Birth Marks

by Sarah Dunant

  CHAPTER THREE

  Next day I ate breakfast in the car and started the Cherubim vigil early. As every child knows, Saturday morning is the time when the dance schools really do their business. The sight of all of them in their leotards and little adult buns, clutching their shoes and clutched in turn by eager mothers, brought it all back to me. Not that there was much to relive really: a small fat child, smile lost in mounds of cheek, body crammed into white frills with legs like slug pellets poking out underneath. Did someone tell me or did I just get bored? Funny how childhood is meant to be so important, yet we still forget most of it.

  By one o’clock I was pretty certain our beautiful young dance teacher wasn’t coming. As the last group of kids streamed out I went back in and started poking my head into empty rooms. Eventually I came across one of the girls from yesterday’s café. She was standing in front of a wall of mirrors in one of the practice rooms, one leg stretched out exquisitely along the barre—not a breath of a bend anywhere to be seem. She straightened up and stared at herself in the mirror: a long critical appraisal with no hint of vanity. On her shoulders I noticed a glisten of sweat. Then, after a while, she teased the leg even further out and slowly, gracefully curved her torso over until her fingers grasped her toes. I felt a stab of sympathetic agony shoot up my inner thigh into my groin. You can see why most ballet lovers end up in the audience rather than on the stage. Still, no pain no gain. I closed the door noisily behind me and clattered my graceless way towards her.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said half into her toes without looking at me. ‘The next class doesn’t begin till two.’ And there was, I thought, an edge of frustration to her voice. Cherubim may not be the Royal Ballet School but at least some people were still trying.

  Once she’d uncurled herself it took her a while to place me, but eventually we got there. I promised to keep it short so that she could get back to work. Maybe it was my card, or maybe it was the fact that Eyelashes was no longer around to damage her shins, but she became almost talkative second time round. Yes, she had known Carolyn Hamilton. And no, she couldn’t tell me much about her. For the few months that she’d been at Cherubim Carolyn, it seemed, had been something of a loner, coming in, doing her classes and going away again. She had made a point of not hanging out with the rest of the girls; indeed she’d given the impression she was rather too good for them, which was a bit of a joke seeing as it was common knowledge she’d been chucked out of her last company for missing performances. On the other hand Left Feet First was a pretty stylish company, and maybe she was just sore at herself for flunking out. Most of the Cherubim girls would have given their eye teeth (I suppose if you were a dancer you could hardly give an arm or a leg) to have been so lucky. But if Carolyn had been feeling sorry for herself she certainly hadn’t let on to her.

  So if she didn’t confide in the girls, what about the boys? Well, as it so happened yes, she had been quite tight with Scott, or Eyelashes as he was known to the private detective fraternity. But then Scott wasn’t exactly one of the boys, if I saw what she meant. I said I did and asked her where I could find him now. She laughed and told me he was probably putting on his makeup. After all, it was only an hour and a half till curtain-up. Typical Scott. Luck of the devil. He’d only dropped in yesterday to rub it in. If I saw him I could tell him from her that they’d keep his place open, just in case the routines got too exhausting. And if they ever needed an understudy…When I glanced at her from the door she was back at the barre, muscles screaming, eyes hard into the mirror willing herself into another future, a long way from Cherubim.

  Back in the car I revelled in my spoils. Beneath the name Scott Russell was the address of a theatre in London’s West End. Even I was impressed. The listings mag I buy every week so that I can fail to see even more films told me Saturday was matinée day. I spent an hour trying to park the car and missed most of the first act, which is just as well since it was standing room only. Not that it mattered much: most cats are grey in the dark, especially in the chorus line. I slipped out during the curtain call and stood in line at the stage door. He was one of the first ones out and you could see he quite liked the attention. I wished I’d brought my autograph book. But as it was, it was mutual recognition. I got the impression he’d been waiting for me to pop up again somewhere.

