Angel Cake (9 page)

Why does he always get that kind of thing wrong? I told him, ‘It happened the week before your birthday.’

‘Did it?’ he said. ‘I must have been in a hurry.’

He fingered my presents. ‘You always go in for such fancy wrapping.’

For a desolate moment, I wanted to snatch them away from him. I already knew they would be an anti-climax and I didn’t want to watch him open them. When I came back from the bathroom, he was holding them, still unwrapped, and looking at them blearily. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I like them.’

‘Last year was better, though?’ I said mischievously and we got over the disappointment with that little joke.

When I came back from work, Rob was still writing. He stayed shut in so late that I started to get angry. I was going to make him a special meal for his birthday, but I couldn’t begin cooking until I knew when he would be ready to eat. At last, after nine o’clock, he came out of his study. He didn’t look very pleased. By now, I have been taught that there is one thing you must never do and that is ask how the writing went. So I said, as casually as I could, ‘At last! I was starving.’

‘You should have eaten without me,’ Rob said. ‘We don’t live in a feudal society, you know.’

‘And left you a slice of birthday cake with a single candle?’

‘Oh, cut it out, Alison! Birthdays aren’t such a big deal, you know that.’

‘If I’d known you felt that way, I wouldn’t have bought – listen – smoked trout pâté and steak and the cheesecake you like with kiwi fruit topping.’

He relented a bit while we were eating and told me that he had had a very bad day’s writing because he was so conscious all the time that it was his thirty-fifth birthday and by now he should have done better. I tried to use his kind of language; I told him that was ridiculously careerist. He didn’t seem to hear that I was imitating him, but he didn’t take much notice either.

After dinner, he was still restless. Although it was late for a weekday, he wanted to go out and see a late-night film. By the time we got back, we were both exhausted. Rob had another drink or two and fell asleep straight afterwards. But I lay awake beside him for a long time, thinking, and in the small hours I grew quite resentful, because why should I be lying awake, unsettled, when Rob was the one who claimed to be having a crisis?

‘He courted me for two years, you know,’ said Alicia. ‘He courted me, like the perfect gentleman, from the day I joined his company. He was an actor-manager. Do you know what that means? He took all the leading roles and it was also his company. I came to audition one season when they were playing at the Adelphi. I’ll never forget that day; being called
forward to the front of the stage and suddenly seeing that beautiful face beyond the footlights. My breath caught in my throat. And that exquisite voice called up, “Can you sing something for us, Miss Evans?” A distinguished voice, like the radio news. A shiver ran down my spine when I heard it. And I was stuck up there, in front of everybody, going hot and cold, and tongue-tied. But I found a strength I didn’t know I had in me and I pulled myself together. I said, “Certainly, sir,” and I held my head up high and I clasped my hands and I gave them, “Early One Morning” for all I was worth. Best singing performance of my life, Leonard used to rib me later. Because I wasn’t by training a singer. Only, in those days, in a company that size, you had to be ready to turn your hand to anything. “If the manager can tune the paino,” Leonard used to say to us, “then you can take your turn at mending costumes.” There was a little pause when I had finished and I remember thinking my singing must have ruined my chances. But the voice called again from beyond the footlights, “Thank you, Miss Evans. Please wait on one side till afterwards,” and I knew I was in. That was the phrase which let you know whether or not you’d been accepted, you see. If they asked you to wait on one side, you knew you were all right. I remember the jealousy in the dressing-room afterwards. There were always plenty of hopefuls at an audition and, in those days, if you didn’t get a part, the chances were you didn’t get any dinner either. So some of the girls said the part wasn’t up to much and some of them said it wasn’t much of a company anyway. But I didn’t take a blind bit of notice because, inside me, my heart was singing. I had seen a vision of my future happiness on the other side of the footlights.

