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Authors: Elizabeth Hoy
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her golden head and said, “Oh, no. The leading dancers of course, the few with great names, are paid more. But even they don’t get anything like the same money a third-rate film actor can command. As for the dancers like me—the nameless struggling ones, life is just hard work and long hours and small thanks at the end of it.”
“Then why do you do it?” asked Joan.
Vera shrugged again and said she didn’t know. “My mother was in ballet. I was brought up in the atmosphere. I’ve never been particularly good at it,” she confessed, “but I like the drifting life and the music and I love the stage. What I really want to do is to work in legitimate drama. Once I did for a little while. I was lucky enough to be taken on in an English Repertory company playing in the provinces. We toured such lovely old towns—York and Harrogate and as far north as Edinburgh. We came south to Bath and Bournemouth and Torquay. It was spring and I was so happy. Then Ivan was born—”
She stopped abruptly.
Joan felt the stab of hot blood in her cheeks and a wave of utter confusion swept over her. Suddenly she was so hurt and so panic-stricken inside that she could neither speak nor move. She just sat there huddled in the cheap velvet armchair, watching Vera’s cool, beautiful hands lighting a cigarette.
She would die, she felt, if she were forced to listen to any more confidences. She didn’t want to know any more about Vera Petrovna ’ s struggles nor the tragedy of Ivan’s birth. Though of course, Vera Petrovna would hardly be likely to tell her the truth about that !
With an effort she stood up. “I’ve got to get back on duty,” she stammered, though actually she still had plenty of time to spare, as Vera would know very well.
Vera’s red lips drooped. “I’ve been boring you with my egotistical grumblings,” she said wistfully. “But please do not yet go. Ivan will be so sad not to see you. He is out driving in the park but he will be home at any moment, indeed I am surprised he is not back already for he knew you would be here at four.”
And even as she spoke there was the sound of a car drawing up before the area railings, and that other sound that sent Joan’s pulses racing in alarm. It was Garth’s voice out there, Garth laughing and talking as he came running down the area steps with the small, warmly bundled invalid in his arms.
They had had the most exciting drive round the Serpentine, he said, rushing into the room in his big, impetuous fashion. He stopped short at the sight of Joan but Ivan in his arms whooped with joy and scrambling from his hold ran to greet his friend with such noisy welcoming that it tided the awkward moment safely over.
After that Joan couldn’t get away easily because Ivan had so much to tell her, so much to show. There was Mr. Dippy to be brought out for a kiss and a new jig-saw puzzle to be inspected, a puzzle that was so enormous it took all the hearth-rug to hold it when it was completed.
Joan tried to keep her mind on these important matters but with every nerve in her body she was aware of Garth’s eyes watching her. He was lounging in the cheap velvet armchair which she had abandoned, teasing Vera with an easy familiarity that smote Joan like a sword. When he laughed at her choice of eatables for tea she offered to go into the kitchen and make him some toast instead. He said, “If you bring me the bread, old thing, I can make it myself here at the gas-fire.”
He seemed so immensely at home, so even comically domesticated, if anything could have been comical about that nightmare half-hour for Joan.
He made the toast most expertly for himself and for Ivan. He went into the kitchen to fetch Ivan’s milk, warming it in a saucepan on the gas-ring. He told Vera he did not think small boys should be given cold sausages to eat, and she replied a trifle sharply that they were perfectly good sausages, and much better for Ivan than the dreadful plum cake she had seen
“Then why do you do it?” asked Joan.
Vera shrugged again and said she didn’t know. “My mother was in ballet. I was brought up in the atmosphere. I’ve never been particularly good at it,” she confessed, “but I like the drifting life and the music and I love the stage. What I really want to do is to work in legitimate drama. Once I did for a little while. I was lucky enough to be taken on in an English Repertory company playing in the provinces. We toured such lovely old towns—York and Harrogate and as far north as Edinburgh. We came south to Bath and Bournemouth and Torquay. It was spring and I was so happy. Then Ivan was born—”
She stopped abruptly.
Joan felt the stab of hot blood in her cheeks and a wave of utter confusion swept over her. Suddenly she was so hurt and so panic-stricken inside that she could neither speak nor move. She just sat there huddled in the cheap velvet armchair, watching Vera’s cool, beautiful hands lighting a cigarette.
She would die, she felt, if she were forced to listen to any more confidences. She didn’t want to know any more about Vera Petrovna ’ s struggles nor the tragedy of Ivan’s birth. Though of course, Vera Petrovna would hardly be likely to tell her the truth about that !
With an effort she stood up. “I’ve got to get back on duty,” she stammered, though actually she still had plenty of time to spare, as Vera would know very well.
Vera’s red lips drooped. “I’ve been boring you with my egotistical grumblings,” she said wistfully. “But please do not yet go. Ivan will be so sad not to see you. He is out driving in the park but he will be home at any moment, indeed I am surprised he is not back already for he knew you would be here at four.”
And even as she spoke there was the sound of a car drawing up before the area railings, and that other sound that sent Joan’s pulses racing in alarm. It was Garth’s voice out there, Garth laughing and talking as he came running down the area steps with the small, warmly bundled invalid in his arms.
They had had the most exciting drive round the Serpentine, he said, rushing into the room in his big, impetuous fashion. He stopped short at the sight of Joan but Ivan in his arms whooped with joy and scrambling from his hold ran to greet his friend with such noisy welcoming that it tided the awkward moment safely over.
After that Joan couldn’t get away easily because Ivan had so much to tell her, so much to show. There was Mr. Dippy to be brought out for a kiss and a new jig-saw puzzle to be inspected, a puzzle that was so enormous it took all the hearth-rug to hold it when it was completed.
Joan tried to keep her mind on these important matters but with every nerve in her body she was aware of Garth’s eyes watching her. He was lounging in the cheap velvet armchair which she had abandoned, teasing Vera with an easy familiarity that smote Joan like a sword. When he laughed at her choice of eatables for tea she offered to go into the kitchen and make him some toast instead. He said, “If you bring me the bread, old thing, I can make it myself here at the gas-fire.”
He seemed so immensely at home, so even comically domesticated, if anything could have been comical about that nightmare half-hour for Joan.
He made the toast most expertly for himself and for Ivan. He went into the kitchen to fetch Ivan’s milk, warming it in a saucepan on the gas-ring. He told Vera he did not think small boys should be given cold sausages to eat, and she replied a trifle sharply that they were perfectly good sausages, and much better for Ivan than the dreadful plum cake she had seen
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