Curtain Call (14 page)

The taxi had pulled up at Fashion Street in Spitalfields, where Edie lived. ‘Bye, darling,' she said, stroking Tom's cheek with maternal tenderness. ‘Get some rest – you look done in!'

Alone in the cab, Tom wished he had found a way to tell Edie about his seizure that morning. They didn't know each other particularly well, but he discerned in her a sympathetic confidante, and he had few of those. Yet he was anxious that the news didn't get back to Jimmy, who would be sure to gossip about it. He didn't want his prospects damaged by rumours that he wasn't altogether well.

It had taken him long enough – months – just to convince himself that he was entitled to leave Jimmy. The prospect of his defection had put him in mind of the time they first met, nine years ago. It had happened in a roundabout sort of way. Having graduated from King's College, London – the first in his family to attend university – Tom had got a job as assistant at a gallery near the British Museum. The pay was pitiful, but the work unstrenuous. Whenever he could afford it he would go to the theatre, and had taken to writing short notices on spec for a small magazine. After some pestering of the editor he managed to secure a semi-regular slot, enabling him to attend the occasional press night. Of course he knew James Erskine, doyen of the London drama critics, by sight – his photograph was often in the papers. He read him avidly in the
Chronicle
, and in every other paper and magazine he wrote for. Too much in awe to approach the great man, Tom would occupy a seat as close as he dared and eavesdrop on his chat: if Erskine did not have his usual retinue of young men about him, he could be seen jawing with his fellow critics before curtain-up.

One afternoon at the gallery while he was varnishing a frame, Tom overheard a voice from the ground floor that seemed familiar. Rising from his knees to peer over the mezzanine rail, he beheld the unmistakable figure of James Erskine in discussion with the manager, Mr Dearden. He stopped what he was doing, and stared. Here was his moment – a chance to introduce himself, to confess his sincere admiration, perhaps even to mention his own modest efforts as a theatre critic . . . He moved towards the stairs before a sudden paralysing doubt checked him. Erskine probably met young hopefuls like himself all the time, indeed a famous article of his had complained of being buttonholed by strangers from noon to nightfall. He had read elsewhere of the man's legendary brusqueness: the time a visitor had said to him, ‘I mustn't outstay my welcome,' and Erskine had snapped, ‘Who said anything about welcome?' Such chastening reflections caused Tom's step to falter. By the time he had reached the stairs the object of his inflamed curiosity had gone.

Later, as Tom was about to leave for the day, he stopped at Dearden's office and enquired about their famous customer. ‘Erskine? He comes in now and again. He bought one of those Bevan lithographs.' Tom nodded, regretting his earlier hesitancy with renewed anguish – he could have held his own in a conversation about Bevan. ‘Matter of fact,' continued the manager, unaware of the favour he was bestowing, ‘he asked for it to be delivered to his flat. Tomorrow morning?'

‘First thing,' said Tom, his heart dancing.

The cab had arrived at Wapping High Street, where Tom got out. He had been living in rooms above a tobacconist's whose window display seemed not to have changed since 1918. The rent was cheap, probably with good reason. He was lying in bed one night recently when he felt something cold and scratchy ghost across his face. He sat bolt upright and turned on the light: there, on his pillow, sat a grey mouse, twitching from its recent exercise. He knew that the shop downstairs was often beleaguered by mice, but they had not infiltrated his own quarters before. Clearly this one had decided to move up in the world. He had mentioned it the next morning to his elderly landlord, who gave his head a mournful shake and said, ‘They get everywhere. It'll be rats next.' Tom, impressed by his fatalistic tone, had made no further complaint.

In the tiny kitchen he shared with another lodger he opened a tin of soup and tipped it into a pan, then watched it warm over the gas ring. He was still thinking about his first encounter with Jimmy. He had arrived at his Bloomsbury mansion block that morning bright and early – too early. The porter had directed him to the first floor, but Tom's respectful tap at the door had met no reply. After a louder knock also went unanswered he pressed the bell, which he could hear buzz within. Another long pause. Convinced that the owner was not at home he was about to withdraw when he heard a shuffling step followed by an irked ratcheting of a safety lock – and the door swung open. Jimmy stood there in a purple-and-green paisley dressing gown, his meagre strands of hair in disarray and his expression crumpled in sullen fatigue.

