Damn.
His
Bremont wristwatch never lied. It was after midnight, and Fitzwilliam Darcy was
unavoidably, unacceptably late. Reynolds was doing his best, but it would take
at least fifteen minutes to cross town to the Marquee. He’d be lucky if he
caught the last number.
A
quarter of an hour later he dashed beneath the neon sign, past the queue and
doorman, and through the double doors into the club. His table – their table – was in a dark corner, with
a lipstick-marred wine glass upon it, next to her Rolleicord camera and a
tumbler containing a thoroughly melted whiskey-rocks. Damn.
By
the stage, a wild crowd still surged to the beat. Which tune was this?
Sweet Little Sixteen.
Maybelline.
Poor
Little Fool.
He knew them all, of course.
“I know you can dance, since
it i’nt hard,” he heard her say in his head. “The question is, do you?”
‘If I can find you, I will,’ he
muttered beneath his breath.
He surveyed the twisting, seething
mass of youth. A sea of bouffants and fringes, tossed like mad to the beat of
the music, hair pushed out of Nefertiri-lined eyes by manicured fingers. Darcy
narrowed his eyes.
Then
there she was – almost up against the stage, head thrown back in laughter as
she tossed her hair back and forth. He took in her shockingly abbreviated dress
– the color of a ripe tomato – which clung to her hips and breasts and bared
her arms to the shoulder. Her dark hair was teased at the crown, falling
thickly in perspiration-soaked strands to stick to her face and neck. Lord, she
was incredible.
Suddenly
she opened her eyes and met his gaze from across the room. For a moment neither
moved – then she broke into a wide grin reserved only for him, completely
unaware of the disappointed look she earned from her dancing partner. Is that Rory Storm?
It didn’t matter. Darcy had come in
time.
If
he were honest, he hadn’t given her a second glance the first time he’d seen
her. She’d been leaning across the bar to hand an empty glass to the barmaid in
exchange for a fresh pint – he’d seen her glowing, shining skin and plastered-down
hair and moved on. That is, until Bingley had pointed her out as the barmaid’s
sister.
‘You
should dance, Darce,’ he’d entreated. ‘Try Lizzy over there. Jane says she’s
nice.’
‘I
certainly shall not.’
‘Come
on, now. The music’s swell, and the ladies…’
‘This
is not music, and those are not ladies.’
The
girl Bingley had pointed out was mere steps away from him, face shadowed by the
curtain of her hair as she passed, ale sloshing over her hand and onto the
filthy, sticky floor.
But
why had he come, if not to dance?
Those greasy, shouting lads on
stage had a certain magnetism that could not be denied. If he needed evidence
of that, he need only look to the wall-to-wall crowd of screaming, gyrating
teen-agers. There were mods and rockers, louts and hoods. The moment he’d
descended into this pit he’d entered another world; it was a smoke-thick,
steaming, gut-wrenching assault of pure humanity that struck him like a slap to
the face. The beat was unlike anything he’d ever heard, picking him up and turning
him inside out with its sheer, pounding force.
It couldn’t have been his heart.
He’d wanted to escape in those
first moments, but something had made him stay. Not the entertainment,
certainly. Most definitely not the atmosphere. It couldn’t have been the girl
in the dark blue dress with the orange collar.
Could it?
There she was again – Elizabeth,
the brunette – clambering up onto a wobbly cane chair at the side of the room,
clutching a compact dual-lensed camera to her breast. She laughed aloud as
helping hands came up from the crowd to steady her, grasping at her tights and
skirt and pinning her safely to the wall. Snap.
Wiiind. Snap.
As she descended from her perch she
accepted the return of her glass of beer from another girl with a smile. Taking
a sip she cast her gaze back toward the bar, and her eyes met Darcy’s. She
raised one eyebrow and lifted the camera up above the crowd, singled him out
with its discoid eye. Snap.
She worked at the Woolworths in
Allerton Road. She was leaning on the cosmetics counter, her dark hair pulled
to the side with a barrette and looking quite tidy in a little black dress with
a starched white collar.
‘Miss Bennet.’
Her head snapped up.
‘Why, Mr. Darcy,’ she said. So – she
knew who he was, and what he could do for her friends if he chose.
‘A packet of Gauloises, if you
please.’
She pulled the cigarettes from
behind the counter and took his coin. As she did, she leaned forward and tested
the air between them.
‘Chanel pour Monsieur?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Ceci est votre parfum, non?’
