by Ursula Bloom
‘If we bought it,’ said Matina, ‘surely it would be a good investment.’
‘We have not the money,’ said Jan, but he eyed the big restaurant with its excellent corner site, somewhat wistfully. He coveted it, she knew.
She said nothing.
Secretly she went to see the agents and to inquire about rental. It was more than she had expected, and she said so emphatically. The agents put their heads together wondering if they could meet her, because the restaurant was big, its goodwill had been going down for some time and it had passed its heyday. It was not going to be an easy proposition to sell, and they realized that.
Towards the end of January, when she was still negotiating without Jan knowing anything about it, they had a shock.
Suddenly in the Sunday paper they saw the notice of Nadini’s concert, his solitary appearance here in England, which was to be on the following Thursday night. Suddenly they saw his name, and the long history of the child whose mother (a Hungarian princess) had died at his birth, who had been discovered playing in the streets, and who was produced by an old Maestro who, as they expressed it, had died from happiness, when he had seen what a brilliant success the boy was.
Together they read it.
‘He would have let us know,’ said Jan, ‘after all, this is his home, and he would have stayed here.’
She had not the heart to tell him that nothing would have made Luis stay here! He had forsworn that humble ancestry of which he was so obviously ashamed. He had forsworn his beginning, and once he had got away had shaped a new career, and had given himself a fresh start.
She said: ‘I will get tickets for the concert.’
‘He will send us tickets.’
‘I think I will get them,’ she said.
It cost a lot of money to get the seats that she wanted, but she did not care what she paid. Now she knew that whilst Jan clung to the ghost of Luis, which was in reality the ghost of the love that Josette had once been to him, he would never really care for her. Now he had reached that moment in his life when he had got to be confronted with the truth that she had always dreaded. If she were wrong, then she would admit the mistake. But she was not wrong. She was unfortunately sure of that.
‘You shouldn’t have bought tickets,’ said Jan, ‘he is sure to send them.’
‘Then we can send these back, they will refund the money,’ she said.
But Luis did not send tickets.
II
It was a very wet night.
The frost had broken, there had been a rain. Matina glanced at it apprehensively afraid lest it should keep people away from the great hall.
‘It will not do that,’ said Jan proudly.
It would be the first time since they had come to this little lighthouse of a restaurant, that they would not be here to entertain their guests. Tessa would be in charge, and Henri the waiter.
Matina put on a thick silk frock, her best one, and she did her hair carefully, and put a camellia in its dark folds. She was still a young woman though she might seem to be very old to Luis; there was no hint of frost in the darkness of that hair, no sign of lines upon her magnolia pale face as yet. They would hire a taxicab and go as though they were really rich people.
‘To-night,’ said Jan, ‘we can afford to be extravagant.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
They drove down into Shaftesbury Avenue, gleaming in the lights, with a street made silver by the rain. They drove to the great hall, and as they neared it Jan could not sit still, but shuffled to and fro, and caught her hand. The moment that he saw the crowds waiting for the cheaper seats, he made a little grunt of delight.
‘Everybody is here, everybody, and to hear Luis!’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘We will go round afterwards. We will go to the green room. It will be great to see him again. What do you think he will say.’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied dully. She could not imagine what the outcome of such a meeting might be.
They went into the big foyer of the hall. Here were people of all kinds, high brow folk, people who had come far to hear this boy, talking of him, discussing his work and achievement. There were banks of hyacinths in blue and pink, and shaded soft lights.
‘We will go to our seats?’ suggested Matina.
They went through into the great hall, making their way to the central gangway to the very front line of seats. Jan was delighted.
‘You chose well,’ he said, ‘here Luis cannot fail to see us, and how surprised he will be! Maybe he will give us a smile.’
Her hand caught his. ‘Jan dear, do be prepared. Maybe Luis has gone so far away that he does not want us any more? Maybe things won’t be as they were. We ought to think of that.’
Jan shook his head. ‘All that nonsense was publicity. Luis is still my son,’ he said proudly.
There was the hum of people coming into the hall, the rustle of skirts, the slip of shoes. There was chatter, there was talk. Then suddenly the silence came, as a man walked across to the big piano on the right, and sat down before it, arranging his tails elaborately over the back of the music stool.
‘Now,’ said Jan excitedly.
He had turned his eyes to the door which led into the green room, the door through which Luis must come. In another moment his son would be here.
Slowly that door opened; there was a moment’s hesitation, then the boy stepped out into the full glare of the lights. Not so tall as they had always thought he would be, slighter, and with a little stoop, as though he had spent too many hours bowed over his violin. Dark hair like Jan’s, deep lustrous eyes, but the mouth, she saw, was querulous. He bowed to his audience. He came to the centre of the stage, and those eyes ran along the lines of people, came to Jan and Matina, and for a moment stopped. He had seen them.
