Dreaming Out Loud (4 page)

I wonder if you remember me. You were such a little scrap when I last saw you. You must have been seven or eight years old, but you were small for your age, and so slim. A willowy little thing. You were so unlike Julie, who, shall I say, was somewhat podgy. No, that’s cruel of me. Julie was an altogether more robust child, and there’s no denying she was a pretty little poppet with her big blue eyes and Shirley Temple curls.

So how old are you now, my sweet? You see, although I know how old you are as I write, I have no idea when you will receive this letter. I intend to give it to my solicitor to give to you when I have passed away. Passed away . . . What an amusing expression. Deceased, departed, dead. Why can’t we be more forthright?

In any case, it was your birthday today that inspired me to write this letter. Your fifteenth birthday. Why should it be so special? Because it was on my own fifteenth birthday that I ran away from home. I loved my parents and I may have broken their hearts. But young as I was, I was also fiercely ambitious. My father had worked hard to send me to a good school, where I did well, and I think he had hopes of my going to university.

However, my parents had also paid for elocution and dancing lessons. I loved them. I decided that I would rather go on the stage. Of course they were horrified, so all I could do was save up my pocket money – they gave me a generous weekly sum – and I am ashamed to tell you that I also stole from my mother’s purse – and off I went.

I never saw my parents again. I did write to them more than once over the years, but my letters were returned unread. And now I never will see them. They were killed in an air raid.

I won’t tell you about the years that followed my running away, except to say that I worked damned hard and my ambition never faded. I wasn’t an overnight success, and by the time I fetched up in a seaside show at the Pavilion Theatre in Northridge Bay I was almost resigned to being a chorus girl for the rest of my life. However, just like in a movie about show business, I was spotted and yanked from the chorus line, changing my life forever. Ironically, it wasn’t only my beautiful speaking voice or my high-kicking dancing skills that opened the door to fame and fortune; it was my looks. And why should I be ashamed of that?

What do you look like at fifteen, I wonder? Leggy? Coltish? Are you already promising to be a slim, beautiful young woman? And what of your poor damaged leg? Do you still walk with a limp? I fear you do.

Your father telephoned to tell me what had happened and I came straight away. I offered to take you to the best specialist we could find, you know. I would have paid for the treatment, but your mother refused my offer. Should I have insisted? Should I have enlisted your father to the cause? That would only have caused trouble.

Do you remember the accident, my darling? You were only a toddler, so it’s very unlikely. It was a summer day and your mother put you in your pram and left you in the garden to enjoy the sunshine while she went indoors to feed your baby sister. You were asleep when she put you out, so she didn’t use the harness to clip you in. No one knows how long you slept, or when you sat up and tried to clamber out, but thank goodness your mother came out of the house just as you were about to topple out of the pram.

Your mother had Julie in her arms, so she did the only thing she could do. She reached out with one arm and clutched at you, managing to catch one leg just as you began to fall. She screamed for a neighbour and I can only imagine the pain you must have been in, dangling over the side like that. That image haunted me for years.

The neighbour had a telephone and she called for the doctor. Old Dr Davidson. Tweed-suited and pipe-smoking. I remember him well, a kindly man, although he didn’t approve of me, or any of the young women who worked at the Pavilion! Anyway, he came immediately and I think he said you had a greenstick fracture and that it would heal itself in time. I seem to remember he put a cast on and you bore that with fortitude.

Now I’m getting sentimental. Forgive me. It is a fault of mine. Maybe it’s because I spend my working days in a heightened state of emotion. If the part I am playing is dramatic I find it very difficult to ‘wind down’ when I come home. If the film is a comedy it is just as difficult. My poor driver must often have been startled to hear me sob or laugh out loud, apparently at nothing, when I am sitting alone in the back of the car on the way home from the studios or the theatre.

