‘Does Alma know any of this?’ Diana demanded.
‘If she doesn’t she’s a fool,’ Tina said. ‘She’s been mooning around after Ronnie for years. If she can’t read the writing on the wall by now, she never will.’
Diana remembered the blatant adoration on Alma’s face every time she looked at Ronnie. ‘Knowing someone and being in love with them are two different things,’ she sighed theatrically, recalling the plot of a Claudette Colbert film she and Maud had seen in Cardiff. ‘I think when you love someone you can forgive them anything, and overlook everything.’
‘If Ronnie was anywhere near serious about her, he would have married her years ago,’ Tina said impatiently. ‘If you want my opinion, I think she’s just someone he’s passing the time of day with,’ she continued airily with all the worldliness of her sixteen years.
‘Well I’m sorry, but I think that’s a foul way for Ronnie to behave towards any girl, let alone one as nice as Alma.’
‘He wouldn’t go out with Alma if she wasn’t nice.’
‘I don’t think I like your brother very much!’ Diana pronounced resolutely, already half-way into weaving a tragic romance in which Alma was the wronged, doomed heroine.
‘All the years you’ve known him, and you’ve never come to that conclusion before? I’ll let you into a secret. I’ve never liked him,’ Tina grinned. ‘Two sixpences please,’ she said to the girl in the cashier’s kiosk, as they reached the box office.
‘I would have rather had four penny seats.’ Diana rummaged in her handbag for her purse. Tonight was a real extravagance. Tina had caught her at a low ebb when she’d come into the shop mid-morning. After four stern dressing-downs from Ben Springer, and three from his wife, she hadn’t needed much persuading to agree to an outing, although she knew perfectly well there was no way she could really afford it. Despite Ben Springer’s assertion that he’d review her pay at the end of the week, she knew now that she wouldn’t dare bring up the subject of her wages again. Not after seeing so many girls her age walking the shops in Taff Street every day in a last-ditch attempt to find local work before resorting to the domestic agencies that trained women for service in England.
‘This one’s on me,’ Tina insisted, pushing the change she’d received from half a crown into her handbag. ‘I’m rich. Ronnie actually paid me this week.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Diana scolded. ‘You can’t afford to treat me.’
‘Tell you what, you buy ice-cream wafers in the interval and we’ll call it quits.’
‘They’re only twopence ...’
‘And cornets are a penny. Look, we can swap over next time if it makes you feel any better. Give us a good excuse to go out together again.’ She ran up the steep flight of steps into the hall.
‘I don’t like owing money.’ Diana reluctantly returned her purse to her handbag. Like all people living close to the bone, she resented taking ‘charity’ from anyone.
Tina led the way down the long corridor to the usherette, who guided them to the rear of the stalls.
‘At least they’re right at the back,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We can put our seats up if we have to, and sit on them. Chewing gum?’ she flipped open a packet of P.K. and flicked one into Diana’s hand.
‘Did you pay for these?’ Diana asked.
‘They fell on the floor when I was opening a new box. Can’t sell spoiled goods to the customers,’ she grinned.
The orchestra began to tune up, scratchily and noisily. Diana settled back in her seat. The manager walked out in front of the curtain and held up his hand.
‘Oh-oh, here comes a programme change,’ Tina moaned. ‘What’s the betting that the leading lady and all the chorus girls are sick and they’re bringing on the Dan-y-Lan Coons instead?’
‘Ssh!’Diana hissed as heads turned towards them.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ the words fell unheard into the auditorium. He lifted the microphone stand towards him and tapped it. A hollow boom echoed around the theatre.
‘Something you ate, Dai,’ a wag shouted from the front row. A gale of laughter drowned out the manager’s words.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen ... Ladies and Gentlemen ...’ It took a full minute of stammering repetition for him to regain the attention of the restless audience. When hush finally descended he continued, ‘I regret to inform you ...’
‘Told you,’ Tina crowed.
‘Ssh!’ Diana commanded as she tried to listen.
