HIS OTHER SON

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  Mrs Gafney, the landlady, led Meg and Gareth up the dingy stairwell. The stairs themselves were covered in a threadbare carpet with a hideous floral design, and they creaked alarmingly with each step.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Gafney, ‘I’ve had a lot of theatricals staying here. We had Max Miller in ‘49. Remember him? The Cheeky Chappie? Lovely man. And Old Mother Riley and Kitty McShane. Of course, he was a fella – Arthur Lucan. He was lovely too, a real gentleman. Never took to her though. A proper madam, I thought... and far too young for him.’

  Meg and Gareth exchanged looks and Meg put a hand to her mouth to hide a smile.

  Mrs Gafney led them along a dimly lit landing and stopped outside a grey-painted door. ‘This is your room, Barry.’

  ‘Actually it’s Gareth.’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said absently as she opened the door and pushed it wide. She snapped on the light revealing a cramped room decorated in a nightmare of faded chintz. Gareth pulled a face and Meg once again hid her smile. The landlady handed the key to Gareth. ‘The rules of the house are on the back of the door there.’ She indicated a sheet of paper, a faded carbon copy of a typed original, stuck to the door with brown and curling sticky tape. ‘Breakfast is at eight sharp, and I expect all my guests to respect the comfort of others by not smoking in the dining room. All right? I hope you enjoy your stay.’ She turned to Meg. ‘Now, Miss, if you’ll follow me.’

  Gareth shut the door on the awful woman and laid his suitcase on the bed. The mattress hardly gave under the weight – a bad sign. Still, he’d stayed in worse accommodation in the ten years he’d been in the business. He kicked off his shoes and went across to the window. There were a few families down on the beach, children playing in the sand, building elaborate castles that would soon be washed away by the incoming tide. On the promenade was a row of deckchairs with mainly elderly people occupying them.

  Gareth was canny enough to realise that these people were the same ones who would be paying their shillings to watch the show at the Palace Theatre, and would in turn pay his wages.

  He sighed. Show business was a wretched existence. He found it difficult to reconcile the fact that he’d spent three years at RADA, and the best part he could get now was in the chorus of a tuppenny ha’penny revue in a run-down seaside town. Of his contemporaries three had regular positions with the Royal Shakespeare Company, four had made it big in films, a couple of them inducted into the Rank Charm School and giving Dirk Bogarde a run for his money in the pin-up stakes; and of the others at least three of them had turned up on television in various variety shows. He’d decided to give it until the end of the year and if nothing serious had turned up by then, then he would give it all up and get the ‘proper job’ his parents were always going on about.

  It was different for Meg. He’d been like her once – young, enthusiastic, approaching his first major professional date with verve and vitality. Ten years as a jobbing actor – of which at least half of those years were filled with temporary menial jobs – had blunted his enthusiasm and made him slightly cynical.

  He let the curtain drop and went back to lie on the bed. He groaned as the mattress refused to give under his weight. The season was for three months. By the end of it he would need the services of a chiropractor.

  He put his hands behind his head and thought about Meg. She was certainly pretty, and had an easy-going personality, which was a bonus considering not only were they going to be working together but also sharing digs. He’d had some unpleasant times with fellow actors in the past and, he felt, if this was to be his final year in the business, then he would like it to pass as smoothly as possible.

  He wondered if he should ask her to come to the party tonight. When Martin Stein called to invite him, he’d told him he could bring a guest if he wished, and Gareth joked that he’d probably end up bringing the landlady, but that was before he’d met Meg on the train. Now all sorts of possibilities were opening up. But whether or not to invite her tonight? That was the question.

  Meg followed the landlady up another two flights of stairs, along another gloomy landing, through a door and up yet another staircase, this one narrow, steep and uncarpeted. At the top of the staircase was another door. Mrs Gafney opened it and stepped inside, beckoning Meg to follow. In decor the room was very similar to Gareth’s, but whereas his room had two large windows and a view of the promenade and the sea, the single window in her room was tiny and looked out over the rooftops to the town.

