Before beginning they had given the band their list of numbers. But now there were requests for Smoke gets in your eyes, for Night and Day. The sunny side of the street.
They sang and sang. She had dancing feet, could hardly keep still as they sang in duet: ‘Anything you can do, I can do better…’ and South America, take it away.’
Sentimental numbers at the last. Together with requests, they sang half as many again as planned. Perhaps the acoustics were right, perhaps the air was right, perhaps they were right.
‘I’m dancing with tears in my eyes, ‘cos the girl in my arms isn’t you …’ Eddie’s high note at the end …
Up the stairs to bed. Up to the top of the hotel.
Eddie said. ‘Leave your worries on the doorstep, just direct your feet … They like us.’
‘They like us,’ she said. ‘We’re a success.’
‘Gold dust at my feet,’ he said, ‘This rover crossed over.’
She had drunk nothing after the session but felt drunk. ‘They like us.’ (That terrible medical student ball wiped out for ever.) ‘Eddie, I’m so happy. Good night, darling Eddie.’
They stood at the door of her room. ‘Good night, darling Eddie.’ Her arms went round him. His arms round her. Eddie, safe with Eddie.
She could do nothing about the excitement, the certainty of happiness, great happiness. She woke early, and was walking in the terraced gardens before any guests were down for breakfast. Insects were buzzing already amongst the bougainvillea, the unfolding yellow lupins. Eddie, she guessed, would lie in late. He wasn’t normally an early riser. So she was surprised to see him join her.
‘What are we going to do with today, sparrow?’ He was as eager, as excited as she was. Straight after breakfast they walked down into Funchal. The sun shone on them, the lightest of sea breezes blew. They looked at the shops, debated about presents of lace and embroidery, sat in a café and drank coffee and aguardente which they regretted. Eddie said, ‘The sax player, Jeff, says although the funicular has gone, the thing to do is toboggan down from Monte.’ This they did, instead of sleeping in the afternoon. The toboggans were wicker chairs, quite comfortable, on runners, and went at a great crack. The drivers wore white uniforms with straw hats. In spite of travelling and the late night, she did not feel tired.
‘I can’t believe being here is work,’ she said.
‘More like a vacation … So I shout to everyone, find your place in the sun …’
‘I’m so happy, I don’t know why–’
‘But that’s good, sparrow. Let the whole world sigh and cry, I’ll be high … You had a tough time when you were little– you grew up in the war, now you’re having fun.’
‘Are you happy, Eddie?’ But she knew that he was.
That evening she wore her red chiffon. If anything, they were more of a success. Colonel Maitland, with a large party this time, clapped loudly at the end of each session. His bad leg was propped on a chair. The hennaed Mrs Maitland danced cheek to cheek with a tall white-haired man. The Colonel didn’t seem to mind. She produced a list of Eddie’s successes she would like sung during their stay. Could it be arranged with the band?
Eddie read it. Helen saw his eyes light up.
You’re driving me crazy. I’m getting sentimental over you. Let’s put out the lights and go to sleep …
After the dancing was over, they drank with the band. It was well into the small hours before they went up. The sax player, Jeff, said, ‘They certainly like you two.’ Sam on drums echoed this. ‘Atmosphere’s quite different. Exciting. Electric. That’s got to be good.’ Sydney, the leader, hugged Helen to him, rumpling the blonde cap of her hair.
They walked along the corridor to their rooms, Eddie said, ‘We haven’t music for some of those songs, probably can’t get them here. I’ll have to sing them– and Sydney and the boys’ll make what they can of them.’
‘They’ll know lots of them,’ she said. ‘And if we sing even a third, Mrs M will be pleased.’
Outside her door: ‘Kiss goodnight?’ Eddie said.
‘Darling Eddie–’ She threw her arms about him. ‘Goodnight, darling Eddie.’
His arms tight round her. (Eddie, safe with Eddie.) His jacket was open. His heart beneath the white shirt beat against hers. Darling Eddie.
They stayed clasped together, cheek to cheek. For a second, his lips, his tongue brushed against her ear. His heart, her heart, beat fast, fast, faster.
