In the shadow of war, p.10
In the Shadow of War, page 10
‘Oh, my word, CJ. Isn’t that Jean Harlow and Clark Gable? Don’t they look glamorous!’ Etta squeezes CJ’s arm. ‘Pinch me, darling. If my sisters could see me now! Oh, look! They’ve got King Kong’s head on display over there by the entrance! They’re taking pictures. Oh, I want us to have our picture taken over there! You and me here at the premiere of King Kong! I’ll send copies to everyone back home and Celie and Jessie, too. Wouldn’t that be the bee’s knees?’
CJ hands the taxi driver some change. ‘Sure thing, honey.’ He peers out the window at the crowd craning their necks to spot the famous faces parading on the red carpet into Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and runs his fingers inside the starched collar of his dress shirt to loosen its hold on his neck. ‘Remember, we’re just staying for the movie, Etta. No parties tonight. I’ve got a deadline on the Cagney script due tomorrow and I need to be compos mentis. We need the studio to greenlight one of my screenplays or we’ll be joining the line at the soup kitchen downtown.’
‘Yes, yes. I promise, darling. Now be a doll and open my door.’
As they walk up the red carpet past the screaming throng, she smiles and waves, and is gratified when the screams intensify. She may not be famous yet, but making people believe it is the first step. It’s all an act, and she’s in the right town to reinvent herself.
So what if she’d had to spend a chunk of her mother’s money on the King Kong tickets that Harvey Tubman’s PA¸ Marge, had touted to her for the extortionate sum of fifteen dollars? Then, of course, she’d had to buy a new gown and shoes and have her hair freshly marcelled, and rent CJ’s tuxedo … but, really, it was all necessary. She has no intention of wasting years in chorus lines and walk-on roles.
She’d been famous before – maybe infamous is a better word, though, what with all the commotion over Carlo’s imprisonment for his first wife’s murder and the circumstances of his death at the Grotta di Matromania on Capri – but this time she intends to be famous in her own right. The way she should have been famous as the real painter of Carlo’s lauded paintings.
She reaches out and squeezes CJ’s hand as they head under the towering pagoda portico and through the doors into the Chinoiserie extravaganza of the theatre’s lobby.
‘This is the best day of my life, CJ.’
He smiles at her childlike excitement. ‘I’m sure it won’t be the la—’
‘Oh, look! It’s the Marx Brothers!’ Etta releases her grip on CJ’s hand. ‘I must go say hello to Groucho. He needs to know I’m still up for doing his movie even though it’s been postponed till the summer. You don’t mind, do you, darling?’
‘CJ!’ Etta calls out as she spots him standing beside one of the towering orange pillars either side of the entrance, smoking as he watches the glamorous throng pile into their waiting cars.
‘There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘Really? The last I saw of you, you were wrapped up in conversation with Clark Gable and Cary Grant.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that. It was business, darling. I’ve got to see and be seen.’ She takes his cigarette from his lips, sucks at it and returns it to him. She blows out a puff of smoke and loops her arm through his.
‘Groucho’s invited us to his place for drinks. There’s a whole bunch going. He’s promised that Harpo may even talk. Wouldn’t that be something?’
CJ stubs out the cigarette. ‘Etta, I’ve got to get home. You said we’d just come to the movie and leave. You’ve already been chatting everybody up for over an hour. It’s time to go.’
‘Oh, please, CJ. Just for an hour. Okay, half an hour. Just to put in an appearance. It’s important to me.’
‘Honey, I can’t. I’m sorry.’
Etta’s face hardens. ‘CJ, I’ve made it to Hollywood. I’m making friends with important people. People who can help my career. I’m not going to waste this opportunity.’
CJ nods. ‘I get it. It’s always all about what Etta wants, isn’t it? I’m starting to understand Carlo a lot more.’ He turns away abruptly and heads down the red carpet.
‘CJ? What did you mean by that? CJ, you’re not leaving me here alone, are you? CJ!’
He turns around. ‘I’ll hold a cab for five minutes, then I’m leaving.’
‘CJ!’ Etta stamps her foot as CJ disappears into the crowd.
