‘You spend more time with him than you do me these days,’ Sharada said, only half joking, as she followed him to the front door.
‘Well, he’s got some good ideas for the group, he seems really interested actually. It doesn’t leave much time for anything else.’
‘I suppose,’ she agreed doubtfully. ‘So when will I see you next, I could come round…’
‘Dunno Sharada, dunno. Tell you what, let’s get Christmas out the way and I’ll give you a ring, sort something out.’
Sharada closed the door in a state of shock. She knew what Brandon meant by we’ll sort something out and I’ll give you a ring, it was straight from the problem pages of one of her magazines. Brandon was losing, or had already lost, interest in her. She didn’t know why, had no clue what she’d done, but it was obvious that something wasn’t right and she felt scared, upset. Brandon had been the first, only, male to show any interest in her at all. He was her first love, first lover, and to lose him would be to lose everything.
She understood now, finally, why they did it, the girls at school. It’s like a drug, she thought, the more you have the more you want, the more serious the relationship the better it feels until it’s taken away and you realise you’re addicted.
At that moment Sharada heard shouting, guffawing, outside the house. She went to the window and pulled back the curtain; there stood her father, undeniably drunk despite his perpetual claims that he never touched a drop, with his hand on Brandon’s face, as if they were family. Sharada was unable to hear what they were saying but it was evidently hysterical because her father kept throwing back his head, convulsing with laughter. Finally, looking slightly apprehensive, Brandon managed to extricate himself from Mr Bhumbra’s clutches, get into his car and drive away. A few seconds later the front door was thrust open.
‘Family. I am home. Family.’
There was a loud clump followed by a groan.
Sharada dashed into the hallway to find the coat stand knocked over and her father using the wall to aid him to his feet.
‘Bastard coat stand. Nearly injured myself. Too close to the door you see.’
Mr Bhumbra stood, wobbled, concentrated and removed his hand from the wall.
‘Ah Sharada, my darling daughter. I have just seen your young man; I trust you were hospitable.’
Sharada nodded angrily and watched her father lurch upstairs where he would collapse onto his bed and wake up tomorrow, Christmas Day, with a raging hangover. He would no doubt spend the whole day questioning why they even bothered with bloody Christmas while Mrs Bhumbra reminded him, as she did every year, that they observed the tradition for the sake of the children so they would not feel different or left out, before Mr Bhumbra used it as an excuse to get drunk again.
* * * *
Alfie awoke and lay still, looking at the chipboard wallpaper that covered his ceiling. There was a blackening patch of damp in one corner where the paper had begun to peel slightly. Alfie suspected if he were to stand on a chair and tug the loose piece the whole lot might come down.
Kenny, Alfie’s portly black, white and ginger cat, was curled up at the foot of the bed clearly in no rush to acknowledge the day, Christmas Day, and Alfie felt much the same way. He’d always been of the opinion that Christmas was a time to be with family. Being alone was fine, perfectly acceptable throughout the year, but Christmas, by its very nature was about family, being together. With a reconciled sigh Alfie rolled onto his side and gathered the duvet up around his ears, determined to put off facing the day for as long as possible.
A while later Alfie was roused from his indolent state by a dull pounding sound. He tried ignoring it for a few minutes but eventually it became intolerable so, riled, he sat up in bed and listened. The noise was coming from below which meant old Mrs Hird was thumping on the ceiling with her walking stick or a broom handle.
Only yesterday day Alfie had encountered his landlord, Gerald Grimman, on the stairs and found himself in the middle of an unusual exchange regarding his elderly neighbour. In an effort to avoid talking about himself in any way Alfie had said the first thing that popped into his head.
‘She seems like a nice lady.’
Alfie said this despite having spoken to her on perhaps two or three occasions on his way in or out of the house.
‘Sorry?’ Grimman asked, clearly bewildered by such a random statement.
‘Mrs Hird,’ Alfie nodded towards her door. ‘Seems nice enough.’
Alfie immediately wished he hadn’t bothered to engage in any pleasantries beyond a simple hello.
