Crowned Heads (33 page)

Later everyone entertained—Sinatra, Garland, Coward, then Willie, who insisted on Robin’s joining him in their duet of “For Old Times’ Sake.”

Nellie sat down at the spinet, Robin beside her on the bench, and they sang the number for the girls, a sentimental song, but one that had enjoyed enormous popularity at the time.

“Let’s take a little cuppa tea, just you and me,

For old times’ sake.

Or maybe yet a glass of wine, yours and mine,

For old times’ sake.

Rememb’rin’ all the things that went before,

Memories, we’ll have a score or more,

When my hair’s gone gray and I can’t dance

And you’re so big you need long pants,

It’ll still be you and me, a cuppa tea, yours and mine, a glass of wine …

For old times’ sake.”

“Schmaltzy,” Nellie said when they were done, and they smiled at each other: it was Willie’s line, “Give ’em the old schmaltz.” He’d been saying it for years, and often claimed it was the secret of his success. Robin had wandered to the window, where he stood staring out, then he suddenly turned.

“Let’s call him!”

“Call him?” Nellie asked.

“Call Willie. Let’s call him up. I’ve just had the most marvelous idea. There’s a part in the show—he could do it perfectly. Sort of a ‘Pat’ type, you know—local character, a bit o’ the ould sod? Willie does an English accent, he could just as easily do Irish. Let’s.”

He went to the phone, then suddenly realized he didn’t have the number. Nellie found it in her address book, Robin gave the operator his credit card number, and placed the call. It rang and rang, but no one answered. Twelve-thirty New York time made it nine-thirty in Los Angeles.

“Maybe he’s out,” Phyllis suggested.

Nellie shook her head. “He never goes out Monday nights. Besides, wouldn’t he want to be home watching himself on TV?”

They tried again; still there was no reply.

Robin would call again tomorrow. He concluded the evening by relating what had happened to the crown of ice on the buffet. Someone had wanted to take Bobbitt’s picture there, and when they went back to the dining room the candles had melted it, it was nothing but a giant circle of ice, and water had run all over the expensive damask tablecloth; Bee Marsh had been furious with the caterers.

The following morning, when Nellie was in the kitchen making breakfast, Hilda called and said to turn on the TV, the most dreadful thing had happened. Willie Marsh had been murdered. Nellie sat in shocked silence in front of the set as the ghastly details were reported. The housekeeper-cook had returned and discovered the body. The details were unthinkable. Willie had been an old and cherished friend, and Nellie had always received a card each Christmas from the Marshes before Bee died. Now Willie was gone. All she could think of was Robin, and how he would take the news. She waited, wondering if he would come by, but he did not appear. Later she heard the buzzer, and thought it must be he, but found instead Naomi, who rushed in with the newspaper, “
LITTLE WILLIE MARSH KILLED,
” shouted the headline; “
MURDER OF THE CENTURY.
” Had Nellie heard? asked the excited Naomi. Wasn’t it too awful? It just gave her the shivers, knowing there were monsters like that running around in the world.

Something told Nellie to go to the park, and when she got out of the taxi at Seventy-second Street and went down the incline toward the boat basin she could see Mr. Thingamabob sitting on the mushroom, with the children gathered around him. Her usual bench was occupied, so she found another spot, and waited.

When the storytelling hour came to an end and Robin had shooed the children away, he and Nellie met and walked along by the boat basin. She chattered on about anything she could think of, trying to decide how to go about the dreadful business of telling him the news. She failed to notice as he stopped behind her, and when she finally looked back at him he was standing stock-still, staring at a man on a bench. The man was holding the paper Naomi had come in with; there was the same enormous black headline. As Robin stepped up and snatched the paper from the hands of the startled man and read, Nellie got the paper back, returned it to the man with an apology, and tried to lead Robin away. He yanked his arm free and began to run. “Robin! Robin! Wait.”

He didn’t stop; wildly he ran along the walk, careening into people. He leaped up on the coping of the pond and ran along it, then jumped into the water, and went splashing knee-deep through it, dragging his robe after him. People stopped and stared, the children laughed, thinking it was part of Mr. Thingamabob’s act, and a policeman blew his whistle at him, but Robin paid no attention. Nellie sank down on a bench, watching as he made his way to the far end of the pond, where he clambered out and ran up the hill like a madman, people watching all the way.

Nellie went back to where he had dropped his pack and brought it home with her. She waited the rest of the afternoon for him to call. When the phone didn’t ring she became worried. The girls had gathered in her living room to discuss the tragedy in all its gory details, then cocktail time had come and gone, and still no Robin.

