by Nancy Carson
‘Let’s see how we feel when we’ve reached the balcony at the top of that plinth thing,’ Maxine replied, daunted at the prospect. ‘That is a balcony, isn’t it?’
‘Sure, it’s a balcony…Hey, tell me about Hollywood, Maxine. Did you meet any movie stars?’
‘Hey, yes. I met Spencer Tracy,’ she replied with sudden enthusiasm and a smile that these days was too rare. ‘At a party. And Tyrone Power – he’s absolutely gorgeous. I swear if Brent hadn’t been by my side he’d have propositioned me.’
‘And how would you have responded?’
‘Who knows? I might even have propositioned him. Anyway, he didn’t, so that was that. Another romance doomed before it even started. I was introduced to Edward G Robinson and Humphrey Bogart as well.’
‘Hey, wow!’
‘And I met James Whale…’
‘James Whale?’
‘The director. You know. He made those Frankenstein films.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘He comes from my home town.’ Maxine stated proudly then chuckled as she recalled the moment. ‘When I told him I came from Dudley he asked me if I knew his sister, and I said, “No, but my mother might.” He didn’t seem very impressed. But I didn’t mean to be sarcastic or anything.’
Dulcie chuckled too. ‘You met nobody else?’
‘Some, but I didn’t know who they were. Oh, I saw Ginger Rogers – from a distance. And Robert Taylor.’
‘And did the filming go well?’
Maxine explained that the speakeasy set was in an enormous studio, and that they’d had to do several takes to get the best angled shots. They’d had to mime, she said, because the recording they did earlier was overdubbed onto the soundtrack later.
‘So what did you think of Los Angeles?’
‘Oh, I loved it…’
By the time Maxine had eulogised over Los Angeles, the ferry was tying up at Bedloe’s Island.
Of course, they made it eventually to the very top, to Liberty’s crown, and peered over at the Manhattan skyline for some time before they decided it was time to come down and seek some lunch.
When they returned to Battery Park, Dulcie pointed out the Shrine of Elizabeth Ann Seton. ‘She was the first American to be made a saint by the Catholic Church,’ she informed her friend, ‘and founded the American Sisters of Charity. After the Civil War, this place became a shelter for Irish immigrant women.’
‘What about English immigrant women? Were they excluded?’
‘Oh, I guess they all had men to look after them,’ Dulcie replied with satirical charm.
‘More gallant than the one I’ve got, I hope,’ Maxine commented flippantly.
They had lunch at the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street, a place Dulcie chose. After they had eaten they sat enjoying a beer. They were relaxed and conversation flowed.
‘I brought you here because it has historical connections,’ Dulcie said. ‘Since you’re sightseeing today like any English tourist. And the English enjoy history, huh?’
‘Well if that’s the case,’ Maxine chirped, taking in the wood-burning fireplace and the Spartan colonial atmosphere, ‘tell me the history of this place.’
‘Gee! Don’t make life so difficult, Maxine. Heck! All I know is that about thirty years ago, the place was restored to how it was before the Revolution.’ She looked around her at the other tourists who had visited the place out of curiosity. ‘The place was a meeting point for Revolutionaries. Maybe George Washington used to get stoned here. He’s said to have been connected with the place, anyhow. I guess this is pretty much how it must have looked…Seems like a man’s place to me.’
‘I don’t mind it being a man’s place.’ Maxine sipped her drink thoughtfully. ‘I have to take a fresh view of men, I think, Dulcie,’ she said wistfully. ‘I can’t see Brent and me being together much longer – at least I hope not. You know, I reckon I’d never be short of offers nowadays…if I was of that frame of mind to take advantage.’
‘I guess that’s true,’ Dulcie concurred. ‘Heck, you’re a real slick chick. Famous too. The guys are always giving you the once-over. I see them. I envy you your looks, Maxine. I guess you could have any guy you wanted.’
‘So why do I end up with a man I don’t want, Dulcie? I went badly wrong somewhere…’ She lowered her voice. ‘You know, it’s refreshing in this country how everybody talks so openly about sex.’
