The Golden Lion

by Pamela Haines

  In the world outside dancing and the shop, she had news sometimes from America. Gaetano, who had remained behind when Rocco returned at the end of 1920, had been arrested last year in a clean-up by Prefect Mori, appointed by Mussolini to stamp out banditry. (My own brother.) As far as she knew, he was in prison still. Rocco was in New York. He hadn’t returned to Detroit. He wasn’t a good correspondent and wrote only once a year. Often her letters were returned from an out of date address. She knew he’d been working as a waiter at first. Lately she thought he was something to do with bootlegging and Prohibition. Reading between the lines, she suspected him of being as well off as he’d ever been.

  The Graingers weren’t too often in touch now. Ida wrote at Christmas and Easter, as did Aunt Dulcie. Dick was the most constant. He and Gwen often invited her to stay but she would not go up there if it could be avoided. (Her thoughts winged always to Thackton: Guy no longer a baby – what did he look like, think, feel like? My son.)

  Jenny had just had a second son, Gordon. The first, James, had been named after his war hero uncle. At his birth Uncle Eric had thrown a party. Champagne corks hit the ceiling, the absent mother and son were toasted again and again. The first (official) Grainger grandson. For two days after she heard, Maria wept inside.

  Tonight, she and Sybil were dancing at the Dubarry. It had not been open very long. Friday was extension night when there was a licence until two in the morning. It looked fresh, smart, glittering: there were a lot of mirrors, glass flashing like ice. Round the walls were coloured silhouettes of men and women in eighteenth-century costume. An advertisement (referring she supposed to the types of music played) said, ‘If Madame Dubarry had known about Al Coleman and his Band, how hot, how sweet her nights would have been.’

  They were seated at their table, waiting for Manhattans, Maria for lemonade. The band played Gimme a little kiss, will ya? She was to remember ever afterwards what she was wearing: a black frock with a three-tiered skirt and a gold-sequinned top; Sybil, in blue tulle with silver-sequinned bodice.

  Their partners were Jack Grindlay and Felix Dutton, both of them long-time escorts, the only two to survive the Sybil-Maria edict against becoming serious. Jack had only last year proposed to Maria – he intended to try again, he told her. Felix, slight and dapper, had hopes of Sybil which Maria knew to be unfounded.

  She glanced over to the bandstand. Velvet banners hid the metal struts of the music stands. Two sax players, two trumpets and a trombone. Two fiddles. Al himself played cornet, badly, blowing a few notes before leading the band into a new number. The pianist was a pale young man, already balding, cadaverous. Sybil last time had found him rather romantic.

  Not waiting to give an order for food, she and Jack got up to dance. The band played Dinah. Her feet in new gold satin shoes seemed to fly. I love dancing, alas that I don’t love Jack. She saw Sybil and Felix come out on to the floor. From behind her the vocal began.

  ‘… Dinah, is there anyone finer, in the state of Carolina?’ Oh, but she wanted suddenly to stop. It was as if she recognized the voice. ‘Dinah, with her Dixie eyes blazin’ …’ As they came nearer the stand she saw it was one of the fiddle-players out front. He wasn’t very tall, her height only perhaps. Thick black hair, shiny, brushed back, some colour in his cheeks and in his singing such joy, such happiness. How much he’s loving it, was her first thought. His voice was velvet, silk. He sang without a megaphone in a light baritone which carried well enough. His arms held out, hands open, as if to offer his music. ‘If there is and you know her, show her to me …’

  One girl, a tall blonde with an even taller escort, fox-trotting almost alongside Maria, gave him a sidelong glance, trying to catch his eye as he sang. The smile he gave her in return, bestowed on her (for it was a gift, it would be if I were to have it), was so personal, so intimate. The sudden lighting-up of a dark room, blazing of the sun.

  Afterwards she could never remember if it had been sight or sound set her heart beating. That furious drumming, portent of danger, the same dizzy sweat that was part of the terror in her dreams (shall I always suffer from them?). Dreams that were as much the fabric of her nights, as were the events that had caused them. And now to feel like that again … Back at the table she sat down almost too hastily, falling on to her chair, reaching for her glass. ‘Water, if someone could – is there any water?’

  What to do with such sudden, such strong feelings? Now the terror had subsided and she felt ordinary again – no, not ordinary, for something had happened. (A dance band singer who may or may not be very good, who flashes smiles on passing girls – why should that be so different, so special?)

