When the group had been fitted into place round the table and had joined hands there would often be strange noises such as knocking or rustling or sibilant whispering, and possibly the table would move. Eventually Mrs Lakos would lie back in her chair, give a deep sigh and go into a trance, eyes closed and quite motionless. Then after a time if things were going well she would make contact with one of her spirit guides. There were two of these: one was an Indian chief named Running Deer and the other was a young girl named Sylvia. Apparently these guides had dealings with a whole raft of characters who had passed over, and the curious thing was, to Sterne’s way of thinking, that so many of these people just happened to be the deceased relatives or friends of one or other of the persons seated round the table.
It was the job of Running Deer and Sylvia to transmit messages from the other world through Mrs Lakos, and the words that came from her mouth while she was in the trance were spoken in quite different accents from her normal voice: one was gruff and manly while the other was high-pitched and childlike. Whichever of these voices was on duty at the moment would hold a question-and-answer dialogue with one of the persons at the table, acting as a link with somebody at the other end of the line who might be identified as Uncle Henry or Cousin Ellen or maybe poor little Cathie who had died young.
What impressed Sterne about all this was the triviality of the subjects under discussion. The information coming through from that world over there was pretty mundane to say the least. What he would really have liked to hear was just how they had got there, what sort of travelling arrangements had been made for them and what kind of place they were living in now. A few details of that sort: descriptions of architecture, food, entertainment, scenery and so on would have been really interesting. But nothing like this ever passed across the great divide; it was as if these people were just floating in space, in a vast emptiness, with nothing occupying their minds but the same old worthless trash that had been in them when they lived on earth. It was all a great disappointment; there should have been more to it than this.
But of course it was just a farce, an act put on by Mrs Lakos. There was no doubt that she did it very well. She hoodwinked the gullible people who came to the séances and paid her for the privilege of being led up the garden path. And was there any harm in it? They got what they came for: apparent contact with a departed loved one, reassurance that there was life after death, a cosy little get-together with others of like minds, and tea and cakes to round off the proceedings. They went away feeling the better for it, and what more could one ask for?
He had a suspicion that Peter helped with the special effects. He would be at home but was never visible at the séance, though he might have been hiding behind a screen or maybe in an adjoining room. The effects could be quite spectacular at times: trumpets floating in mid-air and emitting brazen notes, ectoplasm apparently emanating from the unconscious medium, ghostly figures drifting around and so on.
He never suggested to either of the Lakoses that the séances might be faked. He had no wish to offend them. But he suspected that they might have doubts about his belief in the authenticity of the proceedings, though they did not say so. It was as if there were a tacit agreement to regard as genuine what they all knew to be nothing but a charade.
*
His suspicion that Peter had a hand in these performances was strengthened by something that happened not long after his taking residence in the flat. He had bought a secondhand wireless set, a Cossor, and within a few days it had broken down. He told Lakos, bemoaning the fact that it was money down the drain.
‘Let me have a look at it,’ Lakos said.
He failed to see what good that would do, but it could do no harm, so he agreed. They went up to the flat and Lakos took the back off the set. He seemed to know what he was doing and after a brief inspection he said:
‘I cannot test it properly here. But if you like I will have a go at it.’
‘But do you know anything about wireless?’ Sterne asked. It hardly seemed the kind of knowledge a dealer in secondhand books would possess.
Lakos gave a faint smile. ‘A little.’
‘Well, if you really think –’ Sterne was still doubtful.
‘Come,’ Lakos said. ‘What have you got to lose? Let me take it to my workroom and I will see what I can do.’
It was the first Sterne had heard of any workroom. He said; ‘All right, but let me carry it for you.’
‘That will not be necessary. It is not heavy.’
He picked up the set and carried it to the door, which Sterne opened for him, expecting him to go down the stairs. But to his surprise Lakos walked to the end of the landing where another staircase led to an attic at the top of the house. He began to climb this, and Sterne was about to follow him but was stopped by a word.
‘Don’t come up. I can manage quite well.’
Sterne had never been up to that part of the house; it did not go with the flat, which was confined to the one floor. He gathered that Lakos did not want him to see the workroom for some reason or other, though he could not imagine why. Still, if that was his wish he was perfectly entitled to maintain the privacy of the attic. It belonged to him.
*
Chancing to encounter him in the hallway the next day, Sterne asked him how he was getting on with the set.
‘I have found the trouble,’ Lakos said. ‘It is one of the valves. I know a place where I can get a replacement cheap. Do you wish me to?’
‘Why, yes,’ Sterne said. ‘That would be fine.’
*
He saw nothing of Lakos for the next three days and missed having the set. There were some good comedy acts on the BBC which he enjoyed listening to: Stainless Stephen, Rob Wilton, Tommy Handley and Ronald Frankau in their quickfire act as Mr Murgatroyd and Mr Winterbottom, and the incomparable Sage of Hogsnorton, Gillie Potter. With so much happening in Europe, he liked to hear the news bulletins too. Things were looking bad over there and he feared that before long Britain might be dragged into another war. If that happened how would it affect him? He would be involved, that was certain. All things considered, the future looked remarkably dicey.
