Echoes of the Past

by Maggie Ford

  She paused in her packing, turning a hard stare upon him. “And where’s the money coming from? Just now you were ready to hock your cigarette case and lighter to pay for our wedding. Now you want to use it to gamble some more. Well, no thank you.”

  “Just one more time,” he pleaded as she returned to her packing. “Maybe if we save my lighter and cigarette case for the wedding, we can get something on that necklace I bought you, and probably your ring.”

  She swung round at him, painted blue eyes blazing. “You bought that as my engagement ring when I said I’d marry you.”

  “It’ll only be temporary,” he persisted. “We’ll get it back by tonight.”

  “And my necklace, and I suppose that bracelet as well. Why don’t you sell me while you’re about it? I’m pretty enough – got a nice figure – I’ll bring in some decent money for you to gamble.”

  He shot to his feet in fury. “Don’t talk to me like that! I’ve bought you everything. I’ve clothed you. We’ve lived in the best hotels. You’d never have had any of that if I hadn’t brought you here, spent out on you. What money did you have? Nothing. But for me you’d be scrabbling around looking for another part. And now, because I’m having a run of bad luck, you feel it’s time to walk out on me. Well, I’m not having it, Amanda!”

  He saw her lips curl. “Just watch me!” With that she banged the hard lid of the expensive case shut, flipped the catches, then straightened up to lug the now weighty object off the sofa where she had been packing.

  Standing in the centre of the room, Hugh sneered. “And what money have you got to get home on? All you have is what I’m giving you. And that’s nothing at the mo—” He broke off, realising his words were condemning him out of hand.

  Amanda was regarding him as though he were dirt. “That’s right, nothing. But I do have the jewellery you bought me. I know the stones are real and everything’s real gold. You wouldn’t have bought anything less, you were so eager to throw money around. That should get me home.”

  “But the ring – that’s your engagement—”

  “Engagement’s off!” she snapped.

  “In that case,” he railed in fury, moving towards her, “you can give it back.” But Amanda stood her ground.

  “Not on your life! It’s the woman’s prerogative to keep the ring if the engagement’s broken off.”

  “You’re breaking it off,” he shot at her, “not me.”

  “Too bad,” she shot back. “I need it more than you do. You’ve still got your lighter and your cigarette case – hock those. If I give you my ring you’ll be broke again by tonight and it’ll be gone for good. No, Hugh, I’m going and you can’t stop me.”

  After she’d gone Hugh felt bad about hitting her. One enraged swipe across the cheek, that’s all it had been. But it was enough. She’d reeled back then, hoisting the case in both hands, partly as protection against another attack, partly as a means to bulldoze him out of her way, she’d barged past him, leaving him gazing after her.

  Seventeen

  Last month the TV had had little on it but the Tokyo Olympics, in which neither he nor Helen were interested, though the girls were. Mostly they liked the women’s gymnastic floor exercises, the nearest thing to real dancing there was. Anything remotely touching on dance had two pairs of young grey eyes so close to the screen that Edwin had to warn that they would ruin their eyesight if they didn’t back away.

  When they weren’t glued, immobile, to the set they were dancing to any music there was on it. The new Ready, Steady, Go pop programme had the both of them jiving away to a beat that sounded to him like the same old thump to every song.

  They were growing up fast – Gina had been seven in September, and in two weeks’ time Angel would be nine. Both were tall, as his parents had been, and as willowy as their mother, where he was slightly more thick-set. He took after his Uncle Henry in that, knew that as the years went on he would become just a little portly, similar to Henry Lett in his late forties.

  Where the girls got their talents from, he had no idea. Both were light as fairies on their feet and dancing lessons had taught them a lot. In fact they were consumed by it – tap, ballet, pop – and badly dealt was the rare evening they couldn’t attend lessons because of a cold or some other cause.

  He watched them now, this dull November Sunday afternoon, slim bodies supple, young limbs lithe, keeping in time to the rhythm of a Beatles record, and his heart marvelled at them in love and pride.

