Birdie

The gentle slapping of water against the steep sides of the ferry awoke me as well as the gentle sway of its great bulk and the sharp squawking of seagulls as they flew like pure white shapes against the sky. Peering from the window, a great wall of blackness met my eyes, for it was early yet and still dark on this chilly October morning. Glancing at my watch I saw it was 6.00am, a couple of hours at least before we reached our destination of Paris, Gare Du Nord.

It had been a long journey from London Victoria on the night ferry, yet such an enjoyable service where you could spend a whole evening dining with friendly fellow travellers on good food and exquisite wine, all within staggering distance of your very own room and bed. Oh yes, it certainly set the mind at rest as you accepted just one more glass. Even the music playing softly from cleverly concealed speakers still lingered in my mind, “Magic moments when two hearts are caring …”

Stretching, I reached for my dressing gown and shrugged it on, whilst swinging my legs out of bed and slowly standing up. “Magic moments, memories we’ve been sharing …” I stared in the bathroom mirror at a remarkably unchanged face. Surely after all that had happened, I should look different, perhaps worried or even afraid, but not serene, blue eyes sparkling, my hair still abundant and blonde, any tentative grey roots carefully hidden, for at my age, mid-thirties, weren’t they bound to appear, sneaking up on me like a free set of salon fresh silver highlights?

Taking off my clothes, I stepped beneath the shower, the burst of cool water invigorating as I soaped and scrubbed, avoiding getting my hair wet. I didn’t need to wash it for, after all, what did it matter if it was going to be tied up and hidden beneath a midnight black wig. Stepping out of the tub, I hesitated for a split second as there was a tentative knock on the door. My heart thumping hard, my hands shook as I reached for a towel and, wrapping it tightly around my body, said, “Yes?” Who could it be? Would they be suspicious at the slight tremor in my voice?

“Breakfast is being served in the dining carriage at your convenience, Mam,” said a voice.

“Thank you,” I replied, my voice smoother now, more confident, relieved I suppose. But after all, who did I think it would be? The police? Our friendly neighbourhood London bobbies wearing their tall strappy helmets. Detective Inspector George Kibble, Dan’s buddy? I’d been very careful, almost sure I’d not been seen and who knew me here anyway? I decided I was safe and relaxed a little as I applied make-up, swept on pale blue eye-shadow, drew thick black cat lines around my eyes, carefully stuck on long dark lashes, smudged pale pink on my lips. Oh yes, all the very latest fashion. Hoisting my thick hair into a top knot, I pulled on the wig. It was black and shiny, its length skimming my chin, the fringe just above my eyebrows. I laughed at my reflection, a dead ringer for Vivien Leigh as Cleopatra. Well, maybe not quite as pretty, but I did my best.

Something Dan said to me when we first met suddenly came to mind, piercing my heart just as it had then, “Yeah, you’re not conventionally pretty, quirky perhaps, maybe attractive is the word I’m looking for …” it had hurt me, wounded me. Even now, after all this time, I don’t think I’d ever got over it. “Time can’t erase the memory of, these magic moments filled with love …” What did it matter now though? As far as I was aware, Dan was gone, never to return.

Quickly I dressed and then gazed at myself in the long mirror, turning this way and that with a critical eye. Did my shift dress look too short? The boots too high? My white tights too snowy white? Smiling to myself, I decided that no, I looked just right. After all, why worry? I’d never see any of these people again, not once I’d lost myself in the maze of aromatic streets and tiny windy ginnels that are Paris. The secret back streets of gay Paree. A place I’d never been but couldn’t wait to explore. Excitement as well as despair enveloped my heart. Sliding my arms into a warm jacket, I let myself out of the carriage and made my way to breakfast.

My birth name is Frances Elizabeth Strange. Yes, I know, a horror of a name. Not the first or the middle names, Frances and Elizabeth, they were passable I suppose, it was the surname that was the problem. I was bullied unmercifully at school and spent my teenage years in a torment all because of that name. It’s amazing how a name can affect your whole life. How I longed to be a safe Smith or a Jones or something relatively normal like Palmer or Sanderson. I vowed that when I was old enough, I would change my name legally, dot every I and cross every T, to Johnson, Birdie Johnson. Don’t ask me why that was my choice. It just had a ring to it. A certain unmistakeable ring. Or maybe the obvious meaning of the name, Birdie, meant something to me. A bird, free as a bird, freedom. I wanted to spread my wings, strike out alone.