He decided to go up to the attic and see whether Lakos was there. It was evening and it seemed likely that he would be home from the bookshop by that time; though his movements were unpredictable.
There was no one on the landing when he stepped out of the flat, and he could hear no sound of movement coming from the floor below; so he made his way to the stairs that led upward to another smaller landing and the attic door. This was closed and he tapped on it lightly with his knuckles. There was no response, and after waiting a few moments he turned the knob and discovered that the door was not locked. He pushed it open and took a step into the room and saw that Lakos was indeed there.
The bookseller was seated at a bench which was littered with radio equipment. He had apparently been working on some piece of apparatus and had not heard the light tap on the door. But he had heard it open and it seemed to have given him a shock. He stood up quickly, pushing the chair away, and there was a momentary expression of annoyance on his face when he saw the intruder. But the frown quickly vanished and he spoke quite affably.
‘Ah, David, it is you. You have come for your set?’
Sterne could see the Cossor standing on the bench with the other gear, but it was not what Lakos had been working on just then.
‘If it’s ready. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I did knock, but I expect you didn’t hear me.’
‘No matter, no matter,’ Lakos said. ‘You have discovered my little secret. But it is not of importance. As you see, I dabble in this sort of thing. It is my hobby.’
There was a lot of other paraphernalia filling up much of the space in the attic, and Sterne guessed that some of this might well have been used to produce the supernatural effects for Petra’s séances. But he would not have dreamed of suggesting this to Peter.
‘And the set?’
�
��Ah yes, the set. It is once more in going order. I should have returned it to you, but I overlooked it. The new valve cost five-and-six. That is little more than half the amount you would have had to pay for a Marconi or a Mullard or a Mazda. It is a Tungsram, made in Hungary, and is just as good.’
‘And I must pay you for your work too.’
Lakos brushed this suggestion aside. ‘Oh no, no. I am most happy to help. As I told you, it is my hobby.’
He insisted on going down with Sterne to return the set to its place in the flat and demonstrate that it was now working perfectly again. When it was switched on there happened to be a news bulletin coming through. It included the report of another speech that Hitler had made at a Nazi rally, and a snatch of that ranting voice recorded at the event came bursting into the room with all its menace and suggestion of paranoia.
The effect on Lakos was instantaneous. An expression of horror and loathing contorted his features; small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead; his eyes behind the glasses seemed to bulge and his hands shook.
‘That man!’ he cried. ‘That monster! That maniac!’
He turned abruptly and left the room.
Chapter Eight – DANCING-GIRL
David Sterne saw Angela Street for the first time when she was dancing on the stage of the Windmill Theatre, and from that moment he could not get her out of his mind.
The Windmill did a non-stop revue called Revudeville. You could go in at any time after the doors opened and stay as long as you wished. The show included fan-dancers and specialty-dancers and sketches and conjurors and dramatic monologues and stand-up comedians who had a hard time competing with the scantily-clad dancing-girls. It was a good training ground for them, however, and several progressed from there to higher things.
Sterne did not often go to the Windmill; he could not afford it. In fact, when he first saw Angela Street it was only his second visit, and it was not until later that he learned her name. But he knew at once that he had to speak to her and try to get to know her. He might not be successful, but for his peace of mind he had to make the attempt.
He stayed in his seat until the end of the show and then went round to the stage-door to wait for her to come out. He did not have to wait long. Wearing a white trench-coat and a red beret, she looked very much altered from the girl he had seen on the stage kicking her legs in the air, but he had no difficulty in recognising her. He moved towards her so that he was standing directly in her path.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
She scarcely glanced at him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Excuse me.’ She did a neat side-step, brushed past him and went on her way.
She was walking quite quickly, her heels clicking on the pavement. He would have had to run to catch up with her, but he lacked the nerve and a few moments later she was out of sight.
‘Damn!’ he said. ‘Damn and blast it!’
*
He was in the same place at the same time the next night, though he had not been to the show. But she did not emerge with the other performers and again he was disappointed. He was to learn later that there were two companies of dancers – A and B. When A Company was on duty B Company had the day off, and vice versa. If he had been in the theatre he would have known that she had not been on stage that night.
However, he refused to abandon his purpose, and the next evening he was at the stage-door for the third time in as many days. This time he again placed himself in her path, but before she had a chance to brush past he said:
‘Do you want some free publicity?’
She told him afterwards that it was the unexpectedness of the question that halted her in her tracks and stopped her from giving him the brush-off again. In his favour there was also the fact that he was not wearing a dirty raincoat.
She peered into his face and said: ‘It was you the other night, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘So what’s all this about free publicity? I don’t get it.’
‘I thought I might do a feature about you for a newspaper or a magazine.’
