Marnie, Page 2

  Mother said: ‘What with my fur and one thing and another. Your father never give me anything so good.’

  She did an act with a bit of scone, picking it up in her thumb and first finger as if it was breakable and putting it in her mouth and chewing as if she was afraid to bite. Then I noticed the knuckles of her hands were swollen, so I felt cheap for being critical.

  ‘How’s your rheumatism?’

  ‘Not good. It’s damp this side of the avenue, Marnie; we never get a gleam of sunshine after twelve; we never thought of that when we took it. Sometimes I feel we ought to move.’

  ‘It would be a job to find anything as cheap.’

  ‘Yes, well it depends, doesn’t it. It depends what you like to see your mother in. There’s a lovely little semi in Cuthbert Avenue, just down the hill from here. It’s coming empty because the man who lived there has just died of pernicious anaemia. They say he was like paper before he went; he made no blood at all, and his spleen swelled up. It’s two reception and a kitchen, three bed and one attic and the usual offices. It would just suit us, wouldn’t it, Lucy?’

  This bigger eye of Lucy Nye’s looked at me over the top of her steaming cup but she didn’t say anything.

  ‘What’s the rent? Is it to rent?’ I asked.

  ‘I b’lieve so, though we could inquire. Of course it would be more than this, but it gets all the sun, and it’s the neighbourhood. This has gone down since we came. You remember Keyham, how it went down. But you won’t remember. Lucy remembers, don’t you Lucy?’

  ‘I ’ad a dream last night,’ Lucy Nye said. ‘I dreamed Marnie was in trouble.’

  It’s queer. Being out and about in the world, especially the way I’d lived, was enough to knock the corners off you, to make you grown up. Yet the tone of Lucy’s voice gave me a twinge just like I used to have when I used to sleep with her when I was twelve and she’d wake me up in the morning and say, ‘I’ve ’ad a bad dream.’ And something always seemed to happen that day or the next.

  ‘What d’you mean, trouble?’ Mother said sharply. She had stopped with a piece of scone half-way to her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know; I didn’t get that far. But I dreamed she came in that door with her coat all torn and she was crying.’

  ‘Probably fell down playing hopscotch,’ I said.

  ‘You and your silly dreams,’ Mother said. ‘As if you didn’t ought to know better by your age. Sixty-six next birthday and you talk like a baby. “I had a dream last night!” Who wants to hear about your old woman’s fancies!’

  Lucy’s lip quivered. She was always touchy about her age and to say it out loud was like treading on a corn.

  ‘I only just said I’d ’ad a dream. You can’t help what you see in your sleep. And it isn’t always so silly. Remember I dreamt that last time before Frank came home—’

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ said Mother. ‘This is a Christian household and—’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘whatever else I came home for it wasn’t to listen to you two rowing. Can I have another scone?’

  The kitchen clock struck five. It was a funny note, loud and toneless, that I’ve never heard from any other clock, and the last note was always flat as if it was running down.

  ‘But while we’re talking of old times,’ I said, ‘why don’t you throw that thing out?’

  ‘What thing, dear?’

  ‘That perishing clock,’ I said, ‘it gives me the creeps every time I hear it.’

  ‘But why, Marnie, why? It was a wedding present to your grannie. It’s got the date on the bottom, 1898. She was real proud of it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ I said. ‘Give it away. I’ll buy you another. Then maybe Lucy’ll stop dreaming.’

  The other girl in the box office of the Roxy Cinema was called Anne Wilson. She was about thirty, tall and skinny, and she was writing a play, hoping I suppose to be another Shelagh Delaney. We worked overlapping shifts so that there were always two of us in the box office in the busy hours – except Sunday, that was. Only one could take the money but the one not serving helped behind the scenes.

