The Golden Lion

by Pamela Haines

  A letter came.

  Dear Aunt Eleanor,

  It is very cold here there is frost on the dorm windows inside, last week I was two days in the san with a bad ear. Some oldar boys have a lot of tuck can you send some appels? and some peppercake and toffee if you can spare it. I am quiet good at conkers. The days till I get home are only 42 now, From your loving nephew, Guy Dennison.

  She wept when she read it.

  Unhappy Guy. Happy Dick, father of two little girls. Happy that Christmas of 1929 (the world in recession, the Wall Street crash not two months old), happy even though the foundry was feeling the cold winds, happy married to Gwen, now expecting another child. It would be a son, he was certain.

  Happy Dick, even with a leg which ached in damp weather, and at other times too. He had long since ceased to rail against it. If he hadn’t fallen from that ‘plane, he’d never have met, would have lived in a world without Gwen. But without Gwen – there was no world.

  Happy even though old Mrs Ackroyd lived with them. She’d proved much less difficult than he had thought. Reconciled to Dick, contented and with plenty of interests – a great organizer of bazaars, a doting grandmother.

  Sitting by the fire, he read the day’s mail. From Canada, Jenny’s neat writing – and photographs of Jim and Gordon, five and three, in swimming costume beside the lake. That was their log cabin in the background. They really hoped to come over next year but with the slump Archie’s firm hadn’t been that good. She’d asked Aunt Dulcie to visit – ‘it would do her good’ – but so far there was no sign of it.

  A thin wail under the window. Once in royal David’s city … Soon the front door bell would ring of the house he had bought for Gwen, the very house he had earmarked for her all those years ago.

  Voices. ‘Look at me, Daddy, I’m the fairy queen!’

  ‘Well, well now – shall we put you on the top of the tree, Betty?’

  ‘My crown’s a bit torn, I want you to mend it, Daddy, Daddy, mend it now.’

  Betty, plump and red-faced, just six, and in fancy dress. The same outfit she’d worn last Christmas as a butterfly. Now, seams let out, hem lengthened and wings removed. White net, buckram, wire, silver sequins, a wand with a star, and a crown. How ridiculous she looked with her fat little body and her red cheeks, feet turned out at nearly a quarter to three. Ridiculous – and lovable. Bossy Betty. Gwen had been like that, old Mrs Ackroyd told him. ‘Those two lads, her brothers – pulling them to school, pushing them home again.’ It was Jan who very soon would make the perfect fairy, with her red-gold hair, her tiny bones, her pert but gentle face.

  By the fire in his house slippers. Yes, Gwen warmed his slippers. ‘It doesn’t take a second,’ she told him, ‘and at least I know you’ll come home, don’t I?’ He could never understand that: how she could imagine his gaze might stray. ‘I don’t want Nancy to get you …’

  ‘If I’d wanted Nancy, I’d have had her, wouldn’t I?’ he’d say, his arms tight about her. His nose (cold like a dog’s she said, these winter nights) buried in her shoulder, then down, down between her breasts – not against skin, but against warm flannel. ‘Off with that,’ he’d say, and ‘You can take it off,’ she’d say. And so, the unbuttoning and twisting and pulling, Gwen pretending to shiver – but Gwen was always warm, always. And then his fingers would be on flesh, warm flesh, touching, loving oh so much while all the time his mouth was kissing, kissing, thinking all the time: I can hardly wait. Gwen, Gwen! And now they’d made another baby. A son.

  14

  ‘Ooh that kiss,’ Eddie sang.

  Maria said, ‘You’ll disturb the neighbours –’

  ‘Ooh that kiss … What is love but a helping of angel cake – I know what I’d like a helping of …’

  ‘Hush.’

  ‘They went to the seaside. I saw them go off … What is love but the kisses you give and take?’

  ‘We’re respectable now, darling. Keep your voice down, and sing that sort of thing indoors.’

  ‘What? When they can hear the greatest crooner of 1932 for free, serenading bella Maria … You told me off, darling. Was that the human thing to do?’

  ‘If you talk in songs once more … That’s all you are, Eddie Sabrini, one great big sheet of popular music – and I love you.’

