1951 - But a Short Time to Live Read online

  "Do you really mean you want to marry me after what I've told you?" she asked blankly. "You can't mean it, Harry."

  "But I do. Nothing matters so long as I have you. I want you more than anything in the world."

  She studied him for a moment, then dropped her hands in her lap with a gesture of resignation.

  "All right; if that's what you want. But I warn you. I'm no good and I'll never be any good."

  Harry didn't believe her.

  chapter twenty

  The next three weeks were full of bustling activity for Harry. With Doris's aid — and she walked herself nearly to a standstill — he found a two-room service flat, well enough furnished, in a quiet Kensington street. The rent was four guineas a week — more than he wanted to pay.

  "If your wife cares to look after the flat," the agent told him, "you can have it for three guineas. It's small and compact and wouldn't be difficult to run."

  But Harry had promised Clair she wouldn't have to do any housework. To have service for the extra guinea was worth it, he told himself, although Doris was scandalised. She admired Clair's looks and the way she dressed, but felt she should buckle down to a little housework.

  "It's not as if it would kill her," she said to Mooney.

  "You leave her alone," Mooney said. "She's all right. There're some girls who're fitted to slave in a house. That one isn't."

  It was lucky for Harry there was little work to be done at the theatre during those three weeks, and he spent most of his time in Clair's company. She was restless and wanted to go out continuously, and they spent more money than Harry could afford. But he told himself that this was just a fling until she had got used to her freedom.

  He seldom saw Allan Simpson, and took his orders from Val Lehmann, Simpson's business manager. He told Lehmann he was getting married.

  "My contract comes up for renewal at the end of the month," he said. "I was wondering if Mr. Simpson would consider cutting out the monopoly clause. I have a lot of spare time, and I'd like to be able to do some portrait work for myself."

  Lehmann, a serious-looking young man, prematurely bald, whose weak eyes hid behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, said he would have a word with Simpson.

  "He doesn't like the staff doing outside work," he said, "but in your case he might make an exception. Suppose, instead, I try and get you a raise? What are you getting now?"

  "Twenty-five, but out of that I have to pay my two assistants. I'm not clearing much more than ten by the time tax is deducted."

  "Suppose I push him up to thirty? Any good?"

  Harry hesitated.

  "I'd prefer to do private work, Mr. Lehmann, if I can. I want every shilling I can earn."

  Lehmann smiled. He liked Harry, and thought his work was sound.

  "All right. I'll speak to him. What are you marrying — an extravagant wife?"

  The marriage was to take place at the Kensington Registry. Only Mooney and Doris were invited.

  Clair said she didn't want any fuss. Harry had been disappointed by her attitude towards the coming wedding. She behaved more like a patient facing a serious operation than a bride.

  On the morning of the wedding, as he was shaving, she came into his room.

  "Hey!" he said, turning to smile at her. "This isn't allowed. The groom isn't supposed to see the bride on the wedding morn. It's bad luck or something . . ." But he broke off, seeing how pale and worried she looked. "What's the matter, Clair?"

  She began to say something, stopped, and looked helplessly at him.

  "I know," he said, wiping off his lather. "You've got cold feet, haven't you?" He went to her and put his arms round her. "It's all right, Clair. Go and get dressed. We'll have a damned big drink before we go. It's going to be all right."

  "You're sure this is what you want, Harry?" she said, looking searchingly at him. "I'll live with you without marrying you. You don't have to do this."

  "I want it," Harry said. "Don't fuss, darling."

  She pulled away from him and wandered over to the mirror and inspected herself.

  "I don't know why I'm acting like this," she said impatiently. "I thought I was tough, but this worries me sick. If this is really what you want I'll go through with it, but, Harry don't have regrets after, will you?"

  As he was going to her the door opened and Mooney appeared resplendent in a new hat and tie.

  "What's all this?" he said, genuinely shocked. "You go back to your room, young lady. Doris is waiting for you. Damn it! One doesn't marry every day, and one's got to observe the conventions."

  They were married at noon. The sun shone for them as they came out of the registry, arm-in-arm, both quiet, both a little fearful in their minds.

