The Brave (5 page)

THE CAST STOOD in line with their hands still joined, the crimson velvet curtain in front of them masking for a moment the glare of the lights. It was their fourth curtain call and the applause seemed to be growing with each one. Diane's chest was heaving with pure exhilaration. She could feel the adrenalin coursing through her veins. She was dizzy, her body alight. She glanced at Gerald to her right and he grinned at her and squeezed her hand and at that moment the curtain began to lift again and she turned to face the dazzle of the footlights and the vague impression of the audience beyond.

They were cheering now, calling bravo! And even through the glare she could see that people in the stalls and the dress circle were getting to their feet and holding up their hands to clap above their heads. She waited for Gerald, from whom the cast took their lead, to step forward. Only this time, he released her hand and started to clap and so did the rest of the cast and Diane realized that they were applauding her, that this call was for her, just her. It was the first time it had happened. She stepped hesitantly forward and for a moment just stood there with her hands at her side, beaming and glowing and almost in tears. Then she bowed and curtsied and the audience roared.

Fortune's Fool was only in its second week and she still couldn't quite believe the reception it was getting. None of them could, not even Gerald who had a string of West End hits to his name and every night had a crowd of fans at the stage door, begging for his autograph. The run was completely sold out and the critics had been little short of ecstatic. Even that notorious old curmudgeon Harold Hobson liked it. Most of all, they liked Diane. "In her West End debut as a leading lady," Kenneth Tynan wrote in The Observer, "Diane Reed is little short of electrifying... a presence so luminous, it almost threatens to eclipse her fine fellow players."

John, the playwright, a walking redefinition of misanthropy who, in rehearsal, had never once smiled nor barely addressed a word to her, had sent her the most extravagant bunch of roses she'd ever seen. With it came a slightly worrying note saying he was already at work on a new piece that Diane had inspired in him, with a part only she could play.

Gerald, who was supposed to be the star of the show, had reacted to her theft of his limelight with remarkably good grace and a noticeable stepping-up of his monthlong campaign to gain access to her knickers. Perhaps he felt she owed him it.

It had become a ritual that he came to her dressing room after every performance with a half-bottle of chilled champagne and two glasses. And that was where he was now, still in his make-up, his ample backside propped against the edge of her dressing table, while he watched her remove her make-up. They had both shed their costumes and were now in bathrobes, his by far the more sumptuous—burgundy satin, piped in black, tailor-made for him at some extortionate shop in Jermyn Street.

Her dressing room was tiny and crammed with flowers, and this, along with the face-flattering glow of the light bulbs around the mirror and the many cards from friends and well-wishers, managed to disguise the fact that the walls hadn't seen a paintbrush in twenty years. The room was also, currently, full of smoke because Gerald was trying to look like Noel Coward, puffing one of his ghastly Turkish cigarettes in a little tortoiseshell-and-silver holder.

"You were astonishing tonight," he said.

"Was I?"

"You know you were."

He was using that deep, husky voice, a kind of gruff whisper, which he obviously thought was seductive. On stage or off, the only effect it ever had on Diane was to make her want to giggle. He took a sip of champagne and came to stand behind her, lowering his head to put it beside hers so that he could admire their joint reflection in the mirror.

"God, you're gorgeous."

She wasn't sure which of them he was talking to.

"Don't be silly."

"I've booked a table at Luigi's," he said, sniffing her hair. Soon he would be nuzzling her neck. It was time to get rid of him.

"Darling, I told you, I can't. I've got to have dinner with these Hollywood people. They've come over specially."

"Let's all eat together then."

Diane stood up and gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek.

"No."

He held her by the hips and moved in for what was clearly intended to be a different kind of kiss. Diane put her hands on his chest to keep him at bay.

"I have to hurry. They'll be waiting for me downstairs."

"You're driving me insane."

"Then we'll just have to lock you away somewhere."

There was a timely knock at the door and Wilfred, the veteran stage door Cerberus, announced that her agent was in the lobby with "two American gentlemen." Diane called out that she would be down in a few moments. Gerald showed no sign of going. He was clearly hoping she might disrobe and dress in front of him, so she went to the door and sweetly held it open for him and, reluctantly, with the face of a lovelorn spaniel, he left.

