Remember Me (31 page)

She told him that she would remain on the
premises as it was too far for her to go home to South Bay and back again. She had a flat in an avenue off the Esplanade, near to where William and his family lived. It was a good distance from her place of work; she sometimes shared a cab with William and Faith, or else she cycled. It occurred to her that she might not be able to ride her bicycle for very much longer.

Hetty treated herself to a fish and chip lunch and ate the sandwiches she had brought with her for her tea. She would have to wear her working clothes to go out in the evening, but it would not matter. Her grey dress with the white collar and cuffs was smart enough to wear at any time. She always dressed smartly, but soberly, as the nature of her job required. Besides, she was in mourning at the moment. The bright colours that she loved, the dresses of red, royal blue and emerald green that hung in her wardrobe would have to stay there for a while. This was a trait handed down to her from her real mother, she supposed. Bella had loved bold colours, the gaudier the better.

The cult of mourning, at its height during the reign of Queen Victoria and particularly after the death of Albert, the Prince Consort, had eased off a little now. Hetty supposed she must wear her more sombre clothing for at least three months, and after that time, she realised with a jolt, they would no longer fit her.

Maddy, slipping out to her father’s workshop at
lunchtime, had been told that Hetty and Bertram would be in the audience that evening. She had reserved them seats on the front row and they settled down to study the programme. It was a slightly larger programme this year with a touch of red as well as the usual black and white printing, and with a photograph of some of the Pierrots on the cover. It cost threepence instead of the penny of previous years.

‘Their costs are continually rising, according to Maddy,’ Hetty told Bertram. ‘But I think they are having a pretty good season.’

‘I could take some photographs for them at a reasonable rate,’ said Bertram, studying the one on the cover. ‘I see Maddy is in this one, but I don’t know any of the others.’

‘They have several new members now,’ said Hetty, ‘but I don’t think they have renewed their photographs recently. The original ones were taken by Bamforth’s in Huddersfield, but several of the old troupe from that time have left now.’

‘Yes…’ Bertram was thoughtful. ‘I might be able to do them a good turn, as well as myself. It would be quite an innovation, wouldn’t it, to have pictures of Uncle Percy’s Pierrots in my window? A good advertisement for them and for me as well… And I haven’t forgotten that I asked you if you would agree to model for me.’ He turned to look at Hetty with a question in his eyes. ‘I still haven’t had an answer.’

‘Oh, I don’t know; I’ll think about it,’ she said evasively, which was what she had said before. There was no more time to talk about it as Letty, the pianist, struck up with the opening chords of ‘Here we are again’, and the Pierrots all ran onto the stage.

It was a delightful show, they both agreed, colourful and amusing, with a wide variety of acts; entertainment at its best, the sort that all ages and all strata of society could enjoy.

‘I haven’t heard Maddy sing before,’ said Bertram at the interval. ‘I was almost moved to tears by “Scarborough Fair”.’

‘Oh, that’s her
pièce de résistance
,’ Hetty told him. ‘I expect she sang it specially because we are here. It always goes down well with the audience. I believe it was the very first song she sang for the Pierrots.’

‘I’m not surprised that William is so proud of her,’ observed Bertram. ‘Does she have a boyfriend? Anyone special, I mean? I should imagine she has a lot of admirers.’

‘Well, there was someone,’ said Hetty, ‘but it all came to an end a while ago. She was badly let down and I know she was quite broken-hearted for a while. She tried not to show it, being on the stage and having to perform every day, but it was hard for her. It’s quite a long story…’

‘She’s only young though, surely?’

‘Yes, she’s eighteen. But not too young to have
thought she was very much in love. Anyway, she appears to be getting over it quite well now. I have an inkling, and so has Jessie, that she might be getting friendly with Freddie Nicholls, the conjurer we just saw performing. To my mind, he would be far more suitable for her than…the other one would have been. But, as you say, she’s still very young.’

After the show Bertram invited her, though a little diffidently, as if he were afraid she might say no, to his flat above the shop premises. Once again, she felt it would be ill-mannered of her to refuse. There was no suggestion in his behaviour that he was offering her anything other than friendship. This young man was as different from Samuel as it was possible to be.

