Pontypridd 02 - One Blue Moon

by Catrin Collier

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Here we are,’ Ambrose announced loudly, halting outside the entrance to the pub. ‘In you go, girls and boys.’

  ‘If he calls us “girls and boys” once more I’m going to thump him right where it hurts with my handbag,’ Betty whispered in Haydn’s ear.

  They filed down the tiled passageway and into the long, narrow back room that had been named after the length of the bar. Ambrose clicked his fingers and shouted for the head barman in a voice calculated to be heard in every nook and cranny of the building. He pulled a five-pound note out of his wallet and held it upright between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Drinks for the entire cast, and all the stage crew of the Town Hall,’ he ordered flamboyantly. ‘No doubles or trebles,’ he muttered confidentially into the barman’s ear. ‘And just so you can’t say you haven’t been warned, these are coming out of the profits of the tour,’ he explained to his fellow artistes. ‘You’ll be drinking your bonus.’

  ‘Old fart,’ Patsy griped. ‘Has to hold centre stage, even when he’s out of the theatre.’

  ‘What’s yours, Patsy?’ Haydn asked, looking for an excuse to move away from Betty.

  ‘G and T, darling,’ she called out as she sank into the sagging plush upholstery of a couch pushed against the back wall. ‘Treble,’ she added defiantly, eyeing Ambrose.

  ‘Seeing as how it’s you darling, I’ll make an exception.’ Ambrose mouthed an OK to the barman.

  ‘Same for me, Haydn,’ Betty demanded, pouting because he’d left her side.

  ‘And me,’ Tessie cried out.

  Before Haydn knew what was happening, he was acting as waiter, ferrying gin and tonics, whisky-and-its, and brandy and sodas between the bar and the seats. A good quarter of an hour elapsed before he was free to look for a seat for himself. Clutching a full pint he rested his heel on the brass rail, turned his back on the bar and looked around.

  ‘Haydn!’ Betty patted a stool she’d commandeered. Puckering her lips, she blew him a kiss. Seeing no other seat he reluctantly moved towards it.

  ‘And I’m telling you now, Myra won’t make it. ‘There’s a world of difference between the chorus in the London Pavilion and the real big time,’ Patsy lectured a young and astonishingly pretty blonde who was sitting next to her.

  ‘But she’s got talent,’ Alice protested vehemently.

  ‘Talent on its own is never enough. Haydn?’ Patsy smiled, showing two rows of large, improbably white teeth as he shifted his stool as far away from Betty as space would allow. ‘Be an angel and find me a light,’ she pleaded, jamming a cigarette into an extremely long, mother-of-pearl-handled holder.

  ‘My pleasure.’ He produced a box of matches and struck one.

  ‘Of course I’m not saying you can get anywhere without talent,’ Patsy qualified, ‘but it’s not enough. Not on its own. And a break that takes you as far as the Pavilion chorus –’

  ‘And what would you know about the Pavilion, Patsy?’ Tessie sniped bitchily.

  ‘I’ve covered five seasons there, and ten in the Adelphi,’ Patsy countered brusquely, ‘which is more than you’ll ever do. And I could have stayed in both.’

  ‘If you were so great, what are you doing in the sticks with Ambrose now?’ Tessie enquired nastily.

  ‘If you must know, paying back a favour to an old friend.’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t because your face was beginning to look like an old prune?’

  ‘Tessie!’ Alice hissed angrily.

  Haydn stared down at the table, twirling his empty glass in his hand. He was waiting for the eruption that generally splintered a group when one of the chorus took on the head girl.

  ‘I retired five years ago,’ Patsy’s voice was ominously calm, ‘after I’d had more than my fair share of moments of glory. Unlike you, I’ve realised all my ambitions. I’ve enough money stowed away in the bank for a rainy day or two, and a man waiting for me in Brighton when this revue finishes. And I can’t wait, because when it does, it’ll be “bye, bye” touring for good.’

  ‘You’re giving up the stage?’ Haydn asked incredulously.

