Danny held up his lighter and took longer than was necessary to select a chocolate from the box. ‘That was a lie, I’m afraid,’ he admitted, still avoiding her eye. ‘It was rather more serious than that. I told you my parents were entertainers?’
‘Yes. You said you were virtually brought up on the road.’
‘That’s right. We went from one set of digs to another, each dingier than the last. I could write a guidebook on miserable guest houses in miserable towns. There’s scarcely a resort in England where I haven’t picked the pattern off a candlewick bedspread.’ She smiled, but didn’t interrupt him. ‘It was music-hall stuff, very old-fashioned and virtually obsolete after the war, but it was all they knew‚ and they clung to it, even while the audiences dwindled along with their fees. It’s funny, but I never noticed how faded everything had become. At the time, it was all still magical to me, but I can see now that the coming of film was the final nail in the coffin.’ He sipped his drink thoughtfully. ‘Every summer, they’d do one of those seaside end-of-pier jobs because there was still a market for that. For some reason, people seem to enjoy things on holiday that they can’t stand at home. Must be the sun.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot to be said for a bit of Punch and Judy. Not everyone would want all this, even if they could afford it.’
‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, it was the summer of my fifteenth birthday and we were in Rhyl. I’d seen their act a thousand times‚ and the days when they kept me safe by strapping me to a chair at the side of the stage were long gone, so I went off on my own‚ and I met a girl. She was about the same age as me, or so I thought. We spent the afternoon together on the beach‚ and I arranged to see her again the next day, but she never turned up. I waited in the same place for three days, just in case, and after that I got the message. The first time you’re stood up is always the hardest, isn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘But what would you know about that?’
‘You’d be surprised. So
did
you see her again?’
‘No. Not then, anyway. But at the end of the week, just after my parents had finished their act, this man forced his way backstage and began beating seven bells out of me. My father dragged him off, so he started on him instead.’
‘Who on earth was he?’
‘The girl’s father. She told him I’d forced myself on her and gone too far.’
‘She accused you of raping her?’
‘She said I’d tried, and that was enough for my father. He looked at me with such disgust, Astrid. I’ll never forget it.’
‘He didn’t believe you hadn’t done it?’
The unquestioning acceptance of his innocence was not lost on Danny, and he looked at her gratefully. ‘No, he didn’t. I don’t think my mother did either, although she never actually said as much. The man threatened to go to the police, so my dad paid him off. It was all he could think of. I begged him to let me prove my innocence instead, but he said no one would accept my word over hers. He was probably right. She was the butter-wouldn’t-melt sort. They’d probably pulled the same trick all over the country.’
‘Was it a lot of money?’
Danny nodded. ‘Yes. He gave up all their savings, then borrowed to keep them afloat. When he ran out of lenders, he tried his luck at gambling.’
Astrid took the cigarettes out of the box and lit one for both of them. ‘You said keep
them
afloat; did they throw you out because of what had happened?’
‘Oh no. We stuck together for about a year after that. Anything else would have made their sacrifice even more senseless than it was already. And in fairness to them, they never mentioned it again. My father said he didn’t want to hear another word about it, and he meant it. But that was worse for me because convincing them I hadn’t done anything wrong was never an option. In the end, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I left them a note when we were in Lowestoft and hitched a lift to London to make my own way. I’ve never been so lonely in my life.’
It might have been romantic, Astrid thought, had it not been so unfair, and ultimately so destructive. ‘Wasn’t there anyone else for you to turn to?’ she asked.
‘No. We had some relatives in the business, but family was out‚ for obvious reasons‚ and we never stayed anywhere long enough for me to make friends. Anyway, I wanted to get on and work. It was the only way I could think of to get my father out of debt and gain his respect back. But perhaps that was too much to hope for. Going into film was a mistake, for a start. It was as if I’d shamed him even more by hammering that coffin nail in myself. But it was the future, and I needed the money.’
‘Couldn’t you explain why you were doing it?’
‘He wouldn’t have listened. And I thought it would be better to get my first hundred pounds and send it to him, let the money do the talking that I wasn’t able to.’
‘But he killed himself before you had the chance.’
‘Yes.’ Danny downed the rest of the glass and said bitterly‚ ‘I was nearly there, too. Just four quid short.’
Astrid tried in vain to think of something to say that would make him feel better, but everything sounded either patronising or naive. Instead, she asked‚ ‘What about the girl? You said you didn’t see her again
then
, so have you bumped into her since?’
He nodded. ‘This afternoon. I wasn’t sure at first. It was a long time ago‚ and she looked different in a uniform. But tonight, when she’d tarted herself up to sing with that band, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was her. And God help me, Astrid, but I wanted to take the little bitch by the throat and show her what pain feels like, how much it hurts to lose someone.’