  ‘I told you, I don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘I still need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘So I’ll wait.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know who you are, but…’ He was standing with his back to the wall, a group of prepubescent girls on one side jostling him for autographs. You could see this was not a conversation he wanted to be having, but I was blocking his path, and ruining his image. He sighed. ‘All right.’

  The dressing-room, which belonged to him and a few other cats, was cramped and heavy with the scent of bodies and aftershave. Under the bank of wall lights the eyes beneath the wonderful eyelashes looked just a touch bloodshot. Not serious enough to mar the beauty though, which was a pleasure to look at. Evidently he thought so too. As I settled myself his gaze went past me into the mirror behind my head. He flicked a lock of hair back into position, a casual gesture, born as much out of habit as vanity. Who knows, if I was that gorgeous maybe I’d do the same thing. Even without being told you kind of knew that this was probably not the type of man to take advantage of the women he danced with.

  ‘I knew you weren’t her long-lost friend the minute I saw you,’ he said, handing me back my card. ‘So who’s paying your wages?’

  ‘Her name is Augusta Patrick, she’s Carolyn’s guardian.’

  ‘Of course, the old bat herself. What happened, did Carrie forget her monthly postcard?’

  ‘Why, did you used to help her write them?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, a regular Samantha Spade, I see. Far be it from me to teach a private dick how to suck eggs, but if you’re planning this to be a conversation—you know, as in between two people—I’d recommend a slightly softer approach.’

  ‘Augusta Patrick hasn’t heard from her for almost two months. She’s worried.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘She thought her friends might be able to help.’

  ‘Correction. You thought her friends might be able to help. Well, you’re out of luck, aren’t you?’

  It’s one of the important things about this game, knowing when you’re beaten. ‘Listen, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I go out the door and we’ll start this whole thing again, right? I’ll come in, ask for your autograph, tell you what a fabulous dancer you are and then beg you to put aside your dazzling future for a few moments to dredge up memories of a less than glorious past.’ I paused and watched as a ghost of a smile appeared, flashed itself into the mirror behind me and then settled, waiting for more. ‘I’ve been to her flat. No one’s seen her for months. She hasn’t been in touch with any of her family and the Pink Vision at Cherubim couldn’t care less if she’d fallen under a tube at Warren Street station. Which means as of now you are the only one who seems to have spoken more than six words to her. And even that’s a hunch. So. Will you help me?’

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and spent some time lighting one. People always have a little ritual to get them started. It struck me that the best dancers probably didn’t smoke, but presumably he knew that.

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. You thought of that?’

  ‘I’ve thought of it. Yes.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Or maybe she’s having so much fun she just forgot to write.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that.’

  ‘Listen, all I know is that she went and didn’t leave a forwarding address.’

  ‘But you did know her?’

  ‘Yeah, we hung around a bit. Partners in adversity.’

  ‘What kind of adversity?’

  He laughed, ‘Come on, you’ve seen Cherubim. Nobody works there unless they hav
e to.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Miss Patrick told me that she could have any job she wanted.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she would, wouldn’t she?’ He blew out the smoke in a long thin Noël Cowardish swirl. ‘I mean no one wants to admit that their protegée might have’—he paused—‘how should we put it?—“feet of clay”.’

  ‘You mean Carolyn isn’t a good dancer?’

  ‘No. I mean she’s a very good dancer. But this is a tough business.’

  ‘And what? She didn’t have the ambition?’ Determined, that was the word Miss Patrick had used.

  ‘Darling, we all have the ambition, otherwise we’d never get up in the morning.’ I think he was waiting for me to laugh, like the girls at Cherubim, but I didn’t. ‘Put it this way, in my experience the ones who make it are as hard as nails, but all you see on stage is the sparkle. And bright though she was, by the time I met her, Carolyn didn’t shine.’

  ‘And she knew that?’

