Enduring Passions

Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
NATIONAL PRESS 2007
By the Same Author
Copyright

It was a beautiful day, bright and very still when he got up, the lawn sparkling with dew, like millions and millions of diamonds catching the morning sun.

How Fay would have loved it.

At ten o’clock Mrs Howard arrived to clean the house and prepare the midday meal. He let her help him on with his coat – his old flying jacket – and hand him his cap.

‘Are you sure you should be going out on your own?’

Testily he said, ‘I’m not going alone, Alfie’s coming with me.’

She rolled her eyes in despair at the mention of the Jack Russell. In doggy terms he was 84, nearly as old as his master.

With his cap pulled down over his wispy, white hair and Alfie waddling behind, he set off across the lawn to the gate that lead into the meadow.

She watched him until he shuffled out of view. Shaking her head she got on with her work. It was easy to see the poor man was heartbroken. He and Mrs Roxham had been one of the most devoted couples that she had ever known.

Slowly he made his way across the field towards the river he had once fished, until he got too unsteady on his feet. In the cold air his breath came in little puffs of moisture.

Alfie stopped occasionally to have a good sniff and cock his leg, before padding on behind his master.

By the river Tom Roxham paused, watching the shafts of light flashing in the rippling, bubbling water. Eventually there came the sound of a
steam train, labouring up an incline. Across the valley amongst the trees of the forest he could see the smoke coming in almost continuous puffs, merging together before slowly dispersing in the foliage.

It did his old heart good to hear a Great Western locomotive still working in the tweny-first century – and on the other side of the world.

His grandchildren and their children and their children’s children would be able to experience that wonderful sight and smell and sound of his youth.

On the way back to the house he heard the grand piano, Fay’s grand piano. It was his daughter who was playing, of course, she had come to have lunch with him, did several times a week. She was obviously worried about him now that Fay was gone.

As he crossed the lawn he could see her through the french windows, and for one heart-stopping moment he seemed to be looking at Fay when he’d first set eyes on her a lifetime ago; same slimy, lithe figure with dark shining hair cut to the nape of her neck.

Alfie reached the window and reared up on to his hind legs,
scratching
at the glass, his stump of a tail twitching furiously. She stopped
playing
the nocturne he’d first heard Dame Myra Hess performing at the National Gallery, and opened the door. Stooping, she patted Alfie, and scratched his muscular little body.

She stood up, holding out her arms, looking anxiously at him. ‘Hello, Dad, how are you?’

Her voice even had the same tone as Fay’s but, as nature decreed, she wasn’t an exact copy, not a clone. Close up she was
of
Fay, but
not
her.

His throat tightened, but he managed ‘Oh, all right, darling, I’m getting by, don’t you worry now.’

Brightening, she put her arm through his. ‘Come on, let me give you all the news from the big city.’

They had a lovely lunch, Mrs Howard fussing around them, obviously delighted that he was enjoying himself. Finally the time came when his daughter had to go.

She looked at her watch. ‘Just make it back before the family comes home.’

She went through the customary worry about him being alone,
wouldn’t
he consider selling up and moving to a nursing home now that Mum was no longer with him?

Gently, but firmly, he reminded her once again that there was no way he would leave his home except in a box. No, he wasn’t worried about
burglars and the like, not after what he’d been through in the war, and in any case he’d got his old service revolver in his downstairs bedroom, wouldn’t hesitate to use it if necessary, and to hell with the consequences. They could sort that out later.

Though he could afford it, he flatly refused a live-in-nurse, but allowed care assistants to get him up in the morning, and in the evening to make sure he was changed and ready for bed.

They also supervised his medication – he had to take up to nine tablets a day now, to control his blood pressure, diabetes and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

Later that evening, nursing a large glass of whisky that would have been frowned upon by his medical attendants – if they’d known about it – he sat in his favourite winged chair before his other, acknowledged luxury – an open fire.

They’d left him enough wood to last the evening. Alfie was on his lap, snoring gently as his back was slowly stroked. He was listening to a CD playing beside him on the table. It was his favourite – Elgar’s Cello Concerto.

He’d played a sax, in a dance band in the 30s, till the whole world had fallen apart.

It was Fay who had introduced him to classical music.

He took his hand from Alfie’s back and picked up a much creased and faded black and white photograph from 1939 that he’d carried with him through the war years. That morning he’d taken it from an old wallet at the back of a drawer.

Laying it down again on the arm of his chair he gazed into the red and yellow depths of the fire with his rheumy old eyes, no longer afraid of his Gran’s warning that he would go blind if he did.

