Читать книгу A Family Affair - Nancy Carson - Страница 10

Tom collected Clover at eight o’ clock on the Wednesday evening. The weather had turned and a light drizzle had set in. Beneath his brolly, she warmly linked her arm through his as they walked along Brown Street and on, down steep Caroline Street and Claughton Road towards the Opera House, absorbed in each other.

Outside the theatre in Castle Hill, people arrived in cabs and stepped off trams in swarms. In the foyer, folk were milling about animatedly, looking at photographs and colourful posters, chatting, laughing. ‘Tickets here, please,’ somebody in uniform was calling. Tom joined the queue and paid for two seats in the stalls near the orchestra at two shillings each. He smiled at Clover as he rejoined her and his heart skipped as the bright flare of the ornate gas lamps reflected in her eyes, enhancing their sparkle. An attendant with polished brass buttons pushed open the door into the auditorium. Two enormous crystal chandeliers that hung majestically from the high ceiling cast a warm glow. Several men in army uniform, tall, straight-backed, with fine moustaches, turned to stare at Clover and nudged each other as Tom allowed her to go before him.

They took their seats ready for the nine o’ clock show and Clover smiled admiringly at Tom. As they sat, he looked at her with profound curiosity.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Because you never seem to look the same twice,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d remembered your face from the last time I saw you, yet you look different. Your cheeks seem rounder, your eyes bigger. Your nose…No, your nose is the same…as beautiful as ever.’

‘My nose!’ she said with exaggerated scorn and laughed. ‘You’re always going on about my nose.’

‘I can’t get over your nose.’

‘Because it’s such a big obstruction?’

He laughed. ‘It’s not big. Only you think it’s big…All right, it’s a tiny, tiny bit long, but that’s what makes it so exquisite. Don’t you see?’

‘I’m glad you like it. I hate it.’

‘Don’t hate it. It’s an alluring feature.’

‘Let’s look at the programme,’ she said, wishing to turn his attention. He opened it up between them. ‘Have you heard of any of these?’

‘I’ve heard of that comedian, Little Tich, and Casey’s Court Circus troupe. They’re supposed to be very funny. Nobody else, I must admit.’

‘Nor me. I’ve not seen a variety show before. I expect you’ve seen hundreds.’

‘Oh, I’ve been here a few times – and to the Empire. I always enjoy it. I imagined you would enjoy it as well.’

‘Well, it’s a change for me.’ She looked about her and was surprised to see how already nearly all the seats had been taken. Another couple asked if they could come through their row and Tom and Clover stood up to allow them passage. ‘I do like the atmosphere,’ she whispered. ‘It seems so friendly and warm.’

The lights went down and the little orchestra struck up. An arc light was trained on the stage curtain and a little man wearing navvies’ clothes strutted on and told a few ribald jokes then sang a song. He introduced the magician, who had a moustache bigger even than Jake Tandy’s.

Clover’s attention was divided equally between the show and Tom’s being so close to her. Sometimes she would turn to him and smile and he would tilt his head towards her as she whispered some comment or query. Then she would tilt her head as he whispered a reply, and his breathy words in her ear sent shivers up and down her spine.

She glanced about her, at the ornate plasterwork of the Opera House, and the gilt scrolls and the fluted columns that supported the roof and the galleries behind them. She watched the conductor’s baton as it waved about like something from a Punch and Judy show above the dark velvet curtain with its bright brass rod that divided the orchestra from the rest of the auditorium. She shuffled her bottom in the velveteen-covered seats that were so plush and comfortable. She loved the acrobats that tumbled all over the stage and somersaulted off each other’s shoulders and tiptoed across a wire that was fastened tight between two posts.

The comedian called Little Tich, who wore a dark suit with large yellow buttons and a shiny top hat, had her in stitches with his smutty jokes that would have had her mother turning her nose up in disapproval. When one of his jokes went over her head, she tapped Tom on the arm, shook her head and frowned. He explained it in a whisper and she put her hand to her mouth in shock, then giggled and nodded that yes, she did understand after all.

Tom’s attention was focused almost entirely on her. He loved how she chuckled at what she heard, at her facial expressions that registered shock, surprise and apprehension, sometimes all at once. He loved the way she glanced at him to see his reaction to almost everything, how her eyes creased and sparkled with vitality as she laughed. He was excited at having her so close to him, at having her to himself at last, after yearning for her for so long.

