Bourbon Creams and Tattered Dreams Read online

  Esme said nothing until they were settled in a small Italian restaurant in St Martin’s Lane. Then she pushed an envelope across the table.

  ‘Not that I want to spoil your appetite, darling. I always seem to be the harbinger of unwanted news, but this can’t be ignored.’

  The envelope contained a picture of Matty. A still taken from a film. It took her back to a time in her life she’d hoped never to revisit and its resurrection caused an instant cold rush of nausea, forcing her to take in a deep breath.

  ‘Was the film ever distributed?’ Esme’s low voice broke into Matty’s thoughts and she let out her breath slowly. She was alarmed to find that her hand was trembling as it held the photograph. She nodded, laying the photo face down on the table as the waiter brought them bowls of spaghetti. If it were only as easy to turn the truth over and lay it face down, out of sight, if only she could erase it by ignoring it. That had been her strategy so far and it had failed time and again. The photograph showed her seated on a bar stool, a long silk kimono loosely draped around her naked shoulders, falling open to reveal one bare breast, before being caught in at the waist by a single fastening. Her long legs parted the silk and left not much to the imagination as it flowed artfully to the floor. Matty looked at the steaming pasta, heaped with tomato sauce, just like Mama Rossi made, just the way Frank loved it. She retched and covered her mouth.

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry.’ Esme pushed a glass of water towards her and Matty breathed deeply again. She didn’t trust herself to pick up the glass; instead she dropped her shaking hands to her lap and gripped them so tightly the fingers turned white.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Someone stuffed it under the office door one evening. I didn’t see who, but I presume it was one of Frank’s minions. The Clerkenwell mob, I believe you said they’re called?’ she said with obvious disgust. ‘And it came with this grubby semi-literate missive.’

  Matty read it. This gose in the pappers if the canary sings.

  ‘It took him long enough to dig this one up.’

  ‘But I don’t understand, Matty. Why on earth would he want to stop you singing?’

  Matty almost burst out laughing, but it wasn’t funny. ‘He doesn’t mean on the stage, Esme. He means talking to the police. There are things I know which could land him back in jail.’

  ‘Back? I didn’t know he’d ever been in!’

  ‘Not for long. He’s on the run, could even be in the country for all I know.’ She picked up the photograph. ‘Frank’s just letting me know he can still hurt me – wherever he is, Canada, middle of the Atlantic, it doesn’t matter...’ She studied the pose in the photograph, feeling embarrassed by her sultry stare – gazing through half-closed eyelids in imitation of Greta Garbo. ‘Stupid!’ she muttered, then looked at Esme. ‘I’ve been dreading this thing coming to light ever since I got back with Tom.’

  ‘Matty, I’m sure you had your reasons, but tell me, why make a film like this? You had a perfectly legitimate career!’

  Matty rubbed at her face. How could she explain to Esme the impossibility of crossing Frank.

  ‘Esme, I was still in love with him and, at the time, I believed he felt the same. It’s hard to explain, but it was as if we were a team of two against the world, and he made it obvious that everything he asked of me was a test of how much I loved him. He said that the Crash had wiped him out, all he wanted was to make enough money to launch the new film. It was all for me, he said, and besides, he told me, everyone did it these days, it was just for a private distribution – he swore the negative would be destroyed...’

  ‘I bet he did.’

  ‘You’re right. I was such a bloody fool! It wasn’t long after that I realized just what sort of man I’d fallen for. He’d always had that raging temper and sometimes it scared me, but I thought he’d never touch me.’

  ‘But he did?’

  Matty instinctively clutched at her stomach, the painful memory had been buried so deep in a dungeon of her mind that the merest chink of light stung her eyes with tears.

  ‘When I first met him I thought he’d die for me.’ A bitter laugh escaped her lips. ‘I never expected I might have to die for him. Yes, Esme, he hurt me badly and that’s when I ran.’

  ‘Poor darling. If I’d known...’

  ‘You couldn’t have done anything. The only one who could get me out of it was me.’

