by Maggie Ford
‘We might not get married.’ It came out before she could stop herself, the thought that had been playing at the back of her mind for so long.
Ben’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t want yer, now yer pregnant, is that it?’
‘I didn’t mean …’ She was cut short by his deep bellow as he lunged forward, leaving Clara still standing in the doorway.
‘I ain’t gonna see my sister put up the duff by some stuck-up bleeder wot thinks ’imself better’n people like us just because he’s got money.’
He stood glaring down at her, and as she tried to rise, thrust out a fist and pushed her back down on the sofa.
‘Well, I’m tellin’ yer one thing fer nothing! If ’e thinks ’e can treat me own sister like this, he’s got anuvver think coming. He’s gonna ’ave me ter reckon wiv, and I’m gonna knock ’is block orf, that’s what I’m gonna do.’ He already looked as though he was facing Theo, his hands curled into fists, eyes blazing, shoulders hunched forward ready to do battle. ‘I’ll bash ’is bleedin’ ’ead in, don’t yer think I won’t!’
Emma summoned up a show of defiance, forgetting she’d intended to say she’d be getting married in May. ‘And get yourself arrested for assault and battery? You’ve been in prison once,’ she reminded him hotly. ‘They’ll have you back behind bars again, quick as lightning.’
‘It’ll be bloody worth it,’ he swore, undaunted. ‘I’ll get ’im one dark night and bleedin’ shove ’is bleedin’ lights out for him. You see if I don’t! And don’t go thinking I ain’t capable of it!’
Ignoring his mother’s order to mind his tongue, he towered over Emma as though to physically show her what he was capable of. The last time she had come up against him he hadn’t seemed half that large. In that time he’d grown even taller; had broadened out as males after twenty-one usually do. Boxing had given him biceps as large as some men’s thighs. Yes, he could be terrifying. And yes, he could do Theo damage, lots of damage.
‘Listen, Ben.’ She reached up and touched those bulging muscles. ‘I know what you could do. But there’s no need. I’m happy with Theodore and I’m happy about having his baby. We’re getting married in May. We might have to get married a bit earlier, that’s all. So don’t go looking for a scrap. There’s no need.’ She gave a sharp little laugh. ‘I don’t want my husband-to-be going up the aisle all bruised. And by the way, you’ll all be invited to the wedding.’
Tension melting, Clara came forward to present her baby for Emma to admire. But still feeling tense and with nothing solved, Emma had to fight to bring herself to comply, not only because her visit had been unfruitful, but also because the little mite struck her as quite unpalatable. Obviously put to bed last night without a wash, the remains of his last feed had stuck to the corners of his little lips, and the shawl he was wrapped in could have done with a wash. She was surprised Mum had allowed him to be left in this state and guessed that as soon as she got her hands on her grandson after Emma left, she would put to rights that which his parents had found unnecessary to do.
Ben pushed through the grubby swing doors of The Huntsman, gazing about for the face of a mate or two to have a drink with, and Wally Cartwright in particular, whom he’d become great mates with.
It was too early yet. There were just a few old lags around unable to keep out of pubs, a few jobless with just enough pence in their tattered pockets to help drown their sorrows, a couple of old soaks who’d no doubt be kicked out once the regulars came in, and they’d begin begging a drop of beer off one or two of them.
Despite being so close to the rich and fashionable of London’s heart, the back streets remained seedy, run down and unsafe for any other than its own doubtful denizens to walk alone in.
This was where Ben felt comfortable. This was where he could hold his own against any ruffian, as he’d always done. Used to East End gangs, the streets behind the brightly lit West End were no different. In shadowy courts and yards, the houses built in the middle of the last century leaned towards each other, hid thieves and murderers and the poverty-stricken as much as any back street in London did.