‘I smell a whiff of a lover’s tiff.’
‘Mr Marx!’
Groucho Marx offers her a martini. ‘This is a much better way to drink gin. It’s even got the olive.’
Etta accepts and takes a generous gulp. ‘Thank you. It’s just a silly little thing.’
‘That’s what my wife said on our wedding night.’
Etta laughs. ‘It looks like I’ve been stranded.’
‘Not on my watch.’ He points at her feet. ‘Move! Move! I said not on my watch!’ He spies his watch on his wrist. ‘Would ya look at that. It was there all the time.’ He offers her his arm. ‘C’mon, Miss Marine. I promised you a talking Harpo, didn’t I? That’s something you definitely don’t want to hear.’
Etta takes one last look toward the road. ‘Mr Marx, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Etta slips off her shoes and tiptoes into the shadowy bedroom where CJ lies asleep in a T-shirt and trousers, a cigarette butt extinguished between his fingers. She sets her shoes down beside the wooden wardrobe and, hitching up her silver satin dress, climbs onto the bed. CJ stirs and stretches. He reaches across and pulls her closer as he yawns.
‘So, you decided to come home. I thought I’d lost you to a screen god.’
Etta runs a finger along his lips. ‘Of course, darling. Gable has nothing on you.’
CJ grunts. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’
She presses kisses onto his neck. ‘No? Did I ever tell you that you have a place here, this little dent just above your collarbone,’ she says as she runs her lips along the indentation, ‘that makes me quiver whenever I think about it?’
‘Ummm, is that so?’
She shifts her body until she sits astride him. She leans over and kisses him full on his mouth. ‘I like it when you’re sleepy like this.’
He yawns again and throws his arms back onto the pillow behind his head. ‘So you’re being CJ tonight? Staying out late, sliding into bed, waking me up to have your wicked way with me?’
‘You’ve been a good teacher.’
CJ laughs as he runs a hand along the naked skin of Etta’s arm. ‘Is that so?’
Etta sits up and slides the dress over her head, her naked body catching the moonlight filtering in through the thin curtains. ‘Maybe there are one or two things I can teach you.’
CJ brushes her right nipple with his thumb until it hardens into a peak. ‘Is that right?’
Etta leans over and whispers into CJ’s ear. ‘Why don’t we find out?’
Chapter Eighteen
Jessie
Altumanina, Cairo, Egypt – June 1933
Jessie is about to turn the front door handle of the house when the door flings open and she is suddenly face to face with a striking Black woman of about forty in a man’s white shirt and khaki trousers.
‘Ruth?’
Ruth Bellico throws open her arms and pulls Jessie into an enthusiastic embrace.
‘Jessie Khalid!’ she exclaims as she kisses Jessie on the cheek. ‘Where’ve you been? Shani and I have been playing sentinel at the door waiting for you. She’s on temporary relief helping someone called Marta in the kitchen.’
‘Ruth? What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were off in Germany covering all that political to-do there for the American papers.’
‘Actually, I’m just back from Chicago where I was covering the opening of the World Fair.’ She throws up her hands as if she is reading a large sign. ‘“A Century of Progress” – that’s the fair’s slogan, although I don’t know how you can call it progress when almost thirteen million Americans are unemployed, families are setting up home in packing crates and abandoned cars, and gangsters are running riot across the country. We’ve got a new president and who do you think is on the front pages of all the papers? Some runaway killers named Bonnie and Clyde! And the people lap it up. They can’t print enough newspapers!’
Jessie shuts the door and sets down her schoolbag on the central table’s black marble top. ‘Scandal sells. It’s the same in London. It’s always been that way, and probably always will be. Come out to the terrace and tell me all about what you’ve been up to. Have you had any tea while you’ve been waiting? Shall I ring Marta for some?’
‘Don’t bother. I had the pleasure of your mother-in-law’s company for tea when I got here.’
Jessie raises her eyebrows. ‘How did that go?’
Ruth follows Jessie through the vast entrance hall and into the grand drawing room with its tasteful and expensive French antiques.