Do you like going to the pictures, Kay? Have you seen
Bambi
or
Casablanca
? They both made me cry. But as I have no intention of ‘passing away’ just yet there will be other wonderful films that you and I could have discussed. Have you seen any of my own films?

It’s late, I’m tired, my defences are down and the questions come flooding in: How old are you, now? Have you left school? Are you working? Are you in love? Maybe you are married? Do you have children?

Oh, I know it’s pointless to ask these questions when I cannot hear your answers, but sitting here, late at night, I can even imagine that we are together. I have said too much. I should tear this letter into little pieces and toss them on the fire. But I won’t. I shall allow my heart to rule my head. I shall fold the letter and place it in an envelope which I shall seal and then ask my solicitor to keep safely until I have departed this life – shuffled off this mortal coil – you see, Lana Fontaine, erstwhile chorus girl and lightweight leading lady in many successful British films, can actually quote Shakespeare.

Goodnight, my darling girl. I shall make you my heir, of course.

Love from,

Your errant godmother

Kay folded Lana Fontaine’s letter and put it back in the envelope. Both the sheets of notepaper and the envelope they came in were a faded pink. Kay held the envelope to her nose and imagined she could smell the scent of roses.
It can’t be
, she thought. The notepaper might have been perfumed once, but surely after seven years the scent would have faded. Seven years. Lana Fontaine had written the letter seven years ago, not knowing how long it would be before Kay would read it.

Certain that she would not be able to settle, Kay now gave up all thought of sleep. What a strange mix of memories and sentiment the letter was. The writing was so vivid that it was almost like painting pictures. Kay could see herself as a small child hanging over the pram and probably screaming, although her godmother had not added that detail. And Lana, a rebellious teenager, packing her case and running away from the parents she loved but who did not understand her. Then there were glimpses of Lana’s working life which made Kay want to know more.

Lana had wanted to ask her questions – well, that desire was mutual. Kay, too, wished she could have been there the night Lana sat down to write the letter. She wished they could have talked, got to know each other. Well, that was impossible now, and that fact made Kay very sad.

It seemed that Lana had loved her, and yet she did not explain why one day she had cut off all contact. Another thing that needed explaining was the reason why Lana had made Kay her heir.
I shall make you my heir, of course.
Almost a throwaway line at the very end of the letter.

Two thousand pounds. It was certainly enough to change her life – if only she knew what she wanted to do. Of course she would help her mother and Julie, although she had been shocked when her mother told her how much she needed to buy a house. Kay turned over restlessly. Her thoughts had come full circle. Her mother had called Lana’s will an act of spite, but nothing in the letter suggested she was a spiteful woman. Enigmatic? Perhaps. Self-absorbed? Certainly. Spiteful? Kay didn’t think so. But then there was so much that Lana had not chosen to reveal about herself or what had happened in the past.

Kay made her way to the bathroom and washed in cold water. She had made up her mind. She wanted to know more about Lana Fontaine. And as far as she could see, there was only one way to find out.

Chapter Four

Her collar turned up against the cold and her hands stuffed deep into her pockets, Kay stared at the faded posters on each side of the double doors of the theatre. They had been there since the theatre closed in September 1939. Protected by a sheet of glass, the print was still visible. One of them proclaimed:

Victor Emery

Singing Star of Stage, Screen and Radio

Solo Danseuse Donna Capri

Leading female impressionist Joan Seaton

Illusionist Teddy Fields and his assistant Betty

That Dotty Duo Melville and Farrell

(You Have To Laugh!)

The Truly Twinkling Twinkletoes

Kay wondered what had become of these people. Had any of them gone into the forces, and, if so, had they survived the war?

The golden dragons which faced each other above the entrance to the theatre were now a dirty yellow colour. The curling tongue of one of them had snapped off, and Kay thought that they looked more forlorn than ferocious. She tried to imagine what the scene here on the lower promenade would have been when Lana Fontaine was a chorus girl at the Pavilion and Kay’s father, Jack, had been the actor-manager.

