A Mother's Choice

by Val Wood

  Over a pot of coffee in a small café she sat brooding and thinking and wondering if perhaps, now that she had a three-month contract in her possession, she should go back to Hedon and find her son, apologizing that she’d been unwell and hadn’t known what she was doing; but, she pondered, that was no excuse, nor did it alter the fact that he needed schooling and she’d still have to leave him alone during her night-time performances and that wasn’t good for a growing boy. He would go off to look for entertainment, she thought; I know he did that in Brighton. He must have been bored, poor boy, but it was a dangerous thing to do and he could have got into bad company. She sighed, and thought, not for the first time, that she would be considered a neglectful mother.

  I should have taken a different kind of work from the beginning, she thought. I should have stayed as a cleaner, but hindsight is a wonderful thing and at the time I didn’t know what to do about my situation, and who would have kept me on when they discovered my real reason for leaving home? And then, when I found I could sing for my supper, rightly or wrongly I made the decision to travel to London with the company and disappear altogether into their world. The theatre folk were very kind to me when I needed them most; they seemed to understand, and they accepted both me and my child.

  She sighed again, heavily. If only I’d had someone to confide in, her thoughts ran on, but my one true friend had also left home to fulfil her own desires; she was more confident than I was, and more sensible, with good parents to guide her, and would have stood up for herself more ably than I did. I couldn’t have told her, of course; it would have been a risk to our friendship, although I almost told her mother, until she uttered those fateful words.

  I wonder where she is now and what she’s doing. She wasn’t in Hedon for the hiring festivity, that’s for certain. With that shining beacon of glorious red hair I would have spotted her immediately. I was always jealous of her hair; mine seemed so dull at the side of hers. Delia gave a wry smile when she thought of the secrets they had shared, bar one, and how they had each thought herself plain when they were young, whilst the other insisted no, you’re beautiful.

  Ah, Jenny, she thought. Where are you now? With a fine husband and children? Or still bent on an independent career of your own?

  After the first performance, she sat in a café with Giles Dawson, Fraser Macbeth, a magician, who swore that Macbeth was his real name, and Miriam Edgar, an acrobatic dancer.

  ‘Monday night performances are never expected to have full capacity in the first week,’ Delia said in a quiet response to Macbeth’s grumble that the house was only half full. ‘And I think you’ll find that it was more likely three quarters full. I have performed to much smaller audiences than we had tonight and the management still broke even.’

  ‘Tonight was a try-out,’ Dawson agreed. ‘Monday is the night for ironing out any difficulties and polishing up the acts, the lighting and so on.’

  ‘I happen to know all that, thank you very much,’ Macbeth sniffed. ‘I’ve been in this game long enough.’

  Delia didn’t comment further, but Macbeth was no more than nineteen or twenty and she guessed that his skills with cards, magic boxes and swishing tablecloths had been honed before friends and family and in amateur concerts. Although he was quick and clever with a lively patter, she conjectured that this might be his first professional engagement. She herself was now a seasoned performer; she knew what an almost empty auditorium was like, when you had to imagine that there was a full house below you and not just a few people in the front row.

  That night’s audience had been warm and appreciative and although she realized that many seats would have been complimentary and some reduced for regular attendees, there would have been an assessment of how the various performances were received and she had seen a genuine smile on Dennis Rogers’ face as he had said goodbye and thank you to the entertainers as they left the theatre.

  There had been a winter theme throughout the show; the stage had been decorated with sparkling stars and silver trees, and painted reindeer amidst snowy hills on the backdrop, and after seeing it during rehearsal, and knowing how much better it would seem from the darkened auditorium with the spotlights highlighting the artistes, Delia had altered the order of her gowns, wearing a red crinoline with a white shawl for her opening number and second song; then, as the orchestra played, swiftly changing in the wings to reappear in a pure white floaty muslin threaded with silver over a white satin slip. She wore a small silver coronet on her dark hair for her closing song, and received rapturous applause as she returned to the stage and gave a deep curtsy.

  ‘I thought it was very clever of you to switch gowns so swiftly,’ Miriam Edgar told her. ‘I haven’t quite worked out how you did it.’

  Delia smiled. Miriam was young too, but not as young as she appeared to be, for she had the slim lithe body of a child. ‘Thank you. I’d arranged for a dresser to help me,’ she explained.

  She didn’t give away the secret that she had also spoken to the conductor of the orchestra and asked him to choose a cavatina which would give her time to slip off the scarlet gown to reveal the white muslin beneath and have the coronet placed on her head by the dresser before the musicians began the opening bars of her final song. It was Giles Dawson, the violinist, who had been chosen to play the simple air and it had set the scene perfectly.

  She thanked him as they walked back to the lodging house, and he returned the compliment by saying, ‘It was a masterly touch. You should be top of the bill instead of the comic; I don’t find him in the least amusing.’

  ‘Nor I,’ she agreed. ‘But he’s very popular and will draw in the crowds. They need a big name.’

  ‘Mm,’ he said, and Delia could tell he wasn’t convinced, but she shivered when he went on to say, ‘You know, Miss Delamour, if you’re originally from this area, perhaps you should be promoted as the return of the celebrated local voice of Yorkshire, or something like that?’

