All That Glitters (10 page)

‘With nudes.’ She wrenched herself from his embrace.

‘You know I’d prefer to be with you. How about Sunday? Lunch at the New Inn. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s the best place this town has to offer.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Never mind afterwards, how about before? We could go for a walk in the country. Work up an appetite. I know a few secluded beauty spots.’

‘I bet you do.’

‘You’re irresistible when you’re angry.’ He moved towards her, pinning her into the corner next to the make-up mirror.

‘Haydn …’

As his lips closed over hers, he reached out and turned the key in the lock. Her skirt was short and very full. Once he’d unfastened the button at the waist it fell around her ankles. He lifted her into his arms. Still kissing her, he opened one eye and looked around. A purple velvet cloak trimmed with rabbit fur dyed to imitate ermine was draped over a peg on the back of the door. Without relinquishing his hold, he lifted it down and dropped it to the floor.

‘Haydn, it will get filthy.’

‘I’ll brush it afterwards.’

‘But …’

‘Nothing’s too good for my lady,’ he teased with mocking gravity, lowering her on to the bed he’d made. Leaning on his elbow next to her, he slid his hand beneath the skimpy silver top.

‘Naughty,’ she smiled as his fingers encountered bare skin.

‘Beats me how you don’t freeze to death on stage.’ He lifted the hem and pulled it over her head.

‘I do freeze to death.’ She arched her back and thrust out her breasts. ‘But I have no choice, my costumes aren’t exactly built to accommodate woolly vests.’

‘So I see.’ He slid his hand into her silver cloth knickers.

‘Don’t.’

‘Why not? We’ve plenty of time, and,’ he smiled as his hand slid deep between her thighs, ‘it’s not as though you don’t want it every bit as much as I do.’

‘The door …’

‘Is locked.’

‘The others …’

‘Are gone.’

‘What if someone hears us?’

‘If the noise you make is true to form they’ll think I’m a very lucky man,’ he murmured as he pulled off his shirt and moved on top of her.

Chapter Six

Jenny Griffiths meandered restlessly from the end wall of the shop where she was dusting shelves in a half-hearted fashion, to the window and back. Logic told her that Haydn Powell wasn’t likely to call in, not after she’d thrown herself at Eddie in the New Inn last night, but logic didn’t stop her from hoping otherwise. She glanced at the clock for the sixth time in less than a minute. The hands were fixed obstinately at four o’clock. The first show in the Town Hall started at five. If Haydn had gone home to eat before the performance he would have had to start back by now. She knew he’d gone out early that morning because she’d seen him pass by on the opposite side of the road. But he hadn’t turned his head in the direction of the shop. Not once, although she’d clenched both fists and willed him to do so with all her might.

The door clanged open and she started nervously.

‘Jenny,’ Eddie Powell greeted her.

‘You gave me quite a turn. I didn’t see you coming.’

‘I came up Factory Lane. I’ve been delivering over in Maesycoed.’

‘Charlie’s got a butcher’s round?’

‘You know Charlie, any chance of making a bob or two and he’s there. I only hope he makes enough to buy a van to replace the bicycle before next winter.’

She moved in front of the till, glad the counter was between them. Eddie unsettled her and it wasn’t simply his dark, brooding good looks, or even the passion she nurtured for his brother. She didn’t love Eddie, not in the same way she loved Haydn, but neither had she forgotten the night she had lost her senses and succumbed to his physical, almost brutal lovemaking. Every time she remembered it, like now, it brought floods of colour to her cheeks, and the shameful urge to repeat the experience.

‘Packet of Woodbines and a box of matches.’ He pushed a two-shilling piece across the counter.

Thursday, the day before pay day and Eddie had two shillings in his pocket. But then times had changed from the days when Haydn and his sister Bethan had been the only breadwinners in the Powell family. She put the cigarettes on the counter and took his money. ‘I enjoyed last night,’ she ventured, hoping he’d say something about Haydn. Any news, even second-hand from Eddie, was preferable to no news about Haydn at all.

‘Like to do it again some time?’

‘In the New Inn?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s expensive.’

‘Not that bad,’ he said airily. ‘I can afford to take you.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What about Saturday?’

She turned her back on him as she counted his change out of the till. Why not go out with Eddie? It wasn’t as if she could go out in the evenings with Haydn. Even if he’d wanted to take her he wouldn’t be free. And Eddie would be able to tell her what Haydn was doing. She’d find out if there was another girl … She gripped the till hard with both hands, not wanting to consider the possibility.

‘Well?’

She turned to see Eddie staring expectantly at her. ‘Do I book tickets for the next supper dance, or not?’

‘I’d rather go to a show.’

‘The one that’s opening tonight in the Town Hall?’ he teased suggestively.

