I'll Be There Page 11

  For weeks Sandy learned her understudy lines and rehearsed the songs and dance steps, dragging Janey along to rehearsals, and grumbling afterwards.

  ‘Did you see how that Barbara keeps trying to upstage me all the time? I’m going to kick her in the bum if she gets in front of me again.’

  Finding it all bewildering, Janey sat near the back of the stalls, trying to be unobtrusive so the two men who directed the show, and sometimes ranted and swore at the actors would not see her and throw her out.

  Come opening night the witch took sick, and Sandy was nearly tearing her hair out with stage-fright.

  ‘Just be yourself and you’ll be fantastic,’ Janey said.

  ‘Very funny ... just at this moment I wish I’d taken up dishwashing as a career.

  Sandy’s nerves fled as soon as she hit the spotlight. She was marvelously nasty. The audience booed when she raised hooked hands and flung her arms about, cackling and casting spells over both players and audience. Her huge hooked nose, grey matted wig and blacked out front teeth made her look terrifying. When she got her just deserts there was prolonged cheering.

  Susie would have enjoyed this, Janey suddenly thought as homesickness ripped through her. She’d received a letter from Pamela the day before. Linda had become engaged to her boss’s son, Martin. Eddie had been confined to bed with bronchitis for the past week. Susie was doing well at school. She’d sent her a drawing, a green stick man leading a mauve dog on a leash. Janey pinned it up over her bed.

  Like the previous year, Janey intended to send Pamela some money for Christmas. She could use it to buy Susie something new to wear. Her father treated Susie only marginally better than he’d treated her all her life, it she read between the lines of Pamela’s letter correctly.

  Only Edward Renfrew wasn’t her father, was he?

  With a sudden shock she realized that Linda was only her half-sister, and Susie – her dear darling Susie – wasn’t related at all. An arrow of sadness shot through her. It was followed by curiosity. Who was her father, did Pamela know? She decided to take the train to Bournemouth on her next day off, and ask her.

  A great choking lump settled in her throat. She was dying to see Pamela and Suzie again.

  Sandy’s success inspired her to paint her portrait as a memento of her first theatre job. She painted in every spare moment, putting into practice techniques learned at her art lessons, like perspective and form. The bedsit was covered in canvasses.

  You should try to sell some, it would put some extra cash in your pocket and give us more living space.’ Sandy said one day when she nearly tripped over Janey’s easel trying to get to the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry. I’ll make some space. ‘ She stack the canvasses under the bed. Janey toyed with the idea of selling some of them, but didn’t know how to go about it ... besides, she wasn’t good enough yet.

  She put the problem aside when Christmas cards came from Phil Tyler and Griff, Charles Wyman and Brenda and Mary and Douglas Yates. Brenda had included a note saying she and Charles were marrying in the village church in April, and she was invited to the wedding.

  There was also a card from Tim Brown. He’d run into Pamela in Bournemouth and had badgered her into giving him her address. He said he was being posted to Malta in the New Year, and would try and visit her before he left.

  It would be lovely to see all her friends again ... including Tim, her former brother-in-law.

  * * * *

  To Janey’s disappointment Pamela was alone when she met her in Forte’s café.

  ‘Where’s Susie?’

  ‘I left her with a mother of a friend she made at school.’ Pamela glanced around her. ‘I daren’t let her see you love. If she let anything slip to your father there would be hell to pay.’

  It seemed as though nothing had changed in her absence.

  ‘He’s not my father ... remember? Then as casually as possible, because Pamela had given her a perfect opening, ‘Do you know who is?’

  Mouth open, Pamela stared at her. She’d worried herself sick after Janey had left, had imagined the girl in all sorts of dire situations, until she’d heard from her. Now she realized how resourceful the girl was.

  She’d filled out a bit, though was still slender. Her figure was that of a young woman. Free of makeup, her hair was pulled back in a slide at the back of her neck. She wore the blue duffle coat over black drainpipe trousers, and carried a tartan drawstring bag. Odd ... it was the same coat that had been the reason for her leaving in the first place.

