Family Chorus

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Anyway, we won’t say anything about this afternoon to anyone, hmm?’ he said, and the wheedling tone in his voice made her feel less sick for a moment. To have an adult talk to her like that! It was the way she had used to talk to Bessie sometimes. That tone was as familiar as her own voice, and she smiled at him suddenly. He looked at her anxiously and then smiled back, eagerly, his unshaven face drawn in the dimness of the gaslit street.

  ‘I dare say not,’ she said in as cold a voice as she could muster, for her stomach was making itself more and more felt and her mouth was dry. ‘As long as everything else goes all right —’ And she didn’t really know what she meant by that, just that it seemed the right thing to say.

  ‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully, staring at her, and then, as the bus came lumbering along, its lamps glooming heavily at them through the steady drizzle, said, ‘Will you be all right now, get home all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and held out her hand to stop the bus. ‘I’ll be all right. And don’t worry, I won’t say nothing to anybody. Not unless I’ve got to —’ The bus stopped and she got on. The conductor shouted, ‘Hold very tight there please!’ and rang the bell, and she stood on the platform looking at him as the bus lumbered away. He looked very small standing there on the pavement, diminishing with the increasing distance, and she watched him until he was out of sight. How strange that she had ever found him frightening, she thought. How very strange. And then, as the bus lurched, she closed her eyes. She was going to be very, very sick. Soon.

  ‘So what do I do, Mr Lazar? Tell her no? If I do that she — well, you know how she is. She gets upset. And she says it’s a chance, a real chance — oh, I don’t know. I just hate thinking of her like that, running around the country like some sort of —’

  ‘Not exactly running around, Bessie. You’ve never seen what it’s like, these shows. I have — any number of them. They work hard. Rehearsing on the stage in the mornings, getting the show right, then sleeping to get over the performances’ late nights — and then sitting around in cold trains and charas — there’s no time for any hanky panky, if that’s what’s worrying you —’ He leaned back in his chair and took a deep and rather noisy pull at his coffee cup, and then bit with huge relish into an onion platsel, so that the cream cheese and smoked salmon with which it was lavishly filled bulged out to leave his mouth ringed with it like a greedy baby’s. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips and then nodded at her, his jaws working busily. ‘Believe me, you’re worrying for nothing,’ he said as soon as he could get the words out. ‘Poppy Gansella, she don’t let nothing happen in her shows might spoil the takings. She watches her kids like a hawk, so you don’t have to worry. The kid wants a career in the business? She could go further and fare worse. What else do you want for her? She should work in the sweat shops? Come and be a waitress for me?’

  ‘She could do worse than that, that’s for sure,’ Bessie said and smiled at him suddenly, and it lifted her face into unusually pleasant lines. Generally she looked anxious and abstracted as she busied herself about her day’s work. He nodded back at her now, liking to sec her pleased. ‘It’s the best thing I ever did.’

  ‘Well, not exactly a waitress, are you? Good right hand to me, that’s what you are. Hasn’t done me any harm having you here, and that’s the truth of it. Best thing I ever did, taking you. Even if my Hannah had been interested in the job, I’d have been in stooch now, without you. She’s got better things to do than work for me, hmm?’

  She smiled, well aware of how much delight he took in his widowed niece and her child. ‘How is she?’ she said politely, and at once he launched into an account of the charm and intelligence and the altogether superior qualities over all other three-year-olds that his great-niece enjoyed, and the marvellous courage and dressmaking skills and wit and general wonderfulness of his niece, as she knew he would. Bessie settled to thinking her own thoughts, letting him rattle on as she chewed mechanically through the early lunch they were sharing over her desk behind the Tottenham Court Road tea shop.

  Outside brooms and buckets clattered as the cleaners got the restaurant ready for the lunchtime customers who would soon descend on them from the offices and shops around, and the smell of roasting beef and boiling vegetables came drifting from the kitchens. It was usually her favourite time of day, this, when her desk was clear and the books for the previous day straight. Soon she would have to go and inspect the waitresses, to make sure each of them was scrubbed and pin-neat in her black frock and lace-trimmed apron, that each had her hair neatly tucked out of sight behind the matching lace-trimmed headband with its black velvet ribbon threaded through it, that fingernails were clean and tables laid just so, and the mirrors and chrome all shining invitingly. But now was her own time.

