Unforgettable (24 page)

Or rather, on someone. The minute he'd said those words to Joyce after the show at the Roxy that night, he knew why the girl outside the stage door had seemed vaguely familiar.

I thought I saw someone I once knew
.

The words echoed the title of his song that he was now toting around the music publishers … ‘Someone I once knew' … and he was sure that the girl outside the stage door had been that someone. She had been Gracie Brown, and she was as elusive as trying to get his song published. In a way the two seemed to go together. If fate dealt his cards successfully, then once he found someone to publish his song, he would find his true love, because in his heart they were one and the same. The ‘someone' in his song was the elusive Gracie Brown.

As if to taunt him, his eyes were drawn briefly to an advertisement in the discarded newspaper. Or perhaps it was simply because her name was so dear to his heart that he expected every Gracie in the world to be her.

He put his fish and chips on a plate and screwed up the paper quickly, disgusted at himself for being a sentimental fool. She would have forgotten him long ago. A
beautiful girl like her would have a dozen young men wanting to marry her, and he was wasting time in dreams instead of putting all his energies into his work. He was tiring of being constantly on the move with the band, and he just wanted to be a songwriter.

Besides, if he really had marriage in mind, he knew Joyce was ready and willing. The band-members always said she sang her soulful songs just for him and he could do a lot worse. They were in the same business, and they were fond of one another … but he didn't love her as a man should love his wife, and Joyce was too fine to settle for being second best.

The stray cat who had lately acquired him as its owner came swathing around his legs, purring seductively, and he laughed at her antics.

‘All right, Cat, you want to share my supper, do you?'

He picked up the newspaper again, smoothing it out and putting it on the floor ready to break up a piece of his fish for the cat. And just as quickly, he picked up the paper again, his heart jumping. The cat would have to wait.

It was sheer coincidence that he had spread out the paper so that Gracie's name leapt up at him again. But Charlie didn't believe in
coincidences unless they were there for a purpose. He had seen the girl the other night, or thought he had, unless she was a ghost who was haunting him. And now this name was in bold letters, leaping up as if inviting him to find her.

‘And what would I be doing, visiting a strange woman at this Gracie's Glad Rags and asking for alterations instead of going to a tailor? She'd probably think I was turning the other way!' he said aloud, mocking himself.

The cat purred more loudly, clawing at Charlie's trousers, and clearly seeing its chance of a choice bit of haddock slipping away. At the intrusion, Charlie chopped up the fish almost savagely, before sliding the cat's portion on to the paper and blotting out the advert altogether.

But the night was hot, and later, with thoughts that should have been long forgotten still vivid in his mind, he rescued the greasy paper from the waste bin and copied out the name and address. It would probably be some old girl, trying to make ends meet by taking in sewing, but when he had the time and inclination, he intended to find out, and to exorcise the ghost of another woman called Gracie, once and for all.

During the next weeks there were too many fractious rehearsals and last-minute changes to the show at the Roxy theatre for Charlie to think about putting any such thoughts into action.

On a day when tempers were particularly stretched to near boiling-point, the leading lady threatened to walk out half a dozen times, one of the dancers broke an ankle and was carted off to hospital, and a piece of the scenery came crashing down, Charlie was summoned to the musical director's office.

Feinstein continually prowled around the room, wreathed in a haze of cigar smoke, the half-empty bottle of whisky on his desk attesting to the fact that he had marginally calmed down from the day's rantings.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?' Charlie said, wondering what he'd done to blot his copybook. Feinstein rarely summoned anybody to his sanctuary without good cause, and even more rarely to the artiste's benefit.

‘Sit down, boy, you're making the place look untidy,' the man said, waving him
irritably to a chair. ‘I've been thinking about you.'

Charlie felt his heart sink. This was definitely not good news. Then Feinstein retreated behind his desk and smiled, flashing his gold fillings.

‘It's about that song of yours. I'm not saying we're going to use it, mind, but before this entire show goes up in smoke, we need something new to pep up the second act. The tune sounded catchy enough the one time I heard it, but unless you have lyrics as well, it's no good to me.'

Charlie was stunned for all of five seconds. It was the last thing he expected to hear, but he recovered quickly. Feinsten had to time for ditherers.

‘Yes, there are lyrics,' he said swiftly. ‘I've been trying to find a music publisher to produce it, as a matter of fact, but if it got a hearing in the show …'

He didn't need to go on.
Couldn't
go on, because there was a such a lump in his throat. If it got a hearing in the show and people liked it, he'd be made. Music publishers would be seeking him out, instead of the other way around.

‘Do you have it here?' Feinstein went on. As Charlie nodded, he stood up and went on testily: ‘Then let's hear it. Get that young
Joyce Wilkinson to sing it. She can hold a tune better than most around here. Chop-chop now.'

Charlie shot out of the office. Joyce didn't always come in for rehearsals that didn't involve her, but these days, with Feinstein in his present mood, it didn't pay to be absent. Much to his relief, he found her and grabbed her around the waist.

‘Feinstein wants to hear my song, and he wants you to sing it. You've heard it and you've seen the lyrics, so are you game?'

‘Of course. Oh Charlie …'

She didn't need to be told what this might mean. She gave him a quick hug and then he was off to find the pianist. The song would work best with the whole band, especially with Charlie's plaintive saxophone accentuating the music, but for clarity of sound, the pianist and Joyce's husky voice would do.

Ten minutes later, after listening intently, Feinstein sat thoughtfully stroking his chin. The kid had something, that was for sure, but there was something not quite right.

‘Who's this Gracie in the lyrics? There's no Gracie in the show. You'll have to change that if we're going to use it.'

‘No,' Charlie said flatly. ‘The song is dedicated to Gracie, to someone I once knew,
and it stays the same, or I don't let you have it.'

