The Golden Chain

by Margaret James

  Jesse was delighted. ‘You won’t regret it,’ he told Daisy, grinning.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I feel it in my bones. You and I, we’re heading for success.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am, my love, I’m always right.’

  He’d bought himself new clothes, she noticed, probably in anticipation of the bonus Mr Curtis said he would be paying everybody with their final wages.

  The houses hadn’t been very good of late, but the manager was apparently confident he’d make a decent profit. So, he’d added graciously, it was only fair to share it with his dear hardworking boys and girls.

  ‘Get yourself some decent clothes,’ said Jesse, as he flicked some lint off his new jacket which Daisy noticed had the latest wide lapels.

  ‘I’ll wait until I get there,’ Daisy told him. ‘I’ll have a lot more choice.’

  ‘Go shopping in London often, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘I’ve never shopped in London. But when we lived in India, my mother ordered clothes from shops in London, and they were always wonderful.’

  ‘You’re all excited, aren’t you?’

  ‘I must admit I am. But I’ll miss the others,’ added Daisy, thinking I’ll especially miss Ewan, because from now on I won’t be seeing much of him at all.

  ‘Do you see much of ’im?’ asked Phoebe, as she sat and smoked and drank her brandy, as she fiddled with her rings and teaspoon. Alex had gone to see a neighbouring farmer, the twins weren’t back from school yet, so the women were alone. ‘I mean, I thought you said ’e lived round ’ere? Or used to, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, he’s still in Charton. May I?’ Rose took one of Phoebe’s cigarettes. She lit it and inhaled, coughing because she wasn’t used to it, but needing to do something with her hands. ‘His father died a couple of years ago, so he’s Sir Michael now. He lives about three miles away from here, at Easton Hall.’

  ‘What about that other ’ouse?’ Phoebe stuck the knife in deeper, twisting it round and round inside the wound. ‘The place you showed me when I come down ’ere to visit you, after the war? Charton Minster, wasn’t it?’

  ‘My father wanted me to marry Mike. I married Alex, so Daddy left the Minster and the whole estate to Michael.’ Rose shrugged. ‘He didn’t want to live in it, of course, so now the Minster is a school for wayward children.’

  ‘Your father never left you nothin’?’ Phoebe looked aghast. ‘Rose, for God’s sake, how could he?’

  ‘It was his house and his estate.’

  ‘Oh, Rose!’ wailed Phoebe. ‘This stuff that’s ’appened to you, it’s all because of me!’

  ‘Phoebe, it’s nothing to do with you.’ Rose stood up. ‘Look at the time. I need to get the supper on.’

  ‘I’ll ’elp you, if you’ll let me?’ Phoebe shrugged off her coat. ‘I could make a puddin’, peel the spuds?’

  ‘You’ll stay with us? It’s not at all luxurious, I’m afraid, not like your apartment in New York.’

  ‘Oh, I been in worse,’ said Phoebe. ‘Actually, lookin’ round, it ain’t too bad at all. It’s small, of course, but it’s as smart as paint. It’s cosy, and it’s – ’

  ‘Mum?’ Robert came bursting into the kitchen like a small tornado, closely followed by Stephen in a flurry of coats and boots and bags.

  They were stricken speechless, something Rose had never thought to see, and for twenty seconds they simply goggled at the scented, gorgeous vision that was Phoebe Rosenheim.

  ‘Hello,’ managed Robert, who recovered first.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Blimey, you never said you ’ad two boys!’ Phoebe beamed at Rose’s tousled sons. ‘What ’andsome boys, as well! A regular pair of lookers! They’ll break all the ladies’ ’earts!’ She turned to Rose. ‘Takes after Alex, don’t they?’

  ‘Who’s this lady, Mum?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘This is Mrs Rosenheim,’ said Rose.

  ‘I’m Phoebe, Daisy’s mother.’

  Ewan opened the big manila envelope postmarked Glasgow, and a pile of scripts fell out.

  As he sifted through them, he saw they were exactly what he wanted – challenging roles in Shakespeare and interesting parts in modern drama. He couldn’t have asked for more, and he blessed Amy Nightingale for suggesting he should try the Comrades.

