Ellie

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘Why would they audition for another show?’ Edward sat down on the arm of a chair. ‘They’re in the best one in town now. Besides, Ellie was her old self tonight. She was only worried about Bonny on Saturday.’

  ‘Pour us a gin and tonic,’ Ambrose said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I can smell fish a mile off and if you won’t tell me anything I’ll find another source.’

  Edward wiped his forehead as he poured the drinks. A storm was coming, and it had grown hotter and more muggy all day. He wished he hadn’t come here.

  Ambrose’s flat, or his ‘pied-à-terré, as he liked to call it, was on the first floor of a large house in Bloomsbury. It was owned and furnished by a couple living out in India and it reflected their taste and status rather than Ambrose’s. Edward had felt at home here the first time he’d seen it, as it had the kind of faded grandeur of his grandmother’s house: old Persian rugs, heavy carved furniture handed down through generations, artefacts from all over the world, a baby grand piano, magnificent marble fireplaces. Ambrose, who had a penchant for thirties styling, complained constantly about this place. Edward, whose digs were so grim he could hardly bear to go back there at night, felt the man was a philistine and ought to be truly grateful.

  ‘Sit by me.’ Ambrose patted the couch next to him as Edward handed him his drink. ‘I want to talk seriously to you and we rarely get an opportunity without flapping ears close by.’

  Edward glanced towards the windows somewhat nervously as lightning flashed, and even though he was expecting the clap of thunder which followed it, still he jumped.

  ‘I’d better close the windows,’ Ambrose said, getting up and crossing the large room as a gust of wind blew in. ‘You must stay here tonight, Edward. I suspect we’re in for a heavy storm.’

  The windows were only just shut when the rain started, within seconds hammering against the glass with tremendous force. Ambrose pulled the heavy brocade curtains and switched on another side light.

  ‘That’s cosier,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘Now let’s get back to you and Ellie. The reason I wanted to know about her is because I have plans for you both.’

  To Edward’s surprise, Ambrose began to speak about films, saying he had parts for both of them lined up for next year.

  ‘But the show?’ Edward asked, gulping down his drink, trying to ignore the storm outside and his nervousness at being expected to stay the night.

  Ambrose shrugged. ‘It will be finished by Christmas. The theatre-going public are growing tired of revues, they want straight comedy, or drama. But anyway, Edward, the film world is where the money is. Who wants to tramp the boards night after night when a couple of months’ filming will bring in as much money as a year in theatre?’

  ‘What sort of film?’ Ambrose had hinted more than once that Edward’s looks were perfect for the big screen, but he’d only ever played starchy English gentlemen. He wondered if Ambrose was making it up.

  ‘A comedy, of course.’ Ambrose smiled coldly. ‘You’ll be fine, my lad, I’ll make another Ronald Coleman out of you.’

  There was something about the words ‘I’ll make’ that worried Edward: they made him sound like a puppet. ‘What about your dancers?’ he asked. ‘Are you getting them in too?’

  ‘Some of the best ones, maybe.’ Ambrose looked thoughtful. Edward knew how hard he had trained them, and his plans for being another Ziegfeld. ‘There are several who can act. Frances and Sally, to name a couple.’

  Edward couldn’t help but be cheered by this. Bonny couldn’t act to save her life; this might break up the friendship between her and Ellie.

  By the time Edward was on his fourth gin and Ambrose was recounting some of his times in America, he was feeling mellow. Even the storm outside had ceased to concern him.

  ‘Why don’t you play for me?’ Ambrose suggested. ‘And don’t tell me you can’t. I heard you playing one morning in the Phoenix.’

  ‘I’m a bit rusty,’ Edward grinned. He was always glad to get an opportunity to play; his grandmother had a beautiful Steinway and he missed it more than anything.

  Ironically the score for Good-night Vienna, one of his grandmother’s favourite musicals, was sitting on the piano, and as Edward began to play it hauntingly, the way she liked it, he imagined her standing behind him, singing along.

  The storm outside was forgotten as good memories came back with the music. His grandmother was old and frail now and her once-strong voice wavered, but Edward transported himself back to when he was fifteen or sixteen, and felt again the warm feeling of truly belonging which he only ever had with his grandmother.

