1951 - But a Short Time to Live (16 page)

"Oh." She turned away, her face hardening. After a moment's silence, she went on, "What happened to him?"

"He's in a home in Brighton," Harry said. "The newspaper he worked for is looking after him."

"A home?" She looked at Harry, then away. "Isn't he all right now?"

"He won't ever be quite well," Harry said quietly. "Here, sit down and try this. You do have sugar?"

"They didn't catch the man who did it?" She took the cup of coffee and sat down. There was a cold, impersonal look on her white face.

"No."

"I suppose you want to know if I had anything to do with him?"

"No, I don't. I don't want to know anything about the past, Clair."

She stirred the coffee, her mouth pursed, a frown creasing her forehead.

"Tell me about yourself, Harry," she said promptly. "What have you been doing?"

So he told her about Alf Mooney's portrait and how Allan Simpson had seen it and had given him a contract.

"Of course it's unbelievable," he said, smiling at her. "I'm now earning fifteen pounds a week, and I've been saving like mad for the day when we'd meet again. Simpson is pleased with my work, and I think when my contract runs out I'll get better terms. I want to break the monopoly clause. At the moment I can't work for anyone else, nor can I do private work. If I can get him to agree to dropping that clause I should make a lot more money."

"The wheel turns," she said with a bitter little smile. "You're now making more than I. It's your turn, isn't it, Harry?"

"But you mustn't mind," Harry said, taking her hand. "You remember you once persuaded me to share with you? You were right when you said it didn't matter who had the money so long as one of us had it. Clair, darling, ever since you've been away I have been planning to do things for you. The past doesn't matter; nothing matters except we love each other. I want you to marry me. Will you? Will you marry me and help me and share with me whatever I have?"

"I don't want to get married. I'll live with you, Harry, but not marriage."

"But why? We're only asking for trouble if we don't marry, Clair. Why are you scared of marriage?"

"What's going to happen to me?" she asked, avoiding his question. "There's nothing I can do. I can't run a home, and yet you ask me to marry you. I don't know enough about anything to earn a living. All I'm good at is picking pockets. Who wants a wife like that?"

"I do, Clair," Harry said. "We'll take a service flat somewhere and you can help me in my work.

I'll teach you. Mooney's no good at lighting. You'll find it interesting. You'll meet all the stars. It'll be fun darling."

"Fun for them to meet an old lag?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"You must stop being bitter, Clair. No one will know about your past You can trust Mooney. He's the only one who knows, and he likes you. He won't talk."

She shifted her shoulders in a hopeless gesture.

"How can I help you?"

"After a couple of weeks you'll know all about lighting. It's simple enough and interesting too. Seriously Clair, will you marry me? It's the only answer. I won't expect you to do a thing in the flat. All I want is to have you with me for always. Say yes, darling."

"But Harry, this is ridiculous. You don't know anything about me. How can you want to marry me?"

"I know all I want to know. We'll make a fresh start. It'll be all right. So long as you love me, nothing matters."

"I love you enough to want to keep you happy, and marrying will only bring you unhappiness, Harry." She got up and moved restlessly about the room. "I'm no good. You may as well know it now because you'll find out before long for yourself. I was never any good, and I never will be any good. It's the way I'm made."

"That's nonsense," Harry said. "If you know what's right and what's wrong, and obviously you do, you can get yourself straightened out'

She shook her head.

"You're such an old-fashioned darling." She came over and sat on the floor at his feet "It's not as easy as that I don't want to get straightened out as you call it. I have a kink. Ever since I can remember I've been in trouble. You wouldn't think to look at me that my father was a labourer on the railway, would you? Well, he was. We lived in a council house. My mother wasn't quite all there. She couldn't read or write; and she scarcely ever did anything to the house. It was a pigsty of a place. I was allowed to run wild, play in the streets, do what I liked. When I was fifteen, my father got drunk one night and came to my room. My mother caught us, and there was a fight. She was thrown downstairs. She broke her back. They gave my father five years, and he got another five years for nearly killing another convict They put me in a home, but I didn't stay long. I ran away and got a job in a laundry. That cured me of working for a living." She reached for a cigarette, lit it and tossed the match angrily into the fireplace. "I'm sorry to be so sordid, Harry, but you must know what you think you want to marry. I and another girl palled up. We worked the big stores, shop lifting.