She wrote her journal sitting down in the lower terrace, beside the coral trees, the tumbling bougainvillea. The book was balanced on her knee.
‘Something terrible, and wonderful, has happened. Eddie and I …’
She couldn’t write any further from happiness, from joy. She had thought she wanted to put it down, secret as it was (and secure, so secure behind its lock and key). But the words for it had flown.
The secret journal of Helen Connors. Volume one. Pages and pages of trivia, pages from six, seven years back. Pages of wondering– what will it be like? Love– and the other thing, what will they be like?
The sun beat down on her bare neck, her bare arms. An elderly couple came down the steps towards her. As they walked past, the man touched the leaf of one of the plants.
‘Hedychium gardnerianum,’ he said.
‘No, Hedychium coronarium,’ she said.
I wondered what it would be like, who I would love, when? And then, this. But I never, never thought of this. She wasn’t tired at all– would never need any sleep again, unless it was to sleep in Eddie’s arms. Eddie inside Helen. My love, Eddie.
So this was what it was all about. Ronnie who’d said, ‘It’s rather disappointing really and jolly uncomfortable,’ knew nothing. Had been wrong, wrong, wrong.
But where the guilt? she thought suddenly, for the first time. Why no guilt? If anyone had told her, had said this would happen she would have hidden her face, blushed in shame– and horror.
There was a sudden clouding over of the sky. A light wind ruffled the sea. She fastened the clasp, took up the journal and went indoors.
‘Something terrible, and wonderful, has happened. Eddie and I …’
The weeks passed so quickly. There were wonderful outings together, and with members of the band. They became friendly with the Maitlands, who had hired a car. They drove out to the Cabo Girão and gazed down nearly two thousand feet sheer to the Atlantic below. In the village of Camara da Lobos, Mrs Maitland was patronizing and made a scene in a café about the service. Along the road from Seixal their car was washed by a waterfall.
Mrs Maitland told Eddie, ‘I never thought I would have the famous Eddie Sabrini to myself. I used to kiss your picture. I had one cut from Melody Maker. I kissed it each night. I rated you above Al Bowlly and Sam Browne and Jack Plant…’
She was always harking back to old times, old tunes.
‘There’s a small hotel, with a wishing-well… I can hear you now … And what about, You didn’t know the music, and I didn’t know the words. Such a sad little song …’
‘… My dear,’ she said to Helen, ‘you’ll have to watch your voice if it’s to last. Girls these days, they shout their numbers so.’
‘Your little stepdaughter,’ she told Eddie, ‘I think it wonderful the way you’ve taught her. She’s learned the lessons well.’
Oh, the lessons, the lessons I’ve learned, Helen thought. Not looking at Eddie, not daring, able to look at Eddie. What I have learned and can never forget.
It was when she worried about babies that unease, reality would suddenly intrude. It was possible to feel numbed by joy, and then– sudden terror in the sunshine. Standing in the garden of Reid’s, smelling the vanilla scent of the heliotrope, she thought suddenly: But if I have a child.
‘Eddie, you’re sure it’s all right about– babies?’
‘Little sparrow. Trust me. Can’t you trust me?’
Of course she could. She thought: I’m ignorant, but he, he must know. She didn’t want to think … She kne
w what Catholics must and must not do. All that she had pushed aside. And it doesn’t matter. Above reason, beyond reason– she realized with humility that nothing mattered except Eddie.
Maria. It was as if there were no Maria. They never mentioned her name, unless it was to outsiders.
Every afternoon, every night, every early morning, Eddie told her that he loved her. ‘You don’t have to worry about anything. You see, you know you’re happy, why do you question being happy? People aren’t often so happy …’
Their last night was almost a cabaret, they sang so many numbers. Mrs Maitland was much in evidence– it was the last night also of her month’s stay– asking for request after request. (‘Did I put Fancy Our Meeting on my list? No? Is there any possible teeny-weeny chance …’)
‘And for their last number, their very last,’ Sydney announced, ‘here are Two Sleepy People … Wake up there, Eddie. Wake up Helen, baby …’
‘… Two sleepy people, by dawn’s early light, And too much in love to say goodnight.’