  They could sing too, joining in with all the pop songs from the pirate radio station Radio Caroline out in the North Sea. Their young voices, as yet untrained, were nevertheless in key and pleasant to hear, immature but promising to eventually mature into very listenable ones.

  A whimsical notion crossed his mind – what if they grew up to become entertainers? – instantly to be dismissed. Good schooling would find them something far more worthwhile. He took his gaze from his daughters and settled back with his Sunday Times, trying to ignore the penetrating beat and high-pitched yowling of the Beatles’ apparent need to “Hold Your Hand”. He found himself looking forward to being back in London come Monday morning.

  Edwin had been home for the whole weekend. He’d made sure of that. With Christmas approaching he’d soon be snowed under at the restaurant. The place continued to do well. He had a good team, a good staff. These past couple of weeks, however, had been quiet, and he’d been able to take Helen out more often than usual. They’d seen a show or two in London, he’d taken her and the children to the cinema to see the new film “Hard Day’s Night” – more Beatles – and he and Helen had gone out to dinner while Muriel enjoyed having her boyfriend keep her company while she gave an eye to the girls. He’d been worried about that, but Helen, eager to get out of the house, said these were modem times and so long as Muriel didn’t let whatever they got up to interfere with her assigned task, what did it matter?

  Edwin had capitulated, weary of Helen everlastingly complaining at his seldom taking her out. To argue would have made things worse. It had paid off. Since then Helen had been completely manageable, and he hoped his attention to her would help compensate for his enforced absences as the Christmas rash came upon the restaurant.

  Monday morning saw her amiable enough as he finished breakfast and began preparing to drive to London. He’d be back tonight and Tuesday night. From Wednesday until Sunday morning he’d be in the penthouse, on hand as the festive season, as always starting early, began to get under way and Letts, like all the top restaurants, began to hot up with late-night supper parties flocking in after the shows to stay until the early hours.

  The post fluttered through the main door and Helen went to retrieve it. She returned, sifting through the four letters, taking the one addressed to her and handing the rest to him.

  At his ease – he had plenty of time – Edwin opened the first two. One was a letter informing him of the change of address of a supplier – why it had come here instead of the office he couldn’t be bothered to question. The other was from a colleague in the restaurant business inviting him and Helen to his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party at his London home in January.

  He passed the invitation to Helen. “Do you fancy going?”

  Helen studied the silver-rimmed card and nodded. “I suppose it will make a change,” she murmured, and Edwin creased his brow in frustration. Still she was harping on his inattentiveness and how lonely it was here when he was in London. For God’s sake, lots of women, if they didn’t work, were left on their own. It had to be her friend Carolyn who constantly unsettled her, her own husband doing a nine-to-five job and home every evening. It was pointless suggesting Helen find herself a job to keep her occupied. With the sort of money they had rolling in, why indeed should she need to?

  “I’ll be driving the girls to school in a minute or two,” she said, to his mind deliberately and huffily changing the subject. He could hear them upstairs, giggling as Muriel helped them get ready.

  Frowni
ng at Helen’s attitude, he slit open the third envelope, hardly noting the foreign stamp on it, unfolded the sheet of lined notepaper, the pencilled scrawl not even keeping to the lines, and began to read. Seconds later he had let out a roar.

  “God damn the man!”

  On her way out to call the girls, Helen turned to stare at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “This!” he held the letter towards her. “It’s from Hugh! And he’s after bloody money again! Well, he’s not getting any – not this time.”

  Coming back into the room Helen stood there as Edwin began reading aloud what the letter had to say, his tone hoarse with fury.

  She hardly heard the first words, her mind casting back to the joyous letter Hugh had sent them earlier this year. Edwin had been annoyed then, reading aloud at that time also. Hugh had been in Las Vegas then, was about to get married to a girl named Amanda. The letter had been all about how he had met her, how they had come to Las Vegas and how he was making a fortune at the gambling tables there.

