Tiger Ragtime (12 page)

‘Thank you.’ He took the bag from her. Edyth held out her hand to him. ‘Good luck.’

He ignored it. ‘I have to pack.’

‘And I’d better go home. I have to get up early.’

‘You’re not walking back to Bute Street on your own,’ Helga remonstrated.

‘I’ll be fine, Helga. I’m almost regarded as a resident of the Bay now. Besides, it’s not late.’

Sensing the atmosphere between them, Helga said, ‘David, why don’t you walk Edyth home?’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘I really would rather go back alone, Helga. Good luck, David.’ Edyth almost ran from the house. She walked quickly down the road. A cold shiver ran down her spine when she heard footsteps behind her. Too frightened to turn around to see who was following her, she quickened her pace but the faster she walked, the faster they resounded.

‘There wasn’t much point in my waiting for you if you’re going to run away from me.’

She weakened in relief. ‘Micah.’

He drew alongside her, opened his arms and she went to him. ‘Did David give you a rough time?’

‘It could have been worse. Did you speak to him?’

‘I tried but gave up. I’ve arranged passage to Norway and back on a freighter for him with a captain I know.’

‘He told us he was sailing tomorrow but he didn’t give you credit for organising it.’

‘Perhaps a couple of weeks in the North Sea will cool David’s temper.’

‘Time will tell.’

‘Can I walk you home?’

‘I’d be cross with you if you didn’t.’

He offered her his arm and she hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

‘David will be all right,’ he assured her.

‘How do you know?’ she asked, her suspicions roused.

‘Because I know Lars Nordheim. He’s the captain of the
Vidda
 – the ship David’s sailing out on – and he looks after his crew like a father.’

‘You paid him to take David on board, didn’t you?’

‘I did not,’ he countered indignantly.

‘I can see your fingers crossed behind your back.’

‘They are not. And you really can stop worrying.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But I’m not promising that David will go to sea again after this voyage. Norwegian sailors can be a rough lot. On the other hand, he may develop a taste for aquavit, in which case we can expect him to turn up back here an honorary Scandinavian and a confirmed drunkard.’

‘As if that’s likely.’

‘At least I managed to bring a smile to your face.’

‘Thanks, Micah, but I’ve a feeling we’re not out the woods yet as far as David is concerned.’

‘Everyone has to grow up,’ he said quietly, ‘let’s hope that David manages it soon.’

Judy wandered through the following day in a daze. She rose at four, helped to clean the shop and set out the bread, rolls, cakes, and biscuits as soon as her nephews carried them in, hot and steaming from the kitchen where Moody was working flat out.

She bagged bread rolls, boxed cream cakes, smiled at customers, took their money, gave them their goods, and counted change from the till, all the while barely hearing a word anyone said to her beyond their actual order.

She was totally preoccupied with the rehearsal outfits she had laid out on her bed. Should she wear the white short skirt and sleeveless top with her white tap shoes? Or should she opt for her red outfit with its pleated skirt? Or would her yellow ballet tutu be better? And all the while she considered her clothes, she mentally rehearsed the Pagan Love Song she’d been asked to practise for the call-back … 
Come with me where moonbeams light Tahitian – 
no, not Tahitian, for Tahitian substitute Indian. She couldn’t afford to get that wrong! If she did they might think she couldn’t remember lines
 – Indian skies and the starlit waters linger in your eyes. Native hills are calling, to them we belong and we’ll cheer each other with the pagan love song’

‘Judy?’

She looked blankly at Edyth.

‘I’ve been trying to talk to you for the last two minutes. Go and get ready for your audition.’

Judy glanced at the clock. ‘But it’s not for another two hours.’

‘The shop’s quiet and we’ve almost sold out of goods·. If it’s too early to go to the audition, practise in your room.’

‘You sure?’ Judy was already untying her apron.

‘I’m sure. Edyth suppressed a smile, lest Judy think she was laughing at her.

Moody stuck his head around the door. ‘I suppose now that David’s sailed out and no longer sharing my room, you’ll forget about the promise you made to clean the kitchen three times a week for me.’

‘David only slept in your room for a couple of hours,’ Judy reminded him.

‘The camp bed’s still there and he’ll come back.’

Judy only just managed to contain her exasperation. ‘I’ll clean it for you tomorrow. Once and once only. When David comes back we’ll renegotiate.’