  ‘Yeah, she knew it.’ He looked at me with cool grey eyes. ‘Most of us do, you know.’ He smiled mischievously, ‘Lucky boy, aren’t I?’ and blew out another spiral of smoke. ‘Not so much what you are as who you know.’ But I was too busy thinking about all the postcards she must have had to make up to keep an old lady’s illusions intact. That took a determination, of sorts.

  ‘So what about all the big ballet companies she was supposed to have been with—the Royal and the City? Are you telling me that Miss Patrick made them up?’

  He looked at me for a moment, as if trying to decide how much to tell me. Then he shook his head. ‘Boy, the old girl didn’t give you much to go on, did she?’ He shrugged. ‘Yeah, Carolyn was with the big ones, stretching those lovely limbs to get herself plucked out of the corps de ballet and become the prima ballerina the old lady never was. Who knows, she might even have made it. The way she tells it, it was all there for the taking. Except somewhere along the way she tried too hard. Stayed up on her points a little too long until her ankles started to give out. I don’t expect the battleaxe mentioned that bit, did she? The many and glorious ways in which your body starts turning the dream into a nightmare. Of course at first everyone is all sympathy. Time off for rest, time off for physiotherapy. Even, when it comes down to it, time off for operations. But behind your back you know what they’re saying. ‘Shame about the Hamilton girl—she had such promise.’ When you track down Carolyn take a long look at her ankles. Check out those little white scar veins.’ He waited. I felt there was somewhere I ought to have arrived, but hadn’t. He snorted. ‘Not a ballet lover I see. Tendons, darling. That humble little mesh of tissues that keeps us on our toes. Or off them. And who ever heard of a ballerina on flat feet? Fifteen years of training and then, wham, bam, thank you mam; don’t call us, we’ll call you. She says she left of her own accord. Others say she got the push, but then this is a bitchy business and you shouldn’t believe all that you hear. Either way the only option she had was contemporary.’

  The way he said it, it didn’t sound like a promotion. ‘And was that so bad?’

  He shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘You really don’t have a clue, do you? No, it’s not so bad. If that’s what you want. And a lot of dancers do. For many it’s the only way out of the museum: the companies are smaller so there’s more participation, they’re always hungry for new choreography, and they get audiences still young and radical enough to think that art can change the world. For others, well they make the switch if they have to, just to keep dancing. But then they haven’t grown up being force-fed tales of glory. You know the really sad thing? She could have done worse. Left Feet First wouldn’t have impressed the wicked witch of the north but it was quite a hip place to be for a while, till they all partied too much and started falling over on stage. If she was going to make it anywhere it would have been there. But she couldn’t shake the monkey off her back. And from there it was a downward spiral. Witness her arrival at Cherubim.’ He stopped, made uncomfortable by his own logic. I got a sense that he felt he’d said too much. Or maybe he’d just unwittingly told more than one life story. I wondered what had happened to sour his dream. He went to the mirror again for reassurance. Then came back to me. ‘So, now you know. The truth behind the fairy tale. Except, of course, it doesn’t help you find her.’

  No, but it sure as hell made more sense than Miss Patrick’s book at bedtime. What next? ‘So where do you think she’d go from Cherubim?’

  ‘You’re the private detective. You find out.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’

  He thought about it. ‘My guess is, somewhere where she could earn more money.’

  ‘Why? Was money a problem?’

  ‘Are you kidding? When did you last have enough?’

  ‘Was it?’

  He sighed. ‘I think so. I mean she joked about it; income versus outcome. But I got the impression it wasn’t funny. And Cherubim wasn’t exactly the kind of job to pay back an overdraft.’

  ‘So what was?’

  ‘Take your pick. London’s full of places where the right girl can earn the wrong kind of money just so long as she’s not too picky. Carrie’s a good looker. She wouldn’t be the first to swop art for entertainment. Though I doubt it’s the kind of thing she’d write home about.’

  ‘And you’re sure she never said a word when she left?’

  He put up his hands in mock defence. ‘Honest injun. I was off for a week with the flu. When I left she was there, when I got back she’d gone.’

