Movie Shoes (2 page)

Peaseblossom gave Jane a quick look to see if she had heard anything. “Yes, he was just leaving as I came in.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Up with your father in the drawing room. Run along, child, do, and dry that dog. Don’t want a case of pneumonia in the house.”

Jane got up, but she still loitered. She longed to think of a way to say to Peaseblossom, “We heard about Aunt Cora. Do go and find out if Dad’s going away, and if you find out anything, please tell us,” but she could not. It seemed difficult to say somehow, so after a second or two she called Chewing-gum.

“Come on, angel. Come on, poor drowned dog. I’ll rub you until you haven’t a wet hair left.”

In the drawing room Mr. and Mrs. Winter were standing together looking down into the wet street.

“There’s no harm in writing to her, John, dear,” Bee Winter was saying. “It must be lovely in California in the winter. Fancy! Oranges grow there! I believe it’s never really cold.”

John scowled. “What a place to live-Hollywood!”

“It’s not Hollywood itself. It’s Santa Monica; she told you in one of her letters that her house was by the sea. If she had you to stay for two or three months, it would just get you over the winter, and then you might come back perfectly well.”

Though Bee did not mean her voice to sound pleading, it was pleading on the last line. She could not help remembering John a year ago, when he had been well. He was not always easy-tempered because he was a writer and got angry with himself and everybody else when he could not write well, but he had been gay and excited about things, rushing into the room after a good day’s work to tell her about it. Since the accident, all that was gone. It was not his fault that a child had darted across the road to pick up a ball and had been killed. At the inquest John had been entirely exonerated; he had been driving slowly and carefully; it was the child, who had never been taught to cross a road properly, who was to blame. But that had made no difference to John, he had become ill from thinking about the dead child, so ill that he had what the doctor called a nervous breakdown, and when that got better, he had lost faith in himself and decided he could never write again. The only thing which did him good was sunlight. Sometimes when the sun shone, he would settle down at his typewriter and work away for an hour or two; then in would go the sun, and he would slide back to his gloomy mood, saying, “It’s no good, Bee, I’m finished as a writer.” Bee knew that was not true, but she also knew that if he did not get well soon, she would have to say, “Well, what are you going to do instead? There’s this house to run; there are Rachel, Jane, and Tim needing breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea, as well as new clothes, and we’ve been living on our savings since January, and they’re nearly finished.” Thinking of these things, she laid her face against John’s shoulder. “Just write to her, darling. Tell her what the doctor says. Write a nice long letter by airmail, and see what happens. After all, if she invites you and you don’t want to go, you can always refuse the invitation; there’s no harm done.”

John shivered. He was so tired and ill that even sitting down to write a letter made him feel worse, but he hated to refuse Bee anything. He gave her a lopsided sort of smile.

“All right, I’ll write to her if it’ll please you, but I don’t think she’ll invite me, and if she does, I won’t go. I’m not leaving you and the children.”

Bee went to the writing table; she laid out a piece of airmail paper.

“You write it now. I’ll ask Peaseblossom not to take off her coat. I’d like that letter to catch the six o’clock post.”

The Important Wednesday

Wednesday started like an ordinary day. Rachel, as usual, flew out of the house five minutes before she need have started because she was so fond of her dancing school that she could not bear to waste time eating breakfast when she could be on her way to it. Jane and Tim went to the same school and every day had the same sort of argument before they started. This Wednesday was no exception. Bee said, “Hurry up, darlings, and finish eating. You’ve only five minutes before you start.”

Jane immediately helped herself to another piece of bread and slowly spread jam on it. “Yes, hurry up, Tim. I always have to wait for you.”

Tim had been just about to finish his milk, but at that insult he put down his cup. “That’s the most monstrous lie. Yesterday Peaseblossom and Chewing-gum and I were standing at the gate waiting for you so long that we didn’t get to school until prayers were over. That’s why you and I got unpunctuality marks.”