  He played all her old favourites: ‘Barbara Allen’, ‘North Country Boy’, ‘Greensleeves’. When he felt a hand on his shoulder he forgot it was Ambrose and began to sing.

  ‘You’re a lad of many talents,’ Ambrose said as Edward paused after ‘Greensleeves’. ‘I didn’t know you could sing too.’

  ‘I’m not good enough for the public,’ Edward smiled. ‘And like the playing, the singing’s a bit rusty. What would you like me to play now?’

  Edward was aware of Ambrose’s hand still on his shoulder, his thumb stroking his neck, but it seemed merely an affectionate gesture and he didn’t shrug it off.

  ‘No more playing now,’ Ambrose said. ‘It’s late and it might disturb my neighbours. It’s time for bed.’

  One moment Ambrose was just standing there, looking down at Edward on the piano stool, the next he was bending down to him, kissing first his cheek, his neck and finally his mouth.

  It was only as Ambrose’s tongue snaked its way into Edward’s mouth that he struggled to get free, suddenly realising what this was.

  ‘No.’ He pushed him away in alarm. ‘Don’t do that!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous and girlish,’ Ambrose said, grabbing him tightly to his chest so Edward could barely breathe. ‘You know this is what you really want.’

  ‘It isn’t.’ Edward pushed harder, struggling to his feet. ‘Let me go.’

  He managed to get free and made a bolt for the door, but Ambrose beat him to it, barring the way. ‘Edward, calm down,’ he said, his cold blue eyes glinting too brightly. ‘It has to happen one day – why not me who cares for you?’

  ‘I’m not like that.’ Edward’s voice shook. ‘I’m not.’

  He felt just the way he did when waiting in the wings ready to go on stage, sheer terror clutching at his innards, wanting to turn and run away, yet knowing he couldn’t. The same small voice which told him to walk on to the stage was speaking now, telling him this was inevitable, that once he began, the nervousness would fade.

  ‘Deny it to everyone, but not to yourself,’ Ambrose said, catching hold of Edward’s jacket and spinning him round until their places were reversed and Edward was pinned against the door with Ambrose kissing him again.

  This time there was no tongue, just gentleness. The body against his was warm and hard, and it didn’t repel him.

  ‘You see.’ Ambrose drew back, smiling. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. I love you, can’t you see that?’

  Another crack of thunder from outside made Edward start.

  ‘You’re safe with me,’ Ambrose said very quietly. ‘Listen to me. I know what you are because I was lost and alone like you once. I have all you need to make you happy, Edward, just trust me. After tonight you’ll understand all those things which puzzled you. Remember, I love you.’

  No one had ever said they loved Edward, not even his grandmother. It felt like being tossed a lifebelt in a sea of confusion. The storm outside, the gin and the piano playing had mixed things up in his head. Was Ambrose right? Did he really know what Edward was?

  Pansy Manning can’t run, can’t play rugger. He’s queer, the dirty bugger. That cruel rhyme had been thrown at him daily in school, yet he’d never once allowed any of the older boys to touch him as they’d wanted. Was it worth trying to run from it as he had back then? And who would he run to?

  ‘Come with me Edward.’ Ambr
ose took his hand and led him towards his bedroom. ‘I care deeply for you. Why do you think I gave you the part with Ellie? I’ve been so patient with you, we’ve been good friends. Now we’re going to be lovers.’

  Edward waited until Ambrose was fast asleep, then sliding out from the arm draped over him, he slowly moved to the side of the bed. He hurt all over, but especially inside.

  His clothes were strewn at the end of the bed, where Ambrose had thrown them as he peeled them off. The room was pitch dark, with the curtains tightly closed, so he had to grope for them on his hands and knees.

  Five minutes later he was down in the street. It was still raining hard. He turned up the collar of his jacket and began to walk, rain mingling with the tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t know what direction he was going in, but he hoped it was towards the river.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Ellie looked doubtfully at Bonny. She was sitting on the bed, her face still pale and drawn. ‘I’m sure I can talk Ambrose into letting you have another couple of days off.’

  ‘I’ve been in bed for two days.’ Bonny shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and reached for her shoes. ‘I feel okay, I must do some practice.’