Jan fluttered a programme, he could not contain himself for another moment. The boy on the stage ignored it. The dull eyes passed on and over their heads. Matina knew then that he had finished with them. Jan knew. He must know, she told herself, and her hand held his firmly and compellingly, but there was no response to her clasp.
The boy began to play.
Now there was never a sound in the great house, save the wail of that violin. It was exquisite. It was music such as they had never conceived before, it was music which told his own story. It made people think. It showed Matina now quite surely that all these years had been a waste. Jan had never realized true values, he had never appreciated the fact that she loved him. She had given her time, and her youth, and her own adoration of music up to the little restaurant which had trained this boy, only so that he might turn against them. He did not want any more of them because now he was a great man, and that greatness had no part for them.
The music confirmed her own fears. She had known it always, always, she told herself, even when they had come over in that little steamer so long ago and she had the bambino in her arms, and they bought him chocolate at the English station. Even then! But she had given up everything deliberately, because she loved the man so much.
Jan sat very still.
After a long while the violin ceased, and the great audience clapped and cheered. But the boy walked off the stage without ever looking to right or left. He had seen Matina and Jan, and he did not want to look again. He walked off into the green room.
When the noise died down for the interval Jan looked at her. He said: ‘I will write on the programme and send it in to him. He did not expect to see us here, he did not recognize us.’
She wanted to cry: ‘Don’t do it. It will only hurt you all the more if you do! Don’t do it,’ but instead she said nothing.
A girl took the note into the green room; when she came back, she said that there was no reply. Nadini was resting, he would not let anybody disturb him in between performances. Matina glanced quickly at Jan and she saw that his mouth had set firmly. This, she thought, is the end.
When the boy came back to the platform to play for the se
cond time, he purposely avoided looking at them. He played again, magnificently, even better than before, but the music spoke to her soul, and she prayed that it would speak to Jan’s soul, so that he might see the truth in it.
Jan was listening with an unblinking gaze, and with his mouth set. No more.
After the last sonata, Luis went back to the green room. The pianist played God Save the King, and the people began to drift away. Jan stood there staring helplessly at Matina.
‘What do we do?’
‘We go home,’ she said gently.
‘But I cannot go without seeing Luis. I lived for him, I worked for him, I made him what he is to-day.’
‘I know,’ she said.
Jan made a resolution.
‘I will go round to the stage door, and when he comes out I will speak to him.’
‘I shouldn’t,’ she said.
‘I will,’ he announced, and he led the way. Outside it was very wet still, and the policemen’s capes were shiny like umbrellas. The last of the cars were disappearing down the choked street. At the stage door a crowd lingered. A big Daimler was drawn up to the kerb, obviously for Luis. She could not help but think of the times when they had ridden in buses, and what fun it had been. She wondered dimly if he got as much fun out of the great car as he had done out of bus rides as a small child.
‘I shouldn’t stay, Jan,’ she begged.
‘I’ve got to,’ he answered.
He was on the very edge of the kerb, close to the car itself, and a policeman was making a way for somebody to come through the crowd. Matina drew back in dismay. Here was the pianist, and another older man who had probably arranged the whole concert, and in between them, Luis, looking very small, and very tired.
His father put out a hand and caught at his coat. ‘Luis,’ he cried, ‘Luis. Bambino.’
For one instant the tired eyes flickered as the boy glanced at him; that he knew who it was, Matina had no doubt, but he thrust aside the hand. The story of the Hungarian princess and the soldier father had been invented, and had to be abided by.
‘Now then, now then,’ said the policeman, and bustled the three of them into the car.
‘But he is my son,’ said Jan.
‘Oh, come off it,’ said the policeman quite kindly, but definitely disbelieving.
The car rolled away down the steamy wet street, and the crowd began to disperse.
III
‘It was when I heard him playing that I knew,’ said Jan slowly.
It was midnight and they had come into this little coffee shop, and were sitting together at a small table, comfortably warm, and drinking bitter strong coffee.
‘I knew too,’ she said.
‘Matina, how is it that youth can make such bitter mistakes?’
‘Perhaps because it is youth,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.
He sipped the coffee gratefully, unaware that his shoes were wet through and that his feet were cold.
‘It is going to be difficult to start again,’ he said. ‘I lived for the child, I let everything go for that child. Now what?’
Slowly she enumerated her plan.
‘I have made arrangements so that we might buy Mr. Campretti’s. We find the little restaurant cramped, why not launch out into something bigger? I have been saving, and it is possible.’
‘Possible?’ he echoed.
‘Yes. It is quite possible. We could make a success of it I know, just as I have known these other things. You would like it?’
‘It would be marvellous,’ but he had not grasped the whole idea, it was something a trifle beyond him, and he knew it. He sat there thinking about it, seeing it as it might be, a new coat of paint, fresh curtains. Now, when Luis was not costing them anything they could spend money and achieve the sort of restaurant that he had always wanted. Prettier curtains, smart napery. He could get a name for himself, and make it a big success. In the end he might have musicians there, a Maestro, nobody very young, for now he knew that youth was definitely a stuff that would not endure.