It was early afternoon, so maybe the dancers would be rehearsing a new routine for the first house. Kay closed her eyes and strained to hear the rhythm of the chorus girls tap-dancing to the piano accompaniment – but all she could hear was the call of a lone seagull tossed high above the bay. The wind was coming in from the sea, and loose sand began to sting Kay’s cheeks. She brushed at it impatiently and made for the steps that would take her to the upper promenade. A short walk brought her to her destination.

When Miss Bennet opened the door she looked surprised. ‘Kay! How nice to see you. But what’s the problem? Is there something wrong with my ration book?’

‘There’s no problem. I just want to see you.’

Miss Bennet looked faintly puzzled. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

‘It’s half-day closing.’

‘Of course it is, and I am being impolite as well as forgetful. Come in at once before you get blown away!’

Miss Bennet led her young guest to the small front parlour, where Kay was pleased to see there was a cheerful fire.

Kay took her coat off and they sat at each side of the hearth. ‘You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?’ Miss Bennet said. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Go on then, tell me what you’re going to do.’

‘I’m not sure what I’m going to do in the long run. But first I must go to London.’

‘Do you want to tell me what you will do there?’

‘As you know, Lana Fontaine left me some money.’

Miss Bennet nodded.

‘Well, she also left me what she called her “goods and chattels”.’

‘What exactly did she mean by that?’

‘Everything she owned.’

‘Including her house?’

‘No. She never owned a house. The house she lived in was rented. She had been there for many years, and according to her solicitor, I should go and sort things out before the landlady’s patience snaps and she sends it all to auction.’

‘Can she do that?’

‘I’m not sure. Luckily the rent is paid until the New Year. The solicitor thinks I should do the job myself, although, if I don’t want to, he has offered to take care of things and send me the proceeds. He would take some sort of commission.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘I have no reason not to.’

‘I wonder why Miss Fontaine did not itemise things. Her jewellery, at least. She must have had some good pieces. I mean, she was a film star, after all. I remember photographs of her in magazines where she absolutely dripped with diamonds.’

‘It’s puzzling, isn’t it? But it’s not so much the financial value of whatever she might have left me; it’s just that I can’t bear the thought of strangers picking over her belongings. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I do, my dear, although as far as I know, you were a stranger to her. Didn’t you tell me that she hadn’t visited you since you were a small child?’

‘That’s true. I can’t explain why I feel this way.’

Kay found that she didn’t want to tell anyone about the personal letter Lana Fontaine had sent her; not even kindly Miss Bennet. The letter had reached out to her on a very deep level, so that even though she had not seen her godmother for years, she felt as though they had always been close.

‘Don’t worry. I think I understand how you feel. Also I think I understand Miss Fontaine’s motive in making you her heir.’

‘Do you?’

‘She was a beautiful woman who never married. She pursued her career at the expense of a personal life. I mean marriage and children. Well, your mother was her friend and it’s natural that when you were born Miss Fontaine should have become attached to you. I think you became the child she never had.’ Miss Bennet laughed. ‘Or maybe I have read too many sentimental novels.’ She paused then said, ‘So you’re off to London.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where will you stay?’

‘I shall ask the solicitor to recommend a respectable guest house.’

‘Why not treat yourself to a first-class hotel?’

‘Oh, no. I could hardly dress the part, could I? I mean, the other guests would take one look at me and cry impostor!’

‘Then before you go you must refurbish your wardrobe. Now that clothes rationing is over there is so much to choose from. We could go into Newcastle and have a lovely time in Fenwick’s or Bainbridge’s. I would so much like to see you dress the way you deserve to be dressed. Off with the sensible and on with the fashionable. Oh, Kay, you will look marvellous.’ Miss Bennet paused and her smile faded. ‘But I can see by your expression that you don’t intend to buy any new clothes.’

‘Oh, I do! And I will. But not yet. I don’t think I need anything special to wear while I’m clearing out a house. Do you?’

