Ellie (49 page)

Tonight she’d flushed away the result of celebrations on Victory Day. There were probably countless more all over England passing into the sewers, as well as many babies to be born next January who would never know their fathers, any more than she did.

Bonny woke later and saw Ellie hunched on the window sill. The sight of her friend’s bare, slender shoulders and her tousled black hair brought stinging tears to her eyes.

‘Ellie, come into bed with me?’ she whispered.

Ellie started, turning immediately. ‘Are you in pain?’

Bonny saw the deep concern in her friend’s eyes and felt humbled. ‘No pain,’ she said weakly. ‘I’m going to be all right. Come into bed with me, you can’t stay there.’

Ellie climbed in gratefully; she was chilled and stiff.

For a moment Bonny said nothing. The horror of the night was already fading from her mind, but she would never forget it was Ellie who had pulled her through it. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, nestling closer and putting an arm round her friend. ‘I love you.’

Ellie looked at Bonny on the pillow next to her and drew comfort not only from those sincere words, but from Nature’s ability to heal so fast. Bonny was still pale, but the anguish lines in her face had faded, and her hair against the pillow was as bright as it had been yesterday.

‘I love you too,’ Ellie said with a deep sigh. ‘But don’t you ever dare do anything like that again, or you and I are finished.’

‘Don’t lecture me.’

Ellie smiled. She was glad to see the old spoilt brat was back. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she said. ‘Thank God for Sunday.’

‘Now Edward. You
do
know what Ellie and Bonny are up to, and I expect you to tell me,’ Ambrose said forcefully.

‘They aren’t up to anything,’ Edward insisted. ‘Bonny’s had a bad bilious attack, they think it might be food poisoning. When I went round there yesterday Bonny was in bed and she looked half dead. I can’t imagine why you don’t believe Ellie, or me.’

Edward felt compelled to go along with Ellie’s story out of loyalty, but he didn’t believe it either. It was true Bonny was in bed, and that she looked pale enough to be recovering from food poisoning. But Edward had weighed up all the clues; Bonny’s disappearance on Saturday, Ellie’s anxiety that night, the number of sheets and towels hanging on the line outside the window and the subdued state that Bonny had been in for weeks before. Everyone knew Bonny was man-mad. It all added up to an abortion.

‘Those two have been in cahoots for weeks,’ Ambrose said, his round, shiny face flushed with suspicion. ‘They’ve got something up their sleeve.’

Edward was never quite sure how he felt towards Ambrose. Sometimes he liked him better than anyone else, sometimes he loathed him. One moment he was a bully, yet at other times he was kind and generous. He was grateful to the man because he’d given him his big chance, but didn’t like being indebted to him. He admired Ambrose’s artistry and knowledge, yet secretly despised the man’s pretentiousness. It was confusing, and he hadn’t even worked out whether Ambrose really liked him either.

‘Have they been for an audition somewhere else?’ Ambrose pushed his face up to Edward’s and his breath smelt of violet cachous.

Edward wanted to laugh. Ambrose was so transparent sometimes. He huffed and he puffed, but at the end of the day he was just plain scared of losing his grip on people.

It had been a mistake on Edward’s part to agree to come to Ambrose’s for a ‘nightcap’. He couldn’t think why he’d agreed; he might have known the man just wanted to pump him for information.

‘Why would they audition for another show?’ Edward sat down on the arm of a chair. ‘They’re in the best one in town now. Besides, Ellie was her old self tonight. She was only worried about Bonny on Saturday.’

‘Pour us a gin and tonic,’ Ambrose said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I can smell fish a mile off and if you won’t tell me anything I’ll find another source.’

Edward wiped his forehead as he poured the drinks. A storm was coming, and it had grown hotter and more muggy all day. He wished he hadn’t come here.

Ambrose’s flat, or his ‘
pied-à-terré
, as he liked to call it, was on the first floor of a large house in Bloomsbury. It was owned and furnished by a couple living out in India and it reflected their taste and status rather than Ambrose’s. Edward had felt at home here the first time he’d seen it, as it had the kind of faded grandeur of his grandmother’s house: old Persian rugs, heavy carved furniture handed down through generations, artefacts from all over the world, a baby grand piano, magnificent marble fireplaces. Ambrose, who had a penchant for thirties styling, complained constantly about this place. Edward, whose digs were so grim he could hardly bear to go back there at night, felt the man was a philistine and ought to be truly grateful.

