Below her, Maud could see their faces: Monica’s eager, flushed and unpainted, Basil’s sleek and mahogany, and Barton Sinclair’s London night owl and deathly pale. They seemed infinitely more terrifying than a first night audience at Covent Garden.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered, wringing her sweating hands.
‘Go on, darling,’ said Bas. ‘We’re all on your side.’
Off went the pianist. Maud fluffed the opening.
‘I’m sorry. Could we start again?’
‘Of course,’ said Barton.
Off went the pianist again, and Maud opened her mouth.
There once lived a Vilja, a fair mountain sprite,
She danced on a hill in the still of the night.
Her voice was sweet, true and hesitant, but suddenly, as she launched into the main theme, it seemed to soar out glorious and joyful, stilling the bluebottle and taking the dust off the rafters, and the four other people in the room felt the hair rising on the backs of their necks.
‘A star is re-born,’ whispered Monica, wiping her eyes.
‘I
am
going to have a nice Autumn,’ reflected Basil. ‘Over forty, they’re always so grateful!’
‘Vilja, Oh, Vilja, be tender and true,’
sang Maud, triple pianissimo,
‘Love me and I’ll die for you.’
For a second there was silence, then her audience burst out clapping and cheering.
‘Come into Covent Garden, Maud,’
sang Basil.
‘You’ve got the part,’ said Barton Sinclair. ‘The only problem is how much you’re going to show up the others.’
‘Thank you, Barton,’ said Monica and Basil in unison.
After that they all went back to the Bar Sinister for several more bottles of Muscadet and Barton Sinclair only just made the six forty-five.
Tony and Declan were very apprehensive when they heard the news of such close fraternization between the rival franchise sides. On reflection, however, Tony decided he’d definitely got the better bargain. While Maud was a rattle who drank far too much, Monica drank very little and was incredibly discreet.
‘Keep your trap shut and your ears open,’ Tony told her. ‘You may learn some interesting things.’
‘I’m not pumping anyone,’ said Monica firmly. ‘It’s simply not on. Only if anyone lets anything drop.’
‘It’ll be knickers if Bas has anything to do with it,’ said Tony.
Declan, however, who was going to have to spend the second half of September and much of October in Ireland with Cameron, was principally relieved that Maud was so much happier. The sound of her carolling away upstairs practising her songs reminded him of the carefree days in Dublin when they were first married. Perhaps, if
The Merry Widow
were a success, she’d have enough confidence to take up acting professionally again.
Caitlin, who had now dyed her custard-yellow hair so black it almost looked blue, found her mother’s euphoria even more irritating than her previous picky depression, and decided to push off to London for a few days to stay with some schoolfriends. She was going back the week after next and might as well have some fun before the prison doors clanged round her again.
She found Taggie in the kitchen fainting over a final reminder from the Electricity Board. ‘I can’t think why it’s so high.’
‘Mummy’s vibrator’s battery-operated, so it can’t be that,’ said Caitlin. ‘Hullo, darling,’ she added, hugging Claudius.
‘He’s in disgrace,’ sighed Taggie. ‘He’s just eaten one of Mummy’s new slingbacks.’
‘Good thing; they were gross,’ said Caitlin. ‘Every Claud has a silver lining! Can you lend me fifty pounds to go to London?’
‘I haven’t got it,’ protested Taggie. ‘I’ve just lent Daddy a hundred pounds for a new pair of cords for Ireland.’
‘At least I’ll be gone for nearly a week, so you won’t have to feed me,’ cajoled Caitlin. ‘So that’s worth fifty.’
‘And we haven’t done your trunk yet,’ wailed Taggie. ‘You’ve grown out of everything, you need new Aertex shirts, and both your games’ skirts are split.’
‘Oh, sew them up,’ said Caitlin airily. ‘We can’t possibly afford new ones if we’re so poor.’
RIVALS
39
After a riotous five days in London, Caitlin rolled up at Paddington Station with just enough money for her half-fare home. Her blue-black hair was coaxed upward at the front into a corkscrew quiff. She was wearing peacock feather earrings, a black and white sleeveless T-shirt, a black Lycra mini which just covered her bottom, laddered black tights, huge black clumpy shoes, all of which belonged to various friends of hers, a great deal of black eye make-up, and messages in Biro all over her arms.