Ben moved towards the bar, lounged against it and turned his body slightly to enable him to watch the door. Sooner or later some of the mates he’d made since arriving in this area would come in and join him. By that time the place would have filled with men’s voices, becoming slurred, raised in guffaws and song as drink began to deaden the miseries of their world. He and his friends would down a few pints, form a school of pontoon, have a laugh with a few girls, and finally he’d stagger home to his wife and baby to become husband and father again and as a husband claim his rights. Clara was a very willing wife in that direction. It didn’t worry her that they shared his mother’s home, and that the next morning, after Clara had given full voice to their love-making, Mum would go around the flat with a long, disapproving expression. Clara knew that her own sweet disposition would soon put a smile back on her mother-in-law’s face, until tomorrow night’s repeat.
But since his sister’s revelation, Ben was having continual visions of Theo doing the same thing to Emma as he was doing to his wife and it made him feel unaccountably sick and outraged. He vowed as he propped up the drink-stained bar of The Huntsman that he wasn’t going to let that pig she’d taken up with get away with it; dirty old sod, looking for a bit of young meat bleeding magician or no.
Interrupting his vicious reverie, the barman came to ask what he fancied, taking his order for a pint of his favourite porter, the best, dark and bitter, and a shot of rum, shaking his head as Ben asked if he’d seen Wally Cartwright.
‘Not so far,’ came his reply. ‘But he always comes in here; maybe in half an hour, perhaps less.’
Ben already knew that, and satisfied that the man he had recently befriended would appear soon, he leaned with his back to the bar, elbows supporting him, and surveyed the half-empty pub with its smoke-darkened wood panelling and faded pictures, and its not too fresh scattering of sawdust on the floor. The barman wiped the bar top, skirting around his customer’s elbows.
‘You’re Ben Beech, the boxer chap,’ he commented, continuing to wipe the same dry place. Later the surface would be awash with beer, and his cloth more necessary. Ben nodded briefly and continued to sip his porter, his back still to the man.
His name was getting around. He experienced a tingle of pride. Wally, who also boxed, had found him a proper manager, getting him proper bouts, proper training.
Thanks to Em he had money to train, and boxing had now become a serious business. He intended to get somewhere in this life – once he’d put this magician bloke to rights. But he’d bide his time first, see if he intended to marry her and make a good woman of her. If not …
Last night Theo’s lovemaking had been so vigorous that, despite being used to his buffeting, she feared for the life she felt sure she was carrying inside her. He could damage it, she thought fearfully. She would have to tell him soon so as to make him more gentle with her. She would tell him today.
She found herself starting to want this baby even though it would mean her future being mapped out for her from now on. Theo, the father of her child, would be her husband, and drawn though she was to Martin, she’d have to be stern with herself. His kiss the other morning was proof of how he felt towards her, and it must stop. She needed to speak to him too.
There was no chance to tell Theo next morning. He had risen early as usual and was already talking to Martin about some matter or other, and she had to leave for her regular appointment with her hairdresser. She’d tell him on her return when she had him to herself for a few minutes. It was certain now – she was pregnant; there was no going back. But he would be pleased with this ultimate token of his love.
She arrived home to find him not there – no note to say where he’d gone. Going across the hall, she knocked tentatively on Martin’s door.
‘Do you know where Theo is?’ she asked as he opened it.
Martin was scrutinising her. ‘He said to
tell you that Jack Simmons telephoned him.’
Theo had installed a telephone recently, keeping abreast of the growing fad for them on the part of those who could afford them. Telegrams arrived minutes after being sent; a letter posted in the morning with three or four posts a day could arrive that same afternoon; but telephones were becoming the rage. Emma hated theirs. She hated its jangling summons, fearing to be alone when it rang. It had happened once. She had unhooked the earpiece from the instrument on the wall to hear a distorted, disembodied voice asking for Theo. She’d said no one was at home and had hung the thing back on its hook before the voice could reply. Afterwards she had hated herself for being a coward, vowing to be different next time. But since then Theo had always been here.
‘He’s only this minute gone out,’ Martin was saying. ‘He could be gone all morning.’