Reality was the cold of an English March, damp rain-filled sky, bitter east wind. In the taxi from Victoria, she held his hand. Played with his fingers. His fingers that had played with her. ‘Oh, Eddie.’
The bubble of happiness burst. What was to happen tonight, tomorrow, the days and days after? The future that on the island had never been spoken of, because to do so would have been to break the spell. Somehow it will be all right, she told Eddie. (Just as somehow it would be all right– Eddie had promised– about babies.)
She saw that Eddie too, was cold, worried beneath the jaunty air. ‘Don’t forget, never forget,’ he said, ‘that we were a success there. It was good … and something else was a success, wasn’t it? Little sparrow, I love you so much. So much.’
It was mid-afternoon. The sky was lowering. She and Eddie stepping out of the taxi in Rutland Mews, Eddie bringing out a ten-shilling note. The cruel east wind lifting her thin skirt. The austerity look of London, so quickly forgotten.
Jenny was in the house. She was unpacking groceries, putting them away. ‘Welcome home.’ She kissed Helen, kissed Eddie, exclaimed at how well they looked, invited them to tea the next day.
‘Just shopping for Maria– she’s really busy and has to visit the dentist. I was just leaving … Shall I put the kettle on? You’ve eaten lunch? I expect you’re tired.’
‘Tired,’ Helen said. ‘Very tired.’
They drank a cup of tea with Jenny. When she had left, Eddie took the suitcases upstairs. She followed him. On the landing, she stopped and clung to him. She moved towards her room. ‘I have to go to bed. I’m so tired.’
‘So tired that you can’t?’
‘No, no. Darling, no, no, of course.’ Across the corridor she saw the closed door of Maria and Eddie’s bedroom. Not in there. No, never in there. He pushed open the door of her room. ‘Darling, darling– what’s to become of us?’ She fell back against the bedhead. Lying on the bed, knees up. Stroking Eddie’s buried head. ‘Oh, darling, let’s not–’
She lay back, closed her eyes, half sitting, head flung back. ‘Oh, darling, darling …’
She opened her eyes. The door swung on its hinges, wide.
She looked at Maria. Maria looked at her.
14
The cocaine injection was beginning to wear off. She had one hand on her jaw, where a stabbing ache jangled every nerve.
‘Don’t come near me, don’t touch me –’
‘Hey,’ Eddie was saying, ‘hey, Maria, look, darling – just let me talk …’
‘Talk – you should have your tongue cut out. What you do with your tongue … Get out. Get out of my life … No, don’t come near me.’
‘You struck me, Maria, you struck me, just now. If I can say something, explain –’
‘You can’t explain betrayal, since when could betrayal be explained? Answer me that, answer me that –’
She held on to the table. The world was spinning. She sat down suddenly, falling almost.
‘Darling – are you all right? Maria –’
‘Don’t softsoap me … How could you, how could you? Eddie, how could you? A child – she’s a child only … what she’s been through in the past. You knew that. A child, and a daughter to you – Isn’t it a sin crying out to heaven for vengeance – that you’ve betrayed her, us, that – oh God, Sacru miu Gesù, all the years I’ve thought, known, terrible things of you, but never this. I never dreamed of this’
‘If you shout like that, she’ll hear –’
‘What if she does, Eddie, what if she does? She can stay up there till I say she can come down. I don’t want to see her, speak to her. I don’t want –’
He had backed against the refrigerator. He moved his head to and fro as if dodging blows.
‘Stop that. I’m not going to hit you. You’re not worth it. You disgust me.’
‘You don’t believe I can love, you don’t believe it’s love. I know it’s love …’
‘You disgust me. What do you know about love? I’ve heard love, love, love from you. What is that word worth? Seducing me in your flat all those years ago – with words of love. nothing. It’s the word you use when you want an easy lay.’ Her mouth grew stiff with pain and distress. The numbness was a pain. ‘All those years of saying yes to any woman, getting up skirts, taking down your trousers – and always you use the word love. You don’t even know what it means …’
He was crying. ‘I’m trying to tell you, I love her.’
