Her Turn to Cry

by Chris Curran

  And she couldn’t bear talking about the past with him either. He thought there was more she could tell him, and that was true. Her memory of some things was acid sharp, but there was so much she seemed only to half-recall. Things she might have imagined. Until Cora mentioned that bloodstained mat she’d been almost sure it had never existed. So what else had she buried?

  Marcus had guessed that the way she was with him had something to do with Sid. He was right about that too. It was Sid’s voice and his ugly words that shivered through her when her feelings for Marcus took her close to the edge. But she had refused to think about what happened with him, what he did to her, for so long that the details were hazy. Her mind shrank back when she tried to bring them into focus and the idea of trying to tell someone else, even Marcus, horrified her.

  Whatever the truth, she knew it was best to leave Marcus out of it, at least for now. The only way she could face up to the past was by doing it on her own.

  Pauline’s mum, Mrs Shaw, would surely be able to help. She had worked at the theatre in Clacton forever and must have known Joycie’s dad and Sid for years, as well as lots of the other acts. Joycie wasn’t sure how well Mrs Shaw might have known her mum, but Pauline had certainly heard the gossip. The only fight they had was when Pauline said, ‘Everyone knows your mum ran away with her fancy man.’ Joycie kicked Pauline for saying that, and Pauline pulled her hair and told her. ‘I’m not your friend any more.’ But she came to the dressing room before the show a few days later to ask Joycie to meet her the next morning, and they made friends again over Pepsis and sweets.

  Mrs Shaw was lovely, and tea at her house was Joycie’s favourite thing during those summers. She and Pauline would tuck into an enormous spread laid out on the table beside the French windows. Pauline’s dad was a lot older than his wife, and Joycie always thought of him as a kindly granddad rather than a father. He sat in his rocking chair with the wireless on, laughing at comedy programmes or humming along to music while his wife waited on him.

  Like Joycie, Pauline was an only child, and it was obvious both her parents adored her. The Shaws had a proper house, and Joycie was in heaven when Pauline took her up to her own bedroom. On the window ledge she had a collection of spun-glass ornaments: fairies, birds, and butterflies. Best of all was the brimming bookcase. Joycie had read Heidi, What Katy Did, The Chalet School and the rest, but had to get them from the library.

  As the train chugged through the Essex countryside she felt her eyelids drooping – she’d hardly slept last night. She tried to stay awake by watching the landscape, but it was just field after field stretching flat and green to the misty horizon.

  The train jolted, and she dragged herself awake to find they were pulling in to Clacton station. She must have slept for half an hour or more, and her eyes were blurred and sticky.

  Walking down towards the pier she still felt half-asleep. The bright sun gave the shop windows a harsh glitter, and on Marine Parade she stood by the railings, resting her eyes on the silent sea. Even under the blue sky it had a muddy green tinge.

  Ahead was the theatre, but it would be closed today. Instead, she booked into the Royal Hotel. She had fantasized about staying there when she was young. Now all she could think of was lying down for a while to clear her head.

  Up in her room she kicked off her shoes and pushed up the sash window, expecting to fall asleep as soon as she lay on the bed. The window let in a cool breeze, but with it the sound of traffic and the screech of seagulls, and she was soon wide awake. She swung her legs to the floor. It was Sunday so they’d almost certainly be home. Probably having one of Mrs Shaw’s huge roast dinners. So there was no reason to wait.

  She’d been to the house so often that her feet took her there automatically, but standing in the neat front garden she felt a tremor of anxiety. The door opened to her knock and there was Mrs Shaw; her fair hair permed in the same style as always with just a few strands of grey at the temples. She was a little rounder, but otherwise much the same. When she saw Joycie she beamed.

  ‘Oh, Joyce love, how wonderful to see you. This is such a surprise, come in, come in.’

  As she followed Mrs Shaw into the front room Joycie had the feeling of being in some kind of dream. The room was just as she remembered. Comfortable sofa at one end and French windows open to the back garden at the other. And yet it was utterly different. Mr Shaw’s rocking chair was empty, the cushions neat and plump. The place smelled of furniture polish not tobacco. They both looked at the chair.

