Chris Curran - Her Turn to Cry

A rap on the driver’s window, and when Marcus rolled it down a male voice said: ‘It’s Marcus and Orchid isn’t it? Wonder if I could beg an autograph. Name’s Bill, if you wouldn’t mind putting that too.’ There was something familiar about the voice, but it wasn’t until Marcus had signed and passed the brand new autograph book over to her that she saw the man’s face as he bent his tall frame down by the window and smiled in at her.

She scribbled her signature, aware that he was moving round the front of the car to get to her side. Then she had no option but to roll down her own window and pass the book to him, trying to avoid his eyes.

He pressed her fingers for a moment as he took the book, his own hand very cold as if he’d been standing outside for some time. She felt his breath against her cheek. ‘Keep bumping into each other, don’t we, Orchid?’ he said. ‘Glad you got home safe the other day. Take care of yourself, won’t you.’

He released her hand and stood back, his trousers as sharply creased, shoes as well-polished as they’d been when she’d seen him in Manchester.

On the way home Marcus kept asking her what was wrong, but she couldn’t tell him until they were safe inside. He made some tea, and when he was sitting opposite her at the tiny kitchen table he lit a cigarette and blew three smoke rings, which usually got her smiling. But not today.

‘That man, the one with the autograph book, he was in Manchester at the corner of my aunt’s street. He spoke to me, obviously knew who I was.’

‘Well that’s peculiar. Any idea who he might be?’

‘I’ve never set eyes on him before.’

Marcus leaned back, staring up at the smoke rising to the ceiling. ‘Most likely a journalist. Unless it’s one of your fans. He looked a bit old for that, but you never can tell.’

That was as likely an explanation as any. It was disturbing to think of people becoming obsessed with her, but it had happened before. As for journalists, her fear was always that they’d get wind of her father’s suicide and, of course, what led to it – his arrest and imprisonment.

When she first started modelling that was one reason she’d changed her name. They’d given out the story that she was an orphan, which had been good enough so far. And the journalists were more interested in the romance between her and Marcus than poking into her background. The received wisdom was that she adored him, but he wouldn’t commit himself and was still playing the field. It wasn’t fair on Marcus because it was she who wouldn’t – couldn’t – commit, but he laughed it off, saying he didn’t mind people thinking he was a bit of a Casanova.

‘Shall we report him to the police?’ Marcus said.

‘What for? He hasn’t done anything, and both times he’s been very nice to me. It just doesn’t feel right.’

Marcus swallowed back his tea and jumped up. ‘OK, go and get your glad rags on. Let’s have some dinner and get drunk . Forget about all this for a while. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow doing that shoot for Cecil Beaton.’

‘Oh God, I can’t believe I’ve forgotten about Beaton. I’ve been nervous about that for weeks. Should really stay in and get a good sleep.’

Marcus came behind her chair and pulled it back. ‘Oh no, you need to be distracted, and I don’t want you too gorgeous for darling Cecil. He may be an old queen, but if he makes you look wonderful you might decide to dump me.’ He kissed the side of her neck and as she headed for the stairs reached out to slap her bum. She managed to evade his hand, charging up two steps at a time, and thanking God yet again for letting her meet him.

It’s a lovely sunny morning, but Dad was late home last night so he’s still in bed. Joycie is making some tea because he likes to wake up to a cuppa and a fag. There’s a knock on the door and it’s Sid. He walks straight in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, Charlie boy,’ before he slumps into a chair next to the table, pulling an ashtray towards him. ‘Any tea in the pot, Joycie love?’

Sid lights up, and Joycie puts a cup in front of him as Dad comes out of the bedroom, rubbing his face. His hair has no Brylcreem on yet and is falling over his face. ‘Crikey, Sid, give a bloke a chance to come round.’

Joycie turns back to the little kitchenette, taking some bacon slices wrapped in greaseproof paper from the wooden meat safe, and trying to close it gently so the thin metal grill on the front doesn’t rattle. Sid is talking about the act and she listens in. When she hears her own name she listens harder.

‘We need to sharpen up a bit and I’ve been thinking. I know you don’t like leaving Joycie at home on her own.’

‘I don’t, but it’s not fair making her hang about at the theatre every night either. It’s all right when Irene’s on the bill, but now she’s away I worry about Joycie when we’re onstage.’ Joycie can’t see his expression, but she can imagine him raising his eyebrows at Sid. She knows he doesn’t trust some of the men in the show.

‘Well what about this then?’ Sid pulls a floppy tweed cap with a big curved peak from his pocket and gestures for her to come over to him. ‘Try this on, love.’ When she looks at her dad, Sid laughs. ‘Go on, darlin’ make an old man happy, eh? It won’t bite you.’

Her dad nods although his forehead is creased, and he gives Sid a sidelong glance. Joycie feels silly, but she puts on the cap and obeys the directions from Sid’s waving cigarette to push her hair up into it.

Sid turns to her dad. ‘She’s got so tall lately and with trousers and a jacket she’d look just like a boy. A second stooge, see, that’s something a bit different, which is what we need. There’d be some pocket money in it for her too, if it works out.’

He’s grinning at Joycie, and her heart does a little flip at the thought of being onstage. She loves the show and hates staying at their lodgings all on her own.

‘So how do you fancy it, love? Being part of the act with me and your dad? You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

Her face is throbbing with heat as she pulls off the cap, and all she can do is nod.

Joycie arrived home exhausted. Cecil Beaton had been kindly and old-school courteous, his voice reminding her of actors in pre-war films. It had been clear however that he didn’t think much of her looks, and he had spent ages rooting through boxes of scarves, fur hats, and wigs, obviously trying to find some way to disguise her flaws. Then he’d posed and reposed her until she could hardly stand.

After they finished he made her a gin and It, served without ice in a champagne bowl that made her think of the glasses Irene had let her drink Babycham from when she was sixteen.

She made herself some tea, slipped off her shoes and sat with her feet curled under her in front of the telly. There was nothing worth watching this early in the evening, just a boring programme showing bits of news too dull or silly for the main bulletin. But at least it distracted her enough to calm her thoughts.

Marcus was seeing Cora right now. He’d called Joycie at Beaton’s house, much to the old gent’s annoyance. ‘I rang her office, and when I told the secretary it was a private matter she put me straight through. I asked Cora if we could meet and that I’d prefer if she didn’t mention it to Sid.’

‘I can imagine what she thought.’

‘Well, let’s just say she agreed pretty smartish, and we’re meeting at a pub where she says Sid never goes. I’ll see you about eight. If not send out the search parties.’