Dottie Baxter, a handsome, round-faced girl with a fine figure and wide hat trimmed with lavender, sang ditties with a streak of blue implicit in them. She had the modest air of a young girl at her first dance, and Clover identified with her. During her first performance she pretended to surprise herself with little fantasies that cropped up in the lyrics of her songs. The audience became mouse-quiet, leaning forward lest they missed any of it.

The next turn was spectacular: Monsieur and Madame Salambo, human lightning conductors. A volunteer was needed from the audience and a self-conscious young man was coaxed onto the stage. Madame Salambo asked him to hold one end of a hollow glass tube while she retained the other end. Suddenly, there was a brilliant flash as the glass tube lit up, and everybody laughed at the astonishment on the young man’s face. When he was asked to touch Madame and Monsieur he was just as amazed when a series of sparks shot out from them. The tricks went on, amazing everybody and Clover looked on in open-mouthed incredulity.

When the curtain came down for the interval, Clover asked Tom the time and he told her it was just after ten.

‘I ought to go,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Mother will have been expecting me by ten.’

‘But we’ve only seen the first half of the show. Don’t you want to see the rest of it?’

‘’Course I do. More than anything.’ More than anything she wanted to remain with Tom. ‘Oh, to hell with her, Tom. I’m staying. If I’m late, I’m late.’

‘Blame me,’ Tom said. ‘I’m the one keeping you out late. Anyway, what do you have to fear? You’re a grown woman and Jake is very fair. You’ve said so yourself.’

‘It’s just that I didn’t realise we were coming here tonight. If I’d forewarned her…’

‘Well, the show won’t be over till after eleven. You might as well sit it out and enjoy it. You might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. What time do they shut the Jolly Collier?’

‘Oh, they’ll be serving till going on for twelve o’ clock. Maybe later.’

‘Well, then. They won’t even notice what time you come in. In any case, I’ll come in with you and explain. I’ll tell your mother it’s my fault. Anyway, you should be allowed to stay out late if you want to. It’s not as if you’re a child.’

Clover smiled up at him, embarrassed that they should both have to contend with her mother’s quaint but annoying idiosyncrasies. She made her mind up to do something about it. Indeed, she would have to if she wanted to be courted regularly by Tom.

So, she settled comfortably into the second half of the show. Robert Fordham, a black American singer with a brilliant dance routine got the second half rolling when he performed ‘Chocolate Dreams Cakewalk’. Clover liked the brassy sounds the orchestra made accompanying him, the easy, foot-tapping tunes.

The Court Casey Circus was a knockabout troupe that had the place in uproar and their antics brought tears to her eyes. She forgot about Mary Ann’s stern glare. Dottie Baxter did a second spot, this time dressed as a policeman. She sang a song about how the policeman lost his love to the sergeant, which was poignant and funny all at the same time. Little Tich closed the show and he’d certainly been holding his funniest jokes till last. Even when the orchestra had finished playing ‘God Save the King’, Clover still had tears in her eyes from laughing.

She turned to Tom, coming out of her happy dream. ‘I suppose we’d better hurry.’

He nodded and grabbed his umbrella. She held his hand as he thrust his way through the men that were lingering around the aisle stretching their legs and the women smoothing their dresses. Outside, the rain was pouring. He opened the umbrella and, beneath it, they crossed the road, heading towards the Station Hotel and Trindle Road. The street lamps beyond the Station Hotel were not so bright, but the paltry light they afforded was increased as it reflected off the glistening cobbles.

‘I’ve really enjoyed tonight, Tom,’ she said, looking up at him as they turned into Claughton Road. ‘Thank you for taking me.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ he answered. ‘I hope we can have plenty more nights like it.’

‘I hope so too. I just hope my mother doesn’t spoil it. I expect she’ll be all of a franzy.’

‘I told you, Clover. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.’

It was after half past eleven when they arrived at the Jolly Collier. Clover looked at Tom apprehensively while he opened the door and allowed her to go in before him as he shook the water off his brolly. The taproom, full of noise and smoke, was still busy and Mary Ann, Ramona and Jake were all working.

‘Is it still raining?’ Jake asked Clover.

