Bourbon Creams and Tattered Dreams Page 23

  ‘What the bloody hell’s he doing here?’ she hissed at Tom.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s not for the medieval architecture, Matty,’ Tom said.

  ‘Hello, me old china, fancy seein’ you here!’ Sugar’s brash voice boomed over the rushing of the mill race. He strolled towards them, grinning. His pale, sharp summer suit and jaunty white motoring cap seemed to glow in the moonlight, only serving to draw attention to the battered, bony face beneath. When he smiled at Matty she noticed he’d lost another tooth.

  ‘’Kin place this is to find, what are you staying in a bleeding barn for?’ He shook Tom’s hand. ‘Can’t he afford to take you nowhere decent?’ he asked, giving Matty an unwanted kiss on the cheek. Sugar stared, unimpressed, at the mill.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Tom asked and Matty thought he had grown paler.

  ‘Thought you should know a feller from Clerkenwell come sniffing around – about her.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Matty’s look of alarm wasn’t lost on him.

  ‘I didn’t touch him! I just got Bernie to tell him you’ve left the business and gone up north where your family comes from. That was the story, wasn’t it?’ He looked enquiringly at Tom.

  ‘Bernie? From the Star? How do you know him?’ Matty asked.

  ‘Cos he was the one told me about the feller in the first place.’

  Matty was confused; she was pretty sure Bernie had no connections with the Elephant Boys. ‘Why would he do that?’

  She noticed Tom give a small shake of the head and Sugar grinned.

  ‘Sorry, mate, put me size twelves in it.’

  ‘Tom! Did you tell Bernie about Frank?’

  He put his hands up. ‘Before you jump, he already knew something went wrong with Rossi. I just asked him to tell Sugar if anyone came looking for you, that’s all.’

  She supposed she ought to be grateful, but she felt suddenly powerless.

  ‘I know you mean it for the best, but can you tell me in future before you start bringing that man into my friends’ lives. I don’t want people I care about caught up in my mess.’ Perhaps she’d spoken more sharply than she intended. Tom looked hurt and Sugar scratched the back of his head before adding, ‘But there’s another thing I found out. Rossi got busted for booze running.’

  Matty felt a surge of relief almost knock her off her feet. ‘He’s in prison?’

  Tom broke into a smile. ‘Looks like your problem just went away, Matty!’

  But Sugar gave a long sniff and Tom asked sharply, ‘What?’

  ‘Rossi done a runner, probably halfway to Canada by now, and the word is he’s on his way.’

  ‘Where, here?’ Matty asked in a small voice.

  And Sugar nodded his bony head.

  After Sugar had sped off in his blue coupé, waking the quiet streets, Matty and Tom went into the mill through the side door and crept out to the garden, where dark mounds revealed the already sleeping forms of other guests. Matty went to one side and Tom the other, but their beds were head to head, with only the sunflowers between them. It was still so hot and muggy that she lay on top of the blanket. Listening to the rushing mill race and the endless groaning of the wooden wheel, she became aware of Tom’s breathing coming from the darkness on the far side of the sunflowers.

  ‘Tom, are you awake?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘What I said earlier, about not wanting the people I care about caught up in my mess... that includes you.’

  There was a silence, filled by the rushing of the stream, and she thought he wouldn’t answer.

  ‘I’m only keeping my eyes and ears open...’

  ‘But it’s the Elephant Boys that are doing the looking for you... it’s a favour and they’ll want something from you. Don’t go back for me, Tom.’

  15

  Through the Mill

  September–October 1931

  It took her a few minutes to realize where she was. Then she became aware firstly that Frank was perhaps even now boarding a ship in Canada bound for Southampton and secondly that every muscle in her body was making some kind of protest. And for a moment she couldn’t make up her mind which bothered her most. She attempted to move the part of her body that hurt least – her head. Pain shot across her shoulders and up the back of her neck. She lay very still with eyes closed. She was hot. She felt sun dappling her face as it penetrated the shade of a small tree growing on the island garden. If it was already this hot then it must be late. Sweat trickled unpleasantly down the nape of her neck and she felt clammy with sleep. A deep insistent groaning pierced her awareness. It was the great wheel turning. As the mill race made its roiling presence known, her eyes snapped open.

