Enduring Passions (2 page)

He must have been staring so hard that she somehow felt it, for at that moment she turned and caught him in the act. For a few seconds their eyes met, then, as he felt the blood surge into his face, she looked away again.

She didn’t look back.

The man next to him had seen the whole thing and leaned towards him.

‘Don’t get any ideas, sonny, you can’t afford her and in any case she’s not for the likes of you.’

He tried not to watch her as Dean called out, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a Paul Jones’, but he could see her move into the centre where all the girls held hands in a ring facing outwards, as the men did the same, but facing inwards. They struck up the tune, both circles moving in opposite
direction
until at a sweep of the baton, Dean abruptly cut the music. There was a roar from the crowd, as whoever they stopped opposite, they had to dance with. Dean then restarted with a slow foxtrot – only to repeat the whole process another four times.

He only caught an occasional glimpse of her in the throng. She never once looked in his direction, but seemed to be laughing and enjoying herself immensely with all her different partners.

But she
did
glance towards him – several times – but always when he was occupied.

The great moment came and a piper appeared and a man dressed as
Old Father Time, complete with scythe, as over the speakers came the solemn, reassuring gongs of Big Ben as it struck midnight. On the last one, to a tremendous roar from the crowd and the sound of party bugles, the band played a fan-fair and a young lady, scantily clad in a
flesh-coloured
body costume with wings on her back, waved to everyone from the floodlit balcony – the emblem of the New Year.

The cheering continued as the piper played.

He suddenly saw her – head back, being kissed, and to his crushing agony she seemed to be very happy. Utter dejection came over him. The balloons rained down, some being burst, as they struck up ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

They played on, but for Tom there was no joy, only a bleakness in his soul, as the champagne corks popped, some bouncing into the band. He deliberately concentrated on the sheet music even though he could play most of the tunes from memory. There was no way he wanted to catch sight of her again – it was too upsetting. So he never did see the
continuing
surreptitious looks she flashed in his direction, over the shoulder of whomever she was dancing with, as she passed the band time and time again.

The programme called for carriages at four, with hot soup served from three o’clock onwards, but time seemed to stand still, the hour of his release always a long way away.

So when it came, he was utterly exhausted and fed up. As they cleared away, packing up their instruments and stands, Raymond Dean moved amongst them, dishing out buff coloured envelopes with their names on.

When he got to Tom he glowered.

‘I’ll need to speak to you before we hire you again – your timing and commitment leave a lot to be desired.’

Tom just took his money, in no mood to tell him what he could do with his part-time job – there were plenty of other bands looking for good saxophone players and he could turn his hand to the clarinet and piano if need be. He found his raincoat and trilby, but on a whim of cussedness, decided to walk out through the hotel rather than a staff side door. He knew he was doing it on the off chance of bumping into her again.

It was as he turned a corner that he saw her – back against the wall, being leaned over by the same fellow he’d seen her kissing. And to make matters worse, he now realized, it was the prick from the lavatory.

She seemed to be trapped, frowning and moving her head from one
side to the other to avoid his face as he leant closer to hers, murmuring something.

For a slight second he was uncertain as to what to do, but then
remembered
the kissing. It really was none of his business. He was about to pass, but as he did so he heard her say, ‘Please, Jeremy, I don’t want to.’

Hearing her voice for the first time and seeing her distress made him shift the saxophone case under his arm making it bulkier and more
difficult
to pass them in the older narrower corridor.

He paused. ‘Excuse me.’

The man straightened up.

‘Well, if it isn’t our little Bolshevik friend.’

Tom felt his temper rising, but controlled it enough to say, ‘Excuse me, I couldn’t get by,’ made to move on, but Jeremy ‘Prick’ had other ideas, obviously angry at the interruption. He sidestepped to obstruct his progress. Tom could also smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘Where do you think you are going?’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘Not this way you’re not – use the tradesmen’s entrance.’

Tom ignored him.

‘Excuse me.’ He tried again but again found his way blocked.