She hadn't met either of the men Julian Baverstock, her agent, had brought along to see tonight's performance. But she'd certainly heard of them. Everybody had. Herb Kanter was one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood. His films were both critical and commercial successes. And Terence Redfield was one of the new generation of directors that everyone was talking about. He was only in his thirties but had already done pictures starring Cary Grant, Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando. They were looking for someone to play opposite Gary Cooper in a movie for Paramount called Remorseless. It was scheduled to shoot next autumn. Diane's hands were trembling so much with excitement, she could hardly fasten her dress.

She had borrowed it specially for the occasion from a friend who was a model and was given clothes by some of the top Parisian fashion houses. This one was in dark green silk and cut perilously low. It fitted her as if she had been decanted into it. She'd borrowed a necklace too, a single strand of real pearls. By the time she was dressed and had done her face, her hair and a few assessing twirls in front of the mirror, she concluded that everything about the way she looked—the hair, the necklace, even the dress—was wrong. They would never offer her the part. Not in a million years.

But as soon as she saw them standing there, watching her come down the dingy staircase with her fur coat over one arm, she knew she was being too hard on herself. Herb Kanter's jaw visibly dropped. He was short and sleek and reminded her of one of the sea lions at London Zoo, except for the heavy black-framed glasses that seemed to steam up a little when he shook her hand. And unless Terence Redfield, who was tall and thin and had a droopy ginger moustache, gave that kind of look to every woman he met (which was, of course, more than possible), Diane guessed she was at least in with a chance.

Julian, looking extremely pleased with himself, introduced them and just as they headed out to the waiting taxi, with immaculate timing, Gerald appeared. He was no doubt still hoping to join them for dinner. He put a proprietorial arm around Diane's shoulders but wilted a little when Mr Kanter got his name wrong and called him Jeremy. It provided just enough distraction for Julian to tell Diane quietly that the movie part was virtually hers for the taking.

"In the bag, darling," he whispered. "They're absolutely smitten."

It was true. They left poor Gerald skulking off into the night and drove across town to The Mirabelle in Curzon Street, where, at the best table, Diane pulled off her second bravura performance of the evening. It was what friends called her Audrey Hepburn impression. This involved appearing, at the same time, to be both confident and self-deprecating, intelligent but endearingly scatty, graceful but subversively earthy, attentive but not overly flirtatious except for the occasional and seemingly unconscious touch of a hand or an arm while laughing at some witty remark. Men, she knew, invariably adored being touched. Above all, she needed to appear modern, not stuffy and haughty and English. And, of course, she had to seem appropriately flattered, though not overwhelmed, by their interest.

Three hours later, sitting cross-legged on her bed in Paddington, she relived the dinner in front of her equally rapt flatmates, Helen, Molly and Sylvia, who had waited up in their sensible flannel nightdresses to hear all about it.

"Gary Cooper!" Helen said. "Is it a western?"

"No, it's a psychological thriller."

"He must be about a hundred and three," Molly said.

"At least. I read in a magazine that he's had plastic surgery and doesn't look anything like Gary Cooper any more."

"I don't care who he looks like," Diane said.

"I can't believe it!" Sylvia said. "You're going to be a real movie star!"

"I know!"

"Have you told Tommy yet?"

"Give me a chance; it's two in the morning. I'll write to him tomorrow."

"He's going to be so excited."

It was one of the many things, and by a long way the most important, that hadn't yet dawned on Diane: how Tommy would react to the news that she might be going off to Hollywood. She was far too stirred up to sleep and long after the other girls had gone to bed, she lay, as she so often did, thinking about him.

His first few letters from Ashlawn had revealed almost nothing about how he was getting along. Diane remembered from her own boarding school how the new girls' letters were carefully monitored, so that parents wouldn't panic. You weren't allowed to say how miserable you were, how foul the food was, how horribly the teachers and the older girls treated you. Tommy's early letters from Ashlawn had the whiff of exactly that sort of censorship: 

Dear Diane,

I hope you are well. I am fine. Today we played rugger. It was good fun. The food is okay [this last word crossed out and replaced, no doubt by decree, with all right]. Please ask Mum to send me some more 'Wagon Wheels' and 'Smarties' with as many different coloured tops as possible because we are all collecting them. Blue ones are best. I hope your rehearsals are going well.