‘She suggested that I visit a manicurist and a “good French couturier” she knows, and thought I could benefit from a visit to her coiffeuse as well. She’s given me all their addresses and told me I was very fortunate to have an introduction from her, as it would guarantee the best service. Then she excused herself and said she needed to lie down as she had a headache brought on by her “unexpected hostessing duties”.’
‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Ruth. Layla is … well, she’s unique.’
‘Yeah, I got that.’
Jessie opens the French doors to the terrace and makes her way over to her favourite wicker chair. She flops onto the plump chintz cushions and kicks off her shoes.
‘How long has it been, Ruth? Two years?’
Ruth settles onto the wicker settee. ‘Three. I stopped by en route to Libya to report on the Italian invasion and we all went out to dinner at Shepheard’s Hotel, do you remember?’
‘Ah yes, I remember. The maître d’ was quite taken with Shani and gave her a second helping of ice-cream, much to Layla’s disapproval, which made it all the more delightful in my view.’
‘It was a great night. Then the things I saw in Libya just a week later…’ Ruth runs her hand through her waved bob. ‘Honestly, Jessie, sometimes I wonder why I bother reporting on war and politics when scandal is all anyone seems to want to read about in the papers. Maybe I should sign up for one of the scandal sheets in Hollywood and have done with it.’
‘If you do, you’re more than likely to bump into Etta. She’s out there living in sin with CJ Melton trying to become the next Jean Harlow.’
‘Is she now?’ Ruth chuckles as she takes a packet of cigarettes and a metal flint match lighter out of her trouser pocket. ‘She’s a little old for that, but good luck to her.’ She sticks a cigarette between her lips and strikes the flint match along the grooved side of the lighter until the end flares, then she lights the cigarette and inhales. She smiles at Jessie and throws her the lighter as she exhales a stream of smoke.
‘Souvenir from the World Fair. It’s got the logo stamped on it and all. Give it to Aziz. I know you don’t smoke.’
Jessie pockets the lighter. ‘Thanks. He’ll like that. He’s always bringing odd little gadgets back from the souk. You can find all sorts here in Cairo.’
Ruth tilts back her head and examines Jessie as she exhales a puff of smoke. ‘Truer words were never said.’
Jessie frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
Ruth leans across the arm of the settee and taps the cigarette ash into a brass ashtray. She settles back against the cushions and scrutinises Jessie with her dark eyes.
‘Jessie, you know I like you, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. I like you, too, Ruth. You’re one of my best friends, even though we haven’t seen each other for three years.’ Jessie laughs. ‘Maybe that’s why we’re friends.’
A smile flits across Ruth’s lips. ‘Friends. Sure, of course.’ She shakes her head as she takes another drag on the cigarette. ‘I was just thinking … Never mind.’ She glances at her wristwatch. ‘Good grief. Is that the time?’ She stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I’ve got to love you and leave you, hon. I’ve got a dinner meeting with a German film director who’s in town making a picture. They’re filming a big musical number at the Sphinx the day after tomorrow and I’m hoping to get onto the set and take some pictures for Photoplay.’
‘Oh no! You can’t go yet. You’ve just got here. Stay for dinner. Marta always cooks far too much. If you go now, you’ll miss Aziz. He’s out at a meeting tonight but he’ll be home in an hour or so. He’d love to see you.’
Ruth rises from the settee and, bending over Jessie’s chair, gives Jessie a quick peck on her cheek. ‘Another time, honey. Maybe next time you can come to me.’
Jessie laughs. ‘Come to you? The woman with no fixed address? How do you figure I’ll manage that?’
‘You’ve got a point.’ Ruth touches her forehead in a salute. ‘Don’t get up, Jessie. Rest your feet. I know the way out.’
‘Are you sure? Do you need a lift? Mustapha can drop you anywhere you like.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. I’m an intrepid reporter, remember? See you when I see you. I’ll try to give you a call before I leave. Maybe we can meet for a drink at Shepheard’s.’
‘Sure, Ruth. That would be lovely.’