Without a doubt, the name Strange will die out. My parents, Albie and Greta, are long gone, having had me very late in life, and I’ve no siblings, no brother to carry on the name so yes, it is inevitable, it will die. Rest in peace the name Strange. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When I met Dan Matthews, I had great hopes for the future. If I played my cards right, I could become Frances Elizabeth Matthews and have a far more agreeable life. But for various reasons we never married, the main one being that Dan, as an out of work actor, rarely had any money but seemed to rely on me as the breadwinner in my job as a receptionist at a local hospital. Taking more than giving, his favourite expression being, “Now, Frances, when I get my breakthrough part …”

I could have taken his name as a common law wife I suppose, but I never did. Dan liked my name, Strange. He revelled in it, almost liking my hatred of it. He said he’d love to write a screenplay just for himself and play an invented character on the stage called Doctor Strange. He said the character would look similar to the Joker from Batman, he idolised him and read all the comic strips, he even had a Joker mask that he wore sometimes to scare me. He said the character would be quirky, like me I suppose, quirkily attractive but not pretty.

I’d been Birdie last night. “Hello,” I’d said, putting out a hand to shake, “My name’s Birdie, Birdie Johnson. Nice to meet you, I’m sure.” It felt heady to use that name for the first time. To discard Frances, that person called Frances Strange. That person who was quirky but not pretty, who was sensible, and not great fun. What had Dan often said whilst slowly shaking his head, as if it was a bad thing, “Oh my Frances, you really are no fun anymore.” Or “Hmm, you’ve definitely got your sensible head on now, my girl.”

Now why is all this information running around in my mind, why now, when I’m busy disembarking from the night ferry, shuffling along in the crowds, glad I’m travelling light with just one bag slung over my shoulder, and breathing in the fresh Parisian air. The sun is appearing slowly on the horizon, flooding the sky with red tendrils like a child’s scribbles with a felt tip pen. I leave the station and walk out onto the busy streets where taxi cabs line the kerb. I’m not made of money but I’ve researched the distance from here to central Paris and don’t trust the thin soles of my fashionable boots not to form holes before my very eyes.

“Eiffel Tower, please,” I instruct the taxi driver. He gives me a narrowed glance as I hop in the back and sets off at speed, forcing his way into the traffic like a sleek shark pursuing fish. Glancing in the mirror, he says, “On holiday missus?” His accent is thick and guttural, sounding more German than the melodic French.

“Um, yes,” I tell him, “And I’m interested in seeing all the wonderful sights Paris has to offer.”

“Ah, well, you won’t be disappointed.” He slowed in the traffic and came to a halt at traffic lights. Half turning in his seat, he said, “Have you visited the Folie Bergere? Or perhaps the Moulin Rouge?”

“No,” I said, looking away from the window, from the cars streaming by, “Why?”

He turned back as the traffic began slowly to move, eyeing me again in the mirror, “Oh, they are the places to go! Stupendous!” He put the tips of his fingers to his mouth and made a smacking sound. “You must see Edith Piaf. When she sings, the world is all good.” He began to hum a tune which I recognised straight away.

“Ah, yes, Non, je ne regrette rien, … I do not regret anything …”

“Ah,” he replied, pleasantly surprised, “You know your French …”

“And my Edith Piaf,” I said with a smile.

He gave a contented nod. “You will find much to delight you in Paris. The Louvre, Notre Dame, and this place too, eh?” He nodded towards the Eiffel Tower as it came into view, slowing down ready to drop me off. Scrambling out, I paid him, giving a tip for his friendliness.

“Take care Missus,” he said with a smile, “Now go to the Eiffel Tower and buy yourself a trinket. There is much, hmm what do you say, souvenirs? to choose from.” I smiled and waved whilst hoisting my bag onto my shoulder, as he inched into the built-up traffic. I watched him go, shivering as the sun suddenly disappeared behind a great dark cloud and this little part of the world suddenly felt cloudy and cool. Trinkets indeed. I needed to find somewhere to stay tonight before I even thought of buying trinkets. And somewhere not too expensive. Even though I’d sold my London flat and had money in the bank, I’d need to be careful, frugal even, not knowing how long I would need it to last.

I began to walk away, turning my back on the Eiffel Tower for the time being. I was determined to return but needs must. I had many things to do before I could relax and enjoy my stay. Hmm, as if it was a holiday as I’d told the unsuspecting taxi driver. Little did he know. Despite my worries though, I felt uplifted at being here in Paris, somewhere I’d always wanted to be, a part of the busy streets, melodic accents wreathing all around, mingling with the smell of baking bread and sweet pastries, the fresh cold smell of the Seine. The trees decked out in their autumn plumage of amber, crimson and gold glowed against the blue sky.