  ‘I’ve had a good run.’ Patsy flicked the ash from her cigarette delicately into the ashtray on the table. ‘I lasted until, as Tessie just so tactfully pointed out, “the wrinkles came”, which is a darned sight longer than most. I wouldn’t have come out of retirement if it had been anyone other than Joe Carver who’d asked. The head girl for this tour took up an American offer a month before it was due to start. Joe’s done a lot for me over the years. I felt I couldn’t really refuse him.’

  ‘How long have you been in retirement?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘I would never have thought so from your dancing, and those damned rehearsals you put us through,’ Betty complained.

  ‘I keep telling you,’ Patsy finished her drink and put her glass down on the table. ‘Constant rehearsing is the secret of a successful show. And then again, a dancer can never retire. That’s if she wants to keep her body from seizing up like a rusty piece of old machinery. I’ve kept my hand in. My sister and I run a dancing school in Brighton, and that’s where I’ll be a week from now. For good! Joe Carver can shout till he’s blue in the face next time. He’s called in every favour I owe him with this one. Sixteen years on the road is long enough.’

  ‘I wonder if I’ll last as long,’ Alice murmured.

  ‘You won’t.’ Patsy crunched her cigarette out, and telescoped her holder to flick out the end. ‘The chorus is not for you, my girl. You’re headed for the big time. You listening?’ She dug Haydn in the ribs. ‘Watch out for this one. You’ll be seeing her up on the silver screen one day. She may look quiet, but she has more talent in her little finger than the rest of this troupe put together. Not only can she dance and act, but she can sing as well. Like an angel. And she has plenty of what counts most in this rotten business. Ambition.’

  ‘I wish Ambrose thought as highly of me as you do,’ Alice said between clenched teeth.

  ‘You won’t always be working with an egotistical comic who tries to dominate the whole show.’ Patsy smiled insincerely at Ambrose, who was holding forth at the bar.

  ‘How about giving us a song now?’ Haydn suggested to Alice in an attempt to dispel the clouds of last-night gloom that were gathering in the atmosphere. ‘There’s a piano in the corner.’

  ‘I’ve met pub pianos before,’ she replied derisively.

  ‘So have I, and that one’s not too bad. Come on, I’ll play for you.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Try me and you’ll find out.’ He left his stool and Betty, who was beginning to annoy him with her games of footsie under the table.

  ‘Hey everyone!’ Viv the barman shouted when he saw Haydn heading for the piano. ‘Quiet! Haydn’s going to sing.’

  ‘You sing?’ Alice asked as she perched on a high stool next to the piano.

  ‘Only for pints on Saturday nights,’ he laughed. ‘Nothing like you, and certainly not professionally. What do you want me to play?’

  ‘Do you know “If I Should Fall in Love Again?”’

  Although Alice had danced, kicked and sung her way through the chorus routines of a matinee and two shows, she threw all she had into her performance. Haydn sensed that it wouldn’t have been any different if she’d been playing centre stage at His Majesty’s Theatre in London. The hubbub of conversation died in the hot, smoky bar as the customers turned their attention to the corner where Alice sat, legs demurely crossed at the ankles, singing her heart out. Soon only the clean, clear, pure notes of her music filled the air.

  ‘That’s some voice the little lady’s got, Haydn. Why don’t you sing alongside her?’ Viv asked when the applause finally died down.

  ‘And show myself up? Not likely. I’m not in her league.’

  ‘Says who? Have you heard him sing?’ the barman demanded of Ambrose and the Town Hall manager.

  ‘Haven’t had the pleasure, old boy,’ Am
brose replied in a bored voice.

  ‘What about you?’ Viv demanded of the manager.

  ‘Only when he’s sweeping the floor of the stage,’ the manager replied flippantly.

  ‘Give the lad a chance,’ Viv said sternly.

  ‘I’m game for anything at this time of night,’ Ambrose grinned superciliously.

  ‘Go on, Haydn. This is my pub. You won’t drink here again if you don’t.’

  ‘I can’t. Not in this company, Viv,’ Haydn pleaded. ‘It’s different when there’s only the boys around.’ He fumbled in his pocket for change, and asked for another half, all he had money for.

  ‘Come on, Haydn.’ Freda the barmaid took up the chorus. ‘Please, just for me. “Heart and Soul”.’

