by Maggie Ford
As from next week Theo would be at the Strand, and straight after that, the Metropolitan in Edgware Road, but for the time being there were a few days’ respite, something Theo could now well afford.
It was a Saturday morning. Theo was at his agent’s. Martin had joined her in Theo’s apartment – as he casually said, ‘No point me sitting alone in mine.’ He was relaxing with the morning paper while she read a magazine, but she was not as relaxed as she tried to make out.
The nearer this wedding came, the less happy she was feeling about it. There was no one to confide in. Mum would have advised her to marry and make a respectable woman of herself. Clara was still a stranger to her, and wrapped up in her new baby whom they’d named Jack in honour of his deceased granddad. Martin was the only one she could talk to. From time to time she’d glanced up at him, weighing up how to approach him with what was troubling her, to have his opinion.
Martin was a listener and a sympathetic one; he was kind, and lately she had felt herself being drawn more and more towards him, able to talk to him about most things that worried her, but that was when Theo was out of hearing.
There was something else disturbing her, and this she wouldn’t tell him. The thing was, she’d missed her last period and that was unusual. It might not be anything at all, but with her next period due any day she was on tenterhooks awaiting its arrival. Once it did, she’d feel easier. There was only three months to go to the wedding and if she were pregnant it wouldn’t be a problem except that it would make marriage inevitable. So far she still had a choice, or so she told herself, but if she were carrying, there’d be no choice at all.
‘There’ll be no time for weddings until after the Met,’ she said to Martin, who looked up from his paper at the sound of her voice. ‘So it’ll be at the end of May.’ She was trying to sound casual. ‘Theo says we’re going to the south of France for our honeymoon.’
Martin laid his newspaper on his lap to look questioningly at her, no doubt detecting the dejection in her voice. ‘Has he asked if that’s where you want to go?’
‘Where I want to go?’ she echoed. Why was Martin being so difficult?
‘Yes.’ He folded the newspaper and sat forward in his chair. ‘Has he asked your opinion on all this?’
‘Well, he says …’
‘Damn what he says! What do you say?’ She had never seen him so impassioned.
‘I’m quite happy.’
‘Happy? Are you happy?’
‘Yes, of course.’
He was scrutinising her face. ‘You don’t look happy to me.’ Her back should have stiffened defensively, but she felt suddenly, oddly, weepy, as if all this time her body had been supported by a metal rod which had suddenly collapsed, leaving her limp and weak. She wanted to be held, to be taken in his arms and be soothed. She let her head droop forward.
‘No, Martin, I’m not happy. And I’m not sure why.’
‘I know why,’ he said. Getting up, he came to crouch in front of her. Reaching forward, he laid both hands on her arms, so strong, steadying, comforting. He’d never touched her before apart from accidental moments when shoulders touched. ‘Because you don’t love him. I can see you don’t. You never look at him in the way a woman in love would look. You behave as if he is God’s gift, but never as though you adore him.’
Emma tried to pull away, but he held her firmly, gently but firmly. ‘You know you’re not in love with him, Emily.’
He was right. She could never talk to Theo the way she could talk to Martin. She tried to tell herself that it was because they were closer in age than she was to Theo, who, when truth was told, made her feel she was always talking to a superior. That wasn’t the way lovers should be. Over these few months she and Martin had grown closer; chatted a lot, when they could; discovered similar interests; found they shared the same sense of humour.
Theo had no sense of humour. His laugh was more a bark than a laugh, never lingering with amusement. Sometimes Emma had caught him glowering at them as they laughed over something quite silly.
With Martin’s hands on her arm, their warmth penetrating even the lined sleeves of her blouse, she found herself wondering, foolishly, what it would be like being made love to by him. He’d be gentle. Theo seemed incapable of being gentle when making love, his passion possessive.