‘I do not take kindly to being roused before eleven o'clock. And I am not at home to bailiffs at any –'

‘Sorry. I'm just here with your, er, Bevan . . .' Tom held up the packaged print in hopeful mollification. Jimmy frowned at him, bemused.

‘Ah . . . You'd better come in.'

Tom passed down a long hallway into the living room, noting the cream carpets and the inky-blue wallpaper and wondering if those colours would have been better suited the other way round. His eye was irresistibly drawn to the wind-up gramophone and its flamboyant brass horn; all it needed was a small fox terrier cocking an ear. It was difficult to see where the new acquisition might be accommodated: almost every inch of wall space was crammed with oils and prints. Even the fireplace had been requisitioned as a niche for a small painting of the Sussex coast. Tom set the package down on a coffee table and waited while Erskine removed its coat of brown paper and string. The print, composed in muted greys and charcoals, depicted a horse sale in a yard; men in cloth caps and bowlers stood about listening to the auctioneer.

Jimmy stared at it meditatively. ‘I used to go to sales like this, just after the war. So many horses on the market back then.'

‘You bought one, didn't you?' said Tom. ‘You wrote a piece about it.'

‘Good Lord, you remember that? Must have been for . . .'

‘The
Tatler
,' supplied Tom.

Jimmy looked at him in surprise. ‘Is this a reader I see before me?'

‘Yes. A devoted one. Your theatre column in the
Chronicle
is my first port of call. As a matter of fact,' he added shyly, ‘I do some reviewing myself – for a little magazine called
Autolycus
.'

‘Never heard of it.'

Tom, sensing he'd taken a wrong turn, reverted to a subject the critic would find congenial. ‘I've always thought your “About Town” articles should be collected.'

Jimmy puckered his mouth consideringly. ‘Hmm. They are quite amusing in their way.'

They talked a little more about theatre – or rather Jimmy talked, in his brisk magisterial tone, and without so much as a pause. Tom, overwhelmed into silence by this monologue, eventually said, ‘I'm awfully sorry, I have to get back to work.'

‘And I have to get back to bed,' said Jimmy. ‘Would you mind letting yourself out?'

Tom, abruptly dismissed, pondered this interview on his walk back to the gallery, and felt most unhappy. He had met the great critic of the age, and had failed to shine, a natural consequence of not being able to get a word in edgeways. But how could one interrupt a man such as that?

He continued to rue his lost chance for days afterwards. But fate had decided to throw him another bone, and this time he caught it neatly in his jaws. The editor of
Autolycus
, unable to attend the after-show party of a new musical, had sent Tom along in his place. On entering the venue and finding no one he knew there, he mooched around for a few minutes, intending to leave once he had drunk a sufficient quantity of the free champagne. Wandering into a little anteroom he saw a familiar portly gent with an unlit cigar clamped in his mouth, patting his pockets in search of a light.

‘May I?' Tom said, a match poised against the box.

Jimmy, barely glancing at him, grunted his thanks as he fired up the cigar. Scarcely believing his luck, Tom lit a companionable cigarette of his own, and said, ‘Have you hung the Bevan yet?'

Jimmy almost cricked his neck with a spectacular double take. ‘Do I – have we met –?'

‘Tom Tunner – from Dearden's? We talked about horses.'

His expression started to clear. ‘So we did . . . well . . . perhaps you wouldn't mind fetching me a Scotch and soda.'

Tom, not minding at all, hurried off. On returning, however, he felt his heart sink to see Jimmy deep in conversation with another, a gangly fellow with a slight stoop. Tom handed over the Scotch and introduced himself.

‘Peter Liddell,' the fellow replied genially. ‘How d'you know Jimmy?'

‘Oh, I don't –'

‘Delivery boy from Dearden's,' Jimmy explained, crushingly. ‘Also a reader of mine, you know.'

Peter smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, then you'll always be welcome!'

Tom, emboldened by Peter's friendliness, glimpsed an opportunity. ‘I was actually saying to Mr Erskine that he should collect his “About Town” pieces in a book.'