  ‘You might be able to walk about,’ Ellie argued. ‘But high kicks? After what you’ve been through?’

  It was Tuesday morning. Bonny had announced her intention of getting back to work late the previous night. Although on the face of it she was none the worse for her ordeal, Ellie was afraid that attempting to dance might set her right back.

  ‘Look! If I feel bad at the theatre at least Ambrose will know I haven’t been malingering,’ Bonny said firmly. ‘I might even ask if I can go to my mum’s for a few days if he’s sympathetic. I can’t stay here any longer anyway. You can’t sleep properly with me in that little bed.’

  Ellie sighed. In fact she felt as if she hadn’t slept for a week. Her room, let alone the bed, wasn’t big enough for two people. ‘I wish you’d go to a doctor first,’ she said. ‘Let him check you over.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Bonny snapped. ‘What am I going to say? “Excuse me but I had an abortion at the weekend. Please peer up inside me and check I’m still in one piece?” You are stupid sometimes, Ellie!’

  ‘Will you just talk to Brenda then?’ Ellie pleaded. Her old friend at the Blue Moon had one child and she’d had a miscarriage. She was in a position to know what was normal and what wasn’t.

  ‘I’m not talking to anyone.’ Bonny tossed back her hair defiantly. ‘As far as I’m concerned the whole thing is over. I don’t even want you to mention it again.’

  ‘Please yourself then,’ Ellie snapped back, putting on her raincoat. ‘Don’t come crying to me if you have a haemorrhage!’

  The girls walked in silence to the theatre, both irritated with one another. Bonny knew Ellie meant well, but last night alone in the room she’d almost been climbing the walls with boredom. She was sure the only way to feel her old self again was by getting back to work.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Frances greeted Bonny as they went in the stage door. She was already in her practice clothes, her curly dark hair tied up in two bunches.

  ‘Weak, but game,’ Bonny smirked. ‘I feel like someone let out of a cage; my legs are as stiff as planks. Where’s Ambrose? I suppose I’d better speak to him first.’

  ‘He’s in a foul mood.’ Frances looked over her shoulder apprehensively, checking he wasn’t within earshot. ‘God only knows what’s happened. I’ve never seen him quite as bad as this.’

  ‘He won’t send you off to your mum’s for recuperation then,’ Ellie said drily, looking pointedly at Bonny. ‘He’ll probably work you till you drop.’

  Bonny flounced off up the few stairs towards the stage without replying.

  ‘She looks a bit thin and pasty,’ Frances remarked as she and Ellie went up to the changing-room. ‘Perhaps that’s what I need to lose a bit of weight. Ambrose had a go at me this morning and said I had an arse like a tank.’

  Ellie looked at Frances’s bottom as she went up the stairs behind her. She wasn’t quite as slender as the rest of the girls, but she certainly wasn’t fat. Clearly Ambrose was going to pull out all the stops today to make everyone miserable.

  Her expectations were fulfilled. Even as the girls began limbering up, Ambrose started to shout, and before long it was clear this exercise session was going to be a nightmare. Usually he sat out front, merely directing the movements, but today he was purposely selecting the most rigorous routines, making them repeat them again and again and hurling abuse at anyone faltering for even a second.

  Although Ellie was having difficulty herself in keeping up, her fears were all for Bonny. Ambrose was picking on her relentlessly, clearly punishing her for daring to have time off.

  Bonny was struggling; she was bathed in sweat, her movements laboured and stiff. Time and again she paused to wipe her brow, several times she stumbled and already she looked exhausted.

  ‘Again,’ Ambrose yelled at her. ‘You’re like a blasted cart-horse. When I say plié I don’t mean just a slight bending of the knees, I expect you to go all the way down. Now do it again properly.’

  None of the girls had ever seen Ambrose quite as nasty as he was today. It was as if he hated them all and wanted to make them really suffer. He hadn’t shaved, his shirt was crumpled, and for once his gaudy cravat wasn’t in evidence. But it was the way he moved that was frightening, pacing around in the stalls like a demented caged bear. All the girls were scared. Every muscle in his body was tense and his mouth was a thin, tight line.

