Station Love

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LXV, Issue 12298, 12 April 1937, Page 4

Station Love

I By CRAIG CARROLL ' I R tSI E

NEW SERIAL STORY

INSTALMENT NO. 9. Ho was kind. His hand showed other girls dressed as simply as herself. Even one girl in sweater and sports skirt. Judy felt a little better, a little calmer. It was nice. Going up the steps, going into the most enormous hotel lobby she’d ever seen, seeing people everywhere, importantlooking people, people with the stamp of travel and knowledge on them, she felt somehow possessive, a though she, Judy Allison, had some definite share in all this. “The Marine dining-room, straight ahead,” Dick murmured, looking like a sightseeing guide. “Here we are, Judy.” She gasped. The great room stretched out before them, terraced quiet, softly lighted. And she saw the tall windows. She saw the lake not more than twenty feet beyond the windows. And people everywhere, and on the bandstand more men than Judy had ever seen in a jazz hand before. On the big drum, the Paul Whiteman head she had seen on records, in the papers. A picture of the fat, jovial, moustached man who was called “King of Jazz.” And in a minute she would be meeting him, even talking to him. “Dick! Glad you came!” She saw a man in evening clothes, a young man, and knew he was important even before Dick introduced him as “Jean Paul King, announcer, master of ceremonies. My friend.” “Glad to know you. Miss Allison. Dick’s been telling me a lot about you.” She blushed, and felt silly for it. And followed now, towards a tiny latticed bower, in a far corner of the terrace. “This is Whiteman’s own particular table,” Dick whispered. “And—ah! Here he comes now.” Judy turned, expecting the enormous man the picture on the drumhead indicated. Instead, she saw a tall, well set up man, not the least bit fat, not the least bit as she had expected. She heard, dimly, the Introduction, 'Miss Allison, Mr Whiteman. Judy’s been wanting to meet you, Mr Whiteman.” “And I'm glad to meet Miss Allison,” Whiteman answered. "Won’t you sit down, please?” As simple as that. You read about somebody for years, you think it wouldn’t be possible to climb Olympia and meet that person, and you sit down at the table with a calm smiling, kindly man, who extends the most enormous cigarette case you’ve ever seen—a case filled with Russian cigarette:, a case bearing on its cover the same Paul Whiteman head you’ve seen, but set, this time, in diamonds. “Are you hungry?” Dick asked now, softly, smiling at Judy’s awe. Because if you arc—But wait. Li;ten to Mr Whiteman’s order.” . She listened, startled. A double order of grapefruit, sliced, the band man said. A double order of thin consomme. A poached egg. A double order of spinach. Nothing else. She stared, not meaning to, and the band man suddenly smiled, then chuckled,- then laughed, and the others joined in. “Funny meal,” Whiteman agreed with Judy's unspoken thought. “But —tell her, Jean.” So the announcer explained. How Paul Whiteman, weighing much too much, had reduced almost a hundred pounds, by a special diet. How this meal was part of that diet. “Here,” he said, “I'll write it down for you, Miss Allison. Perhaps some of your friends will want to try it. But not you. You’ll never need anything like that.” And she found herself folding up the scribbled diet schedule, putting it in her bag, all the time feeling dazed, watching, Ihtening, looking.

At people everywhere. At the orchestra, where the men played without their director, with an assistant conductor in charge. “Roy Bargy,” Dick whispered. “You’ve heard him, haven't >ou, Judy? Of course. Of course.’’ And then the band man excused himself, started back to his orchestra, stopped to bow to Judy, stopped to talk to Dick in low tones. He smiled, Dick smiled. Then Whiteman nodded. “Glad to do anything for you, Dick,” Judy heard him say. “Now, through the thin gauze curtain before the orchestra, she could see Whiteman himself, holding a tremendously long baton. She, saw the men put new music on the stands. She stared at Dick. "What?" she asked, because one word seemed to be all she could manage. “You said you loved ‘Rhapsody in Blue,’ Well—he hardly ever plays it .through any more. Never for dancing. But—” Soft and clear, then suddenly thundrous and grand, she heard the Gershwin music she had played on the organ, the mufic she had wanted to learn better. Played for her. Played for Judy Allison of Hiawatha, Kas. by Paul Whiteman, the jazz king. Because Dick Mason asked for it. Because Dick Mason wanted Judy Allison to be happy. So the evening ended. Evenings end too soon when there is music, when a man with a deep voice and deep eyes and a boy’s smile is forgetting everyone else to look at you and talk to you. But then it is nice to see the lights going out, to walk out into the cool morning, to walk to a lean grey car, to ride south slowly, coming near the lake, knowing that to-morrow and to-morow there will Ibe new things to see and do, more I people to meet, more music, more of i Chicago, the city of dreams. “Happy?” Dick asked. Then, quickly, “Silly thing to ask.’’ “But you’ve a right to ask, Dick. And it’s time I told you. Because if it hadn’t been for you— ’’ “Shhhh! It’s too late to talk about ifs.”