  ‘An artiste never disappoints his public. First lesson a trouper has to learn.’ Ambrose slapped Haydn heartily across the shoulders, splashing most of his precious beer down his shirt front. ‘Besides, I’ve always been one for giving the hired help a chance. Come on, we’ll turn this into a talent contest,’ he shouted, putting himself centre stage yet again. ‘Don’t be shy, lad. I’ll play for you myself.’

  ‘I only sing for pints,’ Haydn said firmly. ‘I’m not a professional.’

  ‘You told me when I took you on that you wanted to go on stage some day,’ the manager said insensitively. ‘How are you going to manage that if you won’t even stand up and sing in a bar?’

  ‘A bar full of professionals,’ Haydn thought angrily. People who were used to hearing top names perform, not the dregs of raw talent like him. He held no illusions about his voice. It wasn’t trained. It was reasonable, good even, for the chapel choir and Saturday nights in the pubs of Ponty, but it wasn’t up to Adelphi standard. He downed what little remained of his half-pint. Ambrose was already sitting at the piano.

  ‘Come on, Haydn. I’ll sing with you if you want,’ Alice offered sympathetically, hating the way he’d been pressurised into performing.

  ‘What’s is to be then, old boy?’ Ambrose shouted above the noise of the bar.

  ‘“Heart and Soul”’ Freda called out.

  ‘“Heart and Soul” it is.’ Ambrose flourished his hands over the keys and began to play. Haydn dumped his empty glass on the bar and walked over to where Alice was still sitting on her stool. He’d sung in pubs, including this one, many times but the audience of professionals totally unnerved him. He opened his mouth and the first note that issued forth fell cracked and discordant into the atmosphere. Tessie tittered. He glared at her and stiffened his back as Ambrose began to play the introduction again. Alice took his hands in hers, looked into his eyes and lent her voice as backing to his for the first line.

  ‘Heart and Soul, I fell in love with you. Heart and Soul the way a fool would do ... Madly ...’

  Staring into the depths of her eyes, seeing nothing else, he took his cue from her and sang. The third line went well. The fourth better. When Ambrose began to play the second verse, Alice fell silent. Haydn didn’t need her any more. He was singing to the bar as he’d done so many nights before. Freda stood, tea towel in hand, tears flowing down her withered cheeks, rapt, lost in emotion. Even the manager of the Town Hall left his drink untouched on the bar.

  ‘Good Lord, he’s good. Really good,’ he uttered in amazement when Haydn had finished, and the applause had begun.

  ‘Pretty, too.’ Patsy cast a critical eye over Haydn’s smooth blond hair, blue eyes and six-foot, slim frame. ‘Given the right break he could do well,’ she mused critically, taking another cigarette.

  Ambrose looked at Haydn and mouthed, ‘Another?’ Haydn nodded, and went into his standard repertoire of, ‘I’ll take you home again Kathleen’, ‘Goodnight, my love’, and ‘Just let me look at you’. Alice joined in the last one, and it was evident that the two of them were lost in their own enjoyment, singing only for one another. Patsy fumbled for a light as she watched them, her thoughts racing. They made a very good couple. Two blonde angels together. Given the right lighting, the right costumes, the right parts ...

  ‘You want a job, just say the word. Three pounds a week, boy in the chorus, with a chance of solo spots whenever they can be fitted in,’ Ambrose offered expansively. Haydn looked Ambrose in the eye; saw the way the comedian ran his tongue over his fat, wet lips as he looked him up and down.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said quickly. Too quickly. ‘I can’t tour, I’ve too many commitments that keep me here.’

  ‘Good boy,’ the manager enthused, thinking of all the slots he could ask Haydn to fill at minimum payment.

  ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth, old boy.’ Ambrose laid his arm across Haydn’s shoulders and pinched his cheek. ‘Think about it, and while you’re thinking I’ll buy you and Alice another drink. G and T?’

  ‘I only drink beer,’ Haydn replied ungratefully. ‘And Viv’s just poured me one.’

  ‘There’s worse than Ambrose around in this business,’ Alice commented after Ambrose had left them for the bar. ‘Much worse. All you have to do is say no to the man, and he’ll back off.’

  ‘Is that the voice of experience talking?’ Haydn asked, studying Ambrose’s fleshy back.

  ‘As you’re asking, yes. I mentioned my steady boyfriend and he apologised, handsomely.’