‘Leonard was thirty-seven when I first set eyes on him and I was barely twenty-one. How I looked up to him! Between you and me, I was dreadfully worried at first that he might be already married and I would have to pine in vain. Well, he wasn’t. But everyone said he would never marry; he was wedded to the theatre. His company certainly was everything to him. He was a marvellous manager although, my word, how he drove us. Because he didn’t spare himself, because he gave each production his all, he expected everyone else to
do likewise. He could be a terrible taskmaster. But, for the most part, we gave willingly. There was the occasional bad apple. But my first run, believe me, I worked like a Trojan. I couldn’t do enough to please him. It was only a small part really – I had to come on and sing a little song and strew some flowers. I was supposed to be a sylph, I believe – but I did it as though my life depended on it. And I made myself useful, did all the little extra jobs which needed to be done. I knew I hadn’t escaped Leonard’s attention. But I didn’t have ideas above my station at that stage. I was quite content just to worship him from afar. Leonard was far too discreet ever to show that he felt anything for me too. He had impeccable manners. He kept his distance. I might never have suspected anything if he hadn’t made his move. Sometimes I think he was doubly distant with me in the early days just so that no one should suspect his feelings. But I was happy there. I used to get up humming every morning and dress myself to the nines when it was time to go off to the theatre. I was enjoying myself so much, I kept worrying what would happen when the run was over. I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again, and then came the bombshell. When the run was over, Leonard asked me to join the company.

‘They were two beautiful years. We travelled together up and down the country. We played up. North and in the summer we played on the South Coast. We spent hours and hours on trains and we stayed in dreary boarding-houses. Half the time, the theatres were cold and uncomfortable. But, believe me, those years were blissful. From the moment Leonard asked me to join the company, naturally everything changed between us. I was no longer a bird of passage, just filling in for a summer season. He began to give me better parts. Of course, that led to jealousy. There was I, the newcomer, getting the choicest morsels. It wasn’t long before some of the company started to suspect what was afoot. Some of them made remarks. Not that Leonard was ever indiscreet. He only very gradually gave any indication of what he felt for me. One night, I remember, it was shortly before Christmas, he had bouquets delivered to all the ladies. We had just finished a run and everyone was pleased with
the box office. Beautiful bouquets they were, with roses and ferns, but only mine had a note hidden deep in the flowers. Would Miss Evans care for tea with Mr Queripel on Sunday afternoon?

‘I can remember every moment. He collected me on the dot of three from the boarding-house where I was staying. He had on a heavy overcoat because it was bitter, but a flower in his buttonhole. To me, he looked like a film star. We walked around the empty shopping streets in the centre of Manchester; we didn’t mind the cold. That year we were lucky; we’ve been in some dreadful places at Christmas. At last, when we couldn’t stand the cold any more, he took me into the smartest tea-room that was open in Manchester and he ordered the most splendid tea. Of course, I was so nervous I could barely swallow a mouthful. Not that I wasn’t hungry; those theatrical landladies usually didn’t feed you properly. But I only had eyes for Leonard – or Mr Queripel, as I still called him then of course – and I’m afraid I didn’t do justice to his beautiful spread.

‘“Why, Miss Evans,” he said to me, “you eat like a bird.”

‘And I, who could usually put away enough to feed a family in those days, I blushed to the roots of my hair.

‘“Ah,” Leonard said, “but no bird ever blushed as prettily as that!”

‘From Manchester, I think we went on to Leeds and from Leeds to Newcastle. It was a hard winter. In Newcastle, the whole company was laid low with the Spanish flu and for four nights, imagine, we had to close the theatre. I remember I was staying in one of the most miserable boarding-houses on that tour, run by a terrible woman called O’Riley, and I was so poorly and sorry for myself that I just lay in bed and cried from home-sickness. One afternoon, there was a knock at the door and, without waiting for an answer – which anyway she wouldn’t have got – in marched Mrs O’Riley. She was a tall, bony woman with black hair done up in a towering bun. Her face was like thunder, but she was carrying a giant bunch of flowers, like this, at arm’s length, as though they might do her an injury. “A gentleman’s brought these for you,” she said shortly. I remember, I looked up at her all tearfully and I felt so dizzy and feverish,
I couldn’t think for a moment who she might mean. Then I realized that, of course, it must be Leonard and my lonely heart leapt up.

‘“Is there a note?” I asked her.

‘“A note?” she snorted. “There’s a card of sorts and the gentleman himself is waiting downstairs in my front room to be told if you’re willing to see him.”

‘Willing to see him? Well, of course, I didn’t want Leonard to come up and see me looking such a fright. But, on the other hand, I didn’t want him to think I was sending him away because I didn’t want to see him. And I felt so low, I would have given anything for company.