‘I didn’t know you promised to do Moody’s work in exchange for David sharing his room,’ Edyth remonstrated.

Moody winked at her. ‘This is between Judy and me, Mrs Slater.’

Judy hung her apron on the hook on the back of the kitchen door. ‘I have to get this job, if I don’t …’

‘You’ll get the next,’ Edyth consoled when Judy didn’t finish her sentence.

‘There won’t be a next one. I’ll give up auditioning.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Edyth protested.

‘Yes, I can,’ Judy said seriously. ‘I discussed it with my aunts yesterday. You’ve no idea what it’s like to put yourself up time and again only to be knocked down and told you’re not suitable for this or that role when you know – absolutely know – that you can play it ten times better than the girl who was given it.’

Edyth knew Judy was referring to her colour. She had been called back to dozens of auditions only to be turned down at the final call as ‘unsuitable’, a bitter pill to swallow, especially when it was accompanied by the rider that Judy’s lack of success was not down to lack of ability. ‘You’re talented, you’re happiest on-stage. And I know, even if you don’t, that one day your name will be up in lights over a theatre door.’

‘Now you have second sight?’ Judy referred to Helga’s assertion.

‘It must be catching,’ Edyth replied. ‘Go on, off with you and good luck.’

‘Break a leg,’ Moody shouted from the kitchen doorway.

‘Sorry, I forgot, break a leg,’ Edyth corrected herself.

‘Thank you. If wishes counted more than hopes, this girl would already be in a chorus.’ Judy ran up the stairs. ‘I hope she does get something soon.’ Moody pushed his baker’s hat to the back of his head. ‘Given the number of hours she spends training her voice and practising her dance steps, she deserves it. But her aunts have been on at her for weeks to give up auditioning and settle for the work the Bute Street Band gets around here.’

‘Why would they do that?’ Edyth asked in surprise.

‘It stands to reason: if Judy does get a job in a long running show in the New Theatre or touring, she won’t be able to sing with the band. And as she’s their main attraction, the Bute Street Blues won’t get many  ̶ if any  ̶ bookings without her. There’s no way they’ll be able to replace her, that’s for sure. Judy’s just about the best jazz and blues singer on the Bay.’

‘She is the best,’ Edyth agreed. The thought hadn’t occurred to her before Moody mentioned it, but she suddenly realised that if Judy did get a job in the New Theatre it would mean the end of the band as she and everyone else on the Bay knew it. Although every player was a consummate musician, Judy’s voice was their main asset. Moody was right, the Bute Street Blues wouldn’t get many bookings in the pubs and clubs without her. And, it also explained the attitude of Judy’s aunts. The money her uncles made from playing with the band wasn’t for extras. They relied on it for essentials.

She didn’t envy Judy her choice: stay with the band and remain an amateur, or aim high and hit her uncles’ pockets at a time when they could least afford it.

Judy stood in front of her bedroom mirror in her underclothes and held up one rehearsal outfit after another. Five feet six inches tall, which was two to three inches above the ideal height for a chorus girl, and slimly built, she had inherited her Welsh grandmother’s thick straight dark hair, a lighter tint of her West Indian grandfather’s rich coffee-coloured skin, and her Scottish father’s green eyes. The white outfit was the one that contrasted most with her skin. The red and yellow toned it down a little but whichever she wore there was no escaping the fact that she was coloured. And she knew, although no one in the New Theatre had ever had the courage to tell her outright, that the main reason she had never been chosen for the chorus of any of the Cardiff shows was not so much her height, because exceptions had been made for other girls, but because she had West Indian blood.

Deciding she was what she was, she opted for the white outfit. She slipped it on and covered it with a calflength, loose cotton black button-through dress. Packing both her tap and ballet shoes into her vanity case in case they asked her to dance more than one routine, she threw in her hairbrush, scent and lipstick, and sheet music.

Then, unable to resist the temptation, she retrieved the music and, tapping time with her foot, sang through the lyrics, remembering to substitute Indian for Tahitian, although she couldn’t imagine why they wanted to make the change. She went through it again  ̶ and again  ̶ experimenting with the phrasing and the pitch, all the while conscious of her heart thundering and the metallic taste of excitement in her mouth.

