The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  But Mr Beckett had disappeared up the hall and was tapping on Babbo’s study door. And Mama was glaring at me. “He’s Mr Beckett in this house,” she said firmly. “Now for Heaven’s sake, help me with this laundry. Your father’s needing a clean pillowcase every night with his eyes pouring pus everywhere. And the pains in me stomach is half killing me. Sure I could be dead tomorrow.” She wiped her hands angrily on her apron and turned back to the kitchen.

  An hour later she caught me hovering outside the study door, listening to Mr Beckett’s sonorous voice as he read aloud.

  “What on earth are you doing now, girl? Earwigging, I’ll bet.” She shook her head despairingly.

  “I’m waiting for them to finish so I can offer them a drink,” I replied, indignant.

  Finally, I heard the chairs scraping and Mr Beckett saying he had to leave. My heart began its now-familiar gallop. I took a big breath to steady myself but Mama had started frying kidneys and the odour of meat fat stole into my lungs, making me feel faintly nauseous.

  “Hello again.” Mr Beckett sounded both startled and pleased as he emerged from Babbo’s study, looking visibly more relaxed than when he’d arrived.

  “Did Babbo like Charles Dickens?”

  “I think it was appreciated.” He ran a cautious hand over his hair, letting it linger at the nape of his neck.

  “How are your rooms? Do you need anything?” I stood as close to him as I dared, cursing Mama for frying kidneys at exactly the time when I could have been breathing in the smell of Mr Beckett.

  “Cold.” He shivered slightly. “And I keep getting locked out at night.”

  “Locked out?”

  “They lock the gates at eleven o’clock. I rarely make it home in time so I have to jump over the railings.” He gave a shy smile that made him look like a boy and a man at the same time.

  I had a sudden urge to reach out and touch him but instead I twisted my hands together and asked if I could help him with his jumps. “As a dancer, I’m rather good at jumps,” I added, remembering Kitten’s words about being less modest.

  “Is that right?” He leaned his head forwards and watched me from under his lowered brows. For a minute I felt as though I was swimming in his unblinking blue eyes – a strange but not unpleasant sensation. And it struck me then that although he said very little, something in his eyes seemed to reach out to me.

  I gave a small chasse jump. “The most important thing is landing. If you don’t land properly you can strain your knees and ankles. You need a powerful jump to get you over the railings. A grand jeté might do it. Shall I demonstrate?”

  Mr Beckett shrank back against the wall as if he thought I might accidentally kick him.

  “Can’t you get home before the gates close?” I could feel my feet lifting of their own accord again. Our talk of jumping, in the constrictive space of the hall with its overpowering smell of offal, was compelling me to move.

  “I don’t sleep so well at night. I have no choice but to jump.”

  “Insomnia?” I asked sympathetically, as I did a couple of leg swings. “Or are you more of a night owl?”

  “Both.” He moved towards the front door and I felt my arms instinctively stretching out after him. But then he turned back to me, his hands gripping his copy of Great Expectations so tightly the veins stood out in blue ridges. “Would you like to come for tea in my rooms? In a fortnight’s time?”

  “That would be very nice, Mr Beckett, Sam.” I made a desperate effort to speak slowly and evenly for I could feel the blood running hot and fast beneath my skin. And then he was gone and the hall was silent but for the ticking of the clock. I flung my arms into the air and spiralled to the parlour window, where I pressed my face to the glass and watched him leave the building and turn on to the rue de Grenelle. Monsieur Borlin’s words about expressing our strongest emotions through dance filtered into my ears and I began glissading round the parlour, my arms whisking above my head.

  “No dancing in me best parlour!” Mama’s livid words cut through the air. But I didn’t care. For once I didn’t give a damn. I was going for tea with Sam Beckett and nothing she could do would stop me.

  * * *

  Mr Beckett arrived every day at five o’clock sharp. And every night after he left the flat, it was as though a light had gone out. I fumbled in the gloom for several minutes, adjusting to the space without him. It was a most peculiar and dismal feeling. But his invitation to have tea and the surety that our futures were to be entwined kept me cheerful.