Last night he’d taken her in his usual way, never asking how she was, afterwards assuming she needed no further attention as he turned over to fall asleep, while she had lain awake wondering how it would be if it had been Martin lying beside her, trying to imagine it, in the darkness imagining him gazing anxiously into her eyes for signs of any discomfort afterwards. She had tried to imagine the soft tone of his voice crooning the sort of words a fond lover might use – that he loved her so very much and needed to hear her say how much she loved him. She’d imagined his arms cradling her, the two of them cuddling close to fall asleep in each other’s embrace, next morning rising to laugh together as they set about the day’s business.
This morning, as Theo got out of bed and without a word to her, donned his bathrobe and went off to the bathroom, there had come the realisation that she could be in love with Martin. Looking at him now, she knew that she was.
The revelation brought no joy with it, only a deep sense of stunned dismay, as of some great void waiting to engulf her in a marriage she now knew she no longer wanted and yet could not escape. One did not escape Theo easily. She was trapped.
Martin had his arms around her. Without her intending it, tears began welling up. As her head fell on to his shoulder, she let them flow unhindered and soon this unspoken misery had become great gulping sobs while Martin’s arms tightened still further about her.
Martin’s single apartment had no bathroom, but each floor of this building had a communal one. It was there that he made his way the following morning, his mind on what had transpired the day before. He’d held Emily close, she in tears, his own emotion at discovering just how much he loved her all but overwhelming him too. The day had been a surreal one, with both of them trying to behave normally, Martin hoping that they wouldn’t betray their feelings just by trying too hard not to look at each other.
Reaching the bathroom, he paused as the sound of running water told him it was already occupied. Making to turn back, he caught another sound – someone crying. He recognised the sound immediately. Unable to stop himself, he tapped on the door. ‘Emily,’ he whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’
There was no reply but the crying ceased abruptly. He waited, hoping Theo wouldn’t emerge from his rooms to discover him there. He could just imagine his thoughts. He’d been on the disastrous end of such thought before. He didn’t want it happening again.
He was about to move away, to return to his room, when the door slowly opened a fraction and Emily’s pale, wan face appeared.
‘Martin, what do you want?’ she whispered tremulously.
‘I heard you crying. Is there something I can do?’
‘No,’ came the reply.
There was a pause, as if she’d caught her breath and couldn’t let go of it. She seemed to partially collapse, seeking the door’s support as it opened a fraction wider to hold her. Words, almost incoherent, poured from her in rapid whispering, mixed with dry sobs.
‘Oh, Martin, I’m so upset. The way he treats me. As if I’m only here for what he … I mean … I sometimes feel I mean nothing to him, except for what he wants. I mean …’
She became less distraught, humiliation and discomfort taking over, but he knew what she meant. Certain things a woman couldn’t explain, personal things, things too embarrassing to put into words to anyone, much less a man, and a man she didn’t know all that well either.
He saw her cheeks had grown hot. She was trying to close the door, but he held out a hand to stop her. Of course she didn’t want him here seeing her at her very worst.
‘I’m sorry, Martin,’ she said quickly. ‘There’s nothing really wrong with me. I suppose I just feel a bit out
of sorts, that’s all. You’d better go before Theo finds us.’
For a moment he hesitated, then lifted his hands and took her face between both palms. Before she could pull away he’d leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, leaving her stunned and breathless. He hadn’t done that even as he held her yesterday, feeling it not appropriate then as she sobbed against him. Not long after that, Theo had come back and by then he was back in his own rooms, with Theo ignorant of what had transpired.
‘If you need me, Emily,’ he whispered now, ‘I shall be here, because I love you.’
Daring not to look at her again, he turned and went quickly back to his own rooms, closing his door quietly behind him. For a while he stood with his back to it. He knew full well what he’d done. He had opened a floodgate and no will in the world could return that flood to the place where it had once been, still and silent, behind its barrier.
He’d hurried back there, not because he was frightened of Theo but because the consequences could be too awful for her. Worse still, Theo could be quite capable of ordering him to pack his bags and leave. It would make no difference that he was a necessary cog in this present act – Theo’s jealousy could be utterly blind. It had been so once before, when Theo was convinced of intrigue between him and Theo’s first wife.