‘ ... is ill. To take his place we have a local boy, who works here, and I want all of you to give him a chance,’ he shouted above the cat-calls and jeers. Someone offstage pushed Haydn in front of the curtain. He bowed quickly and dashed off, but not before the audience had dissolved into mirth at the costume he was wearing. A ruffled matador shirt strained tightly across his broad shoulders and gaped across his chest where the buttons refused to meet the buttonholes. A short cloak hung half-way up his back and a ridiculously small tricorn was perched on the crown of his head.
‘The hat looks like a pimple on a haystack,’ Tina giggled helplessly. ‘And I would have loved to see him in the trousers that went with that outfit. He looks like Gulliver dressed by the Lilliputians.’
Diana alone out of all the people packed into the auditorium kept a straight face.
‘I wonder what he’s going to do.’ Tina wiped tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Something good, I hope,’ Diana murmured, crossing her fingers and hoping against hope that Haydn wasn’t about to make a fool of himself.
Chapter Twelve
When Haydn was told that the head chorus boy was sick, and was asked to stand in for him, his spirits soared. The head chorus boy had two duets with the head chorus girl, one of which contained three precious solo verses. He felt that the gods had smiled on him – forgiving him for rejecting Ambrose’s offer after all. Who knows, when the revue moved on he might be taken with it. To big cities – exotic places he’d only read about and heard of, never visited – Birmingham, Manchester, Bristol. Perhaps the biggest prize of all – London. But even as he built his towering, glittering castles of success in the air, the bombshell struck.
The manager had handed him the head boy’s costume, which was at least five inches too narrow and a good six inches too short for him, with the news that he was going to fill in for the newest and least important chorus boy in the line-up. His presence was only needed to even numbers up in the dance routines, and provide another male voice in the background. All of the boys in the chorus had been understudying the head boy and praying for this moment. He watched them practise the solo verses and fight over the role while he struggled into the matador’s shirt (he failed even to pull the satin trousers over his thighs). In vain he protested to the show’s director and the manager that he couldn’t dance.
‘You don’t have to dance, boy, just be there,’ the director boomed in his best Shakespearean voice.
‘You’ve seen the routine often enough, Haydn. It’s not much to ask,’ the manager snapped. Ice cold and paralysed with fear, Haydn watched while Dolly, a charming little teaser on stage and an absolute bitch off, executed a complicated tap step in the corridor.
‘Got it now?’ she asked briskly.
Haydn tried to copy her fancy footwork but his feet simply failed to respond to the directives he sent them. Tripping over his ankle, he fell flat on his face.
‘He’ll never do,’ Dolly complained loudly, making Haydn feel about two inches high. ‘He’s got two left feet.’
‘It’s only for tonight, darling,’ the director said soothingly. ‘Right, everybody ready?’
‘Just one more thing, hot shot,’ one of the boys whispered to Haydn as he followed them up the steps to the wings. ‘Don’t try to drown us out with your singing. We’ve all heard you backstage. You haven’t got a bad voice, for an amateur,’ he added deprecatingly. ‘But like all amateurs you obviously think the louder you sing, the better it is.’
‘I hope so,’ Haydn muttered fervently as he followed the others out on to the darkened, curtained stage. ‘I really hope so.’
‘You tired yet?’ Ronnie asked Maud solicitously as she sat in front of the fire in the back room of the café with Gina on one side, Angelo on the other and him opposite her.
‘A little,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘How about I make you one of Papa’s special ice creams to perk you up?’ Angelo offered. Tony had only just taught him how to make the raspberry delights, banana splits and knickerbocker glories that formed the backbone of Ronconi’s dessert menus, but so few customers could afford to order fancy ice creams that he grasped every opportunity to air his new-found skills.
‘No thank you,’ Maud smiled. Ronnie had whisked her off in such a rush she hadn’t even thought to bring her purse with her, and even if she had, she doubted she had enough to cover the sixpence that a knickerbocker glory cost. Besides, Tina had already given her a hot chocolate on the house.