  ‘This must be the top of the house,’ Meg said anxiously. This was her first time away from home and she was feeling apprehensive

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Gafney said sharply, narrowing her eyes to slits. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I just wondered if you had a room nearer to Mr Barker, to Gareth.’

  The slits closed further and the eyes disappeared completely. ‘And why would you want that? I keep a respectable house here. My reputation is exemplary.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Meg said quickly. ‘I wasn’t suggesting...’

  The woman smiled suddenly. ‘That’s all right then. So long as you understand. Where are you appearing? Not the pier, is it?’

  Meg was thrown by this sudden change of tack. She stammered. ‘N...n...no, not the pier. We’re at the Palace... the Palace Theatre in the Winter Gardens.’

  ‘I know it well. I didn’t think you were at the pier. They’ve got the Crazy Gang there,’ said the woman, crossing to the plywood dressing table and stroking her finger across the surface. She studied the tip of the finger closely. Apparently satisfied she said, ‘So, what are you? Dancer?’

  ‘Actress, and singer,’ Meg said. ‘I’m in the chorus. The show’s called Showstoppers of ‘58.’

  Mrs Gafney looked unimpressed. ‘So it’s all modern music, then. Not my cup of tea this rock and roll rubbish. I like proper singers. John Hanson, and that David Whitfield. Lovely voices.’

  ‘No, it’s not rock and roll, it’s a revue. We have a comedian, singers... I think there’s even an acrobat troupe.’

  ‘Now tumblers I like. Circus folk usually. Never had any trouble with circus folk. Is there anyone in this show of yours I might have heard of?’

  ‘It’s starring Ronnie Miller, the singer.’

  ‘Off the telly? Oh yes, I’ve heard of him. Him and Dickie Valentine are my favourites on the box. Don’t care much for that Frankie Vaughan though. Too smooth by half that one. And I don’t suppose I’ve heard of you, have I, dear?’

  Meg shook her head. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have. This is my first revue.’

  Mrs Gafney walked to the door. ‘Yes, I thought you looked a bit green. Don’t you worry; you’ll soon get the hang of living in digs. So long as you obey the rules and keep your nose clean, we should get along fine.’ She smiled, showing a row of tobacco stained teeth, then she slipped out of the room closing the door behind her.

  Meg held her breath, waiting to hear the key being turned in the lock. All she heard was the landlady’s feet as they clumped down the uncarpeted stairs. She chided herself for being so melodramatic. Of course the woman wasn’t going to lock her in. But she could not dispel the feeling that in some ways Gafney’s Guesthouse had certain similarities to a prison.

  Mrs Gafney herself would make a suitable warder. Meg was annoyed by the woman’s suggestion that there was something untoward between herself and Gareth, when the truth was she barely knew him. It was sheer coincidence that they’d been sitting in the same compartment on the train from London. It was only when she saw he was reading Spotlight, the actor’s trade newspaper, that she struck up a conversation with him. They were both astonished to find that not only were they appearing in the same revue, but also sharing the same digs.

  For Meg it came as something of a relief to meet another member of the cast before turning up for the first day of rehearsals. First days were always nerve-wracking, and this one especially so as the producer of the show insisted that the cast assemble, not at some London rehearsal st
udio, but at the theatre itself. This, he informed them, was to give them a chance to soak up the atmosphere of a typical English seaside town, and to get to mingle with the people who would be making up the audience.

  She found this particularly daunting because all her stage experience had so far been based around her hometown of Sevenoaks in Kent; while she relished the opportunity to expand her theatrical horizons; she was very nervous and apprehensive about the reality of it.

