The Boy I Love Page 2

  James Langton was remembering the incident now. He and Giles did not know each other that well, but had agreed to meet after James had rung Giles’s secretary to discuss Sally Thomas’s contract for the upcoming season.

  ‘You went through a very bad patch a few years back, I seem to recall,’ mused James over a very fine dinner at the Garrick Club.

  ‘Oh God, yes, it was a pretty close thing, but I was bailed out by the lovely Lord Graham. We have been friends ever since.’ Giles did not add that they were also lovers, on and off. After the police arrested Giles for indecently assaulting a young man, Lord Edward (Teddie) Graham had stepped in and paid off the boy and his parents and pulled strings with the Commissioner of Police. He and Giles had then had an affair, but unlike most of Giles’s romantic attachments it had not fizzled out or ended dramatically, but every now and then had renewed itself.

  Lord Graham was married to money and had managed to father three children, most importantly an heir and a spare, as they said in those rarefied social circles. This secured the marriage, and the family seat, which was a beautiful hundred-room stately home in Cheshire. Teddie was able, in the main, to keep his preferences under wraps, but when the need arose he would stay down in London at his club and seek out Giles Longfellow, who after his run-in with the authorities had also had to keep himself in check. Both men enjoyed each other’s company and although it was hardly a relationship based on passion it served them both well.

  Giles finally started to focus on his career as a director and was offered the post at Crewe five years ago. Edward Graham’s country pile was just up the road so it seemed the perfect post – for the time being, at any rate. As he became more confident as a director, thanks to his work at Crewe, so Giles’s ambition returned. This season he wanted to make his mark, and head for the West End and perhaps a post with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He had proven himself with several productions at Crewe, and surprisingly, run the financial side at a profit with the help of an Arts Council grant. However, in order to achieve the kind of production that would turn heads in his direction, he was going to need extra cash to lure some exciting talent up to Crewe. Lord Graham was his golden ticket. Teddie had become a patron of the arts, in particular of Crewe Theatre, and had pledged financial support to Giles for his new season. So, Giles was down in London to court a young actor called Rupert Hallam, who was making waves in theatrical circles, to persuade him to come to Crewe to do Hamlet. The rest of the cast would soon fall into place if Giles secured the young man. God knows, there were enough actors to choose from, and he had already chosen Sally Thomas.

  ‘I liked her because she showed pluck coming all the way to see me. She gave a consummate performance, maybe not glittering, but she has a good singing voice and I need that in the company, as I am hoping to do two or three music-based productions: a revival of The Boyfriend, a Victorian music-hall show, and of course, a pantomime at Christmas. I have told the girl that she will have to do some stage management at first until I can really see her strengths, but I promised her she would get her chance. And, of course, she would be official understudy too.’ Giles took a sip of very expensive Bordeaux. As James was paying the bill, he had offered to choose the wine!

  James couldn’t hide his pride and delight for his protége.

  ‘Oh, believe me she is thrilled, and quite understands the situation. I am very grateful to you, Giles. Actually I have another young actor I would be very pleased if you could audition and give me your thoughts. His name is Jeremy Sinclair and he works for me part-time in the reference library.’ James refilled Giles Longfellow’s glass.

  Giles regarded the other man for a few moments and then said, ‘Is it love, James?’

  James Langton blushed deeply and spluttered, ‘Good God, no! I am not like that, you know I am not. Whatever gave you that idea? I have a wife and I am a respectable married man. Giles, you are outrageous to suggest such a thing.’

  Giles burst out laughing. ‘All right, calm down, for goodness sake, man. It was just a thought. You don’t have to hide things from someone like me . . . ’ but James interrupted him.

  ‘Please, stop this at once. I will not tolerate such accusations. I try to help some young actors, male and female, because it is such a tough profession, and I see them every day at the Drama League struggling to survive. My interest is purely artistic patronage, if you will, nothing more.’

  ‘Fine, we will leave it at that, and I apologize if I have offended you, James. Now drink up, and let’s order another bottle and you can give me some suggestions for a drama.’

  Later that evening, James let himself into his neat, suburban terraced house in Finchley. He crept into his tiny study, closing the door behind him, and opened the bottle of brandy on the sideboard. He poured himself a large one and went to sit in his favourite armchair. Taking a generous sip of the golden nectar, he closed his eyes and daydreamed of young buttocks in rugby shorts. Jeremy was a beautiful specimen he had to admit. If only . . .

  Sally could hardly contain her excitement when she turned up for work at the British Drama League on Monday morning. She was the first to arrive after Geordie, the caretaker, who could be heard in the kitchen at the back of the building whistling a Beatles tune. She called out to him, ‘Geordie, did you pick up the post?’ She switched on the light in the hallway as it was always dark. The combination of Victorian tiles and dark green paint made the whole place very depressing, and a tad Dickensian. Sally imagined Uriah Heep appearing in a doorway, smiling unctuously at her and rubbing his hands!

  Instead, she was greeted halfway down the hall by the rather portly figure of Geordie in his russet-brown overalls and flat cap.