  ‘Tom?’

  There was no answer. She would have to get up. She might just manage it in stages. Tentatively easing herself up on to her elbows, a string of pain shot down her back and she cursed the penny-farthing, straightening up an inch at a time. How could this have happened? She should have known riding eighty miles on an old boneshaker must have its consequences, but she’d been fine when she went to bed. Planting her feet firmly on the paving stones and her hands on the sides of the cot she pushed herself up. Her thighs caught fire and she let out a groan that rivalled the gears of the mill wheel.

  She wasn’t quite straight, but at least she was standing. Every bed in the garden was empty, with blankets neatly folded on top of mattresses. Only then did she hear the splashing, shouts and high-pitched boys’ laughter coming from the mill race. She leaned over the low wall, looking back to where the water rushed white beneath the arches of the mill house. She couldn’t see anyone and, intrigued, hobbled towards the steeply roofed mill, stretching tight calf muscles as she ducked through the low garden door and into the mill’s cool interior.

  The warden had showed them the most popular place to bathe, a cavern-like spot directly beneath the mill, just where the stream forced itself through the narrowest part of the race. She made her way down some stone steps and stopped to peer over a railing. Water splashed up at her as the stream charged down the race, flinging itself into the paddle wheel. It was dim here and deliciously cool. Daylight filtered in beneath the arch, reflecting off the water. The echoing shouts grew louder and she finally saw the source of the noise. Half a dozen white-skinned, whooping boy scouts were being tossed about by the churning river. They each grasped on to ropes attached to an old beam above the race, the force of the flood lifting them almost horizontal in the water. She feared they must soon be swept on to the wheel, when she noticed that the ropes were firmly knotted around their waists.

  ‘Fancy a dip?’ a voice shouted in her ear and she jumped. She hadn’t heard him come down the steps.

  ‘Tom! Why didn’t you wake me up?’

  ‘You were sound asleep!’

  ‘I was like an old woman when I got up!’

  He put his hand to his ear and she shouted, ‘Me bones was creaking!’ and mimicked an old woman’s bent walk for him.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ she asked.

  ‘In there? I wasn’t being serious!’

  ‘We might as well be cool at least once today.’

  Every bit of her felt on fire, from her muscles to her skin. And the boys frolicking in the water chute looked to Matty as cool as Antonio’s ice-cream cart.

  Tom looked doubtful.

  ‘Oh, come on! The warden said she’s got bathing costumes we can use.’

  Tom didn’t take too much persuading and by the time they’d found the bathing suits and changed, the boy scouts were gone. Tom pulled up the ropes and they tied them tight around their waists.

  ‘You sure you want to?’ he asked before they took the plunge.

  ‘Of course! Don’t forget I’ve flown over Never Never Land before now – when I played Peter Pan! Come on, Wendy!’ She laughed up at him as she lowered herself down the rope. ‘I’ll teach you how to fly...’

  But the shock of the cold water took her breath away
and seemed to collapse her lungs, so that she could only open her mouth to draw in breath, and further speech was out of the question. Immediately the surge of water seized her feet, forcing her horizontal, so that she really did feel as if she was flying in the foam. She was gasping when Tom dropped into the millstream beside her.

  ‘Whooo!’ he yelled with exhilaration. Both at full stretch now, they appeared to be flying side by side.

  ‘Awfully big adventure!’ she shouted above the thundering millstream, but swallowed what felt like a gallon of water and immediately shut her mouth tight.

  The water flung them around, spinning them on the ropes, so that they bumped into each other and their legs got tangled up. Tom somehow twisted himself round to face her and like a high-wire act on a trapeze swung himself till he was close enough to steal a kiss, which she barely felt as her lips were now as icy as the water. She certainly wasn’t going to let go of the rope to push him away, but the water parted them and as it did so she felt something give. Her hands slid down the slippery rope under the weight of her own body. The fastening around her waist had loosened and she felt it uncoil and drop to her feet. Tom must have seen her expression turn to one of fear. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ he shouted, thinking she had reacted to his kiss.

