Free Sea Fury (1971) by James Pattinson

damp his enthusiasm.
    And perhaps there was no need for her to do so; perhaps he realised that it was just a pipe-dream, for the light in his eyes faded and he threw the ball away with a gesture that had about it a certain hint of defeat. He gave a laugh, but there was more of bitterness in the sound than gaiety.
    “Ah, why worry our heads about all that anyway? We’re not there yet.”
    He looked at himself in the mirror above the wash-basin and pushed his fingers through his hair. Not as much of it to resist the combing fingers as there had once been, and those flecks of grey were showing through again. Yet he was notold, not yet, not by a long chalk. A few years older than he had been when he had teamed up with Pearl though; no denying that. He grinned suddenly, recalling their first meeting; the memory never failed to bring a warm glow into his heart.
    “Remember that day, honey?” He always used that American term of endearment. It seemed to be so right for her.
    She liked to hear him call her that. She knew the day he meant too; there was no need to ask that.
    “It was raining.”
     
    Of course it was raining; it was one of those wet summers. The beach was practically deserted and you could see the deck-chairs flapping damply in the wind. There were boats pulled up on the sand, the rain beating against their sides and dripping down the boards. Nobody wanted to go for a sea trip on a day like that.
    He was feeling cold and miserable. Three days ago Shirley had taken a powder, gone off with some man who had been down there on holiday and had seen her on the stage at the Pavilion. Shirley was not irreplaceable; she had very little talent for anything except looking sexy in tights and spangles; but it had made things awkward. He had to get one of the chorus girls to fill in; all she had to do was hand him things, but some girls couldn’t even do that without dropping them and getting a laugh in the wrong place. It made him edgy and he was not giving of his best; he knew that. The manager of the Pavilion knew it too, and remarked on it. Which was not the kind of remark Sydney East liked to hear.
    He went into a little café just off the sea front, one he had never been in before. It was a slack time and there were only half a dozen other customers. They all looked depressed, and maybe that was what made the waitress who came to take his order seem such a contrast. He would have expected her tobe depressed too; after all, it was not much of a job, carrying trays of food round all day, being at everyone’s beck and call, picking up threepenny tips under plates. But, amazingly, she looked as bright and cheerful as if she had been doing something as enjoyable as roller-skating or taking a ride on the scenic railway.
    It was her cheerfulness that induced him to strike up a conversation; that and the fact that she was very pleasant to look at. She was easy to talk to; in two minutes he had found out that her name was Pearl West.
    “Well, now, that’s a coincidence,” he said. “I’m Sydney East.”
    She smiled, and it was the most enchanting smile he had ever seen, and utterly without guile. “I know. I’ve seen you on the stage.”
    He discovered that she had in fact seen him more than once and that she thought his act wonderful. “I don’t know how you do it, Mr. East; I really don’t.”
    “It’s practice.”
    “But you must have a gift.”
    “Well, yes,” he admitted, “it’s got to be in you.”
    “I could never do anything like that.”
    He looked at her, and already the idea was taking form in his mind. She had the figure; a little too plump perhaps, but it would soon fine down; and she had the face of an angel.
    “You never know till you try.”
    But he said nothing more at that time; he was not the man to go at things blindly. Nevertheless, the name seemed like an omen. He could picture the billing with his mind’s eye: East and West. It had a ring to it.
    A ring in more senses than one, because