A Dream of her Own (44 page)
Freda busied herself setting up a small table with the tea things. ‘But why do you send him away? Valentino would sit in the corner and never say peep if you told him to.’
‘I know. And he would watch me all the time. Never take his eyes off me. I wouldn’t be able to relax.’
‘I suppose not.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘That’ll be your guests. Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’ Nella reached over and put the jar of cream and the rags on the dressing table. ‘Now, would you pass that rug?’
Freda arranged the rug over Nella’s legs. Although the dressing room was cosy enough, the Palace was a draughty old theatre and it was the dead of winter. Nella cooled down so much once she came off stage that she was frightened of catching a chill.
‘Come in,’ Freda called, and Jimmy Nelson popped his head around the door. ‘Tell Mrs Alvini I’ve found them.’
Freda tut-tutted. ‘Miss Nicholson, you mean. Your master’s wife is Miss Nicholson when she’s in the theatre.’
‘Sorry, keep forgetting, don’t I?’
‘No you don’t. You’re too smart to forget anything. You just do it to annoy me.’ Freda wasn’t angry and they both laughed. ‘Now don’t keep those poor folks waiting in that draughty passage, show them in.’
The door opened further and Constance’s housemaid, Polly, walked in, followed by Albert Green. Nella smiled a greeting.
‘I’ll go now,’ Jimmy said. ‘But save me a cream cake, Freda.’
‘I might.’ She shut the door after him and began to pour the tea.
‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Nella said to her guests. ‘Albert, would you bring those two chairs forward? You got me letter, then?’
‘I did, thank you, Miss Nicholson. And the tickets. It’s very kind of you,’ Polly said.
Polly sat on the edge of her chair. She looked very smart and Nella wondered if Constance had had some influence on her taste. She wore a black and white check three-quarter-length coat over a grey skirt. Her black hat was tied in place with a wispy bit of veil. Nella saw that Polly was the kind of girl who, realizing that her face was never going to be her fortune, had decided to make the best of her trim figure.
And a very nice figure it was. Now my face and voice with a figure like that, Nella thought, and there’d be no end to the kind of roles I could play.
Albert was even better dressed than his sweetheart, Nella noticed with surprise. Polly’s clothes were stylish but cheap; Albert’s suit looked like it was made from a very nice piece of cloth. Like something Valentino or Frank would favour. She wondered how Albert could afford such a suit on a railway clerk’s pay.
Freda had given the young couple a cup of tea each and had placed the cream cakes on a small table near by. Albert was eyeing them with delight. ‘Go on, help yerself,’ Nella said. ‘You mustn’t mind if I don’t join you but all I take is a cup of tea between shows.’
‘It was wonderful!’ Polly said suddenly. ‘I couldn’t believe it when everything went round and the kitchen just seemed to turn into fairyland and you came up out of that silver cauldron looking like a fairy princess!’
‘No, Polly,’ Albert contradicted. ‘Miss Nicholson was the fairy godmother, she wasn’t a princess.’
‘I know that. But she looked so beautiful, just floating there above the mist.’
Nella smiled. She hadn’t been floating anywhere: Harry wouldn’t risk her in the wires, so the effect had all been stage mist and optical illusion. But she certainly had popped up out of nowhere. She had balanced herself on a piece of stage machinery: a lift that came up from below the stage, far too rapidly for Nella’s liking.
‘And this is a treat too,’ Polly said. ‘Coming to meet you backstage like this. We waited in our seats like you said, and it was so exciting when that young lad came and told us you were ready to see us.’ Then the girl’s smile faded a little. ‘But I think I know why. I mean it wasn’t just to talk about the show, was it?’
Nella was grateful that she didn’t have to explain herself. ‘No, Polly. I can see that you’ve guessed why I want to talk to you.’
‘Of course. You want to know about Mrs Edington. I’ll tell you what I can.’ She glanced at Freda, who had taken a seat half behind the screen and had started on mending and repairing some stage costumes.
Nella smiled and said, ‘It’s all right, Polly. Freda nivver repeats anything she hears in the dressing room. She would hev lost her job in the theatre long ago if she hadn’t learned to be discreet. So,’ her smile faded, ‘tell me, is Constance well?’
Polly thought for a moment and then said, ‘She isn’t ill. But the birth was difficult.’
‘She had a bad time?’
‘Yes. You know it was early. But the doctor said that twins often come a little sooner than one baby.’
‘Twins ... two girls ...’ Nella breathed.
‘Yes, and they’re so beautiful. They’re like two little angels - big blue eyes and fair, curly hair. Oh, Miss Nicholson, if only you could see them!’
‘If only. But, you know, I’ve tried.’
‘I know. And I felt dreadful turning you away but she wasn’t well - really she wasn’t - and Mr Edington was quite right to say she must have no visitors. He didn’t even allow his Aunt Muriel and his cousin Esther to visit until just before Christmas, and then he sat with them and watched over her the whole time.’
‘Why did he do that?’
Polly frowned. ‘In case they tired her out, I suppose.’
‘But Mrs Edington’s a lot better now, isn’t she?’ Albert said suddenly. ‘I mean, she’s started going out again.’
‘Out?’ Nella asked. ‘Does she gan visiting? Does Mr Edington take her out?’
‘No,’ Polly said. She looked troubled. ‘In fact I’m not sure if he knows about it.’
Nella saw that the girl was torn between her loyalty to John Edington and her obvious fondness for Constance. ‘Tell me, Polly, tell me what’s the matter,’ she said.