Love, Tommy

But the letter that had arrived two days ago was altogether different. The writing was scrawled, almost desperate, and the message chillingly brief.

Dear Diane,

Please, PLEASE get Mum and Dad to take me away from here. I carnt stand it any longer. They are bullying me. PLEASE.

Love, Tommy

She knew he must somehow have managed to smuggle it out. Diane remembered bribing one of the school gardeners with a kiss to do the same. When Tommy's letter arrived, she had immediately phoned her mother and the conversation escalated in a matter of moments, as it usually did nowadays, into a shouting match.

"As always, Diane, you're being overdramatic. Do you have any idea how much it's costing your father to send Tommy to Ashlawn?"

"I know precisely how much, Mother. You've told me a hundred times."

"It's always the same. Your father and I try to do what we think is right, looking after him and paying all the bills, and you do nothing but criticize. Miss High-and-Mighty, living the fancy life in London and telling everyone what they can and can't do. Honestly, I've had enough of it."

"And so have I!" Diane yelled and slammed down the receiver.

Normally she would wait an hour then phone back to apologize. But not this time. If the Americans offered her the part, as it seemed almost certain they would, she would be going to Hollywood. And if things went well and her film career took off, perhaps she would want to stay there. At least for a while. For many months now she had been trying to find the courage to do something about Tommy. She still hadn't decided what, but she knew the time was almost at hand.

THEY MOSTLY LEFT him alone nowadays and it was better that way. There were still, every day, random acts of cruelty, a sly punch or poke in the ribs, a foot stuck out to trip him in the playground, chewing gum placed on his chair, Kick Me notes stuck to his back. But Tommy had learned that if you kept quiet, tried to look as if none of this bothered you, steered clear of those shadowy corners where the worst predators lurked, then life could be just about bearable. There wasn't, he had discovered, nearly so much fun to be had from torturing someone who didn't appear to mind.

For this important lesson in survival, Tommy had to thank the unfortunate Piggy Wadlow. Piggy provided sport of an altogether more gratifying nature. When a tormentor snatched his glasses or tweaked his folds of fat in the showers or threw water bombs at him over the cubicle door when he was sitting on the toilet, he would rise like a fleshy tornado and roar after them, even with his shorts and underpants flapping around his plump, pink thighs, his arms scything the air while he screamed retribution and occasionally managed to inflict it. Which, naturally, made such pursuits and endless variations of them all the more enjoyable.

There were certain measures which Tommy, now in his second term at Ashlawn, routinely took to protect himself. He always, for example, checked his bed before he climbed into it and he never put on a shoe or a boot or a slipper without first making certain it was empty. By so doing he had avoided sticking his toes into items of rotting fruit, dried dog turds and on one occasion, a dead mouse. At mealtimes he was careful never to take his eyes off his plate as it was passed from boy to boy along the table in case one of them chose to spit or shovel salt or something worse on to his food. He kept an obsessive eye on all that belonged to him and knew at a glance if anything had been taken or tampered with. And he never forgot to lock his tuck box, from which the painted alteration to his name had been removed with turpentine, leaving a white smudge just as eloquent.

The fact that his bed-wetting had become less frequent and that the logs had long ago been dispensed with seemed to make no difference. The nickname and reputation had passed into legend. His tormentors-in-chief were still Critchley and Judd, with their new apprentice Pettifer coming a close third. But at least Tommy knew what to expect from them and in their presence could steel himself. Much more upsetting were the many minor insults and injuries from boys who weren't really bullies at all, who were often actually quite decent when you found yourself alone with them, but who, in public, seemed obliged to be cruel.

Tommy knew, as much from instinct as experience, that to seek protection or justice from the staff, even from sympathetic masters like Ducky Lawrence, was counterproductive. Boys on whom you informed inevitably took their revenge, usually after lights-out or at morning break, in the toilets. He had seen it happen almost daily with Piggy, who would go screaming and sobbing to the first available master. And as the weeks and months went by, there had been a change in the way the masters listened to him. What had once been genuine concern and compassion had become a kind of weary contempt. Only yesterday, after someone pushed him over in the playground, Piggy had run howling to Charlie Chin who, quietly but sharply, told him not to tell tales, not to be such a cissy.