There was a shocked silence. Nobody dared to defy Feinstein unless they risked being thrown out.

‘And you can't have a girl singing about another girl,'the pianist put in.

Charlie began to feel reckless. It was clear now that Feinstein wanted to use his song. It was good, as he had always known.

‘I know. The male lead should sing it, especially with an extra scene—'

Feinstein was screaming now, his nervous temperament erupting. ‘You damn pipsqueak, telling me what I have to do.'

The leading lady hovered nearby; she put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘It wouldn't take much of a rewrite, sweetie, and Charlie's right. Ralph can sing the song, and we could have a sort of ghostly scene going on in the background with this unknown Gracie. Maybe she's died, and he has to move on to someone new—meaning me. Whadda you say, Feiny? Let's face it, at the moment the show's too static, and this will put some romance back into it.'

Charlie held his breath. The leading lady was forty if she was a day, but once she was on stage she was transformed into a stunning beauty, like a butterfly emerging from a
chrysalis, and she could twist Feinstein around her little finger.

‘Get Ralph,' he barked out. ‘Let's see what he makes of the lyrics first.'

* * *

Charlie phoned his parents that night.

‘I still can't believe my luck. One minute I thought I was going to be slung out of the show, and the next, they're using my song, and Feinstein reckons that once the critics hear it the music publishers will come running, and there'll be thousands of sheet-music copies of it before you can say Open Sesame.'

His father was congratulating him and he was sure his mother was crying in the background. It wasn't so far from his own feelings. If this song worked and he made enough money from it, he would be able to give up touring and set himself up as a proper composer and lyricist.

‘It's wonderful news, Charlie, and it's time you came home to celebrate your success with your family as well as your theatre friends. Your mother misses you,' his father added meaningly.

Charlie was too wrapped up in the thrill of what was happening to do other than agree.
He hadn't been home for several months, and he promised to do so as soon as he could. No doubt his mother thought that now that success was beckoning so fast, Charlie would be thinking of settling down, getting married and producing the grandchildren she craved. Well, so he might, in time, but not unless it was with the right person.

* * *

Feinstein was a fair businessman, and he advised Charlie to register the song in his own name. He paid him handsomely for the use of it in the show, and the arrangement would continue for as long as the show ran. But now Charlie needed an agent to deal with the business side of things, and from then on, everything proceeded so fast he didn't know if he was on his head or his heels.

The agent knew a music critic who would be in the audience on the night the new scene was included. He introduced him to Charlie after the show, and the next day Charlie Morrison's name was blazoned all over the theatre pages of the newspapers as the new songwriting discovery of the year, together with several photographs of the cast, including one of him and Joyce looking very
cosy together, and clearly speculating on their relationship.

‘My mother will enjoy seeing that,' Charlie said. ‘She'll probably think wedding bells are in the air now I'm about to become rich and famous.'

Joyce laughed. ‘Oh well, you know how the gossip rags love to make something out of nothing, but we both know it's not going to happen, don't we, darling?' she teased.

She kissed him lightly on the cheek before he could say anything to embarrass them both, and thought that whoever his Gracie was, she didn't know what she was missing.

* * *

On Sunday Gracie was up early, putting the finishing touches to the bridesmaid dresses. They weren't needed for another month, but she had always been a quick worker, which always produced satisfied customers. Her mum would be proud of her. She had been thinking about Queenie a lot lately, and wishing she could see how well she had got on.

She could never quite resist dreaming of the day when she might be creating such pretty garments as these for the attendants at her own wedding, but the other, more
practical part of her head was considering using her skills to make a stock of children's clothes and set up a market stall. It was only a vague idea at present, and she wasn't really sure if it was right for her. She couldn't see herself yelling out her wares like some of the cheerful market traders did.

The clothes would be exclusive, made to her own designs, and she could easily make them in between the orders that kept the money coming in. It might be a small step on the ladder of success, but it wouldn't exactly compare with getting commissions from the likes of Mrs Jemima Barnes-Gilbert!

By now she had given up the wild idea of being a theatre costumier, knowing instinctively that such work took years of professional training. She was also pretty sure Dolly didn't really want to be her working partner, and she certainly wouldn't agree to being just her assistant. Working together at Lawson's Shirt Factory was one thing. But fond as they were of one another, they would probably squabble far too much if they were together constantly without other people to act as buffers.

She was brought quickly down to earth as she stabbed a pin into her finger. She winced at the sudden sting, though she was more concerned that there should be no blood on
the delicate fabric she was working on. She smiled wryly at her own fantasies, but there was nothing wrong with dreams, and for some people they even came true.

A sudden clatter of someone coming up her stairs two at a time made her jump. The footsteps were followed by a loud thumping on the door, and then Dolly came bursting in, waving a newspaper in her hand.

‘Well, come in, why don't you?' Gracie exclaimed, half-annoyed that for a moment she had been scared. ‘I thought I wasn't seeing you until this afternoon. And what the heck are you doing up so early of a Sunday morning?'

‘I ain't even had breakfast, but never mind all that,' Dolly gasped, holding her side from the stitch she was getting in all her agitation. ‘Have you seen this? One of the early birds at Ma Warburton's was reading it out loud this morning. It's last week's rag, but he ain't too quick with his reading matter. Anyway, of course you ain't seen it, or you wouldn't be looking so bloomin' cheerful, but I s'pose you'd have to know sometime, so I thought I might as well show it to you.'

She paused for breath, breathing heavily. Gracie knew she wouldn't get any more work done until she knew what was up, so she abandoned her sewing, covering the
bridesmaid dresses in tissue paper to protect them.

‘Well? Is it my advert? Were they so surprised to see it at Ma Warburton's? I suppose they didn't think I'd be so bold as to put it in the paper,' she added, feeling miffed if that had really been their reaction.