  He knew he was going to be tested, but he was confident he could do it, and this was his big chance.

  He supposed he ought to do his packing. Listening to George and Frank, who were nattering away and sorting out their masses of belongings in the room they shared below, he realised he was lucky to be young and have his life before him.

  The country must be full of middle-aged and elderly actors who had once dreamed of fame, and who had once been hopeful, but who had ended up in companies like this one, playing to provincials, trudging through tedious tripe like Blighted Blossoms night after weary night.

  But it wouldn’t be like that for him. He’d make his reputation on the stage, then he would go to Hollywood and get into the talkies.

  As for Daisy – he wished more than anything that she was going with him up to Scotland. But it looked as if she’d made her choice.

  He told himself it didn’t matter, because he’d finished running after women, anyway. She’d asked him to write, and he supposed he might. Well, now and then.

  ‘Why don’t you write to Daisy?’ Rose asked Phoebe.

  Phoebe was still in Charton. Now she had settled down, and made herself at home in the best bedroom of the bailiff’s cottage, to Rose’s great surprise it looked as if she meant to stay.

  ‘I’m scared,’ said Phoebe. ‘What if she don’t want to know me, eh? What if I goes up to ’er, if I says, ’ello, darlin’, I’m your mum, an’ then she smacks me one across the gob?’

  ‘She won’t do that,’ said Rose.

  ‘Give me another day or two, an’ then I’ll make me mind up, yeah?’ said Phoebe.

  ‘No hurry,’ Rose replied.

  ‘You ’aven’t told her that I’m ’ere, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Rose. ‘It’s not my news to tell, and anyway I wondered if you might not come to England, after all. Or, if you did, you might decide it would be better not to meet. I didn’t want to raise her hopes, then see her disappointed.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I ain’t very reliable – or not where she’s concerned, at any rate.’ Phoebe looked enquiringly at Rose. ‘You often go an’ see ’er, do you? In them plays, I mean?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen her act in England. Since she went away on tour, Alex and I have had no time to spare. But I think – I hope – she understands.’

  ‘When was she down ’ere last?’

  ‘She had a break in January, she came to see us then, and that was lovely. I write once a week, and so we manage to keep in touch.’ Rose shook her head. ‘I must admit she’s not a very regular correspondent, or not recently, in any case. Sometimes, weeks go by. But she’s with the company, I know she’s being properly chaperoned, so I try not to worry.’

  ‘She takes after me then, don’t she, Rose? I didn’t take weeks to write, though, I took years. I’ll make me mind up soon, I promise. You’ll be wantin’ to see the back of me.’

  But Rose was in no hurry to see the back of Phoebe. Since Daisy had left home, she’d been so busy that she hadn’t realised quite how lonely she’d become, and just how much she missed her friends.

  Now she was back in Dorset, she’d lost touch with the other army wives. She hadn’t time to write the long and newsy letters they demanded, and in any case she didn’t have much to say that didn’t turn on cows or hens. She didn’t know about the latest fashions, who was seeing the Prince of Wales, if diamond clips were out or in.

 
The women of Rose’s age who lived in Charton remembered her when she had been Miss Courtenay, the spoiled and cosseted daughter of the squire, whose parents had never let her mix with any local children. So, although the women were polite, there was too much history dividing them and Rose, and they could never be her friends.

  She didn’t wish she’d never met Alex, and she loved her boys. But she knew she must keep busy, must not think too much. Or the black dog of melancholy would get her, drag her down.

  ‘I could get used to livin’ in the country,’ Phoebe said, as they stood together at the kitchen table one bright morning, mixing up a mash for Rose’s hens. Rose was hoping that now the longer days were coming, the hens would start to lay again.

  The twins thought Phoebe was amazing. She was from America, the land of jazz and honky-tonk, where anyone could become a millionaire. In fact, her Nathan, he’d started out with nothing, and these days he was practically a millionaire himself – so Phoebe said. She knew the latest songs, and sang them like a proper entertainer, doing all the actions, bumps and grinds.