For two and a half terms, nearly nine whole months, without any real friend, Tommy had increasingly sought the solace of his fictional one. Denied his regular Monday evening dose of Wagon Train (television was, naturally, banned at Ashlawn, along with all other inventions that threatened to make life in any way enjoyable), he now had to make do with the photograph of Flint McCullough that he had taped inside the lid of his tuck box. There were pictures of his parents there too, as well as his favourite one of Diane outside the Cafe Royal. But it was Flint who held pride of place.

The tuck boxes were stored on slatted wooden shelves along a corridor to which the boys were allowed access only after meals. But at those times it was always too crowded and noisy, so Tommy had developed the habit of sneaking in illicitly when he might have the place to himself. It was, like most other minor transgressions, a beatable offence, but he was careful and hadn't yet been caught. His black lace-ups had rubber soles which meant he could move silently on the tiled floors and at any sound he would freeze and wait in the shadows until the danger had passed. When he got to his tuck box he would unlock it with the key he kept on a cord looped to the belt of his shorts. And as he gently lifted the lid, Flint's face would slowly be revealed, staring at him with that slightly sad yet comforting little half-smile, as if he'd been expecting him.

Tommy was aware that treating his tuck box like a shrine and standing before it in communion with a cowboy actor teetered on, if not over, the brink of weirdness. In fact sometimes he wondered if he might be going a little mad. He never spoke out loud to the picture and would have fled in terror had those famous McCullough lips so much as twitched in response. But in his head, Flint's voice rang as clear as if he were there in person.

"How'd you get on last night?"

"I wet the bed, darn it. I'd been dry for nearly three weeks."

"Hard luck, son. But you're doing fine. How many I will nots are we saying now before we go to sleep?"

"Three hundred."

"Let's try upping it to four."

"Okay."

"And that thing Pettifer said to you after breakfast. About your mother having square tits. Don't let it get to you. He's just an idiot."

"I know he is."

"That's probably what his mother's look like."

"Yeah. Saggy too I should think."

"Real saggy."

"Thanks, Flint."

"You're welcome, Tommy."

"I'd better go now. I'll see you later. Okay?"

"You bet. You take care now."

"You too. Bye."

The only person who came anywhere close to being a mentor in real life was The Duck. Mr Lawrence was an old man—well, probably about the same age as Tommy's father—and wore tweed jackets with leather pads on the elbows. He had little whiskery patches on his neck that he missed while shaving and he smelled comfortingly of pipe smoke like Tommy's father. Some of the older boys said he must be a homo because (a) he wasn't married and (b) his first name was Evelyn which was apparently a girl's name. Tommy didn't care. He was kind and funny and full of fascinating stories. He was the master in charge of Tommy's class, 2B, and whenever he came into the room he would say, Ah, Two B or not Two B, that is the question and they would all groan. Best of all, he had an infectious passion for books.

When he discovered how keen Tommy was on westerns, he gave him a copy of Riders of the Purple Sage and then a collection of short stories by Jack London. Tommy was immediately hooked and was soon reading almost anything he could lay his hands on. The school library was small and meanly stocked. But every Wednesday, after tea, The Duck escorted into town any boys who wanted to go to the public library where they were allowed to take out three books. It was the highlight of Tommy's week.

The walk into town was a winding descent of about a mile and, even in the rain, the sense of freedom as they stepped out of the school gates was thrilling. It wasn't advisable to be seen talking too much to masters in case you got accused of sucking up or, worse—when it happened to be Ducky Lawrence—of being a homo. Nevertheless, either on the way there or the way back, Tommy usually managed to have a chat with him. The Duck always had some new book or writer to suggest.

"Been thinking about you, Bedford."

"Sir?"

"Have you read any Fenimore Cooper?"

"No, sir. Never heard of him."

"Last of the Mohicans?"

"You mean Hawkeye? I've seen it on the telly. It's great."

"The book's even better. Let's see if we can find it for you."