  She hid her dread of being so exposed and murmured, ‘Oh, I don’t think so. Audiences want to hear London stars and I’d prefer to be described as fresh from London and the south of England, as if I’d made an effort to come for their personal entertainment.’

  He looked quizzically at her as he opened the door to their lodgings and she felt that he was curious about her, but polite enough not to ask.

  On Tuesday evening there was a buzz amongst the performers. They had been told a queue was forming outside the theatre and the news lifted their spirits considerably. As the time drew near for the opening, Miriam Edgar slid on her stomach across the stage and lifted the bottom of the curtain to look out. She came back dusting her hands together and announced in a stage whisper, ‘It’s a full house!’ Then, seeing that Delia had not yet emerged from the dressing room they shared with a novelty dancer who performed with shawls and floating scarves, she went to look for her and found her sitting in her dressing robe, in full make-up but not yet changed.

  ‘You were right, Miss Delamour,’ she said. ‘Last night was almost an extension of the dress rehearsal. Tonight is the real thing.’

  Delia smiled and nodded. ‘It will be good,’ she assured her. ‘Enjoy it!’

  She had dropped one of her songs in favour of something more lively, but would still make the gown change and end with a romantic number as on the previous night. The audience had appreciated the subtlety and she hoped they would do so again.

  She dressed in her gowns, fastened a sparkling paste necklace round her throat and arranged her hair, fixing a few false wisps of curls on her forehead. Picking up the coronet for her final song, she was ready. Don’t ever be late, she told herself, but never be too early. Anticipation is a key word.

  She received rapturous applause, took two curtain calls and gave one short encore, but bowed off the stage when another was requested. It didn’t do to upset the final act waiting in the wings; but neither did it do any harm to leave the audience wanting more.

  ‘You were lovely,’ Miriam sai
d, after they had all taken their final curtain call and Delia had been given a rousing cheer when she appeared. ‘You have the kind of voice that people warm to; not operatic but not saucy either. I don’t know how to describe it.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ Delia said. Praise from a fellow performer was always well received and she always reciprocated in kind. ‘I wish I had some of your talent for movement, and yours too, Miss Saunders,’ she added to the novelty dancer. ‘You are both so graceful and supple.’

  ‘It’s cos we’re thin,’ Miss Saunders said. ‘We haven’t got your lovely shape. Look at me.’ She opened her arms wide. ‘No bosom to speak of and straight up and down.’

  Miriam nodded in agreement, and Delia was saying that they should all gratefully accept what had been given to them when someone knocked on the door. ‘Somebody waiting to see you at ’stage door, Miss Delamour,’ the call boy announced. ‘Says that she knows you.’

  There’s no one here who knows me, Delia thought in sudden panic; it must be a member of the audience saying it just to be sure of seeing me. She had given autographs numerous times in Brighton, though rarely in London, but here? Perhaps audiences in Hull liked to meet the performers.

  ‘Tell her I’m just changing,’ she called back. ‘I won’t be long.’

  She unpinned the false curls and quickly removed her stage make-up and dressed in her normal clothes, then picked up the picture postcards that she gave out to admirers and headed for the open stage door which led on to the street. Sitting inside on a wooden chair was a young woman with her back to her, and her coat collar turned up.

  ‘Hello,’ Delia said brightly. ‘Are you waiting to see me?’

  The woman turned. She was wearing a neat hat and a warm scarf. ‘Dorothy? It is you, isn’t it?’

  Delia took in a breath. Beneath the hat was a smiling oval face and red hair. ‘Jenny?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Jenny!’

  They both opened their arms to embrace the other. ‘How lovely to see you! How I’ve missed you.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was just after ten o’clock, and Jenny suggested that they go to a small respectable hotel that she knew close by where they could be served with refreshments.

  ‘It’s a decent place, owned by a local woman and her family. Her husband is a doctor, and they make sure that it’s quite safe for women on their own,’ she told Delia. ‘It’s been here for years and I often use it for meeting friends. And they’ll order a cab for me when I’m ready to go home.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring,’ Delia said, and they walked arm in arm as they used to when they were young girls coming home from school.

  The Maritime Hotel was well maintained, with areas of comfortable furnishings where small groups of people could gather for conversation, quite separate from the bar and restaurant.

  ‘Miss Robinson. Good evening! How nice to see you again.’ A young manager greeted them. ‘Have you been to the theatre? I hear there’s an excellent new show.’

  ‘Indeed there is.’ Jenny smiled. ‘And here is the star of it. Miss Delia Delamour!’ She introduced him to Delia. ‘This is Mr Gosling.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Delamour.’ The young man bowed politely. ‘Welcome to the Maritime Hotel. Please,’ he indicated a comfy sofa. ‘Won’t you be seated and allow me to offer you refreshments, compliments of the Maritime?’

  They both ordered a glass of red wine and a sandwich and sat back with a sigh.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Delia began, just as Jenny said exuberantly, ‘It’s so lovely to see you. Where have you been all of these years? You just disappeared!’

