The Disappearance Boy (18 page)

‘Is this a joke? Because if Mr Brookes –’

‘No! He’s signed. Signed the contract and everything. He told me last night.’

‘Blimey …’

The smile fell.

‘Well, you might look bloody pleased, Reg. A new act. With
me
.’

‘No, I am – it’s just that we’ve only just got on top of this one. And he only decided to tell you all of this last night?’

The swansdown hovered over the powder pot again, dipped, and then was left forgotten in the hazy mid-air as the words came tumbling out. She must have been saving this up all night to tell him – no wonder her voice sounded shaky with excitement.

‘Well, you know how he is, Reg. Never speaks his mind unless he fancies it. And it’s not all bad – starting work this late, I mean – because Clements is going to keep the Grand dark on the Monday, because no one will be going out the night before the ceremony itself, obviously, so at least we get one extra day onstage that week – and a proper run-through with Mr Clifford that evening, most likely –
and –
’

Reggie realised that this must all be a paraphrase. He could just see Teddy’s mouth at work in the bar at the Queen’s, making it all make smiling sense.

‘– and because he’s going to let us work on the stage again there’ll be no schlepping everything back to London on the train! Teddy says we’ll have to get properly cracking to be ready in time, of course, because he’s going to make a few changes to the apparatus, and there’ll be some bits and pieces to get from London for me, but listen, if we could get me disappearing in one week then I’m sure we can pull something new off in three and a bit. Fit for a queen, he thinks I am –’

It was almost as if she was talking to herself, the words were falling so fast and furious out of her mouth. So there was going to be work on the apparatus as well – and Brookes seriously expected them to get a new routine worked from scratch in sixteen days, did he? – sixteen, because today was Saturday, and the second was a Tuesday – and that was assuming they could start on Monday, which he doubted if there was gear to be fetched down from London. Bloody hell –

‘Reg?’

The powder puff was suspended in mid-air again, and she was searching for his eyes in the mirror.

‘Are you with me?’

‘Sorry. He’s not going to actually call it that, is he?’

‘What?’

‘The new act. “Fit for a Queen”.’

‘Think I’m too common to be presented, do you, young man?’

His face fell.

‘Oh, come on, Reg.’

He had thought she was being serious for a moment, but then she released him from the reprimand with a high peal of laughter, her now-white face cracking right open. He laughed too, and it was with punctuations of loud and relieved laughter on both their parts that the conversation continued.

Pam kept up the work on her face as Reg quizzed her, answering his questions as best she could, telling him everything she could remember from the night before and all the time wiping and repainting like a giddy-brained showgirl. Seeing how happy she was, and wanting to get as much information out of her about the new act as he could without worrying her, Reg completely forgot to ask her where the expensive-looking new powder and earrings had come from. Or why, indeed, she was so excitedly and clumsily making herself up for a two thirty matinee when it was still only half past eleven in the morning.

Waking to light that was coming in through a strange pair of curtains, Pam had known immediately whose bed she was in. She didn’t look back to the head on the pillow, but picked up her shoes, balled her still-unladdered stockings into her handbag and crept from the house like a thief. As the front door clicked shut behind her she found herself standing on a street of suburban front gardens, each corralled behind a closed front gate. It was barely seven o’clock, and in the slanting light of the rising sun the letter boxes and rose bushes seemed to be pursing their lips and quietly averting their eyes. Pamela had grown up on a street like this, and recognised their expressions. She slipped on her shoes and looked around, and then – for want of a better direction – walked towards the sun, thinking that the seafront would probably be as good a way of finding her way back home as any.

