sophie stood open mouthed behind her in the passage, a tray loaded with tea things in her hands. Chrissie said, ‘Put that on my desk.’
Sophie shoved the tray at her. Chrissie saw there were tears in her daughter’s eyes and now Sophie said, her voice breaking, ‘How could you turn your own mother away?’ Then she turned and ran.
Chrissie called after her, ‘Come back! You don’t understand!’ Sophie kept on, rounded a corner in the passage and disappeared. Chrissie set the tray on the desk with shaking hands then sat down, laid her head on her arms and wept.
After a time she looked up to blink through her tears at Tom’s photograph. He had come home from school in tears some years ago. A child had overheard his parents talking about the Ballantynes, venting their jealousy and spite. He had taunted Tom with being a bastard. Tom had fought him but the boy had still insisted the story was true.
Chrissie had told Tom his antecedents in front of Sophie and Matt. ‘Your mother was a good friend of mine and your father was a brave man who was killed in the war. I’d promised your mother I would look after you if anything happened to her and when she died we adopted you.’ Then she had told them, ‘Your father and I had all three of you because we wanted you, but while we took a chance on Sophie and Matt we knew what we were getting in Tom.’
Then Jack had put in, ‘It’s not a secret but there’s nothing to talk about. Tom is the eldest and your brother as he has always been and that’s all there is to it.’
Chrissie put away her work and took the untouched, cold tea back to the kitchen. She drove home, looked for Sophie and found her in her room, curled up on the bed. She was listening to the wireless playing dance music, a girl singing.
Chrissie switched off the set and said, ‘I want to talk to you.’ Sophie glared at her rebelliously but Chrissie went on, ‘I’m not going to tell you all about your grandmother, though I could go on all night, but the reason I turned her away today was because she made an unpleasant remark about Tom not being my child – in fact, that he was illegitimate. I couldn’t forgive that.’
Sophie shifted uneasily. ‘Maybe she was just making a joke in bad taste. None of us is perfect.’
‘It was in bad taste but it was no joke.’
Sophie complained, ‘I still don’t think you should have thrown her out like that. I’ve never had a chance to get to know her. I thought she could tell me about her life on the stage. She’s been all over this country and America, hasn’t she?’
Chrissie admitted, ‘She does have talent but I think she’s wasted it. I don’t think you would learn anything good from her.’
‘It looks as though I won’t have the chance to find out for myself. Is that why you did it? Because you don’t want me to be a singer like her?’
Was it? Chrissie hesitated, for a moment uncertain, and Sophie jumped on that: ‘So that was it! I think that’s mean!’
Chrissie shook her head, the brief doubt gone. ‘It’s true I don’t want that sort of life for you, but I turned my own mother away because of what she’s done to me in the past and would do to me again. And that’s the truth.’
Sophie said with distaste, ‘I think that’s awful.’
Chrissie’s patience ran out and her bruised emotions spoke: ‘I think you should wait until you grow up and know what you are talking about before you judge me,’ and she left Sophie staring after her mutinously.
On the Monday night Sophie sat in the ‘gods’ at the Empire, the cheapest seats right up under the roof, squashed shoulder to shoulder among the others who had paid their coppers to climb the interminable stairs. From up there Vesta Nightingale looked like a child’s doll singing and pirouetting in the beam of the spotlight. Sophie did not care. She was seeing her own grandmother performing on stage in front of a packed house. She came on immediately after the interval, when people were still making their way back from the bar in a clatter of talk and banging seats. Her voice was gin-coarsened, but Sophie did not realise this. Nor did she see the flabbiness of the lifted arms, the wrinkles at the neck, because distance and make-up hid these. This was her grandmother, the ‘Vesta Nightingale – dance and vocals’.
Sophie stood up as soon as Vesta left the stage to scattered applause, and made her way out, squeezing past people’s knees and ignoring their grumbling: ‘Come on, lass! We’ve just got sat down!’ Outside the theatre she ran around to the stage door and told the man guarding it, ‘I’ve come to see Vesta Nightingale. I’m a friend of hers.’
He nodded. ‘Oh, aye. She’s expecting you.’
Sophie was taken aback at that but followed his directions and found Martha Tate in her tiny, smoke-filled dressing-room. She slouched in a straight-backed chair balanced on its back legs, her feet on the little table. She wore a robe that had fallen open to show her long legs up to her knickers and held a cigarette in one hand, a glass of colourless liquid in the other. When she saw Sophie she set the chair down with a crash and dropped her feet to the floor. She pulled the robe around her and snappe
d, ‘Christ! What the hell are you doing here?’
Sophie blinked at this reception. Nervous already, now she said shyly, ‘I came to watch you. I was up in the gods. You were marvellous!’
Martha Tate smiled. ‘They loved me, didn’t they? They always did – do. And you came to see me all on your own?’
Sophie groped for words, ‘Yes, well – besides, I wanted to say sorry about the other day. When Mother – you know – I don’t think she should have . . . done what she did.’
Martha waved the hand that held the cigarette, realised it was there and stubbed it out in an ashtray. ‘Don’t worry about that, darling. I’ve had plenty of kicks in the teeth in my life. You’ve just got to keep your chin up. The show must go on.’ She gulped gin, saw Sophie looking at the glass and explained, ‘For my heart. Nothing much wrong with it, but it’s a hard life on the boards. You give your life to your public out there. My doctor said a drop of this now and again would relax me, rest the heart.’
Sophie nodded her understanding, and started to say eagerly, ‘I want to be a—’
Martha cut in, asking, ‘Does your mother know you’re here?’
‘No.’ Sophie blushed, embarrassed at her mother being brought into the conversation again, and because she had told Chrissie that she was going to the cinema with Helen Diaz.
Martha saw that embarrassment and sympathised. ‘She wouldn’t have let you come? Never mind. I know how she feels and I don’t blame her. Mind you, she’s never seen my side of it. It broke my heart when I had to give her up, but how could I look after a little baby when I was moving all the time?’ She did not mention that she had obtained a hundred pounds through blackmail, lying as to the identity of Chrissie’s father, and had given up her child to the first woman who asked for her.
She wiped away a nonexistent tear and said chokily, ‘And she grew away from me after she married that feller in the big house. Sorry, darling! That’s your father. But I’m sure you have a lovely home there.’ She sighed. ‘Not like my young days. I really had to sing for my supper.’
That gave Sophie another chance and she jumped at it, saying quickly, ‘I want to be a singer.’ She waited for Martha to ask to hear her.