  ‘I lost my Ned a good while ago now,’ Mrs Shaw said. ‘He was a lot older than me, of course. Still, you’re never prepared.’

  Joycie plonked onto the sofa and managed to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ It wasn’t so surprising, but she felt a lump in her throat. Poor Pauline; she doted on her dad.

  Mrs Shaw was already heading for the kitchen. ‘Tea all right for you?’

  It was so quiet, so still in here, and so clean. It had never been grubby, just felt wonderfully cosy and lived in. Of course, Pauline was probably married by now.

  When Mrs Shaw came back with the tray she poured for them both and offered a plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘Sorry they’re shop bought. It’s not worth baking just for me.’ She was smiling hard and in the bright light from the window Joycie saw that her face was feathered with lines that hadn’t been there before. ‘Who’d have thought it?’ she said. ‘Little Joycie, who used to play in our garden and loved my Victoria sponges, turning into a famous model.’ She pointed to the bottom of the bookshelf where a neat pile of magazines was stacked. ‘I knew it was you the first time I saw your picture. And you’re calling yourself Orchid. That’s lovely.’

  Joycie smiled. Orchid was the nickname her father had given her when Sid and some of the others kept referring to her as Our Kid offstage. Pauline must have heard it when she came to their lodgings for tea. ‘How is Pauline these days?’ she said.

  Mrs Shaw balanced her cup and saucer very carefully on the arm of the sofa, staring out through the French windows. ‘You haven’t seen her then?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  Mrs Shaw was still looking away. ‘I thought – I hoped – she’d looked you up and that’s what you were here about.’ Her voice was muffled.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen her. Is she in London then?’

  Mrs Shaw stood, ignoring the wobble of her cup and saucer. She moved one of the cushions on the rocking chair and replaced it in a slightly different position, paused, and moved it back, then went over to the empty fireplace, looking towards the French windows and the garden again. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is she married?’ A problem with the husband maybe?

  Mrs Shaw sat in the armchair opposite the rocker, her hands tugging the hem of her cardigan. ‘Truth is, I don’t know. I hope she is, but …’

  Joycie waited, wanting to know more, but not sure how to ask. She was very thirsty, but it seemed wrong to drink her tea when Mrs Shaw was clearly upset. The cup rattled on the saucer as she put them on the table, and the sound seemed to bring Mrs Shaw to life again.

  ‘How old were you the last time we saw you?’ she asked.

  ‘Nearly fourteen and Pauline was a few months older. You made a Victoria sponge because we were going back to London next day. Sid and Dad were hoping to get booked here for the next summer season so I thought I’d see you all then.’

  ‘Oh, Joyce. I heard about Charlie. I’m so sorry.’

  Joycie gave her a little smile and a nod. This wasn’t the time to talk about her family. ‘I still don’t understand about Pauline.’

  ‘She was so upset when you didn’t turn up the next year. And, of course, Sid was on the bill so it wasn’t until he got here that we realized Charlie wasn’t with him. It was only then we found out what had happened. I asked Sid for your new address so Pauline could write to you, but he didn’t have it.’

  Oh yes he did, the bastard. ‘But what happened with Pauline?’

  ‘Don’t think I’m blaming you, lov
e, but she went right off the rails that summer. It must have been this boy she took up with.’ Mrs Shaw’s face was pink, and she twisted her cardigan between her fingers. ‘You’re a grown-up now so you know how things are. The fact is Pauline got herself in the family way. I guessed, of course, and we had a big row. The first I can ever remember. She begged me not to tell her dad. She worshipped him and, of course, he would have been upset because he was old-fashioned.’

  Joycie’s heart thumped hard. Poor Pauline. ‘Did she run away?’

  The ends of the cardigan were twisted into a knot now. ‘It was my fault. I’ll never forgive myself, but I was so angry. Told her to make the boy come and explain himself to her dad.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Pauline was so pretty and lively; she had lots of boys hanging around her, but she never seemed interested. A sudden vision of her eating ice cream on a bench, swinging her legs the way she always did.