‘Jeremy – let him go.’

Somehow that made him really angry. Who the hell was she speaking about, as though he was some person who was beneath them, being bullied. Christ, it was she who had needed the help. What was the matter with the woman?

Maybe it was the training he’d received in restraint lately, but he was amazed as he heard himself say, ‘That’s right, let me go, Jeremy.’

That’s what he said, but Jeremy seemed to think he was being funny.

‘Why, you sarcastic little bugger.’

The blow came out of nowhere and struck him right in the eye in an explosion of stars and flashing lights. He stumbled back, dropping his saxophone and tripping over a delicate rosewood table, sending a lamp flying and collapsing in a pile of splintering wood. There was a tearing sound as his mac caught in a screw that had fixed the electric flex to the wall. It tore his coat from the side pocket right up to the armpit.

‘Jeremy – that’s enough – please.’

Her irritating voice sounded more cut glass than ever.

Tom looked at his mac, could have wept. Instead he got to his feet.

‘You’re going to pay for that, Jeremy.’

The latter sneered.

‘Sorry, old sport, I haven’t got any loose change left.’

That did it. As Jeremy assumed the classic boxers stance that had won him a house blue he was taken by twelve stone of bone and muscle, head down, that drove him back into the opposite wall, forcing every bit of air from his lungs.

Before he could recover, two great pile drivers to the guts and chin ended all knowledge of his New Year celebrations for the next twenty minutes. Tom’s fight however had only just started. The girl’s scream brought a host of men running, and seeing one of their tailed brethren unconscious on the floor, they asked no questions – it was obviously an assault on one of their own.

Ten minutes later the side door into the alley opened and a bloodied and torn Tom was thrown amongst the kitchen dustbins, his saxophone case crashing on to a metal holder, spilling the contents.

He lay for a while, tasting the blood in his mouth and the foul wetness of the concrete. In the doorway the girl made towards him, as if to help, but was pulled back and the door slammed shut.

It was daylight by the time he reached home. He was putting the kettle on the hob on the range when his grandmother appeared, hair in a net, feet in brown indoor bootees, plaid dressing-gown wrapped round her ample frame. Her hands flew to her face.

‘Oh my godfathers I knew this would happen.’

He grunted through fat lips, trying to see her through his one eye, the other swollen and closed.

‘It’s all right, Gran – just roughed up a bit. It’s worse than it looks – honest. A couple of them won’t look so pretty for a while either.’

She fussed over him.

‘I’ll get a bowl and bathe your face.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

His body ached. He knew it must be covered in bruises, and it hurt to breathe, a cracked rib was a possibility. Luckily he didn’t have to work until the day after next.

‘And your coat, darling, it’s ruined.’

He looked at his ripped and stained pride and joy. There were still six instalments to go. He never found his hat.

‘Take it off.’

He did as he was told, but could not help wincing as he did so.

Apart from creases and one stain, his maroon jacket was untouched. Ironic that, because he wasn’t going to be playing with The Serenaders again by the look of it. His trousers were all muddy, and there was blood on his collar and shirt front. His tie was missing.

‘My God, son – who did this to you?’

Breathing carefully he managed, ‘I told you, about three or four of them, no reason, just drink,’ he lied. ‘Outside the Norwood Arms.’

His grandmother’s eyes blazed.

‘They ought to be birched within an inch of their lives. They’re scum.’

He didn’t argue with that.

And if he could have got his hands on that young woman – stunning or not – she wouldn’t have been able to sit down for a week.

It was next day when he found that there was a big chunk missing from the cover of the saxophone case, the white wood like a scar against the surrounding cloth-covered surface. Worse, he’d found that one of the lever mechanisms of the instrument was jammed. It would cost to have it repaired. He shuffled despondently down the stairs.

What a disastrous night. What a bloody way to start the year. It would have been better to have stayed at home and listened to the wireless – Henry Hall and his Orchestra had been on.