  ‘So yours wasn’t a close relationship?’

  He smiled. ‘What do you think?’

  I smiled back. ‘I think yours wasn’t a close relationship.’

  ‘Well, there you go. You are in the right profession after all. Mind you, it wasn’t that hard was it?’ And he blew out another spiral of smoke. ‘Anything else you want to know?’

  I thought about it. Most gays don’t like talking to private detectives. But then since most private detectives are ex-coppers you can understand why. Bearing that in mind we hadn’t done badly. In the paint-by-numbers picture Carolyn had a good deal more colour than before, and I had a few leads to go on. Not bad at all. So how come I was feeling there were still things he hadn’t told me? I let the silence hang between us for a while, but it yielded nothing but an absence of words. I took out another card and handed it to him.

  ‘Maybe you could just push it around a bit more. Give it a little thought. You never know—memories.’

  Think fast, never take no for an answer and have a good exit line—that way they’ll remember you. Comfort by name, Frank by nature, that’s him. Some bits of advice were worth following. This time Eyelashes took the card and kept it.

  By the time I got back to the car it was nearly 7.00 p.m. and a passing traffic warden had shat on the windscreen. At times like this you have a choice. You can either get depressed or more determined. I decided to see it as an expensive way of parking for the night. From a phone booth in Covent Garden I tried to get a number for Carolyn’s landlord. But either I hadn’t spelt it right, or the art student had sewn me up. Either way there were no Prozhaslacks in London, let alone in Finchley. On the grounds that there might be a movie playing that I wanted to see I walked through Covent Garden to Leicester Square. But it was Saturday night and a quiet stroll turned into a rush hour of buskers, beggars and fun lovers up from Surbiton. Only tourists could be fooled into thinking London is a cosmopolitan city. Outside one of the larger cinemas a girl was eating fire to the accompaniment of a small string quartet. She had long fair hair scooped up in a ponytail and was wearing a sequinned dress with a black woolly cardigan over it. She looked a little like Carolyn Hamilton, I thought. But then so did a girl in the cinema queue and a young woman standing by the entrance to MacDonald’s, waiting for her date for the night. Let’s face it, London was full of Carolyn Hamiltons. Most of them happy to be lost in a crowd. My mind was tired with thinking about all the places she could be. I decided to stop thinking and do so
mething.

  So I drove to Kilburn and broke into her flat. Why not? After all, it’s the kind of thing that goes on all over London on a Saturday night: people talking their way in through the street doors and prising their way in through the top ones. It wasn’t even that hard. When I told her I was a friend of Peter, the art student, delivering a canvas which I was frightened to leave outside in case it got nicked, the girl in the basement buzzed me in without a qualm. More fool her. Once in, the other door was amateur’s night out; no mortice, just a Yale. I was surprised I was the first.

  Inside, a cold little corridor led to two rooms. There was music coming in from the floor above, waves of reggae and the occasional thump as someone provided foot percussion. I took a pair of thin plastic gloves out of my bag and slipped them on. Better to be safe than arrested, even if they did make me feel more like a dentist than a burglar. To the right was a bedsitting-room, off it a small kitchen and to the left a bathroom. I used a torch until I was sure the place was empty, then switched on a few lights. The main room leapt into focus. I had time to register built-in cupboards, bare floorboards, a rug, a sofabed, a couple of chairs and a battered old dining-table with a vase when the overhead light pinged off again. Dead bulbs. How come they always pick me? Still, an impression remained which the torch recreated in segments: an exceedingly sparse and tidy space, no clutter, no excess. Not so much a home as a removals van that hadn’t been unpacked yet. Minimalism meets poverty? And cold. That was the other thing. Winter had been allowed to grow here, seeping its way into the walls and up through the floor. I breathed out into the air and watched the smoke curl. One thing was for sure: Carolyn Hamilton hadn’t lived here for a long time. Yet her name was still on the bell, which meant that she must be somewhere doing something to pay the rent. But where and what?