A Family Affair. Nancy Carson
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layers of necessarily unfashionable over and undergarments, familiarised Julian and the plain Mrs Oakley with the fine detail of Ned’s childhood, his youth and his adulthood. As she eulogised over his dietary peculiarities and on the regularity of his bowel movements, Julian yawned. ‘I just hope as he axes young Clover to wed him afore it’s too late,’ Florrie added with a sideways glance at Tom Doubleday.
Julian excused himself and made for the dismal but obnoxiously aromatic urinals at the rear of the pub. A solitary candle standing in an old jam jar afforded meagre light. Julian lit a cigarette off it and unfastened his fly as Tom Doubleday appeared at the door.
‘Tom!’ Julian greeted, his cigarette hanging from his bottom lip while he looked up at the wall directly in front of him to avoid smoke going up his nose. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘I know.’ Tom stood alongside him, keeping a discreet distance. ‘It’s funny how you have to keep running off when you drink beer.’
Julian laughed. ‘Blessed relief. God, that’s better.’ He gave himself a brief shake and fastened his buttons. ‘It’s the volume, Tom. Never could drink much beer. Now whisky – that’s a different kettle of fish. Hey, about them photos. How much shall we owe you?’
‘How many shall you want?’
‘Just two, I reckon. That one of the three of them standing in front of the flying machine, and that one where you’ve caught it in flight.’
‘How much are you prepared to pay?’ Tom asked. He turned away from the wall and buttoned his fly. ‘After all, it’s a bit of a scoop.’
‘How about a guinea a picture?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Three guineas, more like. Surely your newspaper can afford to pay for exclusive photographs?’
They settled on five guineas for the pair and shook hands on it. Tom said he would bring them round tomorrow with his invoice.
When they returned to the snug Ramona was standing near the door strapped to her new accordion. She gave it a squeeze and, with an expectant smile, played a chord to get everybody’s attention.
‘What yer gunna play then, our Ramona?’ Elijah called and swigged his beer.
‘I know,’ she said, at once decisive, and launched into ‘Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie’, while Tom and Julian resumed their seats.
The sound of the accordion, like an unrefined organ, filled the little room. Then Ramona sang and her singing voice, like her speaking voice, had an appealing catch in it, far removed from the clear warbles of a soprano or contralto. The only other sounds to be heard were the occasional spit and crack of the fire as the coals shifted further into their basket. When she’d finished everybody applauded noisily. ‘More! More!’ Amos yelled.
‘I think Clover ought to sing us one,’ Ramona proclaimed, pleased with her success and the attention she was eliciting. She beckoned her stepsister to stand alongside her, knowing her shyness would inhibit her. This was Ramona’s golden opportunity to demonstrate to the two men who meant something to Clover, her own pre-eminence in confidence, talent, and her supremacy over Clover’s innate reticence.
Clover, predictably, shook her head. But attention was suddenly focused upon her and hoots of encouragement prompted her to bury her face in her hands with embarrassment.
‘Come on, Clover,’ Ramona persisted. ‘We want to hear you sing.’
‘I bet you can sing like a lark,’ Tom encouraged, at her side.
‘I can’t,’ she insisted.
But her denial seemed to have no clout.
‘I bet you can. Go on, let’s hear you.’
All at once recognising Ramona’s implicit challenge, vividly perceiving again the difference between them and wishing to obliterate it, Clover emptied her glass. She rose from the settle and went to stand by Ramona. She straightened her back and raised her head defiantly.
‘All right. What shall we do?’ Clover asked.
‘Do you know “Waiting at the Church”?’
Clover shook her head. ‘I don’t know the words. I do know “How’d You Like to Spoon With Me”, though.’
‘But I can’t play that one, Clover,’ Ramona reluctantly admitted. ‘I could never get the music.’
‘Well I’ll start it by myself. See if you can get it as we go along.’
Ramona nodded uncertainly, fearing that her ploy was about to backfire. ‘All right, I’ll try,’ she said.
All eyes were on Clover as she began her soft crooning. The light from the lamp spilled on her young head and rimmed her hair with a soft, dancing yellow glow. Her voice was clear and light, almost soprano in pitch. Everybody fell silent and Clover made no attempt to find favour by singing loud. But when she sang the title, ‘How’d You Like to Spoon With Me’, she made sure the lyric was a personal message to Tom.
Behind her, Ned stood, fingering his necktie, anxious about the woman he adored, anxious about this romance that he could see budding right under his very nose.
When Clover had finished, she paused a moment and coughed, laughing in anticipation. Surprisingly, everybody merely clapped. There was no vocal praise. Clover had taken them all too much by surprise for that. Clapping by itself seemed to demonstrate the most profound admiration.
‘That was brilliant, Clover,’ Elijah said. ‘D’you know any more songs like that?’
‘Maybe one,’ Clover replied, enjoying the limelight for a change. ‘It’s called “Sweet Adeline”. Do you know it, Ramona?’ She was conscious that her stepsister was temporarily in the shade, a situation that would never suit the girl and, with typical unselfishness, Clover wished to bring her to the fore again.
Ramona began to play the introduction. It was a party song and more people joined in with the singing. It was the start of a good old sing-song that had everybody singing at the tops of their voices. Some of the men from the taproom even gathered round the door of the snug and lent their voices too.
When the party was over, Ned lingered deliberately, so that he might impede any progress between Clover and Tom. The thought of them kissing goodnight was abhorrent to him. But Ramona lingered too and was very sweet to Ned, although her charm was largely lost on him. Rather, he began to regard her as a likely chum. Anyway, Ned’s ploy met with success and satisfied, he watched as Clover merely waved Tom off from the front door after closing time.
Ramona and Clover met on the landing when everybody had gone. Clover was returning from the scullery with a ewer of water in one hand with which to wash herself come the morning, a candle to light her way in the other.
‘We had some fun tonight,’ Ramona remarked.
‘Yes, I enjoyed it,’ Clover agreed, resting the heavy jug on the wooden handrail while she secured her grip of it.
‘Did you enjoy your walk with Tom Doubleday?’
‘Yes, I did, thank you.’ Clover was uncertain how much she should divulge.
‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’
‘I’ve always thought so.’
‘Are you seeing him again?’
‘Wednesday. He’s taking me out on Wednesday.’ She smiled at the prospect.
‘Ooh, lucky you, Clover. Is there romance in the air at last?’
Clover shrugged non-committally. ‘I can’t tell. It depends on him.’
‘I think Ned likes me.’ Ramona hunched her shoulders and grinned shyly.
‘Ned?’ Clover queried, somewhat alarmed. ‘Oh, keep away from Ned, Ramona. He’s no match for you.’
‘What