There was a note to his tone as he spoke, and Emma knew that her immediate change of expression had already been interpreted. Not stopping to think, she found herself in the little square hallway of his flat, fully aware of what could happen, wanting it to happen yet knowing that it mustn’t. It would bring with it impossible circumstances. She would have to confess her love for him to Theo, but what about the baby? Would Martin understand about the baby? Would he still want her when she told him? But if he did and they were found out, he would be made to go and she would never be able to follow, a woman pregnant with someone else’s child. This had to stop, now, before it got out of hand. Her head was filling with awful thoughts – how could Martin bear to make love to her knowing she was carrying Theo’s baby?
‘Martin …’ she began. It must have been a look in her eyes, for he moved back a little from her, lowering his gaze.
‘I know,’ he said lamely.
Shock ran through her. ‘What do you know, Martin?’ she gasped.
‘I know how hard it is for you.’ He was looking at her, his eyes full of love. ‘I know you’re promised to Theo, but I can’t lose you, Emily, not after yesterday. I know you feel the same about me.’
The relief was almost a pain. He knew nothing of her condition. She put out a hand to him. He took it and held it to his lips. With no will to pull away, she stood with her hand to his lips. ‘I’m to marry Theo,’ she said ineffectually.
He kept hold of her hand. ‘You don’t have to. You can marry me instead.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she said desperately. If only Theo hadn’t got her pregnant. She was suddenly filled with hatred for him – his selfishness, his lack of consideration for her, his assumption that she would be his wife, no matter what she thought about it. But she had never yet told him what she thought about it. And if she did so now, would it be typical of Theo’s perverse nature to insist she be his wife, she and his child? And Martin? With this baby on the way, there was nothing she could do. Hatred of Theo, of herself, of fate, gnawed at her as she stared at Martin. ‘If he knew about us,’ she said tremulously, ‘he’d kill you, and me too, for encouraging you.’
Martin became resolute. He even grinned at the histrionic touch. ‘The worst he can do is tell me to leave.’ Seconds later, he sobered at a thought. ‘He’ll make sure I never see you again and he’ll make your life a misery.’
She wanted to say, then I’ll leave too, but she couldn’t. The baby was preventing her. Her own honesty told her that she couldn’t deceive Martin in that way. She stood in silence.
What option had she but to stay with Theo? An unmarried woman with a baby, alone in the world; she had no choice. It made no difference how strong she was, her future would be living hand to mouth, begging for her child’s food, her only recourse to prostitute herself for her bread – it happened all the time. A man could father bastards with no repercussions, but a woman, pregnant, unmarried and alone … She wouldn’t ask Mum for help – she had her pride. The only answer was to make the best of a bad job and marry Theo.
There was a strained look of longing on Martin’s face. She was aware of that same look on her own face. Not wanting him to see it, she turned and made for the door.
He was there before her, barring her way. Holding her upper arms in a vice-like grip, he drew her to him and planted his lips fiercely on hers. With no more will of her own, she let him hold her, her kiss suddenly as hungry as his. Her body pressed against the door, her response was instinctive: reaching up to clasp him about the neck, she felt the desire to have him make love to her numbing all other thoughts, as he was lifting her to carry her into his lounge.
From somewhere inside her brain came a sharp stab like an electric shock at the sound of a key being turned in the door of Theo’s apartment, and the door opened then closed.
The two of them had frozen into immobility, Emma still in Martin’s arms.
‘Darling!’ Emma hissed in horror. ‘I have to leave.’
‘He doesn’t know you’re here,’ he whispered.
‘He could come and knock,’ she said, terrified now.
‘I’ll hide you.’
‘No.’
The word forced itself from her. She couldn’t be found crouching behind a sofa, trembling behind curtains. Her love for Martin had to be above all that.
‘Put me down, Martin.’ Her voice was sharp with embarrassment. ‘I have to go.’
He seemed to know how she felt. Perhaps he felt the same way. Gently, he stood her back on her feet. ‘You’d best tidy yourself,’ he said, defeated.