  It should have been an even more agreeable time with Mr Lazar dropping in on one of his rare visits to check the books and compliment her — as he always did, for they were kept with impeccable care — and gossip a little. But Lexie had spoiled all that. Worrying about Lexie spoiled so much these days, she thought for a moment, and felt an unexpected stab of anger at her. The child she had loved and protected and worked for so hard seemed to have died, to have run away, to be replaced by a totally different and much less lovable person. The new Lexie was not only taller and a different shape, with a long narrow waist and sleek hips and a hint of a roundness over her chest — only a hint, for she had a boyish look rather than a luscious one — but a sharper, more determined person and a much more self-assured one.

  But she didn’t ask or plead prettily or coax as she had been used to and which Bessie had so enjoyed, even when she knew she was being manipulated. She just said quietly that she was doing this or that, seeming quite unaware of Bessie’s dislike of some of her proposals. Her clothes, her discreet use of make-up even when she wasn’t on the stage, her determination to have her lovely thick black hair bobbed in that ugly modern fashion — all of these things she just did and smiled calmly at Bessie, whatever she said, and showed no interest in her feelings.

  No wonder I have to worry about her, Bessie thought now, pushing away her plate of sandwiches as Alex at last stopped talking about his precious Hannah and Mary Bee. No wonder. I wish she’d leave me in peace — and then hated herself for the thought, for who else was there for her to love? Who else was there for her to worry about? And she looked across her neat desk at Alex Lazar, now swallowing the last of his coffee with obvious relish, and thought — I wish I could look after you — and at once suppressed it. She had realized long ago, within a year of starting work with him, that that was a ridiculous dream. It wasn’t only that she was plain and misshapen, bad enough as that was; it was just that he was so absorbed in his work, so satisfied with bustling about his many different businesses that he had no time for more than the occasional night with one of the prettier and sillier waitresses. Certainly he wasn’t interested in his chief clerk in the way she had become interested in him — no, that was not to be thought of.

  ‘So I should let her go?’ she said after an interval. He looked at her and sighed, then pushed his plate to one side and leaned forwards on the table, his arms folded in front of him.

  ‘Dolly, will you ever understand what you got there in that kid? You got a tiger by the tail, that’s what you got. A real tiger. She’s ambitious, that one. She’s so ambitious, it don’t matter what anyone does.’

  ‘Ambitious? I suppose so. But what good’ll it do her? So she goes on the road, gets this chance to be top of the bill and all that. What good’ll it do her if she never has any fun, the way a kid should? Always working — what sort of ambition is that?’

  He grinned then. ‘My sort, doll, my sort. I’m cut out o’ the same piece o’ cloth, I am. That’s how I know what your Lexie is. Know better than she does.’ He stopped then and stared at her, his eyes glazing a little. ‘That’s the thing about it, you know. It takes years to find out what you’re really like. Here am I, old man —’

  ‘No, n
ot old!’ she protested at once, but he waved a hand at her.

  ‘Old enough, old enough. Forty-five. It’s only now I know what makes me tick — or some of what makes me tick. I’m not sure I’ve found it all out yet. Your Lexie, she don’t know yet, neither. She’s got a long way to go and a lot to find out. And nothing you say, or I say, or anyone else says, is going to stop her. She’s on her way, that one. She’s hungry, you see. Hungry for everything and anything — it’s all meat to her. Work and attention and making things go her way. Oh, she’ll do well, she will. And if you want to go on having any part of her life, Bessie, you’ll stop trying to pull the other way. You’ll lose all the way down the line if you do. She’ll just cut the rope you’re pulling on and leave you flat on your back in the mud —’