  Mooney and Doris followed them down the steps. Mooney whistled Mendelssohn's Wedding March under his breath, but he too wasn't over happy.

  "Like a damned funeral," he whispered to Doris. "We've got to get some drinks into these two or they'll burst into tears."

  They had agreed not to go away for a honeymoon, but to have lunch with Mooney and Doris at the new flat, and then Harry thought it would be nice to drive into the country for the afternoon. He felt it would be romantic to return to Wendover where they once spent such a happy Sunday. Clair rather listlessly agreed.

  With Mooney in charge of the drinks, the wedding lunch turned out to be quite a success. Thanks to his overpowering cocktails, Clair came out of her moody depression and joined in Mooney's hilarity and Doris's valiant attempts to keep the conversation going. But it was a relief to Mooney and Doris when they saw them off in the Morris, they having volunteered to stay behind and clear up the room and put everything in order for their return.

  "Well, we've done it," Harry said triumphantly as they drove through the traffic around Shepherd's Bush. He had got over his feeling of depression, and was now happy and possessive. "I'm glad we did it, Clair darling. I've never been so happy in my life."

  She patted his arm affectionately, but didn't say anything. Now that she was sobering up, her fears of the future returned. She felt cold in the draughty little car and the roar of its worn-out engine gave her a headache. She wasn't looking forward to the long drive out to Wendover in this bumping, noisy rattletrap, but Harry looked so happy she hadn't the heart to suggest they turn back.

  Harry was fully occupied in coaxing the car along at a speed of twenty miles an hour and didn't notice Clair's growing irritation. He was thinking how wonderful it was that within such an amazingly short time he had acquired a wife, a car and a service flat. Just because he had taken a photograph of Mooney! It was like a fairy story, he told himself.

  "Harry darling, isn't it time you got a better car?" Clair said suddenly, shattering Harry's day dream. "This one's falling to bits."

  "Oh, it's not as bad as all that," Harry shouted above the roar of the engine. "Of course it's a bit noisy, but it gets me where I want to go."

  "There's a frightful draught going up my legs," Clair complained, holding her skirts down. "We can't keep this much longer. You are thinking about getting a new one, aren't you?"

  Harry was startled. He thought they were lucky to have a car at all. The idea of buying a new one hadn't entered his head.

  "Well, I don't know. I don't think we could afford one just yet. Later, of course, when I make a bit more money, we can think about it. But there're lots of things we want besides a car, darling."

  "You could get it on the never-never. Let's do it I'd love another M.G., wouldn't you?"

  "Wouldn't I!" Harry said, his face clouding. "But we'd never run to it. I'm afraid we'll have to make do with this for a while. At least, it goes."

  He should have known better to have tempted providence with such a remark. As they went through the gates of the White

  City towards Western Avenue the engine suddenly died in a flurry of rasping gasps and the car came to a standstill.

  "Oh Lord!" Harry said, his heart sinking. "I spoke too soon. Oh, damn it! She's been going so well
all this week." He got out and lifted the rusty hood.

  Clair looked bleak. She was impatient of anything that caused her physical discomfort, and it was cold and draughty in the car and the spring in the seat was sticking into her. Black clouds were creeping over the horizon. She didn't think from the look of the car roof that it would be watertight "You better buck up," she said, leaning out of the window. "It's going to pour. I think we ought to turn round and go home."

  Harry, who had just burned his hand on the overheated engine gave her a wan smile.

  "We will if I can get her to go again," he said, peering doubtfully at the engine. Would you mind getting out for a moment? You're sitting on the tools."

  "No wonder the seat feels like a lump of iron," Clair said, getting out She hunched her shoulders against the rising wind. "It's getting cold and horrid. Please don't be long."

  Harry collected the tool kit

  "I'll do my best. I don't really know what's wrong."

  Clair got back into the car. It infuriated her to see the other cars going past. She felt sure the drivers were looking contemptuously at the ancient Morris. There was a time, she thought bitterly, when she could have out-paced any of these smug devils in her M.G., and she stamped her feet because she was angry and her feet were cold.