  ‘Morning, miss, how are you this morning?’ he asked her as he handed her the post. ‘You seem right chirpy, if I may say so. Good weekend, was it?’ He gave her a very theatrical wink and tapped the side of his nose. He looked so ridiculous Sally could not help bursting into laughter.

  ‘Oh, Geordie, you really are the pits. You have such a dirty mind!’

  Geordie feigned offence. ‘Now, miss, please – how can you say that to me? I mean no harm, just trying to be friendly-like, that’s all.’ He turned and disappeared into the gloom on his way back to the kitchen to put the kettle on, for the first of the many cups of tea and coffee, consumed throughout the day by the inhabitants of number 9, Fitzroy Square.

  Sally unlocked her tiny cubicle and found herself feeling quite nostalgic. No more early mornings on the number 13 bus to work. No more Geordie and his nudge nudge, wink wink greetings; from next month she would be a professional actress, working in repertory. She sat in front of her switchboard with her chin resting in her hands and dreamed of applause, and footlights, and bells ringing . . . ringing bells meant . . . oh Lord! She grabbed a plug and pushed it into the blinking light on the board in front of her.

  ‘British Drama League, good morning, how may I help you?’ The answer came rapidly and impatiently. ‘Yes, of course. I am putting you through now.’ Sally pulled out the plug and placed it in the appropriate connection. She breathed a sigh of relief as the connection was made and she could hear the recipients talking through her headphones on the desk. She had not even had time to put them on. It was going to be one of those Monday mornings, she could tell, but she did not give a hoot because life had turned a corner, and she was on her way up !

  Chapter 3

  Sally arrived home with her assorted bags and boxes – and promptly burst into tears in the kitchen! Her mother, Patricia, swept her into her arms, plonked her down at the table and handed her a clean white cotton hankie. No tissues for her!

  ‘Whatever is the matter, my darling girl?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh nothing, Mum. I am just being stupid and dramatic.’ Sally hesitated before blowing her nose on the virgin square of crisp cotton. ‘It’s just, everything is going to change and I am scared and excited all at the same time, and coming home just makes me realize how much I will miss you all.’

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bsp; Sally’s parents lived in Cheltenham in an old Victorian terraced house. Patricia Thomas had always yearned for one of the Georgian houses in the city, but knew it would have to remain a pipe dream. Her husband, Douglas, was a teacher and part-time collector of antiques, and unless he suddenly discovered a masterpiece in an attic somewhere, they were never going to be able to afford such a property. Patricia had studied at the Slade School of Art in Bloomsbury in the 1950s, and had actually been rather good. When she married Douglas Thomas in 1950, she was still studying in her final year at the Slade. She had met him at one of the notorious Chelsea Art Club balls. Douglas was taking his finals in History at Oxford, but hoping to become an art teacher in one of the big public schools. He was a very confident young man veering on the arrogant, and saw teaching as a means to express himself in ways he could never have achieved as an artist, firstly because he did not have the talent, and secondly because his parents had refused to let him go to art school. Patricia thought him the handsomest man she had ever set eyes on, and as they danced the night away she fell madly, wonderfully, completely in love with him. Douglas was pleased and flattered. After all, she was very beautiful, and someone who would complement his image perfectly. The pair had spent the summer in passionate embraces, with wild parties at the Arts Club by night and picnics beside the Serpentine by day. Douglas took his young love to Oxford and showed her off to all and sundry. By the end of the summer they had announced their engagement, and life changed very dramatically for the young couple.

  Douglas had secured a teaching post at Stowe – a very prestigious public school in Buckinghamshire. He had been offered a small cottage in the grounds, and the newlywed couple set up home. All hopes Patricia may have had of a life as a carefree artist floated out of the tiny latticed window of the damp cottage in which she was now a prisoner. She was alone for long hours of the day while her husband taught privileged, but mostly untalented, boys how to wield a paintbrush. For most of the class it was a period when they could play up, chat and tell dirty jokes. Douglas very soon became disenchanted with the notion of his special calling as a teacher. His power was almost non-existent, and he soon turned his frustration onto his wife. Oh, they were still madly in love, and Patricia did everything in her power to make life easy and smooth for her darling husband, but he would often be quite patronizing and cold towards her.

  Slowly, over the coming years she learned to ignore his jibes about her intellect and abilities. She would laugh delightedly in front of guests as he berated her for some tiny misdemeanour or other, and he would eventually step down from his high horse and wallow in her adoration. It was a strange marriage but it somehow worked. They spent the school holidays travelling round Europe, and Patricia was in her element then, giving Douglas endless sermons on the History of Art. She became his part-time researcher, doing most of his homework for him. He would always return from one of their trips abroad full of information for his classes, and presenting the students with reams of slides and photos. He became quite renowned for his ‘out of hours devotion’ to duty. Obviously, Patricia had no idea just how useful she was to her husband. It was a mutually agreeable arrangement though, because Patricia loved feeling superior in some small way to her gorgeous lovely husband, who was so bright and witty. In turn, Douglas was more than happy to praise his eager young wife and accept all the teachings she threw at him while enjoying the respect and attention from his pupils and peers.

