1951 - But a Short Time to Live (18 page)

"I'm going to do what I'm good at," she said. "Picking pockets."

"But darling . . ." Harry began, shocked.

"Why not? I told him I had practised for years, hoping to go on the stage one day. He believed it. I know he did. "The joke was he didn't think I was as good as I made out. When we got to the flat, I gave him back all his property. I had taken his wallet, his wrist watch, his cuff links, his cigarette case and his keys. I wish you could have seen his face! He said would I go to the Regent Theatre right away so Lehmann could see me. Well, darling. I couldn't let him get cold, so I went with him. He told me to pick Lehmann's pockets. He introduced me to Lehmann and we started drinking, and I really went to town on Lehmann. I even got his braces. Simpson said I was sensational. He's giving me thirty pounds a week, and if I go over big, he'll double it. I start rehearsals tomorrow."

Harry felt stunned. After all his hopes and plans, his scheming and hard work to support Clair, she had again stepped in front of him and would be very soon in the position to provide for herself and for him too if he wasn't careful. Not that he begrudged her her triumph. But when would he see her? he wondered. If he had to work all day, and she half the night, what kind of a married life would they have?

"What's worrying you, Harry?"

"Well, nothing. It's a bit of a surprise, that's all. Do you really want to do this, Clair? Wouldn't you rather work with me?"

"Now look, darling. We must have money. There're so many things we need. We can't continue to live in this hole. We must get a car. As a matter of fact, on the strength of the job, I've already had a word with a car agent I know. I rang him up in the lobby downstairs. He thinks he can get us something and he'll spread the payments. He's a good friend of mine, and he'll get us something good and quickly. Together we'll be earning fifty pounds a week. That's much more like, isn't it, darling?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Harry said doubtfully. "I thought you liked this place."

"It's all right, but it's too small. We could never have a party in here, could we?"

Harry looked round the room. No, they couldn't entertain more than two people in the small room, but did that matter?

"It worries me," he said suddenly. "Suppose someone finds out you've been in — in —"

"That I'm an old lag?" Clair said with a hard smile. "I'll take a chance on it, Harry." She jumped to her feet "Let's celebrate! After all it is our wedding day. How much money have you got in the flat?"

Harry hesitated.

"Well, I've got about ten pounds, but it'll have to last us until next Friday."

"Oh, bosh!" She threw her arms round him. "Don't be such an old caution. I'll ask Lehmann to give me an advance. Go and make yourself look nice, darling. We're going out and we're going to spend every penny of that ten pounds, and then tomorrow I'll pay it all back to you. This is my treat."

"Look, Clair," Harry said firmly. "We're married. It's not going to be like that. I'm doing the paying now. The money you earn you must keep for yourself. I'm not having you spending your money on me."

She looked at him mockingly.

“What does it matter who has the money so long as we have it, remember? Come on, go and get changed."

She left him and ran into the bedroom. Harry stood undecided, then he went over to the window, and looked into the street. He felt thoroughly dejected. And he stood there for some minutes, thinking of the future. She had said if she made a success of her art Simpson would pay her sixty pounds a week. She was sure to make a success of it. Then she would be earning four times as much as he. How could he hope to hold up his end of the marriage under such conditions? With Mooney and Doris to pay — and Mooney was already hinting he could do with more money, it wasn't fair competition. They would move to a larger flat, and Clair would pay for it. They would have a car, and Clair would pay for that. He wouldn't even be able to afford to buy her clothes now she was back to her old standard.

"Harry . . ."

He turned.

Clair stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at him. She had taken off her dress and was in a flimsy slip.

"What's the matter, Harry?"

"Nothing. I'm just coming."

"You're sore because I'm going to earn more than you, aren't you?"

"Oh, I know it's silly," Harry said, frowning. "But I can't help it. I've always wanted to provide for you, to look after you and — well, it just doesn't work out that way."

She came over to him and slipped her arms round his neck.