It was hardly surprising, therefore, that the man at the ticket desk refused to believe she was under sixteen. A most unseemly screaming match ensued, which first amused then irritated the growing queue of passengers behind Caitlin, who began to worry they might miss their trains home.
‘My father is a very very famous man,’ screamed Caitlin as a last resort, ‘and he’ll get you.’
‘Don’t threaten me, young lady,’ said the booking clerk.
‘It’s people like you who turn liberals like me into racists,’ screamed Caitlin even louder. ‘You’re just discriminating against me because I’m white. I’ll report you to the Race Relations Board.’
At that moment Archie Baddingham, on his way home from his three weeks’ banishment in Tuscany, reached the top of the neighbouring first-class queue. Hearing the din, and recognizing Caitlin’s shrill Irish accent from New Year’s Eve, he bought her a ticket.
‘Remember me?’ he said, tapping her on the shoulder.
‘No, yes,’ said Caitlin. ‘You’re Archie, aren’t you? Can you lend me my fare, this stupid asshole won’t believe I’m under sixteen.’
‘I’ve got you a ticket,’ said Archie.
‘I can’t accept a ticket from you,’ stormed Caitlin irrationally. ‘Your father’s been absolutely shitty to my father.’
‘My father’s shitty to everyone,’ said Archie, calmly taking her arm. ‘Come on, we’d better move it.’
They only just caught the train on time, but managed to find two single seats opposite each other.
‘I’ve never travelled first class,’ said Caitlin, stretching out on the orange seat and squirming her neck luxuriously against the headrest.
Archie looked wonderful, she thought. Like her, he’d shot up and lost weight. He was wearing black 501s, rolled up above black socks and black brogues with a black polo-neck tucked into a western belt with a silver buckle, black crosses in his ears, and a brown suede jacket. His blond hair, washed with soap to remove any shine, was long at the front and cut short at the back and sides. His still slightly rounded face looked thinner because of a suntan almost as dark as his eyes.
‘Why are you so disgustingly brown?’ asked Caitlin.
‘I’ve just spent three weeks in Tuscany. My parents booted me out there to get over a girl.’
‘Tracey-on-the-Makepiece.’
Archie grinned, making him look even more attractive. ‘How d’you know that?’
‘You were superglued to her at Patrick’s twenty-first.’
‘So I was. Actually, I’m over her, but Dad and Mum thought I wasn’t, so I thought I might as well take advantage of a free holiday. Have you been away?’
‘We never go anywhere. My parents are always broke. No, it’s quite OK. Nothing to do with your father. They’re just hopeless with money.’ There was a pause. Caitlin gazed out of the window, wondering what to say next.
‘What would you like to drink?’ asked Archie.
‘They got any Malibu?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Well, vodka and tonic, then. Can I come with you?’
The Inter-City, belting towards Bristol, swayed like a drunk as they walked towards the buffet car.
‘Have you had any lunch?’ asked Archie, admiring her narrow waist and slim legs which were more ladder than tights.
‘No,’ said Caitlin.
‘I’ll buy you some grub then,’ said Archie.
‘Been to a funeral?’ said the gay barman, running a lascivious eye over Archie’s black clothes.
‘
Passengers are reminded that it is an offence to serve intoxicating liquor to persons under the age of eighteen
,’ read Caitlin loudly, as Archie paid for everything.
‘Keep your vice down,’ hissed Archie.
The journey back to their seat, with each of them carrying white plastic trays of vodkas and tonics, glasses, bacon sandwiches, Mars bars, and packets of crisps, was much more hazardous. They had no hands to steady themselves against the lurching train.
‘Terribly sorry,’ mumbled Caitlin, going scarlet, as for the third time she cannoned off a commuter back into Archie.
‘Who’s complaining?’ said Archie.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Caitlin as they sped past slow winding rivers, rolling fields, and clumps of yellowing trees. ‘This bacon sandwich is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’
‘I’m surprised you can say that with Taggie cooking for you,’ said Archie. ‘Every time my father compliments my mother on the food, it turns out Taggie’s made it. How is she?’
‘Bit low. She’s hopelessly hooked on Rupert Campbell-Black.’
‘Won’t do her any good,’ said Archie, pouring out a second vodka and tonic for Caitlin. ‘He strikes women down like lightning bolts. Anyway, he’s bonking my father’s ex.’
