For Better For Worse (25 page)

They brought in the New Year separately. Kaye motored to East Sussex to spend the evening with friends. The lavish New Year party was given by Kaye’s old school chum, Norah Durbridge, whose husband Francis was enjoying a notable success with the BBC himself.

‘It’s an absolute age since I saw you two,’ Kaye complained as Francis lit her cigarette with an onyx table lighter. Kaye was wearing a black and cream silk cocktail dress with a heavily beaded bodice. It had cap sleeves and was ruched at the waist. The hemline was just below the knee. She also had elbow-length black silk gloves and a small ostrich-feathered headband. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘I’ve been busy with the children,’ said Norah, ‘and Francis has been getting to grips with a certain radio detective.’

‘You must be so proud of Paul Temple,’ Kaye told Norah’s husband. ‘It seems that the listeners can’t get enough of him.’ Francis smiled shyly. ‘They tell me the BBC had 7,000 telephone calls after the first episode.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ Someone had handed Kaye a drink. ‘Any more in the pipeline?’

‘Plenty,’ Francis chuckled. ‘But tell me about your success. We were delighted to see that you’ve been voted the nation’s top playwright.’

‘It was a bit of a surprise.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Francis. ‘It’s about time you were recognised for your achievements. It was much deserved, my dear.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kaye modestly.

‘And now I’m told that you’re sitting very close to a new contract,’ said Francis. ‘Perhaps after that, who knows …’ He moved closer and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Hollywood?’

Kaye laughed softly. ‘It’s not quite as exotic as that,’ said Kaye, ‘and you know the score, everyone’s favourite today and tomorrow’s fish ’n’ chip paper.’

‘How true,’ said Francis sagely.

Kaye sipped her wine. ‘I believe I may have poached one of your favourite actors … Boney Crawford?’

‘Good Lord,’ cried Francis. ‘The last I heard of him, he was playing Holmes in
The
Adventure of the Speckled Band
.’

‘That’s enough of you two talking shop,’ said Norah, slipping her arm through Kaye’s. ‘Darling, there’s somebody here I want you to meet.’

Her cream-coloured full-length evening dress rustled as she led Kaye to a sofa where a man was deep in conversation with a blonde actress.

Francis introduced Kaye to Percy Granger and then encouraged the actress to another part of the room. Kaye and Percy stood together indulging in a little small talk. She liked him. He was younger than her, and seemed more like an overgrown schoolboy, but he knew her work and seemed very interested in what she was doing.

‘Are you a writer?’ she asked.

‘Television producer,’ he smiled.

Kaye nodded sagely. She knew little about the workings of a television studio, but she wasn’t about to admit to that.

‘Now that the war is over, this is a whole new world,’ he said. ‘I’ve long admired your work and when Francis said you were coming, I asked to meet you. Tell me Miss Hambledon, would you be interested in working in television?’

‘You’re asking me to write for television?’ Kaye gasped. ‘Do you think there is a future in it?’ She sat down, crossed her legs and took one of the cigarettes he had offered her from the tortoiseshell cigarette box on the table in front of them. ‘It sounds like a nice idea, but who in the world can afford to buy one?’

‘We think it will really catch on,’ Percy said, lighting both their cigarettes. ‘Now that the Sutton Coldfield transmitter is up and running, we can already reach the Midlands and central Wales. It won’t be long before programmes are available in the whole country.’

Kaye gave him an unconvinced smile and took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘You’ve still got some way to go,’ she said. ‘The last I heard less than a third of the population even own a television. Somehow or other, you’re going to have to appeal to the masses.’

‘You are absolutely right,’ he said, ‘but all it needs is for one really exciting project to turn the whole nation into television viewers. The real question is, are you one of our pioneers?’

A maid drifted by with a drinks tray and Percy grabbed a glass. He gestured to Kaye, but her glass was still half full. She was still sceptical about what he was saying, but she was also beginning to feel a small frisson of excitement. ‘I’d like to believe what you’re saying, but even if people have a television, will they have the time to watch it?’

Percy leaned back on the sofa. ‘I’ll say this for the BBC,’ he said. ‘They have a very clear vision for the future. The feeling is that we can appeal to the family audience. Instead of going out to the pictures, people can gather around their television screens in the home. The nation needs families. We want to make television time, family time.’