Miss Bennet sighed. ‘I suppose not.’

‘All I will need is a couple of warm sweaters and a pair of dungarees.’ Her old friend looked so disappointed that Kay relented a little. ‘Well, I should at least get a decent winter coat, I suppose. Will you come into town with me and help me choose one?’

‘I’d love to. But only if you also buy a hat. I have a weakness for hats.’

‘Oh, of course a hat, and shoes and gloves, too. And how about some fully fashioned silk stockings! Kayser, of course.’

‘Oh, of course.’

They smiled fondly at each other, then to Kay’s surprise she saw that Miss Bennet was trying hard not to cry. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I’m so happy for you.’

‘You don’t look happy.’

‘That’s because I’ve just realised how much I will miss you.’

‘You’re assuming that I won’t be coming back.’

‘I’m hoping that you won’t. I know you don’t like me to criticise your mother – quite rightly – and you won’t hear a word said against that flighty young miss, your sister, but . . .’

‘No, please don’t say anything. Why don’t I make a pot of tea and we can talk about the new fashions? I know you like to look at them in your weekly magazine.’

‘I’m like a child with a new picture book.’ Miss Bennet smiled. ‘How wise you are, Kay. But at least let me tell you that you mustn’t let anyone –
anyone
– take advantage of you.’

‘I won’t.’ Kay opened her shoulder bag and reached inside. ‘And now, to celebrate, how about helping me eat these chocolate biscuits?’

‘What are we celebrating?’

Kay smiled. ‘I gave my notice in to Sampson’s today.’

‘Where have you been?’ Thelma looked up from the kitchen table where she was sitting alone. ‘I had your lunch ready. Home-made barley broth.’ She pursed her lips crossly.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, but I just had to go for a walk.’

‘
Had
to?’

‘To sort things out – in my head, I mean. You see, I’ve given notice and I’ve decided to go to London to deal with Lana’s things myself.’

Her mother’s eyes widened for a moment and then she said, ‘I see. Well, take your coat off and sit down. The broth’s easy enough to warm up.’

Kay decided it was probably better not to tell her mother that she had been to Miss Bennet’s, where she and her old friend had indulged themselves with chocolate biscuits and sherry. Miss Bennet had insisted on opening the sherry, although it had been intended for Christmas when her widowed sister came to stay.

‘If we just have one glass each there will be plenty left for Sarah and me,’ Miss Bennet had said as she had poured the wine into fine, flute-like glasses. Suddenly she had stopped and looked at Kay anxiously. ‘You’re not on your bicycle, are you? I mean, I don’t know if there are any rules about drinking alcohol when riding a bicycle.’

Kay had assured her that she had walked and they had both collapsed into laughter which was tinged with sadness.

‘I think you’ve probably done the right thing, Kay.’

Kay looked up in surprise as her mother set an appetising bowl of broth before her.

‘Do you?’

‘Not because you’ve decided to go to London, but in leaving Sampson’s. You couldn’t go on working there once it became known that you had money. I mean, it would be depriving some other poor girl of a job, wouldn’t it?’

‘Would people have to know about the money?’

‘Of course they would. How else would we explain the new house?’

‘Oh yes, the house. We could say you had inherited the money.’

‘That would be a lie, and even if Lana had left the money to me, people would hardly expect me to let you go on working in a grocery shop.’

‘You’ve been happy enough for me to work there all these years. Remember, you did your best for me.’

‘Don’t, Kay. Don’t let’s quarrel. It’s just like I said. Lana knew this would set us against each other.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. This broth smells good.’

‘Then don’t just smell it – eat it! And tell me exactly what you’re going to do.’

A few minutes later Kay and her mother faced each other across the table. ‘I can’t tell you exactly what my plans are,’ Kay said. ‘I don’t know myself. However, as soon as it’s possible I shall go to London and sort through Lana’s belongings.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

Her mother didn’t answer the question directly. ‘It was such a strange thing to do, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘Leaving you to decide what to do with everything?’