‘And that’s why you disappeared so quickly.’ She took his hand and gently unclenched the fist, waiting for his anger to pass. ‘I’m so sorry, Danny,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m surprised you even considered coming back to this part of the world. It hasn’t exactly been lucky for you, has it?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘No, it hasn’t. But if you must know, when I agreed to come I thought Portmeirion was in Cornwall.’ They both laughed‚ and he looked at her gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve done it again, when I wanted to talk about you.’
‘There’s always that brandy,’ Astrid suggested. ‘I’ll take my chances with the umbrella if you will.’
Danny smiled. ‘There’s just one thing I need to clear up first, though,’ he said as he walked round to open the door for her. ‘That bit about being stood up – I don’t believe a word of it. You
can’t
know what it’s like, surely?’
‘No,’ she admitted, ‘but only because I don’t take the risk. Like I said, nothing frightens me as much as rejection.’ She looked away, embarrassed at having been made to talk about herself for a change. ‘I suspect I’d be a very needy lover, and that’s never an attractive quality.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, running his fingers through her hair. ‘I can think of worse.’
Marta and Josephine threw the blankets over their heads and ran back to the village. The rain drove in with twice the force for having been made to wait‚ and, by the time they reached the shelter of the narrow passage that divided Neptune from the neighbouring cottages, they were soaked through. ‘I’m sorry we were driven out with so little ceremony,’ Marta said when she had got her breath back, ‘but how was I supposed to know the fucking tide would come in so quickly?’
In the darkness, she heard Josephine laugh and felt her hand against her cheek, cupping her face. ‘At least it had the decency to wait.’
Marta turned her head to kiss Josephine’s palm. ‘But not long enough.’ She drew Josephine towards her, breathing in the smell of the rain on her skin, feeling her shiver as the blanket fell to the floor. ‘Come up with me now. We need to get out of these clothes.’
Josephine hesitated. ‘Are you sure? What if Lydia’s looking for you?’
‘She won’t be. Lydia and I . . .’ Marta faltered, aware of her own hypocrisy in being happy to betray Lydia by deed but not by word. ‘It’s not . . .’
Josephine sensed her difficulty and stopped her, apparently as relieved to avoid the subject as Marta was. ‘You don’t have to explain. You and Lydia – it’s not my business.’
‘Come inside, though. I haven’t given you your present yet.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Marta felt herself blush like a schoolgirl. She led the way up the steps, precarious now in the rain, and found her key. As she fumbled for the lock, a flash of lightning obliged her by illuminating the whole of the square, distorting the buildings and briefly transforming Portmeirion’s magic into the twisted stuff of nightmares. She braced herself for the response; in truth, she had always been a little afraid of storms‚ and, as the thunder cracked above her head, she was glad to get inside, where its violence was at least muted.
She switched on a lamp and stared at the half-unpacked suitcases and piles of clothes and books which seemed to cover every surface. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said, wishing she had bothered to tidy up. ‘I could pretend it was a burglary, but I’d never get away with it.’
‘You don’t believe in travelling light, do you?’ Josephine glanced round the room. ‘I can count seven pairs of trousers from here.’ She walked over to the bed while Marta bundled some clothes into a drawer, and picked up a book from the pillow. ‘
Nightwood
. This is the novel you were talking about?’
Marta nodded. ‘It’s brilliant. You’d hate it.’
‘How do you know what I’d hate?’ She opened the book and read the first few pages. Marta watched her, amused by her defiance, getting to know her moods as well as she had begun to know her body and glad that their trust in each other was nurtured by the physical intimacy which seemed so important to both of them. The evening had surprised her, and she realised now that she had been foolish to assume that – of the two of them – her commitment to this relationship was the greater. She should know by now to take nothing for granted where Josephine was concerned, especially her toughness. When they made love, she sensed a need every bit as great as her own‚ and it frightened her; it was one thing to accept your own vulnerability in a relationship, much harder to assume responsibility for someone else’s, and as the bond between them grew stronger, Marta was forced to consider where it would lead and who might get hurt in the process. After a couple of minutes, Josephine looked up and smiled sheepishly. ‘You’re right. I’d hate it.’
‘You’ll like this more, I hope.’ Marta took a flat parcel out of one of the suitcases and handed it over.