His mum and dad were sitting at the large table, waiting for him to appear in the doorway. Gran was out, but had obviously told them what had happened. His mother stood up and held out her hands.

‘Oh, darling, what have they done to you?’

‘It’s OK, Mum.’

His dad started to say something, but then went into a paraxym of coughing that went on and on. Anxiously, his mother switched her
attention
from him to her husband, placing a hand on his back, rubbing and gently tapping to help get up the phlegm. When it was over she told him to stay quiet. ‘I’ll tell him.’

Tom mumbled, ‘Tell me what?’

His mother smiled, transforming her pale drawn face, taking away the lines of fatigue and disappointment and revealing a bit of the happy young woman of another, earlier time, long since past.

‘Your father has decided to pay off your coat – don’t argue now, it’s decided.’

‘But Mum—’

‘No, that’s it.’

He felt wretched, and relieved at the same time. He would be able to
pay for the sax’s repair straight away and start earning some extra cash again.

He shook his head, but said, ‘I’ll make sure you get it back – I promise. It’s just a loan.’

His father managed to speak, his voice hoarse and whistling. ‘You’re a good lad, never given us any bother, and you’ve helped us keep afloat this year. So take it – we want to help you for a change.’

A lump came into his throat, and a burning resolve that he would make something happen to help them have a better life.

But what? There wasn’t much scope for immediate wage improvement in his day job, even though it was dependable, respectable and had good prospects.

But he’d start looking around – think of something. Meanwhile tomorrow, aching or not, he had to drag himself off to work.

The ringing was like a fire alarm exploding in the blackness of the room. His hand came down smack on top of the twin bells on the alarm clock, cutting off the murderous noise. He leapt from the bed. As the eiderdown was thrown back it crackled with the icy film that had formed during the night from his breath.

He reached for his underpants, pulled free the tie in the white cord of his pyjama bottoms, stepping out of them and kicking them away.

His collarless shirt was soon on, hands fumbling at the buttons. In seconds he was into his trousers, pulling the braces over his shoulders, wincing with pain from his beating, before tucking the shirt tails around his bottom. He didn’t do his flies up straight away, getting the chamber pot from under the bed.

Downstairs, his face in the pitted mirror, he applied a thick white lather as he soaped up with brush and stick. He used a Gillette safety razor, not like his father who still used a cut-throat, but even so he managed to cut himself under his chin.

When he was satisfied he cupped his hands with water and splashed his face several times to try to remove all the soap. He finished the job, dabbing with the towel.

Teeth cleaning came next. He rotated the brush head in the flat tin of Gibbs paste, the metal showing through in the middle.

His hair was the last thing to be tackled. He scooped up some Brylcreem and spread it on the palms of his hands before vigorously attacking the crown of his head, finishing with a comb, making a pencil
sharp parting on his left side, and sweeping the gleaming black hair almost straight back.

He checked his appearance. Everything seemed in order. He regarded his nails. Clean. He rinsed his fingers and palms. After a struggle he fixed his collar and stud, and then his tie. Between sips of tea he did up his waistcoat, careful to leave the bottom button undone.

With his loose change stowed, handkerchief in pocket, wrist-watch checked – his father had wanted him to have Grandad’s Albert but it looked too old-fashioned for his taste – he was finally ready. And, as he wasn’t coming back that night, he had packed his little brown overnight case.

There came a creaking of floorboards above his head. Tom finished his tea just as his mother came in, wrapped in her thick woollen
dressing-gown
.

‘Darling, are you sure I can’t get you a hot breakfast?’

He flung his arms around her, then regretted it as his ribs ached.

‘Mum, I’m going to have breakfast on the company.’ He gave her a big kiss. ‘Go back to bed, the room will be warm in another half-hour. See you tomorrow – home about six.’

At the bottom of the garden he got his bike out of the shed, swung his leg over the saddle, and pushed off. It was all downhill, thank God.

Later, after a mountainous fry-up, he began to feel better.