Jane stuck her chin in the air. “That was just once, and only because Mom made me change my socks for so small a hole that nobody but Mom would have seen it; but almost every day I’m made late by you looking for your music and-“

Dad had seemed to be reading the paper. Now he looked up. His voice sounded as if it could very easily turn from a talking voice to an angry one.

“Shut up, kids. Scram.”

Peaseblossom took Jane and Tim to school. It was not far, and they could have gone alone; but it was a habit which had never been dropped and had the advantage of giving Chewing-gum an early-morning run. Jane ran on ahead with Chewing-gum. Tim walked beside Peaseblossom, carrying his case of music. Usually they met the same people: the postman finishing his round, the sanitation men, and so on. This Wednesday, as they turned the school comer, coming toward them was the school music master, Mr. Brown, and walking with him was another man. Tim liked Mr. Brown better than anybody else he knew. Usually he ran to meet him, but this time he did not like to as Mr. Brown was not alone, so he just looked pleased. Mr. Brown said something to his friend, and when they were within speaking distance of Tim, they stopped.

“How are you?” Mr. Brown greeted Tim. “This is Mr. Jeremy Caulder. If you weren’t a little ignoramus, you ‘d have heard of him.”

Mr. Caulder shook hands with Tim. “How do you do? I stayed with my godson here last night, and he told me about you. You are fond of music, I hear.”

Tim was surprised that somebody who was as old as Mr. Brown had a godfather. He had thought that stopped when you grew up, and Mr. Brown must have been grown-up for years because he had said he would be thirty next birthday. Tim was so amazed about this that he almost forgot to answer Mr. Caulder. At last he said, “Yes. Aren’t you?”

Mr. Brown laughed. “Jeremy Caulder is one of the best piano players we have. He says I may bring you over to play for him this morning.”

Tim looked hopefully at Mr. Caulder. “Could I come at eleven? We do French then, which I simply hate.”

Mr. Caulder seemed a nice, reasonable sort of man. He said at once that eleven would suit splendidly. He and Mr. Brown moved on. Tim wanted to move on too, but seeing Mr. Caulder seemed to have done something to Peaseblossom. She stared after him as if he were a blue elephant or something equally unusual. Jane came racing back with Chewing-gum.

“Come on, Tim, we’ll be awfully late. What’s up, Peaseblossom? That’s only Mr. Brown who teaches us piano and singing.”

Peaseblossom’s voice was hushed with awe. “That’s Jeremy Caulder. I’ve heard him at the Albert Hall and often on the air. Tim’s going to play for him at eleven.”

Jane was not impressed. “More fool Mr. Caulder. Do come on, Tim.”

Tim was not impressed either. “All right, I’m coming. It’s not my fault if Mr. Brown stops and speaks. It would be awfully rude to walk on.”

Peaseblossom laid a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “This is your chance to show what you’re made of. The family depends on you not to let down the side.”

Rachel had arrived at the Children’s Academy for Dancing and Stage Training as usual. She went down to the changing room, for she had an hour’s dancing class before she began lessons. The moment she opened the changing-room door she knew something tremendous was in the air. The other girls tried to tell her what it was, but because they all spoke at once, she could not get the news straight at first when she did, she understood the excitement. At twelve o’clock a theatrical manager was coming to the school, bringing the man who arranged the dancing for his shows. He wanted six children for a big musical production. The top classes were to dance for him.

Rachel changed into her practice things. Her heart was thumping so hard she thought she could hear it. She must get chosen; she
must.
Imagine coming home and being able to say to Dad and Mom, “I’ve got an engagement.” Mom wouldn’t say much, but of course, she’d feel less worried; who wouldn’t? Somebody earning money just now would make all the difference. Her best friend, Caroline, came over to her.

“I bet you get chosen. You and, of course, Miriam and Sylvia, Frances, Audrey, and Annette.”

The six were all small and considered exceptionally promising. Quite honestly that was the list Rachel would have picked; only she did not dare put herself so firmly on It as Caroline did, and there was always the chance that the manager or the man who arranged the dances would choose Caroline and that would take one of the rest of them out. Caroline was promising, all right, but nobody could call her pretty; in fact, she was plain. Rachel put an arm around her and said, “Counting you, with any luck we ought to be the ones he chooses: six of us to dance and one to understudy.” Inwardly she added, “Oh, don’t let me be the understudy, though that would be better than nothing.”