Music spilled from the open door of a nearby record shop, “It’s now or never, come hold me tight, kiss me my darling, be mine tonight …” young people congregated outside, girls wearing the new daring skirts that skimmed their knees teamed with high boots, clean shaven men, their hair growing alarmingly close to their shoulders after the short back and sides restraints of the 1950’s. “Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight …” I began to walk quickly, my eyes darting around for the sight of a hotel, or a B&B, a vacancies sign hanging in a frilly net curtained window (or was that just an English thing) when an altercation behind me and the sound of a deep male voice made me glance over my shoulder.

“Louisa?” he roared, “Louisa, wait … where have you been?”

To my astonishment, he put a hand on my shoulder, spinning me around, and then slipped an arm around my waist pulling me close, a smile all over his handsome face. He was tall, well over six feet and had very black curly hair, black eyes and a dark beard clung to his chin. He wore no tie and his shirt was open at the neck showing dark wiry chest hair. My heart beating hard agreed with my head that he was alarmingly attractive.

“Well, well, who would have thought it. How the devil are you?” Even though he spoke a very English enquiry, his accent was pure French. He stood back a little, a frown on his face, “Your hair is shorter and so dark, why did you do that, eh?”

He wore black trousers, a snowy white shirt tucked in the waistband encircled with a black belt with a silver clasp. A long black overcoat hung open over the top. The group outside the record shop giggled and stared, people gaped open mouthed and goggle eyed, as they walked past. I pulled away from the close confines of his arms and looked up into his face, “Um, no, you’ve got the wrong person I’m afraid. I’m not Louisa.” And just for a second, oh, how I regretted I wasn’t.

He began to laugh, his eyes sparkling, “Ah, so that’s how you want to play it eh? Hard to get?” The smell of his cologne was intoxicating making me want to inch closer into his embrace but instead said, “No. Unhand me. I’ve already told you, but maybe I should tell you again.” I stared him dead in his coal black eyes saying, slowly and carefully, “My name is not Louisa.”

“Okay,” he loosened his grip a little, “What is your name then eh?”

“Unhand me,” I said sternly, “Or I’ll call a policeman.”

“Don’t you mean a gendarme?” he said playfully, but even so he let me go and stepped back slightly.

“Look we don’t know each other from Adam, and …”

“Who’s Adam?” he asked, a frown marring his good looks. “Your boyfriend?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, really,” I spat at him, “You know the Adam to which I refer, surely!”

He shrugged, palms up, his face blank. “Adam and Eve?” I stated incredulously. “Have you never heard that saying? Or, how about cockney rhyming slang, “would you Adam and Eve it?”

Another shrug before he said loudly, “Oh, that one! That Adam. Well, why didn’t you say! Now tell me your name then, eh? If it isn’t Louisa.”

Thoroughly maddened by now, I said, “My name is Birdie Johnson,” I moved closer, talking quietly, furtively looking around, not wanting anybody to hear, “Not Louisa at all, good luck with finding her.” I began to walk away when he grabbed my arm again saying, “Oh no, you’re not going so easily. I’ve been worried about you, just disappearing like that. One minute you were there and then pouff,” he raised his other arm in the air, “You were gone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told him, “Please … go away! I’m busy. I have to find somewhere to stay tonight … or it’s the streets for me!”

His face etched with concern, he said, “What? You on the streets? No, never. Come, look,” He pointed across the road, “Let’s go grab a coffee, the Expresso Coffee Shop is there … we can talk. As you well know, I have a friend who owns a B&B. I can help you … come.”

Perplexed and unsure what else to do, I followed his tall figure as, holding up a hand to stop the flow of traffic, he bounded across the road, clutching my hand in his, dragging me along like a child. Several drivers threw up their hands, honked their horns but he just laughed, throwing up his own hands, his black eyes dancing.

“What’s your name anyway?” I asked him, as the door to the Expresso Shop pinged open. The interior was steamy with coffee fumes and music played from a sparkling jukebox in the corner, the silky sound of Percy Faith and his “Theme from a Summer Place.” The cafe wasn’t full and my saviour as I was beginning to think of him, made a beeline for an empty table. Cigarette smoke hung like a smog from the ceiling.

“Oh, you are funny, Louisa, it’s not possible you’ve forgotten my name,” He gave me a sideways frowning glance, “Surely.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it out for me to sit.