By now Tommy had read every western the library had. The nice old woman behind the desk always made a point of telling him when a new one had arrived and even ordered special transfers for him from other libraries. While he waited, with The Duck's guidance, Tommy tried other writers, such as Agatha Christie, P. G. Wodehouse and the most frightening ghost story writer in the whole world, M. R. James. But The Duck's best suggestion by far was Rudyard Kipling. Tommy found himself transported to places that were thrilling and exotic yet somehow reassuringly ordered. Where there was danger, even wickedness, but where truth and decency finally prevailed.

It was on one such Wednesday evening, in the middle of a damp and dismal June, that Tommy found himself, to his surprise and cautious delight, reacquainted with Dickie Jessop. Dickie preferred illegal comics and magazines to books and rarely came on these trips to the town library. They had just walked back through the school gates and Tommy was trailing a few yards behind the rest of the group, partly through self-protective habit but also because he had his nose buried in the new Zane Grey novel he'd just borrowed. It was called The Arizona Clan and he was so absorbed he hadn't noticed Dickie had dropped back to walk beside him.

"What did you get?"

Tommy showed him.

"I thought Zane Grey was dead."

"He is, but he wrote a lot, so the books keep coming out."

"You read more than anyone I ever met."

Tommy shrugged.

"I just like it."

"Is it true your sister's going to be in a film with Gary Cooper?"

If anyone else had asked this, Tommy would have sensed a trap and denied it. Any item of personal information usually got twisted around and used against you. He would be accused of lying or boasting or they would call Diane a tart or make some insulting remark about her looks. But Dickie wasn't like the others.

"Yes," he replied, simply.

Dickie nodded thoughtfully but said nothing. Tommy couldn't tell if he was impressed or not. So, trying to sound casual, he went on.

"She's over in Hollywood at the moment, actually."

Dickie still didn't say anything. He just nodded again and stared away across the playing fields that had been transformed by weeks of unremitting rain into an ocean of mud. A watery sun flashed for a moment on the driveway puddles.

"How did you know? I mean, about the Gary Cooper thing."

Dickie kicked a stone into a puddle.

"I dunno. Someone saw it in a magazine or something."

Tommy guessed that getting confirmation of this story was probably the only reason Dickie had come back to walk with him. But having got it, he didn't seem in a hurry to go. His silence was more unsettling than it was surprising. Dickie Jessop had changed almost beyond recognition since those first few days when Tommy thought they were best friends. Not that he had become one of Tommy's tormentors. He never called him Bedwetter, just ignored him. And Tommy didn't take this personally because Dickie now ignored nearly everyone. In his own, more powerful way, he had become as much of a loner as Tommy. All the early cheek and sparkle and mischief had literally been beaten out of him.

The Whippet had made it a personal mission. There had been weeks when he'd summoned Dickie down to the changing room every single night. Dickie seemed to take it as a challenge and would break rules deliberately right under The Whippet's long and twitching nose. On bath nights and in the showers after games, boys would gape at the bruises. His buttocks were an abstract painting of black and blue and purple and yellow, a work in progress that didn't get a chance to heal. Yet never once had anyone seen him cry. All that happened was that with each beating he had become a little quieter, a shade more serious, retreating one small step further into himself. It was like watching the slow yet steady dimming of a light.

They were trudging up the last stretch of driveway now and it was starting to rain again. As the school building loomed over them, Tommy felt a surge of desperation that he was about to lose a second chance of being Dickie's friend.

"Want to see something?" he said.

"What?"

"You have to promise not to tell anyone."

Dickie shrugged.

"Okay."

"Say I promise."

"I promise."

A few minutes later they were tiptoeing along the corridor to Tommy's tuck box. The time when it was permitted to be there had passed. They were supposed to be in their classrooms getting ready for prep. The corridor was dark but they didn't switch on the light. Tommy unlocked his tuck box and lifted the lid.

"Nice pictures."

"That's Diane, my sister."

Dickie nodded his approval then glanced at the picture of Flint.

"And you know who that is."

" 'Course I do. Is that all you wanted to show me?"

Tommy shook his head and reached down into the tuck box and carefully lifted out a large manilla envelope.

"Look," he said, pointing at the postmark.

"Hollywood, California."

"It arrived this morning."

Tommy glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. Then he opened the envelope and gently pulled out a large black-and-white photograph.

"See? It's Red McGraw from Sliprock," he said proudly.