  ‘You make her sound so hard! So cruel — but she isn’t! She’s just a kid, that’s all! She doesn’t know what she wants, and she needs someone to look after her, to guide her —’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? I told you — she’s ambitious. Hungry. She won’t take guidance from you or anyone else. She’ll do it her way — and I’ll tell you something else. She’ll make everyone around her do it her way, too. So lay off. Say yes to the things you can’t say no to, and then maybe on the little things she’ll give in and let you have your own way once in a while. Let her go on her tours, let her work at the business all the hours God gives, and then maybe when she needs a bit of a rest and looks like she won’t take one, you’ll be able to persuade her to take a holiday, and maybe she’ll listen. And you’ll stay close, that’s the thing. But you try to make her live her life your way, and she’ll be gone. Just like that —’ And he blew in the air and made a comical face at her. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘I wish I didn’t love her so much,’ she said, almost to herself as he got to his feet, and went to peer through the curtain shrouding the glass door of the office at the restaurant outside, how sparkling clean, and tables laid ready for the day’s business. ‘I really do.’ She got up and went over to the door too, to see the waitresses already lining up outside ready for her sharp-eyed inspection. ‘It’s just that — well, she’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ he said. ‘It’s like me and my niece. You love someone, you love ’em and there’s nothing you can do about it, for all it’s a nuisance, gets in the way of business and all. You just have to love ’em and run when they need you. But sometimes you have to stand back and let ’em live their own way and not come running. I had to do it when my poor Hannah lost her husband, three years ago, you know? Now, she’s fine, running her own nice little business. You’ve got to do the same for your Lexie. Stand back, let her suffer her own pain, go through her own mistakes. It’s the only way.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said drearily, and she nodded, putting her hand on the doorknob. But he stopped her, his own hand on her shoulder, and she was very aware of the warmth of it and of the fact that it was her twisted shoulder he was touching. He seemed unaware of that, though, and she didn’t know whether that made her feel better about it or worse.

  ‘Listen, Bessie, your sister Fanny, your brothers — you ever see them?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not since — all that fuss. No, I don’t. I was always afraid they’d try to take her away, you see and —’ She shook her head, startled to find suddenly that tears were very near the surface of her voice.

  He made a little face. ‘I was wrong, maybe. Shouldn’t have encouraged you to keep your distance that way, moving house an’ all —’ He grinned then, disarming in his honesty. ‘Tell you the truth, Bessie, it gave me such pleasure to do that mumser Dave Fox in the eye, I couldn’t resist it. But I shouldn’t have included you in my private fights, hmm? Anyway, all these years — it’s water under the bridge — you should forget old quarrels, hey? Families, for all they drive you meshuggah, they’re all you’ve got when you come down to it. These people you get stuck with may be a lot of trouble to you, drive you mad the way the people you choose as friends never do, but when it comes down to it, family’s family. Go see Fanny already, Bessie. You need your own people —’

  ‘But, Lexie — they might still want to —’

  ‘Ah, phooey to that! I don’t suppose they ever would have taken her anyway. They were just having a go at you. That’s families, ain’t it? Anyway, it don’t make no never mind any more. There’s no one in the world’ll make your Lexie do anything she don’t want to. I’ve told you. She’s hungry, she’s ambitious, she’ll do what she wants. She’s not much more’n a kid in some ways, but in most of the ones that matter she’s a mensch, a person, a real grown-up person. You don’t have to be afraid no more for her. Go see your sister, Bessie. Whatever else she is, she’s still your sister.’

  11

  ‘Aim sure Ai don’t hev to tell you brave boys how proud we all are to be heah with you all this evening —’ Madame Gansella trumpeted, her face gleaming with sweat and her hair curling in wild tendrils round her forehead. ‘Today of all days — to be privileged to be amongst you, who hev made so many sacrifices for us, heah on the Home Front — Ai assure you we arc all speechless with admiration for you —’

  ‘I wish she bloody well was,’ Sid whispered into Lexie’s ear. She nudged him with a sharp little elbow and he squeaked with pain, while Madame Gansella threw a furious glare into the wings and then sailed on triumphantly, lifting her arms to the audience to show the swathes of her purple gown. It was beginning to show signs of its age, that purple thing, Lexie thought; thank God for footlights — they hid a multitude of sins in their glare.