  A few evenings later, I was experiencing this peculiar feeling of gloominess when the bell rang. Thinking it was Mr Beckett, back for a book or a forgotten scarf, I rushed to the door. But it wasn’t Mr Beckett. It was Emile Fernandez. My heart sank a fraction but I hadn’t seen Emile for a while and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I switched on my brightest smile, the one Babbo called my ‘shop front smile’.

  Mama came into the hall, her hair brushed and re-coiled and her lips glossy with fresh lipstick. “Good afternoon, Mr Fernandez. We haven’t seen you in a month o’ Sundays.” She was standing as tall as she could with a very erect back and her chin in the air.

  “Forgive me. I’ve been busy composing a new opera, Mrs Joyce.” Emile gave a small bow. “I trust you’re in good health?”

  “I am not. I’ve been having terrible pains and Mr Joyce’s eyes are hurting something awful. I don’t know what’s to become o’ him. Or me.” Mama sighed dramatically. “Mrs Fleischman’s coming in a minute to type up his crayon writing. But we’ve time for a cup of tea, haven’t we, Lucia?”

  Emile followed Mama and I into the parlour and waited while we folded up the maps Babbo had spread out all over the sofa.

  “I don’t know what it is with eyes in this family.” Mama straightened up and looked accusingly in my direction.

  “We’re worried Babbo could be blind by the end of the year.” I gestured to the now-cleared sofa. Emile stood gripping his hat with both hands and blinking hard. He was making me feel uneasy with his awkward twitching. I’d never seen him like this before. “Please sit down,” I said. “I want to hear about this new opera you’re composing.”

  “Go and make us some tea, Lucia.” Mama was about to lower herself into the rocking chair when the doorbell rang again. “Sure that’ll be Mrs Fleischman. Wait there, Lucia, in case Mrs Fleischman is wanting some tea.”

  Emile perched on the edge of the sofa and ran his tongue over his lips, while his fingers chewed at the brim of his hat.

  I waited for him to tell me about his new opera but he didn’t say anything and the silence became awkward. “Mama’s not been feeling well,” I said eventually. “She might have to go into hospital. The doctor thinks she may need surgery.”

  “I’m so sorry. That must be very hard for her,” Emile agreed. “How are you, Lucia? Giorgio says you’ve been dancing constantly. Are you working on something new?” As he said the word ‘dancing’ he gave a little flutter of his hands so they looked like thin fledgling birds.

  “Yes,” I said, relieved the silence was broken. “I’m trying to create a dance for my troupe, where they’re transformed into rainbows. I want to have black oilcloth all over the stage and right across the ceiling. And maybe use neon lights to suggest the sun breaking through the stormy black of the oilcloth.” I was about to ask Emile if he’d consider composing the score when I noticed a stricken expression on his face.

  “You don’t like the sound of my dance?” I asked, wounded.

  “No, it’s not that. But there’s something I need to ask you.” His fingers leapt from the hat on his knees to his striped cravat. He fidgeted with the folds and gulped loudly.

  “Do you need something to eat?” I asked. He looked rather faint, as though he’d not eaten for a while. It was a look I’d seen often enough on my dancing friends and I knew what came next.

  Emile’s eyes opened wide in surprise. And he blurted out something so fast I couldn’t understand it. When he saw my b
lank expression, he got up from the sofa and moved towards the door where I was still standing, waiting for Mama to return and give me Mrs Fleischman’s tea order. He dropped down on one knee and grabbed my hands in his. “Lucia, I want you to be my wife.”

  I stood, gaping wordlessly at him. In that instant, everything I knew about Emile flashed through my mind – his big house filled with sunlight and Persian rugs and grand pianos and hothouse flowers, his grandmother who sat in the ballroom all day wearing her diamonds, his celebrated composer cousin with his celebrated actress wife.