Intrigued, Josephine unwrapped the paper and looked down at the charcoal drawing of a female nude. The figure seemed to be walking away from something, one arm behind her head, the other gesturing back to where she had come from; she was glancing over her shoulder, oblivious to the gaze of the artist; her expression was impossible to read, and all the more intriguing for its ambiguity. There was no signature but Josephine did not need one to recognise the artist. ‘It’s a Gaudier-Brzeska. Where on earth did you get it?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you after tonight, but Alma gave me the name of a dealer in London. She and Hitch have got an amazing collection of art, including some Gaudier-Brzeska nudes in the bedroom, apparently, and I was talking to her about your play. Do you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful, Marta.
She’s
beautiful, but it’s more than that. It’s the physicality of it. I can’t believe I’m holding something he’s actually touched. This must have been in that squalid little room in London; he and Sophie probably argued over it.’
Marta looked at the drawing and knew what Josephine meant: there was something very personal and immediate about the marks on the paper, the areas where the artist had deliberately smudged the shading with his finger to emphasise the softness of the woman’s skin, and it gave the work an intimacy over and above its subject matter. ‘I know how proud of that play you are,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry she
isn’t
laughing but that could just about be a smile.’ She squinted over Josephine’s shoulder. ‘In the right light.’ A few drops of rainwater fell from her hair onto the glass as she leant forward. ‘None of us are dressed very suitably for the middle of the night, are we? Pour us a drink and I’ll run a bath.’ She grinned. ‘I assume you don’t mind sharing?’
‘Have you forgotten I went to a physical training college? I used to shower with thirty other women every day, so it’s not something I’m likely to be shy about now.’
Marta turned on the taps and drew the curtains in the bathroom, noticing that the character of the storm was somehow different on the other side of the village; away from the buildings and the people, rain slanted against the dark mass of trees with a primeval power which suggested that it belonged there, that sunshine was the aberration, and she was glad to shut it out. Josephine handed her a glass of wine and Marta smiled as she propped her birthday present up against the mirror. ‘You don’t take long to make yourself at home. Moving your art in already?’
‘With all your luggage, the only space left is on the walls.’ She sat down on the side of the bath and tested the temperature of the water. ‘I was talking to Bella Hutton earlier.’
‘Said very casually for someone who’s supposed to be shy.’
‘It was more like having an audience with her, I suppose,’ Josephine admitted, ‘but I liked her. I liked her very much.’ She told Marta what the actress had said about
The Laughing Woman
. ‘She met Gaudier-Brzeska, apparently, and she said something very interesting – that he might have destroyed less of his work if he’d known he was going to die so young.’
‘I’m sure that’s true, but I wish you’d stop talking about running out of time and dying young. I hope you’re not going to be like this every year on your birthday.’ She looked intently at Josephine and asked more seriously‚ ‘You’re not keeping something from me, are you? You’d tell me if you were ill?’
‘I’m not ill.’ Josephine slipped out of her clothes and climbed into the water.
‘So why the sense of urgency?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it’s because my mother was still so young when she died. Fifty-two is nothing, is it?’
She was quiet for a moment, and Marta guessed she was thinking about the twelve years that stood between her and the same age. She got into the bath and Josephine lay back against her. ‘It was cancer, wasn’t it?’ Marta said gently.
‘Yes. I’d only just started to find out who she really was – you know how that relationship changes when you grow up and you start to become friends.’
‘In theory. I was never that lucky with my mother, but it sounds like you had a lot in common.’
‘We liked the same things, I suppose. It’s her fault I love the cinema so much – she took me all the time when I was young. I used to crawl under the seats, and I remember her hauling me onto her lap and reading the difficult words on the title cards so I understood what was going on.’ She smiled at the memory of it. ‘It must have all been very primitive then, but I know I went to
The Great Train Robbery
when I was about seven or eight and thought it was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen.’ Marta listened as she talked about her childhood, gently tracing the contours of Josephine’s face with her hand, touching her brow, her cheekbones, the line of her jaw, committing them to memory as a safeguard for the weeks apart. ‘When I left home, I’d write to her about the films I’d seen and she’d do the same. Then gradually her letters changed. There was no magic in them any more. It took me a long time to find out that it was because she was too ill to leave the house.’ She paused to kiss Marta’s fingertips as they reached her lips. ‘Too ill, or too ashamed.’
‘Why ashamed?’
‘People don’t talk much about cancer now, but they certainly didn’t then. There was a stigma to it, like having a drunk in the family or someone who was mentally ill. It’s the same with any illness: cancer, depression, epilepsy. People treat it as a disgrace, as though you’re somehow to blame, and as much as you know that isn’t true, some of it sticks and you start to believe it yourself.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Marta said quietly. There had been a time when she had suffered from depression, and when – committed to an institution for falling pregnant with a child who wasn’t her husband’s – she had begun to believe everything about herself but what she knew to be true.