  ‘Talking of sheets, Maria, let’s go inside –’

  A sultry August night. They were sitting in their small back garden, eating and drinking at a table under a plane tree. The weather had been growing stickier for days. In the stifling air, the leaves were still, the candle flames barely flickered.

  ‘Ooh that kiss … come on up, come on up to bed. Bed, bed, bed. Come on up, Mrs Sabrini … Bedtime.’

  Mrs Sabrini. Mr and Mrs Eddie Sabrini. Married at Easter, after more than four years of loving and waiting. The happiest day of my life.

  Her body had been happy and perhaps her soul. Even though they had been unable to marry in church. Certainly she’d never worried again. From the days of Sybil’s news, from the first days and weeks of giving herself to Eddie, nothing else had mattered. Neither religion, nor convention. It seemed for a while that before Eddie there’d been nothing. Her past: she thought, I’m able for the first time to put all of it behind me. No, not burying or hiding anything. It’s as if the world is washed clean, so that, bad girl as I am, I am good. I know that it is good, good to love Eddie.

  A new life had begun almost at once after Sybil’s letter. In the weeks that followed Sybil had scarcely returned to London, wanting just to stay up in Yorkshire, making preparations for, counting the days till her wedding.

  And I had to attend it, she thought now. I almost took the coward’s way out, of illness. But I went, and perhaps because I carried Eddie in my heart and, although Eleanor was there, we did not speak of Guy – it was all right. I was even polite to Peter. That handsome man, twelve years older, charming, able (forget that I hate him). ‘We’re all going to be such friends!’ Sybil cried, and perhaps it will be so, for I have not told her – and no one else will. Certainly Peter has not.

  Her love for Eddie, his for her, made all things possible that before … How soon had she known that Queenie was uncrowned? The photograph went from the shrine, succeeded that summer by a framed snapshot of – yes, Maria. Maria on the pier at Brighton, in a pale green linen frock with horizontal tucks and a spotted silk tie.

  She was well dressed always, because she’d been happy to stay on with Norina. Norina and Harry needed her. She was an important part of the concern, more and more responsibility falling on her shoulders. And then after Sybil’s marriage, and the much better pay she was receiving (so that she had been able to ask Uncle Eric to cancel her allowance), why continue to live with Clive and Dodie? Why not defy convention and live with Eddie?

  Over twenty-six, and not married. They thought in Yorkshire that she had made a career for herself but that one day perhaps, she would find someone suitable. At her age, she was no longer a worry and a responsibility. She had been gradually cutting herself off for years. Now with Eddie as her lover – oh, happy word – she did it almost completely. When Sybil (who, although shocked, knew the truth) managed a shopping trip to London, she would see her. But that was her only sight of the family now. Better like this, better.

  To begin with, she had not had to think of Queenie much at all (Queen Hotbot, Eddie called her rudely), since Eddie made love only to her – or so she hoped, believed. And he sang only for her. Just when I least expected it, I found you … When he recorded that last year, ‘I sang it for you,’ he said.

  She met his family. Momma and Poppa and his sisters Rita and Connie. Eddie took her to Sunday evening supper in the closed restaurant two weeks after they’d begun sleeping together. Mrs Sabrini threw her arms about Maria.

  ‘A good Italian girl, Italian, Sicilian … good girl, good for Eddie.’ They wanted to tell Maria, couldn’t wait to tell her, that they’d warned Eddie. ‘She wasn’t a good girl, Queenie. “Don’t do it, Eddie,” I say.
“You’ll be sorry.” But no. “Momma, I love her –” And then he’s a good boy and he marries in church, and now what? He can’t … You’re a good Catholic girl, Maria. You understand. The stupid boy … But eh, eh, perhaps Queenie she walks over a bridge, she walks into the sea, makes a mistake eh? And then …’

  But she had never wished Queenie ill. It was too frightening. If she had let her thoughts run …

  A way of life. A new way of life. Making love in the afternoons, making love at three in the morning (keeping different, self-chosen hours at Norina’s, coming in when she pleased), and always Eddie’s body – and her body that had been waiting all the while for his. Eddie of the flicking tongue, the warm hands that probed and touched, the hardness, the softness, her own yielding. Heavy-breasted again, but not with pain, only with longing satisfied.