  ‘We never found out. She left and that was it.’ Mrs Shaw took a hanky embroidered with blue flowers from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘It killed her dad, I’m sure of it. He couldn’t go on without her. And once he got over the shock he would have forgiven her, she should have known that. He would have loved being a granddad.’

  After that Joycie couldn’t ask any of the questions she’d prepared. All she wanted was time alone to try and process everything she’d just heard. She told Mrs Shaw she was staying the night and would call at the theatre in the morning. Mrs Shaw seemed pleased.

  ‘It’s a good show this year. You’ll probably know some of the acts on the bill.’

  ***

  Joycie walked down to the theatre and checked the names outside. There was one act she had hoped to find: The Bluebirds. They were a brother and sister singing duo and had been great friends with her dad. Dennis, the young man, was often at their lodgings and once or twice Joycie had woken early in the morning to find them smoking and drinking tea together. She’d been a bit jealous of Dennis, to tell the truth, even though he was always sweet to her.

  When Joycie and Marcus talked about who might have betrayed her dad to the police she had thought of Dennis. She knew they wrote to each other when they were working in different towns. She would have to try and speak to him tomorrow.

  As she stood looking at the billboard she felt the back of her neck tingle and turned quickly around but, although there were lots of people about, no one seemed to be watching her. Still she decided to head back to the hotel along the quiet residential streets away from the seafront.

  She could hardly believe what Mrs Shaw had told her about Pauline. It was an old story, of course, not that different from what had happened to her own mum, but Pauline loved her parents and she knew they doted on her. Even if she’d run away in panic it didn’t make sense that she had stayed away all this time and never even written.

  As Joycie turned the corner by the hotel she thought she heard the rapid click clack of smart shoes behind her. She whipped round fast but whoever it was didn’t turn onto the seafront road. A revolving door led to the hotel foyer and she stood just inside for a couple of minutes, watching people stroll by. There was no one she recognized; no one wearing formal shoes, and as the adrenalin wore off exhaustion flooded through her so strongly it was all she could do to collect her key and get into the lift. Back in her room she lay on the bed again. Her stomach ached with hunger, but Joycie was too tired to move.

  Chapter Eight

  Eventually she got herself off the bed, pulled a cardigan over her thin blouse and headed down. The hotel restaurant was just off the foyer and the air was thick with chatter and perfume. Middle-aged couples were arriving for some kind of fancy dinner, the men wearing lounge suits, the women in pearls and stilettos, their dresses rustling as they moved. A heavily made-up blonde drew her skirt back from Joycie’s crumpled slacks in a flounce of stiff petticoats as they passed at the revolving doors.

  Outside it was still warm but all the little cafés were closed at this time on a Sunday night, so Joycie followed the smell of vinegar and found a fish and chip shop. She took the parcel of food to a bench on the seafront, pulling at the cod and grabbing handfuls of fat chips, chewing and swallowing fast until the worst hunger pangs were gone. When she was able to eat more slowly she leaned back and tried to relax, looking out to the dark horizon and listening to the gentle shush, shush of the waves.

  She thought again of Pauline, in her candy-striped dress, sitting on a bench very near here all those years ago, eating an ice cream and swinging her legs as she talked. ‘Do you know who all the girls at school fancy?’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘Tony Curtis?’ Joycie had written off for a signed photo of him that she kept propped up in her room and she was getting ready to boast about it.

  But Pauline laughed again. ‘No, silly, someone in your show.’

  ‘Not Dennis from The Bluebirds?’ She knew he often had girls asking for his autograph.

  ‘Some do, but most of them like your dad best. Can you believe it?’

  ‘But he’s too old.’ For some reason Joycie felt angry.

  Pauline bit the end off her cornet and sucked the ice cream through the hole. ‘I know, but at least he’s a real man, not a silly kid.’

  Joycie turned away. Did Pauline only want to be friends to get close to her dad?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Pauline tugged at her shoulder. ‘I was only saying some of my friends think your dad’s a bit of all right. What’s wrong with that? I told them he’s past it. And I said he can’t be much cop anyway because everyone knows your mum ran away with her fancy man.’