‘Matina, you’ve been very wonderful,’ he said.
‘I have always tried to do my best.’
‘You have been very brave.’
He put out a hand and took hers and she felt about his touch something that was compelling.
‘When I listened to that music,’ he said, ‘I suddenly realized that I made a mistake. That night. Long ago. At Amalia.’
‘Which night?’
‘We went down on to the shore once, when I first came to the place and when the Galleon was closed. You told me about yourself, and your early life, and you said that you were not a genius.’
‘I was never a genius.’
‘Thank God,’ he answered.
She said quickly: ‘Yes, you may well thank God, for genius is self possessed, and owes everything to itself and can never see very far! That is the truth.’
‘That has happened to Luis.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘We cut our losses in life,’ she said, ‘it is bad to try to cling on to a failure, accept it, and pass it by. Now we look to the future.’
He said: ‘I cannot go on without you.’
‘I shall not fail you,’ she answered.
He said: ‘You do not understand. I have awakened to much which blinded me before. We cannot go on as we have been doing, we have got to found a new future, and not on the old past.
‘Once,’ she said slowly, ‘I thought I cared for you, and that you cared for me.’
‘I always loved you,’ he said, ‘only I did not know it. I always shall love you, and from to-night differently. You were my first love, Matina, and I never knew it.’
She sat there staring at him; her eyes had gone starry, her hands were limp in his. She saw ahead of her a road that had been only a road of dreams before.
‘We’ll be married, carissima,’ he was saying. ‘As soon as ever it can be arranged we will be married, and after that we will start again! We will forget all this. We will forget everything that has happened in between, and start as from that other night, the night when you told me about yourself at Amalia, and when you said that you were not a genius.’
Her eyes filled with tears.
Now it seemed that the child had gone far far away. Now it seemed that there had never been Josette, nothing that had mattered.
‘Why are you crying, my darling?’ he asked.
‘It is because I am so happy,’ she answered.
Wonder Cruise by Ursula Bloom
Thirtysomething Ann Clements takes a Mediterranean cruise which opens her eyes to the wider world, and to herself.
London, 1934. Ann Clements is thirty-five and single, and believes nothing exciting will ever happen to her. Then, she wins a large sum of money in a sweepstake and suddenly can dare to dream of a more adventurous life. She buys a ticket for a Mediterranean cruise, against the wishes of her stern brother, the Rev. Cuthbert, who has other ideas about how she should spend her windfall.
Ann steps out of the shadows of her mundane life into the heat of the Mediterranean sun. Travelling to Gibraltar, Marseilles, Naples, Malta and Venice, Ann’s eyes are opened to people and experiences far removed from her sheltered existence. As Ann blossoms, discovering love and passion for the very first time, the biggest question is, can there be any going back?
An engaging and witty story about an unforgettable 1930s woman; Ann Clements will stay with you long after the last page.
‘Ursula Bloom writes in a delightful way, with a deep understanding of human nature and a quick eye for the humorous things in life. Wonder Cruise … is one of the most entertaining novels we have read for a long time.’ Cambridge Daily News
‘Vividly entrancing.’ Scotsman
‘… with every book she adds something to her reputation … related with all Miss Bloom’s liveliness and easy skill.’ Daily Telegraph
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Youth at the Gate by Ursula Bloom
The touching true account of a young woman’s life on the home front during the First World War.
Ursula Bloom (who also wrote as Lozania Prole) movingly describes how the Great War forever changed the lives of ordinary people in Britain. When Ursula says goodbye to both her suitor and brother as they go to war, patriotic excitement soon turns to worry and despair.
This memoir vividly brings to life the experiences of people struggling to live through World War I. Ursula Bloom’s honest and heartfelt story shows us the challenges of food rationing and the constant bombing by Zeppelins overhead. Rumours of German spies abound, and even Ursula and her mother find themselves under suspicion by their neighbours.
Ursula’s autobiography also looks at the realities of life in the early twentieth century, when operations were carried out on the kitchen table, a pregnant woman shouldn’t be seen in public, and an officer and a private couldn’t mix under the same roof.
Not only the realities of war force an innocent Ursula to grow up. She must face her mother’s serious illness, the demons of her husband-to-be, and the snobbery of his wealthy family. There are lighter moments too, such as the tale of the Bloom’s fictitious maid, Emily, who they have to invent rather than admit that they can’t afford a servant.
Ursula Bloom went on to become a bestselling novelist, playwright and journalist. This moving autobiography is a must for all of those interested in life at home during the Great War, as well as for fans of her novels, such as Wonder Cruise.
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Victoria Four-thirty by Cecil Roberts
London, 1937. A world famous composer, a honeymooning couple, a novelist in search of a plot, a German film star, a young crown prince and a sister of charity are among the disparate group of travellers on the boat train to continental Europe.