  She turned to Jack. ‘Ask the waiter, would you, who he is?’

  ‘Who who is, Minnie?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said casually, ‘the fiddle-player on the right, the one who sings.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’ But he looked puzzled.

  She said, ‘It’s just, I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  The waiter, redraping the napkin on his arm, leaned forward to hear Jack’s question. ‘I’ll enquire, sir.’

  And back with the answer: ‘A Mr Sabrini, sir. Eddie Sabrini. He’s just with Mr Coleman for the evening.’

  Jack said, turning to Maria, ‘Does that mean anything?’

  ‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no. Thanks. It doesn’t.’

  But now Eddie was singing again. ‘I’ve grown so lonesome, thinking of you.’

  Felix said, ‘He’s not bad, you know. He seems good as a sentimental singer and a hot one, often these chaps can’t do both. Diction good. Modern phrasing and rhythmic effect.’ She knew Felix fancied himself as a connoisseur. She hung on every word. ‘No, he’s good. I’m not surprised you asked about him.’

  She wondered how she got through the rest of the evening. Excited, elated, happy and unhappy by turns. How could a heart pound through a whole evening and go unnoticed? She smoked more than usual, waving the mother-of-pearl holder, puffing coolly, but not soothed at all.

  Back at the house, it was a relief to tell Sybil. Going up to their rooms, yawning, about to sit on one of their beds and dissect the evening:

  ‘You look … I don’t know,’ Sybil said.

  ‘I’m in love, I think,’ Maria said.

  If she had hoped that telling Sybil would exorcize the devils, she was mistaken. They consumed her. She willed the stormy feelings to vanish. She danced the next week at the Dubarry. He wasn’t there. They had different escorts and she asked one of them to find out about Eddie. He did. Eddie Sabrini was touring in France.

  Oh well. So that was that. She’d willed the excitement to go and it went, a little. But in its place came a longing, overwhelming, for Thackton. And Guy. It was as if in allowing in all this excitement about a dance band singer (for heaven’s sake, she told herself, a dance band singer), she had lowered her guard. She longed now for Thackton, as once in Florence she had longed for Monteleone.

  She longed despairingly. Then, just about the time of Guy’s birthday, Sybil decided to go north for a few weeks. Maria was owed some holiday. She told Sybil she’d come up with her.

  She stayed with the Carstairs although she went over to see Dick and Gwen, also Uncle Eric, and Ida, teaching in Newcastle now but home on holiday. Peter, thank God, was on business in Belgium. On the Sunday Pip and his family came over. She felt her manner slip, oh so easily, into a sort of languid sophistication. Yet inside, she felt awkward with him. Her memories, his proposal that she had never formally refused.

  The last day but one she left the house before breakfast, writing a note for Sybil. (‘I have to see some friends for the day, and must make an early start …’) All the time in the train to Thackton, she rehearsed what she would say. They, Eleanor, must let her see Guy if only for a few moments.

  It was a dull muggy day, threatening rain. She carried an umbrella. As she walked up from the station, the memories swept over her. (Once I was happy here.) Nothing seemed to have changed. The long stret
ch of road up to the Thackton turning, green hedgerow, white convolvulus twisting through it, tight green and red berries on the brambles. Left now past the grey stone houses, the terraced cottages. The tinkling of the sweetshop door as two young children went in.

  And Park Villa. White-painted gate, stiff handle. Yellow roses and red begonias in the front garden, a maid she didn’t know answering the door. The familiar smell of the house. The Japanese umbrella stand in the porch.

  ‘Only Mrs Dennison’s at home, miss.’ The maid showed her in.

  A voice from a deep chair over by the window: ‘Maria! I glimpsed your arrival, my dear. Eleanor will be back any moment, if she doesn’t dawdle.’

  Maria looked around the room for some sign of him. There was nothing.

  ‘Forgive my not moving. I am almost completely crippled now.’

  The voice went on: ‘And what do you do with yourself these days? A dress shop? I had not heard, but still … And no marriage yet?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Not at the moment.’

  She was trembling, feeling a little sick. She opened her handbag and felt for the ivory cigarette-holder. But she could not smoke here. She thought: I have only to ask about him: ‘How is he – that little Italian boy you adopted?’ But the words, somewhere in her throat, were stifled. She prayed silently, Sacru miu Gesù, make her mention him.