‘Cameron Cook,’ said Caitlin dismissively. ‘She’s a crosspatch, isn’t she? I can’t see what men see in her. My brother was crazy about her, and now she’s gone off to make a film in Ireland with Daddy. I hope they don’t end up in bed. People usually do on location, don’t they? I’d loathe her as a stepmother.’
‘Dad was mad about her. I was shit-scared he’d leave Mum and marry her,’ said Archie, breaking a Mars bar and giving half to Caitlin. ‘I dread my parents getting a divorce, in case they marry again and leave all their money to their new children.’
Caitlin giggled. ‘Mine haven’t any to leave.’
‘I hear your mother’s joined the cast of
The Merry Widow.
Mum told me on the telephone that she’s streets ahead of everyone else.’
‘At least it’s got her off my back,’ said Caitlin. ‘She drives me crackers: “Where are you going? Who with? Why were you so long on the telephone? Who was that on the telephone? Was it a good party? Did you meet anyone nice?” Christ! Not that she’s interested.’
‘My mother over-reacts,’ said Archie. ‘She thinks the world will end if she finds a half-eaten tin of baked beans under the sofa. And she’s so embarrassing! Christ, we were at a party earlier these holidays and she suddenly asked me in a loud voice if I needed a Kirby grip.’
He raked his blond locks back from his bronzed forehead.
‘It looks great,’ said Caitlin, ‘particularly now the sun’s bleached it.’
A lot of passengers got out at Didcot, so they practically had the carriage to themselves. As the cooling towers of Didcot power station belched out unearthly white steam against a darkening charcoal grey sky, the gay barman came by with a black plastic bag, gathering up rubbish.
‘I want to keep my tonic tin,’ said Caitlin, grabbing it back.
As she put it in her bag, Archie examined the heart-shaped face, the pointed chin, echoed by the widow’s peak, the small, beautifully shaped green eyes, the snub nose, the coral-pink mouth, sweet now it was no longer set in a sulky petulant line, the blue-black mane parted on the left, which she kept lifting with her fingers and tossing over to the right.
Glancing up, she caught him staring at her and smiled.
‘That’s it,’ said Archie wonderingly. ‘Your brace has gone.’
‘So have your zits,’ said Caitlin.
Archie went pink: ‘I fancied you the moment I saw you.’
‘What about Tracey?’
‘She was just a net,’ said Archie.
They were nearing Cotchester now, dense woods clinging to steep hills on each side of the line giving way to lighted houses.
Archie removed his ear-rings, putting them in his pocket, because he said his father would only make a fuss. Then blushing again, he forced a tenner into the pocket of Caitlin’s clinging Lycra skirt.
‘What’s this for?’ asked Caitlin in amazement. ‘I owe
you
money.’
‘For a taxi,’ said Archie. ‘Percy, my father’s chauffeur, is meeting me, and if we give you a lift he’s bound to sneak to Dad.’
‘It’s just like the Montagues and the Capulets,’ sighed Caitlin. ‘I hope we don’t end up like Romeo and Juliet.’
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ said Archie, ‘and hopefully we can fix an evening when all our parents are away.’
Opening his bank statement next morning, Archie nearly fainted. To make matters worse, it was his mother’s birthday on Friday and he’d promised to buy her the latest recording of
The Flying Dutchman.
Normally he’d have tapped his father, who was a far easier touch than Monica, but Tony was still in Edinburgh for the International Television Festival. Besides, if Tony discovered he was financing a date with Caitlin, Archie would be crated straight back to Tuscany.
He’d been stupid to show off and buy them both first-class tickets and all that booze. If only he’d been back at school, he could have raised the cash smuggling in some booze and fags, or even porn mags, and selling them to other boys on the black market.
Nor was Caitlin the kind of girl who could be fobbed off with hamburgers and a video; she needed something special.
Grimly aware that he hadn’t touched any of the ridiculous amount of holiday work he’d been set, Archie gazed gloomily at the same page of Aristophanes for twenty minutes, then threw the book across the room. If he hurried he might reach the Bar Sinister before lunch and catch his Uncle Basil before he rushed off to polo or some amorous jaunt.
He found Bas humming the Vilja song from
The Merry Widow
and taking fifty pounds out of his own till.
‘Can I have a quiet word?’ said Archie.
‘You can have several noisy ones if you like,’ said Bas. ‘I thought your father had forbidden you to talk to me. Where is Rambo, anyway?’