  Outrageous Eddie, lying in bed (singing to the tune of Ain’t she sweet?), ‘Tell me where, tell me where, you’ve seen one, just like that…’ (but he was right to be proud of it). ‘I repeat, don’t you think he’s kind of neat? Ain’t he nice? Look him over once or twice …’

  But then of course in the end it wasn’t enough. Not when she began to reflect, when his parents made comments, when she looked into the glass of the future. Eddie, who’d wanted a home and babies and domesticity in the evenings. And she?

  They spoke of it – Eddie’s fear that he was stopping her from marrying someone more suitable. ‘Hey, you don’t want a crooner.’

  ‘Yes, I do, I want this crooner –’

  ‘Someone free – and rich and smart and all that.’

  ‘But you’re going to be rich and famous! As if I cared, as if I cared – But you are …’

  He was of course going to be famous. The records might say only ‘with vocal refrain’, but the vocal cords that filled the grooves could easily be recognized. And were. Women loved him. But not like I love him, she thought.

  All those songs. And new ones always being added: it seemed the band could play and he could sing, any number, any request. He told her that some singers wrote the words on a card cupped in the palm of their hand. He didn’t need to. Along with that joyousness went an easy, reliable memory. She would go through his songs with him if they were together and he had no rehearsal or recording session. Sometimes they would be songs from American shows which, although forbidden, the band would play and the dancers enjoy (when discovery was likely, at a secret signal the band would change quickly to another number).

  Darling Eddie. ‘Flamin’ Mamie, you don’t want a crooner.’ Oh yes she did. But as the months passed, and the years – already nearly three – it wasn’t enough. Then towards the end of 1930, Eddie was under contract for a six months’ tour of India. As his wife she could have gone with him, as his mistress – no. The six months of his absence were for her terrible. She stalked London like a ghost. She met Sybil down for a Christmas shopping spree, and confided in her. She said, ‘When he comes back, I’m going to say we must marry. We must forget we’re a good Catholic girl and boy. He must divorce Queenie – or else I think it will have to end.’

  But how could it? It must not end.

  … If you’re heading for a sunny honeymoon, learn to croon… Eddie back again, strangely (or not so strangely) had the same thought. He’d lived only to be back with her. Roy, who’d been on the tour too, thinner and even more cadaverous now, had been Eddie’s keeper. He said Eddie had been impossible – crying for Maria when he should have been sleeping. ‘You’re a couple of noddles …’

  Queenie, seldom seen these days, but by hearsay doing very well – a kept woman possibly – must be asked. She said no. She was fine as she was. And who knew, if he continued becoming so successful, she might not enjoy some reflected glory? Little Eddie Sabrini’s missus. Why not?

  ‘Flamin’ Mamie,’ he said, and sang (one of the first numbers he had ever recorded, in 1926). Maria said, ‘To think she once offered you me.’ (‘Take him if you’d like him …’)

  Eddie pleaded. Queenie refused, became more obstinate. Maria in a sudden fit of religious guilt, said that it was the Virgin Mary trying to stop them excommunicating themselves. When that mood passed, she said angrily:

  ‘Divorce her. You’ve got enough grounds …’ But Eddie wouldn’t. Maria objected:

  ‘Why do you have to be a gentleman, an English gentleman? That’s all it is.’ It was she now became ruthless, desperate.

  ‘Italian, English – I’m still the gentleman. I can’t.’

  Then happened something Maria had quite forgotten to pray for. The oh, so obvious. Queenie met someone rich, and eligible and free and mad to marry her. He was American, from Kentucky. She wanted a divorce, very soon, and cleanly and neatly. With her as innocent party.

  Eddie went to Brighton, not on a day trip this time, but for a night at a hotel. The chambermaid bringing in early morning tea found him tucked up with a small volatile blonde – Maria never asked and didn’t want to know more.

  A painful six weeks after the decree when she pretended scarcely to know him, six weeks without being in touch, six weeks without touch – although nothing beside the six months’ separation the year before, it frightened her.

  They left the flat and rented a small house in Chelsea. It was a register office wedding. Their honeymoon was postponed because of Eddie’s engagements. A big family party was held the week after the wedding. The Sabrini clan welcomed her. ‘God understands,’ her new mother-in-law said. ‘He knows Eddie he needs a good woman – for babies.’