“Harry darling, I love you. But you are a little selfish about this, aren't you? If you had your way we would only have your money, and we'd be hard up. Don't keep me out of it. After all marriage is a partnership. Can't you look on it that way? I tell you what we'll do. We'll have a joint banking account. You'll pay in everything you earn and so will I. Then we'll both draw on it for everything we want. That's the way partners do it, isn't it?"

She was right, of course. He was being selfish, and marriage was a sort of partnership. But for all that he wished frantically that he could provide for her and give her the things she would buy with her own money.

"I'm sorry, Clair," he said, and gave her a little hug. "I am being selfish. All right, we'll pool our resources, and see how we get on. Now, let's get ready. Where would you like to go?"

“We're not going anywhere. I've changed my mind," she said, her face against his. "We'll have a picnic supper and then we'll go to bed."

"Oh no, you wanted to go out just now. Don't let's change our plans. We ought to celebrate."

She held him closer.

"We are going to celebrate. Oh, Harry, I know I'm no good, but I'm only thinking of you. I want everything to be right for you. You can see that, can't you?"

chapter twenty-two

T
he next morning, Harry had a telephone call from Lehmann, asking him to come down to the theatre right away.

"I'll come with you," Clair said. "I'm one of the family now. Hurry up and shave, darling. I won't be ten minutes."

While Harry was shaving he heard Clair on the telephone. She sounded very animated and once or twice she laughed, and he wondered a little irritably who it was she was talking to. He heard her hang up, and as he was washing the lather off his face, she came into the bathroom.

“That was Maurice," she said. "The chap who's getting us a car. He's got a 1948 Jaguar; it's just come in. £900, and only done six thousand miles. He says it's an absolute bargain."

"Nine hundred pounds," Harry said, staring at her. "But, darling —"

"Twenty-five pounds a month," Clair said briskly. "I said we would look at it on our way down to the theatre. I can run to twenty-five a month . . . it's nothing."

"But you haven't got the job yet," Harry said. "It might fall through."

"Then Maurice can have the car back. It's all right. I know him." She patted his arm and returned to the bedroom and began to dress.

Harry stood motionless for a moment, then with a helpless shrug, joined her.

The bus or the Underground were far too slow for Clair that morning. It had to be a taxi.

"We're running away with the money," Harry muttered as he told the taxi driver to go to Portland Street. "A bus wouldn't have been much slower."

"But, darling, we've got the money," Clair said gaily. "In three weeks' time we'll be worth fifty pounds a week."

"You forget there's income tax," he pointed out, hating himself for harping on money like this.

"We'll be lucky to get thirty a week by the time tax has been deducted."

Clair pulled a face.

"Well, thirty's not bad, and if I go over big, we'll have even more. Cheer up, darling. After all the taxi won't be more than a couple of shillings."

The car salesman, Maurice, turned out to be a swarthy young man with black wavy hair, a blue chin and a hooked nose. He greeted Clair like an old friend, and glanced suspiciously at Harry as if wondering who he was and what he was doing in Clair's company, and Harry was surprised that Clair introduced him as "This is Harry Ricks', and not her husband.

Maurice showed them the glittering showy car painted cream and red.

"Special coach work and a bang-on radio," he said. "We'll guarantee it. Hop in and come for a run."

"We're going down to the Regent," Clair said. "I'll drive."

Because Maurice wanted to explain the controls and gadgets, Harry had to sit in the back. He was silent and moody while Clair and Maurice chatted and laughed as she drove the car along Oxford Street "It's a peach, isn't it, Harry?" she called over her shoulder. "Would you like to handle her?"

"No, thank you," Harry said.

He had had very little experience of driving cars, and was scared of the Jaguar. It was all very well driving the old Morris that couldn't do more than thirty miles an hour, but in traffic, he felt if he even touched the accelerator of this powerful monster with his unsure foot, he would send it rushing madly into the back of a bus.

"I'll give you seven hundred for it," Clair said suddenly.

They began to argue while Harry listened, dismayed and angry that he wasn't even being consulted.

After a strenuous struggle, Clair succeeded in closing the deal at £800.

"I'll send you a cheque, Maurice, for twenty-five," she said as she pulled up outside the theatre. "I haven't the spare for a deposit Okay?"

