by Benita Brown
‘Would you be sorry?’
‘Well, me ma was pleased when I got taken on here. She thinks it’s a good trade.’
‘Better than being a manservant? A kind of valet?’
‘Come again?’
‘My mother and I have been talking about it. You handle
... look after Valentino so well. He likes you.’
‘And I like him!’
‘Well, then. He’s probably always going to have to have someone to help him... to keep an eye on him, because—’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Alvini, you don’t have to spell it out. And, if you’re offering me the job, I’ll take it. But there’s one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Does a manservant, a valet, get paid more than a waiter? I mean a waiter gets tips, doesn’t he?’
Frank smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy. You’ll be well rewarded. Just go on looking after my brother as well as you do now.’
‘That’s all right then.’ Then the lad’s ready grin suddenly faded. ‘But what happens if... ?’
‘If?’
‘If Mr Valentino was to get married. I mean, that’s the way it’s heading, isn’t it? This morning’s meeting with the family and all?’
Frank sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was dog-tired and he was being forced to face unforeseen problems. Problems that he just wasn’t ready for. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘We may not be able to prevent it.’ He saw Jimmy raise his eyebrows and wished he hadn’t said that. ‘But, if he does get married he will still need a manservant. He will still need you.’
‘All right then. Good night, Mr Alvini.’
‘Good night, Jimmy.’
Frank walked down as far as the restaurant floor with him and, after Jimmy had gone, he had a word with Patrick McCormack as he had promised. They stood in an alcove out of the way of the hurrying waiters.
‘I’ll miss him. He’s bright,’ the head waiter said. ‘But I can see why you want him to look after Valentino. Your mother’s getting on in years and you have your medical career to think of.’ He paused and looked serious suddenly. ‘You don’t mind my talking to you like this?’
‘Of course not, Patrick. We couldn’t manage without you. Even my mother has to admit that. And you’re right about Jimmy. He’s very bright. I want to take him on and train him now before it all becomes too much for my mother.’
‘And before Valentino decides to leave home.’
‘Leave home?’
‘If he marries the little singer she’ll want a home of their own.’ Patrick frowned. ‘And then, if you don’t mind me saying so, they’ll both need looking after.’
Frank stared at Patrick. ‘Do you really think that’s the way it’s going? Do you really think my brother has marriage in mind? I mean, all this following the girl around from theatre to theatre - isn’t that just being starstruck? You were an actor once, Patrick. You know what young men are like when they take a fancy to some actress.’
‘Well, firstly some of them do marry the actress in question. And it works the other way round - sometimes a travelling actor marries a young lady admirer and settles down and changes his profession!’ At the head waiter’s smile Frank remembered that was exactly what had happened to Patrick. And why Alvini’s had such a good employee. ‘But secondly,’ Patrick continued, ‘your brother isn’t like any other young man, is he? The little singer seems to mean the whole world to him. You may find this difficult to accept, Frank, but your brother is in love.’
Frank sighed. ‘I know.’
‘And then there’s your mother.’
‘My mother? What do you mean?’
‘She knows very well that Valentino is always going to need looking after - a woman to care for him.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And I believe she has accepted already that a mother’s love is no longer what your brother wants. Forgive me, Frank, but Madame Alvini has never been able to deny Valentino what he wanted.’
‘That’s true.’ Frank sometimes wondered if his mother’s actions were spurred by guilt. If somehow she blamed herself for the difficult birth that had resulted in Valentino’s less-than-perfect condition.
‘Luckily, until now, his needs have been reasonable,’ Patrick said. ‘But if he thinks he needs a wife, your mother will not put difficulties in his way. His happiness means everything to her.’
‘But the girl ... the little singer ... she’s ... she ...’ Frank hated himself for what he was thinking. He looked up to see a gentle smile on Patrick’s face.
‘She’s the girl that your brother loves.’
‘But my mother - do you think she realizes? I mean, the cloak the girl was wearing, it could have deceived her.’
‘Frank, listen. Your mother would not be deceived. She knows that no ... no normal girl could be expected to take on Valentino. I’m sorry, but that’s true.’
‘And the girl herself?’
‘Bright as a button, I would say. No, you needn’t worry that she would be under any illusions. She’s a survivor. She’ll take what she wants and if that’s Valentino, she’ll take very good care of him. Believe me.’
Frank stared at Patrick. He was more than just head waiter: he had become a friend and confidant. Without ever having been asked to, he had helped Frank and Madame Alvini cope with Valentino. ‘So what do I do?’
‘You get back upstairs to your studies and you allow me to send you up a tray. And look ...’