  That was when Joycie kicked her and Pauline pulled her hair.

  A few days later, friends again, they were back on the same bench sharing Pepsis and sweets. Pauline said, ‘I only wanted you to know I don’t fancy your dad. He’s almost as square as mine.’ She blew down her straw turning the Pepsi dregs at the bottom of the bottle into a froth of brown bubbles. ‘And I don’t fancy that Dennis either.’

  That was the only conversation about boys or men she could recall having with Pauline. Boys would try and chat her up, but Pauline either ignored them or said something clever that sent them off even quicker. No boy ever paid attention to Joycie back then.

  She scrunched her fish and chip paper into a ball and tossed it into the bin, wishing the woman at the shop hadn’t been so free with the salt.

  That and thinking about Pepsi had made Joycie thirsty and she looked across the road to The Ship pub, wishing she had the nerve to go in on her own.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  The voice came from nowhere and she whirled round, heart drumming as she scanned the promenade. She was completely alone, twisting back and forth, almost convinced she had imagined the words.

  A tiny sound behind her. She spun back towards the dark beach and saw him climbing the steps to reach her. The man from Manchester; the man with the autograph book who called himself Bill. Another look along the promenade, but it was still empty, the little pools of light cast by the street lamps making everything outside them even gloomier. He could have been there all the time, his dark clothes hiding him from view; watching, as she sat eating, imagining herself alone.

  A burst of laughter floated across from the pub and she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over again, wanting to run in and shout for help. Instead she took a breath and crossed her arms, trying to stop her voice wobbling. ‘Why are you following me? What do you want?’

  He was as smartly dressed as always, a suit and tie, trench coat over his arm, and he was smiling at her, his cheekbones sharp and shiny in the lamplight. Eyes glinting like splinters of glass. ‘Let me get you a drink and we can talk about it. You’ll feel safe in the pub.’

  Joycie’s instinct was to tell him to get lost, but she needed to know what was going on, and he was right: she would be safer in the busy pub than alone with him. She headed across the road, determined to get there first. But as she opened the door a cloud of smoke wafted out and she
caught her foot on a ledge, unable to suppress a small yelp of pain.

  ‘Careful now.’ He took her arm, pulling her close beside him. She felt his breath on her cheek. ‘What can I get you?’

  She freed herself as discreetly as she could. ‘A Pepsi or a Coca Cola.’ Then sat at a table close to a group of old men who were playing dominoes, smoking, and drinking pints with whisky chasers. It wasn’t the kind of pub that expected female customers and the old men stopped playing and looked at her. She tried to seem relaxed and smiled over at them. One old guy raised his pint to her. ‘Cheers, darling,’ and they went back to their game.

  She was surprised to see Bill come back with Cokes for both of them; she imagined Scotch was more his style. He saw her looking at the bottles as he put them on the table, hanging his coat neatly on the back of his chair. ‘I never drink when I’m working.’

  A sudden thought. ‘Are you a policeman?’

  He smiled, but it was a smile for himself not her, and poured his Coke. ‘Let’s just say I’m looking out for you. Minding your back.’

  ‘And is your name really Bill?’

  He took a long swallow from his glass and flashed crooked white teeth at her. ‘You remembered, that’s nice.’ His voice was very soft, but Joycie felt a sharp spike of fear. Couldn’t breathe.

  She held her glass to her lips; trying to calm herself. Then drank some warm Coke pretending she couldn’t feel those pale eyes watching her. A swallow, a deep breath, and she was able to speak in a voice that hardly trembled. ‘I asked you why you’re following me.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ve been told to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid, and I shouldn’t be talking to you either, but I like you and I want to help you if I can.’ He spoke softly. His accent was a smoothed over cockney that reminded her a bit of her dad’s. But this man’s voice had a note that sent a chill through her.

  Somehow Joycie knew she would get nowhere with him unless she stayed strong. ‘I don’t need your help or anyone else’s, thank you very much.’