He looked at her, stunned. ‘Yes,
how did you know?’
‘I might not know much, but I know
me trade, guv’nor.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s two
lies.’
She raised both. ‘You callin’ me a
blagger, mister?’
‘You know more than cologne, if your
occupation last night was any example. And this is not your trade.’
‘Well, if it i’nt a posh git, come
to tell me my fortune. What else can I get for you, luv?’
‘Can you spare a moment?’
Her pink mouth pulled to the side
thoughtfully as she surveyed the room and located a second shopgirl. ‘Oy,
Alice! I’m running around back for a ciggy.’
Outside, she pulled her coat around
her and lit a cigarette. ‘So what can I do for you, Mr. Darcy von Darcy of
Darciphone Records?’
‘I’d like to know about the band
that played last night.’
‘Me own scallys? Trouble in a
Triumph, but they’re headed for the top.’
‘Do you know them well? I saw you
photographing the show.’
She nodded. ‘We were in school
together, ‘till we either finished up respectable-like or was tossed out, one
by one.’
‘May I see some of your
photographs?’
She shrugged noncommittally. He
waited for her reply, until she blew out a breath and said: ‘Look, mister, I’d
love to chat, but I have to get back. I’ll leave some snaps with Jane before
Wednesday’s show.’
With that she strode away, half-smoked
cigarette stubbed out beneath the sole of her Mary Jane and the door of
Woolworths jingling shut behind her.
The
photographs were good. More than good. Astounding.
She’d
made the scruffy lads into bona fide bad-boy sweethearts, their long hair
washed and coiffed and falling in feathered, feminine mops over their eyes. It
was a bit bizarre, but it was certainly new.
‘Guitar groups are on the way out, Bingley,’
he’d announced derisively only a week ago. But Bings had dragged him down all
those flights of stairs to see the lads whose home-pressed records were flying
out of Netherfield’s bins, breezing effortlessly past sales from the colorful
cardboard stand-up at the front of the store promoting Darciphone’s latest.
‘I wouldn’t have brought you up from London
for anything less, Darce. Let’s go see what the fuss is all about. It couldn’t
hurt.’
And
now he faced a difficult decision. Everything he knew about music told him that
this raucous sound coming from dockside toughs was no more than a fad. And yet,
he felt a tug in his chest when he felt that backbeat move through his body,
when he saw those surging girls fall prostrate in their mania for the band, saw
those photographs of four boys with their hair falling over their foreheads. It
was animalistic. He had never known the like.
And
she was there, committing it to
history. Cradling her Rolleicord and dripping with sweat, a beer in her hand.
She would taste of smoke and salt and ale –
Stop.
He
had to admit that Jane Bennet was a very pretty girl, when she wasn’t hefting
drinks across a chipped linoleum bar fifty feet underground. She was holding
Bingley’s hand on top of the table, soft blue eyes beneath a fringe of blonde
hair fixed on his face as he joked with Elizabeth. Pretty, yes – but what did
Charlie see in her? She scarcely said a word, other than to agree with either
her date or her sister. In contrast, Elizabeth carried the conversation with
ease and no little aplomb, leaping from topic to topic with assurance through
that thick scouse accent. He was surprised to find himself becoming accustomed
to her lilting speech – the way she rounded her mouth around a word like ‘luv,’
the nasal incredulity of ‘I’n’it?’ – and all the while her dark eyes sparkled
with secret amusement; occasionally she would cast a glance at Darcy, then meet
her sister’s eyes and laugh. He wanted more than anything to join her in her
mirth, but found himself as awkward as a schoolboy when he tried to speak.
Bingley
tossed back the last of his gin and tonic and tugged on Jane’s hand. ‘Dance
with me, Janey?’
All
was quiet when they had gone. Elizabeth tapped her fingers on the table, toying
with the strap of her Rolleicord, from which it seemed she was never parted.
‘I
know you can dance, since it i’nt
hard,’ she said at last with a pointed look. ‘The question is, do you?’
‘Not
if I can help it.’
She
nodded knowingly. ‘Oh aye, every savage can dance, but it takes a gentleman to
put it down.’
‘Indeed,’
he replied.
She
quirked another private smile, then pulled her mouth to the side and tapped her
lacquered fingernails on the table, casting her eyes to the ceiling.
‘So
did yer mum knit you that jumper?’
He
looked down. ‘No.’
‘Don’t
have a mum, then?’
