HIS OTHER SON (16 page)

Read HIS OTHER SON Online

Authors: MAYNARD SIMS

BOOK: HIS OTHER SON
12.57Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

           
They
were halfway down the stairs when Gareth slapped his hand against his forehead.
‘Wallet!’ he said.

           
‘Jacket pocket?’

           
He
shook his head.
‘Dressing table.
I won’t be a moment,’
he said and retraced his steps.

           
Meg
carried on down. She reached the front door and opened it but the street
outside was empty. She looked along the road but there was no sign of the taxi.

           
‘Going
out
again
?’ Mrs
Gafney
came up behind her.

           
Meg
glanced back and said, ‘Yes,’ in as dismissive a manner as she could manage.

           
It
had no effect on Mrs
Gafney
. ‘You look very pretty, I
must say. Going somewhere nice?’

           
‘Gareth’s
taking me to a party.’

           
This
earned her a frown from the landlady. ‘Is he indeed? And where is this party?’

           
They’d
come back inside the house and were standing at the bottom of the stairs. Meg
was straining to hear if Gareth was coming, but the stairs remained silent. Mrs
Gafney
tapped her foot impatiently, awaiting an
answer to her question.

           
‘Actually,
it’s at the house of one of Gareth’s friends, Clifford Stein, the West End
impresario.
Finlay
Crawford’s going to be there.’ It
was deliberate name-dropping, designed to impress the woman into shutting up.
The response, however, was not what Meg was expecting. Mrs
Gafney
glanced up at the stairs then leaned forward, grabbing Meg by the arm and pulling
her close.

           
‘Don’t
go!’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Pretend you’ve got a headache… pretend
you’re ill, but don’t go.’

           
‘Why ever not?’
Meg said, pulling her arm away from the
woman’s grasp.

           
‘I
was an actress like you. I was
young
once, believe it or not, and I know
about
Finlay
Crawford… I know things about him you
wouldn’t want to repeat in polite company. He’s ruined many a promising career
has that one.’

           
Meg
was still in shock that this blowsy, battered old woman was once an actress.
What she was saying about
Finlay
Crawford took longer
to register. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the older woman. ‘But I
am
going.
I’ve promised Gareth now and it would be awfully rude to let him down at the
last minute.’

           
‘Let
who down?’ Gareth said, appearing at the top of the stairs clutching the wallet
triumphantly in his fist. Mrs
Gafney
glared at Meg
again and said, ‘Well don’t say you haven’t been warned.’ She retreated to her
room and slammed the door.

           
‘What
was all that about?’ Gareth said as he joined Meg at the bottom of the stairs.

           
‘Did
you know she used to be an actress?’

           
‘Who?
Old Mother
Gafney
?’

           
‘Yes.
When she was younger.’

           
‘Great Heavens!
Well, I suppose anything is possible.’

           
Further
conversation was halted by the taxi driver rapping on the letterbox.

           
‘That’s
us,’ Gareth said, grinning as he opened the door. ‘Nervous?’

           
‘Shaking
like a leaf,’ Meg said truthfully.

           
‘Don’t
be,’ Gareth said, ushering her inside the waiting cab. ‘They’re very nice
people.’

He
leaned forward in his seat, gave the driver the address then sat back, taking a
silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. ‘Do you use these?’ he said
offering the open case to Meg. She shook her head.
‘Very
wise.
Filthy habit.
You don’t mind if I do?’

           
‘Go
ahead.’ she said. ‘I don’t smoke, but I love the smell.’

           
He
lit the cigarette with a slim gold lighter and blew smoke out through the
half-open taxi window. ‘Soon be there.’

           
Meg
was clutching a handkerchief in her sweating palm, moving it from hand to hand.
‘Good,’ she said with an enthusiasm she, curiously, didn’t feel.

 
 

June
Gafney
poured herself another schooner of sherry and went into the bedroom. She put
the glass on the dressing table and knelt down, stretching her arm out under
the bed. Her fingers closed around the handle of the suitcase and she pulled it
out. The leather was starting to decay, rotting to a fine powder at the corners
despite the metal reinforcements. The case was tan and covered in a thick
coating of dust, bearing testimony to the years it had lain there undisturbed.
She brushed off the worst of the dust and got to her feet. Picking up her glass
and taking another mouthful of Amontillado, she carried the suitcase through to
the kitchen, setting it down on the red Formica-covered table.

           
She
pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down before the case, prising the catches
back with her thumbs. The clasps flicked up and she lifted the lid. She hadn’t
seen the contents of the case for more than ten years, and as she lifted out a
baby’s bonnet and Christening shawl emotion caught at the back of her throat
and she felt the pricking of tears in her eyes. She laid the garments down
carefully, almost reverently on the garish tabletop and moved on to the next
layer.

           
There
was a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon, an old battered, one-eyed teddy
bear, a few schoolbooks filled with stories and poems, all written in a careful
but child-like hand. Beneath these was a pair of pink ballet shoes and a pair
of black patent leather taps. The case was an entire history of a life.
Her daughter’s life.

           
At
the bottom of the case was a scrapbook, bulging with photographs, press
cuttings and theatre programmes. A record of that same life in show business –
a business that would ultimately destroy her and leave June
Gafney
with a gaping chasm in her soul, that only a steady stream of casual men
friends and copious amounts of sherry could bridge.