‘Sit by me.’ Ambrose patted the couch next to him as Edward handed him his drink. ‘I want to talk seriously to you and we rarely get an opportunity without flapping ears close by.’

Edward glanced towards the windows somewhat nervously as lightning flashed, and even though he was expecting the clap of thunder which followed it, still he jumped.

‘I’d better close the windows,’ Ambrose said, getting up and crossing the large room as a gust of wind blew in. ‘You must stay here tonight, Edward. I suspect we’re in for a heavy storm.’

The windows were only just shut when the rain started, within seconds hammering against the glass with tremendous force. Ambrose pulled the heavy brocade curtains and switched on another side light.

‘That’s cosier,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘Now let’s get back to you and Ellie. The reason I wanted to know about her is because I have plans for you both.’

To Edward’s surprise, Ambrose began to speak about films, saying he had parts for both of them lined up for next year.

‘But the show?’ Edward asked, gulping down his drink, trying to ignore the storm outside and his nervousness at being expected to stay the night.

Ambrose shrugged. ‘It will be finished by Christmas. The theatre-going public are growing tired of revues, they want straight comedy, or drama. But anyway, Edward, the film world is where the money is. Who wants to tramp the boards night after night when a couple of months’ filming will bring in as much money as a year in theatre?’

‘What sort of film?’ Ambrose had hinted more than once that Edward’s looks were perfect for the big screen, but he’d only ever played starchy English gentlemen. He wondered if Ambrose was making it up.

‘A comedy, of course.’ Ambrose smiled coldly. ‘You’ll be fine, my lad, I’ll make another Ronald Coleman out of you.’

There was something about the words ‘I’ll make’ that worried Edward: they made him sound like a puppet. ‘What about your dancers?’ he asked. ‘Are you getting them in too?’

‘Some of the best ones, maybe.’ Ambrose looked thoughtful. Edward knew how hard he had trained them, and his plans for being another Ziegfeld. ‘There are several who can act. Frances and Sally, to name a couple.’

Edward couldn’t help but be cheered by this. Bonny couldn’t act to save her life; this might break up the friendship between her and Ellie.

By the time Edward was on his fourth gin and Ambrose was recounting some of his times in America, he was feeling mellow. Even the storm outside had ceased to concern him.

‘Why don’t you play for me?’ Ambrose suggested. ‘And don’t tell me you can’t. I heard you playing one morning in the Phoenix.’

‘I’m a bit rusty,’ Edward grinned. He was always glad to get an opportunity to play; his grandmother had a beautiful Steinway and he missed it more than anything.

Ironically the score for
Good-night Vienna
, one of his grandmother’s favourite musicals, was sitting on the piano, and as Edward began to play it hauntingly, the way she liked it, he imagined her standing behind him, singing along.

The storm outside was forgotten as good memories came back with the music. His grandmother was old and frail now and her once-strong voice wavered, but Edward transported himself back to when he was fifteen or sixteen, and felt again the warm feeling of truly belonging which he only ever had with his grandmother.

He played all her old favourites: ‘Barbara Allen’, ‘North Country Boy’, ‘Greensleeves’. When he felt a hand on his shoulder he forgot it was Ambrose and began to sing.

‘You’re a lad of many talents,’ Ambrose said as Edward paused after ‘Greensleeves’. ‘I didn’t know you could sing too.’

‘I’m not good enough for the public,’ Edward smiled. ‘And like the playing, the singing’s a bit rusty. What would you like me to play now?’

Edward was aware of Ambrose’s hand still on his shoulder, his thumb stroking his neck, but it seemed merely an affectionate gesture and he didn’t shrug it off.

‘No more playing now,’ Ambrose said. ‘It’s late and it might disturb my neighbours. It’s time for bed.’

One moment Ambrose was just standing there, looking down at Edward on the piano stool, the next he was bending down to him, kissing first his cheek, his neck and finally his mouth.

It was only as Ambrose’s tongue snaked its way into Edward’s mouth that he struggled to get free, suddenly realising what this was.

‘No.’ He pushed him away in alarm. ‘Don’t do that!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous and girlish,’ Ambrose said, grabbing him tightly to his chest so Edward could barely breathe. ‘You know this is what you really want.’

‘It isn’t.’ Edward pushed harder, struggling to his feet. ‘Let me go.’