She failed to hear from him the next day, or the next. By then the papers reported the Los Angeles police as having booked three suspects, two men and a woman; they had been tracked down because of a long-distance call made from the Marsh house to Nashville. Nobody could talk of anything but the murder except Nellie and the Belles, who had the additional worry of what had become of Robin.

She went every day to the park and sat on the bench, hoping he would appear, but it was time wasted. There was no Mr. Thingamabob. The weekend went by, and Monday. Then on Tuesday, when the mail came, she found a long blue envelope, with an embossed crest on the back: Castle Baughclammain.

Dearest Nellie,

By now you surely must think IBy now you surely must think I’ve slipped over the edge of the world (or maybe just over the edge?). In any case, you see where I am—way across the ocean—and there you are in the Big Apple; As the World Turns. (Joke.) Just couldn’t think about anything after Willie—what a terrible thing, that poor, dear fellow. I suddenly felt the decks going awash around me and decided to hop a plane, and here I am at Baughclammain. Sorry not to have called before leaving but it was a hasty decision. The right one, I think; it is so beautiful here. I am in the tower room, the dogs are on the floor beside me, Bobby is off with Pat somewhere, Kitty has gone into town for a spot of shopping, the house is quiet. View incredible; I wish you could see it one day. The window just beyond my writing table looks out on the Arans, where the fishermen still speak Gaelic (I can see them putting out their lobster pots from here). We’ve had our first theft since I can’t remember when—someone stole Bobby’s bicycle from the lane where he had gone blackberrying, but Father Flynne raised such holy Ned during his Sunday sermon that the bike suddenly and mysteriously reappeared. So much for crime in these precincts. Incidentally, the lane, called “Maureen’s path” (for what reason?), is full of rabbits, they seem to haunt it, and when I walk down it I’m always reminded of Missy Priss’s line: “surely not to chase rabbits.” Perhaps Kitty is right, perhaps it’s better for Bobby to be here—God knows it’s difficult for a boy to get in trouble. He loves it and seems happy, and I guess that’s the main thing. I don’t imagine it can be very easy for any child growing up in these times, so maybe being tucked away in this small corner is the proper thing.

I didn’t know whom to write about Willie, or what to do. With Bee dead, I guess he didn’t have anyone. I read in the London
Times
that there was a memorial service, and in lieu of flowers people were sending contributions to the Actors’ Home, so I have done same. He truly was “The Grand Old Man of Hollywood,” wasn’t he?

Am still waiting out news of the show; the producer (and yourself) are practically the only people who know where I am. Rose is actually down in the kitchen making blackberry preserves with the cook, if you can get that picture of Lady Ransome in your mind. She and I speak of you often, she says she owes you so much for being so kind to me during all the H’wood years and wants to write you, which I’m sure she’ll do as soon as “presarvin’” is done.

Will see you before you know it, so if you have a notion to write, don’t trouble, the letter and I will only cross one another. Much love to “The Belles” and more for yourself. Am enclosing some snaps of Bobby—he seems to shoot up the minute I blink my eyes.

Fondly,

Your Robin

Relieved to have discovered Robin’s whereabouts, Nellie brought the letter along to The Belle Telephone Hour that evening. Yet without Robin there, the spice had somehow gone out of their get-togethers, and Nellie made excuses to leave early. She wanted terribly to write him, but decided to take his advice and wait. Meanwhile, at the end of the week her grandson, Roger, was bringing Karen, Linda, and Roger, Jr., into the city for a visit to “Nana,” as they called Nellie, and she had many plans to make.

They arrived on Friday, to stay through the weekend. Roger and Nancy were continuing on to Philadelphia to visit Nancy’s mother, so Nellie had the children by herself. The girls were to sleep in the spare room, kept for this purpose, and Roger, Jr., on the living room couch. Oh, dear, she wondered, what am I to do with them for three days? She looked in the paper to see what suitable family movies might be playing. “They don’t make Bobbitt pictures anymore,” she muttered, scanning the pages.

Then who magically reappeared that same evening but Robin himself. Her buzzer rang and there he was at the door, looking fresh as a daisy. “Fell out o’ the blue, mum,” he said, kissing her. After that she didn’t have to worry about the children; Robin took them over in the wink of an eye. Usually shy with strangers, they fell to laughing with him immediately, and began making a list of things they wanted to do in the next several days. Robin, he told Nellie, would arrange all.

There were Manhattan excursions everywhere, to the Bronx Zoo, to the Battery and Staten Island, to the Statue of Liberty and the top of the Empire State Building, lunch at the Autopub, where they could see the racing cars hung from the ceiling, then the Museum of Natural History. Halfway through the second day Nellie found she couldn’t keep up with the pace and left Robin in full charge.