  Remembering she and Mary had agreed to wait till she was eighteen, she sighed. After all, that birthday was only two months away. ‘Eddie didn’t tell me,’ she hedged. Swiftly she drank her coffee and stood. ‘Have you got time to visit the Yates? They’d love to see you.’

  ‘I intend to visit them before I catch the train back.’ She placed a hand of Pamela’s arm. ‘Must you go so soon? I’ve got heaps to tell you.’

  ‘I can manage another half hour. Eddie creates if I’m out too long, and I’ve got to pick Susie up.’ We could walk around the gardens.’

  Janey paid the bill and they went outside. ‘Things haven’t changed then, she said, as they strolled amongst the winter bare flower beds.’

  ‘If anything it’s worse. Eddie can’t get rid of his cough and is bad tempered all of the time.’ Her fingers strayed to a yellowing bruise on her cheek. ‘I keep Susie out of his way as much as possible.’

  Janey’s blood began to boil at the thought of him hitting Susie. ‘Why don’t you leave him? You could come to London and we could get a place together. Both of us could work.’

  ‘I daren’t. He threatened to take Susie away from me if I left him. Eddie never makes idle threats.’

  ‘What’s Linda doing these days?’

  ‘Working in an accountant’s office.’ Pamela sniffed. ‘She’s become all hoity-toity since she got engaged to the boss’s son.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Oh ... all right, but you get the feeling he’s looking down his nose at you. Eddie’s thinking of asking his advice about investments. Something went wrong and he lost some of his money. He wasn’t very happy about it.’

  ‘Serves him right for being such a scrooge.’

  ‘The trouble is ... he takes it out on me.’

  Janey noticed the threads of grey in Pamela’s hair and the dark circles under her eyes. She looked older that the last time she’d seen her – sadder. She cheered herself by telling her about her job in the café and her art classes. When they were back where they started from she slipped some money into her hand. This is to buy Susie and yourself something nice for Christmas. I wish it were more.’

  Janey hugged Pamela hugged tight for a moment. ‘I’ll always regard you as my mother and I want you to know that I love you.

  She boarded the yellow trolley bus just before left, and when she looked back it was to see Pamela hurrying towards the nearest telephone box. She guessed that Pamela was about to warn Mary of her impending visit.

  * * * *

  Mary waited until Janey had nearly reached the end of her visit before she said, ‘I believe you want to know who your real father is.’

  Puzzled, Janey gazed at her. What had Mary Yates got to do with this?’

  Mary placed a photograph in her lap. ‘That’s your father.’

  Janey stared at it for a moment or two then spluttered, ‘That’s John Gregory ... your brother.’

  ‘His name is John Gregory Bellamy,’ Mary said quietly, relieved the girl wasn’t taking it as badly as she’d feared. ‘Most people called him Jack.’

  There was a cautious expression in the eyes that came her way. ‘Then you’re my aunt.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad. He’s in prison, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes ... but–’

  The photograph fell from her lap to the floor as she stood, her face suddenly strained. ‘I’d better go now. I don’t want to miss my train.’

  ‘He�
�s innocent, Janey. He didn’t do it.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment, her fingers pressing lightly against her forehead. ‘Didn’t do what?’

  ‘Attack you.’

  ‘No ... he didn’t attack me. He ran me over? I’m afraid I really don’t really recall the incident, and don’t want to discuss it since it’s over and done with. I’ve got a headache.

  ‘Try, Janey,’ Mary urged.

  Douglas came between them. ‘Leave it alone, Mary. Fetch your coat, my dear. ‘I’ll run you to the station.’

  The station smelled of soot. Rain dripped from the edge of the roof and formed little grey puddles. The smell made her headache worse.

  The three of them stood in an awkward knot until the train came rattling into the station and came to a screeching stop in a hiss of steam.

  Brief hugs were exchanged. ‘You’ll write,’ Mary said.

  She nodded, and then hesitated. ‘Thank you for the gift ... Aunt Mary.’

  ‘He’ll be out soon ... your father. In twelve months. He’ll want to see you.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’ Her head had begun to pound now and she wished Mary would go away.

  ‘Get on the train, Janey love,’ Douglas urged. ‘Don’t you worry about anything.’