‘Of
course I do.’
‘Nice
lady?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do
you know,’ she went on, ‘I’ve often found that when I haven’t anything nice to
say, I had better not speak at all.’
He
hesitated, unsure of her meaning. Whenever he was around her he felt
off-balance, and rather queer. He cleared his throat and tugged at his cuffs,
pulling them out to lie a half-inch out of his sleeves and straightening the
gold cufflinks. ‘I agree, of course.’
‘I
thought you might.’
He
sent a telegram to Bingley from London.
HAVE
DECIDED AGAINST YOUR LADS DONT SEE THE TALENT STOP WILL YOU COME DOWN TO LONDON
POST HASTE AS I REQUIRE YOUR HELP STOP F DARCY
It
was the correct decision, he was sure. The scruffy lads had no prospects in
music, Bingley no business with the barmaid, and Fitzwilliam Darcy would cease
all thoughts of the dockman’s daughter who mixed with a gang of louts.
Bingley
arrived, eager and willing to stay a few days. Darcy made sure the visit lasted
at least a month. In the end Darcy spent the time trying to drag Charlie out of
the doldrums he’d fallen into after Darcy made his case against Jane Bennet.
They threw themselves into work, arriving at the office early and rarely
leaving until after dark.
‘Your
golden opportunity has passed, my friend,’ Bingley opened one night, strolling
into Darcy’s twelfth-floor office. The latest sales figures were before him on
the desk, and staring at them hadn’t changed a thing. He looked up.
‘Sorry?’
‘Decca
snapped those lads up for an audition. They’re down in the studio with Tony
now.’
Darcy
let out a long, low whistle.
‘You
know I’ll always respect your judgment, Darce, but I can’t help but think – ’
‘How
do you know about the session?’
Bingley
raised both eyebrows. ‘Don’t look at me that way, old chap. I don’t go in for
corporate espionage.’
Darcy’s
gaze was unwavering.
‘Oh,
all right. I saw Lizzy Bennet. She’s with them, taking pictures.’
‘She
came to see you?’
Bingley
sank into the Eames by the window and looked dejectedly out into the haze of
falling snow. ‘She wanted to know why I never telephoned Jane.’
‘Ah.’
The
younger man’s face crumpled as he propped it on his fist. ‘I wonder if she
could be as low as I am right now.’
Darcy
straightened the papers on his desk with a stiffly self-conscious motion. ‘We’ve
been over this. She’s not right for you, Charlie.’
‘My
head knows that,’ Bingley replied, ‘but my heart just won’t go along with it.’
Darcy
sighed, throwing the papers down. ‘Let’s go to the Marquee. I’ll buy you a
drink or five.’
Two
hours later a thoroughly inebriated Charles Bingley had been safely bundled
into a cab, and Fitzwilliam Darcy stood alone and half-drunk outside the club.
It was biting cold, despite his thick cashmere overcoat and scarf. Snowflakes
dotted the lenses of his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, melting into glimmering
drops before his eyes. Should I ring her?
He shook his head, banishing the thought. Damn, I’ve got to sober up. Turning up his collar he began to walk,
pushing through the soot-stained snowbanks without knowing where he went.
Elizabeth
Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet.
It
was a kind of madness, he thought. In his mind’s eye he saw her lift her
camera, meet his gaze. Snap. She had
pressed the shutter, and he had lost his soul. Nothing had been the same since.
Hour after hour he’d lain in his silken sheets and thought of nothing but her
sweet face, her capable hands, her teasing, lilting voice – and what it would
be like to wake up with her in the morning.
An hour in he realized with wry
amusement where his feet had been leading him; he was at the steps of the
unassuming Decca studio building in West Hampstead. Pale light shone from a
first-floor window; someone was still working, even at this late hour. He had
no doubt that she would be inside with the band. Before he could change his
mind, he pulled the door open and strode along the hallway past studio after darkened
studio until he reached a door with light streaming from beneath. He entered
without knocking.
Tony
was at the console, headphones on. He glanced up and nodded to Darcy, then
returned to his work. The boys, mouthing words silently in the soundproofed
room, were laying down track. Darcy picked up the spare headset and listened. September in the Rain from Melody for Two. He harrumphed in
surprise.
‘What
cat dragged you in?’ Tony asked, tilting his earpiece up and casting Darcy a
questioning look.
‘I
heard you were going through my rubbish,’ Darcy replied.