  She busied herself unpacking her suitcase, making use of the rather basic furniture in the room. The wardrobe, like the dressing table and the chest of drawers, was made from plywood and seemed flimsy, the hanging rail creaking ominously under the weight of her small amount of clothes. She tested the bed and found it hard and unyielding, though the bedding seemed clean enough, and there were no signs of bed bugs. She’d heard some horror stories from other actors about the atrocious conditions of some boarding houses, and so on balance she felt she’d not done too badly with Gafney’s Guesthouse

  By the time she finished unpacking it was still only mid-afternoon and she thought she might like to take a walk through the town to the promenade. The sea held a fascination for her. Ever since her mother and father took her to Cliftonville for a holiday as a small child she’d loved the power and implacability of such a great body of water. Standing at the water’s edge, letting the waves lap over her feet and staring out at the horizon, was a magical, almost humbling experience.

  She was walking along the first floor landing towards the staircase when a door ahead of her opened and Gareth stepped out.

  ‘Oh, hullo,’ he said when he noticed her. ‘I’m going out to explore the town.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  ‘Well, if you could stand the company we could always explore together.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’

  As they descended the stairs to the front door, Mrs Gafney appeared. ‘Thought I heard movement,’ she said. ‘Off out then?’ She was speaking to both of them but skewering Meg with an almost accusatory stare.

  ‘Yes,’ Gareth said. ‘Thought we’d go down to the sea front for a ice cream.’

  ‘An ice cream?’ said Mrs Gafney. ‘I like ice cream myself,’ She’d turned her attentions to Gareth now and was looking at him, almost coquettishly. ‘Perhaps...’ She stopped and shook her head, dismissing the thought to which she’d almost given voice. ‘No, silly idea.’

  Meg stared at the woman. Dressed in a floral cotton shift a size too small for her, with rather tatty black suede shoes at the end of a pair of lumpy, varicose veined legs, the woman was no beauty. She’d gone heavy on the lipstick and rouge, trying to disguise the ravages of age, but it had the effect of making her face look almost clown-like, an effect compounded by her hair colour, which was ginger, and out of a bottle. All in all a rather blowsy, unattractive woman, old enough to be their mother. Yet the woman was blatantly flirting with Gareth. It made Meg’s skin crawl.

  As they left the house and walked down the six stone steps to the street Meg said, ‘She was flirting with you,’

  ‘Was she?’ Gareth said. ‘Can’t say I noticed.’

  ‘But it was obvious.’

  ‘Not to me. I’ve learned to ignore amorous landladies. It’s an occupational hazard in this trade. Come on, let’s get that ice cream.’ He took her by the arm and escorted her along the street.

  It was still early in the season and the weather hadn’t yet got into its stride. A chilly wind was blowing in from the sea, cancelling out the warming effects of the watery sun overhead.

  They walked along the promenade licking their ice cream cones. In a shelter just along from the penny arcade an elderly couple were enjoying a picnic of tinned-salmon sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, washed down with milky tea from a thermos flask. Meg smiled at them as they passed but the couple ignored her, the woman sprinkling more salt onto her egg.

  On a stanchion of the bandstand ahead they could see a poster advertising Showstoppers of ‘58. Gareth nudged her as they passed. ‘See that? Full Supporting Cast and Chorus. That’s us.’

  ‘Our name in lights,’ she said ironically.

  ‘One day.’ He checked his watch. ‘I have to be getting back.’

  ‘So soon? You haven’t even finished your ice cream.’

  He glanced down at the cone that was gradually getting soggier. He tossed it into a litterbin. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t really like ice cream.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s a bit like life. It looks so enticing and delicious when you first hold the cone in your hand, and at first it tastes as good as it looks, but then the enjoyment goes out of it, and it starts to taste bland and unappetising.’

  ‘And that’s how you see life? Full of promise and excitement, but in reality dull and uninteresting?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes. But I live in hope. This show holds great promise, and if the rest of the cast are as amenable and as delightful as you, then I think it should be a lot of fun.’

  She leaned against the railings, staring out to sea. On the horizon a ship was making lazy progress, silhouetted against a lowering sun.

  ‘You can come with me if you like,’ Gareth said.

  ‘Come with you where?’

  ‘To the party. That’s why I’ve got to get back – to get myself ready. You really should come. It’s at Clifford Stein’s house. He has a holiday home a few miles along the coast from here. I’ll be getting a taxi, so transport’s not a problem. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I brought you along.’