‘Are you a journalist then?’
‘Well, yes, you could say that.’
‘You don’t seem very sure about it.’
She sounded a trifle suspicious. She was not wearing the beret this time and her black hair was cut in a page-boy style, framing an impish sort of face in which a pair of dark lustrous eyes were set rather widely apart. It had enchanted him when he had seen it at a distance in the theatre, and at close quarters it lost none of its charm. She was young enough for that.
‘What I mean is I’m a free-lance. I used to be on a daily paper, but I left to work on my own.’
He did not tell her that it was an obscure provincial paper. If she jumped to the conclusion that he was talking about one of the national dailies, so be it.
‘You’re not having me on, are you? Just shooting a line. Trying to make me think you’re a big shot or something.’
He gave an emphatic denial. ‘Oh no; I’m not a big shot. I wouldn’t want you to get that idea.’
She gave a laugh, which was a pleasure to hear. ‘I wouldn’t anyway. I can see you’re not.’
He was not sure whether this could be taken as a compliment or quite the opposite. But as if to reassure him and take any sting out of the words she added:
‘I mean you’re too young, aren’t you? Big shots tend to be older and bloated. People I wouldn’t give the time of day to.’
‘So how does the idea strike you?’
‘I don’t know.’ She seemed undecided. But she was not rejecting the suggestion out of hand, as he had feared she might. ‘I’d have to think about it.’
‘That’s all right. You don’t have to make your mind up straightaway.’
She was still looking at him thoughtfully, as though weighing him up in her mind.
‘Why me?’ she asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean there are plenty of other girls in this line of business, so why pick on me? Why not one of the others?’
He decided to be honest. ‘I liked the look of you.’
‘When you saw me on stage?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you’re crazy.’
‘Maybe I am.’ He might have added: ‘Crazy about you.’ But he did not.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I have to go. But I’m not working tomorrow. Suppose we meet somewhere and talk about this thing.’
He could not have asked for anything better. He had to restrain himself from giving a whoop of delight; but he kept his voice under control and answered calmly:
‘That sounds like a very good idea. Where should we meet?’
She thought about it for a few moments and then suggested Trafalgar Square at midday. He agreed immediately.
‘Now I must fly,’ she said.
She set off in the direction of Tottenham Court Road, leaving him in a state that was close to delirium. It was not until later that it occurred to him that they had not exchanged names. He still did not know who she was.
*
They had lunch in a Lyons teashop, waited on by a Nippie who appeared to be as young as Angela but not nearly as lovely. He knew her name now and she knew his.
‘Angela,’ he said, trying it on his tongue. ‘That’s a nice name. Angela Street. Yes, I like it.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what’s in a name?’ But she seemed pleased. Also, he thought, faintly amused; as though she might have been laughing at him, or perhaps at some secret that she was keeping to herself.
She did not give her story while they were having the meal; it was hardly the right place for confidences of that sort; there were too many people around, too much distraction. When they left the teashop it had begun to rain lightly. The National Gallery presented a refuge from the weather and they took shelter inside. Neither of them was much interested in the pictures at that time, and as they sat side by side on one of the seats she gave a somewhat disjointed account of how she had come to b
e a dancer at the Windmill Theatre.
Sterne jotted down what she told him in a notebook. He would gather the threads together later and make a product that would, he hoped, be of interest to the average reader. And he soon realised that there were some unusual aspects to the story. For one thing, her origins were not quite what he would have expected.
In the first place it transpired that she was the daughter of a Yorkshire parson. She had been brought up in a remote stone vicarage in bleak Brontë country. Her mother was dead and her father had disowned her when she had run away with a travelling concert party which performed in small towns and villages. By her account it had been a hand-to-mouth existence. She was fourteen at the time of her escape from the vicarage, and it seemed that her father had just let her go; perhaps only too glad to be rid of someone who was only a bother to him. Certainly he had made no effort to bring her back.
The manager of this concert party, which went by the name of The Streamers, became a second father to her. With them she learned to dance and sing and act a bit, and before long she was one of the most valuable members of the troupe. But the time came when Arnold Rankin, the manager, suggested that for her own good she ought to go to London and try her fortune there. Because, although he would be sorry to lose her, it was an unfortunate fact that the day of the travelling concert party was drawing to a close and there was no future in it for her. With her talent she could go on to the very top.
She gave a wry smile when she told him this. ‘The very top! The Windmill chorus line! That’s a laugh. Though it was enough of a struggle to get even that far. You’ll never believe what I’ve been through.’
Nevertheless, she proceeded to tell him. And it really was quite a story. There were pauses now and then as she seemed to be searching her memory for incidents that might be interesting. There was no chronological order, and he could see that he would have to do a lot of sorting out and rearranging to make a finished job of it. And he would never be able to get it all in; he would just have to pick out the highlights. Already he had a title in his mind: ‘Yorkshire Vicarage to Windmill Theatre’.
A Wind on the Heath Page 5