At the doors to the sitting room, Ruth turns back to face Jessie. ‘And, hon, ask your mother-in-law for her manicurist’s details. I think your poor feet could use a pedicure.’
Chapter Nineteen
Celie
Sweet Briar Farm, West Lake, Alberta, Canada – July 1933
Mavis Wheatley flips over the page of her notebook and runs her finger down the list of names and comments she’s scribbled across the page.
‘Oh, yes, Rosita Majors suggested a column on “Fifteen Ways to Clean Your Home with Baking Soda”, and Muriel Evans said she’s discovered that cola is a miraculous cleaning product. She’s happy to talk to you about that. Molly and her friends all want to include a petition for Mr Forbes to stock Tangee lipstick. Now that she’s eighteen, all she thinks about are boys, movies and make-up.’
Celie nods as she jots down her notes. ‘Right. So, it’s the practical things everyone’s interested in.’ She taps the eraser of her pencil against her cheek as she frowns. ‘Doesn’t anyone want to know what the government plans to do to help us out of this Depression? Prime Minister Bennett seemed to think that raising import tariffs was the answer, but now no one wants to sell to us. And he’s holding back the sale of our wheat abroad waiting for export taxes to go down and wheat prices to improve, but all that’s happening is that we’ve got grain elevators stuffed with wheat and no one to sell it to. It’s an economic disaster, Mavis.’
Mavis grins at Celie as she brushes an errant clump of her unruly dark blonde bob behind her ear.
‘Slowly, slowly, Celie. Don’t scare Rex off at the start. Soften him up with “Twenty Ways Vinegar will Change Your Life” before you slip in politics. Men can get awfully nervous when women think about the big issues. They hate being challenged by us, don’t they? They much prefer thinking that our brains are inferior.’
Celie picks up a digestive biscuit and dips it into her tea. ‘I think they’re afraid that we’ll figure out what a mess of things they’ve made, Mavis. I hope Lulu has a better time of things when she’s older.’
Mavis helps herself to a third biscuit. ‘Absolutely. And Molly, too. But right now, women in West Lake need to know how to run a household and raise children on no money. That’s their priority.’
Celie nods. ‘First things first.’
‘First things first. Then, in a few months, go for the jugular.’
Celie rises and heads to the sink to refresh the kettle. As she’s filling it, she looks out the window and watches Lulu squeal with delight as Ben Wheatley pushes her in circles on the tyre swing Hans had hung from the maple tree years earlier.
She smiles. It’s good to hear their laughter. It had been a hard four years of stifling heat and drought, with Frank’s mood sinking with their bank balance.
Where had it had all gone wrong? Was it Frank’s profligate spending on their Montréal honeymoon when she’d urged caution? His stubborn reliance on outdated British farming methods for growing barley out on the baking, windswept Canadian prairies? Was it her acceptance of the Saturday job teaching German immigrants English? Or was it the realisation that his dream of a new life of prosperity and happiness with his wife and daughter on a farm in Canada after surviving the horrors of the Great War was as fragile as a balloon with a slow leak? And that that slow leak was her love for another man. Max Fischer. A German.
‘Mommy! Come quick! There’s a big black rain cloud coming!’
Celie glances up at the sky where Lulu is pointing to the cloud floating in from the south. She sighs with relief. Finally, rain. She sets the kettle down on the stove and points out the window. ‘Looks like we’ve got some rain coming, Mavis. Come help me bring in the laundry, would you?’
‘Sure thing.’
Celie grabs the laundry basket out of a store cupboard and waves to the children as she and Mavis hurry down the porch steps.
‘Lulu! Ben! Come help us get the sheets in before it rains!’
The children run over to the clothesline and slide into easy teamwork – Ben unclipping the wooden pegs and Lulu bundling the sheets into the laundry basket – as Kip spins around the garden barking.
‘Daddy will be so happy, won’t he?’ Lulu says as she stuffs a pillow case into the basket. ‘He’s been ever so cross. He shook his fist at the sun yesterday and yelled, “Hell and set fire to it!”’
‘Louisa Jeffries! That is no language for a young lady. What must Ben think?’