  “Lucia? Lucia? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m s–sorry,” I stammered. An image of Emile and I working together appeared before me, blotting out his handsome house and famous family. I saw myself gliding round his ballroom as his fingers bounded across the piano keys. I saw our heads bent over his score, me tapping out a rhythm with my foot and him swiping at the air with his pencil as if it were a conductor’s baton. And Babbo applauding from the corner. This was the future I had predicted for myself. But the image ebbed, washed away by the ocean-blue eyes of Mr Beckett, his bony brown hands, his fair hair swept back from his face as though a gust of Irish wind had set it there. Tears filled my eyes. I tried to stop thinking of Mr Beckett but it was hopeless.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He gulped down the saliva in his throat and grabbed my hands again. “I thought you liked me … Giorgio said … Giorgio was sure …” He stopped, confused. We could hear Mama talking in the hall, her voice getting louder and louder as she led Mrs Fleischman towards the parlour. I bit my lip and wiped my eyes hurriedly. I had to speak before she and Mrs Fleischman came in.

  “But you’re Jewish, Emile,” I blurted. “Now sit down and look as though nothing’s happened. Quick. Before Mama comes in!”

  Emile staggered back to the sofa, looking dazed and pained. “I didn’t know you minded about that.”

  “You can’t marry me – I’m not Jewish. Now sit down, quickly! Mama’s coming!”

  “But my family wants me to marry you. No one minds that you’re not Jewish.”

  “I just can’t, Emile.” I shook my head and stepped back as Mama and Mrs Fleischman appeared.

  “Mr Fernandez is going.” I wanted to be kinder, but the words sprang, sharp and unrestrained, from my mouth.

  Emile’s face fell and his eyes clouded with hurt. “Goodbye, Mrs Joyce. Goodbye, Lucia.” He picked up his hat and cane, and shot me a final pleading look.

  I stared at the floor trying to make sense of everything. Why had I been so decisive? So callous? A second later I heard the front door close. And I knew Emile had gone, perhaps forever. Mama was looking at me curiously.

  “He left sharpish. Wasn’t he wanting tea, Lucia?” She turned to Mrs Fleischman. “Why don’t you go straight through to Jim. He’s got plenty o’ typing today, if you can possibly read it. It’s the blue crayon. I don’t know how you make head nor tail of it.”

  Mrs Fleischman looked at me oddly, as though she could see the traces of tears on my face. “Are you all right, Lucia?” she asked, her voice rising and falling with feigned sympathy.

  I didn’t answer. Instead I stared at her dove-grey velvet dress, with its lace trim and tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. I saw the strings of pearls gleaming softly at her throat and the sable coat slung casually over her arm. I saw the poise and assurance that only money can buy. I shook my head and walked out.

  * * *

  It was Giorgio who first heard of Emile’s proposal – and my refusal. A few days before I was due to have tea with Mr Beckett, Giorgio stumbled into my bedroom. I was sitting at my dressing table in my nightdress, brushing my hair and thinking through the footwork for what I now called my Rainbow Dance. Kitten had danced a short sequence of it that afternoon, on a square of black oilcloth I’d sweet-talked from the fishmonger’s wife. Although it had reflected the light perfectly I was worried it might distract the dancers. Would it impede the footwork I was choreographing? How could I ensure it didn’t slip during the performance? Pinned round my mirror were photographs of the dancers I most admired: Anna Pavlova, Isadora Duncan with her brother, Raymond, and her sister, Elisabeth, Madika, Vaslav Nijinsky, L’Argentina. And my new heroine, the English dancer Margaret Morris. I cast my eye over them, as if for reassurance. And then Giorgio appeared, his face dark and bloated.

  “I saw Emile tonight.” He moved unsteadily towards me, one hand at his neck wrestling his tie loose.

  I wanted to ask after Emile but Giorgio’s expression didn’t invite friendly curiosity so I said nothing and continued brushing my hair.

  “He said he asked you to marry him and you turned him down. Is that right, Lucia?”

  I nodded and opened my mouth to explain that I didn’t love Emile. I knew Giorgio would understand because when we were younger we often made up love stories about Napoleon and Josephine and compared them to the romantic elopement of Mama and Babbo. But before I could speak, Giorgio staggered towards me, drops of spittle falling from his mouth onto my bare arm.

  “Are you mad? Do you know how rich the Fernandez family are? How rich you could be? How rich we could be?” His words were slurred and the smell of liquor and sweat hung round him like a noxious cloud. “So what’s wrong? It can’t be Emile. Everyone likes Emile.”

  I shook my head, bewildered by the barely-supressed rage and disappointment in Giorgio’s voice.