Patrick stepped out of the alcove and drew Frank forward until he could see into the restaurant. The atmosphere in the room was livelier than usual and at one table a group of young men were being particularly boisterous. Frank recognized them as regular customers: Warren Carmichael, Leonard Russell nd Gerald Sowerby. Often their behaviour caused Patrick trouble but they were big spenders and he was reluctant to ban them. Frank bowed to Patrick’s judgement but, in truth, he despised them. Gerald was a fellow student at the Medical School but he was no friend. Indeed, he never missed an opportunity to mock Frank about his background.
There was a sudden burst of laughter from their table and an expletive that made heads turn. ‘Don’t worry,’ Patrick said, ‘I’ll deal with them. But the reason I pointed them out was to remind you that your brother is no longer interested in their company. That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Patrick. That’s good.’ But Frank still sighed before he turned and made his way upstairs.
His mother had already gone to bed and he would be able to devote an hour or two to his books before he went down to oversee the clearing up in the early hours of the morning. Patrick was as good as his word and he sent up a substantial meal of oxtail soup, cold meats and salad, bread rolls, cheese and fruit; also a large pot of coffee. Frank resisted the temptation to pour himself a glass of brandy; he needed to keep his head clear for his studies. He had to catch up with the work he should have done this morning.
For a while he was able to concentrate, but a page of diagrams showing the effects of malnutrition on the human skeleton sent his thoughts tumbling back to that morning ...
It had been sunny and Patrick’s wife, Belle, who managed the coffee house on the ground floor, had ordered the waiters to put tables and chairs on the pavement under the striped green and white awning. Valentino was delighted and he told Belle to move two of the tables together and reserve them for his party.
Frank should have been working in the library at the Medical School but his mother asked him to stay and escort her down to meet Valentino’s guest. Patrick came up to tell them when it was time to go. He seemed not to mind that Valentino had requested that he, and only he, should wait on his table. As head waiter of the restaurant he normally had nothing to do with the running of the coffee house but he made an exception that morning.
‘I’ve served the coffee and the cakes and what a selection!’ he said. ‘But you know, my Belle can’t refuse Valentino anything when he flashes those dark eyes of his.’
Frank watched as his
mother reacted with pleasure to Patrick’s words. She likes to pretend, whenever possible, that Valentino is normal, he thought sadly. But he blessed Patrick for his imagination and compassion.
Jimmy Nelson was holding sway and keeping them entertained. As Frank escorted his mother through the coffee house, past the tables full of morning customers with their newspapers and their shopping, past the gleaming counter and the hissing coffee machine, towards the bright sunshine streaming in through the windows and the open door, he could hear Jimmy dominating the conversation with reminiscences of the shows they had seen. Valentino was laughing with delight.
He’s a godsend, that boy, Frank thought, intelligent and adaptable. He’s just what we need.
Then they stepped out on to the pavement and Valentino and Jimmy rose to greet them and busied themselves settling Madame Alvini at a table. Frank stared at the girl sitting opposite. She was as lovely as his brother had told him she was. Her face was heart-shaped, her complexion fair with just a hint of golden tan as though she spent time, unfashionably, walking out of doors. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue; perhaps they were violet. She was wearing a hat - a ridiculous confection of feathers perched in amongst her piled-up golden curls.
Golden curls ... He smiled to himself: what am I thinking of? And then he realized with a pang that not only was she lovely but that he was jealous.
He had never been jealous of his brother’s looks before. He would never match Valentino’s height, his enormous strength, his perfect classical features; Frank was small, sinewy rather than muscular, and plain verging on downright ugly, or so he thought of himself. But thankfully nothing had gone wrong when he was born and he had the brain that God had intended.
As the brothers had grown up Frank had watched how women reacted to Valentino and yet he had known it would be more difficult for him to find a woman of his own. A normal woman, that is. So when he had learned of Valentino’s passion he had made discreet enquiries and it hadn’t been too hard to discover that Nella Nicholson was probably a cripple. But a cripple with the voice and the face of an angel. That’s what they said.
And as he looked at her now, God forgive him, he couldn’t believe that she would want anything further to do with his brother once she truly understood the truth about him.
‘Mamma,’ he heard Valentino saying, ‘this is Miss Nicholson.’
Frank waited for the girl opposite him to react, to smile at his mother, but instead she turned her head to watch the person sitting next to her. Another girl, just as fair, almost as lovely, but her complexion was pale as though she never saw the sun and, when she half rose awkwardly from her seat, Frank saw that the line of her body was hunched and twisted.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ the other girl said, and his mother nodded and smiled.
‘And who ...?’ Frank began, and Miss Nicholson’s friend looked at him for the first time. Her eyes met his. He saw them widen. Then she smiled. He felt, his senses stir as they never had before.
‘I’m Constance,’ she said. ‘Constance Edington.’
Chapter Nineteen
The room was warm, stiflingly so. Frank tried to concentrate on the notes he was making but his thoughts kept returning to the girl he had met that morning. Constance ...