  ‘So, what do you want to do now?’

  Matty groaned,.‘I don’t know.’

  ***

  They walked briskly along the Charing Cross Road. A grey November day had turned to a drizzly, foggy evening. The pavement was slick and patterned with reflections from illuminated shopfronts. Some of the second-hand booksellers were taking in their trestle tables, but others had lit lamps and pulled out awnings against the rain. As they passed a brightly lit musical instrument shop Tom stopped, wanting to show her a baby grand piano, the keys pristine black and white, the glossy ebony lid raised to reveal silver and gold strings.

  ‘How would you like that one, Matty?’ he asked as she slipped her arm through his. ‘It beats Eliza’s old upright. Not sure if I’d dare play “Henceforth I drink Grade A TT” on it, though!’

  After a long day in the studio, they had finally completed the recording of three gramophone records and they were going to the Astoria Ballroom in Charing Cross Road for a night’s dancing and celebration. The Foyles bookshop electric sign came into view and they dodged window shoppers standing beneath awnings the length of its illuminated frontage. Lamps suspended like glowing lozenges bounced light off wet bowler hats and mackintoshes, while women hurried along in the lea of shopfronts, conscious of losing their marcel waves in the mizzling rain. It was as if all London wanted to be somewhere else. Fuzzy headlights announced the arrival of a bus, which disgorged passengers into their path, and as they waited for them to disperse Tom took her hand and smiled. ‘Happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She leaned in close and held on to his arm. She wasn’t lying. These had been some of the happiest weeks she’d ever known – working closely with Tom, both of them part of something she’d come to see as important. Before America their worlds had been poles apart – the only thing he’d known of her singing career had been what he’d seen on the stage. The work and grinding hours of rehearsal had been hidden from him. All he’d seen was the illusion, the swan gliding along while its feet paddled wildly under the surface. These past weeks, he’d seen the hard graft behind her polished performance.

  But there was still a part of her that wasn’t happy. She had put off talking to Tom until their recording work was finished and now, with the prospect of what she had to tell him weighing heavily on her mind, the last thing she felt like was dancing. They passed the shuffling queue for the Astoria cinema, which disappeared in the fog as it snaked back round the corner into Oxford Street, and made their way to the ballroom entrance. The dance floor was fitted into the basement of the cinema, which was one of the new lavish Roman-style palaces, with seats for two thousand. It had been built while she was in America and Matty had never visited it, but she’d read about the opening night in a Variety magazine. After they’d checked in their coats they walked through to the sprung dance floor, where hundreds of couples were already whirling in a synchronized, quickstepping current. She was astonished at the size of it. A vast octagonal space, which looked big enough for over a thousand dancers, it was surrounded by a gallery, with tables and a bar. When she’d read about the place, she hadn’t been that impressed – a ballroom in a basement wasn’t her idea of a glamorous venue. But this was like descending into an Aladdin’s cave of music and light. The band members were surprisingly good too, and were already in full swing. It was just the choice of song that she could have wished different. They were playing ‘Little White Lies’ and the singer was cheerfully vocalizing the very thoughts that had been plaguing her. ‘Heaven was in your eyes, but the devil was in your heart, when you told me those little white lies
.’

  Her lies had certainly been white, lies of omission to protect Tom, or so she told herself. Now her hand had been forced and she would have to tell him. But for now she pushed the inevitable conversation to the back of her mind, giving herself up to the dancing and Tom’s arms, letting herself be swept up in the swift, mesmeric movement. The band seemed to enjoy playing at breakneck speed and Matty thought the band leader would poke his own eye out with the baton, he was so vigorous. But eventually she had to give in and plead tiredness.

  ‘I’m sorry, kid. I’ve worked you too hard lately. I bet you really wanted to go home and put your feet up. I just thought this place would be a bit of glamour after all those weeks of concentrating on cockroaches and bedbugs!’

  Tom put his arm round her shoulders and led her off the dance floor, up to the gallery. He found them a table at the back, where the strains of the band were low enough to allow conversation.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a Gibson.’