She glanced outside before answering, to make sure no one was likely to walk in on them. ‘My mother would have a fit if she thought I even knew what kind of a show is running there at the moment.’

‘Our Haydn said it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Most of the girls have something on underneath the fans and flowers. None of them – well, none of them have nothing on at all,’ he divulged, trying to conceal his embarrassment at discussing nudes with a decent girl like Jenny Griffiths.

‘I’d like to see your Haydn on stage.’ She almost choked on Haydn’s name, but Eddie didn’t appear to notice.

‘I’ll get tickets for his opening night in Variety,’ Eddie offered, expecting her to wriggle out of giving him a straight yes or no, just as she’d done with the supper dance.

‘I’d like that.’

Taken aback, he stared blindly at her outstretched hand and the change in it.

‘Then I’ll get tickets for a week Monday, shall I?’

‘That would be nice.’

‘First or second performance?’

‘Second, I’m never sure what time I can get away from here. It will finish before half-past ten though, won’t it? My mother won’t let me stay out any later than eleven on a week night. I keep telling her that I’ll be twenty-one next month, but you know what mothers are like.’ She could have bitten off her tongue. Before the words were out of her mouth she remembered that Eddie’s mother had walked out when his father had been jailed.

‘It finishes at ten. I’ll have you back by half-past.’

‘I’ll make a supper for us. Do you like ham sandwiches?’

‘Yes.’ As he took his change from her he decided to drop the subject of Saturday’s supper dance. She’d agreed – actually agreed to go out with him in two weeks’ time. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he walked up on the hill. It would have died on his lips if he’d known her reason for accepting his invitation.

‘The tickets are marked with letters and numbers. The letter tells you which row to direct the patron to, the number gives you the seat. Here’s a copy of the seat plan. Memorise it. There’s nothing the manager hates more than an usherette clogging up the auditorium by misdirecting the audience. And here’s your programmes. One pound’s worth of change in this bag.’ Joe Evans offloaded a leather money bag, belt and a pile of programmes on to Jane. ‘Usually the programmes are sixpence each. These are specials just for this Revue, they’re two and six. Mind you get the money right and no one lifts the odd programme from the top of your pile, or it will cost you the half a crown. And be careful to fold the top of the leather pouch over at the end of every sale. As I warned you this morning, all discrepancies will be deducted from your wages. You have fifty programmes, we’ll expect either the money for fifty or the unsold programmes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As the customers come through that door you offer them a programme and pass them on to Ann,’ he pointed to a hard-faced older woman who was standing in the aisle. ‘For this first night only she’ll take them into the auditorium. Tomorrow, after you’ve memorised the plan, you’ll be doing both.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ll show everyone to their seats then stand at the back for the first quarter of an hour ready to direct any latecomers. Afterwards you go upstairs to the bar, Ann will show you where it is. You’ll make up your confectionery tray for the interval there, but I want you out before the bell rings and they start serving drinks. That’s the barman’s job. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Joe Evans stood back and looked Jane over critically. Her dress was pressed, her apron tied in a neat bow. She’d come in wearing a decent coat – it belonged to Phyllis, who’d overridden all of Jane’s protests and insisted that she borrow it. Phyllis had also styled Jane’s hair as best she could, combing it into a straight back and sides boys’ cut. Anything but attractive, its one saving grace was that it looked neat, both under the hat Jane had coaxed from Wilf Horton and the starched usherette’s uniform cap that Ann had helped to fix on her head.

‘Your shoes could do with a bit more polish,’ Joe Evans commented, feeling the need to make at least one criticism.

‘They’re oilcloth,’ she murmured apologetically.

‘Then they won’t stand any wear. Buy a pair of leather ones as soon as you get paid, and see that you polish them every night.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He looked into the auditorium. The lights were on full strength. Avril, the oldest and most experienced of the usherettes had taken position at the first door the stall customers would come to. He had placed Jane at the second, which was never as busy, and with Ann waiting in front of her to show customers to their seats he hoped she’d manage, although he was only too aware that he was throwing her in at the deep end. Myrtle and Myra were upstairs, Mrs Brown was behind the sweet stall, Mrs Arkwright in the ticket booth. The callboy was backstage, the artistes in their dressing rooms and the manager loose on the prowl. He stepped into the corridor. ‘Open the doors!’ he shouted down to Arthur, the doorman.

A torrent of men who’d queued to buy their tickets the day they’d gone on sale thundered up the stairs and past the box office. Ragged lines formed in front of Avril and Jane. Soon both were fumbling in their bags, feeling for the sixpenny pieces and shillings that had to be given in change for two florins. As the queues grew longer and more impatient, Jane began to wonder what was in the thin booklets that made them worth a day’s pay.