  When Rose explained to them that Phoebe was Daisy’s natural mother, but it had been wartime and she hadn’t been able to look after a baby, the boys accepted everything, and didn’t seem to think the worse of Phoebe.

  ‘Well, Mum, Daze is very blonde, but you and Dad are dark,’ said Robert, sagely. ‘So Daisy’s actual father was probably fair-haired.’

  ‘Or a redhead,’ added Stephen.

  ‘It’s sort of obvious that you and Dad – ’

  ‘Well, if you mate a dark one with another dark one – ’

  ‘If you take a white one and a black one – I’m talking about rabbits, Mum, don’t look at me like that – you don’t get many white ones in the litter,’ went on Robert.

  ‘Most of them are black or grey. It’s like Rob and me, we’re dark, so obviously we’re yours. But it would be very strange if you and Dad had bred a Daisy.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Rose, who’d never thought the rabbit farm would be so educational.

  Daisy knew she ought to write to Rose and Alex to tell them she was going to London.

  But she was aware there would be ructions, and so she put it off, and then she put it off again. They’d said she could go on tour with Mr and Mrs Curtis, not go gallivanting round the country in the company of a man they’d never met.

  They’d both met Ewan, and they’d appeared to trust him. Perhaps they hadn’t warmed to him, but at least they hadn’t seemed to dislike him. They hadn’t met Jesse, though, and Daisy would put money on Alex hating Jesse Trent on sight.

  She’d write when she arrived, she thought, when she had an address, and preferably an acting job as well. Jesse seemed very confident they’d find work straight away.

  She bought a picture postcard of Birmingham’s town hall and wrote a three line message, telling them the Midlands tour was going very well – she was getting lovely notices – and they still had a few more dates to go. She added she was happy and very busy, and would soon write again.

  She stuck a stamp on and took the postcard to a letterbox. Now, she thought, the twins would have another card for their collection, and she’d have done her duty.

  ‘They’re lovely boys,’ said Phoebe, as she watched the twins set off for school one sunny morning, running across the field like two young animals, pushing each other, trading punches, laughing, skipping, gambolling like lambs . ‘You an’ Alex, you must be very proud of them.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rose and thought, I’m very lucky.

  ‘I never ’ad another kid.’ Now Rose saw Phoebe looked despondent, and there was tragedy in her big brown eyes. ‘The doc says give it time, but I don’t think it’s goin’ to ’appen.’

  ‘It might,’ said Rose, and felt how rich she was, in spite of living in what Phoebe called a slum and dressing like a charlady.

  ‘Do you think I ought to go an’ see Daisy?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ said Rose. ‘Well, you can’t come all this way and not meet Daisy, can you?’

  ‘When I was in the States, it all seemed simple. She was ’ere, an’ I was there, an’ all I ’ad to do was book my passage. But now I’m actually in England, it don’t seem so obvious what to do.’

  ‘It must be your decision.’ Rose picked up a bag of kitchen scraps to add them to the chicken bin. Nothing was wasted in the bailiff’s cottage, and when she thought about her privileged childhood at the Minster, she was appalled by how much waste there’d been. ‘I’m sure she’d like to meet you. She’s in Birmingham at the moment. I’ve got the tour dates somewhere, so I’ll go and look them up. Phoebe, why don’t you go and see her there?’

  ‘You’ll come with me, Rose?’

  ‘I can’t, I’ve far too much to do in Charton. Anyway, I think you should go and see her by yourself.’

  ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ said Phoebe. She bit her lower lip. ‘I’ll let you know. Look, ’ere’s your mailman.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Denham – a lovely one, as well.’ The postman handed Rose her letters. ‘You’ve got a postcard from Miss Denham.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lock.’ Rose read it quickly, and then passed it to Phoebe. ‘There,’ she said, as the postman walked off down the road. ‘Your daughter’s still in Birmingham. I think you ought to pack a case, don’t you?’

  Chapter Twelve

  The tour wound up on Friday evening, with a barely half capacity house in one of Birmingham’s seediest, dirtiest theatres.