  Delia nodded and stretched the truth. ‘I did. I was so unhappy that I decided to leave. It was at the time when you’d gone away to York.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Jenny agreed. ‘I’d finally convinced my father that I wanted a career in teaching, and he agreed, at last, that I could continue with my education. My mother was all for it but he’d been afraid to let me go away; you remember what a softie he is?’

  Delia smiled wistfully. ‘I do.’ So unlike her own father, she thought.

  ‘But why didn’t you wait until I came back? My mother told me that you had called, looking for me. Or why didn’t you write to me? She would have given you my address. We could have discussed why you were unhappy. You never said; why didn’t you?’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Delia remembered the time so well, probably much better than Jenny did. ‘I ran away. My parents … well, I never did have much freedom, as you’ll recall.’ She knew she would have to give a plausible story. I can’t tell her everything, she thought. She would then have to take sides.

  Jenny frowned. ‘I wish you’d told me. I’d thought for quite a few weeks before I left that you seemed quiet, as if something was troubling you. I was so full of myself and the plans I had,’ she said regretfully. ‘So you decided to just leave and prove yourself?’

  Delia nodded. ‘Something like that,’ she hedged. ‘I didn’t want to end up as the family drudge.’ She was relieved to see the supper being brought to the table.

  ‘I’m not sure if I can think of you as Delia,’ Jenny mused. ‘I suppose it’s more suitable for stars of the theatre than Dorothy Deakin?’

  ‘I was sometimes called Dolly,’ Delia reminded her. ‘But I felt that Dolly was more music hall than variety theatre, and a friend I met suggested Delia and I liked the sound of it. So I became Delia Delamour, and Dorothy Deakin has gone for ever.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Jenny nodded. ‘You are more self-assured than you used to be, and …’ She paused. ‘You’re lovely. You looked beautiful up on the stage; and you’ve shed that nervousness you had when we were children.’

  Delia smiled faintly. Wise and clever Jenny really didn’t know her at all, and never had.

  Jenny was silent for a moment, sipping her wine, and then asked, ‘So do your parents know what you’re doing or of the change of name?’

  Delia heaved a deep breath. ‘They don’t know and wouldn’t want to. They are not in the least interested in me or what I’m doing. I’ve written …’ She shrugged, leaving the rest unspoken.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Jenny murmured. ‘I’d be distraught if I thought my parents didn’t want to know me, didn’t want to hear about my triumphs or catastrophes. Goodness knows, life always has a share of each.’

  ‘It does.’ Delia swallowed hard. ‘Everyone needs a confidante. Did you really become a teacher?’ she asked quickly before a compulsion to open her heart to her old friend threatened to overcome her.

  ‘I did, and I’m teaching at a national mixed school here in Hull.’ Jenny paused. ‘I’d like to run my own establishment, but that’s a few years away yet.’

  ‘Do you get home very often?’ She had to ask; this might be a way of learning how her boy was coping without her, and if he was staying with Jenny’s parents or had been sent elsewhere.

  ‘Not all that often,’ Jenny admitted. ‘Only a few times a year. I’m tied to the school schedule, but to be truthful I’d visit more often at weekends if it were not for Jack’s wife, whom I cannot abide. They still live with Ma and Da after all this time. Ten years! They have four children and she doesn’t lift a finger to help in the house or on the farm; my ma looks after the children most of the time too, especially little Molly. She’s a darling, but her mother practically ignores her.’

  Jenny beckoned the waiter over. ‘Will you have another glass of wine, Delia?’ She smiled. ‘The name came easily after all! Do say you will, and then I must be off. It’s a day of work tomorrow. One glass of red,’ she said, when Delia refused. She didn’t drink much alcohol, and thought it might prove to be the road to ruin for her.

  ‘Where was I?’ Jenny said, when her wine arrived. ‘Oh, yes. Susan, Jack’s wife. Do you remember her? Susan Barnett as was? She lived at the other side of Hedon? Very flirtatious. I never really liked her, and now she’s so lazy … well, I hesitate to use the term that would suit her as I’m in such est
eemed company. And,’ she leaned towards Delia and lowered her voice. ‘I’m inclined to think that she tricked Jack into getting married; it was done in a rush and their eldest girl, Louisa, is beautiful and looks nothing like either of them or any of her three sisters, and,’ she emphasized again, ‘Susan didn’t go full term with her. An early baby, she said.’

  Delia felt her heart hammering. ‘What are you saying? That the child isn’t Jack’s? Why should you think that? When were they married?’

  The sense of betrayal that she had always felt came back full and strong, and yet there was also a sense of triumph that Jack had been deceived.

  ‘Not soon enough.’ Jenny sipped her wine. ‘I can add up, remember! And my reason for thinking it, and what saucy Susan doesn’t know, is that I saw her canoodling a few times with Ralph Pearce, who’s a snake in the grass if ever there was one.’

  They chatted a while longer and then Jenny sighed. ‘I’ll visit home for a few days during the Christmas holidays, but not for Christmas itself. I couldn’t stand it, even though Ma and Da will be upset. Selfish of me, I know, but I have single friends who don’t go home either, male and female, and we’ll enjoy a nice meal together here at the Maritime. Will you still be here? If you are you must join us.’