  The couple had a good life in many ways, and it was a few years before the idea of children entered their togetherness. Patricia was almost ambivalent to the idea. She was quite happy playing muse, mistress and even mother to her darling husband. Douglas, however, decided the time was approaching when they should try for a family. Two years later, in 1962, Sally was born – and two years after that, her sister Dora arrived. They were both dear little girls and Douglas loved them. In fact, he thrived, surrounded by all the female adoration. He gained a good reputation at Stowe, and was eventually head-hunted and moved to Cheltenham Ladies College as Head of Department. He loved his job and revelled in the attention from his young female students, feeling godlike as he strode down the corridors acknowledging the admiring looks from the girls. He also had more time to spare, and began to collect and deal in Fine Art.

  Patricia surprised herself and the family by completely falling in love with her babies. They filled every minute of her life; she gloried in their growth, and grasped every tiny morsel of her daughters’ love. She was a wonderful mother, and worked tirelessly to make their home a warm and welcoming place. However, as the girls grew up and their need of her grew less, so Patricia’s own need for self-esteem returned. Douglas was, as ever, completely self-absorbed, and although he appreciated how lucky he was to have such a seemingly perfect family, it never occurred to him that he should contribute anything more to the general well-being of his wife and daughters.

  Patricia yearned for another kind of self-fulfilment. There was a part of her that felt empty and unused. She would sometimes creep away when the children were asleep, taking her paints and easel outside, weather permitting, and she would sit and paint her frustrations away. Other times she grabbed a sketchbook and pencils, or charcoal, and as she watched her girls in the garden, or playing in their front room, she would draw them quickly and deftly, capturing precious moments. She loved her family with all her heart, but her soul was in her art. Very rarely did she dare to imagine what life might have been like if she hadn’t married so young and devoted her energies to her family. She sometimes thought that Douglas was so much luckier to have been born a man. He had another life outside the family. She knew he thrived on female attention, and she sometimes allowed a moment of doubt to creep into her thoughts when he did not come home till very late. She never questioned him – that would have been asking for trouble – and anyway, she didn’t want to know the answer. As long as he came home to her, and still made love to her, she was able to cope. She had known only her husband sexually, having been a virgin when they met. He had been a very good and practised lover. Well, that was how it should be, in her view. Men were very different animals – and boys would be boys, wouldn’t they?

  As the girls matured and Patricia had more time of her own, she decided to look for a part-time job as a teacher. Douglas found this highly amusing.

  ‘Dear God, Patricia darling! What could you possibly teach anyone? You haven’t painted for fifteen years. Who would have you, my sweet?’

  Much to Patricia’s delight, and Douglas’s amazement, the local council took her on to teach adult art classes. She proved a great success, and the job gave her a whole new take on life. She started to make new friends, and while Douglas was busy at the college Patricia now had a social life of her own. She ignored her husband’s little digs and put-downs, and filled her days with laughter and colour. She had hoped one of her daughters might have inherited her artistic talents, but it was not to be, although when Sally announced she was going to be an actress Patricia felt a tingle of excitement. Dora, who was two years younger and had just left school, was much more practical and had applied to do Business Studies at uni. Both girls had the security of a stable home background which gave them a certain amount of confidence with which to face life. Sally was sometimes critical of her father’s rather patronizing attitude to his wife, and would encourage her mother to answer back.

  ‘Oh, Sally dear, that is just his way. He doesn’t mean anything by it. I just ignore it.’

  ‘But, Mum, he has no right to put you down like he does. Where would he be without you?’

  Patricia would laugh her girlish laugh, toss her hair and gaily announce: ‘Oh, probably with some gorgeous woman with lots of money!’ She always tried to sound nonchalant, but deep in her heart she had always feared the day Douglas would announce he was leaving. Once the girls no longer needed her attention fulltime, her sole concern was keeping her husband happy. As she had grown older she knew that he wanted her to be the gay young thing he had danced w
ith all those years ago. She kept her hair long and dyed it regularly to keep the grey at bay. She had retained her figure and knew she was attractive. Sometimes one of her pupils would make an advance towards her and she would laugh it off with a rebuke: ‘Don’t be so silly! I am very happily married to the man of my dreams!’ Patricia really did think that, and Douglas had no idea just how fortunate he was to have her.

  Sally always felt she was a bit of a disappointment to her parents. Her mother was very glamorous in her way, but a bit too girly for her liking, and certainly Sally had inherited none of that coquettishness. She was a good cross of her mother and father, and had strong attractive features, but she could not be described as beautiful. Her tutors at drama school had told her she would never play the young heroines as she was just not pretty enough. She had initially been upset, but commonsense had soon taken over, and Sally knew that especially onstage, a good actress could convince an audience that she was beautiful. It almost made her feel more confident, knowing she did not have to rely on her looks and would never have to worry about getting old. She would always be able to play the interesting characters until she fell off the twig. Dora was probably better-looking than her, but that was fine. There was no jealousy between the girls, and they had always been very close. Dora managed their father brilliantly, and could put him in a good mood with a click of her fingers. While she was still living at home Dora was a good foil for him, and their mother did not have to worry about his dark moods.