Josephine reached up and pulled Marta gently down into a kiss. ‘Of course you do.’
It was, Marta knew, as close to prompting her as Josephine would go. One day, if she ever found the courage to talk properly about that part of her life, it would be Josephine she turned to, but she was still too afraid of it. She felt somehow that the despair was still inside her, waiting to return, and to speak it out loud would be to allow it back into the light. ‘That must have been hard for your mother,’ she said, shifting the conversation away from herself.
‘As soon as her body started to give her away, she retreated into herself,’ Josephine said. ‘I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t had my father to deal with the outside world for her. She made him put a brave face on it‚ and I think it nearly killed him. I used to hear him crying at night when she’d finally fallen asleep, but he never let that mask slip in front of her. At least not when I was around.’
‘How long ago was it?’
‘Thirteen years now. I was nearly twenty-seven‚ but I felt like that small child crawling around in the dark again – lost without her, resentful of what her death meant to our family and my role in it, and terrified in case the same thing happens to me. From that moment . . . well, I was like her in so many ways.’
‘I think she’d forgive you for making an exception.’
Josephine smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose she would. And for someone who’s obsessed with time, I’ve just wasted too much by a long and rambling answer to a very straightforward question.’
‘It was hardly straightforward.’
‘No? You should have met my grandfather: “If there’s anything you want to do, do it now. We’ll all be in little boxes soon enough.”’ She laughed at the expression on Marta’s face. ‘Perhaps it’s a Scottish thing – you languid English wouldn’t understand.’
It was a weak attempt to make light of her grief‚ and Marta cut straight through it. ‘I’m sorry your mother didn’t live to see what you’ve achieved. She’d have been so proud of you.’
Josephine picked up her glass and spoke more seriously. ‘I suppose that’s what made me decide to do this film in the end: for her. She would have been so excited. The books and the plays – she’d have been pleased for me, even if she didn’t necessarily like them all. But a film, even though I’ll have had nothing to do with the finished results – that’s something she’d genuinely have loved.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘And something she could show off about in Inverness.’
‘You’re not going to get involved in the script, then?’
‘No. I mustn’t make the mistake of turning everything I love into work, and I don’t want to know the reality of it. I once read a rather snide article about Betty Compson in a film magazine which said that she was incapable of registering emotion without the help of a three-piece orchestra; apparently they had to churn out ‘Mighty Like a Rose’ for her to cry real tears. I know you think that’s funny,’ she added as Marta began to laugh, ‘but I was absolutely devastated. It was like being told there’s no Father Christmas, except I was a grown woman.’
‘It’s just one contradiction after another with you, isn’t it?’ Marta said affectionately. ‘For someone so cynical, you’re such an innocent.’
‘I know. Don’t tell anyone.’ Josephine reached for a towel and went through into the bedroom to fetch the bottle. ‘I asked Alma if she’d let you do the script,’ she said, refilling Marta’s glass, ‘but apparently you wouldn’t be ruthless enough.’
‘Bloody cheek. My devotion to you does have its limits, you know.’
‘Does it?’
Marta grinned at her and got out of the bath. ‘No, damn you, I don’t suppose it does.’
Josephine took a towel and wrapped it round Marta’s shoulders, drawing her close. ‘I’m serious, Marta. I need to know what I can hope for and what I can rely on. It’s not only artists who can be reckless, and I don’t want to destroy this by expecting too much from it – or too little. You love Lydia, don’t you?’ It was a statement, not an accusation, and Marta nodded. ‘And you’re building a life together, one that suits you both.’
‘You said you didn’t want to talk about this.’
‘I lied.’
Marta saw the anxiety in Josephine’s eyes and searched for the words to reassure her. ‘Do you remember when we first met‚ and we sat on that station platform and talked about my mess of a life?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And I told you that what counted was coming first with somebody.’
‘Yes. You were explaining that what came first with Lydia was her work.’
‘Well, that hasn’t changed, Josephine. Lydia always has and always will love her work above all else‚ and there’s nothing wrong with that. What’s different now is that you come first for me. When you were telling me about Hitchcock’s charade and running through everyone’s worst fears, all I could think of was how strange it was that no one had mentioned the love of another person and what it would mean to lose them. That’s my fear – a life without you. Yes, Lydia and I care about each other. We enjoy each other’s company‚ and you were right in what you said earlier: it’s sane and it’s normal and it gives us a stability which we both need. But Lydia gets what she needs
most
in the world from an audience; I get it from you. We’re both selfish in that way, and whatever companionship we share comes a very poor second. She knows that as well as I do.’