Tony
shrugged. ‘I just do what they tell me.’
‘Anyone
else I should know about?’
‘The
Redcoats laid a few down this morning.’
Wickham. He set down the headphones,
trying to still the trembling of his hands. ‘Thanks, Tony.’
‘Anytime.
Let me know if you need a hand over the holiday. I’m free as a bird.’
‘You’re
my first call.’
He
shut the door behind him as quietly as possible, trying to gather his thoughts.
Footsteps sounded from the far end of the hall and there she was, grasping four
bottles of Coke in her two small hands, the Rolleicord slung over her shoulder
and its strap cutting a furrow between her breasts.
‘Mr.
Darcy,’ she exclaimed, nearly dumbstruck.
‘Allow
me.’
He
reached for the bottles, and she clutched them tighter. Suddenly the whole
arrangement collapsed, and they both lunged for the falling drinks. Bottles
smashed against the polished tile.
‘Oh,
bugger all! Of all the daft-arse, bloody, stupid – ’
‘Forget
it,’ he said, dropping the bottle he’d managed to save. As it hit the floor he
moved swiftly and surely, grasping her arms through the thin fabric of her
dress and pulling her toward him. In a brief, momentous instant he saw her
eyes, wide with shock, before he closed the distance between their lips.
Good God. Rum and coke was on her breath
and perfume in her hair. Her lips were as soft as rose-petals, warm and slick
with lipstick. He enclosed her entire body within the circle of his arms, and
felt her trembling like a doe before the shot.
‘Gerroff!’
she gasped, pushing him away with all her strength. ‘Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m
sorry,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I couldn’t help myself any longer.’
Her
arms were crossed protectively across her chest, eyes fierce.
‘You’re
pissed,’ she stated contemptuously. ‘What are you doing here anyway? There i’nt
no talent hereabouts.’
He
frowned. ‘I never said that.’
‘Ooh,
you’re blaggin’ me ‘ead! I seen the telegram when Bingley got it.’
He
lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I passed them over
rather than risk seeing more of you – I knew I was in danger from you. I fought
this, I tried not to think of you these weeks, but I – I think I love you.’
When
he looked up he saw that her jaw was slack. At last she shut her mouth, but
said not a word.
‘I
never meant to,’ he went on, suddenly needing to confide in her, to tell her of
all he had suffered for her sake. ‘If I could choose a woman for myself – or for
Bingley – rationally, I mean – it would be different. But you’re here now, and
I had to see you – had to ask you – I know it will be difficult, bringing you
into my sphere, so to speak. Your accent’s the main thing – ’
‘Stop!’
she cried. ‘Stop it, you awful prig!’
He
was very nearly afraid of the fire in her eyes. She had gone pink from her
collar to the roots of her hair, and her knuckles were bloodless where she
clutched her own arms in front of her.
‘I’ll
not listen to another word,’ she said, lowering the volume of her voice. ‘Go
away, will you? Leave me be.’
‘Are
– are you rejecting me?’
She
laughed aloud. ‘After that speech? Is right.’
‘I
was merely being honest. Expectations have been placed upon me that I don’t
expect you to understand – ’
‘No,
I s’pose I wouldn’t, would I? Being so common,
no one ever expected much of me.’ One hand reached for the strap of her camera,
and her lashes fell over her eyes as she glanced down at it.
‘You
seem to take delight in professing opinions that are not your own.’
Her
eyes flashed. ‘Come to tell me my fortune again? It don’t matter what I think
or what I want, do it? You think you know me, Mr. Darcy, but you don’t.’
‘I
know you well enough.’
‘Oh,
aye? Then you oughta know that I hate you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. I hadn’t known
you a week before I did.’
He
stepped back as though he’d been slapped. ‘Impossible.’
She
turned her face away, staring determinedly at the wall beside her. In profile
her dark hair swept away from her temple, exposing the flutter of her pulse.
‘What
can I possibly have done?’ he pressed.
She
shook her head, lips compressed.
‘If
this is about Bingley – ’
At
once she came to life, her diminuitive form coiled with tension. ‘So you have
some idea of what you did there, d’you?’
He
scoffed. ‘I was kinder to Bingley than I was to myself. I only want what’s best
for him.’
‘What
about what he thinks is best for himself? What about what’s best for Jane? Did
you think twice before you tore them apart, leaving two broken hearts behind
you? Maybe I shouldn’t ask; after meeting George Wickham today, it seems you
make a habit of it.’