‘But television sets are awfully expensive,’ Kaye mused.

‘True,’ said Percy, ‘but already there are firms looking into a rental market. The point is, Kaye, we need to be ready. We shall need programmes, plays and ideas of the highest quality. The world of broadcasting is about to undergo a radical change. As well as informing people, it’s becoming a mode of entertainment. What I am asking you is, are you in or out?’

‘That’s a stark choice …’

‘We love your radio plays, but this would be the making of a new career.’

‘I presume I’ll only get paid on broadcast?’

‘And at the moment we can only transmit pre-recorded programmes,’ Percy nodded. ‘It may take a while to filter through, but you’ll get a far larger rate of pay than you do for radio. I’m sure your agent would look into the possibility of securing you an advance.’

Kaye could feel herself beginning to tremble with excitement. He was right. This was a fantastic opportunity and one she’d be a fool to let slip. ‘Let me submit a few ideas,’ she said, doing her best to sound nonchalant. ‘Would you accept a cast list and a synopsis?’

‘From someone of your calibre and reputation, that would be fine,’ he said. ‘I have to warn you that the wheels will move very slowly in this business. We’re sitting here at the beginning of 1949 but it may be the beginning of the fifties and beyond before you’ll see your work being broadcast.’

‘That’s all right,’ Kaye smiled. ‘I have time.’ A wisp of smoke caught in her throat and she coughed.

‘That’s a nasty cough,’ said Norah reappearing. ‘Are you taking something for it?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Kaye, regaining her composure. ‘I’m not ill or anything, but I can’t seem to shake it off.’

‘Cut down on the weed, darling,’ Francis joked.

‘I know, I know,’ Kaye laughed, ‘but it helps me concentrate when I’m writing, and if I don’t smoke, I’ll be eating all the time.’

Percy patted his slightly rounded stomach. ‘Tell me about it,’ he chuckled and, spotting an old friend, excused himself.

‘You seemed deep in conversation,’ said Francis, clearly fishing.

‘He’s looking for television writers,’ said Kaye, ‘but you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Interested?’

‘You bet,’ she laughed. ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting that!’

‘Life is always full of surprises,’ Francis chuckled. ‘By the way, how’s Henry?’

‘In prison,’ said Kaye, picking a piece of tobacco from her bottom lip with her gloved hand, ‘for bigamy.’

*

Malcolm Mitchell stared at the brown paper parcel in front of him. Judith had given it to him just before Christmas but he still hadn’t opened it. He poured himself a whisky and turned the key in the lock of his study door. They were off to a New Year’s Eve party and Judith was still getting ready, but he didn’t want her bursting in on him. Taking a large mouthful of his drink, he sat at his desk with the parcel in front of him for some while before he undid the string. It was a navy scarf, hand-knitted and even his inexpert eye could see it wasn’t very well done. On the top there was a postcard with a picture of Bognor pier before the war on it. On the reverse he read,
‘To Granddad with love from Edward.’
Malcolm took a deep breath before pushing the scarf, paper and postcard into the bin. His chest was tight and he had a lump in his throat.

He wept silently until he heard Judith calling as she came downstairs, ‘Are you ready, Malcolm?’

Blowing his nose heartily, he stood up and downed the rest of his drink. ‘Coming.’

She tried the door handle. ‘Why have you locked the door? What are you doing? Come on, we’ll be late.’

Taking Annie’s gift out of the bin, he opened the desk drawer and shoved everything inside. ‘Coming.’

*

Sarah, Annie and Lottie celebrated at home. When the children were tucked into bed and sleeping, Sarah’s thoughts turned to Bear. Why had she said she was spoken for? It was a stupid, old-fashioned expression and she hadn’t exactly given Peter any firm promises. Bear seemed such a kind man. When he’d come to the house that day, he had a small gift for the girls, a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate each. To make it last, Sarah allowed them one square each at teatime.

In the end, Lottie was the first footer. After knocking enthusiastically, she came back into the house on the stroke of midnight with the traditional gifts of a silver sixpence to bring financial prosperity, a slice of bread to represent daily food, some salt for honesty, and a knob of coal for good cheer for the following year.