  The carriage was almost deserted. Douglas and Mary’s faces were pale, misty ovals through the steamed-up glass. They waved to each other as the train pulled out. When she could no longer see them she placed her head in her hands.

  John Gregory was her father. Her father! She wished she hadn’t asked How could he have left her to die? And did Mary really expect her to see him after what had happened? She gave a little whimper.

  A soft, drawling voice said, ‘Excuse me, are you feeling all right?’

  The owner of the voice was a young man in a checked lumbar jacket leaning over her. He was tall with tangled light brown hair that reached down over his collar. His eyes were a clear, liquid green.

  ‘It’s a headache, that’s all.’

  ‘Look, I just happen to be in a Good Samaritan mood, and I have some aspirin and a flask of coffee in my pack. Would that help? You can tell me to go away if you like.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr ...?’

  ‘Darius Taunt, lately of New York in the United States of America.’ He chuckled as he threw his pack on the seat opposite and began to rummage through the contents. ‘My friends call me Drifter.’

  Janey Renfrew.’ Her glance went to guitar case strapped to his pack. ‘Are you a musician?’

  ‘No, Ma-am, I just like to strum now and again.’ He shook two aspirin into her hand and poured some coffee from the flask into the plastic cup. His smile sent a trickle down her spine and made her feel shy and breathless.

  Janey felt a bit of a fraud as she swallowed the pills because her pain had disappeared as suddenly as it had begun.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I was named Darius Rhodes after my Greek grandfather, and Ingram Fairfax Taunt after my English grandfather. Hence, the name, Drifter - from the initials, and my pressing need to drop out of the human rat race for a while.’ He gave a lazy chuckle. ‘I was sent down from Oxford last year.’

  ‘Wow!’ Impressed, Stephen was wide-eyed as he flicked ash from his purple satin shirt. ‘Groovy name, my grandfathers were called Sam Higgins and Ian Tully.’

  ‘Shiiit!’ Sandy said, and they all fell about laughing. When they finally stopped, she gazed owlishly around the bed-sitter. ‘I know this sounds stupid, but I’m going to miss living in this hole.’

  ‘The cockroaches will miss you, daaahling.’ Dion sloshed cheap red wine into their empty glasses and proposed a toast. ‘To Sandy, may we see her name up in lights.’

  Solemnly, they all drank.

  ‘Now I’d like to propose a toast to Janey.’ Stephen raised his glass to a fantasy painting of a witch stacked against the wall. ‘I hope her paintings sell so she can stop working for Samuel Levy.’

  Fat chance, Janey thought. She’d have twice the rent to pay now Sandy was moving on. Besides ... she quite liked working for Samuel Levy.

  ‘They won’t sell if nobody ever sees them.’ Dion jumped excitedly to his feet. ‘Let’s turn the hallway and stairs into an art gallery and hang them.’

  Drifter smiled as his eyes took in the witch. ‘I’ll buy that one.’

  ‘Like hell, you will!’ Sandy crawled across the floor and sat defensively in front of it. ‘Janey painted it for me ... it was my first role in theatre.’

  A church bell started to ring, and they all smiled at each other.

  ‘To 1967.’ Sandy’s face was softly glowing. ‘May the New Year bring us all success and happiness.’

  They hugged and kissed, and wished each other a teary, happy new year.

  ‘I’m going to white-wash the hall,’ Dion shouted, suddenly springing to his feet. ‘Who’s going to help?’

  ‘We haven’t got any white-wash,’ Stephen pointed out.

  ‘I know where I can get some. A painter and decorator lives around the corner. He has plenty in his van.’

  Janey’s eyes sprang open in shocked surprise. ‘You’re not going to steal it?’

  ‘Of course not, my innocent little duckling,’ Dion cooed, his dark eyes glittering. ‘Would I do something naughty like that? I’ll push some money through his letter box.’

  By dawn, the hall was a pristine white background for her paintings.

  Stephen cocked his head to one side. ‘It looks absolutely fabulous.’

  ‘Like an ancestral home.’ Dion gave a tired sigh. ‘We’ll invite all our clients and friends to a viewing. How much shall we charge for them.’

