The next Sunday morning luck favoured her, for when the car arrived, grey and exquisite, Daisy wasn’t ready. And apparently the car, perfect though she looked, and perfectly as she had slid into position at the front door, wasn’t at her best. For Tania came down to find the bonnet up, Bristowe’s hind portions the only part of him visible, and the car’s interior displayed before her admiring eyes.
Bristowe was fond of his car, he treated her as he treated women, and he had a most successful way with women. His method was to humour them; humour them, that is to say, up to a point, the point being the hilt; and then be firm. So with the car. He gave in to her in every possible way. She said she wanted more oil when she most certainly did not, he gave her more oil. She said she wanted cleaning when he knew she was spotless, he gave her another wipe round. But just once in a way he was firm. He would say: “No, my lady, you don’t!”—and he was saying: “No, my lady, you don’t!” on this particular Sunday morning. She had disgraced him, she had refused to do a simple little hill in top. She who could have climbed Everest in top if she had put her mind to it. He was disgusted with her. A poor way to behave on a Sunday morning.
Tania, unable to resist so entrancing a spectacle, leaned over Bristowe and stared at the car’s vitals. Bristowe unscrewed various bits of her, he waggled bits of her, and the more he unscrewed and waggled, the more entranced Tania became. A feeling of kinship stole over them both, and before they knew where they were, they began to talk. Bristowe told Tania about the car, how he had chosen it for the Higgs’ who knew nothing about cars, how she ran just as sweet as sugar as a rule, but how this particular Sunday she wasn’t running at all nice, not at all nice she wasn’t. Tania asked about her speed, Bristowe looked round to be sure no one was listening, and then confessed that given a clear road she could touch eighty, but they—and here he gave a scornful jerk of the head to depict absent Higgs—they thought they weren’t safe at thirty, fair sickening Bristowe found it. He’d been in the Air Force during the war, and knew what speed was, of course he’d only been a mechanic, but he’d kept his eyes open. My! that was the life, all the sky to fly in, no white lines and traffic regulations and speed limits. My! it was a bit of all right up there. Tania’s lips parted, her breath came in short gasps. How she agreed with him. How right he was in every word he said. She told him she wanted to find a garage where she could get her mechanic’s training. He looked serious, he didn’t think it was a job for a girl, didn’t think there was anything in it. But if it was learning to drive she wanted, well he’d give her a lesson or two. They heard Daisy and Nannie talking on the stairs. Bristowe said quickly: “Next Sunday when I’m down fetchin’ Miss Daisy, pop out an’ we’ll fix a time on the Q.T.”
Tania trod on air. She went through agonies before the next Sunday. Would he remember?—oh, would he remember? On the Sunday morning she hung out of the window watching for him.
He had barely brought the grey bonnet on a level with the front door, before she had raced out to him. He had not forgotten:
“Could you get out on Tuesday morning? I’m taking that there dog Flossie to the vet, an’ I can leave the dog an’ pick you up, an’ squeeze in ’alf-an-’our, but you’ll ’ave to find your own way back, as I daren’t be out longer than that or they’ll miss me.”
Tuesday morning was cold and grey, but to Tania waiting on the corner for Bristowe to pick her up, it was a day to dream about. She never noticed the cold, she was far too excited. And for her, the grey morning had all the colours of the sunset. As the car drew level :with her, she slipped into the front seat, giving Bristowe an almost intoxicated smile.
“Have you a licence?” he asked. She turned her eyes to him, terrified: “I can’t have one, I’m only sixteen.”
It was against his conscience, against his better judgment, but he couldn’t see the kid look like that; he ought to have at once refused to give the lesson, but those brown, passionately eager eyes weakened his will power.
“Oh well, may as well be ’ung for a sheep as a lamb, but we’ll ’ave to stick to the quiet back streets.”
Tania had never guessed that it was possible to feel such ecstasy as she felt as her hands first touched the steering wheel. She turned crimson, her heart seemed to beat in her throat, her eyes filled with tears. Oh, the smooth lovely feeling of the wheel—the delicious throb of the engine—the sensation of power—the knowledge that in obedience to you, this great powerful thing would move fast—fast till she almost flew.
“Oh, Bristowe, isn’t she lovely!”
“Never you mind if she is or isn’t, you listen to me. Now that there lever moves the gears—”
Bristowe was not given to praising women, he didn’t hold with it. In his opinion they thought more than enough of themselves as it was. But he was enormously proud of Tania. At the end of half-a-dozen lessons he would have trusted her with his car anywhere. Of course not having a licence he never let her take it out alone, nor had she driven much in traffic, but he knew what she could do. She seemed to have an almost uncanny understanding where cars were concerned, she made none of the mistakes usual to beginners, never got muddled with her gear-changing, never stalled her engine. He didn’t praise her exactly, but there was a change in their relationship; from pupil and teacher, they became two enthusiasts with the same hobby. Tania talked to him about her future. He didn’t laugh, or throw cold water on her hopes, but he warned her that he didn’t see any great opening for a woman in the motoring line, no chances for a woman in racing or tests. Unless she had some backing, he didn’t see what there was for her but a chauffeur’s job, and those were hard enough to get even for a man. Still, there was no harm in learning how to do a bit of repairing as a start.