"For you, my lovely, anything's okay," Maurice said. "Keep her. I'll take a taxi back. The book's in the glove compartment. Better get her registered today. She's taxed and insured to the end of the month."

He got out, beamed through the window at Clair, and looking uncertainly at Harry said, "Well, Clair, any time you have a moment I'll always be glad to see your pretty face. So long for now." He nodded to Harry and went off, waving to a distant taxi.

"How do you like it?" Clair asked, turning in her seat. Her face was radiant and her eyes bright "This is much more like it, isn't it, darling?"

"Yes," Harry said, and got out of the car. "You won't leave it here, will you?"

She gave him a quick searching look.

"You don't mind, Harry? I'm afraid I was a bit high handed, but you see, I know Maurice. If you had dealt with him we should have been here hours arguing about the price. It is what you want?"

"It's very nice," Harry said carefully.

"I'm so glad." Her face lost a little of its radiance. "I'll run it round to the back."

"All right I'll go on in."

He watched her drive the car away, then entered the theatre. He was shocked at Clair's irresponsibility. To have bought an eight hundred pound car in less than half an hour, without a thought of future payments or of the money to be found for the tax or insurance seemed to him the height of recklessness.

"If we go on like this," he thought as he made his way to Val Lehmann's office, "we'll be tip to our ears in debt'

Lehmann was going through a series of sketches, spread out on the top of the grand piano that took up most of the room in his office.

"Hallo, Harry," he said, looking up and smiling. We've got some work for you. Mr. Simpson has decided to take Crazy Days off. We go into production right away. Here, have a look at these sketches. They'll give you an idea of the set-up."

While Harry was examining the sketches, Lehmann sat at his desk, and wrote furiously in a fat notebook he always carried around with him.

"Some wife you've picked yourself, Harry," he said suddenly. "That's a clever art she's got. It should go over big at the 22nd. Mr. Simpson's delighted with her."

"Is he?" Harry said flatly.

"Oh, and Harry, I'm sorry, but Mr. Simpson won't break the monopoly clause," Lehmann went on.

"He says if he does it with you, he'll have to do it with others."

Harry dropped the sketch he was looking at and turned.

"But it's important to me, Mr. Lehmann. I — I want the money."

"Who doesn't?" Lehmann said, and smiled sympathetically. "You see, Harry, there are very few, if any, photographers on a salary as you are. If you like to work on piece work so to speak and not have a contract it'd be all right, but so long as you're a member of the staff, private work is out."

Harry hesitated. To be without the steady twenty-five pounds a week would be too dangerous.

There was Mooney and Doris to be thought of.

"Yes," he said. "I understand. Did — did you get me a raise?"

"Mr. Simpson suggested I bring that up later. Matter of fact, Harry, business isn't so hot."

"And yet Simpson could promise Clair sixty pounds a week if she was a success," Harry thought bitterly.

"I see," he said and turned back to the sketches.

Clair came in a few minutes later.

"Hallo, Val," she said, and Harry started, surprised she was already on a Christian name basis. He had never thought of calling Lehmann by his Christian name; in fact, he knew he would have been snubbed if he had done so, and yet here was Clair, after only one meeting, calmly sitting on the edge of Lehmann's desk, helping herself to a cigarette out of his box and calling him 'Val' And what was more surprising Lehmann seemed to like it.

"Hallo, Clair," Lehmann returned. "What do you want? You can't come barging in here. I'm busy."

"Well, I like that!" Clair said smiling. "Didn't you tell me to come down for a rehearsal this morning?"

"So I did. But we're going to put on a new show, and I'll be busy. I'll have to get Oman to coach you. He's a good chap. Look, go along to his office and tell him I sent you. Work with him this morning. I'll have a look at you this afternoon. Mr. Simpson has had a word with him."

"All right." Clair did off the desk.

"And work like hell, Clair. You have a lot to do in a short time."

"Don't I know it. I'll work all right." As she went to the door, she patted Harry's back affectionately. "Let's have lunch together, darling."

"Yes," Harry said. "I'll pick you up in Oman's office."

"Oh Val," Clair said, turning. "Look out of the window."