by Maureen Lee
‘I don’t know, either,’ Anne confessed. ‘It’s such a muddle, you can’t tell. The scenes aren’t shot in the order they’re in the script, but all over the place. Yesterday, we did a scene from the middle and one at the end - it was something to do with having the choir present and saving money having to hire them again. I much prefer the theatre. At least you know where you are.’ The worst thing was the dance sequences were frequently interrupted when she was in full flow and she had to do them again and again, sometimes commencing halfway through a number, which meant she was unable to get back into the swing of things. It bothered her so much that the headaches she thought she’d got rid of had started again.
Lizzie nodded. ‘The theatre’s live, the people are real, there’s a lovely atmosphere. A movie just doesn’t compare. Oh, Anne,’ she said with a throb in her voice, ‘I don’t know about you, but I badly miss New York.’
‘So do I.’ She missed it so much she wanted to cry when she woke up and saw through the window the blue waters of the Pacific rolling on to a golden beach, when she would have far preferred Central Park with the sun shining, the rain falling, or the entire park covered with snow. She missed the shops, she missed Lev, but most of all she missed the theatre, in particular the last few weeks of Roses are Red after Herbie had sprained his ankle and Flip Ungar had become her partner.
She would never have said it to a soul, certainly not Herbie’s mother, but dancing with Flip had been sheer bliss, like dancing with another version of herself, who knew exactly what to do next and how to do it. She hadn’t been looking forward to Herbie’s ankle getting better and having to dance with him again. In a way, Herbie was a liability. She worried all the time he’d make a mistake and she’d have to cover it with a mistake of her own so no one would notice. Flip never made mistakes.
Then, one night in February, very late, Ollie had got into one of his terrible rages and began to curse Conrad Abel for all he was worth. ‘It’s all his fault, he’s behind it,’ he yelled at Lizzie, ‘But I’m not going to let him get away with it. I’ll get the bastard, you’ll see.’
No one except his family - and Anne - knew about Ollie’s rages, the way he threw things about and kicked the furniture. When people were there, he was all sweetness and light. Once, he’d smashed one of Lizzie’s paintings against the wall, breaking the frame and making her cry. The rages never lasted long, though, and afterwards he was as nice as pie.
When he was cross, Anne would shut herself in the bedroom till he’d stopped shouting, but on that particular night she was already in bed and was surprised when there was a knock on the door and Ollie said, ‘Can I speak to you for a minute, honey?’ He no longer sounded mad, but then he was never angry with her.
He came in and told her to start packing first thing in the morning. ‘We’re going to California,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been planning it for a long while, just felt like a change from New York. I’m gonna produce movies.’
‘But what about the show?’ she protested. ‘I can’t let everyone down.’
‘You won’t be,’ he said abruptly. ‘It’s closed. I’ve just had a phone call. The backers have dropped out.’
‘But we were doing so well.’ She’d understood they were booked solid for six months. Did it matter if the backers had dropped out so late in the day? It didn’t make sense. And why tell Ollie rather than her or Herbie? It was nothing to do with him. But Ollie didn’t look in the mood to explain.
The next morning, she packed her clothes, leaving most behind for Christina to send on. Lizzie positively refused to give up the apartment and Christina was being kept on as caretaker, though Eric would have to find another chauffeur’s job after he’d arranged to have the Deusenberg put away in a long-term garage.
Anne wished she could have said goodbye to the Schultzes and wanted to ring the theatre to speak to someone, but the telephone in the lounge didn’t appear to be working and Ollie was monopolizing the one in the den.
Eric drove them to Grand Central. Lizzie was almost in tears, but Herbie was his usual sunny self. Ollie had recovered his temper and showed them a script he’d commissioned. ‘It’s called When Angels Sing. It only arrived the other day. When I heard about the backers pulling the plug on the show I decided it was now or never. I’ve been putting it off long enough; it’s time for action.’ He smacked his lips, pleased with himself.
‘I think I’ll make another cold drink,’ Lizzie said now. She removed her hat and fanned herself with it. Her hair was soaking. ‘One of these days I’ll melt away to nothing.’ She went indoors.