He grunted at the memory, and let the music, the warmth and the flickering red corridors between the burning wood draw him from the present. Away from his feeble body, to a time when there were no
morning
tablets, no walking sticks, no stiff aching joints, no shortness of breath, no going to the bathroom every couple of hours.

But also a time when there was a way of life and a culture that now no longer existed: a class system that had died in the most terrible years of their lives.

That at least was a good thing. Except for those five years they’d had a good life, not like many friends who had never made it. But they’d sworn never to be parted again.

And they
wouldn’t
now.

He’d thought about using his old service revolver, but the horror for whoever found him, to say nothing of his children’s reaction had made him reject that. Anyway, he chuckled, his hands shook so much these days that he’d probably miss and shoot Alfie.

So it would have to be the other.

He’d kept it ever since he’d been issued with it in Burma with the advice – ‘If the Nips get you, for God’s sake get it down you whilst you still can.’

The cyanide pill.

Very quick acting they said.

He picked it up, turning it around, examining its every aspect. It looked so dull, so ordinary, but….

It was a link to a terrible past, but also to the future – if there was one.

Either way, he would be with Fay again, his kindred spirit.

Unhurriedly he placed it into his mouth, bit down on it, then took a swig of whisky.

He just had time to whisper ‘See you soon, Fay’ and then his heart and lungs ceased to work.

Alfie’s head came up as the whisky tumbler fell to the floor. 

He took a last look in his mother’s dressing-table mirror, adjusting one of the sides to get a better view as he used one of her ebony backed brushes to sweep back his Brylcreemed hair to perfection.

Straightening up he flipped his hand across each shoulder to make sure there was no dandruff present on the maroon double breasted blazer he was wearing. Satisfied, he picked up his saxophone case and skipped down the narrow stairs that ran in the middle of the red brick terrace house he shared with his parents and Gran.

The latter was standing in the scullery. He put the case down on the table in the dining room with its long black cast iron range at one end, the coals glowing brightly behind the bars, and went out to her.

‘How do I look, Gran?’

He did a little jiggle.

His grandmother paused from sorting through the washing and putting it in the galvanized tub with its gas ring beneath.

‘Right handsome, my boy. Now you take care. There’ll be a lot of drinking tonight – and there is always trouble where there’s drink.’

He grinned and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

‘Of course, but I’m in the band don’t forget, and it’s a really posh do.’

She shook her head.

‘You got to come home, that’s the time to be careful, tonight of all nights.’

He got his coat from one of the pegs in the hall. He was proud of the white trench-coat with epaulettes that he’d bought after he had seen Humphrey Bogart wearing one at the flicks a couple of months ago. He’d gone to the 50 Shilling Tailors saving up for three weeks before he could finally manage the down payment. He had a card now that was ticked off as he paid the balance at 2/6d a week. His brown trilby he placed at a
rakish angle on his head.

With a last stop at the outside WC with its long bench-type wooden seat, he pulled the chain and snapped off the electric light. Dad had put it in himself – fed up with the oil lamp they had all managed on since the house had been built in 1890.

Although Cheltenham was Regency and known as the gateway to the Cotswolds theirs was a red brick terrace – one of many built for the workers. Their area was never featured in the calendars he’ d seen in the bookstores on the Promenade, the wide, tree lined, fashionable shopping street of the spa town.

He closed the gate at the bottom of the garden and made his way down the unmade lane that ran between the rows of houses. It was dark and he nearly walked into Mr Ilsley’s Austin Seven.

Out on Leckhampton Road he stood at the bus stop by the
underground
public lavatory. As a ten year old he’d accidentally gone down the ladies staircase and was so embarrassed that when he came up he’d never stopped running until he’d reached home.

He grinned inwardly. After the shock had worn off he’d been enthralled by the fact that there were no urinals – just doors to cubicles. Girls were obviously very strange and private.

The bus was packed, so he slid on to the bench seat just inside the entrance, giving his money to the conductor who plucked a ticket from his rack, punched the cardboard, and gave it to him, his shiny uniform back pushing against the saxophone case as he moved on.

When he reached the hotel ballroom the band was already set up, the maroon and cream plywood screens shaped like three opening sections of a fan, were placed before each player’s position. Across the panel
lettering
announced ‘Raymond Dean and the Serenaders’.

Raymond Dean was a large man with a head of thinning black hair, dressed in the same manner as the rest of the members of the band, or orchestra as he called it, except that he wore a custom-made maroon tuxedo with black dinner trousers. His shoes glistened in the light from wall lamps reflected in the revolving mirror ball hanging from the
ceiling
.