  ‘It’s all right...’ She choked, wanting to explain, but muscles already weakened by yesterday’s exertions now gave into the force of the water and she was swept away from him by the angry tide that grabbed her, flinging her from the rope and into the maelstrom.

  Tossed into the onrushing torrent, her only thought was that she would die soon, caught on the flailing oak paddles which had turned ceaselessly for generations. She fought the momentum, struggling to push against the water, fumbling for a handhold, but her mouth, eyes and ears were full of a drowning white foam and suddenly it seemed easier to just let go. Her mind was as cold as her lips and she closed her eyes, serene almost as she was drawn deeper into the race, not frightened of being broken on the wheel, for she knew that had already happened.

  *

  Who had pulled her hair so painfully? It must have been Tinkerbelle, jealous of a kiss between Peter and Wendy. Matty knew she’d been transported to Never Never Land, because she certainly wasn’t dead and the pain where the vicious little fairy had pulled at her hair was real enough.

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ She heard his voice from far off and felt Tom’s lips warm on her own.

  ‘Did that fairy pull my hair?’ she mumbled into his mouth and felt herself gathered up into wet, strong arms. ‘Oh, Matty darling.’ He half sobbed, half laughed with relief and squeezed her tightly. ‘That bloody fairy was me!’

  Then she remembered and knew why she wasn’t dead. It was Tom who’d grabbed her hair as she slipped beneath the water, hauled her up and clasped her to him. Somehow he’d managed to swing them, Tarzan-like, to the edge of the gantry and had pulled her out.

  Now she lay in his arms, in the cool damp cavern, water dripping from them both on to the stone floor, and when Tom’s heaving breaths subsided, he turned to her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Matty, you could have died and it was my fault. I distracted you... I shouldn’t have kissed you.’

  ‘Idiot, a kiss never killed anyone – the rope just came loose. It wasn’t your fault, Tom.’

  ‘Still...’

  She put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh, help me sit up.’

  When they were sitting up, with their backs to the dank stone wall, Matty said, ‘Let’s not tell the others, Tom.’

  ‘All right, our secret.’

  She turned her head so she could see his face. ‘You saved my life. I could have dragged you under, Tom. You should have let me go.’

  He put his hand to her still damp cheek and then brushed away a wet strand of hair.

  ‘I never did let you go, Matty. Don’t you know that?’

  She dropped her cheek so that his hand was a cradle for her weary head. She felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I never appreciated you, Tom. I didn’t understand back then what you were offering me. I was so frightened if I married you I’d never be able to be me again, and like a bloody fool I ran away straight into the arms of someone who didn’t even know who I was, and since I’ve been back... well, neither do I.’

  ‘Oh, Matty, I know who you are. Let me remind you?’

  She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Tom. Everything that made me Matty Gilbie seems to have been taken away.’

  She tasted salt tears mingling with the water that still dripped down her cheeks and she curled into Tom’s chest, letting him hold her tight.

  ‘You’ll find out who she is. I see her every day and I promise you...’ here he lowered his voice, so that she could barely hear him above the rushing water, ‘she’s every bit as wonderful as the old Matty Gilbie.’

  ‘When I meet her I’ll let you know.’ She gave a wry smile and drew away.

  ‘Matty, I still love you,’ he said, with a tremble in his voice.

  ‘I know.’

  How long she’d known she couldn’t say, but right now her heart was gripped, not with fear of what he might demand of her, but with surprise, for she found the new Matty Gilbie’s feelings for Tom were totally different from the old.

  ‘And I love you too,’ she said simply, getting to her feet. ‘Come on, the others will be looking for us.’

  She took his hand and led him towards the stone stairs, but before they went up into the brightness of the day, she turned to kiss him. When he pulled away, the clear hazel eyes were flecked with gold, full of joy and surprise.