The maid paused at the door, shifted the tray to one hand and tapped the door with the other. She opened it a fraction, then entered the darkened room, setting the tray down on the bedside cabinet.

‘Good morning, miss. It’s ten o’clock.’

She went to the heavily curtained windows and allowed some light in. All that could be seen of the occupant of the bed was dark hair spread on the pillow; when she turned she heard a groan.

‘Thank you, Brenda.’

The maid knelt at the small, black grate, and used some rolled up newspaper balls and kindling to start a fire. It was soon crackling and smoking.

‘There you are, miss. Fire’s going. I’ll draw your bath in ten minutes, all right?’

A muffled sound that she took to be ‘yes’ came from the bed. Just to be on the safe side, using her apron to protect the cord from her slightly dirty hands, she drew the curtains back a further few inches.

Another groan came from the bed.

Grinning, she said as she left, ‘It’s your aunty’s wish that breakfast be finished by eleven o’clock today.’

When she’d gone the figure stirred, and slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position. With the bloom that only youth gives, Fay Rossiter was stunningly beautiful even in disarray. Her black hair was awry, one strap of her silk night-dress down over her shoulder and eyes full of sleep, but still large and clear and unpuffy.

She sipped her tea, watching the flames spread up the wood to the lumps of coal.

The fire was taking root but still no warmth came from it as she slid her feet into her slippers and drew on her silk dressing-gown with its
Chinese pattern – a gift from an aunty in Singapore.

After she’d used the lavatory down the hall she made her way to the bathroom, with the big claw-footed bath in the centre of the black and white marbled floor, and a large aspidistra in its brass pot near the window. She tested the water, and turned on the hot tap for more as she slipped out of her dressing-gown and night-dress.

With the water temperature just right she stepped in and sank down. She began to soap her flannel, thinking about yesterday. She’d had another miserable night because Daddy had rung to wish them all a Happy New Year and Aunty Cynthia had told him about the fuss at the hotel.

She winced. When she’d gone downstairs to the elegant hall of the Regency house and had taken the receiver he’d given her an awful wigging. ‘Why hadn’t she stayed in Cirencester? Gone to one of the many house parties like previous years? It had been a dreadful idea to go to a public do, she had to think of her reputation.’

She’d rolled her eyes at the grandfather clock.

It was useless explaining that they had all wanted something livelier this year – it wasn’t
just her
idea, everybody in her set had wanted it, including that idiot Jeremy who had started the whole thing.

Her aunty only knew because her friends had come home all excited about it, laughing and talking. Jeremy had had to be helped in, still groaning and holding his jaw; he’d lost a side tooth. As she dressed, choosing a dark tailored frock after turning side to side, trying it up against her petticoat, she remembered the incident the previous evening and the man who had been involved, the one she had caught staring at her in the ballroom.

Fay felt the same unsettling shiver run up her back as she did at the time. He had been so obvious in his approval of her that she had been quite taken aback, then frankly a little frightened.

Those intense blue eyes beneath black hair were quite something.

Then she remembered the appalling violence, ending when the other men had set on him like that. She had tried to go to his aid, but had been restrained and ushered away. She wanted, somehow, to meet him. Maybe she could find out more through the band – the hotel would have a contact number. As she packed, she thought about it further, resolving to make enquiries on Monday. She was always organizing events – that would be her excuse.

Later, she pulled the draw rope beside the fireplace to call for her
aunty’s chauffeur to collect her cases. They were all getting the same train back to Cirencester so he was using the old Rolls Royce for the luggage, in addition to the two taxis that had been ordered.

While she waited, she ran a hand over her tummy, it felt like lead and ached abominably. The Curse had started that morning, which explained why she had been so tense and edgy before.

When Jeremy had kept on pestering her for a silly kiss, she had said no, and dug her heels in, even though she had let him do it before. It was the fact that he was tipsy and completely different from normal, all
bullying
and overbearing.