She had been to dozens of auditions; this one was no different to any other, for all of Helga’s predictions of success. She glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was time to go if she was going to catch a tram and avoid a long, hot walk up Bute Street into town.

She snapped her case shut, picked it up, glanced at her reflection in the mirror one last time and took a deep breath.

She was nineteen years old, she could sing, she could dance, she could act, and if she didn’t get into the chorus this time, it certainly wouldn’t be for the want of trying. It was time to give it her very best.

Aled was in the Gentlemen Only bar of the Windsor, talking to George Powell, the builder Geoff Arnold had recommended, when a short, stocky, swarthy man approached their table.

‘Mr Aled James?’

‘Who’s asking?’ Aled glanced at the bar where Aiden and Freddie were sipping pints of beer. They both rose to their feet and instinctively clenched their fists.

‘Stan Peterson, theatrical impresario, at your service.’ He held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation Aled shook it. Aiden and Freddie subsided back on to their chairs.

‘I put on shows in the New Theatre, the Empire, the Hippodrome  ̶ what am I saying?  ̶ not only in Cardiff but all over South Wales. I produce and book the best of the best,’ he boasted. ‘The manager happened to mention you’ve bought a hotel in Bute Street that you’re turning into a theatre.’

‘A nightclub, not a theatre, Mr Peterson, and considering I only closed the deal on the property this morning, news travels fast.’

‘A club? But you’ll be looking to entertain your members with musical shows and acts?’ the impresario asked hopefully.

‘Musical shows, no,’ Aled said flatly. ‘Acts, possibly, depending on what and how good they are.’

‘Then I’m your man.’ Stan brightened.

Aled caught the waiter’s eye and he rushed over. ‘We’re drinking brandy, but you can name your own poison, Mr Peterson.’

‘Brandy’s good for me, Mr James.’

‘Bring the bottle and a soda siphon,’ Aled ordered the waiter.

‘When do you envisage your club opening, Mr James?’

‘I was just discussing that with Mr Powell. He’s my builder.’

‘I’ll pull out all the stops, Mr James, but I won’t make any guarantees. Six weeks is tight to have all the major structural alterations you want finished, as well as the interior decorating.’ George Powell pocketed the rough notes and sketches he’d been making.

‘There’ll be a generous bonus in it for you if you meet the target.’

‘Speed and quality mean extra men, they cost.’

‘You have to put out money to make it, Mr Powell.’ Aled sat back when the waiter reappeared with the brandy. ‘Are you producing a show in Cardiff at the moment, Mr Peterson?’

‘I am.’ The impresario looked at his watch. ‘Final auditions for the chorus and minor roles begin in one hour. We cast the major roles in London last week and every one of them is a headliner.’

‘Chorus girls or boys?’ Aled asked, suddenly interested.

‘Both. We employ a first-class choreographer. She knows how to pick them and coach them to deliver the goods and –ʼ he gave Aled and George Powell a sly wink, ‘excite the audience,’ he leered, ‘if you get my drift.’

‘We get it, Mr Peterson,’ Aled replied flatly.

George Powell finished his brandy. ‘If I’m going to finish this building by the end of next month I need to go and hire some men.’

‘The best, Mr Powell,’ Aled reminded him. ‘If I am going to pay top dollar I want top tradesmen working on the place.’

‘You’ll get them, Mr James. My foremen have been with me for years. They can tell a fine craftsman from an odd-job man.’

‘I look forward to seeing the results.’

‘Give us a week to move in supports and knock out the walls and it will begin to take shape.’

‘I’ll be there to superintend the interior decoration, Mr Powell.’

‘As you’re paying the piper you can call the tune, Mr James.’ George Powell reached for his hat, nodded a brief goodbye and left the bar.

Aled refilled his own and Stan Peterson’s glasses. ‘I’m not familiar with the theatrical scene in Wales.’

‘I gathered that from your accent. It’s not often you see an American investing in the old country.’

‘I was born here, Mr Peterson. Tell me, are there many talented acts out there looking for bookings?’

‘Not as many as you might think from the slump that’s hit trade and industry. People will always scrape together enough pennies to buy a seat in the gods, even when they can’t afford to put bread on the table or coal on the fire. It’s a cheap way of forgetting your troubles for a couple of hours.’

‘So most acts are booked up?’