The Birthday Present (3 page)

Casually Steven asked, ‘Was Janetta there?’

‘Yes she was. She came with her friend Jack. They seemed very close.’ She turned to him. ‘If you hadn’t been such a boor last time, you might have been included. Then you’d have seen Janetta again. It’s your own fault.’

‘And if you weren’t such a spiteful cat you wouldn’t remind me! I got a bit tiddly, that’s all.’ He raked his fingers through his smooth blond hair. ‘It’s not a crime, for God’s sake!’

Steven’s handsome face was spoilt by his expression and Letitia gloated. ‘I must say she looked relieved when they said you hadn’t been invited. And of course you’re not much good at tennis, are you? You don’t take it seriously. I keep telling you it’s not a game, it’s a sport.’

‘I can play a decent game when I’m in the mood. Not that it’s a patch on cricket. That’s a game with some depth requiring hand to eye coordination, not to mention team spirit and a certain style. Anyone can hit a ball over a net.’

‘Except you, obviously!’

Growing tired of the exchange, Marcus said, ‘I’ve invited someone to Marie’s party. It’s a surprise for her.’

They stopped sniping and stared at him.

Letitia said, ‘You’ve done
what
?’

He went on, ‘She sings. Popular ballads. Rosie Lamore. That’s her name.’

Steven laughed. ‘L’amour as in ‘love’? She sounds more like a harlot than a singer!’

‘Well she’s not a harlot!’

‘You’d recognize one, would you, Marcus?’

Letitia’s mouth tightened disapprovingly. ‘Who said you could invite her, Marcus?’

‘I don’t see a need to ask permission. To make it simple – Rosie Lamore and her songs are my birthday present to Marie.’

There was a stunned silence.

Steven said, ‘But who  . . . that is, how did you discover this Lamore woman?’

‘I heard a man talking about her on the train last week and asked him for details. He said how good she was and lively  . . . and funny. “A breath of fresh air!” That’s how he described her.’

‘Oh my God!’ Steven rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve always thought you were a little mad but now I’m certain of it! Asking her here because of some Herbert you met on a train!’

Steven and Letitia exchanged worried glances. Marcus closeted in the study working, busy with his stage designs, was one thing. That they understood. He was talented and he earned reasonable money with which to supplement his small income. They were used to their brother’s hermit-like existence. Shy, awkward Marcus taking the initiative like this was a new phenomenon.

Steven recovered first. ‘So you wrote to her – is that it?’

‘No. I waited for her outside The White Horse in Stoke Newington. I asked and she said “Yes”. She’s very pretty and cheerful – and while we were talking a boy stole my wallet. I had to report it at the police station.’

‘Ah! So that’s why you were late home!’ Steven felt vaguely relieved. His brother had reverted to type, he thought. Being robbed of his wallet was much more in character.

Marcus nodded.

Letitia also rallied. Too late to protest, she decided – it was a
fait accompli
. Not that she wanted to object. In fact, she wished she had thought of the idea. Marie would be delighted. She smiled grudgingly at her brother. ‘Well done, Marcus!’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

Steven asked how much he had lost with the theft of his wallet.

‘Three pounds, eleven shillings and threepence. It doesn’t matter.’ Marcus shrugged.

His brother frowned. ‘What do you know about this person, Marcus? She could be anyone. She could be a fraud. I hope you haven’t given her any money in advance.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘I bet you’ve overpaid her!’

‘That’s my business.’

‘I bet you’ve given her the fare.’

‘No. I shall fetch her by taxi and I shall tell Marie she’s coming because that way she will have something to look forward to as well as enjoying the actual performance.’

‘How is she getting home?’ Letitia asked. ‘It will be late by the time the party ends. Sure to be past midnight.’

Disconcerted, it was Marcus’s turn to frown. ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘At a pinch she could sleep in the spare bedroom, couldn’t she?’

‘I suppose so. You’ll have to ask Mrs Bray to make up the bed for her.’ Letitia turned to Steven and gave him a challenging look. ‘And you mustn’t spoil it by getting drunk.’

‘Get drunk? Me? As if I would do anything to let the side down! Let’s hope
you
don’t get drunk! That would be a shock for poor Bernard!’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ She rolled her eyes despairingly. ‘What are you giving Marie for her birthday?’

