“It’s probably nothing,” he said.
“Go on, tell me.”
“Well, have you noticed a motorcyclist hanging around? Black leathers, black helmet, riding a Harley-Davidson?”
Rose turned to look at the traffic on the road. There were cars, a couple of vans and a delivery lorry parked down the street, but no motorcyclists. “Nope,” she said.
“I don’t mean right now,” said Dan, “but just generally.”
“No, I haven’t. Why are you asking?”
Dan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, it’s probably nothing.”
Rose gave him a searching look. She could see he didn’t think it was nothing, but her bus was coming down the road and there wasn’t time to quiz him about it now. She reached into her bag for her purse. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him. “Don’t be late,” she added with a wink.
“Are you doing anything at the weekend?” he asked.
“We’re visiting my great-uncle David in York on Saturday, but I’ll be back in the evening.”
“Want to go and see the new Bond film?” he asked as the bus drew to a stop.
“Yeah, okay,” called Rose, climbing into the bus. She found a window seat and, as the bus pulled away from the kerb, she blew him a kiss, wondering what he had meant by the motorcyclist.
CHAPTER TWO
It was December 1923, about a week or so before the anniversary of Father’s death. He was blown to pieces in 1914 on his way to the lighthouse when the Germans bombarded Scarborough from their ships in the North Sea, but I’ll come to that later.
Ruby and I spent the evening watching A Woman of Paris: A Drama of Fate at the Futurist cinema where I worked in the box office. I loved the movie. The director was Charlie Chaplin and it starred the fabulous Edna Purviance as the feisty heroine, Marie St Clair. It was a story of love and loss, extravagant parties and tragic death, and finally hope for the future, and it had me smiling, weeping, laughing and sobbing by turns. I felt as if I had been on an emotional merry-go-round. And it awakened in me a desire to go to Paris, a city of fashion and excitement and glamour, unlike wet and windy Scarborough on the North Yorkshire coast. At the age of nineteen I hadn’t been further afield than York or Whitby. As the credits rolled and the orchestra played, I wanted to sit there and savour the memory of the characters on the screen, but the lights in the auditorium were coming up and the people in our row were standing and putting on their coats and shuffling along, politely indicating to Ruby and me that it was time to get up and leave. We always sat in the back row of the stalls, right next to the aisle. Because it was my job to sell the tickets, we could only take our seats after everyone else had arrived, so we used to slip in at the last minute, whilst the four-minute newsreel was showing before the main feature.
Oblivious to the people waiting to leave, Ruby snapped open a powder compact and dabbed her face with quick, deft strokes. Like me, she must have shed a tear or two, but Ruby was going to emerge from the cinema looking like a film star herself. That was just the way she was. Ruby slipped the powder compact back into her handbag and stood to put on her coat, a black wool one with a fur trim around the collar and the cuffs. Then she pulled her cloche hat down low over her brow. It was a new hat, dark burgundy in colour and decorated with a wide satin ribbon in black. It suited Ruby’s dark hair which she wore fashionably bobbed so that the ends curled around her cheeks.
“I just have to tidy the ticket office ready for tomorrow,” I said as we stepped out into the foyer. I’d left the place in a bit of a mess because I’d been selling tickets right up until just before the film started.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Ruby, reaching into her handbag for her cigarette case. “Don’t be long.” She turned up the fur collar on her coat and headed towards the double doors that opened onto the sea-front.
I let myself into the box office, a little glass-fronted booth in the foyer. In 1923 the Futurist was Scarborough’s new movie theatre, only three years old, a huge art-deco building prominently positioned on Foreshore Road, overlooking the South Bay. It seated over two thousand in the stalls and circle, and I was proud to work there. Its name alone expressed exactly what it represented: the future and all that was modern and forward-thinking. It was just what we all needed after the tragedy and gloom of the war and people flocked to see the latest films from America. Of course, they were black and white and silent in those days, but everyone loved them. There was something magical about the way the beam of light from the projection room shone through the darkened auditorium, bringing to life the characters on the screen. Mr Thompson, the cinema manager, was happy for me to slip into the auditorium and watch the films after I had served the last customer. Tragedies, comedies, romances, I saw them all. I knew all the famous actors and actresses from Hollywood, well not personally obviously.