           

 

They could see the house from the road.
Standing high upon the cliff overlooking the sea, Clifford Stein’s home was a
structure of concrete and glass, very much in the deco mould of the 1930’s but
with a twist that gave it a very contemporary, almost futuristic, look. Every
room in the place seemed to be lit and from its perch on the cliff-top the
house seemed to glow like a beacon.

           
‘Is
that it?’ the taxi driver asked.

           
‘That’s
it,’ Gareth said and then turned to Meg. ‘Well? What do you think?’

           
She
bit her lip pensively. ‘Daunting,’ she said.

           
‘Take
a right here,’ Gareth said to the driver. ‘The lane takes you right to the
door.’

           
The
lane was steep and winding and seemed to go on forever. When the taxi finally
drew to a halt outside the house Meg gave an audible sigh of relief.

           
They
got out and Gareth paid the driver, giving him a hefty trip, then, entwining
her arm in his, led Meg up the path to the house.

           
Their
ring was answered almost at once by a butler who took their name and ushered
them inside. As they walked into the sumptuous entrance hall they could hear
music and laughter and it was obvious the party was in full swing. Meg was
preoccupied taking in her surroundings. There were works of art on the wall;
modern abstracts that defied understanding, and placed at various intervals
were spindly bronze sculptures that she found quite ugly and intimidating.

           
The
butler took their coats and led them through the house. The party, it seemed,
was at the rear of the massive house.

           
‘Gareth!’

           
They
both spun round to see a young man running down a flight of stairs towards
them. Gareth’s face split into a grin and he stepped forward, spreading his arms
wide. ‘Martin! You old...’

           
‘Watch
it’ Martin said as they embraced. ‘Ladies present. And, if I might say, a very
pretty one.’

           
Meg
lowered her eyes, embarrassed.

           
‘She’s
with me,’ Gareth said.

           
‘I
beg your pardon.’ Martin held his old friend at arms length. ‘What are you
telling me here?’

           
Gareth
smiled. ‘I’m telling you nothing of the sort. We’re both appearing at the
Palace and staying at the same digs. I knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought her
along.’

           
‘No.
Not at all.
But an introduction would be nice... not
to say courteous.’

           
‘Of course.
Forgetting my manners,’ Gareth said and made the
formal introductions.

           
‘Right,’
Martin said. ‘Now that’s out the way, come and join the party.’ He put his arm
around the both of them and led them through the house.

           
The
room containing the party was huge and filled with people standing in small
groups deep in conversation, drinking champagne from elegant crystal flutes,
whilst waiters drifted amongst them filling glasses and offering trays of
delicious looking canapés. Large French doors were open and the party had
spilled out of the room with more people congregating on the veranda. In the
corner of the room was a white grand piano and a young man in a dinner suit was
playing a medley of show tunes. A man Meg recognised from the television and
two women she didn’t, were standing at the piano, singing along to the music
with fine, trained voices, whilst still more people stood encircling them, an
avid and appreciative audience.

           
‘I
don’t know where the old man is,’ Martin said. ‘But let me get you a drink.
Champagne all right for you both?’

           
Meg
was hesitant. ‘I don’t know.’

           
‘Oh,
live a little,’ Gareth said with a hint of exasperation in his voice.

           
‘All
right then,’ Meg said. ‘Thank you.’

           
‘Is
he here?’ Gareth asked Martin.

           
‘Who?
Finlay
? Yes, he’s here.’ He
glanced quickly about the room. ‘Don’t know where though.
Probably
with the old man discussing business.
That’s why he’s here. He’s got it
in mind to mount a series of musicals in the West End and wants the Stein
Organization to back him. Anyway,
those drinks
...’ He
collared a passing waiter and took two glasses from his tray and handed them to
Gareth and Meg.

           
The
trio at the piano were singing songs from
High Society
. Meg sipped her
champagne and looked about the room. It seemed to contain half of London’s
theatre world. She recognised actors, singers, costumiers, at least two
choreographers, and standing by the French doors, a woman who she’d never seen
before but whose beauty and presence eclipsed all those around her.

The
woman was holding court, surrounded by a small crowd who seemed hungry for her
attention. She was tall and slender with hair so close cropped it fitted her
head like a helmet, dark and sleek. Meg couldn’t drag her eyes away from the
woman’s startling beauty, and, as if aware she was being observed, the woman
looked slowly about the room before fixing Meg with a curious stare.

           
Meg
averted her eyes instantly but it was too late. Eye contact couldn’t be avoided
and the woman was now aware that Meg had been watching her. Feeling flustered
and blushing with embarrassment she sipped her champagne and tried to
concentrate on the conversation Gareth was having with Martin. She soon
realized that they were reliving their glory days at Charterhouse and were
speaking about people she didn’t know.

           
She
moved away from them, going back out to the hall. She needed the bathroom but
was not sure where to start looking. The problem was solved when she saw the
butler emerge from one of the rooms leading from the entrance area. He was
polite and helpful, directing her upstairs.

Other books

Fever by Lara Whitmore
The Tailgate by Elin Hilderbrand
Kiowa Vengeance by Ford Fargo
Her Man Friday by Elizabeth Bevarly
Silent Voices by Gary McMahon
Alexias de Atenas by Mary Renault