then he’d sit and read Ruby’s letter. The heater was the old-fashioned kind with a Calor gas cylinder. When he lit it, there was a blue flame and a pungent smell of gas, adding to the permanent aroma that hung around the flat however often he opened the windows. The actual temperature didn’t seem to change that much. Edgar found a heel of bread and some cheese, fetched the eiderdown from his bed and settled down on the sofa.
Ruby’s writing was flowing and bold; sometimes there were only two or three words a line, at other times the words ran into each other and bunched up at the edge of the page.
‘Darling Edgar,’ he read. Well, that was something, unless Ruby had become the kind of show-business girl who called everyone ‘darling’.
Darling Edgar,
Well, this show is just about the pits. Cinderella is forty-five if she’s a day and Buttons is an awful lech. I’m a village girl dancing round the maypole in the first scene, a rat in the transformation scene and a wedding guest for the reveal. We’re at the end of the pier – the theatre’s been blown up, burnt down, swept away by a hurricane but it’s still there. My digs are OK, the landlady’s very kind, but Worthing is SO BORING. Honestly, there’s nothing to do once you’ve seen all the shows at the flicks and walked up and down the promenade a hundred times.
How are you? When are you coming to see me? I often think about how much fun we had that day at the ice rink. I feel a long way away from everyone sometimes. Mummy and Daddy came to see me last week and that was nice. I got a postcard from Max too. Well, hey ho, back to rehearsals. The show must go on even if you’re just a dancing rat.
With love from
Ruby
Edgar leant back against the sofa cushions. He couldn’t decide whether he felt better or worse after reading Ruby’s letter. It was dated Thursday 29th, so Ruby wouldn’t have known about the children’s bodies being found. But she would have known about them being missing if she ever looked at a paper, which he doubted. Even so, he felt that she should have known and asked about his work first rather than plunging straight into how awful the show was and what a lech Buttons was. (How old was Buttons exactly? Was he the sort of lech who could safely be ignored?) Some things about the letter just sounded like the outpourings of a spoilt schoolgirl. Worthing is boring but Mummy and Daddy have been down and taken her out for the day. But even this is misdirection. Ruby’s father is not the man she calls Daddy but Max, who deigned to send her a postcard. This makes everything more difficult for Edgar, of course. Can he really have a relationship with his best friend’s daughter? Were he and Ruby having a relationship? She had called him ‘darling’ and asked when she was going to see him. And she had mentioned the day at the ice rink. On the whole, he thought he felt better.
He had met Ruby when she was Max’s assistant for a season. He hadn’t know then that she was Max’s daughter (and nor had Max) but, even then, she had seemed part of Max’s world, under his protection. That summer season had ended in tragedy but, from the wreckage, Edgar managed to maintain some contact with Ruby. They had been out together twice. The first time was to the cinema, when they had both spent much of the evening avoiding talking about murder. The second time had been magic. They had gone to the SS Brighton ice rink and it had been like being in heaven for a day. Ruby clinging to his arm, her cheeks pink, her hair flying. The music playing, the ice gleaming, the moments when he could actually put his arm round Ruby’s waist. He could skate quite well (he’d been taught by a Swedish sailor in Norway) and he’d enjoyed being the teacher, the one who stopped Ruby from falling, who encouraged her to glide out on her own. ‘The strong arm of the law,’ she’d laughed as he had scooped her up just in time, swinging her into a waltzing turn that
Ruby’s writing was flowing and bold; sometimes there were only two or three words a line, at other times the words ran into each other and bunched up at the edge of the page.
‘Darling Edgar,’ he read. Well, that was something, unless Ruby had become the kind of show-business girl who called everyone ‘darling’.
Darling Edgar,
Well, this show is just about the pits. Cinderella is forty-five if she’s a day and Buttons is an awful lech. I’m a village girl dancing round the maypole in the first scene, a rat in the transformation scene and a wedding guest for the reveal. We’re at the end of the pier – the theatre’s been blown up, burnt down, swept away by a hurricane but it’s still there. My digs are OK, the landlady’s very kind, but Worthing is SO BORING. Honestly, there’s nothing to do once you’ve seen all the shows at the flicks and walked up and down the promenade a hundred times.
How are you? When are you coming to see me? I often think about how much fun we had that day at the ice rink. I feel a long way away from everyone sometimes. Mummy and Daddy came to see me last week and that was nice. I got a postcard from Max too. Well, hey ho, back to rehearsals. The show must go on even if you’re just a dancing rat.
With love from
Ruby
Edgar leant back against the sofa cushions. He couldn’t decide whether he felt better or worse after reading Ruby’s letter. It was dated Thursday 29th, so Ruby wouldn’t have known about the children’s bodies being found. But she would have known about them being missing if she ever looked at a paper, which he doubted. Even so, he felt that she should have known and asked about his work first rather than plunging straight into how awful the show was and what a lech Buttons was. (How old was Buttons exactly? Was he the sort of lech who could safely be ignored?) Some things about the letter just sounded like the outpourings of a spoilt schoolgirl. Worthing is boring but Mummy and Daddy have been down and taken her out for the day. But even this is misdirection. Ruby’s father is not the man she calls Daddy but Max, who deigned to send her a postcard. This makes everything more difficult for Edgar, of course. Can he really have a relationship with his best friend’s daughter? Were he and Ruby having a relationship? She had called him ‘darling’ and asked when she was going to see him. And she had mentioned the day at the ice rink. On the whole, he thought he felt better.
He had met Ruby when she was Max’s assistant for a season. He hadn’t know then that she was Max’s daughter (and nor had Max) but, even then, she had seemed part of Max’s world, under his protection. That summer season had ended in tragedy but, from the wreckage, Edgar managed to maintain some contact with Ruby. They had been out together twice. The first time was to the cinema, when they had both spent much of the evening avoiding talking about murder. The second time had been magic. They had gone to the SS Brighton ice rink and it had been like being in heaven for a day. Ruby clinging to his arm, her cheeks pink, her hair flying. The music playing, the ice gleaming, the moments when he could actually put his arm round Ruby’s waist. He could skate quite well (he’d been taught by a Swedish sailor in Norway) and he’d enjoyed being the teacher, the one who stopped Ruby from falling, who encouraged her to glide out on her own. ‘The strong arm of the law,’ she’d laughed as he had scooped her up just in time, swinging her into a waltzing turn that
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