‘I  . . . I haven’t quite made up my mind but I haven’t forgotten it.’ Guiltily Steven avoided her gaze.

She pounced triumphantly. ‘You fibber! You haven’t done anything about it because you only ever think about yourself!’

‘So? What have you done that’s so wonderful?’

‘I’ve invited four people from the tennis club because—’

‘Oh no!’ he cried, wrinkling his face with exaggerated dismay. ‘Not that toffee-nosed set! Why bring them into it?’

Letitia flushed. Her younger brother never missed an opportunity to tease her about her aspirations. Her engagement to Bernard da Silva, whose family connections placed them a little higher on the social scale, was a source of fierce pride to her. Ignoring the jibe she went on. ‘Because it mustn’t be just any old party. Not just the family. Bernard is coming, naturally. He’s bringing her an enormous box of chocolate violets which she adores and a bottle of champagne!’ Her smile returned. ‘His mother says a woman cannot drink too much champagne! It soothes the nerves and brightens the complexion.’

Steven spluttered with laughter. ‘Brightens the complexion? Has she got a red nose, this da Silva woman?’

Letitia gave him a withering look. ‘D’you know, Steven, I sometimes feel that you left school too early. You’re twenty but so immature! So depressingly gauche. No wonder Janetta isn’t interested in you. She doesn’t appreciate schoolboy humour. Jack is a year younger than you but much more sophisticated.’ While he struggled for a suitable reply, and failed, Letitia turned back to Marcus. ‘This time it has to be a real party with a special cake – Mrs Bray has made one and just has to decorate it  . . . And dancing – Mrs Bray’s cousin is going to play for us.’

Steven frowned. ‘Will Marie be able to dance? She’s very weak.’

Marcus said, ‘I’ll carry her round – she’s as light as a feather. We’ll manage.’

Letitia ignored the interruption. ‘Marie must have real guests. Your singer will count as a guest, Marcus, and Mrs Bray’s daughter Cicely can come. Cicely’s about the same age as Marie so they’ll have lots in common  . . . and Cicely can bring a friend. Marie must have a wonderful time. Something she can always remember and  . . . oh!’ She clasped a hand over her mouth and regarded the others unhappily, stricken by the slip. Because they all knew the doctor’s verdict. Marie would have such a short time to live – such a very short time to remember anything at all.

That same day, Rose watched her father wipe his plate with what was left of his bread, and knew exactly what he would say.

He swallowed it, sat back and patted his stomach. ‘That’s better!’

Rose collected the plates and piled them in the sink. Sausage and mashed potatoes. Alan Paton loved them. He also loved ‘a bit of haddock’, a meat pie, mutton stew and shepherd’s pie. He didn’t like anything green such as cabbage, or what he called ‘fiddling things’ like peas or beans. So whatever he had was accompanied by mashed potatoes. It made life easier for Rose who had no complaints about their unimaginative diet.

Sundays they followed a familiar routine – Yorkshire pudding with gravy, meat and potatoes followed by Yorkshire pudding with jam. Unless it was a special occasion when she made a rice pudding and then they took turns to scrape the dish for the crispy bits along the rim. Rosie told herself that when, if, she ever married and left him alone he could manage not to starve. The pie man would call twice a week, the fish man once, and for a few pence, the lady next door would bring him a dinner.

Not that Rose had any immediate plans to marry for the simple reason that, although she had plenty of admirers, she had set her heart on a singing career and fancied becoming a success on the London stage. This was going to take up all her energies and there would be no time for a husband or a child. Eventually, of course, she would be wooed by someone exciting and the newspapers would be fighting for details of the romance.

Her father glanced up. ‘So you’ve written this letter, have you? To this Michael Bennley? Best let me see it.’

‘Why?’ She laughed good-naturedly. ‘You can’t spell for toffee, Pa. You know you can’t. You tell everyone that spelling’s a waste of time and effort.’ She ran the cold tap and rubbed at the plates with a cloth, then did the same with the cutlery, the saucepan and lastly the frying pan. ‘And it’s Marcus, not Michael.’

‘What does it matter if you’re not going?’

In fact, Rose had not written the letter and she didn’t know why. Every time she thought about the lost opportunity, her mind rebelled. She wanted to go ahead but she knew her father had a point. Climbing into a taxi with a strange man was risky. And Mr Bennley was slightly odd. In a decent man that would be acceptable but in a stranger, being odd was not. It increased the chances of him being ‘a wrong ’un’.

