Unforgettable (21 page)

‘Go to the arcade on Rose Street,' she was advised. ‘Try Toby Dilkes, and say I sent you. He's an old pal, and he won't diddle you, Miss Brown.'

‘Thank you—and please call me Gracie.'

‘Gracie it is then. Let me know when you've made your purchase and I'll collect it for you in my car.'

‘Oh, I couldn't put you to all that trouble!'

‘How are you going to get it back here otherwise?'

She hadn't thought. ‘I suppose I expected the shop to deliver.'

Richard Foster shook his head. ‘Not in bargain-basement-land. But it's no trouble, and it will give me an excuse for a chinwag with my old pal.'

As she left, Gracie thought that he was a
world away from that other landlord, whose name she wouldn't even mention, even in her thoughts. He and his wife must both be nearing retirement age now. A fleeting thought entered her mind. Supposing, after they retired, they gave up the shop. And just
supposing
she made a wild success of her business and actually employed one or two girls to help her and had a showroom downstairs …

‘'Ere, look where you're going, miss,' she heard an irate voice shout as she stepped out into the road with her head still full of impossible dreams. She jumped back, apologizing swiftly as the baker's boy wobbled on his bicycle.

So much for dreaming … and such things only came true at the flicks, where the poor little Cinderella girl found her prince and lived happily ever after. She wasn't even looking for her prince, just a successful life … although if her prince
did
come along, nothing else would matter in the world.

Her thoughts were instantly transported back to that dance-floor at the burned-out Palais, and she was floating in Charlie Morrison's arms, her heart beating fast because the look in his eyes told her he had taken a real shine to her.

She ran across the road that led down to
the arcade before the motor car honking at her should run her down, and told herself that this was no time or place for dreaming. This was London, and the traffic didn't stop for one silly star-struck girl. Charlie was probably far away from here right now, and she doubted that he had ever given her another thought.

* * *

In the West End, rehearsals for the new show weren't going well. The leading lady had a cold and the understudy was hopeless. Charlie knew it was a bad time to get on the wrong side of the musical director, who was less than impressed when the new chap approached him.

Charlie knew he'd been lucky to join a new band as their saxophone player for this brand-new show, but Feinstein wasn't interested in keen, good-looking chaps who also thought they could write their own music and expected him to include it in his productions.

‘If you'd just listen to it,' Charlie pleaded for the third time.

‘Look, boy, I don't have time for this. Maybe when this show's over I'll give it a hearing, but I've got all the songs I want for this production. Stick to your saxophone
playing and let the rest of us get on with the business.'

The drummer smiled sympathetically as Charlie took his place on the stage.

‘You won't get anywhere with Feinstein. An agent would tell you if your song's any good or not.'

‘I know it's good.'

‘Yeah, but if you want the rest of the world to know it, you gotta get it played. What's it called?'

‘Ode to Gracie.'

The drummer shook his head. ‘Much too stuffy, kid. You need something catchy. Who's the girl, anyway?'

‘Someone I once knew.'

‘There you are then.'

‘Where?' Charlie said, started to get irritated.

‘There's your title. ‘Someone I once knew' will go down much better than ‘Ode to Gracie'. Take it from one who's been in the business longer than you. If you want to make it a winner, you gotta make the customers feel nostalgic. Were you romantic about this girl?'

Oh yes … ‘More or less,' he said.

As the actors came on stage, the time for talking was over, and Feinstein began ranting as usual. But it had made Charlie think. He
knew damn well that the music of his song was romantic enough, but he'd never thought of himself as a lyricist and the words he had put to it didn't convey the way he really felt. The music alone had been enough to stir his soul, and he'd expected it to stir the soul of anyone who heard it. But it wasn't enough, and in his heart he knew it.

All the same, he revised his initial thoughts of getting someone else to put the words to his music. That wasn't the way to go about it, when the song was dedicated to the beautiful girl he had met on that one magical night that had ended so terribly, because the feelings she had awoken in him were his feelings alone, and not some stranger's.