It was a beautiful morning out on the promenade, calm and clear. After passing the first pier she sat down on a bench to wait for something to be open. She needed something – or someone – to tell her what to think. There was a small black dog running unaccompanied on the asphalt, and a girl in a very short skirt drawing circles behind the wire fencing of a roller rink, but neither of these details helped her to clear her head. She sat there for a while, watching the water flatten and shimmer, but then as the air began to warm and the first cars pass behind her on the seafront road she became very conscious of her bare legs. There was nowhere to slip on her stockings that she could see, so she got up and walked again. A bit further down the prom she spotted a cafe that was open, so she went in and got herself a cup of tea and a packet of Player’s from the machine. Then she sat in the window in the sun and tried to talk some sense into herself. She got her compact out to check her face at one point, but snapped it shut immediately and laid it on the table by her teacup. She knew she ought to go home and wash, but for some reason couldn’t face the thought of walking all the way back up to Mrs Brennan’s just to be stared at again, this time by the counterpane of her own, undisturbed bed.

When she’d paid for her tea she walked on again, and when the shops opened found herself buying earrings and a small round box of the new Coty face powder, things she knew that she couldn’t afford. Then she remembered her dressing room at the Grand, and the Dettol, and the hot water, and almost ran.

The first thing she noticed as she signed herself in was his key, hanging on the board. It made her stomach turn over. Promising Mr English that she was all right – noticing the sudden closure of her face, he’d frowned and asked whether she was – she headed straight upstairs.

As she closed her dressing-room door behind her she had to control herself so that she didn’t slam it. So, this was what it was going to be like from now on – every bloody time she came into work. Checking to see if his key was on the board or not, wondering if he was in already, every
bloody
time …
Just get your bloody face on
, she told herself in her mirror.
Have a wash, get your bloody face on and get on with it. You’ll think of something. You always do
.

Mr Brookes had said all the right things, of course. How he’d been thinking about this ever since they’d met; how different she was to his last girl; what
fun
she was; how he hoped she knew from the way the punters reacted to her what a class act she was, and how he couldn’t believe no one had ever asked her to take a solo spot before. That was all fine; she’d heard versions of all that plenty of times. He’d even said some of it in the taxi, with the man listening, which she’d actually rather enjoyed. But then, later, when they’d got back to his place, he’d said something else, something which had really upset her. When the light had woken her up the next morning it was the first thing she’d remembered, and she remembered it again now after Reggie had gone back downstairs to get himself ready and she was alone again with just the mirror. When Mr Brookes had got all of her clothes off, he’d asked her to go and stand at the foot of the bed so that he could get a proper look at her. She didn’t mind doing that; she knew that men liked it like that sometimes, and she knew how good she looked with just a bedside lamp on. The problem was that when he’d seen her stripped, with the soft light of the lamp under its pleated silk shade turning her black and white into black and rose, Mr Brookes had leaned back on the pillow, lit himself a fag and breathed out the one word which always undid her.

Special.

Just the one word – releasing it from his mouth as easily as the smoke from his cigarette. And just like that, she’d felt it strike her right inside.

He smiled, as if he knew what he’d done – as if he somehow knew that that was exactly the right word to use on her. After all these years.

She’d wanted to turn away, but didn’t – his face didn’t look particularly hard or handsome at all now, but plain and frank, as if the make-up really had come off for once – and then before she could move he’d said it again:

Yes; you really are very special, Miss Rose.

Then they’d settled down to the business – which once she’d got over that moment she’d enjoyed, a lot – but just when she was letting herself go and starting to make the noises, he’d pulled himself up so that he could watch her face and encourage her, and then he’d said the word over and over again, mouthing the word in time with his body, looking her right in the eye, deliberately keeping himself from going too fast.

Special. Special. Special …

Pam swiped at her face with her powder puff. Was she? The sound he’d made when he finished, and the look on his face, she’d believed him. She knew it was a mistake – knew it was only the drink talking, and downstairs, and that soft pink light – but there it was; that very ordinary bedroom with its lampshade and bed and carpet and wallpaper and discarded shoes had suddenly seemed very quiet and safe and, well,
special
, despite the noise they were making.

She’d believed him.

So what was she going to bloody do now? She scrabbled on her dressing table for her already-half-empty cigarette pack and lit up the next one, licking the powder off her lips. Wasn’t that exactly what she’d told herself she was going to hold out for next, someone who could tell her that and make her believe it?