  But Mr and Mrs Curtis didn’t complain about the miserable takings. In fact, they seemed very pleased with the way that everything had gone, praising all the actors to the skies, and congratulating them on having had a splendid season. All things considered, this tour was a success.

  After the show, they told the actors they’d see them in the local, where it would be drinks all round, all night. Or until closing time, at any rate.

  ‘Mrs C and I, we’re going to take a little break,’ said Mr Curtis, leaning on the beer-swilled counter, monocle jammed into place, and offering the barman three more one pound notes. ‘We want to visit our daughter down in Reading. Maudie’s not been well just recently. Some sort of women’s trouble, I believe. We’ll be doing our summer shows and concerts, obviously, but we won’t be putting together another tour like this one until autumn.’

  ‘If we do it at all,’ said Mrs Curtis, leaning against her husband and wheezing like a pair of rotten bellows. ‘It’s getting hard on the old bones.’

  Then she squashed the bones and all the rest of her vast velvet bulk into a seat by Daisy. ‘We might retire,’ she added, as she picked up her glass of port and lemon. ‘Alfred and I, we’ve saved a little bit. I tell you, girls and boys, the thought of a country cottage somewhere on the Berkshire Downs is quite appealing.’

  ‘Drink up, fellow acolytes of Thespis,’ Mr Curtis urged, as the white-aproned waiter set down a loaded tray. ‘Mr Fraser, you don’t look too happy. I’d have thought you would be looking forward to having Romeo in your sights at last?’

  ‘Come round to our digs and get your money, let’s say about ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Mrs Curtis told them, as the pub was putting up its shutters, and everyone was saying their affectionate goodnights. ‘Alfred will have sorted things out with the theatre management by nine, and I’ll have finished doing all my sums.’

  Frank and George began a rousing chorus of for they are jolly good fellows, the rest of the company joined in, and Mr and Mrs Curtis blushed and grinned.

  ‘You look tired, Daisy May,’ said Amy, who Daisy couldn’t help but notice was arm in arm with Ewan as they made their way towards the trolley stop.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Daisy. She glanced at Ewan, who was whispering to Amy now. She wished he wouldn’t be like this. After all, they wouldn’t be seeing each other fo
r a while, and didn’t he realise she would miss him?

  Oh, let him sulk, she thought, as Jesse came up on her other side and hugged her round the neck. Let him mutter to Amy if he wants. I don’t care anyway.

  ‘Pay day, children,’ Frank said happily.

  It was half past nine the following morning. The actors were congregating at the stop to get the trolley into the smarter part of town where Mr and Mrs Curtis had their digs.

  ‘I reckon Alfred sounded as if we’ve done all right,’ said Jesse, grinning.

  ‘So there should be good bonuses all round.’ George rubbed his small, plump hands. ‘Julia, where’s Amy?’

  ‘She’s just gone up the road to get her cleaning. She’ll be here in a minute,’ Julia told him. ‘Look, she’s coming now. What’s the hurry, boys – need to see a man about a dog?’

  ‘We need to catch a train. We’re going to have a few days down in Devon, where we can go sketching and have picnics on the beach. What about you ladies?’

  ‘We’re here in Birmingham till Sunday,’ Julia told him. ‘Then I don’t know where we’ll be going.’

  ‘I need to get my roots retouched, so that’s what I’ll be doing this afternoon. I think I’ll have a manicure as well,’ said Amy, looking critically at her nails.

  ‘Maybe I’ll go to Rackham’s and try on all the expensive modes.’ Julia grinned at George. ‘Darling, don’t look at me like that, I won’t pinch anything. I might even buy a frock or two, if they’re in the sale or going cheap.’

  ‘Remember you haven’t got a job, my dear, so don’t go raving mad.’ Amy dumped her parcel of dry cleaning on the pavement and lit a cigarette.

  ‘But I’ll be making an investment.’ Getting out her compact, Julia started touching up her mouth. ‘If I get all dolled up to the nines, and then sit in a cocktail bar and flash me pins about, I’ll pick up a gentleman who’ll soon see me right. Daisy, where’s your boyfriend? He’s going to miss the bus.’