Conscious of the assistant manager’s eye on her, she struggled to remain calm, even when the men crowded around her. Keeping the customer’s money in one hand, she doled out the change with the other, a trick she had learned from watching her housemother run the fête stalls on the orphanage’s open days, and one that stood her in good stead when a man insisted he had given her two florins when he had only given her a florin and a shilling. Ann moved closer when she heard his voice rise in protest, but the manager was there before her.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded, eyeing Jane.

‘This girl short-changed me,’ the man shouted indignantly. ‘I gave her a couple of two-shilling pieces and all she gave me was sixpence change.’

‘I’ve been trying to tell you that this is what you gave me.’ Jane opened her left hand and displayed a two-shilling piece and a shilling.

‘She’s right,’ Ann asserted. ‘I’ve been watching her and I noticed her putting every customer’s money in her left hand and holding on to it. I wondered what she was up to until I saw she dropped it in the bag after the customer checked his change.’

The manager nodded sagely, wondering why he hadn’t thought of implementing such a simple measure. There were half a dozen arguments over short-changing every week. If not with the usherettes then in the box-office, the bar or the confectionery booth.

‘I must have made a mistake.’

The manager gave the man a stern look as Ann took his ticket.

He stood back from the crowd and watched Jane. She didn’t seem to be flustered by his presence any more than she’d appeared bothered by Ann’s admission that she’d been watching the way she handled money. In fact she completely ignored him, and he found that in itself peculiar. Usually the staff fumbled and faltered when he drew near.

Jane carried on selling programmes and counting money, grateful that her Standard Four teacher had drummed addition and subtraction of money sums into her until she’d seen pound, shilling and pence signs in her dreams. The teacher had cut out cardboard coins to enable them to see the shape, and once she had even laid out coins on her desk and allowed the class to go up, two at a time, to touch and hold them, so they’d recognise them, if and when the time came. So Jane found herself handling money with increasing confidence, barely conscious of the manager’s presence. It was no worse than the cooks who’d watched her like hawks on the few occasions she’d been allowed to help out in the kitchens of the homes.

The manager had to replenish all the usherettes’ programmes twice over. Jane was half-way down the third stack when the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck its first tentative notes. She moved towards the door in response to a signal from Ann who walked beside her. Avril was stationed in front of the other door. Two youngsters who’d delayed their entrance until the last possible moment charged in behind them. All that could be seen of their faces between their turned-up collars and pulled-down caps were the tips of their noses.

‘Let’s hope their fathers won’t be sitting alongside them,’ Ann whispered. The music accelerated in speed and volume. The curtains twitched, the excitement of the audience escalated. The red satin drapes parted, allowing smoke to billow out into the auditorium.

Powdery grey clouds wafted from the blue, twilight scene Jane had lost herself in that morning. Blue-skinned ladies with the scantiest of blue floral garlands and ostrich feather fans draped strategically around their thighs stood on pedestals set among the painted flora. Jane’s mouth opened, but no sound came out, which was just as well because the orchestra fell unexpectedly silent. When it struck up again the swing descended from overhead, only this time the occupant wasn’t even wearing the saucy cover of shorts and skimpy top. Haydn, his black suit and bow tie contrasting soberly with his blue face, shirt and hair, stepped out from behind the trees and sang the opening bars of ‘Just let me look at you’, all the while gazing at the girl who sat, muscles tensed, immobile on the swing. Jane knew she must be the girl she’d seen Haydn rehearsing with in the morning, but with her hair swept up beneath an enormous feather, and her face, neck and breasts covered with a coating of shimmering silver, she looked more statue than living, breathing girl. She’d crossed one leg elegantly over the other, shielding the area of her body every man in the auditorium was straining to look at.

The first verse ended, Haydn danced from the swing to the girls poised among the painted trees. He moved from one to another, looking up at them, moving his hands as close to their bodies as it was possible to get without actually touching them, and once Jane could have sworn he’d winked at the girl on the swing.

Ann tugged at the sleeve of Jane’s dress, pulling her out into the corridor.

‘Do they do that every night?’ Jane asked when they were outside.

‘Twice nightly and three times on Saturday. Myrtle, Myra and Avril threatened to walk out when they found out what kind of show the management had booked. Myself, I couldn’t give a monkey what happens on stage as long as I get my wages at the end of the week. But the manager got worried and offered us all a shilling extra in our pay packets for every week the Revue runs. And for that, it can run six months as far as I’m concerned.’

‘How much do you earn?’

‘More than a raw recruit who’s new to the work,’ Ann answered shrewdly.

‘But those girls, they’re stark naked they’re -’

‘They’re earning six pounds a week.’

‘Six pounds!’ Jane’s eyes grew to enormous proportions in her pale, thin face.