“I’m not Louisa,” I said, thoroughly irritated now, “I don’t know who you are …”

“Is it possible you have some sort of amnesia?” he asked, as he sat down opposite me. He picked up the plastic menu and began to look at it, umming and aahing as to which coffee he wanted, which pastries. He was hungry. He patted his stomach. The waitress scurried over, a small woman wearing a tight black dress and a white frilly apron. He ordered us coffees, sweet pastries, tiny cakes. “Sweet and small,” he said, flourishing his hands in the air, “We want them sweet and small.”

“I do not have amnesia,” I told him patiently. “What’s your name?”

He sighed heavily and said, “You know who I am … Noel, Noel Garrick, you worked in one of my bakeries,” He gave me a scathing glance, “Until you disappeared!” Idly he began to play with the pepper and salt pots, moving them around the table as if they were little dolls.

“I have never worked in a bakery in my life,” I hissed, “Now stop playing games and tell me what you’re up to!”

“I am up to nothing,” he said, putting the little pots down with a click, “Simply greeting an old friend in the street. An old friend who disappeared, pouff, as if she had never existed. I was relieved to see you. I didn’t know what had happened to you.” He leaned forward his face almost touching mine. “You could have been dead for all I knew.” His fingers hooked over the edge of the table were white and taut. His concern seemed real. The waitress arrived, eyeing us warily, as she placed a coffee pot on the table, mugs, small plates, the pastries, the cakes. Everything looked delectable; the smell intensely sweet.

“Well,” I said, as I poured coffee, thick and fragrant into the mugs, “I’m very sorry I’m not Louisa, but my name is Birdie Johnson. I have just arrived in Paris, for the first time in my life I might add, from England.” I hesitated then, unsure how much to tell him, but he butted in anyway.

“I should be angry with you, you know,” he said, gazing at me intently with his coal black eyes. “I found your brief when you’d gone.” He took a sip of coffee and reached for a pastry.

“My brief?” I said, “What do you mean, my brief?” The people at the next table stood up, making a lot of noise with loud voices and scraping of chairs on the floor. I leaned closer to hear him.

“Your brief, your instructions,” He lowered his voice and, after having a quick glance over his shoulder, said, “You are a spy, eh?”

“A spy?” I said, almost spitting my coffee out onto the table, “Birdie Johnson is not a spy. Louisa might be, but I’m not!”

He went quiet then, very quiet, almost brooding, as he gulped his coffee, holding the mug in both hands, and then took another pastry, then a small cake. Eating both slowly, deliberately and then saying almost to himself, “Hmm, not as good as mine. Definitely room for improvement.” I gave a huge sigh prompting him to say, “Okay then …”

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye as I reached for the last small cake, hoping it was okay. “Show me your arm.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, as I bit into the cake, soft squishy cream oozing from the sponge. Discreetly I wiped my lips with a napkin, hoping there were no crumbs.

He poured more coffee, “You have a tattoo, right here,” He held out his arm, palm facing upwards, and pointed to his wrist. “Right there, a small heart. I remember when you came back to work after having it done. It hurt and then it itched as it healed.”

“Oh really? Well, as I just said, Louisa might have one, but Birdie Johnson does not.” Pulling the sleeve of my jacket back from my wrist, I watched as he gazed in wonder. Slowly he shook his head and, throwing his hands up in the air, said, “Well, what can I say, you’re her doppelganger, or, her twin, twin flame!”

“Ah, so you believe me now then, eh?”

“I have no choice.” He shook his head, “Where is Louisa though? And Birdie.” He shrugged, “What sort of name is that?”

“It means little bird,” I told him, “Freedom.”

“Ah,” He flapped his arms as if they were wings, “Freedom in the sky.”

He stared at me intently, his eyes never leaving my face, “You are Louisa’s doppelganger,” he said again. “Everything, your smile, your speech, your demean … ah how do you say in English?” He leaned forward, his forearms on the table. The tantalising smell of his cologne wafted around me.

“Demeanour?” I suggested.

“Yes, exactly that, except for the colour of your hair,” he eyed me carefully, “for hers is the colour of a field of wheat. Very confusing.” “Ah,” I thought, “If I wasn’t wearing the wig, would I still be a dead ringer for Louisa? We would never find out.” “I apologise for my over enthusiastic greeting. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Hmm,” I thought, “he said he could help get me a B&B. I’m in a fix and I need a friend. Maybe he could even assist with a job.” I said pleasantly, “Of course I forgive you. Haven’t you treated me to all this?” I ran my eyes over the aftermath of our indulgence on the table, the mugs ringed with frothy coffee, the plates strewn with crumbs.

“He nodded and, clapping his hands, said decisively, “We’ll have more then.” Looking over his shoulder, he caught the eye of the waitress, “More coffee, more cakes,” he said happily, “Birdie and I will have another feast.”