‘“Well, are you or aren’t you?” snapped Mrs O’Riley. That was her way; never one for wasting her breath on being amiable.

‘So I told her to ask the gentleman please to wait for five minutes and then to come up and, although I felt so dreadful, I rushed around trying to make myself half-way presentable.

‘When Leonard came in, he looked fearfully solemn. “I’m sorry to see you lying ill in such surroundings,” he said to me. “I feel myself responsible. Is there anything I can do to improve matters?”

‘I was propped up, more dead than alive, on my pillows. I thanked him for the flowers and I asked him to pull up a chair. He sat down beside me. He looked ever so pale and serious.

‘“It’s very kind of you to come and visit me,” I said to him. “You must be quite worn out from visiting sick-beds. How are all the others?”

‘He smiled at me and he told me he hadn’t been to visit all the others. “It’s you I was concerned about, Miss Evans.” He bent forward and, ever so delicately and gently, he took my hand in his.

‘“Why, Mr Queripel!” I exclaimed. “Your hands are shaking.”

‘I forgot my own misery for a moment as I looked up into his face. He was white as a sheet and shivering. “Mr Queripel!” I scolded him. “You’ve got the flu too!”

‘He looked sheepish and he admitted that he had a touch of the flu. Then he held my hand a trifle tighter and he said
something I shall never forget. “But Miss Evans,” he said, “could it be that isn’t the only reason why my hands are shaking?”

‘What a winter that was! We played in Newcastle and Scarborough and Sheffield. By the spring, we had to disband for two weeks for a holiday. I came back to London to my dear mother and Leonard went ahead to the South Coast to arrange our summer season. We wrote to each other every day. He wrote lovely letters. I’ve kept every one. That summer, we were lucky. We had the same theatre in Eastbourne for most of the season. In the mornings, and in the afternoons when we didn’t have matinees, Leonard and I used to walk for miles and miles along the seafront, right out of town and as far as Beachy Head. We had picnics on the Downs on Sundays. He took me to Pevensey Bay and, once, to the races. We both put money on a horse called Heart’s Desire and it came in the winner. We blew our winnings that night on dinner at the Burlington Hotel.

‘At the end of the summer, the company came back to London. We had a run of bad luck. We had to play in out-of-the-way places where we had poor audiences, and we couldn’t find a decent theatre for the Christmas season. There were troubles within the company too. Leonard had taken on a new leading man because he had decided he wanted to do less of the acting and make more of the directing. Well, bringing in an outsider had put some people’s noses out of joint. And the new actor was a Jewish gentleman, which naturally didn’t help matters any. He was a brilliant actor, a living genius, but he put some people’s backs up with his airs and graces. His name was Harold Levy. The ones who liked him called him Harry. He was as handsome as they come, believe me, although quite the opposite of Leonard. Leonard was blond and thinnish and every inch a gentleman, while Harry was dark and well-built and looked a bit of a bounder. When he came out on to the stage, you could feel the ripples. Well, Harry was one source of our troubles. And, of course, by then Leonard’s and my romance was out in the open. We had done our best to keep it a secret, but leading that sort of life in a company that size, how could we? True love will out. You can imagine the to-do
that
led
to. There were unkind whispers, there was envy and, in the end, there were ructions. An actress called Clara Willoughby left the company. By the summer of that year, I was often playing our leading lady opposite Harry Levy. Some of them blamed me for our bad box office. They said I was taking Leonard’s mind off the theatre, that I was demanding parts which I wasn’t yet ready for. Which was nonsense. But they got their come-uppance when we went back to Eastbourne. It was already well on in the season, we hadn’t been able to get a decent booking before then, and we gave them our big successes of the year before:
The
Bird’s
Nest
and
The
Man
at
Six
. I was Sybil to Harry’s Frank. Every night, we played to packed houses. Every night, I had curtain calls and bouquets. And, every day, every night, some token of affection from Leonard: little comforts for my room in the boarding-house and hampers of delicacies to eat in my dressing-room. On the last night of
The
Man
at
Six
, Leonard went down on bended knee in my dressing-room and proposed to me. It was September 1930. In the spring we were married, in St John’s Church in Hackney.’