‘The Bag Lady you mean?’ Grimman paused to consider. ‘Harmless enough I suppose.’
Alfie could not help but ask. ‘Bag Lady? Now why would you refer to Mrs Hird in such a way Mr Grimman?’
‘Never you mind, Gorman, that’s between me and her. We’ve known each other long enough to have an understanding.’
‘Right you are then.’ Alfie nodded politely, keen to avoid confrontation. ‘I was just asking.’
‘She’s from money that one,’ Mr Grimman added conspiratorially. ‘From money but hasn’t got any.’ He paused, gestured to their meagre surroundings and chuckled bitterly. ‘But then that’s obvious I suppose, given where she’s seeing out her days.’
Alfie was uncertain how to respond to this without causing offence so he instead opted to smile and nod a little.
‘She was a showgirl in her day, our Edith, trod the boards as they say.’ Grimman explained needlessly.
‘I wouldn’t have thought there was a lot of money in that,’ Alfie mused, although he had no knowledge upon which to base his assumption.
‘There wasn’t but her old lady was practically royalty, a duchess or some such. They had land, big house, the lot. But our Edith, she wasn’t a lady, not how they wanted anyway.’
‘She seems like a nice lady.’ Alfie repeated. He was uncertain what the proper response might be or even how he’d ended up involved in such a conversation in the first place.
‘She could dance and sing and she liked an audience. Bit of a disgrace, at least that’s my reading of the story. Her mother died and her old man, or stepdad I think, gambled the rest away. He was a toe-rag though, married into the family money and spent it all for them too. Our Edith, she ended up penniless and found…’ Mr Grimman gestured about them once again. ‘…she found this.’
Now, Alfie decided he had best get out of bed and see what Mrs Hird’s problem was since she was still pounding away on the ceiling. Dressing quickly Alfie went downstairs and knocked on her door.
‘Morning Mrs Hird,’ he said cheerily. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas dearie.’
‘You were banging on the ceiling, did you want something?’
‘Yes dear, I was wonderin’ if you might help me wrap a few last minute presents for me grandchildren. I’m off to me son’s for lunch you see, he’ll be here soon and I can’t tear the bloomin’ sticky tape, no teeth and arthritic hands you see.’
Alfie smiled. He liked Mrs Hird. She might be old but she still had the twinkle in her pale blue eyes of a life well spent and her voice sounded straight out of the East End.
‘Course I can, no problem.’
He followed the old lady inside and was immediately struck by the décor. In the months Alfie had been living at number 73 Westminster Road he had never been into Mrs Hird’s flat, their infrequent exchanges limited to the stairs outside.
Alfie felt instantly that he’d stepped into a giant time capsule or a museum exhibit. A few years earlier he’d been passing through the Lake District and had taken the opportunity to visit the house of Beatrix Potter. The house was, apparently, exactly as it had been when Miss Potter had lived there. Extracts from her various books had been laid out in the dimly lit rooms to highlight this fact.
Here, in Mrs Hird’s flat, instead of illustrations and pages from stories, were memorabilia and paraphernalia from the past.
‘Good Lord!’ Alfie excla
imed. ‘What an extraordinarily wonderful room.’
Mrs Hird grinned, showing a mouthful of grey and yellow teeth. ‘Like it do you dearie? Memories, this lot, all my memories.’ She glanced quickly about the walls before nodding as if to confirm everything was in its proper place.
Alfie noticed that in the corner, where in his upstairs flat was a chest of drawers, stood an upright piano complete with candelabra, straight out of a music hall. There was even a yellowing piece of sheet music – Kiss Me Goodnight Sgt. Major - on the stand.
Every wall was adorned with posters, programmes and newspaper clippings, the majority framed, an archive of the many shows Mrs Hird had appeared in several decades before. Then there were the photographs, many covering the wall next to the door, but many more in albums stacked in boxes around the room.
‘I take it this is you?’ Alfie pointed at the wall of photographs, many featuring the same young woman.
Mrs Hird beamed proudly. ‘That’s me alright my dear, in me music hall days.’