That time Theo’s accusations had been unsubstantiated. This time, there was every reason for him to be jealous. If Theo ever got the slightest inkling of how he felt, he’d be rid of him in a second, and she would marry that man. His life and hers would never again entwine.
Emma too crept back into her rooms. Theo was still in his own bathroom. The reason why she had sought the communal one was so as to have a good cry in private. Now her tears were dry and all she could feel was the touch of Martin’s lips against hers, which had sent such a wave of joy through her that she’d had to resist an urge to draw him into the sanctuary of the room where she had been weeping only a moment ago.
She knew now. She was in love. For the first time she knew she was. But it was Theo she was promised to and there was nothing she could do about it. To reject Theo now would be for him to banish Martin. So now, joy turned once again back to earlier despondency and despair. But worse, what if she were pregnant? How would she expect Martin to react? She would wait. It was all she could do.
The time for her next period came and went, and there was nothing. She was sure now, and it terrified her. She was trapped, and the nearer the date of the wedding approached, the more foreboding she felt.
Now came the testing time. She had to keep her distance from Martin and he from her, avoiding each other’s eyes, hardly daring to speak to each other. Yet there were times they had to touch, during rehearsals and on stage, and it was becoming hard to concentrate on what she was supposed to be doing. Instinctively, she knew it was the same for him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Before answering the knock on her door, Maud Beech glanced hastily around the living room for anything out of place.
It was becoming hard work keeping this flat as she would like. With Clara and a baby, tidiness had gone out of the window. Ben was still the same, dropping his stuff everywhere, hardly washing, his turning over of a new leaf very brief indeed. Clara was proving to be of the same ilk, raised in the mess and confusion produced by a drunken father, a slovenly mother and a horde of siblings. But she was a friendly young girl, so it was hard to reprimand her. If she did, Clara would smile her sweet smile and promise faithfully to clear up – as soon as she got little Jack down for his morning nap or his afternoon nap and had a sleep herself, for he fair wore her out. But nothing was ever done, leaving her mother-in-law to do it all.
Opening the door, Maud was surprised to see Emma standing there. The girl looked woeful.
‘You orright?’ she asked automatically. ‘I thought yer was the rent collector.’ She saw her daughter’s wan smile at the comment and moved back for her to enter. ‘What’s wrong? Yer don’t look all that well.’
Ushered into the living room, Emma sat down on the edge of the settee. Maud came to sit beside her, taking one of her daughter’s elegantly gloved hands between her roughened ones. ‘What’s the matter, luv?’
She saw Emma’s eyes begin to glisten. ‘I’ve something I’ve got to tell you, Mum. Something I need to ask you. There’s no one else I can tell or ask what I should do.’
Maud Beech had only to look into her daughter’s eyes to know exactly what the girl had to say. There wasn’t long to wait before Emma burst out, ‘Mum, I’ve got myself in the family way.’
After a short pause, Maud said slowly, ‘It ain’t you what’s got yerself in the family way. It’s ’im.’ Emma said nothing, gazing down at the hands still holding hers.
‘How could yer let ’im do it?’ Maud prompted, and her daughter looked up, sharply defensive.
‘He’s asked me to marry him – in three months’ time. But I can’t ask him to bring it forward with so much work on, and make him angry.’
Maud ignored that. ‘So you thought it orright ter take chances?’
‘It’s him – he’s never taken precautions. It’s amazing that it hasn’t happened sooner. But now it has.’
‘Em!’ Maud cut her short. ‘Yer should of stopped ’im. A girl ain’t got ter to do what a man wants, not when it comes to ’er well-being.’
‘It’s not easy. It’d cause a row.’
‘Then bloody cause a row! Better’n you coming ter me now with yer troubles after the thing’s done.’