‘Angelo will be so upset if you don’t let him make one of his ice creams,’ Ronnie coaxed. ‘Go on, be reckless for once. There’s nothing in this world like the taste of Ronconi’s ice cream smothered in raspberry sauce. ‘
‘I know, I’ve eaten it,’ Maud laughed.
‘Well then, you can eat one again.’ Ronnie nodded to Angelo. ‘Go and make her one,’ he ordered.
‘A very small one,’ Maud pleaded. ‘I really couldn’t eat a lot.’
‘And one for me, Angelo,’ Gina shouted. ‘An extremely large one. With nuts, and a cherry on top,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘No work, no eating,’ Ronnie said briskly. ‘Clear and clean down those tables.’ He pointed to four tables covered in cigarette ash and sandwich crumbs that the evening tram crews had just vacated. ‘When that’s done, you can finish for the day. I’ll take you home when I take Maud back.’
‘No peace for the wicked,’ Gina sighed as she rose reluctantly from the table.
‘Or the idle,’ Ronnie emphasised. ‘Alma, I’ll have a coffee,’ he shouted, clicking his fingers to gain her attention.
Alma was accustomed to Ronnie’s imperious ways, but familiarity with his behaviour didn’t make it any easier to bear. She marched furiously to the metal coffee jug which was kept on a low oil burner behind the counter. She poured out Ronnie’s coffee just the way he liked it, thick and strong, with no extra water. Adding three sugars and a dash of milk she stirred it, then carried it over to the table where he was sitting with Maud.
Gina was busy clearing the tables, and Angelo hadn’t yet returned from the kitchen with the ice creams, so Ronnie and Maud were alone. A warm wave of sympathy washed over Alma as she looked at Maud. The young girl was sitting, head in hands, slumped over the table, her face pale with exhaustion, her lips bloodless. The thin veneer of cheap lipstick had worn off on the warm rim of her cup of chocolate. She seemed to be listening intently to something Ronnie was saying. Alma looked instinctively from Maud to Ronnie, and all her feelings of sympathy were washed away on a floodtide of acutely painful suspicion.
For the first time since she’d known him, Ronnie had lowered the defensive shield of cynicism he habitually used to camouflage his finer feelings. His eyes were naked, mirroring his thoughts. And she didn’t like what she saw in them. Not one little bit.
A benign expression softened his features as he gazed at Maud. He was speaking too low for Alma to catch his words, but judging from the lack of response from Maud he wasn’t telling her anything of vital importance. Only his eyes betrayed his feelings: speaking with an eloquence she had never suspected him of possessing.
‘Your coffee, Ronnie,’ she said spikily, slamming the cup on to the table and slopping the hot liquid into the saucer.
‘Remind me to give you a refresher course in waitressing some time, Alma,’ he reprimanded her icily.
She glared at him as she walked away.
‘Two knickerbocker glories,’ Angelo announced grandly, bearing his creations proudly into the back room of the café. Pink and white scoops of ice cream were piled high in silver fluted goblets, the whole creation topped with whirls of whipped cream, glazed with rivulets of raspberry sauce and sprinkled with fine layers of crumbs of toasted nuts.
‘Not bad,’ Gina said condescendingly as she walked over to the table. ‘Not bad at all. Not as perfectly symmetrical as Ronnie’s or Tony’s, of course. But passable.’
‘What do you mean not as symmetrical as Ronnie’s or Tony’s?’ Angelo demanded touchily.
‘Well there’s more nuts on this side than the other,’ she teased. ‘And the sauce?’ she raised her eyebrows. ‘You really should have put on more sauce.’
Ronnie stared at the creations critically. ‘Did you put sauce in the bottom of the dish?’ he demanded.
‘Yes,’ Angelo answered belligerently.
‘And half-way up?’
Angelo stuttered, then faltered.
‘You left it out!’ Ronnie exclaimed. ‘What on earth do you expect it to taste like with no sauce running through the lower scoops of ice cream and chopped tinned fruit? Really, Angelo ...’