Fay really couldn’t understand men. At nineteen she had a general idea about life, but decidedly no experience of it. At Cheltenham Ladies College, where she had boarded, there had been smutty stories and, as a horsewoman, she obviously knew how animals came into the world, but
men
– they were exasperating at one moment, mysterious and exciting the next.

There was a knock on the door. When she opened it the chauffeur stood there.

‘Come for the bags, miss.’

Fay stepped aside. ‘There we are, thank you.’

She drew on her long cream coat with its high collar, pulling the belt tight. She already had her small hat on, the top adorned with feathers, a small net covering her face to below the eyes.

They were all waiting in the drawing-room so she sat on the arm of the sofa, one leg swinging.

Aunt Cynthia beamed. ‘Haven’t forgotten anything have you, my dear?’

‘No, it’s all packed.’

‘Give my love to your mother.’

A maid came from the hall.

‘The taxis are here, madam.’

With much taking of farewells and ‘thank yous’, they crowded out into the hall, Aunt Cynthia calling out, ‘See you all for Gold Cup week.’

The taxis were two large black Austins. Fay ducked into the leather and wood-smelling interior and sank back into the deep seat by the far window. To her irritation Jeremy’s large frame thumped down alongside her, his weight making her fall against him.

‘For heaven’s sake, Jeremy.’

‘Sorry.’

Fay straightened herself up as the taxi driver slammed the door. It was a short ride to St James’s station but the streets were becoming
increasingly
crowded with cars. There were Humbers, Jaguars, Morrises and, of course, buses and bicycles. Quite a few horse and carts were moving among the other traffic, some with pneumatic tyres, as they clip-clopped their way along, occasionally leaving little piles of dung.

The new Regal cinema had been built on the end of Imperial Terrace, behind the Neptune fountain, which looked very sad today with icicles hanging like bogies from the sea god’s nostrils.

A ‘coming this year’ poster for a new film called,
Gone with the Wind
showed a determined looking Clark Gable lifting Vivien Leigh in his strong arms and bending her backwards about to kiss her. The boy who had caused all the trouble last night looked vaguely like him, at least around the eyes, but he didn’t have a moustache. God, what was the matter with her? Was she going to have these ridiculous fantasies all the time? But as Vivien Leigh disappeared from view, Fay put her head back, ostensibly looking at the roof but, in reality, copying the star’s position – with that boy bending over her in her imagination.

At Cheltenham’s main railway station he entered the modest,
stone-flagged
concourse and proceeded down one red-bricked side and under the glass canopy with its filigree woodwork that ended at the platform edge.

The office he was making for was at the far end of the station. When he entered it, his nose was assailed by a smell of old coal gas from the now redundant wall lights mixed with years of smoke and steam. A single electric light under a dirty celluloid cover still glowed in the high roof. Facing him was the large, white-faced clock inscribed, ‘GWR’ that clonked out the time. The railway time that had brought unity to the whole country. He was a few minutes early.

He was proud of being a detective constable, albeit a temporary one, and knew that at his age having this position was due to a combination of events. Firstly, the Great War; then the influenza epidemic in the
twenties
; and more recently, the retirement of those who had survived those catastrophes.

Tom Roxham had only just finished checking himself and gone back to the outer room when Sergeant Whelan came in. His hair was parted neatly down the middle of his head, swept equally and exactly away from it just like draped music hall curtains. He had a moustache, waxed and
turned up at the ends, steel-blue eyes above pock-marked cheeks and a nose that had seen more action than Tom’s which, in comparison, seemed quite normal.

He towered over Tom, all six feet four inches of him; his uniform immaculate, with a chrome whistle chain neatly showing, black leather belt exactly horizontal, all befitting a man who had been an Irish Guardsman in the war. Some said he had been with Rudyard Kipling’s son, who had been posted missing, presumed killed in action. They had never found his body.

‘Well, so there ye are. What time do you call this?’

Tom glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes to eight o’clock, Sergeant.’

‘What’s that funny thing you’re using, boy?’

‘It’s my wrist-watch, Sergeant.’