She had no tears. His enraged her. She shouted:
‘Don’t dare say you love her. Don’t dare. You get love all right, you ask for love, like a child, you get love – and what do you do with it? I loved you, how I loved you. I would have died for you, Eddie. And now … Thirty years, nearly thirty years between you – disgusting. How many people have you betrayed? Idiot, I’m the idiot, the trusting fool, that trusted you with a child like that. Worrying about you overworking her, about the dangers of life on the circuit. And you, you were the danger. It was you all the while …’
‘I loved – we love …’
‘If she thinks she does – it’s childish folly, stupidity, girls who meet you and don’t know any better … but that it should be her … of all people, of all people in the world, Eddie … She’s ruined – You’ve ruined her career, everything. What else mayn’t you have done – given her a child – can you be sure you haven’t done that? If you’ve done that …’
‘I haven’t given her a child. I wouldn’t … Maria, I can’t give her a child –’
‘Don’t be deceived by that tiny build. It’s all it needs.’
‘I can’t give her one.’ He sobbed and beat his fists dramatically, drumming on the fridge door. ‘I can’t give any woman a child –’
She stopped. Stunned, she said:
‘Any woman? Eddie – what the hell is this?’
‘Now you see me humiliated. You wanted to know that, didn’t you? You wonder I didn’t tell you. A fine Italian boy who can’t make babies. A fine thing …’
Her voice, icy with pain. ‘When did you learn this?’
‘Just before we went to the States. ‘35. I had some tests –’
‘And you never told me?’
‘Oh God, oh Christ – Maria, let me out of this kitchen. Let me go to Helen. Let me explain …’
‘Oh, how I hate you,’ she said.
15
In the brilliant Sicilian sun, Helen watched the boy at the lemonade stall. He moved so fast that she marvelled. Proud of his skills, slicing in half the huge lemons with their greenish tinge, squeezing them masterfully, powerfully in the hand press. The glass quickly sloshed in a bucket, rattle of ice, stirring of sugar. And all the while he wore a dedicated look, as of one fulfilling his vocation. He had a crowd of customers. A spremuta. Tart, refreshing.
She stopped to watch him several times a week, whenever she came past to collect little Marcello from his convent school. Today as she stood there, homesickness, a
longing for England, swept over her – a great wave, drowning every other emotion. Here she was in seedy, glamorous Palermo. Governess to the Di Benedetto family. I never wanted to be here. Exciting, dangerous city. I never asked to come.
Small, fair, skinny, her size went unnoticed, but her fairness did not. She did not want to be noticed. She felt wrong. All of her. For ever and ever.
Wouldn’t she have been better in Switzerland or Belgium, or Holland perhaps? Here the sun shone all day, the nights were already heavy and warm. People sang and spoke of love. Men eyed her, boldly or amusedly. Sometimes they mocked her, calling behind her back, as she made her way to the school.
I have sun, enough to eat, plenty of lire for pocket money, good and kind employers. She thought of all this before the next wave of misery swept over her.
Homesickness, for what home? What home had she? The house in Rutland Mews: she could not, dare not think of it now. Oh, terrible, shameful memory.
Who was it who had clung to Maria? Sobbing. ‘Love me, don’t stop loving me.’ Maria, her head turned away, her strong hands pushing Helen off. Helen, down on her knees. Despair, shame. Like a child, tugging at Maria’s woollen skirt. ‘Don’t stop loving me!’
‘Get up, get up – get off me – get up!’
‘Maria, I’m sorry, Maria, don’t stop loving me. You don’t have to forgive me.’ She choked on the words. ‘I’m sorry, I want to make it up to you – can’t we make it up, Maria, don’t stop loving me. You’re my mother –
‘Get off me. I’m not your mother. Oh thank God, I’m not your mother …’
Maria’s words. The disgust in them. Her voice. The rejection. I have lost Maria.
Hiding in her bedroom, the door locked. Wanting to walk out of the front door, walk and walk, over the side of some bridge –to cast herself into the Thames. She had looked out of her bedroom window. The leap down was not far enough.
In the end she slept fitfully, lying there waiting till Maria would knock on the door and come in and sit on the bed and say that Yes, in the end, because she was Maria, because she was the Virgin Mary, she could forgive Helen.
The Golden Lion Page 40