  Janey left them arguing about how much her work would sell for, and made her way upstairs. The amounts being bandied back and forth were preposterous. Despite her tiredness, she glowed with warmth at having such good friends.

  Drifter was sprawled on his back on the couch, his long legs dangling over the arm. Gazing at his sleeping face tenderness stirred and she gently kissed his cheek.

  A chance meeting on a train and she was in love, she mused. How very odd. She wondered what Drifter would say if he knew. He’d probably smile his slow beautiful smile, kiss her on her cheek and say in his relaxed way.

  ‘Hey, that’s nice, babe. Real nice.’

  The place smelled of stale smoke and cheap wine. Out of habit she emptied the ashtrays and tidied up before she went to bed.

  Sandy was curled up in bed fully dressed. Her battered suitcase stood in a corner, jealously guarding her painting. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Property of Sandy Carter, keep your thieving hands off! was written across it in thick black letters.

  Wryly, Janey wondered how she and Drifter had managed to sleep through the racket Stephen and Dion had made hammering nails into the wall.

  She’d miss Sandy, she thought, crawled under the blankets, but it would be nice to have the place to herself for a while.

  By the time she woke, both Sandy and Drifter had gone. There was an envelope on the table containing a fifty pounds. For number 11, was written on the outside.

  Pulling on her robe, she rushed to the top of the stairs.

  Halfway down, was a blank space on the wall where a painting of Tower Bridge had been. All the other paintings had neat white price labels attached to them.

  Drifter had paid fifty pounds for one of her paintings? She’d have given it to him if he’d asked. Sinking on to the top of the stairs she gazed down at the makeshift art gallery and began to laugh.

  She’d sold her first painting and was now a bona fide artist. Was everybody but herself mad, or was it the other way around?

  It was Sunday. Sub-lieutenant Timothy Brown stopped in front of the tobacconist’s shop and checked his bearings. To the right of the tobacconist and set back a bit, was a black painted door set into a pebble dash wall. Number 179 was painted in yellow over a brass letter box..

  There seemed to be a party going on inside. Dusty Spring
field was belting out, You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, and the sound of laughter assailed his ears.

  His thump on the door brought a pink-shirted man with quiffed hair. Tim took a step backwards when a pair of Latin eyes carefully looked him up and down.

  The man gave a thin smile. ‘I’m Dion, ducky, can I help you?’

  ‘Actually, I’m looking for Janey Renfrew. I must have the wrong address.’

  ‘Are you a friend of hers?’

  ‘I’m her brother-in-law,’ Tim said, stretching the truth a little.

  The door opened wider, revealing a seething mass of people with glasses in their hands. The man jerked a thumb. ‘Janey’s skulking upstairs. Be a dear and see if you can persuade her to come out and meet her public.’

  ‘Shut the jolly old door,’ a dark skinned gentleman in a turban shouted. ‘It’s cold enough to freeze a fart.’

  ‘Not yours,’ Dion muttered. ‘You eat so much curry they’d melt the bloody South Pole.’

  Tim’s chuckle brought a friendly expression to Dion’s face.

  ‘Just elbow your way through the crush, dear boy. Pinch Cynthia’s ass on the way up, would you. She’s partial to sailors.’

  ‘Which one’s Cynthia?’

  ‘The one with the frightful moustache. Wouldn’t you think she’d get it waxed?’

  Dusty Springfield changed to Tom Jones, the song throbbing with passion as Tim made his way through the heaving mass of humanity.

  The smell of sweat mingled with perfume. Cologne and cigarette smoke tickled his throat. The whiff of marijuana lingered round a lilac painted door labeled, Powder Room. There was so much weed being smoked they’d be able to smell it at Buckingham Palace. What the hell had Janey got herself into?

  A brunette in a short, white crocheted dress, flapped a pair of heavily mascara’d eyelashes at him. ‘Hello sailor.’

  Her nipples poked through the holes in the bodice like a couple of cherries. He pinched her ass, and she gave a little squeal.

  At the top of the stairs, a middle-aged woman in tweeds was talking to a younger man. Her voice had balls. ‘I can’t make up my mind between, The Serpentine or Thames By Night. What is the artist called?’