She enjoyed his hospitality; the freshly brewed coffee and shortbread biscuits, shop bought, but Huntley and Palmer’s best. It was clear from his tidy living quarters and the immaculate state of his kitchen that he was well able to look after himself. She liked him a lot. He was serious minded without being stuffy. She listened intently, without any feeling of boredom, as he told her how his interest in photography had developed from owning a simple Kodak fixed-focus camera as a lad, to the time when he decided to take a college course and make a career of what had been his hobby.

Almost without realising she was doing so Hetty agreed to pose as a model for him, on the following Wednesday afternoon, when it was half-day
closing at the Moon family shop and office.

‘So nobody is allowed to die, I take it, on Wednesday afternoon?’ said Bertram, quite seriously. He had a dry sense of humour. He did not laugh easily but could find droll amusement in some of the most serious circumstances.

Hetty smiled. ‘There is a telephone in William’s workshop, and there is always one of the men there to take the messages. Wednesday afternoon then. What do you want me to wear?’

‘Have you a white dress? Or one that is pale-coloured? That would show up well and be a contrast to your dark hair. And holding a book in your hands…or a bunch of flowers…’ He looked at her contemplatively. ‘I haven’t quite decided yet.’

‘I shall leave it in your expert hands,’ said Hetty. ‘And now it’s time I was getting back home.’

He went down to the street with her and hailed a passing cab. He shook hands with her formally, thanking her for a most enjoyable evening. She smiled to herself, reflecting again that he and Samuel were poles apart.

As Wednesday afternoon approached she made up her mind that she would tell him the truth. She would tell him that she hoped they would be able to continue as friendly acquaintances, but that it would not be wise for them to spend any time alone together.

She decided to wear her pale lilac dress of silk-chiffon. It had caught her eye several weeks ago,
displayed on a model in Moon’s Modes and she had made up her mind at once that she wanted to buy it. She was not usually given to such impulsive behaviour or to spending so much money on herself, but when Faith and Muriel Phipps both said that it suited her and fitted as though it had been made for her, she knew that she could not resist.

Fortunately the colour was one that was suitable for mourning wear; but it was definitely a ‘best dress’, one that could only be worn on special occasions. She had worn it at the party which had been held to celebrate the eighteenth birthdays of both Maddy and Jessie. This had been a grand occasion on a Sunday evening – Maddy’s only free day – when William had booked a private room at the Crown Hotel, where they had enjoyed an evening dinner, for the family and a few special friends.

Hetty could not foresee that there would be many more such special occasions in the coming months; besides, it was doubtful that the dress would fit her for very much longer. The silk cummerbund was already feeling a little tight.

She posed, at Bertram’s request, with her hands holding a leather-bound book, which she hoped would disguise any sign of a bulge at her midriff. It was a copy of
The Woman in White
by Wilkie Collins which, Bertram told her, was one of his favourite books; an intriguing mystery that Hetty, too, had enjoyed. She was glad he had not chosen
to photograph her with a Bible in her hands, which was a popular pose with photographers. That would have seemed too pious.

He took several shots, full-face views, profiles and half-profiles, dodging in and out of the black curtain to his camera resting on the tripod. He then exchanged the book for a small bouquet of flowers: roses and sweet peas, several of which exactly matched the colour of her dress, which would make no difference, of course, because the photographs would be reproduced in sepia tones.

‘Thank you for being so patient,’ he said when, after more than half an hour, he had completed the sitting to his satisfaction. ‘Now, I think we deserve a cup of tea.’

He led her from the studio to the living room, where he had entertained her the previous week. Whilst he made the tea, which he insisted on doing by himself, she looked around the living quarters, which Bertram had clearly made his own. She had noticed before that the room was tidy, but it was homely and comfortable too.

There was not an abundance of furniture, only such as was required for a young man living on his own. A small oak table and two dining chairs; two armchairs covered in beige moquette, enlivened with cushions in a bold William Morris design of green and blue leaves; matching curtains hung at the windows and the tiles on the fireplace were of a similar design. There was a well-filled bookcase and
Hetty, stooping to read the titles, noticed the works of Conan Doyle, Oscar Wilde and Sir Walter Scott, as well as the most popular books by Charles Dickens and the Brontë sisters. His taste in literature appeared to be the same as hers, she realised.