‘Don’t be cheeky with me, son!’

The booming voice made Tom flinch involuntarily, even though he knew something like that was coming. It was always the way with Sergeant Whelan. He seemed to expect that the world, his little world at any rate, always needed a shake up in the morning, even if there was nothing wrong.

‘That’s
a timepiece.’

Tom found a large Victorian pocket watch with its lid open in front of his eyes. He said nothing. Whelan looked at it, then snapped it shut and put it away. The fact no more was said meant that Tom was correct, he had been asked to muster at eight, and eight it was.

Whelan went smoothly into routine.

‘Present your appointments.’

Tom offered his warrant card and then displayed his short truncheon and his handcuffs.

Whelan nodded, took a stroll around his constable, checking. In fact he was pleased with the lad, but sniffed. ‘Your shoes could be polished better – see to it next time. And what happened to your eye, boy?’

‘Fell over, Sergeant.’

‘Hmmm.’ Whelan didn’t believe him for a moment, but it had been New Year and boys would be boys. Whelan turned to the office desk, not seeing the sigh of relief as Tom returned his appointments to their
rightful
place. Although it was not wise to get on the sergeant’s wrong side, he was well known to have a heart of gold where his men were concerned. He would back and protect them with a fierce loyalty that had no doubt been in his heart at birth in Carlow in Ireland, but had been
seriously tempered in the flames and blood and mud of the Western Front.

‘Now then, you are going to Cirencester Watermoor today, staying overnight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tomorrow, I want you to get off at Leckhampton on the way back.’

Surprised, Tom asked, ‘Why’s that, Sergeant?’

Whelan picked up a folder from his desk. ‘The station master
telephoned
me. Said there had been an unpleasant incident – a passenger assaulted on the platform.’

Sergeant Whelan ran the back of his finger along his moustache, first one side, then the other.

‘It’s a nice day to have a leisurely journey through the Cotswolds – you’re lucky.’

Tom didn’t disagree.

Impatiently Whelan gestured towards the door. It was clear that the orders had been issued and the troops were dismissed.

The station was busier now, with cars and taxis swinging into the cobbled forecourt to unload hurrying passengers.

They flooded on to the platform, where the chocolate and
cream-coloured
coaches of a Great Western Railway Express stood waiting; wisps of steam rising from the couplings and vacuum brakes, and drifting over the platform. In the dining-car white-coated staff were moving down the aisle laying cutlery on the white tablecloths complete with little lamps next to the window.

Out of sight around the curve of the platform, smoke drifted almost straight up from an engine. But he made for a side platform and a local train.

The taxi turned in under the glass canopied entrance and rolled to a stop on the cobblestoned forecourt of the red-brick station. St James’s was a small terminus, the starting place for the famous ‘Cheltenham Flyer’ that went via Gloucester and then non-stop to London, the fastest scheduled train service in the world as the GWR posters proudly announced.

Porters with their barrows appeared and gathered around the cars.

‘Which train, sir?’ asked one of them. Jeremy said, ‘The one for Cirencester.’

They moved on to the small concourse with the buffers, where the lines ended.

A newly arrived engine was standing hissing gently, the air above its squat copper chimney shimmering with heat. The driver, a grizzled older man in a blue tunic and a black oily looking peaked cap was leaning out of the cab looking down, eyeing them all up as they went past.

She noticed with pleasure the engine’s name – Codrington Hall. Daddy had been pleased when they had been invited to include their house name in the Railway Company’s new class several years ago.

To reach their train they had to walk to a short side platform, where there were several coaches and two horse boxes as well as the guard’s van.

They were walking along looking for the first-class compartments when, for a split second, she thought she was seeing things; her mind flew back to her reverie about the cinema poster.

It was Jeremy who made her realize she wasn’t dreaming.

‘Good God, look who’s coming towards us. If it isn’t the little bugger from last night.’

Tom Roxham was equally stunned. He’d been up to see the engine out of interest and was walking back to the guard’s van.