“It was a good racket while it lasted. She was caught and given a year. That scared me and I gave it up. Then the war came, and I made friends with an American officer. I lived with him until he went overseas. He introduced me to a pal of his, and I lived with him. If he didn't give me money — and he was mean sometimes — I stole from him. He had so much he never missed it. He was a ghastly little squirt, but I put up with him because of his money. I hoped he would take me back to America with him. I wanted to go to America. But he went without telling me, and I was left high and dry. For a week or so I had a bad time. I was broke and hadn't anywhere to live. I spent my nights in air raid shelters and walked the streets for money." She didn't look at Harry. "Sorry, darling, but there it is. You've got to know the truth. I ran into another man. He was a crook. He taught me to pick pockets. He had three other girls working for him. It was a marvellous racket while it lasted. I've never made so much money. Then I met you, Harry. You didn't realise it, but you saved my neck that evening. That was the first and only time I had a pang of conscience. I hated myself for making you my stooge. I still hate myself." She stubbed out the cigarette, frowning. "It was my luck to slip up over the cigarette case. I should have given it to Rob . . . to the man I was working for, but it was such a beauty I couldn't resist making you a present of it. It was a mad, stupid thing to have done. But then most things I do are mad and stupid." She made an angry, impatient gesture. "I'm not trying to excuse myself. I'm bad, and until I met you, I didn't give a damn what I was. Well, that's the story. Pretty, isn't it? And don't think I'm a poor little girl who hasn't had a chance. I've had dozens of chances. I was offered a job once in a hat shop. I could have earned four pounds a week, but picking pockets brought me in thirty to fifty pounds, and I preferred to pick pockets. It was much more exciting and much more profitable, and I was my own mistress. The court missionary wanted me to get a job in a factory. That was sweet, wasn't it? From eight to five, at five pounds a week. No, thank you! I told her to go to hell. Then some old lady took a fancy to me and wanted me to be her companion. Can you imagine me as a companion to an old lady? Oh, I've had lots of chances, but I preferred the easy way. That's the way I'm made. Well, now you know. So don't let's talk about getting married. It's hopeless."

Harry had listened to all this in silence.

"I really don't care what you've been, Clair," he said when she had finished. "What I want to be sure of is you really love me. I think you do. You have said so, but I'd like you to say it once more."

"Yes, I love you," she said, looking up at him. "And there are moments, Harry, when I wish I didn't I've never loved anyone but you. Why I should have to pick on you I don't know. Why couldn't I have fallen in love with one of my own kind? Someone as worthless and as rotten as I am."

Harry took her in his arms.

"Please, Clair, don't talk like that. If you really want to make me happy, marry me. I know you and I will make a go of it. The past doesn't matter."

"Do you really mean you want to marry me after what I've told you?" she asked blankly. "You can't mean it, Harry."

"But I do. Nothing matters so long as I have you. I want you more than anything in the world."

She studied him for a moment, then dropped her hands in her lap with a gesture of resignation.

"All right; if that's what you want. But I warn you. I'm no good and I'll never be any good."

Harry didn't believe her.

chapter twenty

T
he next three weeks were full of bustling activity for Harry. With Doris's aid — and she walked herself nearly to a standstill — he found a two-room service flat, well enough furnished, in a quiet Kensington street. The rent was four guineas a week — more than he wanted to pay.

"If your wife cares to look after the flat," the agent told him, "you can have it for three guineas. It's small and compact and wouldn't be difficult to run."

But Harry had promised Clair she wouldn't have to do any housework. To have service for the extra guinea was worth it, he told himself, although Doris was scandalised. She admired Clair's looks and the way she dressed, but felt she should buckle down to a little housework.

"It's not as if it would kill her," she said to Mooney.

