Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T om decided, as he scraped out the remains of the pot of caviar and spread it on a piece of bread and butter with the back of the golden spoon, that he was pleased Lillian was marrying again. He liked his aunt very much, and wanted her to be happy, and Nikolai seemed decent. He himself was not full of festive cheer. He had been bizarrely deflated not to see Mrs Sally Blow step out of the theatre charabanc, then cursed himself for his stupidity. The invitation to Lassiter Court extended as far as the cast, the Pooles, of course, Miss Chisholm and Dixon Wells. Not to the stagehands, or the chars and usherettes. Anyway, she’d be singing at the Bricklayers Arms tonight. He thought of the look on her face when he’d said he didn’t have much to do with the factories. In fact, he didn’t have anything to do with them, but he knew that as well as churning out cutlery and fancy goods, they were the source of the quarterly income deposited into his bank. Sometimes he envied people who had to work for a living; surely putting bread on the table gave them a purpose he was lacking at the moment. Then he imagined saying that to Sally Blow, while wiping caviar off his fingers, and blushed.

How was Sally going to spend her Christmas, he wondered. Might he drop by, after seeing his mother? He could take a package of Lassiter Court gingerbread for Dougie. He scowled at himself. Sally thought he was just a spoilt, overgrown schoolboy. His turning up uninvited at her home on Christmas Day would look ridiculous. He might take one of the little parcels of gingerbread with him anyway, though, just in case the opportunity arose to pass it to her casually, in an offhand manner, at the theatre. He went in search of Ruby, and, as she was sitting with Mrs Poole, got her to tell the story of playing with Sally in the pub one more time.

‘She had ’em then, Ruby?’ Mrs Poole asked, her pretty, round face sparkling with amusement. ‘I might pop along to listen with my sister one Friday while Mr Poole is working.’

Ruby sipped her sherry. ‘She did. You’ll hear it, Esmé, there’s real talent there.’

‘And when I have, I promise I’ll come and tell you all about it, Tom,’ Mrs Poole said with a wink. So she had got the idea Tom had a particular interest in Sally, too. Well, so he did, though Sally didn’t seem to think much of him. Tom felt both embarrassed and touched, and with a shy smile, excused himself to circulate, pacing through the reception rooms in search of something, as the someone he was looking for was three miles away in the middle of town.

As he paced, he saw Stella passing from room to room, talking very brightly to all the townspeople, though she seemed to be avoiding the theatrical lot. He noticed her offering Lillian and Nikolai her congratulations; then she disappeared. It troubled him enough to lift him out of his preoccupations and stop Grace in the hall.

‘How is Stella?’ he asked.

Grace bit her lip. ‘Oh, Tom, I hardly know. The police haven’t called again, and I know her agent has telephoned and sent telegrams asking when she will go back, but she won’t answer them. The newspapers are apparently too busy fretting about the shortage of coal in London to write about her, now the inquest is over.’

Tom was a little shocked; he hadn’t even known the inquest was taking place.

‘What was the verdict?’

‘Death by misadventure,’ Grace said, twisting the long chain of her necklace between her fingers.

‘But . . .?’ Tom prompted.

‘But Stella spends all her days reading or walking around the gardens in one of my old tweed skirts.’

‘Stella?’ Tom almost choked on his champagne. ‘Reading?’

‘I know,’ Grace said with a sigh. ‘It’s so unlike her. I half-expected her not to come down at all this evening. Hewitt says she’s still sleeping half the day, and the maids have heard her crying. I’ve been selfish, just concentrating on the pantomime. I feel we’ve rather deserted her.’

Tom shook his head. ‘You’ve been saving our collective bacon, Grace.’ She did not look entirely comforted. ‘And anyway, once opening night is out of the way, you’ll be able to keep more of an eye on her, won’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, pulling so hard at the chain of her necklace, Tom feared it would break. ‘She must have cared terribly for this girl, but even so, I still don’t understand why that would mean she’d insist on retiring from the stage.’ Tom became aware of the introduction to one of the panto tunes coming from the drawing room. ‘Oh, that’s Harold’s song!’ Grace exclaimed. ‘I’d better get in there and make sure he doesn’t exhaust his voice.’

‘Go on,’ Tom said, and she hurried off. He made his way into the library, where he was fairly sure he’d seen Hewitt heading with a tray of devilled eggs. Instead he found Dixon Wells, on his own, bent over the gramophone. The fire crackled. Tom had seen Dixon round the theatre, been introduced, and marvelled at the brighter atmosphere inside and outside the building, but had not had time for any long conversations. Feeling he’d rather be here, missing the presence of a woman he barely knew, rather than missing her in a larger crowd, he dropped into one of the comfortable leather armchairs by the player. It was a rather beautiful object, housed in a chinoiserie cabinet. He found himself wondering what Sally would think of it – the question he asked of everything that fell under his eye at the moment.

‘Dixon!’ He roused himself. ‘How are you? Enjoying the party?’

Dixon started and blinked at Tom for a few seconds, as if trying to remember where he was. ‘Yes, I’ve been listening to the gramophone.’ The embers glowed in the grate. ‘Did I tell you I made my own microphone last year?’

‘You did not.’

‘I think it sounded rather better than whatever was used to make these . I went as far as making a record with my mother and sister.’

Tom smiled. ‘I’d like to hear it some time.’ He opened his silver cigarette case. Dixon refused one, but Tom lit up and sat back. ‘Where are your people?’

‘Mother and Lila live in Surrey. Father is mostly in London. He works for the Foreign Office, but he goes home for weekends sometimes.’

‘And what do they think of you coming to Highbridge?’