Apart from the dance area before the band, the rest of the ballroom was filled with round tables covered with crisp white cloths. Around them sat men and women, the men in evening dress with white ties, the women in full-length figure hugging silk dresses of various hues, with their hair set in the style of the time.

Balloons were held in nets above the dance floor. Everywhere was the rattle and chink of cutlery and glass as the waiters and waitresses served the nobs who had paid over ten guineas a ticket to see out 1938 and bring in 1939. Above it all was the growing volume of voices, men booming and the ladies tones tinkling with laughter as the champagne flowed. The oysters or paté course had been cleared away and now the waiters were serving portions of freshly caught Scottish salmon delivered that morning on the overnight train from Glasgow.

‘Where’ve you been – you’re late?’

Raymond Dean’s beady eyes bore into him from beneath his dark eyebrows.

Tom shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

Dean jerked his head. ‘Your stand is already set up for you. We are going to start in five minutes.’

Hurriedly putting his coat with the rest of the band’s he got to his seat and opened the case, the latches thumping up as he slid the buttons to one side. Lying in the contoured green baize interior was the shiny brass saxophone, with the mouthpiece in a separate recess. From the little box with a lid in the corner he took out his neck cord, and put it over his head, before lifting the body of the instrument and passing the hook of his harness through the eye at the back. Steadying it with one hand he took out the mouthpiece, checked the reed and blew it a couple of times to get the feel as it vibrated against his tongue and lower lip. He
tightened
the screws and tried again. Satisfied he pushed it firmly on to the neck of the instrument and gave a tentative blow and fingered a few notes before turning his attention to the sheet music on the stand. He’d only just got it sorted when Dean held up his baton, glanced around them all, then brought it down in a gentle stroke. The soft sensuous music did not even cover the growing clamour from the partygoers.

They played for another hour before they stopped for the
refreshments
they’d been promised. There was a ripple of polite applause as it became evident they’d finished and a lone pianist took over.

In a room off the kitchen was a table laden with sandwiches, mince pies and trifles. The band was soon tucking in – it was one of the perks of the job.

They chatted for a while, mostly about football. One of them turned to one of the waitresses as she passed through to the kitchen.

‘Elsie luv, have you got something’ – he nodded at the table – ‘you know?’

Elsie grinned. ‘’Course, I’ll get you a carrier bag – any of you others want one? What about you, darlin’?’

Elsie was in her mid-thirties, with a wedding ring on her finger, but her big brown eyes gave Tom an appreciative flash.

He nodded. ‘Yes – please.’

He knew the others had large families, but a few treats wouldn’t go amiss at home as well. The food piled on the table would only end up being thrown out for pigswill.

She came back with the folded-up bags, lingering a little longer near the well-built boy with the dark hair and blue eyes. She looked at him, hand on hip, as she said to them all. ‘There you are – take what you want.’

He could feel his face going brick red, which seemed to please her even more as she handed out the bags. ‘What’s your name, luv?’

‘Tom,’ he stammered, acutely aware of the other’s grinning faces.

‘Tom, that’s nice. Well, Tom – you can have
anything
you like.’ Fortunately the implication was lost on the others who were already gathered at the table sweeping up sandwiches, little trifles and sausages on sticks.

He took the offered bag. ‘Thanks – it’s very kind of you.’

She continued grinning, eyes bright under her large lashes, one pencilled eyebrow raised.

‘Think nothing of it.’ She gave a wink and turned away.

When she’d gone Tom took an extra large gulp of his mild and bitter. He hardly had time to get his food before Raymond Dean was moving among them. ‘Come on, gentlemen, your whistles must be well and truly wet by now.’

Whether it was Elsie’s attentions or what, but he needed a slash and asked directions.

After several turnings he found himself in an elegant corridor with small side-tables and sofas, and large paintings in ornate frames on the walls. The Gents was at the end, through a scrolled Regency doorway.

Several people were scattered around, coming and going, all in evening attire. He realized as he edged past one crowd that he was
probably
in the wrong place. He’d never been near to such elegantly dressed women before, some wearing tiaras, and he was acutely aware of the heady, musky scent emanating from the silk and pale powdered flesh.

Inside the marble-floored lavatory was a row of urinals with great marble side stones. On the opposite wall was a row of hand-basins with
an attendant waiting with towels, brushes and cologne. A dish was half full of coins, mostly shillings and sixpences and the odd half crown. Voices echoed in the tiled room, raised with the effect of alcohol.