‘Maxine, you have to be joking! Women talk about guys, but nobody ever talks about sex. The average American is too conservative and too hide-bound by moral virtues to talk openly about sex. Sure, they might think about it all day long, but talk about it? Never.’
‘But you, Dulcie. You’re not afraid to talk openly about it. You were saying things to me just a little while ago…’
‘To you, Maxine. Only to you. You’re my buddy.’
‘Even buddies don’t talk that openly about sex in England. In England women are supposed not to enjoy sex. Society certainly doesn’t encourage them to talk about it. And if you have sex before you get married, God forbid you ever admit to it. Why, it’s said that most women are so prudish that the men in England never see them with no clothes on. Can you believe that?’
‘But people do have sex before they get married in England, surely? I guess they sure do in America.’
‘Oh, I suppose most courting couples get round to it eventually. Up against the mangle or the brewhouse door with their underwear round their knees, some of them.’ She chuckled at the thought. ‘But they’d never admit to it…Unless they get a big lump on their belly. That tends to give the game away.’
Dulcie laughed too at the mental picture Maxine’s words conjured. ‘Doesn’t society have some whacky ideas? How did we ever get to that state? I mean, how do you know whether you’re gonna love a guy heart and soul if you don’t have sex with him first? Hell! You don’t buy a new dress without first trying it on…’
The analogy amused Maxine. ‘I suppose there’s good logic in that…’
‘You bet there is…Anyway…how was it with Brent?’
‘You mean sex?’ Maxine blushed, which amused Dulcie.
‘Oh, go on. You have to tell me, Maxine.’
‘I have to?’
‘It’s only fair. I told you about Kenny and me.’
She hesitated, wondering how best to describe it without sounding like a well-seasoned whore. Talking about her sexual experiences was not something that came naturally. ‘At first it was nice, I suppose,’ she began unsurely. ‘I thought I was in love with him and he’d been trying desperately to woo me. He was attentive and tender and considerate – and I was flattered. I also needed that kind of attention.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘Well, I moved into his cabin when we were on board ship and I reckon he had to prove he was a sexual athlete. I guess he had to prove to me that he was a better lover than Howard was.’
‘And was he?’
‘Hell, no. He gave me no inner peace. With Howard there was always an inner peace after making love that was wonderful. With Brent, oward there was always a lovemaking lost its tenderness and warmth. We seemed to be doing it just for the sake of it. I felt I was nothing more than a receptacle he could deposit his semen into when the inclination took him. It got to the stage when I couldn’t bear him touching me. I was like that before, when I used to go out with Stephen…And I kept thinking more and more about Howard…I still do…’ She sighed and turned away momentarily from Dulcie. Already she felt she had told her too much. ‘What shall we do afterwards, Dulcie?’
‘Well, Maxine. Talking about sex has made me feel kinda horny. Would you mind if I came back to the Plaza with you? I got an urge to see Charlie.’
‘I thought you were seeing him tonight.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t wait.’
Maxine’s eyes lit up and she giggled. ‘Are you going to…? You’re not going to seduce him?’
‘Sure. Why not? I gotta get him going sometime. He needs
a little encouragement.’
Chapter 31
The girls returned to the Plaza hotel, the structure that, despite its eighteen storeys, was reminiscent of a French Renaissance château. In the lobby, the concierge tipped his hat and a bellboy pressed the lift button for them and received a quarter for his trouble. Dulcie exited at the twelfth floor and Maxine rode on up. At the fifteenth she stepped out and, as she walked along the corridor to their suite, she took the key from her handbag and inserted it in the lock.
When she opened the door she was surprised to hear a voice, a woman’s voice, whimpering, weeping, as if she were being hurt. Very quietly Maxine withdrew the key and silently closed the door. She slipped off her shoes and crept along the vestibule.
The sounds were emanating from the bedroom.
The door was ajar.
She peered through the gap at the reflection in the long mirrors on the wardrobe doors that were opposite the door.