‘Haven't the time, dear boy. Always bloody
working
.'

‘Yes, I know. That's why I'd do it for you – as your secretary.'

Jimmy responded with an archly sceptical look. ‘
You
– my secretary? And what qualifications d'you claim for such a post?'

Tom, hardly believing his own nerve, said, ‘Well, I have a degree in English from King's. I know your writing inside out . . . and I don't mind hard work.'

Peter nodded sagely. ‘Sounds just the ticket to me, Jim. And you're always saying you need the help.'

Jimmy was scrutinising him; he would become accustomed to that beady-eyed look over the years. ‘Do you write? I mean, in decent prose.'

‘I write theatre reviews, for a small literary magazine,' he replied. From his blank look Jimmy had evidently forgotten their conversation in his flat the other morning.

‘Very well. Send me eight hundred words on a recent play – anything you like – and I'll have a look. If your industry is any match for your impudence I imagine we should get along very nicely.'

So it proved. Tom's ‘test' review was duly dispatched, and Jimmy replied the next morning to say the job was his – though not without a patronising afterthought on certain ‘amateurish' lapses in his submitted article. He would pay him fifty-five shillings a week, scarcely an adequate wage by the standards of the day, but Tom didn't care. He had got the job, a job finessed out of nothing but his own initiative. He was on his way.

Having finished his soup, Tom took the stairs down to the shop below. Allenby, landlord and tobacconist, was hunched over his counter reading the late edition of the
Standard
.

‘Evening. Twenty Weights, please, Mr Allenby.'

Almost without looking round the shopkeeper plucked a packet of cigarettes from the shelf. ‘He's done another one in, I see,' he said mysteriously.

‘Beg your pardon?' said Tom.

Allenby looked up at his tenant. ‘Blimey, what 'appened to you?'

Tom self-consciously touched his wounded cheek. ‘Oh, I took a tumble. Nothing serious. You were saying . . .?'

Allenby nodded at his newspaper. ‘Girl found strangled, in Bloomsbury. Police sez it's this “Tiepin Killer” again. I dunno, with all these marches and murders, the streets round 'ere aren't safe to walk . . . I 'ave to send the wife out for everythin'! Ha ha.'

Tom offered a feeble laugh in echo while trying to read the story upside down.
THIRD TIEPIN MURDER
:
GIRL NAMED
. It seemed the victim's facial injuries were so severe they had had to consult dental records in order to identify her. So much for that artist's impression of the suspected killer. Did the police really have any clue about catching him?

‘Poor woman,' he muttered under his breath.

‘Yeah, nasty bisniss,' agreed the old man, before adding, ‘Lookin' on the bright side, though – them
Standard
s 'ave flew out today!'

AS THEY DROVE
around Richmond Park the tops of the trees seemed to shimmer, ablaze in their sudden motley of green and russet and gold. The sight of them thrilled and saddened Stephen; he felt it was exactly what he had been put on earth to paint, and yet it seemed he had never done them justice. His sequence of autumnal pictures,
London Pastoral I–IX
, was one of the few things he'd ever taken pride in, and of course it had fallen flat with the public. They only wanted to see his portraits. He felt a sharp stab of melancholy and blew out his cheeks, as if to shoo it away.

‘Something the matter, darling?' asked Cora, glancing from the passenger seat.

He smiled and shook his head, then looked in the mirror at Freya and Rowan, muttering between themselves on the back seat. They were down from school for the weekend – Cora's parents had invited them to lunch – and he was already wondering what new and disturbing changes had been wrought in them since they were last at home. Rowan had grown into a fusspot, airing doubts and complaints in a manner more befitting an old lady than a nine-year-old boy. On stepping off the train at Waterloo that morning the first thing he'd said was, ‘Perishing cold in that carriage.' Stephen had sought confirmation from Freya, who had merely raised her eyes heavenwards in an impersonation of sore-tried tolerance. She was Rowan's senior by three years, a terrifyingly serious and self-contained girl whom her brother held in a kind of baffled awe.

‘Is the camera back there?' Stephen said.

Without a word Freya held up the tan leather case, as though she were his assistant. He pulled the car over and turned to his wife, who groaned.