  She’d heard of Clifford Stein. He was a famous figure in the West End of London. An impresario and a noted director. She found the idea of attending a party at such a luminary’s house daunting. This was compounded by Gareth’s next pronouncement. ‘I have it on good authority that Finlay Crawford is going to be there. It will be the chance of a lifetime to meet him.’

  If the name of Clifford Stein made her apprehensive, the mere mention of Finlay Crawford made her feel slightly faint. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I think you’re pulling my leg. How on earth did you get an invitation to Clifford Stein’s house? You’re just chorus, like me.’

  Gareth smiled. ‘I also went to Charterhouse with Clifford Stein’s son, Martin. We became very good friends at school and we’ve stayed in touch. Martin wanted to become an actor as well, but his father put his foot down. He said that being an actor is no job for an adult; he insisted that Martin go to Cambridge and then follow him into the business side of show business rather than the show part of it. I don’t think Martin’s ever forgiven him for it, but they rub along fairly well despite that.’

  ‘He’s probably right,’ Meg said. ‘About acting not being a job for adults. It’s all about dressing up and pretending to be somebody else. I used to love doing that as a child, and I suppose I’ve never really grown out of it.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Gareth said. ‘Say you’ll come.’

  They started to walk back to the guesthouse. ‘If I do, you must promise me that if you see me floundering you’ll leap in and rescue me.’

  ‘You have my word as a gentleman.’

  ‘And are you a...’ She looked him closely, nodding slowly. ‘Yes, I think you are. All right, I’ll come.’

  They reached the guesthouse and started to climb the steps for the front door. ‘Oh, great Heavens!’ Meg said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What on earth am I going to wear?’

  Gareth started to laugh, and he was still laughing when she left him at his room and took the torturous route up to her own.

  She pursed her lips and applied her lipstick, red but not too obvious. She blotted her mouth with a handkerchief and studied the effect in the mirror. She was always critical of her own appearance. She considered her nose too long, her mouth too wide and her eyes too close together, but tonight even she had to admit that she looked quite presentable. She’d given her hair a rinse with a bottle of beer to bring out the chestnut high
lights of the otherwise ordinary brown, and put it up in a french pleat, which combined with the simple black dress she wore, gave her an almost sophisticated appearance.

  She could not believe how nervous she felt. Finlay Crawford! The name kept repeating over and over in her mind like a jukebox record with the needle stuck. Finlay Crawford was probably Britain’s most famous and best loved figures in musical theatre. Even now, in his fifties, he could still pack in the crowds and treat them to a magical performance. She’d only seen him once on stage, in a touring version of Rogers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma, and in the version she saw he took the part of Jud Fry, rather than the lead role of Curly, but his interpretation of the part was astonishing. He stalked the stage with a virility that had many of the women in the audience in a swoon. It was certainly the most powerful performance by an actor she’d ever seen. And his voice! A rich baritone with a slight Scottish burr that sent shivers down her spine.

  She shook her head in wonder. There were a hundred butterflies doing a May dance in her stomach, and her knees were trembling. ‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she chided herself. A persistent little voice nagged at her from the back of her mind, reminding her of all the times in her life when she’d either embarrassed or made a fool of herself. It was a very thorough little voice, dragging up moments from her distant childhood she’d thought forgotten.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’s sake, Meg!’ she said to her reflection. ‘You’ll be fine. You’re an actress. Just act – cool and sophisticated. Think Audrey Hepburn.’ She grinned at herself as the excitement bubbled up inside her again. Whatever happened, this would be a night to remember.

  She was still grinning and thinking Audrey Hepburn when her image in the mirror began to change. At first she thought it was her breath, steaming up the glass, and then it appeared that there were fine lines, thin as cobwebs covering her face, aging her, greying and wrinkling her skin. Gradually the greyness became more solid and she could see another face, thin and gauze-like, overlaying her own. As the image gained substance it completely covered her own until it appeared she was looking through the eyes of the superimposed face.