‘Wickham!’
he cried. ‘Ah yes, the trials and tribulations of George Wickham. I treated him
fairly – generously – and Bingley too. In both cases I’d do the same again. But
that can’t be the reason for your words just now.’
‘No,’
she said softly. ‘Yer the reason. Standing up against the wall of that club,
looking down yer nose at me mates and flat-out refusing to dance with a scouse
girl – not a thought for our feelings, our pride – only yer own, and what we
could do for you, and not the other way ’round.’
‘So
this is what you think of me.’ The words hung with finality between them.
Again
she looked away.
‘I
can see that I have been mistaken, quite mistaken,’ he said softly. Suddenly he
found himself unable to look at her, to see the anger and hurt in her eyes –
and of his infliction! He pulled off his glasses and busied himself with
cleaning them on the end of his scarf, then replaced them shakily. They gazed
at one another, each resolute and silent. As he turned to go he saw her kneel
down and begin to gather up the pieces of broken glass that lay scattered on
the floor around her feet.
In
his darkened office, Darcy pulled out a sheet of pale blue Darciphone
stationery and snatched the fountain pen from its stand.
…have no fear of my repeating what was
earlier so disgusting to you…
…charges
laid at my door…
…I
detected no sign of peculiar regard in your sister, and concluded that her
heart was unlikely to be touched…
…I
doubt Wickham mentioned that he left my sister brokenhearted and in a delicate
condition. She still has not recovered from her ordeal, though I confess a
certain relief that the child never came to term. I hope you will understand my
decision to exclude that scoundrel from my and my sister’s society, and my
resolution never to support him financially again…
…to
that I can only add, God bless you –
Once
it was done, he tossed the thick packet into his outgoing post with dismissive,
final gesture, and left the building directly.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, Darciphone Records.
Three
months later his secretary placed a telegram form Charles Bingley into his
hands. After tearing it open and scanning the contents he laid it gently in the
center of his empty desk, thinking over the words he’d read.
It
would be foolish to refuse Charlie’s request after the disservice he’d done
him; if Bingley had forgiven him so soon, he would accept the extended olive
branch. The following afternoon found him disembarking at Lime Street Station
and directing that his baggage be sent to the Racquet Club.
Several
hours remained before his dinner appointment with his friend. On an impulse he
boarded a train to Warrington Central and walked north to the roundabout in
Allerton Road. As he approached the store, the door of Woolworths opened and out
spilled four gangly lads, each wearing a woollen peacoat and lighting a
crumpled cigarette. One kicked a bit of rubbish into the road, scowling after
it as it rolled. None looked best pleased.
She
was leaning on the cosmetics counter, just as before, smartly dressed in a neat
tweed vest, white-collared shirt and striped necktie which stood out absurdly
against her narrow shoulders and slim neck. At the sound of the door she drew
the back of her hand across her cheeks; when she finally looked up her
astonished eyes were red-rimmed and swimming with tears.
‘Miss
Bennet,’ he cried, approaching quickly. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh!’
she said quickly. ‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘You
look very ill.’
‘Silly
thing,’ she muttered, dabbing at her shining eyes with a hanky. ‘I oughtn’t be
so upset.’
‘Won’t
you tell me what’s happened?’
‘I
shouldn’t – it’s none of your concern – only, Decca’s said no, is all.’
His
expression showed genuine surprise and dismay, but she never managed to
encounter his eyes.
‘They’re
awfully brought down,’ she went on. ‘We all had such hopes – well, it don’t
matter. What brings you up?’
‘Bingley
asked me to come.’
‘Oh!’
she cried. ‘For the wedding.’
Darcy
glanced at the door behind him, suddenly anxious to be gone. ‘I – ah, I should
be off.’
‘Of
course,’ she said. Suddenly she thrust out her hand; it was an odd, innocent
gesture. He took it, frowning at the feel of her warm skin pressed against his
own. ‘Good-bye, Mr. Darcy.’
‘Good-bye,
Elizabeth.’
He
saw her at the wedding, naturally. Her eyes never left Jane, who fairly glowed.
Elizabeth stood to the side of her sister, clutching a spray of nodding
daffodils against the front of her yellow and white daisy-print dress. Only
when Bingley extended his hand to shake Darcy’s own as the newlyweds retreated
down the aisle did he tear his gaze away from the bridesmaid and slap his friend
on the back. As she followed with her parents she passed him by, eyes ahead,
head balanced proudly on the slender stalk of her neck. Blood pounding in his
ears, Darcy left the church and walked back to the Racquet Club directly,
stopping only to change his clothes before catching the next train back to
London.