‘Pouring,’ she said over the hubbub and smiled at him appealingly. ‘I bet Tom would like a pint, wouldn’t you, Tom?’

He winked at her. ‘I’d love one. Bitter, please.’

‘We’ve been to the Opera House,’ she explained to Jake. Ramona, by this time, was standing by her. ‘Shall we sit down, Tom?’

‘Was it a good show?’ Jake asked pleasantly. ‘One or two have said how good it is.’

‘Oh, it was grand, Pop. You ought to take Mother. You’d both love it.’

‘Hear that, Mary Ann?’ he called. Mary Ann looked up from the washed glasses she was wiping. ‘Clover says as how good the show is at the Opera House this week. She reckons I should tek you to see it.’

‘Oh yes. And who’s going to serve in here while we’m gone?’

‘Well I could, Mother,’ Clover said. ‘And Tom wouldn’t mind helping either, would you, Tom?’

‘I’d be delighted. It could be my penance for keeping Clover out so late, Mrs Tandy.’

‘Is that an apology, since you mention it?’ Mary Ann asked, stone-faced.

Tom smiled steadily, not about to be unnerved. ‘If you honestly feel one is necessary, Mrs Tandy.’

Perceiving dissension, Jake waved it aside. ‘Christ, Mary Ann, anybody’d think the wench was late in,’ he retorted placing a pint of bitter in front of Tom. ‘I’ve told you before, she’s twenty now. This time next year she’ll be of age and able to do as she pleases. She’ll even be able to go and get wed without having to ask you. Think about that. You’d best start letting go of her now.’ He winked at Tom and poured a glass of cider for Clover. ‘Here, have these on me.’

‘As long as she can get up in the morning,’ Mary Ann responded, conceding defeat.

‘Cheers,’ Tom said and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Jake.’

Jake smiled. He’d won another round by reasonableness and good sense.

Tom stayed in the taproom for twenty minutes before deciding it was time to go. Clover went outside with him in the rain to say goodnight and they stood under his umbrella, facing each other, their bodies touching tantalisingly.

‘Thanks for a lovely night,’ she said again. ‘And for squaring it with my mother.’

He put his arm around her waist and gave her a squeeze. ‘Jake did that. Not me.’

She smiled into his eyes then looked at his mouth, so inviting. She had not yet kissed him and the urge to, fuelled by the warmth of his companionship, overwhelmed her. Impulsively, she pursed her lips and turned her face up to reach him, then, standing on tiptoe with her hands behind her back, she planted a kiss on his lips as gentle as a butterfly landing on a petal, lingering just a little.

‘There. I’ve done it,’ she said, as she experienced the eminently palpable thrill shuddering through her. ‘I’ve kissed you. I bet you think I’m a right hussy.’

He laughed with delight. ‘Oh, unquestionably. But I’m pleased you are. When can I see you again?’

‘Friday?’

He smiled with happiness. ‘Yes, please, Clover. Friday.’

The family took turns to take baths when they could fit it in, often between brews when the huge copper boiler on the first storey of the brewery was free to heat up water for cleaning with enough left over. Normal practice was to put the tin bath in the scullery and fill it with hot water, fetched in buckets from the brewery. One Saturday evening in August, Elijah, sweaty and hot from cleaning the mash tun, the coolers and the available fermenting vessels, decided to take a soak himself before getting changed for a night out with Dorcas, which would finish inevitably with some vigorous courting at Jake’s old house afterwards.

In the small brewhouse that housed the mangle that Zillah used on washing day, he lifted the galvanised bath off the whitewashed wall and bore it across the yard to the brewery where he set it on the quarry-tiled floor. He drew off the fresh water that was already heating up, by way of a hose arrangement and, while the bath filled, he returned to the brewhouse to cut himself a cake of soap. On the way back, he fetched a towel from the house and whistled tunelessly as he strutted across the sunlit yard. Back in the brewery he put his fingers in the water to check its temperature. It was too hot so he stemmed the flow of hot water and turned on the cold tap, playing another hose into the bath. He undressed himself, had a good scratch round and dipped his toes in the bath. It was still hot, but bearably so. Having got used to the intense heat of India and enjoying it, bathing in hot water always reminded him of his time there; he liked to get a bit of a sweat up.