‘I put a double helping on the top,’ Angelo protested strongly.
‘It should have gone under the cream, Angelo, not on top,’ Ronnie said heavily. ‘You sour the taste of the cream by putting it on top …’
‘It’s delicious,’ Maud interrupted, scooping a spoonful into her mouth. ‘Absolutely delicious,’ she smiled at Angelo.
‘Thank you for saying so,’ Angelo replied sullenly, glaring at Ronnie.
‘Each to their own,’ Alma interposed from the front of the café. ‘Just because you and your father have done it one way for years, Ronnie, it doesn’t mean that it’s the right way.’
Ronnie stared at the counter, ignoring her comments. ‘Couldn’t that do with a wipe-down, Alma?’ he said curtly.
She picked up a cloth and did as he asked, burning with indignation and damning him for trying to keep her out of his public life. But despite her anger she sensed he was slipping through her fingers: she felt as though she were trying with her bare hands to stem water that was pouring from a fall. Ronnie was leaving her, and she didn’t know how to hold him.
She only knew that she couldn’t imagine living any kind of a life without him.
‘Well, boyo.’ The director of the show, a fat, cigar-smoking lecher who dived into the chorus girls’ dressing room on each and every pretext, eyed Haydn over the top of his rimless spectacles. ‘That was a bloody disaster, wasn’t it?’
Haydn stared down at his feet, encased like bursting chrysalides in a pair of varnished leather tap shoes that he had borrowed from the show’s dresser. They were two sizes too small for him, and he could already feel the raw skin and blisters that had formed on his heels and toes after only an hour of wear.
‘It was,’ he acknowledged miserably. Pressing the front of one shoe against the back of the other, he kicked it off. A blissful, soothing feeling of ease and comfort seeped up through his body, to be superseded moments later by intense, mind-blowing, agonising pain as his battered feet stung alarmingly back to life.
‘Well?’ the director urged. ‘Do you mind telling me why you didn’t do as you were told? Hell’s bells, man, you only had to stand at the back of the stage and let the girls dance around you. A tailor’s dummy could have done as much. What are you? An imbecile?’
Too mortified to attempt an explanation, Haydn remained silent while the director’s face turned purple with rage. He could have protested that the other members of the chorus had, for reasons of their own, resented his presence on stage and set out to deliberately make things difficult for him, but the director wasn’t in a listening mood.
He’d begun the routine well enough, standing on the chalk mark
s that the director had drawn for him at the very back of stage left, only to be sent flying by Tom, the youngest and greenest of the chorus boys, who was ecstatic at his elevation to the third row. Mesmerised by the lights, the colour, the music, the movement, but most of all by the dark void that hid the audience, he hadn’t even seen Tom coming. It was as if the boy had materialised out of nowhere. Unable to prevent himself from stumbling forward, Haydn found himself centre stage, blocking everyone’s path. His size hadn’t helped. He’d felt like a huge, clumsy giant in a light, flitting fairyland. Stepping back quickly he’d knocked Dolly flying. Totally disorientated, he then committed the cardinal sin of continuing to move forwards not backwards, fouling the movements of the newly elevated head chorus boy Sean, an Irish lad, who had, as the director put it, ‘a beautiful turn of step’. His step was anything but beautiful after Haydn had lumbered in front of him. It had been up to Dolly to rescue what was left of the number. Pushing Sean forward and Haydn backwards, she’d managed to retrieve centre stage for herself and Sean, earning herself a cheer from the restless first-house audience, whose gales of laughter at Haydn’s antics had unnerved him all the more.
Mortified, Haydn had remained glued to the backdrop until the time came for the chorus to sing. Feeling that this at least was something he could do well, he ignored Sean’s advice to mime the words, and added his deep, rich baritone to the chorus’s efforts. Riding high on a crest of emotion and music, a good minute passed before he became aware of his fellow performers.
Pontypridd 02 - One Blue Moon Page 16