One young man, eyes squinting against the smoke from the cigar clamped between his teeth as he wiped his hands, said, ‘Damn me, I thought this place was for gentlemen, that’s what the sign says.’

Tom kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall ahead, but he knew it was him that was the object of the remark – bloody toffs.

Another young affected voice said, ‘Don’t know what the world’s come to since the Strike of ’26.’

The first voice drawled on, ‘Never been the same since the war, old boy.’

Tom had been feeling uncomfortable up to that point. But then his blood started to boil.

His father had been gassed in that bloodbath, and far from returning to a country fit for heroes he’d been treated shabbily after 1918, not only by the government, but by the landlord who had promptly put up the rent on his return. He was invalided out with lungs that would never work properly again.

His mother had taken in washing – still did – to make ends meet. The scullery seemed never to be free of steam and he had stood on a bucket when he was small to turn the big handle of the mangle as she fed in the wet clothing. The family reckoned that’s where he got his broad
shoulders
from, that and the digging on the allotment that was his father’s pride and joy, source of all the fresh vegetables that fed them all. Only his father couldn’t dig, so the young Tom had done all the hard spade work for years.

It was while he was tending to the patch of earth, surrounded by grass paths that was their allotment, that he became interested in the railway line that passed down the side of the field. He watched the engines labouring out of the branch line station, pistons thumping; smoke
beating
in a continuous rhythm from their chimneys into the sky, only for it to slow and drift in lazy clouds across the fields as the carriages clattered past. As it finally evaporated only a sooty smell remained.

He got to know a lot of the drivers and firemen and now he worked for the Great Western Railway – but in a way he could never have
imagined
as a youngster.

He buttoned up his flies and turned for the sinks. There were just two
of them – both taller than he, but only one was as broad shouldered, and he barred Tom’s way.

They looked at him as if he had just crawled out from under a stone, but if they expected him to slink away with his tail between his legs they were soon disabused.

Tom squared up to them saying nothing. Seconds passed. It was
something
in the eyes perhaps, a steely glint, that could only lead to one thing – violence – this made the second one flinch and say as nonchalantly as he could muster, ‘Jeremy, the girls will be getting concerned as to where we are, impatient for their first dance.’

He began to move towards the door.

Jeremy did not move, eyes locked in a duel as old as mankind. The attendant seemed transfixed with fear. Suddenly the door opened and several more men crowded in, breaking the moment.

‘Jeremy – you coming?’

The man took a last slow draw on his cigar, eyes never leaving Tom’s, and tossed the butt casually into a sink.

He nodded – not in agreement, more at Tom. ‘Nothing to stop me here.’

He walked to the door, paused – ‘Another time then, old boy?’

Tom nodded.

The door closed behind him.

Tom looked down at his bunched fists, let them relax, went to the sink, paused, conscious of the time and said to the attendant with a grin, ‘I know where my prick’s been – not like some,’ and left.

Everybody in the band was ready, the male, and a female singer in a sparkling sequinned dress, were gathered at one large microphone, Dean at another. He shot Tom a glance of pure acid. No sooner had he sat down and picked up the sax than Dean announced, ‘Lords Ladies and Gentlemen, Raymond Dean and the Serenaders are proud to perform for your pleasure. This is their big band extravaganza, as heard on the
wireless
, as we play out the old, and play in the New Year.’

With that he turned to the band and shouted out loud, ‘
One-two-three
,’ and brought the baton down in an exaggerated sweep.

They all kicked in with
Whispering
.

Soon the floor was full with circulating couples, some showing more elaborate footwork than others.

They played for three quarters of an hour, the lines of saxophones and trumpets taking it in turns to leap up and feature their instruments.

After every three dances there was a small break announced by Dean with, ‘Next dance, please.’ They rearranged their music, adjusted
instruments
– got rid of over-wet reeds and fluid in the tubes.

It was while they were at rest and he was sitting ready to restart that Tom suddenly saw a girl who quite literally – for a second – took his breath away, talking with a bunch of other girls just below his position on the platform. She was wearing a pale lilac silk dress that followed the contours of her slim body, showing off her tiny waist and cheeky little bottom, hugging her legs until it flowed out a little just above her knees. At the front he could see the slight curve of her belly and the jutting points of her hips. The top part was almost like one of those glamorous ladies nightdresses he’d seen in the films worn by Jean Harlow, the tiny straps passing over finely boned shoulders. But it was her face that struck him the most, high cheekbones, red lips forming a generous mouth, finely pencilled eyebrows and shoulder length hair with a glittering slide on one side. She was smiling, her eyes warm and intelligent.