  Tom looked puzzled.

  ‘Gin, vermouth and a silverskin onion. I used to have them in America – they’ll know how to make them at the bar.’

  He called the waiter and ordered two Gibsons, and when they came lifted his glass.

  ‘Here’s to Matty Gilbie’s new screen career, courtesy of Bermondsey Borough Council!’

  They clinked glasses and she took a sip. As she twirled the silverskin onion she found herself thinking of all the opaque layers that formed it, just like herself, with layer after layer of secrets to unpeel. She wondered if, when every layer was stripped away, there would be anything left of her.

  ‘Did you know this place used to be a pickle factory?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘It’s true, Crosse & Blackwell! I read about it in Variety. They kept the old shell and ripped out the interior. Worst job of my life, that pickle factory.’ She gave a shudder.

  ‘There’s me thinking I’d bring you here for a bit of glamour and it’s just a reminder of all those weeks you spent dripping in vinegar!’ Tom looked disappointed.

  Matty grinned and raised the dripping onion to her lips. ‘Well, you know what they say, you can take the girl out of the pickle factory, but you can’t take the pickle out of the girl!’ She popped the onion into her mouth and crunched. Then she took a gulp of Dutch courage; it was now or never.

  ‘Tom, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about...’

  18

  Fonstone

  December 1931–January 1932

  Out in the street the contrast with the brightly lit ballroom was stark. Although the rain had stopped, the fog was damp on Matty’s face and a chill dankness cloaked her as they walked in silence towards Trafalgar Square. Nelson was invisible atop his column and the lions were brooding dark sentinels in the shrouded square. Cars crawled along, smudged headlights only emphasizing the surrounding opaqueness. Tom took her elbow, guiding her across a fog-draped crossing into the Strand. He had greeted her revelation about the blackmail with a disconcerting tight-lipped impassivity and she wished he’d said more. Now the silence between them felt as impenetrable as the fog.

  As they passed the stone cross outside Charing Cross Station, Matty looked up at his stony face. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I know you’ll hate me now. I’ll hand my notice in on Monday.’

  He looked sharply at her. ‘What are you sorry for?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry for letting myself down, for letting you go, for letting Frank into my life. Ohh, I’m sorry for lots of things, Tom.’

  He stopped mid-stride, and looked into her eyes. His tone was reasonable, which Matty found more worrying than if he’d been shouting. ‘I can understand all that, Matty. I’ve seen how blokes like Frank operate. They can make strong men do as they’re told, never mind a woman on her own in a strange country. But what I can’t understand is...’ He broke off and turned away.

  ‘What, what don’t you understand? Talk to me, Tom.’

  ‘Now you want to talk?’ he said, and his voice had a bitter edge. ‘Let’s just leave it.’

  ‘No, I’ve done my talking, and that was bloody hard enough...’ She was breathless, trotting to keep up with him. ‘It’s your turn to talk.’

  ‘All right then, why the hell didn’t you trust me when I asked you to tell me everything?’ He turned a rigid face to her. His eyes, half shadowed by the trilby brim, were harder than she’d ever seen them. ‘How can I protect you when I don’t know what the threats are?’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do to protect me against this. If he wants to go to the press he can, any time.’

  ‘There’s always things you can do – if I’d known! A bloke like Frank has always got plenty of enemies.’

  Their bus ride home was a sombre affair and when Tom said goodnight, he gave her the barest brush of a kiss. She had expected outrage, disgust, but not this impervious anger. He’d not mentioned the salacious role she’d played in the film, but she knew him: the things that he spoke of least were the things that bit the deepest. Her lack of honesty was what he could talk about, but she knew that hadn’t been all that had angered and hurt him. Had her reticence about her life with Frank come from lack of trust, or had it come from love? The only truth she was sure of was that the less Tom knew about Frank’s affairs the safer he would be.