  Helen remembered her heart dropping like a stone at the news of his marriage, her face hot that his news should affect her so. She’d spent the next months wondering if he was happy and if he had forgotten her entirely. He probably had, the way he’d enthused about Amanda. From then on Helen forced herself to put aside all thoughts of him. But it had been hard at times.

  Now she felt a strange eagerness mingle with the horror of what Hugh had to tell them. Perhaps what he was going through might make him come home, and, though she was ashamed of herself for thinking it, therein lay the reason for the animation as Edwin read the letter aloud to her.

  I’m in a terrible fix here, Edwin old man. I’m living in a dump and in a place that’s wallowing in money I’m flat broke. The thing is, here, once you’re down you’re down for good. Amanda has left me. We never did get married; my luck changed just before we could and all my money went. It happened so quickly and I don’t know how it did. One minute I was rolling in dough, the next – well, that’s how it is, and now I haven’t even enough to feed myself let alone get me home. If you can just forward enough for my flight home, Edwin, I’d be forever in your debt and grateful from the depths of my heart.

  There followed a page of explanation which Edwin glossed over. Helen determined to read it at leisure later, when he’d left for London. No doubt he would be too disgusted with what Hugh had written to take it with him.

  When he’d gone, she opened the letter again and read slowly all that had happened to him – ending with the final words, “I’m sick, Edwin old man, not well, ill, Washed up.”

  I just have to get home somehow. All I need is enough to get home on. I’ll be waiting to hear from you with a cheque. Meantime give my love to Helen and wish her and the children well. Hugh.

  Slowly she folded the letter, her eyes full of tears, the poignancy of his predicament striking her. He had faults, so many faults, but no man, however weak of character, should go through what he was suffering. In her mind’s eye she saw him lying on a filthy bed in some filthy boarding house, hungry, unwashed, his clothing creased and hanging on him, maybe too frail even to get a job to sustain him. In his anger Edwin hadn’t truly realised the plight his cousin was in. He couldn’t just let him be, leave him out there. When he’d said he wouldn’t help him out this time, he couldn’t have meant it. It was true he had helped him many times and had received little thanks for it, but this time it was an emergency he couldn’t ignore. What if Hugh were to die?

  “You’ve got to help him,” she told Edwin over the phone. “Maybe it is just one request too many, but this time you have to.”

  Edwin’s voice on the line still grated with resentment. “How do I know he’d not lying again? He’s done it before. Given me a sob story then after a few months gone his own sweet way, cocking a snook at me, only to come crying back later with another tale of woe. No, Helen, this time, no.”

  “This time I’m sure it’s genuine, Edwin. Look at the paper he’s written on and all of it written in pencil. He can’t even afford a pen. He’s starving. Edwin, you’re not thinking straight about this because you’re so angry with him. But you can’t let that blind you. For my sake at least, send him the air fare to get back home. Then you can make up your mind about him. But he’s your cousin, your own blood, you have to—”

  “Why for your sake?” queried Edwin, breaking into her diatribe.

  Helen paused. It had just come out. Why should it be for her sake?

  “You know what I mean – for all our sakes. We can’t let him fall ill all those thousands of miles away. We’ve got to do something. If anything bad happened to him, your cousin, it’ll always be on your conscience. I mean it, Edwin, you’ve got to do—”

  “I’ve got to go, Helen,” he broke in again. “I’m being called.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “No, don’t think about it, Edwin. Do something!”

  “I said, I’ll think about it.”

  The phone was put down on her. He hadn’t even said goodbye or that he loved her. Slowly she replaced her own receiver, her heart beating heavily from the angry things she’d said. They hadn’t helped a bit and she’d almost incriminated herself into the bargain, or so it felt.

  * * *

  She had meant to fight Edwin on this one, but with her father falling ill just prior to Christmas, with his bronchitis returning so badly that he had to be taken into hospital, Helen’s concern for Hugh had to give way to her concern for her father.