  ‘And have you a steady boyfriend?’ Haydn asked, wondering why he’d never noticed Alice before.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Alice picked up her handbag and took out a packet of Du Mauriers. ‘And a good-looking boy like you must have a steady girlfriend.’

  ‘I did until this afternoon.’

  There was something so comically mournful about his expression that Alice laughed out loud.

  ‘If the spat had been serious, you wouldn’t have just thrown Ambrose’s offer back in his face.’

  ‘It’s not Jenny that’s keeping me here,’ he explained. ‘It’s my family. They rely on what I bring home.’

  ‘Your parents.’

  ‘And my kid brother. My youngest sister came home today as well, from a live-in job in a hospital. She has consumption,’ he added bitterly, suddenly ashamed of himself for pouring out his troubles to her. He wondered why he was doing it. Perhaps it was the beer on top of an empty stomach.

  ‘That’s tough. Consumption, I mean. My mother died of it when I was two. Ciggie?’ she offered him the packet, and he took one. ‘Look Haydn, that is your name isn’t it? Haydn?’

  He nodded.

  ‘If anyone makes you an offer like Ambrose’s again, grab it with both hands,’ she advised seriously. ‘That’s if you really want to go on stage.’

  ‘I’ve never wanted anything else.’

  ‘Offers like that aren’t two a penny. I don’t know if you’ve got what it takes to make it. I don’t mean talent,’ she added, sensitive to the hurt look in his eyes. ‘Despite what Patsy said earlier, I don’t think anyone can predict who’s going to make it in this business. It’s nothing as simple as ambition or talent. It’s luck, being in the right place at the right time ...’

  ‘And this tour could have been that?’

  ‘Don’t knock the provinces. Word gets around, and every audience you play teaches you something.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘Well, I’m for bed.’ She knocked back the last of her gin. ‘Two gins and one cigarette is enough for me after a show, and we still have to be on the early train for Swansea tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll walk you home if you like.’

  ‘As long as you realise that it will be just that. A walk.’ She raised her enormous blue eyes until they were level with his.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of trying to turn it into anything else.’ He picked up his cap and coat from the top of the piano.

  ‘See you, Haydn,’ Viv shouted from behind the bar.

  ‘In work bright and early Monday morning, Haydn. New scenery to set up, and calls to check,’ the manager warned.

  ‘I’ll be there. Goodnight.’

  ‘Good luck, boy,’ Patsy called out. ‘Look aft
er that talent of yours.’

  Ambrose turned his back as Alice and Haydn walked out of the door. He was too angry with Haydn’s refusal even to say goodbye.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Haydn asked as he and Alice left the shelter of the tiled doorway.

  ‘Lodgings on Broadway.’

  ‘At least it’s not far to go.’ He fastened the collar of his coat. The early evening rain had turned to pounding hailstones, and the street was covered with a fine layer of slippery ice. Alice put up her umbrella and held it over both their heads.

  ‘Take my arm.’ He held out his left arm. ‘Or is that going too far?’

  She laughed as she hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. ‘I was wrong about you, Haydn. You shouldn’t take up the next offer an Ambrose makes you.’

  ‘Why?’ he demanded innocently.

  ‘Because you’re far too nice for the theatre,’ she teased. ‘You take a girl at her word.’

  Jenny Griffiths sat on an empty, upturned pop crate and huddled into her thick red Welsh flannel dressing gown. She was freezing. Not wanting to go upstairs for a blanket in case she missed the all-important footstep on the hill, or the hand on the latch, she looked around the storeroom for something she could use to warm herself. A couple of empty sacks lay in the corner. Shivering, she pulled them towards her. Two were potato sacks, one had held carrots. Plumping for the cleanest, she took the carrot sack. She wrapped it around her shoulders on top of her dressing gown. Both her parents had been snoring when she’d crept silently down the stairs, so she’d risked leaving the door between the storeroom and the shop open in the hope of siphoning off any warmth that remained in the shop from the paraffin heater that had burnt there all day. Crouching on the crate, she stared up at the back door. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. She could see the bolt that she had drawn back earlier. Her gaze flickered from the bolt to the latch. She concentrated with all her might, willing the metal bar to lift.