I tidied the counter, rolling up the reel of tickets and putting them away in a drawer. Then I emptied the contents of the till into a metal money box, sorting the shillings from the coppers, so that Mr Thompson could count the evening’s takings. The foyer was gradually clearing as the last members of the audience came down from the more expensive seats in the circle and headed outside.
I heard the arrhythmic click of a walking stick on the shiny floor and looked up to see Mr Thompson limping across the foyer towards the ticket booth. He had been wounded in France sometime during early 1915, spent the remainder of the war on sick leave and always seemed to resent having missed out on most of the action. There were rumours around the town that he exaggerated his limp to make himself appear more of a hero than he really was. I just thought he should consider himself lucky to be alive when so many hadn’t survived, like my brother Frank. Despite his gammy leg, Mr Thompson had that military bearing that comes from having fought and survived a battle.
“I’ve nearly finished tidying up here,” I said, thinking that Mr Thompson had come in search of the money box. He was a stickler for punctuality.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Fairbright, could you go and fetch Mr Drinkwater from the projection room please and then come to my office? There’s someone I’d like you both to meet. You can bring the money box at the same time.”
“Yes, of course.” I watched him make his lopsided way back to his office, a small room off the main foyer. Then I picked up the money box and carried it up the narrow service stairs to the projection room at the top of the cinema.
I peered through the glass panel in the door. Billy Drinkwater, the projectionist, was carefully removing the reel of film from the projector and rolling the end into the protective metal case. He always worked with his shirt sleeves rolled up and I felt my pulse quicken at the sight of those bare arms with the fair hairs, and his strong hands with the long, slender fingers. He handled the reels of film with such nimble dexterity. We had been courting for five months, going to dances at the spa and for walks along the coast, and I knew in my heart that Billy was the one for me.
I tapped on the door and went inside. Billy had given me a tour of the projection room once, pointing out the fire equipment (apparently film reels were notoriously flammable) and showing me how to operate the projector, even saying, laughingly, that if he was ever off sick I’d have to stand in for him, but it had all seemed terribly complicated and my fingers had fumbled over the reel of film, trying to load it into the projector. There was a window overlooking the auditorium but I always felt slightly queasy when I looked down on the audience from such a height. I preferred to keep my feet on the ground selling the tickets.
Billy looked up and his face broke into a smile when he saw me. He was blessed with youthful good looks, his fair hair swept off his forehead and his eyes a deep blue, the colour of the sea on a sunny day. He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, a familiar gesture that I had come to love. “Hello, Lil. How did you enjoy the film?”
“I loved it,” I told him truthfully. “I really felt f
or the characters in the story.”
He looked delighted. “I thought you’d like it,” he said. “It’s a masterpiece. One of Chaplin’s best.”
“Even though he’s not actually in it?”
“He’s a brilliant director,” said Billy. “He understands what makes a good story. And he was in the film actually.”
“Oh? I didn’t see him.”
“He has a walk-on part as the railway porter.”
“Really? I’ll have to watch it again and see if I can spot him.”
He came over to me and embraced me, kissing me on the lips.
I could have happily stayed there all evening, but Mr Thompson would be waiting for us. “Actually,” I said, laying a hand on Billy’s chest, “Mr Thompson sent me to come and get you. He wants to see us both in his office.”
Billy’s face fell. “What about?”
“I’ve no idea. He said there was someone he’d like us to meet.”
“Oh, well, better not keep the boss waiting,” said Billy, unrolling his shirt sleeves and picking up his jacket.