‘Oh, they don’t know where I am,’ Dixon said. Tom must have looked concerned, because Dixon frowned and hurried on. ‘They know I’m in good health. I’ve been fighting with my father about money. I needed to get away and stay away. It’s all very dreary.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Tom felt difficult relationships with family were one of his few areas of expertise.

Dixon shrugged and focused his attention on the gramophone again, in a way which suggested he wished to drop the subject. Tom followed his lead. ‘Dixon, if you can make better microphones than the ones they use already, why don’t you work for one of the manufacturers?’

‘I wouldn’t have macaroons or a rat like Harry if I worked for one of those companies. They’re all in London, and I don’t like London. I’d much rather set up on my own. That’s where the dreary fights with my father come in. He has had doctors say I’m not fit to look after my own capital.’ His expression became suddenly fierce. ‘It’s not even his money! It comes from my mother’s father. And I know I’m a little strange at times, but I . . .’ He tailed off.

Tom considered the burning end of his cigarette. ‘We’re theatre people. You don’t seem strange to us.’ Dixon smiled. ‘So they only record in London?’

‘Some travel around in motor cars and record singers elsewhere, but they’re all based in London.’

The fire crackled.

‘Dixon, do you happen to know how records are made?’

‘Of course, I’ve been into it all quite deeply. Even if I am a little strange, I’m not stupid.’

‘Dear fellow, of course you aren’t. Can you tell me about it?’

Dixon brightened further and began to explain the process to Tom in some detail. He was miming the mysteries of sound waves, with rippling gestures in the air, when Jack came into the room and greeted them.

‘Jack, come over here and sit with us for a minute,’ Tom said. ‘We’re talking about gramophone records.’

With a sigh, Jack sat down in one of the leather armchairs next to the fire. ‘Really? We’ve just had some terrific ones sent over from New York.’

Tom felt something spark within him, like the flare of a struck match.

‘Dixon has designed his own microphone,’ he said slowly.

‘Of course he has,’ Jack said, lighting a cigarette and winking at the younger man, who blushed, but looked rather pleased.

‘And he knows a lot about their manufacture—’

‘Only theoretically,’ Dixon mumbled, still blushing.

Tom leant forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. He thought of Sally’s words: ‘Take a risk.’ ‘Jack, would you be open to a new enterprise? Now you’ve got Miss Chisholm helping at The Empire?’

Jack frowned. ‘I might be. What are you thinking, Tom?’

‘Yes, what are you thinking, Tom?’ Dixon said with more alarm, sitting forward so the light fell across his face.

‘Nikolai, are you in here?’ Lillian came into the room, then stopped, her hand flying to her chest. ‘Oh, I . . . Mr Wells!’ She cleared her throat. ‘I do hope you are having a pleasant evening.’

‘I’ve been listening to gramophone records,’ he said simply.

‘Anything we can do for you, Lillian?’ Jack asked, twisting round in his chair. ‘Is Grace all right?’

Lillian looked between him and Dixon, then smiled rather distractedly at them all. ‘No, it’s nothing. And Grace is being marvellous. I only wanted to ask Nikolai to make another batch of his plum brandy cocktails. Hewitt refuses to take responsibility.’

Tom watched her go, wondering why she appeared so shaken at the sight of them, but Jack reached forward and tapped him on the knee.

‘Come on then, Tom. Tell me all.’

Tom scratched his chin.

‘Have you thought of any use for the old restaurant, Jack?’

Jack shook his head. ‘I haven’t. It haunts me.’

‘I don’t really know what I’m thinking at the moment,’ Tom confessed. ‘But here we are. Dixon knows all about records, I know about the music business and publishing from working with Ruby. You, Jack, could sell coal at the pithead—’

‘Thanks very much,’ Jack said, then added after a slight pause. ‘I think.’

‘Well, you could,’ Tom replied.

‘I don’t understand,’ Dixon said. ‘Why are we selling coal?’

Tom went to the side table where the whisky decanter was sitting and poured generous measures for them all.

‘We aren’t.’ He handed Dixon his drink. ‘But I wonder if we might sell records.’

They talked long into the night. Hewitt interrupted them briefly to tell them he had prepared the green bedroom for Mr Wells, and laid out some of Mr Treadwell’s clothes for his use. When Jack finally stood up and wished them a good night, Christmas Day was already a few hours old.

‘We’ll pop into the Metropole tomorrow,’ Tom said, as he showed Dixon to his room, ‘to pick up the record you made. Then after Grace and Jack have done the tour of the hospitals with the cast, and I’ve seen my mother, we’ll come back here for our late Christmas lunch and listen to it.’

Dixon glanced behind him at the comfortable room, the clothes laid out for him and the fire glowing behind its guard. ‘Am I imposing? Mother told me I have a habit of imposing. Sometimes I don’t notice if people want me to go away.’

Tom squeezed his shoulder. ‘Not at all, dear chap.’

‘Do you think Jack likes me?’ Tom was slightly startled by the question, and by the intense, pained look on Dixon’s face.

‘I’m certain he does, Dixon. So do I.’ He was rewarded by one of Dixon’s slow, shining smiles. ‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’

‘Tom?’

‘Yes, Dixon?’

‘You said you were having Christmas lunch with your mother, too. Does that not mean you will be having two Christmas lunches? Can that be healthy?’

Tom was inclined to laugh out loud, but he remembered the hour. ‘My mother celebrates Christmas like Scrooge before the ghosts visited. I’ll be lucky to get more than a slice of ham and some very cold looks. I’ll have appetite left for a Lassiter Court feed.’

Dixon stared down at the polished floorboards. ‘Families are terribly complicated, aren’t they?’

‘They are, Dixon,’ Tom replied, and found himself thinking of Sally Blow. He wondered what sort of man her husband had been. He thought of introducing her to his mother, to Lillian and Jack. ‘Indeed they are. Goodnight, dear chap.’