Anne felt genuinely sorry for Lizzie, who was now her mother-in-law and had always been so kind. She reached for a magazine that lay under her chair and saw it was open on the page that carried a photo of her and Herbie’s wedding.
It had been a shock, Herbie asking her to marry him. They’d been in Los Angeles only a couple of weeks and were by the pool studying the script of When Angels Sing when, all of a sudden, he’d fallen on one knee beside her and proposed marriage.
‘But why?’ she’d asked, not very romantically.
‘Because I love you,’ he’d said, brushing away the lock of blond hair that always hung over his eyes. ‘And you’re already a member of the family. Why not become a fully paid-up member - Mrs Herbie Blinker? You’ll never want for anything, darling. It means I’ll stop worrying that one day you’ll go away, desert us, and I’m not sure if I can live without you. Don’t you love me just the teensiest little bit?’
‘Well, yes,’ she conceded.
‘There then,’ he said gleefully. ‘If we love each other, the obvious thing for us to do is get married.’
‘No.’ Anne shook her head. ‘I don’t want to marry you,’ she said vehemently. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone. I’ll never get married; never, never, never.’
Herbie had been taken aback by the force of her words. ‘Whyever not, darling?’ he asked gently. When she didn’t reply, he went on. ‘Something bad happened to you in the past, didn’t it? I think I understand. If you’re worried about a . . . a certain side of marriage, then I promise on my heart I won’t touch you till you’re ready.’
‘But what if I’m never ready?’ she cried.
‘I’ll take a chance on that, darling. There’s more to marriage than just the things people do in bed. There’s loving and caring and just being there for somebody.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Please marry me, Anne. I love you so very much.’
How could she have refused? Six weeks later they were married and nothing, apart from her name, had changed. Even then, everybody still referred to her as Anne Murray - the name that would appear on the screen when - if - When Angels Sing was shown in the cinema. She still slept in the same bedroom on her own and Herbie slept in his.
But she belonged, she had a family, and she didn’t feel quite so lost.
Three weeks later, the movie was finished. ‘That’s a wrap,’ Abe Collins shouted when the very last scene was shot. That night, they had a party on the set. Anne was relieved it was all over, at least, that her part in it was. All sorts of things had to be done to the film before it was ready to be seen by an audience. As far as she was concerned, she never wanted to make another movie for as long as she lived, but Ollie was already talking about the next one. It made her feel physically sick. She desperately wished Lev were there to talk to.
It was another Sunday afternoon and Ollie and Herbie were playing golf again. ‘I never thought a game like golf would appeal to either of them,’ Lizzie complained. ‘It’s too strenuous. They’re a pair of lazy buggers, and until now all they’ve ever played is pool or darts.’ It was June and the weather was getting even warmer. Lizzie was talking about going to New York for a while.
‘It’ll be just as hot there,’ Anne warned. New York summers were notorious for their blistering heat.
‘Not as much as it is here.’ California had done Lizzie no good at all. She looked pale and quite ill. ‘Anyway, the walls of the apartment are so
thick it always felt quite cool inside. Trouble is, I don’t like deserting Ollie.’
A few days later, Lizzie changed her mind about deserting Ollie when a packet of photographs of him and Herbie cavorting in a pool with two buxom blondes, all of them naked, came through the post.
‘Funny sort of golf,’ Lizzie sneered when she showed them to Ollie, who blamed Hughie Vandervelt for sending them. He and Lizzie had a flaming row that lasted most of the night. Herbie shut himself in his bedroom.
Next morning, Lizzie told Anne that she was leaving Ollie and returning to live permanently in New York. ‘We’re not getting divorced - believe it or not, I still love the wretched man and he loves me - but from now on we’re going to lead separate lives and just see each other occasionally. Are you coming with me, Anne?’
‘To New York?’ Anne asked, startled.
‘Where else, pet?’ Lizzie looked triumphant. ‘Any other time, I’d’ve cried meself to death over what Ollie’s done, but it doesn’t feel nearly so bad if it means I can escape from Los Angeles.’