He put the film back on the shelf, in alphabetical order, and followed me down the narrow staircase. By now the foyer was completely deserted. I thought about Ruby waiting for me outside and wondered if she was still there or if she’d given up and gone home. I hoped this meeting with Mr Thompson wouldn’t take too long. Billy knocked on the office door and the manager’s gruff voice said, “Enter.”
Mr Thompson’s office was a plain room with a mahogany desk, four chairs and a rather old-fashioned, nineteenth-century oil painting of Scarborough castle on the wall. The room always smelled of cigarette smoke but today there was a stronger smell in the air. Cigars. I laid the money box on the desk next to an open case of thick brown cigars. Two were missing, suggesting that Mr Thompson and his guest had discussed their business in a fug of Havanna smoke. Seated on a chair in front of the desk was a man smartly dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and a tie. As soon as Billy and I entered the room he stood up and stepped forward to greet us. He must have been at least six feet tall and his black hair was oiled and slicked back from his forehead. He sported a trim little moustache and possessed an air of supreme confidence. Compared to Mr Thompson, who resembled a dusty old Edwardian in his brown tweeds, this man was the epitome of everything that was new and modern. He looked like a movie star.
“Miss Fairbright, Mr Drinkwater,” said Mr Thompson, “I’d like to introduce you to Mr Theodore Franklin.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” said Mr Franklin, shaking my hand and Billy’s. As soon as he spoke I realised that he was American, his voice had that twangy drawl that I associated with American soldiers during the war and that I had heard on the radio.
“Mr Franklin is a movie director and businessman,” said Mr Thompson, moving to stand behind the desk, “and he’s investing a considerable amount of money in the Futurist.”
“You have a splendid movie theatre here,” said Mr Franklin, gesturing expansively with his arm towards the foyer. “One of the best I’ve seen in the whole country. Bet you’re real proud to work here.”
“Yes, I am,” I said. Mr Franklin regarded me with such an intense gaze that I found it difficult to look away.
“Indeed,” said Billy.
“And I’m proud to be able to invest my money in this place,” said Mr Franklin, beaming at the thought of his own largesse. “In fact, to celebrate my arrival in this pretty little town, I’m throwing a party at the Grand Hotel, a New Year’s Eve ball nonetheless, and I’d be honoured if you’d all come as my special guests. Bring your friends. Everyone is welcome.”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid my dancing days are in the past,” said Mr Thompson with a chuckle, “but I’m sure the young people here would enjoy themselves.”
“Well, whaddya say?” asked Mr Franklin, looking down at me from beneath his black eyebrows.
“Oh, well, thank you very much,” I stumbled. I could feel myself reddening under his intense gaze. “I’m sure it would be lovely.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” said Billy stiffly, “but I’m afraid I must decline. I’m otherwise engaged that evening.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Mr Franklin, but he didn’t sound at all sorry. “Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you folks.”
Billy and I left Mr Thompson’s office and made our way back to the box office.
“Why can’t you go to the party?” I asked. I didn’t want to go on my own.
“Sorry,” said Billy, looking a bit rueful, “but I promised Ma I’d take her to Whitby to see her sister for the New Year.” He glanced back at Mr Thompson’s office. “So, what do you make of Mr Theodore Franklin?” He pronounced Theodore with exaggerated emphasis as if he thought it was a rather ridiculous name.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He seems awfully confident and very” -- I struggled to find the right word -- “American.”
Billy gave a snort. “I don’t trust him,” he said. “Shifty eyes. And what does the Futurist need investment for? It’s brand new and doing a roaring trade.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. I had no idea how much money it took to run a cinema. I went back into the box office to retrieve my hat and coat.
“I’ll walk you home,” said Billy. “It gets dark so early now.” He nodded towards the promenade which was black beyond the glass doors.
“I’d love to,” I began, “but I think Ruby is still outside waiting for me.” I’d caught a glimpse of a woman’s figure beyond the glass doors.
