1951 - But a Short Time to Live (15 page)

To Parkins's angry disappointment there was no evidence to connect Robert Brady with Clair. She admitted he was a friend of hers, but denied he was a member of the gang. Brady had slipped away like a ghost at the first sign of trouble. Parkins told Harry he had left the country and was probably in America.

"I doubt if he'll show his nose in London for some time," Parkins had said. "Pity; I would have liked to have hooked him."

And the tow-headed chap also disappeared.

While Clair was waiting trial Harry had been desperately busy trying to raise money for her defence. She had told him to sell everything she possessed, but he kept some of her clothes and stored them in his room. The car was sold; so was the radiogram and the cocktail cabinet. Her jewellery had been taken by the police and returned to its various owners. There was very little left after they found her guilty: some clothes, a few books, a fountain pen and a handbag. Harry kept these things in his room.

"I'm going to make a home for her," he told Mooney. "I have nine months to make money in, and I'm going to make it."

But the partnership didn't succeed. It was as Harry had suspected. The people of Soho had better things to do with their money than spend it on a photograph.

The enormous enlargement of Alf Mooney failed to attract customers.

"With that face," Mooney said gloomily, "you're driving custom away."

But Harry knew it was a fine study. He knew it proclaimed him as an outstanding photographer, and he was reluctant to take it out of the window. He was back on his beat now, taking photographs in the street. Tom and Joe had gone. Doris had obstinately refused to go, accepting half-wages until they had weathered the depression. Mooney was suicidal, and kept telling Harry to give up and close the shop.

Then came the lucky break that Harry had been praying for. He happened to be in the shop with Mooney one wet afternoon, standing in the doorway, staring up at the lead-coloured skies and wondering when he would be able to get out on the job, when he noticed a well-dressed man pause to look at Mooney's portrait.

Harry regarded the man enviously. He was immaculately dressed, dark and good looking. His age might have been forty or even fifty. There was an air of confidence about him that told of success, riches and good living. He studied the photograph for some minutes, and then looking up, caught Harry's anxious eyes.

"Who did that?" he asked.

"I did," Harry said.

"Have you any more like it?"

"I'm afraid I haven't. I've only just started that kind of work."

"Would you care to take some portraits for me?" the man asked, and took from his wallet a card.

"You may have heard of me if you are at all interested in the theatre."

Harry took the card. Allan Simpson! The best-known and most successful theatrical producer in London! He felt himself turn hot, then cold with excitement.

"Why, yes, Mr. Simpson. Of course I would."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," Simpson said. "Come up to the Regent Theatre tomorrow afternoon with your kit, and we'll try some shots. If you do as well as this we might get together. Would you care to do that?"

That was five months ago, and now Harry worked exclusively for Simpson at a salary of twenty-five pounds a week. It was unbelievable, of course. Even now, as Harry sat in the shabby little Morris he had bought second-hand, he couldn't believe his good fortune. The work wasn't arduous. He was responsible for taking all the stills to dress the outside of the theatre, and all the portraits for publicity purposes. When a new show was being produced he was kept busy, but once it was running he had more time on his hands than he cared about. Simpson had made him sign a contract to do no other work except the work Simpson wanted him to do.

Because it was due to Mooney's portrait that his luck had changed, Harry offered Mooney the job as his assistant, and persuaded Simpson to pay Mooney five pounds a week which Harry made up to ten out of his own pocket. Mooney grudgingly accepted the offer. His job was to carry the equipment, set up the fights under Harry's directions, keep people from making a noise while Harry worked, and make himself generally useful which he seldom did. Doris processed the films, made the enlargements and mounted them. Harry paid her five pounds a week out of his own pocket Even at that, he was now earning fifteen pounds a week which was more than double what he had ever earned.

Out of what was left to him after income tax had been deducted he managed to save a few pounds a week. He remained with Mrs. Westerham, and his only extravagance was to buy the second-hand Morris from a bankrupt firm in Soho and which he got for ninety pounds, not perhaps such a bargain as it seemed for as it turned out, it was more luck than skill that kept the engine running.