"You leave her alone," Mooney said. "She's all right. There're some girls who're fitted to slave in a house. That one isn't."

It was lucky for Harry there was little work to be done at the theatre during those three weeks, and he spent most of his time in Clair's company. She was restless and wanted to go out continuously, and they spent more money than Harry could afford. But he told himself that this was just a fling until she had got used to her freedom.

He seldom saw Allan Simpson, and took his orders from Val Lehmann, Simpson's business manager. He told Lehmann he was getting married.

"My contract comes up for renewal at the end of the month," he said. "I was wondering if Mr. Simpson would consider cutting out the monopoly clause. I have a lot of spare time, and I'd like to be able to do some portrait work for myself."

Lehmann, a serious-looking young man, prematurely bald, whose weak eyes hid behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, said he would have a word with Simpson.

"He doesn't like the staff doing outside work," he said, "but in your case he might make an exception. Suppose, instead, I try and get you a raise? What are you getting now?"

"Twenty-five, but out of that I have to pay my two assistants. I'm not clearing much more than ten by the time tax is deducted."

"Suppose I push him up to thirty? Any good?"

Harry hesitated.

"I'd prefer to do private work, Mr. Lehmann, if I can. I want every shilling I can earn."

Lehmann smiled. He liked Harry, and thought his work was sound.

"All right. I'll speak to him. What are you marrying — an extravagant wife?"

The marriage was to take place at the Kensington Registry. Only Mooney and Doris were invited.

Clair said she didn't want any fuss. Harry had been disappointed by her attitude towards the coming wedding. She behaved more like a patient facing a serious operation than a bride.

On the morning of the wedding, as he was shaving, she came into his room.

"Hey!" he said, turning to smile at her. "This isn't allowed. The groom isn't supposed to see the bride on the wedding morn. It's bad luck or something . . ." But he broke off, seeing how pale and worried she looked. "What's the matter, Clair?"

She began to say something, stopped, and looked helplessly at him.

"I know," he said, wiping off his lather. "You've got cold feet, haven't you?" He went to her and put his arms round her. "It's all right, Clair. Go and get dressed. We'll have a damned big drink before we go. It's going to be all right."

"You're sure this is what you want, Harry?" she said, looking searchingly at him. "I'll live with you without marrying you. You don't have to do this."

"I want it," Harry said. "Don't fuss, darling."

She pulled away from him and wandered over to the mirror and inspected herself.

"I don't know why I'm acting like this," she said impatiently. "I thought I was tough, but this worries me sick. If this is really what you want I'll go through with it, but, Harry don't have regrets after, will you?"

As he was going to her the door opened and Mooney appeared resplendent in a new hat and tie.

"What's all this?" he said, genuinely shocked. "You go back to your room, young lady. Doris is waiting for you. Damn it! One doesn't marry every day, and one's got to observe the conventions."

They were married at noon. The sun shone for them as they came out of the registry, arm-in-arm, both quiet, both a little fearful in their minds.

Mooney and Doris followed them down the steps. Mooney whistled Mendelssohn's Wedding March under his breath, but he too wasn't over happy.

"Like a damned funeral," he whispered to Doris. "We've got to get some drinks into these two or they'll burst into tears."

They had agreed not to go away for a honeymoon, but to have lunch with Mooney and Doris at the new flat, and then Harry thought it would be nice to drive into the country for the afternoon. He felt it would be romantic to return to Wendover where they once spent such a happy Sunday. Clair rather listlessly agreed.

With Mooney in charge of the drinks, the wedding lunch turned out to be quite a success. Thanks to his overpowering cocktails, Clair came out of her moody depression and joined in Mooney's hilarity and Doris's valiant attempts to keep the conversation going. But it was a relief to Mooney and Doris when they saw them off in the Morris, they having volunteered to stay behind and clear up the room and put everything in order for their return.

"Well, we've done it," Harry said triumphantly as they drove through the traffic around Shepherd's Bush. He had got over his feeling of depression, and was now happy and possessive. "I'm glad we did it, Clair darling. I've never been so happy in my life."