Billy’s smile wavered briefly, then he recovered. “Of course, no problem.” He leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Goodnight, Lilian. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Billy.”
I pulled on my old woollen coat and buttoned it up. It wasn’t as fine as Ruby’s but it was serviceable and kept out the wind that howled around Scarborough during the winter months. I set my hat on my head, picked up my handbag and stepped out into the blustery night air.
A gust of wind tugged at my hat, almost pulling it off my head. Mine wasn’t a close-fitting cloche like Ruby’s but an old-fashioned, wide-brimmed hat from before the war. I clutched the top of the hat with my hand and went to join Ruby who was sheltering in the corner of the doorway, smoking a cigarette.
“Oh, there you are,” said Ruby. “I thought you’d got lost.”
“Sorry. Mr Thompson wanted to introduce me and Billy to someone.”
“Oh yes?” said Ruby. “Who was that?”
“An American. Someone called Theodore Franklin. He’s investing money in the Futurist apparently.” I didn’t really understand what that meant.
“An American?” said Ruby, perking up. “He must be rich if he’s investing money in the cinema. Was he good-looking too?”
“Well, I suppose he was quite good-looking,” I said, remembering the intensity of those eyes. In all honesty I had found him a little scary. “He looked like a movie star.”
“Tell me more,” said Ruby, linking her arm through mine. We started to make our way along Foreshore Road. To our right, the waves crashed against the promenade sending sea-spray across the road.
“He’s invited us to a New Year’s Eve ball at the Grand Hotel,” I said. “Billy can’t go, but Mr Franklin said we could bring friends, so you could come if you’d like.”
“Oh, do let’s go,” said Ruby, excitedly. “A ball at the Grand Hotel sounds fabulous.”
“I’d like to,” I said, “but I haven’t got anything to wear.” I hadn’t had a new dress in years and I would be embarrassed to turn up at Scarborough’s finest hotel in one of my shabby, old-fashioned frocks.
“Oh you poor Cinderella! Lilian, that really is the lamest excuse I ever heard,” said Ruby, shaking her head at me. “We can soon fix that. I’m a dab hand with the sewing machine, and besides, I’d like to meet this Theodore Franklin. It’s not every day that a good-looking, rich American lands on our shores.”
We walked on, Ruby chattering about clothes. She worked in a ladies’ boutique and was far more knowledgeable about the latest fashions than I was. At the corner of Foreshore Road and Eastborough we came to a stop. Ruby held my hands and her eyes glistened with excitement. “If I play my cards right,” said Ruby, “this party could be my lucky night.” She kissed me lightly on the cheek, then turned and walked briskly up the hill, her heels clipping on the wet flagstones. I headed towards the harbour, wondering what she had in mind. The lighthouse at the end of the jetty was flashing out its warning signal across the empty blackness of the sea. The stale, dead-fish smell of the lobster baskets, piled up in front of the fishing boats, wafted towards me on the wind. That smell always made me think of Father who was a fisherman until he was struck by a German shell on the sixteenth December 1914. Dead at the age of thirty-nine. The wind was gusting even more strongly and I pulled up the collar of my coat, eager to reach the safety of home.
That was the day I first met Theodore Franklin. If only we hadn’t gone to the ball at the Grand Hotel, but hindsight, as they say, is a wonderful thing.
CHAPTER THREE
Rose knew her mother was on edge from the way she was gripping the steering wheel and craning her neck forward as if she was driving through a blizzard or thick fog. The winding, medieval streets of York, thronged with Saturday shoppers and tourists, were not conducive to a relaxing journey, particularly with someone as uptight as Andrea. The SatNav kept trying to send them the wrong way down one-way streets.
“The stupid thing’s out of date,” said Andrea, when the calm tones of the female voice told them to take the next left into a street that was tightly packed with market stalls and buskers. She switched it off. “The council must have changed the road layout.”
Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2) Page 3