Her father had closed his eyes and was already preparing to doze off. An unlovely sight, she thought as she spread two worn blankets on the table and added a worn sheet. The irons were heating in front of the fire and it was already stifling hot in the small living room. To one side, high up, there was a water tank. There were four upright chairs and a sofa which sometimes acted as an extra bed. At the moment it supported a wooden tub full of Mrs Braithwaite’s laundry – two sheets, two pillowslips, a shirt, a pair of trousers, a blouse, a skirt, a pair of pyjamas, a sprigged nightdress and a wrap-around pinafore. Mrs Braithwaite lived in the end house of the terrace and her husband had a job with the railway which meant she could afford, from time to time, to have her washing ironed. It also allowed her to put on airs and graces.

Rose folded the first sheet to make ironing it easier and took up the first flat iron. As she ironed, she tried to decide what she would write to Mr Bennley and how she would spell the words.

‘Dear Sir, I have chainged my mind  . . .’

No, that was no good. She would invent a better reason.

‘Dear Sir, I canot come to your sisters party because  . . . my father has taken a turn for the wurst  . . .’

But she hadn’t told Mr Bennley that her father was ill and he would smell a rat – not that it mattered if she was never going to see him again.

Alan Paton began to snore and Rose began to feel hard done to. Why couldn’t she go to the party and earn herself half a guinea? It was unfair of Pa to expect her to give up such a chance. A party with food and drink. There might be champagne. And she looked so pretty in her costume. And they would all admire her singing and the men might wink at her. She would probably be the star of the evening and Marie would be dazzled by her.

Rose finished the first sheet and prepared the second and the idea came to her out of the blue. She would write the letter but she wouldn’t actually post it and her father would never know. Rose would tell him it must have got lost in the post  . . . and then the taxi would arrive and her father would have to give in. She would have her costume ready, of course, and off they would go. Afterwards, when she arrived home safe and sound, she would buy her father some tobacco for his pipe and maybe a big bag of pear drops, which he loved.

Later that afternoon the letter was finished and her father made her read it out.

Rose cleared her throat.

Dear Sir, My father has been taken very poorly and I fear a chainge for the wurst. So I canot come to your party and am very sorry. Yours faithfully Miss Rosie Lamore. Pee Ess. I hope you have a lovely time.

He frowned. ‘Pee Ess? What’s all that?’

‘I don’t really know but it’s when you think of something you’ve forgotten.’

‘Well, you’ve done that letter a treat, Rosie. Now get off to the pillar box before it’s too late.’

Dutifully she hurried off but as soon as she was out of sight of home she tore both letter and envelope into shreds and dropped them into the first dustbin she came to.

On her way back she was shocked to discover that her conscience was not pricking her and she thought that promising.

Half an hour after Rose had left for her Saturday night spot at The White Horse, there were three slow knocks on the door of number twenty-three Albert Street and Alan struggled to his feet and limped along the passage to open the door.

Through the letterbox a voice said, ‘It’s me, Baby.’

Alan nodded. He already knew who it would be – his friend Baby Price. He was small and shapeless with a large beer belly and today bulging pockets added to his ungainly bulk. Rose had often wondered how he managed to balance on his small feet. According to the laws of gravity, she thought, he should keep toppling over.

‘Is Rose in?’ Baby asked cautiously.

‘No. She’s off singing, bless her. Come on in, Baby!’ said Alan. ‘And scrape the mud off your shoes. Last time I got it in the ear from Rose for the mess you traipsed in.’

His visitor obeyed, then wiped his shabby shoes with exaggerated care on the worn mat before following Alan along the hall and into the living room. He lowered himself carefully on to a hard-backed chair and waited. Despite the limp, Alan then climbed on a chair to retrieve the rolled up sack which he kept hidden on top of the water tank where his daughter would never notice it.

‘Got much?’ Alan asked. The usual question.

Baby shook his head mournfully. His round, cherubic face and innocent blue eyes had earned him the nickname which made it hard for strangers to believe anything bad about him. Alan – his friend and erstwhile accomplice in a large number of burglaries – watched as Baby emptied his jacket pockets, setting each object on the table with an unhappy shake of his head.