  It was a miserable Christmas. Edwin arranged for a private ward for William but it didn’t quicken his recovery. When in early February after a fortnight of convalescence he was finally declared well enough to go home – not fit, just “well” and, to Helen’s mind, still in need of a certain amount of care – Edwin suggested finding a private nurse for him.

  “I still need to be with him,” she said as they drove out to Hertfordshire and the convalescent home to collect him. “He can’t stay in London all on his own with just a nurse.”

  “I’ll not be far away,” said Edwin. “I can go in every day and see him.”

  Helen almost sneered. “Won’t you be too busy for that?”

  She wanted to say, “considering you don’t come every day to see me!” but the tone of her voice conveyed well enough what she was thinking.

  Edwin said nothing as she continued in a more placid vein, “I won’t be able to stay in London indefinitely. The girls need me at home. But I should be on hand to look after him.”

  “So what do you suggest?” His tone had become as acid as hers had been a moment ago. She chose to ignore it.

  “I think he should stay with us – until he feels capable of going back to living on his own. I know that’s what he’d prefer.”

  It was indeed what William would have preferred. His whole life was wrapped up in his immediate community – he had a full social life there, with his Masonic colleagues and the Pensioners Club, where he was on the committee and helped organise events. He had friends all around him and although it would be beneath his dignity to allow them to come in and look after him, they would visit and keep him company.

  He could see Helen insisting as time went on that he give up his flat here in London to become trapped out in the countryside. He hated the countryside, had never wanted anything to do with it, saw no reason to. He loved London, the noise of it, the hurry of it, the bustle, the ease of getting from one place to another. The underground, a short walk away, would take him anywhere he wanted to go. He could look in occasionally on Letts to be treated royally as Edwin acknowledged his presence. A host of cinemas awaited his pleasure, theatres and art galleries were but a short step away, and he could go along to a choice of pubs at lunchtimes so as to have no need to cook for himself. You didn’t get that in the country.

  Even so, his health forced him to submit, at least temporarily, to Helen’s misguided sense of love and duty, and so he was installed in her hom
e. His nurse, who Edwin insisted accompany him, was only too eager to see a bit of country, even if completely blanketed under snow.

  It was an unsuspecting Helen, enjoying her father being in her home enough for her to overlook Edwin’s dedication to his business rather than her, who opened a letter postmarked Las Vegas around the middle of March which sent a shockwave through her body and had her ringing Edwin demanding he come home at once to deal with it.

  * * *

  Hugh turned over on the dirty bed, coming out of a drunken stupor to stare up at the tiny square of window above him. Open a couple of inches because of stuck hinges and covered with broken netting, it didn’t even help stir the heat in this airless room.

  More a shack really, one of three similar ones, it measured twelve by eight and, but for an old wardrobe that was falling apart, there was nowhere for his belongings, if he’d had any. As far as he was concerned all he had was what he stood up in. For the past three weeks he’d only just managed to hold himself together doing menial jobs in the run-down garage and repair shop to which this room belonged. The pay was hardly worth the labour, with the garage owner taking a bit off his pay for the rent of the room, but better than nothing.

  “And don’ yuh go spending it on any more liquor,” would come the advice as the couple of dollars, crumpled and oily, was slapped into his hand. “Get yourself a square meal fur once.”

  In the hope of turning a couple of dollars into maybe four and then eight, dreaming of recreating that fortune he’d once had, Hugh would find a crap game somewhere, mostly losing the little he had because he was no longer on the ball. Afterwards he’d have to beg the garage owner, Joe Wetzel, for a hand-out just to tide him over. He couldn’t even beg on the streets – not that what little pride he had left would have let him. That could land him in jail, though at least he’d be fed there. But he didn’t fancy a possible beating-up by some cellmate, or the police themselves, who didn’t suffer beggars lightly in this town of flowing wealth.