  After some minutes, Harry came to the window.

  "Blown a gasket," he said gloomily. "I'm afraid we're stuck, darling. I'll have to get a tow."

  "Oh, Harry!" Clair's face hardened. "Isn't this sickening? That's what comes of putting an old crock like this on the road. And now, look, it's beginning to rain."

  "Well, you wait here," Harry said. "I'll find a garage. There must be one quite close. I'm awfully sorry, Clair." He looked so woebegone that she forced a smile.

  "Just one of those things, darling," she said. "I'll be all right It's not your fault Anyway, this settles it. We must get a new car."

  As Harry closed the hood and put away his tools, a big Buick slid to a standstill by them. It was a long, glittering car with white rimmed wheels, a waving wireless mast, and a battery of enormous headlamps.

  The driver leaned out of the window,

  "Hallo, Ricks, are you in trouble?"

  Harry looked up, startled.

  "Why, hallo, Mr. Simpson," he said, and walked over to the Buick. "Yes, I'm stuck. The gasket's blown."

  "I'll give you a lift into town if you like or to a garage," Simpson said. "I'm on my way back." He glanced with an amused smile at the Morris. "About had her day, hasn't she?"

  Harry grinned ruefully.

  "I'm afraid she has. My — my wife's with me, Mr. Simpson. We would be grateful for a lift."

  Simpson raised his eyebrows, looked again at the Morris and met Clair's steady stare of interest.

  "I didn't know you were married." He opened the car door and got out. As usual he was immaculately dressed and Harry felt a twinge of envy. If only he could afford to dress like that, he thought.

  "Actually, we got married this morning. May I introduce you?"

  "Congratulations."

  Harry was aware that Simpson was looking at Clair with increasing interest. He seemed oblivious to the light rain that was falling.

  "Are you off on your honeymoon?" Simpson went on as he strolled over to the Morris.

  Seeing him coming, Clair slid out of the Morris. Harry thought she looked suddenly brighter and more lovely.

  "Clair, this is Mr. Simpson," Harry said. "He's going to give us a lift."

  Clair gave Simpson a quick, calculating look, then smiled.

  "That's very nice of you," she said, shaking hands. "What a lovely car!"

  "It's nice, isn't it?" Simpson said. There was a puzzled look in his eyes. "I haven't had it long. Get in before you get wet."

  He made to open the rear door, but Clair had already opened the door in front and had slid into the seat next to the driving seat.

  Simpson closed the door after her.

  "You've found a very pretty wife, Ricks," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "You'd better get in too. Shall we find a garage?"

  Harry got in the back and Simpson went around the car and sat behind the driving wheel "They'll have to tow it in I'm afraid," Harry said.

  "That's damn bad luck." Simpson turned in his seat to look at Clair. "Were you off on a honeymoon?"

  "Honeymoon? Oh no. We're not having a honeymoon," Clair said and laughed. "We were going into the country."

  "But surely you're going to celebrate?"

  "Oh, we have. We had lunch with Mr. Mooney."

  Harry listened to this unhappily. Put like that it did sound a dull way of spending a wedding day.

  "Mooney?" Simpson laughed. He's quite a character." He started the Buick and drove towards Shepherd's Bush. "That was a fine portrait your husband took of him."

  "Oh, Harry's very clever," Clair said. "You ought to let him take a picture of you, Mr. Simpson."

  Harry stiffened with horror. What was she saying? He looked quickly at Simpson to see his reaction. Simpson seemed amused

  "Why do you say that?" he asked as he steered the big car through the close-packed traffic. "What would a picture of me be good for?"

  "Well, you could give it to your wife."

  "I'm not married."

  "You could hang it in one of your theatres then," Clair said brightly.

  "What do you think, Ricks?" Simpson asked laughing. "Do you think the Regent's lobby would be all the better for a portrait of me? I doubt it myself."

  "I — I don't know, Mr. Simpson," Harry said, embarrassed.

  "Of course it would," Clair said. "Harry's too modest and so are you. The public would like to know what you look like."