He managed to get free and made a bolt for the door, but Ambrose beat him to it, barring the way. ‘Edward, calm down,’ he said, his cold blue eyes glinting too brightly. ‘It has to happen one day – why not me who cares for you?’

‘I’m not like that.’ Edward’s voice shook. ‘I’m not.’

He felt just the way he did when waiting in the wings ready to go on stage, sheer terror clutching at his innards, wanting to turn and run away, yet knowing he couldn’t. The same small voice which told him to walk on to the stage was speaking now, telling him this was inevitable, that once he began, the nervousness would fade.

‘Deny it to everyone, but not to yourself,’ Ambrose said, catching hold of Edward’s jacket and spinning him round until their places were reversed and Edward was pinned against the door with Ambrose kissing him again.

This time there was no tongue, just gentleness. The body against his was warm and hard, and it didn’t repel him.

‘You see.’ Ambrose drew back, smiling. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. I love you, can’t you see that?’

Another crack of thunder from outside made Edward start.

‘You’re safe with me,’ Ambrose said very quietly. ‘Listen to me. I know what you are because I was lost and alone like you once. I have all you need to make you happy, Edward, just trust me. After tonight you’ll understand all those things which puzzled you. Remember, I love you.’

No one had ever said they loved Edward, not even his grandmother. It felt like being tossed a lifebelt in a sea of confusion. The storm outside, the gin and the piano playing had mixed things up in his head. Was Ambrose right? Did he really know what Edward was?

Pansy Manning can’t run, can’t play rugger. He’s queer, the dirty bugger
. That cruel rhyme had been thrown at him daily in school, yet he’d never once allowed any of the older boys to touch him as they’d wanted. Was it worth trying to run from it as he had back then? And who would he run to?

‘Come with me Edward.’ Ambrose took his hand and led him towards his bedroom. ‘I care deeply for you. Why do you think I gave you the part with Ellie? I’ve been so patient with you, we’ve been good friends. Now we’re going to be lovers.’

Edward waited until Ambrose was fast asleep, then sliding out from the arm draped over him, he slowly moved to the side of the bed. He hurt all over, but especially inside.

His clothes were strewn at the end of the bed, where Ambrose had thrown them as he peeled them off. The room was pitch dark, with the curtains tightly closed, so he had to grope for them on his hands and knees.

Five minutes later he was down in the street. It was still raining hard. He turned up the collar of his jacket and began to walk, rain mingling with the tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t know what direction he was going in, but he hoped it was towards the river.

Chapter Eighteen

‘Are you sure about this?’ Ellie looked doubtfully at Bonny. She was sitting on the bed, her face still pale and drawn. ‘I’m sure I can talk Ambrose into letting you have another couple of days off.’

‘I’ve been in bed for two days.’ Bonny shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and reached for her shoes. ‘I feel okay, I must do some practice.’

‘You might be able to walk about,’ Ellie argued. ‘But high kicks? After what you’ve been through?’

It was Tuesday morning. Bonny had announced her intention of getting back to work late the previous night. Although on the face of it she was none the worse for her ordeal, Ellie was afraid that attempting to dance might set her right back.

‘Look! If I feel bad at the theatre at least Ambrose will know I haven’t been malingering,’ Bonny said firmly. ‘I might even ask if I can go to my mum’s for a few days if he’s sympathetic. I can’t stay here any longer anyway. You can’t sleep properly with me in that little bed.’

Ellie sighed. In fact she felt as if she hadn’t slept for a week. Her room, let alone the bed, wasn’t big enough for two people. ‘I wish you’d go to a doctor first,’ she said. ‘Let him check you over.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Bonny snapped. ‘What am I going to say? “Excuse me but I had an abortion at the weekend. Please peer up inside me and check I’m still in one piece?” You are stupid sometimes, Ellie!’

‘Will you just talk to Brenda then?’ Ellie pleaded. Her old friend at the Blue Moon had one child and she’d had a miscarriage. She was in a position to know what was normal and what wasn’t.

‘I’m not talking to anyone.’ Bonny tossed back her hair defiantly. ‘As far as I’m concerned the whole thing is over. I don’t even want you to mention it again.’

‘Please yourself then,’ Ellie snapped back, putting on her raincoat. ‘Don’t come crying to me if you have a haemorrhage!’