  ‘You really do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ And taking each other’s hand once more, they went back up into the garden. Already bathed in sunshine, the flagstones were hot to her feet and warmth flooded her body. She felt a surge of joy stronger than the mill race, strong enough to wash away all her fear of Frank, strong enough to convince her of a brighter tomorrow for the new Matty Gilbie.

  ***

  When they arrived back in Bermondsey Matty didn’t feel the sense of claustrophobia in its densely packed streets that she’d suffered ever since her return from America. Perhaps she’d just got used to being home, but she suspected it had more to do with her expansive heart. It was proving as wide an open space as the Atlantic Ocean or the green hills of England. And Tom’s love, far from taking up too much space as it had once seemed to do, now seemed to push up the sky and open out the river as they went for long walks in Greenwich Park or over to the Tower of London.

  The Indian summer heralded another round of street screenings for the cinemotor and the heat meant even greater crowds, for everyone seemed to have abandoned their houses. Old ladies sat sentinel at their doorsteps, chatting or dozing, mothers pulled out their long tin baths into the streets, filling them with bucket after bucket of cold water, so that courts and alleys began to resemble lidos of connected zinc baths full of bare-chested children splashing around with that particular excitement brought on by open-air bathing. The heat was less fun for Tom as he operated the projector, stuffed into what was no more than a tin can with a few air slits.

  They had been expecting a big crowd. As they turned into the courtyard of one of the newest council flats, they were greeted by a cheering mass of children, who ran towards the van, surrounding it in seconds, forcing Tom to slow to a crawl. They stopped in the centre of a courtyard fronted by long communal balconies which formed a natural amphitheatre. Matty jumped down from the van and, glancing up, noticed that on every floor people were already in prime positions for the show. Leaning elbows on balcony railings, craning necks for a first view of the cinemotor, the atmosphere was more like the tuppeny rush at the Trocadero than a council estate. Dr Connan stood on his stool while Tom elbowed curious children out of the way so that he could get inside the van. One of the first lessons Matty had learned was that street crowds were impatient. Any delay in setting up and they started their own entertainment, which could range from hurling insults about the films to lobbing rott
en fruit at D.M.’s bowler hat. He always wore a special one for screenings, as battered and many hued as a warrior’s shield.

  Today the heat wasn’t their friend. When Tom started up the projector it became obvious that the film had somehow stretched, resulting in a less than perfect viewing experience for the audience.

  ‘Rubbish!’ A bare-chested boy of fourteen began the heckling. ‘We can’t see nuffin!’

  The bottom of one frame and the top of another was in view on the screen and poor Tom couldn’t get the reel in synch. The film was meant to be mildly comedic, with the punning title of Where There’s Life There’s Soap, an encouragement to personal cleanliness and a warning against the perils of an unhygienic lifestyle. It featured a back view of a balding man, looking suspiciously like Dr Salter, who removed his hat to reveal a huge sebaceous cyst sitting on the top of his domed head. Unfortunately, it was now that a wit on the first-floor balcony decided it was his time to shine.

  ‘Looks like one of my old gel’s tits!’

  Laughter drowned out D.M. as he tried to calm the fractious crowd, who now began stamping their feet. Matty felt a riot coming on. Poor D.M. was still appealing to the crowd’s better nature, when a well-aimed stone shot his bowler hat from his head. As catcalls rained from the balconies, Matty stepped in. She banged on the side of the van and hissed through the louvres. ‘Tom, I’m going on. Pull the film and sort it out for gawd’s sake before they kill us!’

  She jumped up on to the back platform of the cinemotor, with the screen behind her. Tom had put up a lantern slide of a tooth while he rewound the film. She lifted her arms, inviting them all to join in, and then filled her lungs. In a voice that she hadn’t used since her earliest days at the Star, she launched into her famous Nellie Wallace impersonation with ‘I Don’t Like My Mother’s Pie Crust’.

  Tonight I’m alone, broken-hearted, to mother I’ve murmured “goodbye”.

  From the home of my youth I’ve departed, with a tear in my bonny blue eye.

  As the crowd recognized the old favourite their heckling subsided and, encouraged, Matty soldiered on.