He immersed himself in the water, lay back and relaxed. His thoughts drifted back to India and, inevitably, to those beautiful Indian women he’d enjoyed so much there. Such sultry pleasure he’d had in India’s fierce heat with sensuously perspiring, dusky girls with sleek, jet-black hair, dark eyes and wonderful bodies, many of them younger than his niece Ramona. Recalling those times aroused him enormously.

At about the same time that Elijah was getting all steamed up, the tea was ready. Clover had taken pork chops out of the oven all sizzling and succulent and smelling divine, and put them on warmed plates along with fresh-cooked vegetables and steaming gravy. But nobody was around to serve it to. Where was everybody?

Ramona appeared. ‘Do you need any help, Clover?’

‘You wouldn’t like to round everybody up, would you? Mother and Pop are serving in the taproom. Uncle Elijah will still be in the brewery, I daresay.’

‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ Ramona said, wiping her hands.

As she stepped into the yard the whine and clatter of a lorry’s engine trespassed into the late afternoon air as it chugged up George Street, and a neighbour’s pig was squealing discontentedly close by. A dog barked in St John’s Street and a flock of pigeons flapped in a great whooshing arc overhead. The door to the brewery was already open and Ramona wondered whether Elijah had left it so to keep the place cool, or whether the breeze had done it. She stepped inside. Just as she was about to call his name, she saw him standing in front of a fermenting vessel, his back toward her, as naked as the day he was born, dripping with water. Her heart went to her mouth and she was suddenly stricken with a strange inertia. His lean, supple, military back looked hard, rippling with masculinity as a shaft of slanting sunlight glinted off the droplets of water that clung jealously to him. The cheeks of his backside were small and tight and muscular and she imagined cupping them in her hands, like she did Sammy’s, to feel how hard and firm they really were. She was mesmerised. Water lapped against the side of the bath tub as he leaned forward to grab the towel that was hanging over one of the water pipes. She beheld, with a healthy womanly curiosity, his scrotum dangling loose between his legs as he bent over, like two eggs hanging from a nest but still attached to it. Slowly, as she watched, becoming reconciled to this unexpected vision, the ability to move returned. As he began towelling himself dry, she slid silently to one side to conceal herself behind a pile of stacked beer barrels. Through the gap caused by the curvature of the barrels she continued to gawp unbelieving at her Uncle Elijah. He turned around, presenting himself in profile and she gasped when she saw how well-blessed he was – and standing up so hard and so proud, all ready for action.

Maybe, naked in the bath, he’d been thinking of all the things he liked to do with Dorcas when they were alone, she thought. No doubt Dorcas was very accommodating in bed. No doubt he was very active there too.

Ramona watched, transfixed as he took the towel and dried his hard, extended rod with gentle care and attention; understandably, for it was such a handsome piece of equipment. But he must not see her watching him. She waited for him to turn away, hardly able to divert her eyes from his very excellent tackle. Deftly, but with great reluctance, she silently side-stepped back through the open door and back onto the yard.

‘God!’ she murmured to herself and smiled impishly as a wayward thought flashed through her mind. ‘Oh, my God! Uncle Elijah! You’re magnificent.’

Back in the scullery the others had all sat down to their meal. Elijah’s was placed in the oven to keep warm. They had been eating for five minutes or so when he returned, his hair plastered down where it was still wet, a sheen of perspiration seeping from his forehead.

‘Your dinner’s in the oven, Elijah,’ Clover said, trimming a piece of fat from her meat.

He grabbed a cloth and pulled the plates, one upturned over the other to keep in the moisture, out of the oven and placed them on the table.

‘You’ve been a while,’ Mary Ann commented as he put the covering plate into the sink.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise I’d been so long.’

‘I sent Ramona into the brewery to look for you,’ Clover added innocently.

‘Oh?’ Elijah turned and looked from one to the other, a light of realisation brightening slowly in his eyes at Ramona’s refusal to meet his.

Her face was already rubescent. ‘But I couldn’t find him,’ she was quick to blurt out with a brief but guilty glimpse at her uncle.

‘Well, you didn’t look very bloody hard,’ he said, wilfully catching her glance and evidently finding it amusing.

No, but you did, she wanted to say and lowered her eyes as she ate.