  ‘My son Basil – did you ever meet him? I am so proud. He has just been made Monsignor. He has a Roman appointment, you know.’

  It wanted only a little courage to say, ‘I’ve never seen the child, can I meet him?’ (The promise I made. They forced me.)

  ‘And you are still a good Catholic, my dear?’ The question took her by surprise. She had forgotten Mrs Dennison’s manner. ‘I often think – and I wish my daughter would put it into practice – that it’s whether we have charity in our hearts, that determines the reality of our Faith, not mere Church attendance.’

  Just then the tea came. Because of Mrs Dennison’s hands, clawlike now, Maria did the pouring. As she fiddled with the sugar tongs: (‘How many, Mrs Dennison?’) she heard the front door bell. Oh, let it be him. But there was no childish voice, only a measured tread going upstairs.

  ‘… Ida Grainger. So competent. If a daughter is to remain unmarried one should be blessed with such a one …’

  Eleanor came in. The blood rushed to Maria’s face. She saw Eleanor had coloured too.

  Mrs Dennison said: ‘Look at our delightful surprise. We have been entertaining each other in your absence, Eleanor.’

  And then began a stiff little tea-party. News exchanged all over again, Eleanor criticized for whatever she had been doing that afternoon. All Maria wanted was to be alone with her, but Mrs Dennison couldn’t move.

  ‘How smart you are,’ Eleanor said. Her voice sounded uncertain. It was not friendly. ‘Are you able to buy models from the shop?’

  Mrs Dennison asked, ‘How is the child, Eleanor?’

  ‘Comfortable,’ Eleanor said shortly. Then as Maria’s second cup of tea lay filming, ‘There is something I must show Maria, Mother. If you would excuse us.’

  She led Maria to the morning-room. There, bounded by yellow looped curtains, was the familiar view: the railway line cutting through the moors, the moors up behind, a dingy mauve under lowering clouds. Eleanor shut the door, her hand staying on the knob as if Maria might want to escape. Her face was grave.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this? Why are you here?’ Then as if to shame her, ‘Oh, Maria.’

  ‘I want to see him. Let me see him.’

  ‘But dear, you know what we –’

  ‘Where is he? I want – Please let me. Once, only once.’ ‘He’s ill in bed.’

  ‘Let me – what’s he got, is he dying?’

  ‘Keep calm, dear.’ The ghost of a smile hovered. ‘He has German measles. Nasty but not dangerous. He’s sleeping now.’

  ‘Can’t I just open the door, have a little look?’

  Eleanor shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. ‘No, Maria. No. You see, dear … You know you mustn’t, ought not. You must not come here.’ She barred the door still. ‘I thought you’d got over all that.’ Her voice was nervous: ‘You’re not going to be – ill again? You’re all right?’

  Anger, despair. It was all she could do not to shake Eleanor till her teeth rattled. She has it all, she has him. She has my child.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said in a forced voice. ‘Everything is wonderful. Syb and I … I just wanted to see Thackton again and while I was here I thought …’

  Eleanor said, her manner kind, calm, ‘Is there any … do you have a beau? Do you think – are you moving perhaps towards marriage?’

  ‘Your mother kindly asked me that … No; No one special, thank you.’ Standing sullenly over by the window, it was as if she were back in Florence, with all the guilt of her flight to Sicily. ‘And now, I’d better go. I must say goodbye to your mother –’

  ‘Maria,’ Eleanor said, ‘don’t try again, will you? It wouldn’t be good for him. For either of you. He thinks … He’s quite happy, you see.’

  As she saw Maria out, she seemed as if about to embrace her. But there was perhaps too much of the past. Maria would like to have killed her.

  I am wicked, she thought, angry tears blinding her. There was a heavy cutting pain in her breasts, as if knives turned in them. It had begun to rain. She had left her umbrella in the Japanese stand.

  There was a scene at the dress shop. An oversize client, Mrs Gamble-Ericson, was having words about a letter not answered.

  Her voice raised: ‘It was registered. I know it was received.’ Picking up a blue crepe-de-chine tunic, waving it into the alarmed face of Mrs Goldman. The shop was otherwise empty. Miss Gina slipped into the small rest room at the back. Vera watched open-mouthed. Maria felt strangely cheered.