Praying that her burning cheeks would not be noticed, Emma let herself out of Martin’s apartment and taking a deep breath, straightened her posture, and let herself into her own apartment. Theo came into the hall from the lounge. She gave him a smile. ‘Hello, darling.’
She was acutely aware that he did not reply to her light salutation, and she tried again.
‘I’m sorry, Theo, I was a bit longer in the hairdressing salon than I intended to be. I got into conversation with someone I know there and had to hurry back.’
That would account for her flushed look and unusual breathlessness.
It seemed to convince him. Yet she was uncertain. There was an odd glint to those brilliant blue eyes as he said abruptly, ‘I have some things to go over for tonight. I need both you and Martin here. Perhaps you would go across the hall and fetch him.’
He leaned towards her, pecked her cheek and, turning away, went back into the lounge and his desk to sit with his back to her, leaving her to wonder what interpretation she should put on it all, if any. Or was she merely falling prey to her own guilty feelings?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The comic singer at present on stage, Sam Mayo, popularly known as ‘The Immobile One’ from his lugubrious expression, was having the audience in fits with ‘She Cost Me Seven and Sixpence’. From the wings, Theo watched without even the semblance of a smile.
His equipment was already in place, hidden behind the traveller curtain that would be drawn back at the same time as he made his dramatic entrance, the lights suitably dimmed. Amelia would be on his arm, Martin entering to stand to one side until called upon.
He licked his lips. They were strangely dry. He was seldom edgy prior to going on but felt unusually so this evening. He stole a glance at Amelia standing beside him in the wings. Her gaze was on the comic, her lips tilted at the corners by Mayo’s hilarious song.
She looked dazzling: her profile with its up-tilted nose, softly mobile lips and the smooth line of the chin was perfect, the gentle curve of her neck sloping down to the low décolletage revealing the gentle rise of her breasts; exquisite. Her piled-up auburn hair held a single, green-tinted osprey feather secured by a cluster of emeralds, stage jewellery set in imitation gold. She wore a shimmering green dress. Green on stage was often viewed as unlucky by theatre folk, but it was the colour he favoured on her, bringing out even more the colour of her hair. The dress clung to her figure like a second skin except where the skirt fell to a flare at the hem. It would be divested, following the audience’s appreciation of it, to reveal legs clad in the bl
ack tights needed for the contortions of the performance. It also afforded an audience, seldom treated to the sight of ladies’ legs, the pleasure of their shapeliness.
It was not her appearance, however, that drew his sidelong glance but what he had noticed today: the way she had glanced at Martin when he’d answered that summons, a glance full of wariness, when she otherwise seemed to be making a purposeful effort to avoid him. What was going on? Suspicion stirred and seethed in his veins as he stood in the wings, silently going over his entrance. This was how it had begun with Martin and Eleanor. She had hotly denied it in a display of indignant fury, with Martin professing shock and distress. He’d never really got to the bottom of it and still felt the embarrassment of the lack of real evidence and for allowing passion to overrule self-possession. But he should not jump to conclusions so quickly this time. Eleanor was one thing. Amelia was entirely another, far too sweet to countenance the overtures of some other man. For her sake and his own peace of mind, he needed to trust that Martin had indeed been innocent all that time ago, that he’d done the right thing in re-engaging that man’s invaluable skills, and he was sure that history would not repeat itself; it was just he himself being over-sensitive after that first time.
Theo came to himself as the gales of laughter from out front followed the singer’s final lines, and prepared to go on stage, growling to the other two to make themselves ready. For all his resolve, from now on he would keep an eye on the two of them, watching for every turn of the head, interpreting every glance that might pass between them.
It was urgent that Theo should hear her news as soon as possible. It was the only way she could push Martin away for ever, for she’d not find strength to do it any other way. After the show Theo took her to supper, asking Martin to return home on his own or go on elsewhere if he chose.
Theo was being unusually quiet. There was something on his mind no doubt, probably his act. They might be alone at their table but it was hardly the place for conveying something so personal while eating, and with so many noisily enjoying supper and the small orchestra playing.