  She was Mrs Eddie Sabrini. Lying beside Eddie now, blessed, if not by God then by the state. Mrs Sabrini, wife and (soon, please God, soon) mother.

  ‘I’m so happy, so happy.’ Eddie’s tongue, Eddie’s fingers. His voice in her ear. ‘Let’s make a baby …’

  It wasn’t going to go wrong – ever.

  15

  New York,

  7th November 1935

  Dear Dick,

  I was so happy to get a letter from you. Such a welcoming one too. You always were a good friend. And now you deserve to have one back with all the news.

  New York, New York – it’s still a dream. I know we had the crossing to get used but it isn’t enough, not when you get the grand welcome and excitement we’ve had. All the difficulties with the Musicians’ Union got sorted out (seemed crazy when we’ve got all these wonderful US players over in England) and Al was cleared to play with Eddie as his vocalist. We’d hoped Roy was coming too – he plays wonderful stride, I’m sure he’d have been a success. He’s married now, his wife Aileen’s lovely, and he’d have been good for Eddie. But he’s sick, it’s really worrying, they think it’s TB.

  Eddie’s been a success from the word Go. Now he’s singing at the Rainbow Room! If you haven’t heard of it, it’s the place here for eating and hoofing. It’s in Radio City (which is huge and covers four whole blocks) on the top floor of the RCA building, really high up as only things can be in this skyscraper city. ‘Sixty-five stories nearer the stars,’ is the slogan. He’s on every night except Sunday, nine to three, and of course a broadcast’s included in that. I’m so proud of him. He was asked twice for I cover the waterfront, they liked his version so much. Lots of rehearsing for which they get paid, so everything’s all right. In fact altogether, everything’s all right!

  Before I go any further I must just say something about Sybil and Peter coming here later this month. I gather they’re going to make a trip of it while they’re over, and see some of the rest of the States. But it all sounds like a good idea, because if the proposition is to be made seriously to the Allison Corporation, then it’s best done in person. I only wish, Dick, I wasn’t reminded of Uncle Eric (and me!) on the Lusy. I think that’s just a fatalistic streak – the bit of me that’s more East than West. Maybe. That Arab strain we’re supposed to have in the Western part of Sicily.

  We’ll be touring the States ourselves with the band, but not before January or February at the earliest. Canada too, so maybe we’ll see Jenn
y.

  Anyway it will be lovely showing Sybil everything. No, as you said, I can’t be quite at ease, even after fifteen years, with Peter. If I could choose about his coming over, I’d say rather not.

  I’ve seen a lot of my brother, of course. Rocco is fine. Although Prohibition got repealed after the Volstead Act last year, he’s still doing all right (he had two speakeasies, or speaks). There are things about the American way of life which really suit him and are to his advantage. He’s not married alas, though I think there may be a girlfriend. He’s not saying!

  It’s funny to be back somewhere you lived so long ago – I went with Rocco to see the Ricciardis’ old house. I’d remembered it maybe the size of Buckingham Palace – and there it was just a pleasant largish house with a stoop in an area that’s grown a lot less smart, I think. None of the family is in New York now.

  Much braver, Dick, was to go back where Mamma and I had lived before. It brought back such memories. Coffee roasting and cooking smells and baking – and all those faces that are the faces of my childhood before ‘Merica. Frightening poverty.

  Dear Dick, how I ramble on. You are my good friend. I know the family don’t really approve. Maria wed to a divorced man (it was hard for Eleanor not to be shocked, she’s such a religious person), but I know you wish me happiness. You always were a firm friend to me. And, Dick, I’m happy that you’re so happy. My fondest love to Gwen …

  Sybil in her blue georgette wool coat with the silver fox collar, glossy-lipped, smelling of L’Heure Bleue. So happy Sybil, spreading her things about the room. ‘Stay with me, while I change.’ Flinging lacy camisoles, petticoats, hand-embroidered camiknickers, silk stockings.

  ‘You’ll eat with us, darling? There’s a grill room at the hotel or we could have had something sent up … Any chance of seeing Eddie?’ Sybil charged with excitement. More excitement in the air than warranted even by her arrival in New York.