  "Here's a garage," Simpson said, swinging the car through the open gates. "What'll you do? Get them to tow it in and collect it later?"

  "I don't suppose they'll do that," Harry said. “I’ll have to go back with them."

  The rain was falling steadily now, and Simpson glanced out of the window, frowning.

  "Would you like me to drop your wife off at home?" he asked. "Where do you live?"

  "Oh, thank you, Mr. Simpson, but we won't bother you. It'll be all—"

  But Clair interrupted.

  "We have a flat in Kensington. Would you really take me back? It's raining so hard, and I don't want to get wet." She turned in her seat to look at Harry. "I'll wait for you at the flat, darling. You shouldn't be long or do you think you will?"

  Harry got out of the car.

  "I'll be as quick as I can. Are you sure it's not taking you out of your way, Mr. Simpson?"

  Simpson smiled.

  "It's all right. I'm happy to be of service." He engaged gear and the Buick slid away.

  Clair waved to Harry, and he turned to watch the big glittering car edge into the traffic. He could see Clair talking animatedly to Simpson. He stood looking after them, heedless of the rain, a sudden chill at his heart.

  chapter twenty-one

  It was after six o'clock before Harry returned to the flat. He was soaked through and angry. Three times he had rung the flat, but there had been no answer. To add to his troubles, the garage at which Simpson had left him wouldn't send out for his car, and he had to go to two more before he found someone to oblige him. When he arrived with the mechanic he found a policeman waiting for him and was told he would be summoned for obstruction. After he had given the policeman the particulars he required, the mechanic who by then had examined the car, told him it wasn't worth repairing.

  "Cost you more than the car's worth," he said. "I'll tow it to the garage, but if you took my tip you'll sell it for scrap."

  Harry went back to the garage and had the mechanic's opinion confirmed. He accepted fifteen pounds ten for the car, and then caught a bus back to Kensington.

  He mounted the stairs, feeling depressed at the loss of the car and worried that Clair hadn't returned home. He opened the front door and called, but there was no answer.

  A pretty fine wedd
ing day, he thought savagely.

  Doris and Mooney hadn't cleared up quite as well as they had promised. No doubt Mooney's cocktails had had an effect on them. Most of the washing-up hadn't been done, and there was cigarette ash and traces of confetti that Mooney had insisted on showering on Harry and Clair, still on the carpet But where was Clair?

  She had left Harry at three o'clock. The drive to the flat couldn't have taken more than a quarter of an hour. It was now six-ten. Where on earth had she got to?

  Harry controlled his rising anger. It was no use going off the deep end, he told himself. After all it was his own fault: he hadn't planned her wedding day very well. He couldn't blame her if Simpson had taken her to a show. Or perhaps, he thought hopefully, she was out shopping; getting something special for supper, and would be back any moment. While waiting for her to return he decided to put the flat straight.

  He went into the kitchen and finished the washing-up. By the time he had put the last plate away it was six-forty, and he was struggling with a feeling of jealousy and hurt anger. He swept up the confetti, emptied the ash trays and straightened the chair and cushions. As he was putting the dustpan and brush away he heard footsteps running down the passage. A key turned in the lock and Clair came in.

  "Oh, Harry! I'm so sorry," she said. "I had no idea it was as late as this." She went to him and he noticed she was a little unsteady on her feet, and when she kissed him her breath smelt strongly of whisky.

  "Clair!" Harry exclaimed, sharply. "You — you're a bit on, aren't you?"

  She giggled.

  "I am a bit," she said, and flopped into an armchair. "Give me a cigarette, darling. Phew! What an afternoon!"

  Silently Harry gave her a cigarette, lit it for her and then sat opposite her.

  "Sorry, Harry," she said again. "Swear at me if you feel like it I know you're furious with me."

  "It's all right," Harry said. "I — I wondered where you were. I hope you had a good time."

  She sat up and looked straight at him.

  "Don't be forgiving, Harry. That's not the way to treat me. Give me a damn good slap in the face, but don't be forgiving."