Tim brought his news home first. He had a letter about it for his father. Mr. Jeremy Caulder would give him piano lessons. Not regularly, because he was away a great deal playing at concerts, but whenever he was in London. Mr. Brown, who wrote the letter, said Mr. Caulder agreed with him that Tim was an unusually musical boy and ought to have a chance; and for the time being the lessons would be free.

Dad had been sitting looking terribly tired and interested in nothing when the letter came, but after he had read it, he was quite different. He said he had often heard Mr. Caulder play and if he thought Tim was worth teaching, there might be more in Tim’s strumming than met the ear. He was gay enough even to pretend to box with Tim, something he had not done for weeks.

On top of that excitement Rachel rushed in. She was in such a state she poured out her story so fast that her words tripped over each other.

“Mr. Glinken came to see us dance and brought the most marvelous man with him; he called him Benny. Benny showed us afterward some things we’d have to do. He’s-Mr. Glinken, I mean, not Benny-putting on a simply enormous musical play, and I’m one of the six children. Real dancing we’re doing. Madame Fidolia’s no end bucked. He chose-Mr. Glinken, I mean, not Benny-me, Miriam, Frances, Audrey, Annette, and Sylvia, and Caroline’s going to understudy. That’s the only awful part. They took simply ages choosing between Sylvia and Caroline, and when they chose Sylvia, Caroline cried. But I was the only one who saw.”

Though the drawing room was not very big and was full of furniture, Rachel felt that the family simply must have the thrill of seeing the sort of dances Benny was arranging. Without bothering to take off her coat and hat or change her shoes, she showed them Benny’s steps as well as she could.

Peaseblossom glowed. “Well, this is a day! Up the Winters! Tim to be trained by Mr. Caulder himself and Rachel a real professional dancer. Our side’s doing splendidly. I think this deserves a special tea. I’ll see what I can find. “

Peaseblossom did not get as far as the kitchen. A few moments after she had left the room she was back. She was holding two letters, a dull-looking long typewritten envelope for herself and a letter with American stamps marked “Airmail” for John.

The children knew that John had written to Aunt Cora and that Peaseblossom had posted the letter. They did not know Bee had put on enough stamps to send it by air. They had not expected Aunt Cora would answer for weeks. Because nothing more had been said about it, John’s going to California had gone to the back of their minds. It was not a certain thing like Christmas or a birthday or the beginning of term; it was just a “perhaps.” Now, looking at Dad’s fingers opening the thin airmail envelope with Aunt Cora’s name and address on the flap, they felt cold inside. Could Dad be going away? Going all the way to Aunt Cora?

John straightened the letter. Bee leaned on his shoulder and read it, too. All down one page, all over the next, all down the next sheet, and half down the back page, and while they read, the children’s eyes were fixed on them. At the end John gave a half laugh, half snort and pushed the letter back into its envelope.

“Silly fool of a woman! What does she think I’m going to do for money?”

Bee said quickly, “That’s not fair. You told her that it was what the doctor ordered and that it wasn’t likely you’d really do it because of leaving me and the children, and she answers by not only asking the whole lot of us but Peaseblossom as well. I call it marvelous of her.”

John looked at the children. “How would you like to go to California for the winter?” The children looked startled. “All right, don’t worry, there isn’t a chance of it. The fares would cost about a thousand pounds, and your father would be hard put to it just now to find a thousand pence. As for a grand piano for Tim and-“

Peaseblossom made a choking sound. They turned to look at her. Her face, which was always rather red, was the color of an overripe purple plum. She was holding out a crisp sheet of note paper as if, by looking at the back of the letter, they could read what it said. Bee ran to her.

“What is it, dear? Bad news?”

Peaseblossom struggled to get her breath, just as if she were getting it back after tea had gone down the wrong way. “We can go. All of us. An old aunt whom I never met has died and left me a thousand pounds.”