The Birthday Present (9 page)

She went into the room and as she passed Connie, the woman winked at her and wagged a finger to remind her of the warning she had given. Rose found herself in a large room lit solely by table lamps, each in red silk with gold fringing. The carpet was thick, the walls were covered in gold and red paper and there appeared to be no windows, but there was a door at the far end which was partly covered by a heavy curtain. The room was heavy with cigar smoke and she choked back a cough.

Andrew Markham was sitting at a huge mahogany desk and made no attempt to get up and greet her. He was a large, bluff man with a ruddy complexion and massive shoulders. He was, Rose realized, what her father would call a ‘bruiser’. As she crossed the room towards him she saw that his clothes were obviously expensive, and a diamond flashed in his tie pin, but there was no way he was a gentleman. Not that it mattered, she told herself quickly. He was the owner of a supper room and that made him a sort of theatrical agent and that was what she had been looking for. Now she had found him and there was no point in being critical.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Markham,’ she began. ‘It’s very kind of you to—’

‘I’m told you can sing.’

‘Yes. I write a lot of my—’

‘Let’s hear something then.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. ‘Can you dance?’

‘Er  . . . I haven’t had lessons but I—’

‘Get on with it then.’ He was smoking a cigar. Regarding her through narrowed eyes and so far he hadn’t smiled once.

But he doesn’t have to be Prince Charming, Rose told herself, glancing round for a pianist. ‘Isn’t anyone going to play for me?’

‘Nope. Do your best.’ He leaned back and blew smoke towards the ceiling.

‘I like to wear my costume—’

‘There’s no time. Just get on with it.’

Dismayed, Rose forced a smile and struck a pose. She sang the first few lines of her parasol song and her voice quivered with nerves. She struggled on but already Markham was holding up his hand.

Rose waited, her heart fluttering with anxiety. She knew she had performed badly but he had made her nervous and she was annoyed with him for being so unhelpful.

‘Not bad. We’ll see how you go. Now, let’s see what we’ve got. Pull up your skirt, Miss Lamore.’

She hesitated but assumed this was normal and obeyed.

‘Hmm. I bit on the skinny side but never mind. Forget the dancing lessons. You’ll never make the chorus line. Now let’s see what you have up top. Get your jacket off and unbutton your blouse.’

‘Unbutton my blouse? But why?’ She removed her jacket, watching him cautiously. ‘No one is going to see—’

‘Just do it and hurry up. I haven’t got all day.’

She stared at him in disbelief. Was he within his rights to ask such a thing?

Removing his feet from the desk he got up from the chair and came towards her. He said, ‘You obviously don’t understand the way this works, Miss Lamore. You want the job, you do as I tell you. Play your cards right and I can make it all happen for you. This is show business – like it or lump it. I pay the wages, you see, and I call the tune! You give a bit, I give a bit. You play along and you’ll become a star. You argue and you’re out the door as fast as your skinny legs will carry you.’ He ran his hands up and down her bare arms and laughed when she shivered at his touch. ‘Well, well! I do believe we have a virgin here!’ He smiled broadly. ‘Am I right?’

Stammering, bright-cheeked with embarrassment, Rose protested that it was none of his business but that simply broadened his smile.

Without warning he pushed her back against the desk, grabbed her blouse and, fighting off her hands, tore open the buttons. He took a long look and she was deeply thankful for the chemise she wore.

‘Pretty enough, I daresay!’ he said, daunted by the row of small buttons. ‘We’ll save something for another day. I think we can do business. Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays.’ Rose had backed away, clutching her blouse, her face scarlet. ‘We’ll call you “Miss Rosie Lamore – an innocent abroad”! We’ll play up the virgin angle and they’ll have their tongues hanging out for you!’

The virgin angle? Rose was mortified. ‘Um  . . . I don’t know. Steven didn’t say I’d have to  . . . that is, I’ll have to  . . . to think it over.’ She sidestepped him and reached for her jacket which she pulled on with shaking fingers. ‘My father  . . . He might object. I’ll have to ask him  . . .’