Lilac and roses, waiting for her when she got home …

She stubbed the cigarette out angrily. Now she’d made herself cry. She’d have to wipe her whole bloody face off and start again.

Not surprisingly, the matinee was a bit ropy later that afternoon – Pam almost forgot the glass of champagne on her return – but apart from that the last three Brighton performances of Teddy Brookes’s ‘Missing Lady’ were clean and solid. After the show, Pam told Reggie that she felt like an early night, but made a provisional arrangement to meet him at the pictures again on Tuesday afternoon – Mr Brookes reckoned he’d be in London until at least that evening, getting all the bits and pieces they’d need together and seeing somebody about her new costumes. Brookes himself seemed to be heading out on a celebratory end-of-run Saturday-night date with somebody, because when Reggie went to collect the laundry after the third house he was vigorously brushing his teeth, and there was what looked like a small red jewellery box laid out next to his cigarette case and watch and signet ring on the dressing table. The Metropole Hotel was mentioned, which made Reg wonder who it could be, and also made him think for a moment about himself staring up at that one small lit window only the night before, imagining young men unbuttoning. After that momentary catch, he went home happy – relieved about Pam, as I said, relieved about work, and looking forward to telling his mum all his news in the morning.

18

He started before he even got to her stone this time, calling out to her as he came limping up the path.

‘Bet you’re warm enough today then.’

Somewhere high up over his shoulder, an invisible bird was singing – a tap of music, left running in the wind. Sky-blue butterflies were scribbling their erratic messages over the turf, and somewhere in the breezy sunlight he was sure he could smell lilacs, even up here where there were none. He was glad he’d got up early.

‘So,’ he continued, collecting up the dead irises from two weeks before and cheerfully slinging them away across the path, ‘looks like we’re going to be seeing quite a bit more of each other after all. Three weeks’ rehearsal, then this new act – except that knowing Teddy Brookes Esquire I’m sure it’ll be mostly just the old one with a few new bells on.’

The invisible bird stopped, and then restarted. The sun didn’t waver, however – this was definitely May now, not April. There was hawthorn somewhere in the air too.

‘She’s been doing very well, our Pamela. She told me she almost forgot his glass of French’s Ginger yesterday afternoon, but then she had had a bit of a night the night before, what with hearing all of Mr B’s plans. The good news, I suppose, is that he likes her enough to persevere, which makes a change. Not a good
liker
, in general, our Mr Brookes, is he …? And it’s going to be for the Coronation, did I say? That’s all getting going down in the town here now, flags and stories and special windows popping up all over the place … Seems like a lot of fuss to me but everyone else seems to be happy so who am I, eh? No news of a title for the new act yet, but he always plays his cards close where that’s concerned. Something corny again probably.’

It all seemed easier today, and the stone was warm when he stroked it. He unshaded his eyes, squinting at it in the light. He was enjoying himself.

‘I think you’d like Pam. She’s not everyone’s cup of tea, what with the way she speaks her mind and doesn’t always do her hair in the morning, but she scrubs up lovely. Last night she was tired and didn’t want me to walk her home, but you could tell she was in a better mood because she’d got her face on properly just to walk home. Mr English on the stage door is mad about her, the silly old iron. Says she’s the real thing, whatever that means.’

The squint turned into an almost-smile. It was funny, the things he thought of up here.

‘I’ve never asked you what you used to look like, have I?’

The bird was still lavishing its praise on the empty sky, and Reggie let it sing for a bit to fill in the gap in the conversation. Then he rummaged in a pocket.

‘Oh, I got something for you. I don’t know why, really, but it made me think of you. There.’

He held up his trophy to show her.

‘Looks like a nice place, don’t you think? I asked the man in the newsagent’s, and he said it’s only about twenty minutes on the bus. Lots of people go out there on a Sunday, apparently. Tea shops on the green, and a walk round the pond to let the kiddies feed the ducks, like in the picture. I thought the three of us could get ourselves done up all smart and get the bus over together. Pam and you and me, I mean. She’d like that – Pam. I’m sure she’d like to meet you. The two of you could talk about me.’