  “You think you’re going to get other offers? Is that it? Better offers perhaps?” He snorted with contempt. “Oh come on, Lucia! Have you forgotten the war? Have you forgotten how few men are left?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could draw breath Giorgio started a new line of questioning. “D’you know how many beautiful girls would marry Emile at the drop of a hat? Rich Jewish girls without squints. He could have any girl he wants!” He snatched at the knot of his tie and pulled it savagely. “You had a chance to escape, to bring real money into the house. His family could have helped in so many ways. Did you even think about that?” Giorgio’s hot breath kept hitting me in angry bursts. But then his voice softened. “It’s not too late to change your mind. I could tell him it was all a mistake and you’ve had second thoughts. Wouldn’t you like to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of?”

  I shook my head again, miserably. I wanted to ask how Emile was, to ask if I’d lost his friendship forever. But Giorgio’s aggression had unsettled me so I thought of Mr Beckett’s face and clung to it like a drowning man clutching at a passing branch.

  “You could have fur coats and a motor car with a chauffeur. Think how the Fernandez family could help Father! Emile’s family could help us all in so many ways.” He paused and I knew he was thinking not just of the Fernandez money but of how Emile’s musical connections could help his singing career. After a long minute he said, in a wheedling voice, “It might not be too late. We can tell Emile you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I can’t marry Emile,” I whispered.

  “Why ever not?” Giorgio’s voice rose and hardened. He started stamping round my room, the heels of his shoes slamming into the floor. “What’s-wrong-with-Emile?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with Emile. I just don’t love him.” I dragged the brush so vigorously through my hair I felt its bristles clawing at my scalp.

  “This is preposterous! Have you forgotten everything we went through? All those years without enough to eat, living in those filthy rooms, traipsing from one flea-ridden bed to another.” Giorgio stopped pacing and came to my stool. He crouched down and fixed his eyes on mine and his look became milder, kinder, as if he were recalling the intimacy and friendship we once had. My mind blinked back to the past, to those dull dismal days when Mama took in washing and Babbo taught and wrote all day and drank all night – and Giorgio and I spent hour after hour listening to the mice in the walls and playing dominoes. When I lost, I’d throw the dominoes across the floor in a spasm of rage and Giorgio would pick them up and lay them out and let me win the next gam
e. Where was that Giorgio now?

  He leaned in towards me and I smelled the brandy on his breath. And something shifted in one of the dark anonymous cavities of my memory. I shuddered and pulled back. But he tipped towards me again. “D’you remember the old days in Zurich, Lucia? When Mother and Father went out drinking and left us behind, like pigs in a sty? D’you remember when you nearly fell over the balcony while we were shouting at them?”

  Giorgio’s words pulled me back with such clarity that for a second I thought we were in our old Zurich apartment. I shook my head forcefully. I didn’t want to think about the past. The past was over. Finished …

  “I saved your life.”

  I put the hairbrush down and looked sideways at him. Why was he reminding me of this? Was it some ploy of his to remind me of the poverty we once lived in, the poverty we could so easily return to?

  “I thought I’d lost you over that balcony, Lucia.” Giorgio dropped his hand on to my knee and let it linger there. For a minute I wondered if I should be honest with him, ignore the growing breach between us and tell him about Mr Beckett.

  But then his stare turned to hostile curiosity. “It’s someone else, isn’t it? That’s the reason you turned down poor old Emile. I can see it on your face. You’re waiting for another offer!” He stood, triumphant and smug. “So who is it, Lucia? Who exactly are you saving yourself for?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted my old Giorgio back. And I wanted the new inebriated Giorgio to go. Something about him frightened me.

  “I just hope he’s rich.” His tone was bitter, as though he’d been duped in some way.

  I gripped the hairbrush so hard my knuckles ached. “Why does everything have to be about money! What about love? Don’t you remember how we used to talk about falling in love? What’s happened to you, Giorgio?”

  He reeled towards the door. “Because money is all there is! Our poverty was so humiliating, so shameful. It haunts me, Lucia. It haunts me.” He turned back into the room and through the dimness I saw his eyes, glazed with alcohol and dark with fear. “The way Father begs for money. He thinks it’s fine to take other people’s money and fritter it away. But I find it so demeaning!”