It seemed like a good start, but in January the whole country was plunged into mourning when Tommy Handley, the man whose comedy show
ITMA
had got them through the awful war years, suddenly died of a brain haemorrhage. In the shops there was little other conversation and the grief so openly displayed took the powers-that-be by surprise. Kaye went to the funeral, of course.
ITMA
had taken a lot of her short sketches in the early days. The day after they’d buried him at Golders Green cemetery, Kaye had a surprise visit from her solicitor.

Mr Dobbin was an efficient-looking man but very near retirement age. He had known the family for years but only became Kaye’s solicitor after her mother died. Smartly turned out in his pinstriped suit with matching waistcoat, the expression on his pinched grey face told her that he hadn’t come with good news. Sarah had shown him into Kaye’s writing room where she sat at her typewriter, a cigarette dangling from her lips, working towards a deadline and trying to plan something for her first television play. Until she saw who it was, she didn’t welcome the intrusion.

‘Shall I get you both some coffee?’ Sarah asked.

With a cough, Kaye crushed her cigarette into the already overflowing ashtray and stretched her body. ‘We’ll go into the sitting room, Sarah.’

‘I hate to disturb you, my dear,’ Mr Dobbin apologised. ‘I can see that you are very busy.’

Kaye rolled her right shoulder and rubbed it. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sat at the desk for too long. My shoulder is killing me. I need to change position.’

He followed her into the sitting room and they watched Sarah as she held a newspaper over the front of the fire to help it draw.

‘I’ve had a communication from Mr Royale,’ he said as Sarah left the room and they sat close to the dancing flames. He took an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to her. ‘I’m afraid it’s regarding the divorce. In short, he’s refusing to allow it.’

‘Refusing to allow it?’ Kaye repeated. She coughed and tipped the contents of the envelope onto her lap. The solicitor’s papers requesting his signature had been torn up. Mr Dobbin waited until she had opened the Christmas card and read Henry’s accompanying letter which began with
My dearest Kaye …

I know I have treated you shabbily and you have every right to be angry, but I have changed. I know now that I believe in the indissolubility of Christian marriage. The Church gave us its blessing and since I’ve been here it has served to make me understand that we should not break our marriage vows. This is why I cannot agree to the divorce. I loathe the thought of defeat in anything, which is why I am asking you for a second chance. Please don’t do this, my darling. We can work it out and have a good marriage once again.

May I offer you my heartfelt congratulations on your splendid achievements at the BBC.

Your ever loving Henry.

Kaye got up from her chair and, standing with her back to Mr Dobbin, gazed angrily into the fire. Her chest was tight with indignation. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said eventually when she had calmed down and composed herself again. ‘Half the country is getting divorced, but he has to dig his heels in. Why?’

‘I get the feeling that he thinks he has more to lose by letting you go, my dear.’

‘But he doesn’t want me,’ said Kaye, sitting back down and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘He never had a good word to say about me when we were together.’ She looked up helplessly. ‘What’s he playing at?’

‘He mentions the BBC,’ said Mr Dobbin cautiously.

‘It’s the money, isn’t it,’ she sighed. ‘He thinks I’m rolling in it and that’s why he wants to come back.’

‘That is my considered opinion,’ Mr Dobbin nodded. The door opened and Lottie came in with a tray of coffee. She hovered for a second or two then put it down. Kaye thanked her and gently ushered her from the room.

She turned back to Mr Dobbin. ‘What can I do? If I let him come back here, he’s just as likely to take everything.’

Mr Dobbin nodded again. ‘And he’d have every right to. The wife’s property is her husband’s. Our laws are still quite archaic when it comes to marriage.’

‘But doesn’t the bigamy case prove his adultery?’

‘You would have to do it all over again in a divorce court,’ said Mr Dobbin. ‘It means names and places. And if as he says, he doesn’t agree with divorce, he could drag it out for years.’

‘But I don’t want him back in my life!’ Kaye lowered herself into a chair. She felt sick. Five minutes ago she felt fulfilled and contented with life. Now there was a huge threatening cloud hanging over her. She couldn’t go back to being Henry’s wife, she just couldn’t. ‘I’ve finally got something together for myself and my family.’

‘I can see that, my dear,’ said Mr Dobbin, ‘which is why I came down from London to see you in person. We have to discuss what to do for your protection.’