‘Hello,
Tony?’ he asked when the operator connected the line. ‘Sorry to bother you on a
Sunday, but have you still got that demo you laid down on New Year’s Day?’
Darcy
let the engineer into the near-empty Darciphone building himself, and they took
the lift up together in companionable silence. One of Tony’s strong points, in
Darcy’s eyes, was that he didn’t have the tendency toward loquaciousness he had
often observed in recording engineers. Instead of talking, he listened.
They
reviewed the tapes together in Darcy’s office, twin spools of the Astrovox
turning in hypnotic unison as the hourlong session played out. At last the terminal
chord faded out, ending in a thunk as
the recording came to an end. Tony leaned forward to shut off the reel-to-reel,
then sat back in his chair and waited.
Darcy
sat with his fingers steepled before him, running over his options in his mind.
‘Are
you available, Tony?’
‘Anytime,
for you.’
‘I
want a twelve-inch ready to press as soon as we can get it, seven tracks to a
side and at least two singles. Find out if they can write music as
enthusiastically as they perform it, and bring me at least twenty tracks from
which to choose the final cuts. I’ll leave a note for Maude to ring them up in
the morning with a contract.’ He paused. ‘Can you work with them, Tony?’
‘Oh,
I imagine I can make something out of the scamps.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Will
you be asking for Miss Bennet as well, then?’
Darcy
startled. ‘Miss Bennet?’
‘For
the sleeve. I saw some of them pictures she took. Quite nice, I thought.’
‘Ah.’
Darcy leaned back, hands behind his head as he studied the tiled ceiling above.
‘Yes, perhaps.’
When
Tony had gone he drew out the dictophone and composed a carefully-worded note.
‘To Miss E. Bennet, in re: your photographs –
’
It
seemed an age before the record was complete. At last it sat before him, crisp
and new-pressed in cellophane atop the gleaming mahogany of his desk. Carefully
stripping away the wrapping, he ran his fingers over the full-color photograph
on the sleeve.
She never ceases to surprise me.
The
photograph was taken from the bottom of the central Darciphone stairwell,
looking upwards at the boys, who looked down benevolently from above. Beyond
them the spiraling stairs seemed to stretch to infinity, cradling the name of
the band against its very distance.
When
was she here? he wondered, closing his eyes to picture meeting her in the
lift or near the revolving doors that opened onto the bustle of Wrights Lane. Miss Bennet, what brings you here? He
shook his head at his own foolishness. If she had wanted to see him, she knew
where he was; it seemed impossible that she could want to see him.
He
had signed the cheque himself – payable
to Elizabeth Bennet, one thousand pounds. At the time he had wondered if
she would send it back to him, torn into a hundred pieces. Or perhaps storm
into his office clutching the slip of paper, indignation flaring in her
sparkling eyes…
The
vinyl disc slipped easily from its paper sleeve, and he placed it gently on the
turntable before taking up the tone-arm with two fingers and setting the needle
in the groove.
One…two…three…four!
The
rhythm tugged at him, twitching his feet and tickling his eardrums. His head
fell into his hands, elbows propped on the cardboard record sleeve in his lap.
Suddenly tears stung at his eyes, and he swallowed thickly to push them down. So these are her boys.
‘Mr.
Darcy?’
It
was Maude, voice crackling from the intercom on the desk.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve
received the sales figures for the week, if you’d care to review them.’
He
paused, finger poised over the button on the little box. This was the moment.
One way or another, he would know what their fate would be.
‘Thank
you, Maude,’ he replied. ‘Please bring the report in directly.’
It
was nearly a year later that he found himself standing across from Elizabeth at
the font, acting as godfather and godmother to fussing, squalling Susan Jane
Bingley. A year without sight or word of her, other than the occasional mention
from Bingley over the telephone. He watched spellbound as she held and
comforted the baby girl, dangling her dark hair over Susie’s face to tickle
her, and allowing the locks to be tugged by tiny fists.
After
the ceremony they gathered in Charlie and Jane’s cramped flat, celebrating with
Cokes and cucumber sandwiches prepared by the new mother. Bingley was besotted
with his daughter, and could scarcely take his eyes off her long enough to
finish a sentence. The Hi-Fi dropped record after record unnoticed in the
corner, providing a humming beat behind the chatter of friends and family. It
was difficult not to stare blatantly at Elizabeth; time apart had only
magnified her beauty in his eyes. When she reached for her purse and fished
about for her cigarettes, he was right behind her.