Ignoring her distress, Andrew Markham retreated to his desk, picked up a pen and scribbled on a notepad. ‘Rehearsal Monday, two till three  . . . We’ll supply some extra clothes. Don’t bother to write the songs. Let’s say half a crown a night for the first six weeks, a little more if you do well. If not you’re out.’ He grinned at her and Rose was reminded of a wolf. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, Miss Lamore, but I’m a good teacher. Ask Connie Wainwright. She’s seen it all. She’ll tell you. There’s not much I don’t know about this business. Do what I say, and you just might make it.’ He stepped back, examining her critically with his head on one side. ‘But you’ll have to lose the “hare in the headlights” look! Innocent, yes, but you have to look sexy with it. That’s what you have to aim for.’

He laughed suddenly and Rose had to resist the urge to turn and run. She tried to smile but her face seemed stiff and unresponsive.

He reached forward and tilted her head with one finger. ‘But you don’t know yet what sexy means, do you? Don’t worry. I’ll soon enlighten you. Steven Bennley was right. I can make something of you – if you let me. And you will if you know what’s good for you!’

Rose, still poised for flight, hesitated. Seven and sixpence for three spots and an hour’s rehearsal Mondays. Could she bear to accept his conditions? Could she afford not to accept them? Already her insides were trembling but if this was show business she told herself she must learn to live with it. Presumably this was the lowest rung on the ladder and the higher you went, the better you’d be treated, but it was a disappointing start. She had expected some respect for her small talent – a little appreciation – but Andrew Markham had showed her nothing but contempt although he had said she was pretty and he could make something of her. Her instincts were to turn and run but her head told her to at least give it a try. Six weeks, he had said, so if she could suffer the indignities for that long she might well find things improving.

‘Yes or no?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ She intended to say ‘Thank you’ but the words wouldn’t come. At least he wasn’t asking her to sign anything that might prove to be legally binding. She took comfort from that thought.

He shouted ‘Connie!’ and the door opened at once which made Rose suspect that the old woman had been listening at the door.

The interview seemed to be over. Markham was fumbling in a drawer of the desk, paying her no attention. She stammered a ‘Goodbye’, hurried from the room and breathed a sigh of relief.

Connie smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ll get used to him, dearie. We all do.’ She whispered. ‘Don’t let him worry you.’

Rose was moving firmly towards the door to the street through which she had entered. She was shocked and her confidence had taken a knock. Did she really know what she was doing, she asked herself. Was show business really as grim as this or was Andrew Markham an exception to the rule? And why on earth hadn’t Steven warned her what to expect? Or had he? Maybe in her enthusiasm she had overlooked any warnings he might have given her. Or perhaps he had no idea how he treated women.

Connie had followed her to the door. ‘I was wondering, dearie, where you live, because bus fares can run away with the money.’

‘Albert Street, in Stoke Newington.’ She spoke distractedly, shocked by the interview and full of doubts.

Connie’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a fair old trot!’ She had reached the umbrella stand and began to pick up the half dozen brollies that Rose had knocked over on the way in.

Rose said slowly, ‘I may not be coming. I may not take the job.’

Connie straightened up. ‘Not taking it? Why ever not?’

‘He’s  . . . He’s not the sort of man I ever expected to work for. He was rather rude, Connie, if you know what I mean.’

Connie shrugged bony shoulders. ‘You mustn’t take it too hard, you know. I’ve met much worse in my time and you just learn to take the good with the bad. And he does know a lot of people in the business. Useful people.’ She patted Rose’s arm. ‘I tell you what – I’ve got a spare room just round the corner. You could stay with me and I’d keep an eye on you. He goes too far and you tell me. How would that be?’

Rosie wavered. ‘I suppose it would make things easier.’

Connie pounced. ‘A shilling a week for the room and sixpence extra if you want me to do you meals.’

Rose got the impression that the old woman had made this deal before and probably more than once. ‘That’s very kind but I shall only be coming over three days a week and I don’t want to leave my father on his own.’ She didn’t say that this was because she didn’t entirely trust him not to get himself into trouble.

Connie persisted. ‘But think of the money you’d save on fares and you’d be here, on the doorstep so to speak for extra rehearsal, costume fittings, dance routines. Oh yes!’ she went on, noting Rose’s surprise, ‘there’s always an ensemble number at the end which includes all the performers. You’d have to attend that. You see, it’s not quite as easy as you might think. The final ensemble number only lasts for three weeks and then Jarvis works out a new routine.’

‘Jarvis?’