‘It seems as though she didn’t have anyone else.’

‘Well, that was her own fault.’

Thelma’s tone was bitter and Kay was curious. ‘Why do you say that?’

Her mother sighed. ‘She didn’t treat people very well. Oh, she was friendly and sympathetic – when she could be bothered. She would take you up and make you believe you were important to her, and you would be only too pleased to help her out if needs be. But she never let anything or anyone – I want you to remember this, Kay – come in the way of her ambition. And where did that get her?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, she was talented, I can’t deny that. And she did well for herself. Acting on the London stage and in all those films. She even made a handful of films in Hollywood. And then one day it seems she just gave up.’ Her mother reached across the table for Kay’s hand. ‘Don’t go, Kay. Let the solicitor deal with everything. They’re used to that sort of thing.’

‘Then what do you expect me to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘With my inheritance.’

Her sensible mother’s next words took her by surprise. ‘First of all have a holiday. Find a nice hotel for Christmas. People do that, you know. We could all go. You and me and Julie. We would be waited on hand and foot, and then when we’re nice and relaxed we can decide what we’re going to do with the money.’

Kay nearly snapped, ‘With
my
money,’ but she stopped herself in time. However, she couldn’t help saying, ‘You mean, with the money I have left after I’ve bought you a house.’ And that was just as bad.

Her mother stared at her angrily and Kay suddenly felt near to tears.
What are you doing to us, Lana?
she asked silently.
Do you want my mother and me to quarrel? Are you really laughing at us from the grave?

‘I’ll ignore that remark,’ her mother said at last. ‘But remember, Kay, you’re only twenty-two. I should think it’s natural that you should want my advice.’

‘Of course I’ll ask your advice,’ Kay said, but her heart sank. She knew very well that she and her mother were unlikely to agree about anything. ‘But you can’t make me change my mind about going to London.’

‘Very well. And what do you want me to tell Julie?’

‘She has to know sooner or later. So just tell her the truth.’

And on that rather unsatisfactory note their conversation ended.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Chalmers, but your usual table is taken.’

‘I phoned to reserve it. There was no mention of a problem.’ Tony’s charm did not desert him but his voice was cool.

‘Your message must have been mislaid.’

Tony glanced at the middle-aged couple sitting at one of the tables near the window. They were looking at the menu. ‘I suppose I could ask them to move,’ the head waiter said doubtfully.

‘No, please don’t,’ Kay said. ‘There are other tables overlooking the bay.’

‘But none of them give such a good view of the two lighthouses,’ Tony said.

‘Erm . . . shall I . . . ?’ the head waiter began, and Kay pressed Tony’s arm.

‘No, don’t,’ Tony said. ‘The view isn’t as important as a good meal and a bottle of fine wine. And, of course, the company you keep,’ he said, smiling at Kay as he placed a hand in the small of her back and guided her to another table.

Luis beckoned one of the waitresses to take their coats and left them with the menus. ‘Grilled steak, don’t you think?’ Tony asked. ‘Could you manage that?’

Kay nodded distractedly. Her mind was taken up with what she was going to say later. She had decided she must tell him tonight before he heard the news from Julie.

Tony ordered their steaks and a bottle of wine. When Luis brought the wine he said, ‘On the house, Mr Chalmers. To make up for your disappointment over the table.’

‘Very kind of you,’ Tony said politely.

Kay noticed that several of the other diners were looking their way. Tony Chalmers was not only the son of an influential and wealthy businessman but had also demonstrated great bravery and piloting skills during the war. On one occasion he had brought his badly damaged Lancaster bomber back from a mission and made a crash landing in Kent, thus saving the lives of his crew. He could have ordered them to bail out over occupied Holland, but he chose to bring them home. It was this that had gained him his Distinguished Flying Cross.