“No. If it hadn’t been for you I’d be getting on a train to-morrow morning. I’d he going back to Hial watha. I’d marry some boy and just , stay there forever. Never see anyj body or anything. Listen to the rai dio and hear you talking, maybe, and wonder if you’d be like you sounded.’’ “Am I?” “Much nicer.’’ “That’s good. Like.to stop somewhere eUe? There’s clubs of all I sorts around the town, you know.” j “I don’t think I’d like it. Not now. I guess I’m still a small-town girl. ! I She fought against the small I yawn that would not be conquered. I “Your, rose wrinkles up like a rabbit’s when you yawn.” j “Like a rabbit’s?” j “Yes. Used to have a rabbit, when I was a boy, that wrinkled up its nose just that way.” “I don’t think I like that.” “You ought to. I wanted it to make you laugh.” “All right. I’ll laugh, then, Dick.” It was wrong, it made the late walkers stare, but Dick stopped the lean, grey car then, near the Oak Street beach. And they luighed, Judy and Dick. At nothing. And at everything. And then, all at once, they were home. “Judy,” Dick said then. . “Yes, Dick.” Hearts shouldn’t race at a single word. Hearts should have manners. Hearts should remember the rules. “Judy.” “Yes?” “I —” She could see the nice young smile in the half-light. She could see the nice deep eyes. “I

no. I mustn’t.” “Mustn’t what, Dick?” Ask questions, when you know the answers. Make a man say things, when he doesn't even need to say them. “I mustn’t tell you how I feel about you. Not yet. Not for a long time.” Judy almost said, “Why not? Why not now? Why not this very minute, Dick?” Almost. Not quite. Storybooks don’t happen. Because you can’t forget enough to let them happen. “Oh,” Judy said quickly. “It’s almost 2.30.” “No, it couldn’t be.” “But we—we’ve only been together a couple of hours, Judy.” “We’ve been together since G o'clock. Arid that's too long, Dick Mason. And I’ve got to go to that rehearsal first thing in the morning. And —U m m m m m m ! ” The yawn triumphed again. A very small yawn, covered by a very small hand. And Dick took the very mall hand in his. “I’ve got to hurry. I’il see you in the morning, Dick?” “Not until you get to the station, I’m afraid. I’ve got to take an early morning programme.” “Oh! But at the station?” “Of course.” “Then . . . . ” She opened the door, stepped out. She knew she didn’t want to leave the car; she knew she wanted to hear Dick Mason say “Judy!” again in the way that made her heart jump. But storybooks don’t happen. “Good-night, Dick. And thank you.” “Good-night, Judy. And thank you.” He started the motor. "I’ve got to put the car in the garage up on Rush Street. And after that .... there ought to be—on a night like this.” The same words, she had heard him say over the radio. In the same voice. You couldn’t tell when Dick Mason was a voice and when he wa; Dick Mason. “Good-night,” she slid quickly. And did not look back. But she knew, she knew very well, that Dick Mason watched her as she went up the steps, that he still sat watching the door after she had closed it. And, parting the curtains on the door, looking back, she saw him in the car; she remembered the young smile; she gasped. Such a long day! Such a strange day! She hummed a little as she went up the stairs. “Mandalay.” Of all things to be humming! “Mandalay.” “Elsie! You waited up for me?” Elsie was standing in Judy’s doorway. “Yes. I thought I’d better.” “Why ....” Judy, entering her room, stared at ELie, “Something wrong! Elsie wasn’t smiling at all. She looked worried, afraid, sad about something. “Elsie, I wish I could have taken you along. We had a marvellous time. Dick knows everybody. And he had a boy ring a song so my mother could hear it. And I met Ben Bernic. And Paul Whiteman. And Mr Whiteman gave me his diet, and maybe you’d like to try it, Elsie And....” “Judy. There was a telegram for you. Came about an hour and ahalf ago. Here.” Elsie handed Judy the thin yellow envelope. Judy took it. Suddenly, her- hands were trembling. A telegram. Back in Hiawatha, people sent telegrams only when something terrible happened. Death. Or needed money in a hurry. Or— Mother! She’d been—-she had had a bad time with her heart, a while ago. Mother! (To be continued)