‘But Herbie and I have only been married a few months.’ Nevertheless, a little worm of hope crawled into Anne’s brain. She didn’t care that Herbie had been unfaithful.
‘So what, pet? Herbie’s my son and I know I shouldn’t say this, but he’s let you down, just like Ollie did me. You don’t have to get divorced: no one will see anything odd about a wife pursuing her stage career in one part of the country, while the husband makes movies in another. Come on, pet,’ she urged, eyes shining in a face that was no longer pale, ‘pack your bags and we’ll go home together.’
Christina was delighted to see them back. The Duesenberg was resurrected from the garage and Eric returned to work for the Blinkers. Lizzie immediately threw herself into the campaign to elect Franklin Delano Roosevelt as the next President of the United States. Not only had he promised the country a New Deal, but had vowed to repeal Prohibition.
For the first few days, all Anne did was stroll dreamily through Central Park where children played and lovers kissed and people picnicked or slept inside the long shadows that spread over the grass, breathing in the fresh scent of flowers, the smell of cut grass and the hint of cigars. She was pleased to discover that Mr Schultz had got a job and no longer lived in the Hoovervilles. Lev came to the apartment for dinner and she described to him the horrors of Los Angeles compared to the pleasures of New York.
One morning, she woke up to the smell of greasepaint and the sound of a thousand feet tapping away - possibly the remnant of a lovely dream that had lost itself in sleep. She jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes, and caught a cab to 42nd Street. That was where she belonged, not just in New York, but Broadway: theatreland. As the cab neared its destination, she felt the same rush of excitement as she did while waiting for the curtain to go up or was about to do a number that would stop the show.
She alighted from the cab when the driver turned into 42nd Street from Times Square and looked to see what was on: Girl Crazy with Ginger Rogers and Ethel Merman; Mourning Becomes Electra, a new play by Eugene O’Neill. Her eyes popped when she saw the posters outside the Classic for Roses are Red. ‘But Ollie said it was closing,’ she said aloud. She walked up and down in front of the theatre, studying the posters. Flip Ungar had third billing after Eric Carrington and Patricia Peters, followed by Rosalind Raines. There was no mention of Zeke Penn. It was too early for the box office to be open, but there was no doubt that the theatre was still in business. Roses are Red hadn’t closed. Ollie had lied.
Why?’
‘Because Herbie was about to be dumped, that’s why,’ Lev explained when she went to see him in his office. She hoped she wasn’t interrupting anything important and was relieved when he appeared extremely pleased to see her. In return, she wanted to cover his face with a hundred kisses. ‘Conrad Abel told me. He didn’t want Herbie to be hurt, so he decided to move his entire family to California.’
‘I wasn’t part of his family, not then,’ Anne said indignantly. ‘I could have gone later when my understudy was ready to take my place.’ She frowned. ‘I might not have gone at all. Ollie didn’t give us time to make up our minds.’
‘He did that deliberately, darling. It was imperative that you went with them because Herbie needed you. He’d never have got as far as he did in the theatre without you.’
‘But he’s much better in movies than me, much more natural. It didn’t bother him when we had to shoot scenes over and over again.’ Her face broke into a delighted smile. ‘That means he and Ollie won’t mind that I’ve come back to New York, will they?’
‘Not all that much, no.’
They both decided that Ollie wasn’t nearly as bad as Conrad Abel painted him, or as nice as they’d always thought him, but somewhere in between. He was still Anne’s father-in-law and Levon’s friend.
Anne was beginning to feel restless. Her feet itched to dance and her throat to sing. It was a relief when Conrad Abel called and invited her to dinner.
‘I’m leaving Roses are Red in the fall,’ he announced during the meal. ‘I’ve been asked to produce a new show, Orchids for My Lady. It opens in December and I’d like you for the leading lady. Flip Ungar’s already accepted the leading man’s part. You wouldn’t have to audition; I just know you’d be perfect.’ He flicked the ash of his cigar onto the carpet. ‘Think about it, Anne. I need to have your decision at the very earliest.’
‘You can have it now,’ she said, her voice thick with excitement. ‘It’s yes.’ She couldn’t wait to get back on the stage. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’
Chapter 11
1935
‘Mammy, why can’t I have a bed of me own?’