‘Mr Morrison, if we
could
have your full attention this morning,' Feinstein suddenly roared at him, and Charlie pushed his private thoughts to the back of his mind.

* * *

Toby Dilkes turned out to be a whiskered, dapper old boy in a fancy waistcoat. His shop in the arcade was an Aladdin's cave of sewing-equipment, from brand-new machines to second-hand ones, to all the silks and cottons anyone could need, swatches of fabric, needles, pins and measuring-tapes.
Gracie could happily have stayed here all morning, and since Toby welcomed the company on a slack Monday she spent a long time browsing. Once she mentioned her landlord's name, Toby gave a delighted chuckle.

‘Me and Dick Foster go back a long way. Served in the war together, and shared some high old jinks. I don't mean this last lot with the Jerries, but the one before that, before you were born. So if Dick sent you to me, I'd say you deserve a bargain for old time's sake. Fond of sewing, are you, duck?'

‘I've made my living at it. I used to work in a factory, but now I'm branching out on my own.'

‘That so? I often get ladies coming in here for bits of material and needles and such like. If you want to put a card in the window, it might bring you in a bit of trade. This is the right place for it, see?'

Gracie beamed. ‘I'm going to put an advert in the newspaper, but I suppose I could put a card here as well.'

‘Blimey, flying high, aren't we? But it may bring you in work quicker than a newspaper advert.'

‘I never thought of that, and you're sure I can leave the sewing-machine here for Mr Foster to collect?' she said, when they had
finished their negotiations.

‘'Course you can, love, and you can tell that old rogue that I'll look forward to seeing him again to chew over old times.'

She was still smiling when she left the arcade, with the thought of the precious new sewing-machine which would be delivered soon. She had copied the wording of her advert on to a card, emphasizing that home visits could be arranged. She wouldn't want hordes of unknown people tramping up to her flat.

Now all she had to do was to find her way to the newspaper office. It was a couple of tram-rides away, and she decided she might as well enjoy her days of freedom while she had them. Soon enough, God willing, she would be too busy for days like these, when she could ride on the top deck of the tram and watch the streets of London go by.

She gave a sudden gasp, loud enough for the woman in the seat alongside her to glance sideways at her.

‘Are you all right, miss?'

She answered clumsily, caught off balance.

‘Yes, thank you. I just thought I saw someone I knew.'

But why on earth should it be him, when she didn't even know if he was in London, and when he could be anywhere else in the
world! It had only been a fleeting glance … and it probably hadn't been Charlie at all. She must have been mistaken, and it was all a case of wanting to see him so much … And then she could see that the woman was showing interest and wanted to talk.

‘Excuse me, this is my stop,' she gasped, having no idea where she was.

Her heart was beating erratically enough without entering into conversation with strangers. And she knew how stupid she was being. She was only half-sure it really had been Charlie she had glimpsed …

Or had she just conjured him up out of her own imagination? It wouldn't be the first time—or the last, probably.

This Is No Good
, she scolded herself, when her heart eventually slowed down to its regular rhythm. Not every dark-haired young man with a particular sway to his hips as he walked—nothing like Davey's sailor's gait, but more to do with the music in his soul—could be Charlie Morrison. There must be hundreds of young men in London who fitted such a description.

But there was only one Charlie, her treacherous thoughts meandered on. Only one who had filled her dreams all this time … whether consciously or unconsciously.

Without being fully aware of where she had
been walking, she realized she had inadvertently arrived at the very place she was seeking. The gilt wording above the portals of this ancient building told her she was at the newspaper office.

She walked through the swing-doors as boldly as she could, hoping no one would realize the way her heart was thumping again—but for a very different reason now. She was just plain scared, and the snooty-looking young woman behind the reception desk with the rigid waves in her immaculate hair, did nothing to calm her nerves. She took a deep breath.