  The box office was a glass and chromium kiosk in the centre of the marble foyer. The manager’s office was to the left just past the entrance to one of the tunnels leading to the stalls. It was just out of sight of the box office but Mr King, the manager, prowled about between his office and the box office during the busy hours. He kept his eye on the staff; usually he would go up to the projection-room at least twice in every performance, and he was always at the doors to say good night to his patrons at the end of the show. Three times every day, at four and at eight and at nine-thirty, he would come to the kiosk, see we were all right for change and take away the money that had come in.

  Every morning at ten he came to the cinema, unlocked his Chubb safe and carried last night’s takings in a shabby attaché case two doors down the street to the Midland Bank.

  Sometimes, of course, in spite of his care we would run short of change at the wrong moment, and then one of us would go across to his office for more. This happened in October soon after I got back, because the syndicate made a change in the price of seats and we found we needed a lot more coppers. One day Mr King was at a meeting and we ran short of change.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Anne Wilson, ‘I’ll go and get some.’

  ‘You’ll have to go upstairs,’ I said. ‘Mr King’s in the café with the two directors.’

  ‘I don’t need to bother him,’ Anne said. ‘He keeps a spare key in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.’

  Christmas came on. I wrote home and said I couldn’t get home because Mr Pemberton would need me all through the holiday. In the second week of December we had the record-breaking Santa Clara booked and we were following the new fashion and running it for three weeks. It was my day on on the second Sunday.

  On the Friday I told my landlady I was going to see my mother in Southport. On the Saturday after I got home from the Roxy I began my usual turn-out, and while I was doing this a strange thing happened. I was using an old newspaper as an inner wrapping and came across a paragraph about a girl I’d pretty nearly forgotten.

  It was an old Daily Express, dated as far back as 21 February. ‘Police in Birmingham are looking for pretty, mysterious Marion Holland who vanished without trace from her work and from her flat last Monday evening. They are also looking for one thousand one hundred pounds in cash which vanished at the same time from the safe of Messrs Crombie & Strutt, Turf Accountants, of Corporation Street, where Marion was employed as confidential clerk. “We didn’t know much about her,” forty-two-year-old balding branch manager George Pringle, admitted yesterday, “but she was a shy retiring girl and always most reliable. She came to us with a good character.” “A very quiet one,” is landlady Dyson’s view. “Never had no friends but always polite and well spoken. Told me it was only her second job. I think she’d come down in the world.” “It’s like a nightmare to me,” confessed twenty-eight-year-old Ronnie Oliver of PO Telephones, who has been dating Marion. “I can’t help but feel there has been some terrible mistake.”

  ‘The police are not so sure about the mistake. General description and type of job are similar to those of Peggy Nicholson who disappeared from a position as secretary to a Newcastle business man last year with over seven hundred pounds in cash. They would like to interview both ladies and would not be at all surprised if they turned out to be one. General description. Age twenty to twenty-six, height five feet five inches, weight about eight stone, vital statistics to fit and a “taking” way with her. Susceptible personnel managers please note.’

  It shook me coming on it like that. It shook me because I hadn’t ever seen details like that before. And living my life in sort of separate compartments the way I do, it jolted me seeing it just then. Of course there was nothing connecting Marion Holland of Birmingham with Mollie Jeffrey of Manchester, still less with Margaret Elmer who kept a thoroughbred horse at Garrod’s Farm near Cirencester and had a strict old mothe
r in Torquay. But it was a coincidence. It was a hell of a jarring, nasty little coincidence.

  The only thing I liked about it was the bit about having ‘come down in the world’. It just showed what elocution lessons would do.

  For a while after reading the paper I sat on the bed wondering if I should go through with it or if this was a warning that this time I was going to be caught.

  In the end I got over that nonsense. Really, once you start thinking, you’re done. But I thought I wouldn’t try this sort of job again. It was riskier than most.

  I left on Sunday at twelve and took my suitcase with me. I took it to London Road Station and put it in the left-luggage office as usual. I had lunch in a cafeteria and was at the Roxy by ten to four.

  The doors opened at four and the first film began at four-fifteen. I went with Mr King into his office and got twenty pounds in silver and five pounds in copper. He was in a good humour and said we’d had the best week’s takings since 1956.

