THE FLAPPER'S FAN

Chapter 20 - The Music is Dreadful

ONE YEAR LATER

"Bridie? You there?" I was late again, it had been one of those mornings. I spied a red head peeking over the storage wall and walked around to her. She looked up at me pleading.

"I thought ye'd never get here, I canna get up." She looked so forlorn, and so hugely pregnant that I could do nothing but grin.

"Come on, you enormous thing," I teased.

She sighed as I pulled her to her feet and I led her into her office where she put her feet up.

"You should be home," I chided. "How are we going to explain to the kids when your bairn drops out during story time?"

"Oh what an image!" she laughed. "It would be educational, for sure!"

"Bridie," Jenna, the young girl who helped out and manned the front desk appeared in the doorway. "We've had six more call in sick now, there's something goin' round."

"Jesus Mary and Bride," she said. "That leaves only three. Let's ring the parents and ask if they need to come in. Its Friday, we might see if we can just close today." Bridie rang two and I rang the other. Mine was sick as well, the parents had just not called yet. Bridie convinced the other two to keep their cherubs safe at home. Her look of relief was comical, but I was glad for her sake. This third pregnancy was taking it's toll on her, not least because her two older children were a handful at the best of times. While they were at school, she could at least get some rest.

"Go home Bridie, Jemma and I will lock up."

"So now you have a long weekend, Eddie, what do ye intend to do with it?"

I grimaced. "Michael has asked me to go to London for the weekend."

"Ahh, well ye know what that means, he's ready to take things to 'the next level'." She used her fingers as inverted commas.

"He's been ready for the 'the next level' since the first date, it's me that's not sure, as you know."

"If it's that big a decision, hen, there's no decision to make. Cut the big lug loose, he's not the one fer ye."

In the end I met up with Michael at the pub for lunch. He was pleased I'd called, but not for the reason I expected. He managed to get in first and told me he could see things were not going anywhere. What it boiled down to was he had a better offer from Bernadette at the BP petrol station. I couldn't blame him, she was known to be a lot friendlier than me. I felt relief that I no longer had the pressure of making the decision myself, and as I headed home I passed the railway station where they were advertising a 1920s Exhibition in London. I pulled over and stared at the art deco poster by the roadside. The stylised illustration showed a seated woman with feathered headband and cigarette holder and behind her stood a man in a tuxedo with slicked down hair and a neat moustache. The woman was holding a large fan.  I could almost hear the sound of the band at the Trocadero as I stared at it. I had avoided thinking about what had happened, as much as was possible anyway, and had been dreading the trip to London. I hadn't been back since I had returned from....then. Most of the relief at Michael and I parting ways came from not having to tell him I couldn't go on the weekend away he had been planning, but as I stared at the poster I felt a strong compulsion to go. I suddenly felt like I HAD to go. Maybe what I needed to move on was closure, isn't that what people called it? Before I could think twice, I restarted the car and pulled into the small carpark adjacent to the railway station. When I headed home a short while later I carried tickets in my purse, there was no turning back now.

The exhibition was a bad idea. At first, I was excited to see things that reminded me of my sojourn in another time. But some of the exhibits were incorrect, and some of them were so close to perfect they hurt to see. Almost to the end, I found myself in a room where mannequins displayed vintage fashions and glass cases held accessories.  Beautiful beaded purses, ivory cigarette holders, ornate buckles.  It was in one of these I found the fan.  I didn't need to see the small split in the celluloid to know it was the same one I had bought at the store that day.  The one I had been holding that night at the Trocadero when I first met Nick.  I stared at it, wondering what message this sign was trying to send me.  But nothing happened, no time portal opened in the room, nothing.  I rushed into the last room and found myself staring at a wall sized poster of Grace.  To one side, a grainy, jerky black and white movie was playing.  It was a collection of Grace's movies.  I began to read the bio that was placed beside the poster.  It was the story of Grace's life.  I realised I had made a big mistake in coming here, and fled outside, fanning my hot face and taking deep gulps of air. I didn't want to find out when she had lived and died, or what she had done in the meantime.  I had studiously avoided searching her on the internet, or Nick, or the others.  I liked to think that our timelines ran parallel and Grace was happy with Burt, Nick was busy with the SIS and Mrs Brewer and Joe were looking after him.  I didn't want to think that that they were long dead, it hurt too much.  I had learned to live with it, but this stupid exhibition had it all rushing back.