Bristowe had a brother, one Alfy, who had a garage down Richmond way. He approached him on the subject of Tania. Alfy gave it as his considered opinion that it would be a waste of the young lady’s time, there was very little work about anyway, and none at all for a girl. Still, if it was a bit of teaching she was wanting, he was willing.
It was arranged that Tania should go to the garage every morning from nine-thirty till twelve thirty, while her pantomime lasted, and extend the hours after that. Alfy, with a jerk of his thumb at the mixture of oil, dust, and cotton waste on the floor, pointed out that she must wear overalls, and mustn’t mind “gettin’ her hands in a cruel mess.” Tania assured him that she didn’t consider that sort of dirt, dirt; then she swung miserably about on one leg, wondering how she could introduce the question of money. There was no really good moment to do it, so in desperation she interrupted a highly technical argument on magnets with:
“Mr Alfy, what’s it goin’ to cost?”
Alfy eyed her severely.
“In my garridge,” he said in a slow mournful voice, “there ain’t no misters, we’re the proliteriot we are, an’ I’m just Alfy—an’ you’ll be just Tania. As for cost, well now—” He scratched his head and looked at Bristowe for assistance.
Bristowe, who knew all about Tania’s three pounds, suggested two pounds as a start, and see how they went. Alfy agreed that was the best way, nothing like seeing how you went.
Tania went home on the Underground in a state of enchantment, and it was not till she reached the flat that she remembered that she must tell Nannie what she was going to do, and that Nannie would most certainly disapprove. There was no doubt about it, Nannie would have to be told the truth, it was impossible that she should just slip off every morning and never explain why.
Nannie most definitely disapproved. Tania was a help in the flat—why should she want to go messing about in a dirty garage?—overall or no overall she’d ruin her clothes—and where was the money coming from, with the pantomime coming off?—it was a most ridiculous idea, and Tania ought to be ashamed of herself for even thinking of such a thing.
Maimie and Daisy backed Tania up. Maimie was astounded that anyone would actually pay to do har
d work and make her hands in a mess, and Daisy could not understand why, when she could stop in a nice clean flat, she should want to spend her time in a dirty garage among a lot of rough men. Still, Tania did want these extraordinary things, and they would not have her trodden on Maimie said:
“Oh, leave her alone, Nannie, can’t she spend her pocket-money how she likes? She’s worked hard enough for it, God knows.”
“Yes,” agreed Daisy, “working in that horrid old pantomime, and you know how she does hate, it.”
Tania looked at them both, she felt enormously grateful for their support, it was heavenly of them to back her up. She knew that under similar circumstances they would have shown their gratitude by throwing their arms round her neck, telling her she was “a lamb,” or “a perfect pet.” She couldn’t bring herself to do anything like that, but a warm glowing feeling stole through her. Hidden deep inside her was a love for her sisters that amounted almost to worship, but she was never at all sure that they felt the same about her. She tried .hard to find words to thank them, but failed; it was so hopeless to thank people who were used to your reticence, and would think you a damn fool if you tried to put your feelings into words.
She was to start work in the garage on the following Monday. For the great day she bought some jeans. She put them away in a drawer, but she couldn’t leave them there, she had to keep taking them out and looking at them. Although they had come straight from a shop, they already had a sort of garage smell.
The garage life seemed to Tania as near the life of Heaven as was possible while still on earth. She told her sister s in a burst of enthusiasm that it was like Sussex. They stared at her open-mouthed:
“Why, what do you do?”
“Oh, just learn how to repair the cars, you know.”
“You can’t call that like Sussex,” Maimie gasped. “And look at your hands, they get worse every day, and they were the best part of you.”
Tania examined her long, thin, brown hands, they certainly were ingrained with oil.
“I don’t think hands matter much,” she observed cheerfully. “Different for you and Daisy, but who looks at mine? and everyone’s hands are awful at the garage, you should just see Alfy’s.”
“Alfy! Will you listen to her?” Maimie groaned. “Before we know where we are, we’ll have Tania marrying a man from a garage.”
“Well, I might do a damn sight worse,” said Tania stoutly.
With the ending of her pantomime she was able to work longer hours in the garage. She took sandwiches with her, and worked till the last possible minute before flying to catch her train for her classes at the academy. With the result that she arrived there in such a state of grease and grime that she was forced to creep in like a criminal, her hands hidden in her gloves, and make a furtive dive for the cloakroom, where she had a hasty wash and brush-up, before facing Madame’s exceedingly observant eye.