‘You’ll like Jarvis. A bit precious, you might say, but he knows his stuff. He does a bit of everything – choreography, plays the piano, he even gives singing lessons on the QT so Mr Markham doesn’t find out. Kids mostly. Sixpence a half hour lesson. Bit of extra cash always comes in handy.’

In spite of her doubts, Rosie now allowed herself to be drawn into the picture Connie painted and her initial fears about Mr Markham were fading. It appeared that other people worked for him and survived so perhaps he was not quite the monster she’d imagined.

Sensing her dilemma Connie said, ‘Why not give it a week or two? If you don’t enjoy it you can throw in the towel. Some girls do and no harm done. No questions asked.’

‘You didn’t throw in the towel.’

She laughed. ‘I’m a tough old bird. But he’s been good to me. My little attic flat belongs to him. The whole house does, in fact, but I get mine rent-free in exchange for the work I do here and I can rent out the spare bedroom. He reckons he owes me!’ She gave a short cackling laugh and tapped her nose. ‘I made myself useful over the years. Say no more!’

So maybe there was better side to Andrew Markham, Rose thought cautiously. It all sounded wonderfully exciting, like stepping through a door into another world. And without being callous, the idea of her own room so near to the Supper Room sounded more attractive than staying at home with her father. But she had to be realistic.

‘I’ll give it two weeks,’ she told Connie, ‘but I’ll have to stay home with my father. He’s not really fit and he needs me. I’ll see how the money side of it works out.’ She held out her hand and the old lady shook it.

‘Thanks for everything, Connie. I’ll see you next week.’

As Rose drew nearer to number twenty-three she was aware of a growing anxiety. Mrs Trilby from next door was standing outside with a man she didn’t recognize and when they saw Rose the woman waved urgently, which seemed ominous. Her first thought was that her father was ill. She thanked the driver and jumped from the taxi full of dread. The expressions on their faces told her that there was bad news to come.

‘What’s happened?’ she cried. ‘Where’s my father? Is he all right?’

The man, she now realized, was the landlord, Herbert Granger, whom she had met occasionally when the rent collector had been absent and the owner had called instead.

He said, ‘It’s not good, Miss Paton, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh! He’s not dead? Oh my Lord! Don’t say he’s  . . .’

They exchanged uncomfortable looks and Mrs Trilby said, ‘No, no, dear. Nothing like that.’

‘Then what? In the hospital?’

The landlord said, ‘Mrs Trilby will give you the details. Please call by when you can to discuss things.’ He raised his hat, turned and hurried away.

Rose stared at her neighbour who said, ‘Suppose I make us a pot of tea?’

‘No!’ Rose was struggling to find her key. Failing, she banged on the door and shouted, ‘Pa! It’s me, Rose!’

Mrs Trilby took hold of her arm. ‘He’s not there, dear. They’ve took him away. We can’t talk here – everyone’s earwigging! Look around you.’ She was tugging her gently towards number twenty-five.

Rose glanced up and saw several faces at windows, half hidden by the curtains. Something dreadful had happened. Her anxiety gave way suddenly to an overpowering weakness and she allowed herself without further protest to be led inside Mrs Trilby’s house and seated in her living room. Mrs Trilby sat down opposite her.

‘It was the police, Rose. They come back with one of them warrants and searched the house from top to bottom and found  . . .’

Rose’s hand crept to cover her mouth. ‘Oh no!’

‘They found some jewellery and stuff what they say your pa was hiding for someone else. Some chap called Babe, or Baby or some-such. Like a nickname, I suppose. They’ve arrested him for receiving stolen goods.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ she cried, but in her heart she did. She simply did not want to believe it.

Mrs Trilby leaned forward and patted her knee. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but they had the stuff they found, in a sack. It’s the truth.’ She shrugged. ‘These things happen. No one’s pointing the finger at you. Seems like this other chap split on him. No such thing as honour among thieves. Now you sit tight and I’ll make us some tea. It’s been a shock and a cuppa will revive you.’

She bustled into the scullery while Rose, exhausted by the shock, tried to make sense of what she had heard. So what had the landlord been doing, she wondered, and followed Mrs Trilby into the scullery where a large tub of washing waited to be put through the mangle which she saw in the backyard.

‘What was Mr Granger doing here?’ she asked.