‘Oh, I don’t think that there’s anything the matter. It’s just that before Christmas, about the same time that Mrs Barton and her daughter came to see the babies, Mrs Edington started to go for long walks again.’
‘Constance always liked walking. Perhaps that’s a sure sign that she’s getting better.’
‘Yes ... well ... perhaps. But the weather’s been dreadful and she stays out so long. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want to come back to the nursery.’
‘She doesn’t want to be with her babies?’ Nella was puzzled. She had imagined that Constance would be a loving mother.
‘No - I mean, yes. It’s hard to explain,’ Polly said. ‘Sometimes Mrs Edington will spend hours just ... just looking at them. And then other times she stays away for hours and leaves everything to Flo.’
‘Flo?’
‘The nurserymaid.’
‘I can’t understand it.’
Albert cleared his throat and Polly glanced at him and said, ‘Mrs Green, Albert’s mother, says we’re not to worry, that Mrs Edington’ll come round in time - that a lot of women are a bit strange after childbirth.’
‘Let’s hope she’s right,’ Nella said. ‘But, meanwhile, I want you to do me a favour.’
‘If I can. What is it?’
‘The next time I come calling I want you to let me in.’ Polly looked as though she was about to protest and Nella hurried on, ‘Now wait a minute, pet - just listen. If Mr Edington is at home just tip me the wink and I’ll go straight away. But if he isn’t, then divven’t tell yer mistress I’m there, divven’t given her a chance to think about it, just take me to see her and I’ll try to find out what’s bothering her. You do want to help her, don’t you?’
Polly took so long to answer that Nella thought her loyalty to John Edington was such that she couldn’t allow herself to deceive him. But eventually she nodded. ‘All right,’ she said.
After Polly and Albert had gone Nella tried to sleep but she couldn’t stop thinking about Constance. She could just about understand her friend not receiving visitors, especially if her husband was making difficulties, but she could not understand why Constance had not replied to her letters.
Well, she had replied to the wedding invitation. Constance had sent a brief note saying that she regretted that she would not be able to attend the ceremony in St Mary’s Roman Catholic Cathedral nor the wedding breakfast at Alvini’s. She was still not quite strong enough after the birth of the twins to face such a big social occasion, she explained, and, of course, John would not feel that it was proper to come without her. She hoped that Nella would understand and she wished her and Valentino every happiness. She had sent them a beautiful Crown Derby tea service.
Had Constance ever received the letters, she wondered now. It occurred to her that John could have been intercepting them. She ought to have asked Polly. But would Polly say anything that might imply criticism of John Edington? Suddenly Nella had the strangest feeling that whatever was the matter with Constance might not be so much a result of childbirth as something that had happened between husband and wife.
Even though her rest had been so disturbed, Nella’s performance that evening was as good, if not better, than ever. Once she stepped on to the stage, once the curtains rose and the show began, she was able to leave her everyday life behind her and lose herself in the wonderful world of make-believe. The lights, the music, the give and take of the other performers and, above all, the wonderful warm feeling that reached towards her from the auditorium, never failed to uplift her.
Afterwards, after the last encore, after the audience had streamed out reluctantly into the Haymarket, Valentino picked her up and carried her out of the theatre and into the entrance of Alvini’s next door, then on up the stairs.
The restaurant was still busy and Nella glimpsed the head waiter dealing with a group of rowdy, well-dressed young men. In that brief glimpse she had before Valentino swept on up the stairs, she thought that one of them looked familiar. They seemed to be arguing over the amount of their bill but, as usual, Patrick McCormack was being both firm and courteous. Nella had no doubt that the incident would end without trouble.
On the next floor she noticed that the doors of the private dining rooms were all closed, which meant that they were occupied, and she wondered, as she often did, about the lives of the women who were taken there. In spite of her own deformity and what it had meant to her chances in life, she pitied the poor souls who had to rely on beauty alone.
The last flight of stairs took them to the family’s apartment at the very top of the building. For the moment they were living there. Their married home was Valentino’s old bedroom, which was large enough to house a sofa, a small table and an armchair. But they took their meals with Madame Alvini and Gianfranco. Meals which Madame Alvini liked to prepare herself, unless they were more than usually late - in which case Frank would insist that she go to bed and he would have a tray sent up from the restaurant.
Tonight Valentino’s mother was waiting. The table was set with a large tureen of oxtail soup, bread, apple pie and a jug of cream. Nella was ravenous as she always was after the show, but she wondered how long she could go on eating meals like this before the little lost sparrow became a plump little partridge. If she didn’t do justice to the meal Madame Alvini would be hurt. Valentino ate like a horse - and that was another problem. The more he ate at night the longer he stayed awake and wanted to talk to her about the show he had just seen and, particularly, her part in it. She would have to think of something if she were to get sufficient rest.
But those worries were nothing compared to the uneasy feeling she had about Constance ...
Gerald Sowerby staggered out of the dining room and down the stairs. His companions, Warren Carmichael and Leonard Russell, went ahead of him. They were sniggering because they thought they had got the better of McCormack over the matter of the drinks bill, but Gerald was not so sure.
True, the headwaiter had seemed to allow them to convince him that they had had only four bottles of wine. But he had given in too easily. Perhaps he had seen Warren forcing the cork back into one of the bottles and hiding it under the table earlier, or later slipping it into the inside pocket of his opera cloak.
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