‘Hello,’
she said softly once they were alone in the courtyard, blowing out a long
breath of smoke.
‘How
are you?’
Her
eyes moved toward him but not her head, giving her a sly aspect. ‘Oh, a’right.’
‘I
asked after you at Woolworths.’
‘Oh
aye? No luck there I’ll wager – I’m at a gallery downtown these past eight
months.’
‘Do
you like it?’
‘T’ain’t
bad, guv’nor.’
She
raised an eyebrow and held out her half-smoked ciggy, rose-pink with lipstick
where she’d held it to her mouth. He took it and curled his fist around the
roll, drawing off it thoughtfully. She watched him as he did, then took the
cigarette back and held it absentmindedly between two fingers dangling at her
side.
‘I
miss them boys,’ she said softly. ‘Gone for months, they’ve been.’
He
was silent for a moment, then drew out the Record
Retailer magazine he’d been carrying in his coat pocket all day in
anticipation of meeting her.
‘Have
you seen it yet?’
She
nearly dropped her cigarette as she lunged for the pamphlet. He laughed and
opened it to the Top 50. There they were, at number 49.
‘Go-o-or
blimey!’ she swore, eyes dancing with delight. She grabbed the magazine out of
his hands and ran her fingertip across the name and over to the label – Darciphone DR 1071.
When
she looked up he thought his knees would buckle beneath him. It was love – love! – he could swear it was. It must
be for her boys. Musn’t it?
‘Miss
Bennet – Elizabeth – ’ he stammered. She raised her face to his expectantly.
‘Yes?’
‘Will
you come out for a drink with me?’
There.
He’d said it.
She
lifted one dark brow, the corner of her mouth twitching in a half-smile.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’d be a’right.’
As
he pushed through the crowd the final chords rang out, and the boys drew out
the last note with whooping yelps and jangling vibrato.
‘Thank
you, thank you,’ came a breathless voice into the mic. ‘You’ve been a lovely
crowd, truly you have – but it’s past our beddy-bye and – ’
‘Hold
up,’ Darcy shouted, straining to be heard above the whistles and cheers of the
lingering dancers. ‘Hold up, lads!’
He
shoved his way to the front, coming up hard against the edge of the stage. A
sweaty mop of hair bent down to meet him, and he spoke quickly into the
listening ear. A moment later he pushed his way back to Elizabeth, taking her
into his arms as soon as he reached her and pressing his lips to the crown of
her dark head.
‘Ladies
and jellyspoons,’ came the solemn announcement. ‘I have just had it from Mr.
Fitzwilly Darciphone that we lads will shortly be on our way across the pond –
no, not the Isle of Man – we’re going to America!’
Cheers
erupted from the gathered crowd, only to be pushed down by a gesture from the
stage. ‘In return for this momentous news, he asks only for a dance with his
wife. So here we go boys, a ditty from our new home in America – a little
number by the Drifters…’
As
the first chords rang out he felt Elizabeth’s arms sneak around his waist,
pulling him close as he nestled her head beneath his chin. She looked up at
last, tears streaming down her face.
‘America?’
she whispered.
‘Twenty-three
cities,’ he replied, ‘and two television appearances. If you think your boys
are big now…’
‘Oh!’
she cried. ‘It’s like a dream. Will you pinch me?’
He
shook his head. ‘I was afraid I’d find you a bit cheesed off.’
She
smiled. ‘Don’t be daft, ye dozy wee gobshite. I knew ye’d be here for the last
dance.’
He
pulled her close, taking her hand in his and running his finger over the gold
band he found there. ‘Forgiven?’
‘Forgiven.’
Bending down, he whispered the
words in her ear as the boys played their song. ‘So darling… save the last dance for me...’
Her small form vibrated with a
giggle she couldn’t suppress. She lifted her face to grin at him. ‘Fer all
you’re a music-man, mister, you can’t carry a tune in a bucket.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Luckily
for you, the boys can.’
‘Luckily for you I love you more, Fitzwilliam Darcy.’
‘Luckily for me, I love you too,’
he replied. The strum of the bass and the kick of the drum moved through him,
turning him inside out and upside down. And Fitzwilliam Darcy danced.
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