Brent was lying on his back while a woman with long dark hair was riding him as if he were a stallion in the Grand National. What Maxine had thought was weeping was actually her groans and squeals of pleasure.
Maxine looked on in disbelief, fixed to the spot. That shining dark hair and the set of the head were disturbingly familiar. She knew that slender back from its poise and elegance. She knew that slim waist from the fancy belts she’d seen tightly adorning it. She knew, from the fashionable trousers she’d seen her wear, whose small buttocks and slim hips were thrusting back and forth as if she were riding a great hunter with the stirrups short.
It was Eleanor.
Maxine gasped. An opened bottle of champagne stood on one of the bedside tables along with two half-empty glasses. Maldwyn, the teddy bear that Howard had won for her was perched upright on the dressing table as if deliberately, to witness this copulatory epic. What should she do now? Should she simply go and let them get on with it? Or should she scream and shout and make an overall unpleasant scene? It was such a ridiculous decision to have to make. After all, if she cared for Brent at all…
Then, the decision was made for her; the keys she was carrying slipped through her fingers and jangled metallically as they hit the carpeted floor. Maxine shoved the door open impulsively. At once Eleanor looked around, startled, and was horrified to see Maxine staring open-mouthed at her. She ceased her jockeying and dismounted at once, prompting an instant welter of complaints from Brent who, a moment later, also saw Maxine.
‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed, and a stupid grin appeared on his face. ‘You don’t half pick your times, Maxine.’
‘Not half as impetuously as you pick your women,’ Maxine responded haughtily, still not sure how she should react. But instinct took over. Eleanor was annoying her already with that sullen, scornful look of hers that suggested Maxine was the interloper. ‘You, get out!’ she yelled. ‘However long you’ve been here, get out and take that pond life with you.’
Eleanor looked for support from Brent, but received none. She slid off the bed and, with a look of silent disdain, unhurriedly picked up her clothes that were scattered around the room.
Maxine grabbed Eleanor’s handbag that was lying on the floor near her feet and threw it at her. ‘Get out!’ she screamed, and picked up a bottle of perfume from her dressing table. She hurled it at her, but it missed and bounced off the bed and onto the floor. Eleanor, more hurriedly now, donned her emerald green underwear, expensive, silk, smooth. Maxine watched, suddenly breathless as the girl slipped her fine emerald green day dress over her head and fastened it. Even in this ridiculous situation she looked extraordinarily cool and glamorous.
‘And you!’ Maxine shrieked at Brent. ‘I’ve put up with a lot from you, but if you think I’m putting up with any more you can think again. Get out!…Get Out!’’ She took a hairbrush from her dressing table and approached him as he lay on the bed. At least he’d had the decency to cover his nether regions with a sheet by now, but his hands went to his head to protect himself as she rained blows on him. ‘Get out!’ she screamed, ‘and don’t ever come back. I don’t ever want to see you again – either of you. Get out and let me have some peace and contentment.’
Brent wriggled, then darted out of the bed and escaped from her like the coward he was, grabbing his clothes. ‘I’m going, don’t worry,’ he said with a sneer, pulling on his underpants. ‘If I ever see your priggish face again it will be too soon.’
‘Priggish, am I? Well at least I’m not a junkie. Now go…Go…’
They went. She heard the door click as they left the apartment. Maxine sat on the bed – the bed on which those two had been making love – and began trembling.
What now?
She tried to shed tears but it seemed that tears were off today. She was angry; too angry for tears. In any case, those two weren’t worth tears. She caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror. Her hair was unkempt as if she’d been in a fight. She tried to tidy it, running her fingers through it. She was beginning to calm down but it had been such a shock. Fancy them…Oh, she knew Brent had been up to no good since the day he arrived in New York. The place offered too many distractions, too many temptations. But fancy her…The nerve! The brassbound effrontery! How long had she been in New York? How many times had they…? How had she found him?
Of course, Brent had written to her…Presumably, it meant that she and Stephen had parted. Good for Stephen. He deserved better.