However, it got Harry to the Regent Theatre when he had to work late, and somehow it had brought him all the way from Sloane Square to this country road just outside Aylesbury to bring Clair back in triumph.

She had said he would forget her, but he hadn't. His love for her had grown more solid and had taken deeper roots during her absence. He had thought about her a great deal. He had wondered about her.

She had deceived him and lied to him; she was a thief. These things he forgave. She was in love with him; of that he was sure. It was because she loved him and wanted to keep him that she had lied to him. Would she still be in love with him? That worried him more than her past. Would she be glad he was here to meet her or would she be angry and ashamed?

He had talked to Mooney about meeting her. Mooney liked her. That she was a thief didn't disturb him. That she gave herself away to the police because she wanted to keep Harry out of their hands pleased him.

"A girl who can do that's all right," he had said to Harry. "Go and meet her. If she doesn't like it now, she'll remember it later. A girl likes attention."

So here he was on a bleak, wet morning, sitting in the wheezy, broken-down Morris waiting for his love. The minutes dragged by. Eight o'clock came; the clock hands moved on slowly to five past. Then there was a sudden rattle of iron against iron and one of the big gates swung inwards. Clair came out into the wet, lonely road.

She came out as she had gone in, her head high, her mouth set. She was wearing the smart coat and skirt she had worn when she had come to sit for her portrait. She carried her smart little hat in her hand. A wardress appeared, said something to her and patted her arm. Clair paid no attention. She began to walk quickly towards Aylesbury and towards the waiting car.

Harry's heart was beating so rapidly that he felt suffocated. He couldn't move, but watched the trim figure coming towards him in a kind of emotional stupor, and it was only when she was within a few yards of the car that he pulled himself together, opened the door and scrambled out.

She stopped short at the sight of him, and they looked at each other.

"Hallo, Clair," Harry said huskily. He had an absurd feeling he was going to cry.

"Hallo, Harry," she said, her face hard and expressionless. What brings you here?"

He paused close to her, longing to take her in his arms while she looked past him down the long and empty road.

"Didn't you expect me, Clair? I've come to take you home."

"I have no home," she said in a cold, flat voice.

"Don't let's stand out in the rain; you'll get wet," Harry said, trying hard to speak normally. "Let's get in. I bet you could do with a cigarette."

Although her face remained hard, he saw her lips begin to tremble, and she put her hand to her mouth.

"I don't think I'll get in. It's all right. You don't have to bother. I — I'd just as soon walk."

He put his hand on her arm, and at his touch, her face suddenly twitched and she looked hastily away, but she allowed him to lead her to the car and help her in. He ran round to the other side, slipped under the steering wheel. "Here, have a cigarette," he said, dropping a packet of Players and a box of matches into her lap. "I'll start the car. It usually takes hours."

While he was coaxing life into the engine, he looked straight ahead, feeling her trembling against him. She ignored the carton of cigarettes that lay in her lap, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her fists clench tightly, and then suddenly she gave a harsh sob that seemed to be wrenched from her in spite of her efforts to control it.

Still not looking at her, Harry reached out and took her hand and she held on to it desperately. Then she began to cry.

"It's all right, darling," he said, putting his arm round her shoulders and pulling her to him. "I'm here. I love you. It's all going to be all right. Oh, Clair, my darling . . . my darling . . ."

chapter nineteen

A
s luck would have it Mrs. Westerham had a vacant room opposite Harry's room, and Harry had rented it for a couple of weeks. He, Mooney and Doris had spent their spare time making it "nice' as Doris called it. They had rearranged the furniture, put up new curtains, bought a coverlet for the divan and arranged flowers on the window-sill.

As Harry pushed open the door and led Clair into the room he thought at least it looked clean, comfortable and bright It couldn't compare to the luxurious room in the Long Acre flat, but it did somehow look homely and inviting even though the carpet was worn and the wallpaper was past its prime.