  ‘Bend, touch the floor and stretch,’ he yelled. ‘Get those legs straight, Bonny Phillips, or you’ll be out of here. Again! And again!’

  Ellie had always found these exercises hard, but then she wasn’t a trained dancer like the others. Now, as she saw Bonny wavering, her face scarlet with exertion, she realised how truly punishing they could be. If she didn’t step in, any moment now Bonny really would haemorrhage and then everyone would know she hadn’t had food poisoning.

  ‘Stop, Bonny.’ Ellie moved over to her friend, who was bent in half. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Bonny said feebly, but Ellie noticed there was a tell-tale red stain on her tights.

  ‘You aren’t. Go,’ she said, pointing off-stage.

  ‘Are you suddenly the director?’ Ambrose stalked up to the stage, his head just above the footlights. ‘No one stops practice until I tell them.’

  ‘Bonny’s ill,’ Ellie said defiantly. ‘Another minute or two and she’ll keel over. She shouldn’t have come back today. She isn’t strong enough.’

  A deadly hush fell behind her as all the girls halted their exercises, not even a whisper between them. Bonny wavered indecisively at Ellie’s side.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Ambrose roared, his pale eyes glinting dangerously. ‘Who made you Bonny’s mouthpiece?’

  ‘She’s not well enough to speak for herself,’ Ellie retorted. ‘Just look at her, will you? She should be in bed.’

  Ellie pushed Bonny towards the wings. ‘You must go,’ she whispered. ‘You’re bleeding and he’ll see it.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Ambrose yelled, leaping up on to the stage with unusual ease.

  Ellie quaked. Ambrose’s face was puce, angry dark veins standing out on his forehead. ‘I said it’s madness to stay.’

  With that Bonny disappeared, clearly deciding discretion was the better part of valour.

  ‘Get her back this minute.’ Ambrose strode towards Ellie and struck her hard across the cheek.

  ‘How dare you?’ Ellie’s hand flew up to her stinging face, anger giving her new courage. ‘You animal!’

  They stood face to face, glowering at one another.

  ‘You have no right to tell one of my dancers to leave,’ he snarled.

  ‘If you were a real human being you’d see she wasn’t well enough to dance,’ Ellie snarled back. ‘Apologise
this instant or I go too!’

  Ellie sensed every one of the dancers stiffening as they waited to see the outcome of this piece of bravado.

  ‘Apologise!’ Ambrose sneered. ‘Get back in your place immediately or you’ll find yourself out of a job.’

  Ellie took a step back from Ambrose and turned to the other girls. ‘He has no right to treat any of us like this,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Will you back me up?’

  There was understanding in every pair of eyes, but fear too. To her dismay she read their body language, the nervous shuffling from foot to foot, eyes dropping from hers.

  ‘I have to walk out,’ Ellie pleaded, her eyes travelling down the two rows of girls. ‘Come with me? It could be one of you he turns on next!’

  ‘You don’t think they’d support you?’ Ambrose jeered. ‘They know when they’re fortunate.’

  Ellie took a deep breath and began to walk off, silently praying for the others to follow. Her footsteps rang out in the silent, empty theatre. She didn’t think she’d ever heard such a lonely, desolate sound.

  ‘You see, you can’t bank on their loyalty!’ Ambrose crowed with delight from behind her. ‘Come on back and don’t be so damned silly.’

  Ellie didn’t dare hesitate. She was shaking with anger, hurt by the others’ lack of support, and she was too proud to back down.

  ‘I can find dozens of girls to take your place,’ she heard Ambrose roar. ‘Walk out now and you’ll never work in a theatre again.’

  A heavy shower cut Ellie’s walk short and she turned back towards Stacey Passage.

  Bonny had lost a great deal of blood earlier, but she’d finally fallen asleep around four in the afternoon. Ellie had come out to get some fresh air and some time alone to think. She felt as if she was being manipulated by unseen hands and she was desperately afraid.

  Since becoming friends with Bonny, everything seemed to have gone wrong. She’d lost Charley, her tiny room had been taken over, and now, unless she went back and grovelled to Ambrose, she’d lost her career too. She understood why the girls hadn’t supported her – after all, they’d worked long and hard to get to the West End – but she felt bitter that not one of them had popped around after practice to apologise.