by Rosie Harris
Gradually it dawned on Fern that the reason for her feeling of discomfort was Monsieur Jacques Alfonse. He was a large dark-haired man of about fifty with florid cheeks, sharp green eyes and a goatee beard which he was continually stroking.
He was usually the first to arrive in the evening and always the very last to leave. Fern suspected that he was hoping one evening that he would find her on her own and the very thought filled her with unease.
When this did in fact happen, she was completely taken by surprise. It was a wet evening in early December and immediately after she had finished dancing Pierre Laurain had called for taxis to take all his friends and himself home.
Five taxis all arrived at once and in the flurry of their departure Monsieur Alfonse managed to retire to the bathroom and was still there on his own when everyone else had gone.
Fern tried to remain calm but her heart was thudding at an alarming rate as she suggested to Monsieur Alfonse that he should use the telephone to call another taxi.
She felt frightened as she moved between the sitting room and kitchen, clearing away the glasses and dishes they’d been using. She spent an inordinately long time stacking them by the sink in readiness for Marnie, the daily woman, to deal with the next morning – all the time hoping that when she returned to the sitting room he would be gone or at least getting ready to go.
To her dismay he was still there, reclining on one of the sofas and stroking his goatee beard thoughtfully as if he had all the time in the world.
‘There will be a delay of half an hour before a taxi will be free,’ he told her. ‘Could I have another drink?’
‘Of course.’ She went over to the drinks cabinet, selected a glass and began pouring out a measure of absinthe. As she turned round to take it across to him she found he was behind her and once more she had a feeling of impending trouble.
Taking the glass from her hand he put it down on a small table then put one of his arms round her and, with his free hand, tilted her face so that he could kiss her.
As she felt his huge soft body pressed against her she struggled to free herself from his embrace but this only amused him and his grip tightened.
‘I don’t think Pierre would approve of you doing this, Monsieur Alfonse,’ she gasped, placing both her hands on his chest and trying to push him away.
‘Why not? He only keeps you as a plaything, so why would he mind sharing you?’
Fern realised that it was pointless trying to reason with him or explain that her relationship with Pierre Laurain was a purely platonic one. Jacques Alfonse had been drinking all evening and his breath was so overpowering that as his mouth hovered over hers it made her gag.
Before she could stop him he had picked her up in his arms and carried her through to the adjoining bedroom. Throwing her roughly down on the damask bedspread he held her there with one hand as he wriggled out of his coat and pulled the bow tie away from the front of his shirt front, then tossed it aside. In one swift movement he caught at the neck of her dress and there was a sickening sound as he ripped it from her body.
His immense bulk as he flopped down on top of her was so heavy that she was unable to move. He kept a hand over her mouth to stop her from crying out so all she could do was suffer in silence as he pleasured himself.
The sound of the taxi klaxon sounding outside seemed to bring Jacques Alfonse to his senses. With an angry grunt he rolled off her, straightened his dishevelled clothing, picked up his tie and thrust it into his jacket pocket and left.
Tears of self-pity and revulsion trickled unchecked down Fern’s cheeks as the door slammed behind him. She lay there sobbing and feeling sorry for herself. It was as if her world had collapsed and her life was in ruins.
Pierre Laurain had always acted towards her in such a gentlemanly fashion that she had convinced herself that there was nothing to fear or be ashamed about at being what the other girls termed a ‘kept woman’, but Jacques Alfonse had spoiled all that for her.
Her heart ached for Glanmor. Why did such a good and honourable man have to die while men like Jacques Alfonse went on living? she railed aloud.
Chapter Thirty-one
Fern couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned; one minute she was throwing back the covers because she was too hot and the next she was dragging them right up to her chin because she was shivering, not from the cold but from the memories of what she had endured earlier that evening at the hands of Jacques Alfonse.
She hated him so much that it hurt. She didn’t know what to do for the best; whether to tell Pierre Laurain or to try and keep it all a secret. He was bound to notice the breakages and damage and she would have to account in some way for what had happened.
The trouble was that she didn’t trust Monsieur Alfonse. He not only drank a great deal but he was also a gossip, so it was more than likely that he would boast to his friends about what had happened.
She enjoyed living in her apartment and was grateful to Pierre Laurain for providing her with so much luxury while expecting so little in return. If she said nothing then he might hear the rumours and, depending on how garbled the version was, he might even assume she had condoned Jacques Alfonse’s behaviour.
If he questioned Jacques Alfonse directly, then he would probably say that she had led him on and put the blame on her for what had happened.
Added to which the news was bound to reach the ears of the other girls at the Folies Bergère and once that happened her life there would be unbearable.
Unable to remain in bed because she felt so stressed, Fern pulled on her peignoir and went into the kitchen and made a tisane in an attempt to calm her nerves.
Whichever way she looked at the problem it seemed as though her career at the Folies Bergère, as well as her days of comfortable living, were over. Madame Delcourt had been so much in favour of her accepting Pierre Laurain’s patronage that she was bound to be angry about what had happened and if she felt it had brought disgrace on Pierre Laurain’s name then she would sack her.