  ***

  Tom flatly refused to accept her resignation when they were back at work. But his frostiness towards her had, if anything, deepened. Being in the office alone with him became almost unbearable. He initiated no conversation unless it was necessary for work and his replies to her were either grunts or monosyllables. Perhaps because he’d had time to think about what she’d done.

  During the autumn they’d begun to show films in the library halls, and now they were accompanying them with their own recordings. She thanked God for the arrival of the gramophone records, which was the only thing that softened him. For a moment he almost forgot to be angry with her, becoming excited and caught up again by the work they’d done together. But Matty had no idea how to reassure him and perhaps she never could. Part of her reason for leaving him in the first place had been that his idea of trust between them was that she reveal all, even down to the thoughts in her head. He had only been comfortable if there wasn’t a space between them and she had only been comfortable if there was. When she’d returned she’d appreciated his new coolness and distance. But now she feared the line between protection and constriction would become blurred and she began to wonder how much he really had changed.

  But Matty was determined that nothing should mar Billy’s homecoming. The bulldozers had been making a steady assault on Vauban Street, clearing the dilapidated terraced houses to make way for new council flats. But they had stopped their relentless advance in a Christmas truce, halting at the top end of the street, sparing the Gilbie’s old house long enough for Billy to have a proper homecoming. It was a magical time for Matty, with all the family packed once again into Nellie’s tiny kitchen. There was not an inch of elbow room round the table, so that Matty was thrown vividly back to the days when she and Nellie’s brothers would cram round this very table, pasting matchboxes so that Nellie could afford the rent. It was Will’s first Bermondsey family Christmas since Eliza’s death.

  ‘Come on, Will, you sit there between Matty and Sam.’ Nellie ushered the young man in, but Billy wanted to sit next to his cousin and swapped places with his father. Will had always been a hero in Billy’s eyes, now even more so since he’d heard the story of his cousin’s dramatic, wounded flight from the Nazis.

  Billy had changed. He seemed to have left his childhood behind. A seriousness had come over him, a consequence of facing grave illness perhaps. But Matty also noticed that his Bermondsey accent was less thick and he’d obviously assimilated Swiss propriety and manners. Now, sitting next to Will, the similarity between them was undeniable. The three of them sat in a row, Matty, Billy and Will, the most widely travelled
of their family, and all in their different ways overwhelmingly glad to be back here.

  When Matty slipped away to the scullery to help Nellie with dinner, she put an arm round her. ‘Thanks, Nellie. It’s so nice to be home.’ And Nellie, red-faced and flustered with the heat, turned a smiling face to her. ‘Always, darlin’, the bulldozers can pull it down around our ears, but this is always your home – and Will’s.’ She nodded towards Will and Billy, ‘They’re like two peas in a pod, never seen it before.’

  ‘Will was nervous – coming here today.’

  Nellie raised her eyes. ‘Silly sod, he’s always welcome.’

  There was a knock on the door and in came Nellie’s sister, Alice, who had made the journey up from Croydon with her husband in order to see Billy. Small and fragile-looking, she was well turned out in a fashionable fur stole and long coat, cutting a rather affluent figure. Matty hadn’t seen her since coming back to England and she was overwhelmed by the warm greeting Alice gave her. She’d always admired how Alice just seemed to get on with life. So quiet, so steady, she had surprised them all when she’d progressed from powder packing to the offices of Pearce Duff’s custard factory and had within a year married one of the managers. Later that evening the party was complete when Freddie and Bobby, Nellie’s brothers, turned up with their wives and children.

  While they all made a fuss over Billy, Matty took the chance to escape into the backyard for a cigarette. She was happy to brave the frosty night for a moment’s peace in which to think about Tom. She hated this coolness between them, but she felt now that it was up to him to end it. She walked over to where the old penny-farthing was stored and, leaning against it, she looked up at the stars. Frost sparkled on the cobbled yard, which was lit with a warm glow from the scullery window. She hugged herself and stubbed out her cigarette; they would be missing her. She was just about to go in when Nellie emerged from the back door.