  ‘Let me carry those for you,’ he said as I picked up the bags.

  ‘No, really, thanks. I can manage.’ I smiled at him and straightened my spectacles. ‘Thank you, Mr King.’

  He followed me out. A small shabby-looking lot of people were waiting at the door of the cinema. It was two minutes to four.

  I said: ‘Er – have I time to get a glass of water? I want to take an aspirin.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Hold them a minute, Martin.’ This to the commissionaire. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’ he said when I got back.

  ‘No, not really, thanks very much.’ I smiled bravely. ‘Go ahead. I’m fine now.’

  By seven the cheaper seats were full, and there was a queue outside for the two and eightpennies. A trickle of people were still coming in and paying four and six so as not to wait. In five minutes the secondary film would be over, sixty or seventy people would come out and a ten-minute break for ice-creams would give the queue outside time to get in and be settled before Santa Clara came on for the last time.

  I never remember being nervous when it comes to the point. My hands are always steady, my pulse beats like one of those musical things they have for keeping time.

  As the last of the stragglers leaving the theatre went out and Martin moved to let in the first of the queue I called quietly to Mr King.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said when he saw the look on my face.

  ‘I’m – frightfully sorry. I feel awful! I think I’m going to be sick!’

  ‘Oh, dear! Can you . . . Can I help you to—’

  ‘No . . . I – I must see this queue through.’

  ‘Can you?’ he said. ‘No, I see you can’t.’

  ‘No . . . I’m afraid I can’t. Can you hold up the queue for a few minutes?’

  ‘No, I’ll take your place. Really. I’ll call an usherette.’

  I grabbed up my handbag and stumbled out of the box. ‘I think if I lie down for about five minutes . . . You can manage?’

  ‘Of course.’ He climbed into the box as the first members of the queue came up to the window.

  I stumbled off down the right-hand tunnel away from the manager’s office. You passed the man who tears your tickets, went down the corridor, and just this side of the doors into the cinema proper, was the Ladies.

  But instead of turning in at the Ladies I went through into the cinema. A girl flashed a light at me and then saw who I was.

  ‘Where’s Gladys?’ I whispered.

  ‘On the other door.’

  As I went along the back of the cinema a big American face was telling the audience why the film he was appearing in at this cinema for seven days beginning next Sunday week was a unique event in motion picture history.

  There was no Gladys at the other door because she was down flashing her light looking for vacant seats, so my excuse wasn’t needed. I went out of the door and up the other tunnel until I was almost in the foyer again. Then I turned in at the manager’s office.

  The light was already on. I shut the door but didn’t catch it. Then I pulled a chair forward and kicked off my shoes.

  The filing cabinet, top drawer. The key wasn’t in the back . . . I went all down the other five drawers. Nothing . . . The cabinet was high and I pulled a stool over and stood on it. The top drawer was full of publicity pamphlets, copies of The Kine Weekly etc. At the back was a pair of Mr King’s gloves. The key was in one thumb.

  Almost two minutes gone. At the safe I slid back the key guard; the key clicked nicely; but it was a real effort to pull the big door open.

  There was nothing but papers in the three top compartments, but in the drawer beside the bags of change were piles of stacked notes. Not only today’s takings but Saturday’s as well.

  You can get a lot of money in a medium-sized handbag if it’s empty to begin with. I shut the safe, locked it and put the key back. Then I slid my shoes on and went to the door. I could hear the movement of people and the click and rattle of the change machine.

  I went out without looking back towards the foyer and turned into the cinema again. This time Gladys was back.

  ‘Full house?’ I asked before she could speak.

  ‘There’s about two dozen four-and-sixes and some singles, that’s all. You off duty now?’

  ‘No, I’m coming back in a minute.’ I went on down the side aisle.

  ‘It’s pretty tough leading the life I lead,’ said the man on the screen, and he seemed to look at me.