"This is only until we get something better," Harry said. "The bed's comfortable, anyway. I've tried it."

Clair scarcely looked at the room. She dropped her hat and bag listlessly on to the bed and wandered over to the window. All the way back to London, they had said little to each other. She had looked through the windscreen, her eyes hungry for the sight of people, traffic, the houses and streets from which she had been locked away for nine months.

Harry hadn't attempted to make conversation. He was content to sit at her side, to glance at her occasionally, and take her as quickly as the ancient Morris could go to Lannock Street "I'll leave you for a moment," he said, watching her. "You'll want to tidy up. When you're ready, will you come into my room? It's right opposite. I'll have some coffee ready."

She didn't turn.

"All right," she said.

Harry went into his room and half closed the door, took off his raincoat and hung it in the cupboard.

He lit a cigarette, moved to the. window and stared down into the rain-swept street It was now half past nine, and he felt as if he had been up for hours.

Of course she was bound to feel strange, he thought. He must be patient, but if only she had come to him, let him comfort her instead of being so hard and distant.

He waited for more than half an hour, then worried, crept over to his door and listened. There was no sound from Clair's room. He crossed the passage and looked round the half-open door. She still stood by the window as he had left her, motionless, her head resting on her arm. But there was a sag to her shoulders and a weariness about the way she stood that tugged at his heart.

He went to her, turned and pulled her to him.

"Darling Clair," he said. "It's all right now. Come and sit down. You look so tired." He sat in an armchair and pulled her on to his knees. She lay limply against him, her hands in her lap, her head against his shoulder. They sat like that for some time, neither of them saying anything, and as the minutes passed, he felt her relaxing against him.

"I thought you were certain to forget me," she said suddenly. "I couldn't believe it when I saw you get out of the car. It's the loveliest thing that's ever happened to me."

He slid his hands over hers.

"You didn't forget me, why should I forget you?"

She lifted her shoulders.

"Who else had I to think about? And there was so much to take your attention away from me."

"Well, I didn't forget," Harry said happily. "I've been counting the days. In my room there's a calendar with every day marked off since you went away."

She pushed away from him, sat up and looked at him. Her eyes searched his face.

"Still the same old Harry. You haven't changed. You're still nice and kind and different. I worried myself sick you'd've changed, but you haven't."

He was looking at her. Well, she had changed. There was a hardness in her eyes that worried him.

She looked older, not quite so pretty, and there were lines each side of her mouth that gave her a cynical, bitter expression.

"Go on, say it," she said. "I know I've changed, but so would you if you'd been kept in a cage like an animal for nine months."

"It'll all come right, darling," he said, taking her face in his hands. "Only try not to be too bitter about it. I can guess what it must have been like, but it's over, and you've got to try to forget it. You will, won't you?"

She kissed him, and at the touch of her lips, he felt a wave of tenderness and desire run through him, and he caught her to him, kissing her, hoping to arouse in her the same urgent longing that gripped him. But she pushed him away, got off his lap and wandered over to the window.

"Not yet, Harry," she said. "Be patient with me. I feel cold and hard inside. Be patient with me."

For a few seconds he sat trembling, disappointed, then he got to his feet "Sorry, Clair, of course. There's lots of time."

She swung round on her heels to look at him.

"I don't know what I should have done without my thoughts of you," she said. "Later, Harry, I promise. Just give me time to get over all this."

"Of course, Clair . . . Let me make you some coffee. Come into my room. It's bigger than this, and there's a better view. I was wondering if you would like it instead of this one. Come in and see it."

She linked her arm through his, looked up at him and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the old Clair.

They went into his room, and while he heated coffee she wandered around looking at his things.

"Who's that?" she asked suddenly, standing before a photograph. "He looks nice."

"Ron — Ron Fisher," Harry said, pouring the coffee into cups.