Alfie stepped forward to afford himself a closer look. There were black and white and sepias pictures of a young Mrs Hird. In some shots she was glamorous in froufrou dresses, fishnets and feathers as part of a chorus line. In others she appeared seductive in a long gown. Some were taken on stage, others in front of a big band.
‘Stunning,’ said Alfie, and he meant it. ‘It must have been very exciting.’
‘Oh it was.’ Her eyes shone at the recollection. ‘Magical.’
‘Just slightly before my time I’m sad to say, the music hall scene. Were you from a show business family?’
Alfie chose to give no indication that he might know anything of Mrs Hird’s past owing to his conversation with their landlord, Gerald Grimman, preferring instead to allow the old lady the opportunity to share her story if she wished.
Mrs Hird laughed a throaty guffaw which was followed by a fit of coughing.
‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m not from a show business family, far from it. Tell you what, Alfie, if you like you make us a brew and I’ll tell you all about my glamorous past while you help me wrap these presents.’
‘Nineteen twenty or thereabouts I was born,’ she began as Alfie wandered into the kitchen and began opening cupboards, searching for cups and tea bags.
‘Put it in the pot and let it mash,’ she called to him. ‘I don’t like it straight into the mug.’
Mrs Hird waited until Alfie joined her in the sitting room before she continued.
‘I was a dancer you see. I could hold a tune but dancing’s the thing that first got me noticed. Started off in a few amateur dramatic productions and ended up filling in for another girl in a chorus line where I was making dresses. After that I never looked back and didn’t want to neither.’
‘I see,’ said Alfie, although he didn’t. ‘So, I hope you don’t think I’m being nosey, how did you become interested in such an exciting way of life?’
He snipped a piece of sticky tape off the roll and attached a tag to one of the gifts.
‘Escape, Alfie, plain and simple. I didn’t like what I had, liked who I was becoming even less so I cleared off, legged it. There’s plenty of truth to the saying money can’t buy happiness, but perhaps you need to have money to appreciate that and my family were rolling in the stuff.
‘My mother was Lady Cattermole of the Hertfordshire Cattermoles.’ Mrs Hird paused, watching Alfie’s face for a reaction.
‘Ah,’ Alfie hesitated. ‘I think I’ve heard the name, perhaps.’
Mrs Hird smiled. ‘It’s okay, dearie. I’m old not stupid. My father died when I was very young, he was Lord Cattermole, owned thousands of acres, property, had it all. Of course it counts for nothing when you’re dead I suppose. My mother was devastated, never recovered and I was very much expected to take the helm if you like, become the next Lady of the Manor.’
‘Gracious me,’ said Alfie, since it seemed he should say something.
He finished wrapping the gift on the table and then went to the kitchen to fetch the tea. He poured a cup for Mrs Hird and another for himself. She slurped a mouthful and said ‘aaah’ before continuing her incredible tale.
‘My father loved me, perfect girl he called me. “Come on, perfect girl; dance while I play the piano”. He only ever wanted me to be happy. When he died, mother was left out in the cold in a manner of speaking. She was only a Lady by marriage, the land, the house, the money, all on my father’s side of the family.
‘I wanted no part of it once father had died so I left for London first chance I could. Of course I had a trust fund but I couldn’t touch that until I was twenty-one so I learned to think on my feet; it’s surprising what you’ll do for a bob or two when it’s the difference between starving and eating.’
Alfie did not respond. He didn’t want or need to know what hardships this old dear may have endured decades earlier.
‘It was hard at first, living in London, alone, but I simply couldn’t stay at the house any longer. Looking after the estate, after mother, left no time for myself and I wasn’t encouraged to sing or dance, only to be a Lady. The final straw came at a ball mother had organised at the house. I got all done up in my best dress and dutifully greeted the guests as they arrived.