  ‘And now, as we stend heah in the light at the end of the interminable tunnel —’ (‘There she goes again,’ whispered Sid, and this time Lexie giggled too) ‘— we give up our heartfelt thanks to you, to all of you, and to those of your Dear Old Pals who made the great, the supreme sacrifice, for all of us!’ She bent her head for a moment and then, after the most scant of pauses, lifted it and went on even more loudly, if that were possible. ‘We offer you our own humble little contribution to the war effort — an effort we must all now pray, on this great Armistice Day, will soon be ended for all time. Not our little show, of course, but your great sacrifices —’ And aware that she had made some sort of error, she hurried on, ‘ Ai give you, all of you, our offering to you from us as a small measure of thenks for all you hev done — Ladies and Gentlemen — Babies — on — Parade!’

  ‘We’re on —’ Sid said. Fixing his face into its practised stage grin he jerked his head at the people behind him and off they went, batons twirling and heads tossing, marching to the thumping of the slightly tinny piano to the centre stage. Lexie watched them as step followed familiar step, the flashing knees of the girls beneath their khaki satin skirts, displaying their khaki satin knickers, and the boys in their mock officers’ uniforms, all of the highest rank, kicking and stamping as they held their wooden rifles at the present. It’s all so tired, she thought, as tired as I am, as tired as she is — and she looked at Madame Gansella, now standing on the opposite prompt side watching them, her face heavy in its fatigue now that she was no longer smiling.

  Thank God it’s over, Lexie thought as her cue came and she went marching on to take her place centre stage as befitted the star of the number. Thank God it’s all over, I can go back to London, leave this lousy show, get a real shop — left right, kick, change, this is a lousy routine, time step, kick, change — a lousy boring routine. I’m tired, tired, tired —

  In the wings Madame Gansella’s face had lost its heavy look, the sagging flesh around her mouth lifting as she watched Lexie approvingly, saw her long legs looking even longer in those khaki stockings, the thick dark hair gleaming in the lights, and the provocative little grin that tilted the corners of that narrow mouth to match the slant of her eyes. Already the audience was reacting as they always did when Lexie came on; sitting up straighter, leaning forwards a little, actually watching rather than just letting it
all go on in front of their eyes, and Madame Gansella smiled a sharp little grin now as she caught the pianist’s eye and he beamed and nodded at her. She’d told him her top-of-the-bill was a real goer, but he hadn’t believed her, thought she was covering up when she’d told him Lexie didn’t rehearse, didn’t need to, not for this number. He’d grumbled, said they always rehearsed every concert party that came into the hospital, but she’d ridden over him, told him Lexie was different, and now there he was, nodding away and grinning like a great monkey. Bloody men, always grinning for the wrong reasons. It wasn’t Lexie’s dancing, that was for sure — and she winced as Lexie missed a step and then relaxed as she slipped in another, recovered the beat and went on as though nothing had happened; bloody men, they know nothing about dancing. All they see when they look at her is sex. And her only twelve years old.

  Supposed to be only twelve years old, she reminded herself as the number moved into its climax, with the boys picking Lexie up, tossing her from one to the other as though she were no more than a bag of feathers — and indeed she was skinny enough to be no heavier — supposed to be. She told everyone who booked Babies on Parade that it was the wartime version of her famous Juvenile Jollities show, ‘Every Child an Artiste, Every Artiste a Child’, and assured them loftily that no performer was over twelve. She’d got away with it with Sid, stunted little ass that he was, and the others were none of them over fifteen, but Lexie had been more of a worry to her. She’d watched her all through the war years as tour followed tour and audience after audience fell for her, terrified that she’d suddenly shoot up the way kids often did, terrified she’d grow a great pair of breasts and vast hips, but thank God she hadn’t. At almost eighteen she still had the same slender boyishness she’d had four years ago. Her face had sharpened a little, lost its baby smoothness, and her legs had become even more shapely, but the rest of her was much the same. Thank God, she thought again as the number came to its usual riotous end, with the audience roaring its approval. Thank God — and she hurried on stage as the curtain swished into place to push the collection bags into the girls’ hands — the biggest to Lexie as usual — and hurry them on their way to the real business of the evening.