After introducing herself she hadn’t said much. He had caught her looking at Valentino keenly but, when she’d become aware of Frank’s gaze, she’d flushed slightly and turned her head away, though not with disapproval. She’d been content to listen to her friend, attentively at first, but as it had become obvious that Nella only seemed to want Constance there as an audience, Frank had seen the other girl relax and almost detach herself from the scene.
Then he had had time to notice the wedding ring and, with a pang, the swell of her body that revealed her pregnancy. But he had also noticed the faint air of ... what was it? Sadness? No, it was not as definite as that. She did not look unhappy but neither did she look happy. Perhaps wistful was the way to describe that look in her eyes. He wished he knew what it was that caused her to look so wistful.
He took a sip of his coffee. It had grown cold. He could go down to the restaurant for another pot, but what was the point? It would soon be time for him to go and help Patrick close up. He picked up his books and took them to his room, then he went to the top of the stairs and looked down.
From above he saw the dark-suited gentlemen and colour-fully attired ladies making their way down to street level. He could hear the clatter of pans being washed and tables being scrubbed in the kitchen, and the voices of the waiters and catering staff rising cheerfully as they ended their night’s work.
He saw Patrick coming up and stopping one floor below. The head waiter knocked respectfully on the door of one of the private dining-rooms. ‘Your cab is here, sir,’ he said.
A moment later the door opened and Patrick stood back respectfully as one of the North East’s leading industrialists came out of the room followed by a much younger, richly dressed woman who was not his wife. ‘The stairs are clear, sir,’ Patrick said, and he preceded the couple all the way down to the exit.
Frank sighed and made his way downstairs. He knew what went on in the private rooms and, as Alvini’s did very well out of it, he knew that he had no right to make judgements. His father had set the tone of the business many years before and his mother would never have questioned his wisdom. Frank knew that such a way of making a living was not for him. But, at the moment, he saw no way of escaping from it.
Just as he reached the next landing one of the other doors opened and he stood back as the guests began to emerge. There were two of them, both young men, with flushed faces and eyes slightly unfocused. He recognized them instantly for they had been here many times before. It was Matthew Elliot and his friend John Edington.
Edington! Of course ... Frank remembered that they’d even dined here alone together on John Edington’s wedding day. Matthew had mentioned the bride’s name. Constance. Poor Constance. Now Frank thought he knew the reason for that look in her eyes.
The weather was warm and, although Constance had shed her corsets long ago and wore only loose-fitting day dresses, she could no longer sit comfortably for any length of time. Even in bed at night, it was getting more difficult to find an easeful position. And as for walking for any distance, that was impossible. The last time she had been any further than the row of shops in the next street had been almost a month ago when she had gone with Nella to Alvini’s Coffee House.
She’d gone to please Nella who had been so happy to have an admirer of her own. A rich handsome admirer who seemingly didn’t care that the object of his devotion was not quite as other women. But, of course, Valentino was not like other men, Constance had realized that at once.
But she had also seen how much his family loved him and wanted him to be happy. His mother had hardly spoken but she had watched over him so tenderly. And his brother, Frank, had watched over both his mother and his brother and seemed to have no thought for himself. Until the moment that they had looked at each other.
Constance remembered that when their eyes had met, hers and Frank Alvini’s, she had seen something there that made her own eyes widen with dismay. But she was not dismayed to see that he thought her beautiful. It was her own response to him that alarmed her. The sharp tug at her senses ... the stirring of a desire that she had no right to feel ...
‘Are you all right, Mrs Edington?’
‘Mm?’ Polly was standing over her and she hadn’t even heard her enter the room.
‘I did knock.’
‘No, that’s all right, Polly. And I’m fine, really, just a little tired.’
‘And sick of yourself and your own company no doubt. Well, cheer up. You’ve got visitors. It’s Miss Elliot and Miss Beattie. Shall I show them in?’
‘Of course.’
‘I hardly know what to say. I have neglected our friendship, haven’t I?’ Rosemary Elliot seemed taller than the last time she had been here, and slimmer and more
boyish-looking, Constance thought.
‘Sit down, Rosemary,’ Hannah Beattie told her. ‘You are tiring poor Mrs Edington with all this pacing around.’
Constance smiled her thanks at Rosemary’s companion. ‘Miss Beattie, would you pour the tea?’ she asked. ‘When I lean forward this bump seems to get in the way.’
‘Just sit back and relax, my dear.’
‘Really, Constance!’ Rosemary seemed shocked that Constance should refer so openly to her pregnancy, and she flopped down in a chair by the window and started fiddling with the sash of her white muslin dress. She must be sixteen now, Constance thought, but she was still happy to dress like a schoolgirl.
Hannah Beattie, wearing a sensible lightweight grey walking costume, had poured the tea, and Constance took her cup and carefully eased herself back in the chair. Now, in her seventh month, there was no disguising her condition.