  ‘Do not expect to see my custom again. Or me. Mr Gamble-Ericson will be in touch … My solicitor …’

  Maria comforted a distraught Mrs Goldman. (‘How does this happen when I work so hard, I work all day, and look!’) She went into her office, Maria’s arm round her shoulders. She pushed at the toppling pile of papers. ‘It’s here somewhere, but what do they mean me to do – papers like that … Harry will kill me when he hears.’

  ‘Would you let me have a little look through? I used to work in an office –’

  She spent the rest of that day at the desk. By six o’clock, it had begun to make sense. ‘If you get in a typewriter,’ she said, ‘I could see to it all. A few days a week.’

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she and Vera took their lunch-hour early, from twelve to one. They went to the nearest ABC. She had grown used to Vera’s company. On the days when she wasn’t quite herself, it didn’t matter, for Vera scarcely noticed. It wasn’t even necessary to lie to her.

  October now. The weather had turned suddenly cold. They couldn’t wait to get into the warm fug of the café.

  Vera said: ‘I thought if I didn’t have a poached egg, but just two buns and a pot of tea, it could go towards the dress – I might get it in about six months.’

  ‘But, Vera, the winter’ll be over by then. And it isn’t a frock you can wear in the summer.’

  ‘I know. But it’s just … I have to have it.’

  The waitress was there. ‘Two teas, one poached egg, and two Bath buns,’ Maria said.

  A girl’s voice, almost a drawl, asked: ‘Keeping this chair warm for anyone?’

  ‘No. It’s yours.’ The girl – woman really, Maria thought – sat down heavily. She blew her nose, then yawned, hand over mouth only as she finished. ‘Oh God,’ she said wearily. She looked over to where a waitress was piling plates on to a tray: ‘Buck up, do.’

  ‘A pot of tea,’ she ordered a minute later. ‘Very strong. And buttered toast. Something I can face at this godforsaken hour.’

  She was a heavy, almost voluptuous girl. Her thick blonde bob was partly covered by her white velvet beret. A Clara Bow mouth, in deep red, but
made up hurriedly, Maria guessed. She wore a pale yellow coat with an enormous fur collar, which she unfastened, but kept on.

  Vera’s and Maria’s orders arrived. The girl had lit a cigarette. She tapped a manicured hand on the table: ‘Like maggots coming out of Stilton – I wish they’d hurry.’

  Maria poured some tea, then pushed over the cup. ‘Go on, your need’s greater.’

  ‘No. Thanks all the same.’ She crushed out her cigarette. Then as Maria put her knife to the egg, and the dark yolk spread over the toast: ‘Forgive me if I heave. Food. My God.’

  Just then her own pot of tea arrived, together with the two rounds of toast. She fell upon the tea eagerly. Then, taking out her cigarettes again, she sat sulkily, blowing smoke rings. Both Vera and Maria felt unable to continue their chatter.

  Perhaps she noticed, for she said suddenly, ‘Don’t let me cast a blight just because my day doesn’t begin till afternoon … You’re working girls?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vera said.

  ‘I was in an office once, what a life – I was never so glad to see the back of anywhere, and specially the old dragon who had charge of us. Common as cat shit and twice as nasty.’

  ‘Fancy that,’ Vera said. Maria asked her, ‘Do you work now?’

  ‘Dance hostess. The clubs. Much more like it. The pickings … Well, anything’s possible.’ She flicked ash on to her plate of toast. ‘Where do you two work?’

  Maria told her about the dress shop. Her imitation of Norina Goldman even raised a smile, although Vera looked shocked and tittered.

  The girl had taken off her coat. She was quite forthcoming and told them about her brother who tested planes for De Havilland’s. She even asked them their names.

  ‘I’m Queenie, by the way, Queenie Johnson – or Sabrini, if you prefer. It doesn’t matter, take your choice.’

  Maria was astonished by the sudden pounding of her heart. She asked: ‘Are you any relation of Eddie Sabrini? He sings with a dance band –’

  ‘Eddie? I should just think so. He’s my husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maria said, ‘I –’

  ‘Why be sorry?’ Queenie asked, drawing on her cigarette. ‘Do you want him? Take him if you’d like him. I don’t want him.’