Now that freedom was almost within sight, she could stomach the academy better than she had done all the years she had been there. It was the end. She was very unlikely to be offered another engagement before next Christmas, and long before that she intended to have a chauffeur’s job. She would be old enough for a licence in June. She knew jobs for women were hard to find, but she felt it in her bones that she was going to be one of the women who found them. She was so sure that she had finished with the stage for good, that on the last night of the pantomime she nearly gave away her grease-paints to save carrying them home. Madame had Tania on her mind. She liked the child. She knew she would never be much good, but she was a reliable and hard worker. Then this term she was not so plain, she had filled out a little and though still painfully thin, was less angular. Madame had often regretted that the child looked so sad, but this term she seemed quite different, she had a light in her eyes, and more personality somehow.
“Must fix Tania, fix Tania, fix Tania,” she said to Muriel.
Muriel agreed, but pointed out that it wouldn’t be easy. Tania was certainly growing much prettier it was true, but she still hadn’t the kind of looks for a West-End chorus, and she completely lacked push, which, when all was said and done, was more important than looks. If there was a back row, Tania always found it. Still, she was a nice kid, and they would try her for the first job going.
Tania was working at the bar. It was an exercise she had done for the last eleven years, so although her feet were performing it adequately, her brain was saying: “Then take out the plug—clean the—”
“Tania dear, you’re wanted,” Muriel stood beside her.
“Who? What? Oh dear, what for?” Tania returned to the academy with a thud.
“Madame, an audition, she’s got a bloke of sorts in there.”
“Oh my God, look at my hands, and look at my romper.”
“Well, there’s no time to wash or change, so slip along.”
Tania slipped. The man in Madame’s office wasn’t her idea of a manager, he didn’t look rich enough somehow; he’d an ordinary blue suit, and he was smoking a cigarette. Pantomime managers smoked cigars.
“Come in, Tania, come in, Tania, come in, Tania. Mr. Ian Long, Mr. Ian Long, Mr. Ian Long.”
The man got to his feet and smiled at her. He had, she noticed, rather long black hair, getting up disturbed it, he swept a lock off his face with a gesture. Seeing this, she decided he was a dancer looking for a partner. He took her hand.
“Do you love our Bard?” he asked.
Tania nervously scrubbed the toe of her ballet shoe up and down the floor. “Love our Bard,” she thought. “Now what the hell’s the poor fool talking about?” She saw Madame making nodding signs, so she answered vaguely:
“Yes.”
“Nothing like him. Read him, and you’ve react life.” On this profundity, Mr. Long released her hand.
He was certainly loopy, Tania decided.
“Like to see her dance? See her dance? See her dance?”
Tania lit up, here at last was something she understood. But Mr. Long was still behaving queerly. Pantomime auditions had taught her to expect an “I suppose I’ve got to look at you” attitude to job-hunting dancers. But Mr. Long said:
“If I may, please.”
They went into a small empty practice room, an accompanist was rung for. To her horror Tania heard Madame say:
“Classic dance, classic dance, classic dance.”
If there was one dance which she loathed more than another it was a dance they had learned for a charity matinée, which was vaguely known as “Classic Dance.” It was performed to the music of Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song,” and it required floating draperies, and a wreath of flowers to hold in your hands. In a rather grubby romper, which was so short that it left exposed every bit that could be decently described as leg, she felt peculiarly hopeless. However, the music started, Madame’s eye was on her, gloomily she got up on her points, and meandered across the floor. She was at no time a good dancer, but on this occasion she was at her worst. Worried by the lack of draperies, fussed at having to wave her extremely grimy hands in the place of the wreath of flowers, she gave a deplorable performance. As she finished she saw Madame’s sad eye on her, marvelling that she could teach a child for so long, and it still dance so bad. She glanced in a hang-dog way at Mr. Long. He wouldn’t of course engage her after an exhibition like that. But Mr. Long continued to be most peculiar. Seeing the dance was finished, he leapt to his feet, swept back his hair, and hurrying across the room, seized her hand again, but this time he kissed it.
“My dear,” he murmured, “I know an artist when I see one.”
Tania’s mouth fell open. What the hell was this man anyway? One thing was certain, he couldn’t be a dancer, or she would never have got away with a performance like that.
Mr. Long pulled a small red book from his pocket, skimmed through it with practised fingers, found the page he wanted, and handed the book
to Tania.
“Would you read this to me?”
She found it was a copy of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and he was pointing at the part of the fairy. She supposed she must have read it before, they’d done “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at school. She started haltingly:
“Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough briar,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire.”
She grew more into the swing of the lines. A little warmth crept into her voice:
“I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;”
“Gracious, that’s nice,” she thought. “Can’t have read it before, or I’d have noticed that—”
“Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone:
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.”
“That’ll do, thank you,” said Mr. Long. He spoke in a pleased voice. He turned to Madame:
“A lovely speaking voice, though inexperienced of course. She’ll do very well.”
Tania gathered from what followed that Mr. Long was a Shakesperian actor, that he wanted someone to teach the dances in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and to play a few tiny parts. He gave her a list, on it was written:
Dream—Fairy.
Julius Caesar—Lucius.
Henry V—English Herald.
Macbeth—Fleance.
“There’ll be some bits and pieces,” he said, “but these will do you to be getting on with. I’ll explain to Madame Elise about tights and shoes for you. The tour opens three weeks from Monday.”
The Whicharts Page 13