That night, after the children were put to bed, she and Robin slipped just down the hall to Hilda’s apartment to catch up on his news; with the children there he hadn’t had time to talk.

He seemed in good spirits, Nellie thought, and no mention was made of Willie Marsh; it was as if Robin had put the terrible episode completely out of his head, which was just as well, Nellie decided. When he asked if she’d had his mother’s letter, she said no, nothing had come. He seemed surprised, then laughed. “Oh, Nellie, ’tis such a lovely letter you’ll be gettin’, such a lovely thing to do. You, too, Hildabraun”—his pet name for Hilda—“all o’yez, in fact.”

In fact—what? They couldn’t imagine what Lady Ransome’s letter would contain. Well, he said, they’d just have to wait and see—“’twill be a grand surprise and you’ll have to get yourselves long dresses, y’know.” He smiled cryptically and Nellie and Hilda were left wondering what long dresses would be required for.

But there was one surprise he could tell them about:
Sweepstake.
Was it set, then? Hilda asked. No, he said, but practically. Only ten more backers’ shares remained to be sold. But that wasn’t it There were some important parts to be cast, not leads, but four funny American tourists who come to Galway for the races, and who could do the parts better than The Four Belles? Nellie looked at Hilda, Hilda looked at Robin, Robin smiled at both. Yes, The Four Belles, back on Broadway. They would have their own number; he hadn’t finished it yet, but he was working on it. It was a comedy number called “Erin Go Blah,” and would bring down the house. With this piece of news Robin left them, and Nellie and Hilda called Naomi and Phyllis, and an emergency meeting of The Belle Telephone Hour was called in the wee hours. The only concrete result, however, was the decision to begin diets immediately.

But how were they to sleep, thinking about it all? In addition to
Sweepstake,
there was the mysterious matter of the communication from Ireland. The following day, the Sunday, brought no mail at all, and the suspense became unbearable. Meanwhile Robin had come dressed as Mr. Thingamabob and had taken the children with him to the park, where he was going to hold a storytelling hour for the first time in quite a while. Later the girls walked over to the park themselves, and there was Mr. Thingamabob up on the mushroom with Alice, in the middle of a story.

“‘Garumph,’ said the bear, and ‘Harumph,’ said Missy Priss, giving the bear’s nose a tweak. ‘Oh, my goo’ness,’ said Bobbitt as they ran down the path together. ‘Bears don’t bother me,’ said Missy Priss, ‘they’re just very large, but nothing to be frightened of. We must put pluck in our hearts, else why did the good Lord put us here? Surely not to chase rabbits!’”

Nellie listened as her great-granddaughter interrupted. Said Linda, “But what’s a Bobbitt?”

Robin stopped his tale. “A Bobbitt?” he replied, and gave it some thought. “A Bobbitt’s a make-believe fellow and a very silly one at that.” He continued the story, and today told it right up to the end, because he knew Nellie’s charges wouldn’t be back for “tomorrow.”

When it was done, Linda said, “I want to see a Bobbitt.”

Robin winked at Nellie. “You have, sweetheart, you just don’t know it.”

“Where does he live?” Linda pursued.

“He lives where all children in books live,” Robin explained, touching her head and her heart. “Here, and here.”

“I think he’s very nice, Bobbitt,” Karen said.

He and Nellie exchanged an amused look; explaining to children was so hard sometimes, wasn’t it? They walked past the boat basin and up the incline to Seventy-second Street, then down through the park, and finally to the toy farm next to the zoo, where Robin showed them the chickens and ducks and geese, and the swans on the miniature ponds. Then they went to see the seals, and then it was time to go home: Roger and Nancy would be coming at four. Nana would see them again next month, when she came to Garden City for her birthday. But no, that wasn’t enough. They didn’t want to go; they begged to stay, to be with Mr. Thingamabob, but there was no help for it. They said goodbye and Robin watched Nellie and the Belles leading them back to the apartment. They were passing the Sheep Meadow when they heard a call, and there came Mr. Thingamabob chasing after them with his nonsense pack on his back. Out there in the meadow, putting on a performance for them, with his crazy leaps and clogs and nip-ups, arriving breathless to say goodbye to the children once more, lots of goodbyes, but not to worry, he would be seeing them soon—and, what was best, they would get to meet a Bobbitt after all, because the littlest Bobbitt in the would was arriving from—“Guess where?” he asked, turning to Nellie with a yard-wide smile.