Maxine began to feel relieved that Brent had gone, as if some oppressive weight that had been bearing down hard on her had been suddenly lifted. All right, she was still married to him, but this incident had given her the excuse never to be alone with him again, never to live under the same roof. She must even have grounds for divorce. But she would have to meet him on stage and at rehearsals – if the band stayed together. And the prospect of that grew dimmer the more she thought about it. Maybe he would realise he could never face her again and resign from the band. They could soon find another trombonist.
But wait; she was looking at this from the viewpoint of somebody who still had some moral ethics. Brent possessed none. He had the brass-necked nerve to ignore such niceties. He would not suffer from the same embarrassment that she had experienced tonight. It would not unsettle him. See how he had leered unruffled at her when she found them together? She could try to forget he ever existed. Meanwhile, she could form a new band, become a solo artiste. John Fielding would help.
And while these thoughts swirled through her head, some logical, some disjointed, one more thought suddenly struck her.
Brent would be back.
He would be back for his clothes, back for his trombone, back for his musical arrangements, back not least to antagonise her. So, to lessen the time it was necessary for him to stay when he did return, she decided to pack up all his things and leave them by the entrance to the suite, ready.
Their suitcases were piled in a cupboard; old ones; and new ones they’d bought to carry the increasing amount of luggage they took with them everywhere nowadays. She grabbed the first two that were to hand, an old one and a new one, and lugged them to the bedroom where she placed the new one on the bed. She would ask the hotel’s housekeeper to have this bed changed when she was through; she didn’t relish the thought of sleeping on sheets that those two had cavorted on. She opened the suitcase and began filling it with shirts, trousers, underwear, ties, pullovers; anything that presented itself in his drawers and wardrobes. Soon it was full and she pressed down on the lid to close it. That done, she lifted it off the bed and placed it on the floor.
She grabbed the older case. It was one of Brent’s. He had used it when they first left Birmingham bound for the Queen Mary. As she lifted it by the handle, it flew open and, as it knocked against the bed, she noticed a corner of blue paper suddenly appear from inside the lining that was coming adrift from the side. She righted the suitcase and placed it on the bed as she had done with the previous one, then held back the lining out of curiosity to see exactly what the paper w
as.
Four blue envelopes.
Maxine pulled them out and looked at each in turn. All were addressed to her, in handwriting that looked agonisingly familiar. She had not seen them before, yet they had already been opened. Suddenly feeling very hot and with a profoundly thumping heart, she opened one, took out the letter it contained and read it.
The Vicarage
Foxham
Norfolk
Friday 13th November 1936
My dear darling Maxine,
After much soul-searching and deliberation I have postponed writing this promised epistle until nearer the time of your return to Southampton. That is to say, I have not rushed to write as soon as you were gone, but nearly two weeks after. That way, I hope I have avoided being overly sentimental at the wretched way we parted that Monday night, having given myself time to ponder everything in greater depth. I must say, I now firmly accept that your reaction to my not telling you from the outset about my taking the living here in Norfolk was absolutely deserved and I do not blame you in the least for your anger. Experiencing it has been a salutary lesson in affording greater consideration to other people’s feelings – specifically yours. Believe me, I am a changed man. But not merely changed: I believe I am changed for the better.
I hope and pray with all my heart that God is keeping you safe and that your nautical adventure is proving enjoyable. These eight weeks are going to drag on interminably before ever I get the chance to see you again and hold you in my arms.
I suppose I have been fortunate in that the move to Norfolk has, to some extent, diverted me from thoughts of you. But not nearly entirely. In my quieter moments, and especially in my big lonely bed at night, I have thought of you constantly. I have ached for the warmth of your body against mine and have scolded myself interminably for effecting this absurd consequence of not having you near. I do hope you are feeling a little more kindly disposed towards me after this first couple of weeks apart.
The whole episode has focused my thoughts even more on the desirability of marriage. I cannot stand to lose you, Maxine, and I urge you to give it your earnest consideration. I wish you to be my wife, my darling, so please consider this my official marriage proposal! I await, of course, anxiously and pray nightly for your positive response.