‘I want to place an advertisement. Can you tell me the cost please?'

The girl looked up boredly, then recited her answer in a voice that was definitely more cockney than classy.

‘Depends if you want it for a week or a month. Rates vary, but it's cheaper if you go long term.'

‘Oh. Long term, I should think.'

‘Doncha know? What's it about, anyway?'

Gracie handed over the piece of paper. The girl wasn't so intimidating now she had heard her speak, and she whistled when she read Gracie's words. It made her seem more human, and the grin that followed did the same.

‘Sounds real flash. I'll give you a list of our rates, then you can decide. I'd say you'd want to keep it in the paper a few weeks, prob'ly longer. Give people a chance to find it, see?'

She knew far more about such things than a mere amateur, Gracie thought humbly, and although the cost of placing an ad for a period of time seemed horrendously expensive, she knew it made sense. Once people had read their newspapers they often took them to the fish-and-chip shop for wrapping up their suppers. Some tore them into squares to make a pad, pushed a length of string through the holes in one corner, and hung it on a wall in the lawy. Some people never bothered looking at the adverts at all.

‘I'll pay for a month and see how it goes,' she said quickly. This was her future now, and she had to think big. She had to see it as the difference between being her own boss and begging for her old job back at Lawson's.

‘No—make that three months,' she went on. ‘Might as well make a splash while we're about it.'

‘Attagirl,' said her admirer behind the reception desk.

They smiled at one another almost conspiratorially once she had filled in the necessary form. Gracie parted with the
money and got her receipt, and her new friend-of-sorts wished her luck.

By the time she went out into the sunshine again, she realized she had spent more money in one morning than she normally spent in a couple of months. But she now had a brand-new sewing-machine of the latest kind, instead of the second-hand one she had been tempted to buy, since Toby had been a pretty good salesman for all his banter. And she had blown all that money on advertising … but it was the only way to go about letting people know she existed. It was the way all businesses were run, and she couldn't deny the thrill of seeing her name in print when it appeared in a few days' time.

Gracie's Glad Rags was going to be put on the map, she thought optimistically, and the orders would come pouring in. She hoped.

Once back at the flat she set about turning the boxroom into a proper workroom. It was good to have a separate workplace so that she could keep all her things together—and if clients did turn up with their children to be measured or to collect the finished garments, she had the nice little sitting-room in which to show them. In Southampton she had always delivered her work to her clients' homes and she would really prefer to do the same here. You could spend too many hours
bent over a sewing-machine, straining your eyes and your back …

‘Good Lord, stop being such a softie. Any minute now, you'll be regretting taking this on!'

She had spoken out loud before she realized it, which was what people did when they lived alone or they were slowly going mad, but she didn't think she was in any danger of that. The old saying was true, though. All work and no play did nobody any good … which was why she found herself lurking outside Lawson's that evening, waiting for Dolly.

As her old workmates spilled out of the factory, they crowded round her, asking when she was coming back.

‘Never, I hope,' she said, laughing. ‘Hasn't Dolly told you I'm a woman of property now? Well, renting a flat, more like, and branching out on my own.'

‘Good for you, duck,' one of the older women said. ‘You were always the best stitcher among us. We always said you could do better.'

Dolly overheard and her smile was tinged with irritation.

‘Gawd, don't tell her that or she'll get more swollen-headed than ever. It's good to see you though, gel. Were you waiting for me?'

‘Of course.' Gracie linked her arm through her friend's. ‘Now I've moved in properly I want you to celebrate with me tonight after you've had your dinner at old Warby's.'

‘You ain't treating me, then?'

‘Uh—well, I hadn't thought about that, but why not?'

‘Oh Gracie, don't be daft. I was only kidding!'

‘I'm not. Yes, let's go and tell Warby you're dining out tonight,' Gracie said, putting on a posh accent. ‘I've spent so much money today a few bob more won't hurt—providing we can find a caff that don't overcharge us.'