If that happened, she decided, she would return to Cardiff. She’d saved enough for her fare and, if she was very frugal, she could probably manage for a few weeks until she found a job. Rhodri Richards might even be prepared to let her help out on his stall; that was, if he still had one in the Hayes market.
She spent the rest of the day until it was time to go to the theatre trying to restore order in the apartment and sorting out her personal belongings.
Fern looked longingly at the pile of beautiful dresses, handbags, jewellery and perfume that Pierre had given her since she’d been living at Rue Laffitte. She would have loved to have kept everything but she felt that as she would most likely end up leaving Paris under a cloud it would be dishonest to do so.
Fern felt very subdued as she walked into the dressing room to change into her costume in readiness for the show. She was unsure if any of them knew about what had happened and she didn’t know what to expect. Eloise was there but her casual shrug of greeting was no different to any other day.
Gradually, as Fern exchanged greetings with the other girls in the normal way some of the anxiety that had built up during the long dark hours of the night began to diminish.
As she changed into her glamorous costume and applied her make-up ready for her solo dance Fern decided that perhaps it was all in her imagination that there would be trouble; none of the others appeared to know anything about what had happened.
She resolved to do her best to forget about it, although she knew perfectly well that the horrendous attack that Jacques Alfonse had subjected her to would never be erased from her mind.
As her body responded to the music Fern found that, as usual, she was transported from all the turmoil of the world around her into a dream where the music never stopped and she floated as free as a bird.
Fern’s momentary feeling of ecstasy vanished and she was filled with apprehension when later in the evening Pierre Laurain, accompanied by Madame Delcourt, entered the theatre and sat in t
he seats she kept reserved for special patrons.
Fern tried hard to concentrate on her dance, thankful that it was almost over. What should she do afterwards? she wondered. Her impulse was to go back to the dressing room, change out of her costume and then slip away quietly. She would probably have time to go back to the apartment, collect her valise, which she’d already packed, and be gone before Pierre Laurain missed her.
That was the action of a coward, she told herself. All her life she had always faced up to any problems that came her way so why should she behave in such a despicable manner now?
In the past she had had Glanmor to help her fight her battles, she reminded herself. Even when he was at sea he was there in her mind and heart, telling her what to do.
It made her pause and think; if she ran away, then she would be disgracing his memory as well as letting herself down. Why should she do so, anyway, she thought. The guilty one was Monsieur Alfonse, not her.
As she finished her routine, took her bow and retired from the stage, Fern’s mind was made up. She would face up to Pierre Laurain and tell him the truth about what had happened whether he’d heard about the incident from anyone else or not.
Before she had finished changing he appeared at the dressing-room door. His manner was as cordial and polite as ever as he took her arm and escorted her out to the waiting cab.
They exchanged the normal pleasantries and Fern decided it would be better to wait until they reached the apartment before she began telling him about the incident.
As she handed him a glass of absinthe everything between them seemed to be so normal that, for a fleeting moment, she wondered whether it might be better to say nothing.
The moment passed. Sitting on the edge of a chair facing Pierre she related in a quietly controlled voice exactly what had taken place the previous evening.
He listened to her in silence, smoking his cigar and occasionally sipping from his glass. His face remained impassive as he glanced across the room at the damaged chiffonier.
When she’d finished speaking he held out his glass and indicated with a nod of his head towards the bottle of absinthe that he wanted her to refill it.
As she did his bidding the silence in the room was so oppressive that Fern could feel her heart thudding as she waited for him to speak.
He drained his glass before he spoke and put it down with elaborate care on the side table.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow speculatively.
‘I felt you should know,’ Fern said lamely. ‘He not only damaged the apartment, he also violated me!’
‘So what are you expecting, pistols at dawn? I hardly think it is worth risking my life in defence of your honour, do you?’ he added with a supercilious smile.
Fern stared at him wide-eyed; she didn’t know what to say. She had expected him to express some words of sympathy for what she’d been forced to endure, or even a show of anger, and his languid acceptance of what had happened infuriated her.
‘In fact,’ Pierre Laurain went on in a humourless voice, ‘I had already received a detailed account of the incident from Monsieur Alfonse and I am more concerned about the chiffonier and the other breakages. Some of those pieces were very valuable,’ he added, stifling a yawn and rising to his feet.
‘You are leaving . . . so soon?’
‘Why? Are you hoping for a repeat performance of last night?’ he asked in a sardonic voice. ‘I would have thought that by now you would know that I do not indulge in carnal relationships. Even so, I have no objections to my friends taking their pleasure whenever they wish, providing you permit them to do so.’
‘I didn’t permit it,’ Fern exclaimed angrily. ‘I’ve already told you, Jacques Alfonse ravished me against my will.’
‘Really. You must have given him some encouragement.’