‘It was the usual affair,’ she paused to drink more tea. ‘Dinner, dancing, banter. Mother, largely without my knowledge, had been sounding out various bachelors with a view to marrying me off to guarantee the continuation of the line; grandchildren, all that nonsense. One such fellow, I forget his name now but he was certainly not my type. Full of his own importance, thought he was somebody because his grandfather had made a fortune in timber. He seemed to think I’d be grateful for the attention and tried to force himself on me in the library. I clouted him over the head with a leather bound Chekhov and left him lying there. I ran away there and then, changed out of my dress, packed a few things, and left.’
‘Blimey,’ was all Alfie could manage. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it. So you went to London and found work in a show?’
‘Gawd no!’ Mrs Hird cackled. ‘I was nobody; just another runaway arrived in the city. I had a few bob to me name, unlike plenty others, so at least I could afford a small room. I managed to wangle a job sewing dresses, costumes, in a small shop. It came about that this dress shop often supplied items to a local theatre. I did a few bits for them and ended up based at the theatre because I could do fast alterations, which they loved.
‘One night, during a rehearsal, a girl turned her ankle. Being there every day I knew the routine so up went my hand to volunteer and that was me, chorus girl in the music hall.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘Right place at the right time, Alfie, is all. You mind if I smoke?’
Alfie said he didn’t and Mrs Hird produced a packet of cigarettes from the window sill and placed one in a long tortoise shell holder. She lit the cigarette with a match which she shook out and placed in a saucer on the table then took a long drag, blew out the smoke in a blue cloud and coughed.
‘I did okay and kept my place, progressed to a bit of singing, just bits in the background at first, then larger parts. I was still doin’ the costumes as well so I was busy, too busy to think much about home until I saw an article in the society pages, an article about my mother.
‘The headline was “Lord Cattermole’s widow to remarry”. I was staggered but didn’t let on because of course nobody in my new life knew who I was or anything about my background.’
Alfie looked down at the present he’d half wrapped and realised he’d taped two of his fingers to the wrapping paper; such had been his interest in Mrs Hird’s story.
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone about yourself?’ Alfie asked.
‘Acceptance I suppose. It seems daft saying it now but I was scared what people might think, what they might say. Why would anyone walk away from a big country pile, all that money, for what? A cramped bedsit and a job altering costumes in a pokey theatre.’
Alfie smiled. ‘I understand,’ he said and thought of his own reasons for leaving home, for adopting this nomadic existence. It was better than the alternative. That was the simple, honest answer.
‘Any road,’ Mrs Hird continued. ‘I saw that my mother was to be married and began to look for the family name in other articles over the coming weeks and months, and there were plenty of them let me tell you.’
Mrs Hird got up from the easy chair in the corner of the room opposite Alfie and rummaged in an old banana box. She retrieved a brown paper parcel which she opened carefully, spreading the contents on the table for Alfie to see. He was faced with perhaps a dozen yellowed newspaper clippings with titles such as Lady Cattermole Finds New Beau, Lady Cattermole Set to Wed (Again), New Lord Cattermole Questioned by Police, Cattermole’s Deny Gambling Probe and Cattermole Estate to be auctioned.
‘He ruined us, whoever he was. I never did go back. I just couldn’t face my mother and I was having the time of my short life, travelling, treading the boards in London, Paris. She died soon after I believe. The shame of it all I expect. There’s nothing like a good scandal to bring on a bout of death in the aristocracy.’
Mrs Hird paused to reflect but was able to raise a smile.
‘Still, it’s a long time ago Alfie, a lifetime in fact. I gave up any claim to being Lady Cattermole when I scarpered to London. Music hall, that’s my life, a bit of singing and dancing, that’s what I want to be remembered for. When all the scandal occurred it was like it was happening to somebody else’s family. I read the reports like anybody else and then got on with things. We were doing two shows a day, every day; there wasn’t time to be frettin’ about what my mother was getting up to.’
Mrs Hird sniffed haughtily and Alfie suspected that perhaps the old lady before him was not being entirely truthful. He knew how easy it was to leave. Going back, that was the hard part, and it only grew more difficult with the passing of years.
‘You’ve led a very colourful life.’ Alfie offered. ‘Travelled, met many people, led a good life.’
All the Fun of the Fair Page 13