‘My, Megan; say my own, not me own.’
‘Mammy, why can’t I have a bed of my own?’ Megan repeated with a smirk.
‘Because we haven’t got the room.’
‘It could go in the corner.’
This was true, except it would leave no space to move around. ‘I can’t afford a new bed,’ Mollie said.
Megan pouted. ‘Joe and Tommy have beds of their own.’
‘That’s because they’re boys and they have a room to themselves.’ Mollie rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘If I’ve had this argument with you once, Megan, I must have had it a million times. There isn’t the room to put a bed and, if there was, I haven’t the money to buy one.’
‘I’m fed up being kicked all night long.’
‘So am I and so is Brodie, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.’ It was extremely uncomfortable sleeping three to a bed. They took turns: two at the top and one at the bottom, the worst place of all because you had two pairs of feet attacking you. This week it was Megan’s turn to sleep at the bottom, hence the demand for another bed.
‘It’s all right for us, Megan,’ Brodie said quietly. ‘All we have to do is go to school. Mammy has to look after Mr Pettigrew every morning and do lots of housework. She needs her sleep more than we do.’
Mr Pettigrew was a ninety-year-old curmudgeon. His fond granddaughter, Philomena, his only relative, didn’t like leaving him alone all day when she went to work. Another woman took over from Mollie at one o’clock and stayed until Philomena returned home.
‘Huh!’ Megan stalked out of the room, but Mollie knew she’d soon be back to say sorry.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand - the day was oppressively hot - and went into the parlour to make sure Joe and Tommy were all right playing in the street. Joe was very timid and easily bullied - once, he’d had his shoes stolen - but Tommy did his best to keep an eye on his elder brother. Four-year-old Tommy had taken to street life as if he’d been born to it, which he had in a way, as she’d been living in Turnpike Street when he’d arrived.
It was the school holidays and the street was full of kids, ranging from the clean to those who hadn’t seen soap and water for quite a while. Either they were overdressed in thick jerseys and trousers, quite unsuitable for the weather,
or they wore hardly anything at all, just a pair of shorts or a skimpy frock. One boy wore wellies that were far too big and flopped against his pitifully bandy legs. Some women looked after their children as best they could, but others just gave up, not just on the children, but on themselves. Life was just one long, wretched struggle, as they tried to survive from one day to the next.
Her own boys were playing ‘tin can’ football with two lads of about the same age from the house opposite. It was the bigger lads who caused the trouble.
The sleeves on Joe’s shirt were much too short. It was time to turn it into a proper short-sleeved shirt. And Megan was growing out of her only decent summer frock and there was no more hem to let down. Mollie wondered if she could add a band of ribbon or a frill before Megan noticed her knees were showing and demanded a new frock. It was August; in a few weeks’ time the summer would be over and Megan and Joe would need warmer clothes when they returned to school in September.
She sighed. It meant a visit to Paddy’s Market and she resented dressing her children in other children’s cast-offs, although it had seemed fun when she and Agatha used to do it for themselves. Poor Brodie and Tommy were doubly unfortunate, as they inherited the cast-offs that Megan and Joe had grown out of. Not that Brodie seemed to mind, and Tommy had yet to start school and didn’t care what he wore.
Irene appeared with a shopping bag. She saw Mollie in the window, took out a package, and waved it exultantly. ‘Mince,’ she shouted. ‘Only a penny a pound in Maxwell’s.’
Mollie opened the door to let her in. ‘How old is it?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t ask, luv, but it looks quite fresh.’ She opened the package. The meat was more grey than pink. Maxwell’s butcher’s, known locally as Mucky Max’s, had a terrible reputation and was only frequented by the grindingly poor. It was rumoured that the rabbits they sold were, in all probability, cats. The first time Dandelion had disappeared, Mollie had a horrible feeling he’d ended up at Mucky Max’s, but Dandelion had returned quite safely. Now no one worried when he took off for long periods, apart from Brodie, who cried herself to sleep every night until he came back, fatter and more smug than when he’d left. Mollie could only assume he had two homes.