Fern felt incensed by the contempt in Pierre Laurain’s voice. Positioning herself between him and the door she said angrily, ‘You are not taking this seriously, are you? How can you stand there and say that you are more concerned over the damage to your possessions than you are about what happened to me?’
‘Very easily, ma cherie. You are replaceable; some of those pieces are not.’
Before she could stop him he had brushed past her, slamming the door behind him.
Fern poured herself a drink of absinthe and gulped it down. She hated the taste but she felt she needed something to settle her nerves and stop her trembling.
She couldn’t believe what had happened. The other girls were right with their sneers and innuendos. She was nothing more than a kept woman. They might be jealous of what she had managed to achieve but at this moment she envied them. She felt ashamed to be living in such luxurious surroundings when they were earning less than her and working even harder.
She didn’t think she could bear to face any of them ever again. Monsieur Alfonse had been right when he’d described her as a plaything. Pierre Laurain had made it quite clear that this was what he regarded her as and that she mattered far less to him than any of his prized possessions.
Her head was spinning and she blamed the absinthe and wished she’d not been foolish enough to drink it. Foolish – that about summed her up, she thought bitterly. No girl with any sense of propriety or even plain self-respect would agree to become a ‘kept woman’, she thought bitterly.
This stage in her life was over, she told herself. She had no intention of returning to the Folies Bergère; she wasn’t even going to give Madame Delcourt the satisfaction of knowing why she’d gone. The show would go on perfectly well without her; after all, it had done so before she’d appeared on the scene.
She’d had her moment of fame. She would give up the beautiful apartment and luxurious lifestyle she’d enjoyed so much and return to Cardiff and to the real world.
Even though it would probably mean she’d be living in one squalid room in Tiger Bay, her conscience would be clear and she would have her freedom and be able to look people squarely in the eye, knowing that she had retained her integrity.
Tired as she was she knew she couldn’t stay a minute longer in the apartment. Putting on her outdoor clothes and picking up her valise she went out into the crisp, cold December night.
Tomorrow would be New Year’s Eve, one of the busiest times of the year at the Folies Bergère; there would be a packed house and she was leaving without a word of explanation which would inconvenience Madame Delcourt because there would be a gap in the special programme she had arranged.
Fern knew that in some ways it was unforgivable but she calmed her conscience by reminding herself that it had been because Madame Delcourt had been so eager for her to accept the patronage of Monsieur Laurain that she was in this terrible situation.
She was on the point of hailing a taxicab to take her to the railway station when she decided it might be better not to do so. Pierre always used taxis when he left the apartment as well as when he brought her back from the theatre at night if the weather was inclement, so he was well known to most of the drivers. If he made enquiries as to her whereabouts then there was the risk that the driver might report to him that she’d left Paris by train.
As she trudged along the street, her luggage growing heavier by the minute, she knew it would probably have been more sensible to wait until the next morning. Though by then, she reasoned, she might have had second thoughts. The urge to get right away was too great; she wanted to put all that had happened in the last few hours behind her.
The journey by train and boat and then train again seemed endless; it was almost as if she was leaving one world and entering another. Time and time again she wondered if she was doing the right thing and whether she would regret leaving Paris.
She was so tired that once she was on the train that would finally take her back to Cardiff she kept nodding off, sinking into a dark, tumultuous world peopled by laughing, jeering chorus girls and hideous lecherous men. Every time it happened she would waken with a start and sta
re round the compartment unseeingly for a moment as she tried to bring her thoughts back to reality. She was always so relieved to find she was still on the train that she endeavoured to stay awake until she reached her destination.
She finally arrived at Cardiff General around midday the following day. It was not only a Saturday, she reflected, but it was also the first day of 1927. Could this be an omen, she wondered, a new year and a brand new beginning for her?
Chapter Thirty-two
As she came out of the railway station in Wood Street and crossed over the road towards the Hayes, Fern was surprised by how quiet it seemed to be. Then she stopped in her tracks; the market was closed. For a moment she had forgotten that it was New Year’s Day and there would be no trading.
It all seemed so strange that she felt disorientated. She recognised all the familiar roads and their names and yet, because there was none of the usual hustle and bustle of the market, she felt slightly dismayed.
She hesitated for a moment, wondering what to do for the best, and then she decided to go to Maria’s and headed for the nearest tram stop.
As the tram lurched its way down Bute Street so many things looked different. She wondered if Rhodri still had a stall in the market and whether he and Maria would recognise her. It was almost five years since she’d left Cardiff; she’d been seventeen then; now she was nearly twenty-two, grown-up and a woman of the world.
As she knocked on the door of the flat, Fern found herself smiling as she imagined the look of surprise there would be on Maria’s face when she opened it. She’d have so much to tell her, Fern reflected.
Her smile faded abruptly. It wasn’t Maria but a stranger standing there. The woman was middle aged and frowning as though annoyed at the interruption. When Fern asked for Mrs Roberts the woman shook her head. ‘You’ve got the wrong flat. No one of that name lives here, not now, anyway.’
‘Do you know where Mrs Roberts has gone?’