On a low table, and seeming to dominate the room, was a gramophone with a nickel-plated horn resembling the bell-like morning glory flower. The records were in a cabinet at the side, stacked on their ends, but she decided it would be too nosey to thumb through them. She remarked on the gramophone, though, as they drank their tea and nibbled at chocolate biscuits.

‘Yes, that’s one of my latest acquisitions,’ Bertram told her. ‘And I’m gradually building up my stock of records. We’ll listen to one now, if you would like to?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she agreed.

‘So what would you like to hear? I have quite a variety of music.’

‘Oh, you choose the record,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know a great deal about music. William and Faith have a gramophone similar to yours but with a brass horn. William likes to listen to brass band music, and they like Gilbert and Sullivan, and music hall songs, and some of the more classical songs from operas. But I know there must be all kinds of music that I’ve never heard.’

‘Nor had any of us until these came on the scene,’
said Bertram. ‘The gramophone is a wonderful invention, on a par with the camera. And I guess we’ll see more and more amazing inventions as this century goes on.’

Hetty nodded. ‘I’ve heard of some of the composers of long ago. Beethoven and Mozart – wasn’t he supposed to be a boy genius? – and Chopin and Schubert, but I’ve heard hardly any of their music. I’ve been to a few concerts here, at the Spa Pavilion, and when I lived up in the Newcastle area, but apart from that I’m not very knowledgeable.’

‘Then we’ll listen to some Chopin,’ said Bertram. He took out the record from its paper cover with a hole in the centre. The label depicted a fox terrier listening to a horn gramophone, with the words ‘His Master’s Voice’ written below, the name of the record company. He wound up the gramophone with the handle at the side and carefully placed the needle at the outside edge of the record. They listened in a companionable silence to a Chopin polonaise, followed by a more gentle waltz and a short étude.

‘That was lovely,’ exclaimed Hetty. ‘It’s so soothing, isn’t it, to sit and listen to music?’

‘Yes, it’s what I enjoy doing at the end of a busy day,’ agreed Bertram. ‘And, speaking of the Spa…’ He hesitated and Hetty looked enquiringly at him. ‘You mentioned you had been to concerts there. Well, I’ve got two tickets for a concert there on
Saturday night, a light orchestra, and I wondered if you would like to come with me?’

He paused, whilst she continued to look at him, unsurely and a trifle anxiously. She had intended to tell him today about her condition, but there had not been an opportunity yet, and now…it would be so hurtful to refuse.

‘Please say you will go with me, Hetty,’ he said, and she could not resist the look of hopefulness in his eyes.

‘Yes, of course I will, Bertram,’ she answered. ‘It is very kind of you to ask me.’

Hetty knew that she wanted to go with him. It was just the sort of entertainment that she enjoyed and she had not been to a concert for ages. And she could tell that he enjoyed her company, but she realised it would not be fair to him to keep on seeing him and allowing him to become more fond of her. She guessed that this was happening; she had known enough young men to recognise the signs. As for herself, she liked Bertram a lot, but she could not allow herself to think of what might have been. She had ruined her chances of such a friendship, for the time being at least, and she had to face up to reality. But it could do no harm to go with him just this once, she persuaded herself. Anyway, he might not have bought the tickets; they might be complimentary ones from a grateful client; she knew that such favours were handed out for all kinds of dramatic and musical performances.

The Spa Pavilion was not far from where she lived, on the Prince of Wales Terrace which led off the Esplanade, and so she had arranged to meet Bertram at the entrance to the Spa. He took hold of her hands as he greeted her and she could see from the delight in his eyes that he was very pleased to see her.

It was a local orchestra that was performing, with a solo pianist, cellist and two singers, a soprano and a tenor. The programme of light classical music was a delight to listen to. Overtures from
The Yeoman of the Guard
and
William Tell
; Strauss waltzes and Mozart’s ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’; a Chopin prelude played brilliantly on the piano, and Bach’s haunting cello composition, ‘Air on a G-String’. The singers performed solo items, and then together they ended with the love duet from
La Bohème
.