‘You don’t know him. He can be …’
‘I know what a woman ought ter be when a bloke thinks only of his own needs. You ’ave ter push ’em off, not beckon ’em on, lying back like some slave.’
She could see by Em’s face that this had not been possible, that her daughter was virtually under that man’s thumb. Emma used to have such a will of her own. What had happened to it? What sort of man was this to change her so? Maud felt slow fury mount within her against this man.
She let go of Emma’s hand and got up to remove a baby’s vest Clara had carelessly left on an armchair, absently beginning to fold it neatly.
She had never met this man. She’d seen the posters outside theatres. The artist’s portrait had made him look quite terrifying – a penetrating gaze and a set mouth behind the trim beard. She had attributed the mesmerising expression to the artist’s licence in emphasising the way the Great Theodore could command the awe of his audience.
Was that how he commanded her daughter? If so, the girl hadn’t a leg to stand on. Thoughts of veiled threats of violence if she refused to comply came to mind, and the mother in her sought only to fight for her child’s chastity. It was too late now of course – the damage was done. So long as he kept his promise to marry her, that was all.
Still unfolding and refolding the baby vest, she came back to stand in front of Emma. ‘You should of tried,’ she said ineffectually.
‘I’m not worried about that,’ came the reply. ‘It’s just that when I tell him, he’ll bring the wedding date forward. So I’ve nothing to worry about, except that …’
She broke off, fiddling with a fold she’d made in the garment, running the material between thumb and forefinger. Maud stared at her in disbelief. The girl was refusing to meet her gaze.
‘You mean you ’aven’t told him,’ she said, nodding at the confirming statement. The fact that Emma hadn’t told him made him even more an ogre in Maud’s eyes – she was a girl too terrified to tell the man she slept with that he was to be a father.
‘It’s just that I’ll have to marry him now, won’t I?’
‘You mean yer’ve got doubts?’ She saw Emma nod miserably.
‘Him with his pots of money and a big country ’ouse?’ Emma had told her this on one occasion. ‘Yer’d be secure fer the rest of yer life, which is what every girl dreams of, but yer don’t love ’im.’
‘I’m not sure.’
Maud dropped the vest on the settee, her tone grown sharp
and loud. ‘Then what’ve yer come ’ere for?’ In the next room her grandson was starting to whimper. ‘If I was in your place,’ she went on, ‘whether I fancied the bloke or not, I’d think about the comfort he could provide and …’
She broke off. Would she indeed do that? Comfort and money couldn’t provide happiness if the source of it sprang from a loveless marriage.
A voice broke through her thoughts. ‘So she’s up the spout, is she?’
Ben stood at the door to his and Clara’s bedroom, his bulk filling the doorway, his face dark as a thundercloud. In none too clean combinations he too didn’t look all that fresh and clean, his thick, dark hair tousled and last night’s stubble dark on his cheeks. His shoulders were hunched forward and his chin was belligerently thrust out. He presented a huge body of a man, enough to frighten the life out of anyone.
Behind him stood a fair-haired, mild-faced young woman, about nineteen, their baby in her arms. She looked about as tousled as Ben.
Emma turned to face him without fear or awe. She’d had to deal with Theodore’s ominous fury too many times to be worried by confrontation with her blustering brother. She threw him a sneer as she adopted the language he understood. ‘Been listening at key’oles, have yer?’ she challenged.
‘Couldn’t be off it,’ he growled. ‘Us trying ter get a bit of kip. Now yer’ve woken up the kid neivver of us’ll get any bleedin’ peace till she feeds ’im.’
Marriage hadn’t changed him at all. And it seemed his Clara was just as slovenly by the look of her, even though sweet-faced. He was looking Emma up and down, his gaze coming to rest on her narrow, corseted waist, as though expecting to see her stomach already bulging.
‘So, he’s put yer in the club at last. An’ you looking down yer nose at me and ’er.’ He jerked his head towards the petite Clara. ‘At least we got married. When do you expect ’im ter marry yer, then? Sometime never?’