  ‘I don’t like it but I can take it,’ said the girl, ‘if I’m with you.’

  That stuff was as real as nothing. I got to the end of the cinema and let myself out by the exit door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was the year after all this that I wrote for the job at John Rutland & Co. at Barnet.

  I don’t know; maybe there’s such a thing as fate, as luck. If you walk under a ladder or spill the salt or cut your nails on a Friday. Well, I had no feelings before I wrote. I might just as well have picked out some other advertisement or opened another paper.

  I’d been working in London since January at a firm called Kendalls who were Insurance Brokers but I’d soon found that the only thing I’d get there was a reference, so I’d worked on just for that and kept my eyes open to see what else was about.

  The letter that came back was headed John Rutland & Co. Ltd., Printers of Quality, established 1869 and it said: ‘Dear Madam, Thank you for your letter replying to our advertisement for an assistant cashier. Would you kindly call to see us next Tuesday morning the 10th inst. at eleven o’clock. S. Ward (Manager).’

  When I got there it was quite a big place, and after waiting in an outer office while another girl was interviewed I was shown into a small room with two men sitting behind a desk, and they asked me the usual things.

  I said my name was Mary Taylor, and I’d been with Kendalls since January. I hadn’t been employed before that. I’d married at twenty and had lived in Cardiff with my husband until he was killed in a motor accident in November last. Since then, although he’d left me a little money, I’d started to work for my living. After leaving school I had done shorthand and typing and also taken courses in bookkeeping and accountancy. I was a shorthand typist at Kendalls but was looking for a job with more prospects.

  I had a good look at the two men. The manager, Mr Ward, was in his fifties, a sour dried-up man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a big wart on his cheek. He looked the sort who had worked his way up in forty years and God help anyone who tried to do it in thirty-nine. The other man was young, dark, with very thick hair that looked as if it needed a brush, and face so pale he might have been ill.

  ‘Are you a Cardiff girl, Mrs Taylor?’ the manager asked.

  ‘No. I come from the East Coast. But my husband worked in Cardiff as a draughtsman.’

  ‘Where did you go to school?’

  ‘In Norwich, the High School there.’

  ‘Are your parents there now?’ this young man said. He was twisting a pencil.

  ‘No, sir.
They emigrated to Australia after I was married.’

  Mr Ward shifted in his seat and put his tongue between his teeth and his cheek. ‘Can you give us some other references apart from this one from Kendalls?’

  ‘Well . . . no, not really. Of course, there’s my bank in Cardiff. Lloyds Bank, Monmouth Street. I’ve been banking there since I went to live there.’

  ‘Do you live in London now?’

  ‘Yes. I have furnished rooms in Swiss Cottage.’

  The young man said: ‘I take it you haven’t any family of your own – I mean children?’

  I looked at him and turned on a smile. ‘No, sir.’

  Mr Ward grunted and began to ask me whether I understood PAYE and insurances and whether I’d ever worked an Anson adding machine. I said I had, which was a lie, but I knew I could get any machine taped quickly enough. I noticed that once he called the young man Mr Rutland, so I guessed he was one of the directors or something. I’d thought so from the minute I saw him, a younger son or something learning the business by starting at the top. I’d seen them before. But this one looked all right.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Taylor,’ Mr Ward said about five minutes later, and something about the way he said it, even though he said it as if it hurt, told me I was in. I mean, it was as if he’d had a hidden sign from the young man.

  Later when I went there I looked through the back files and saw they had written to the bank in Cardiff. The bank had said: ‘We have known Mrs Mary Taylor only for three years since she first began to bank with us, but her account with us has always been in a satisfactory condition. Our personal contacts have been few, but we have been favourably impressed by her dealings and her personality.’

  It isn’t hard really to get a job these days. Very often you can build a background as you go along if you look far enough ahead. Some firms of course will ask for all sorts of references, and then you have to gracefully back out; but at least fifty per cent will be satisfied quite easily, and a few will even take you on sight, if you look respectable and honest.