This chapter introduces a new character, William "Bill" Carroll to the story. He was Blanche's screen partner in some of her most successful pictures. In the beginning of the "Baby Jane" book Blanche received a letter from him. In the film this was replaced by the fanmail Edna (Elvira) brought Blanche.
I have also taken the liberty of having Bill sing a little famous tune in this chapter. It's called, "Autumn Leaves" by Joseph Kosma. If you're a Joan Crawford fan, you know why I chose this song.
In the blindingly bright morning sun that invaded the large room from between the ugly drawn drapes, Blanche strained her eyes to find the beauty she'd once seen in this house. The rooms used to be spacious and elegant, the ceiling far as the sky and every single piece of furniture and decoration placed with careful consideration and a strong sense of style. Now the walls and the ceiling seemed to be getting closer by the minute, the vibrant memories of the colourful past suffocating her and trying to squeeze out what little hope for life Blanche still had inside her.
She had slept downstairs last night, on the couch in the living room. Gerald had offered obsequiously to take her upstairs and back down in the morning, but Blanche had refused. She was not ready to go back to her room, her long-time prison she was sure was still a horrible mess from when she and Jane had left rather hastily. She knew she'd have to return there eventually, but not just yet.
The insistent ring of the doorbell made Blanche jump, and a hand shot up to her chest to steady her startled heart. Young swift footsteps carried through the hallway and to the front door. Blanche turned her chair around when she heard Gerald open the door. The same thing had happened last night.
Gerald opened the door to a friendly-looking woman in a loose-fitting house dress. She looked like she could be about Miss Hudson's age, although her hair, unlike Miss Hudson's, had already turned a natural steel grey. The radiant smile in her slightly plump face seemed to light up the dim evening.
"How can I help you, ma'am?"
"Oh, hello," the woman replied, her words separated by slightly flustered panting. She studied Gerald's face with close interest. "Who are you? I'm sorry. I'm Miss Hudson's neighbour, Mrs. Bates. I read in the paper that she was supposed to be released from the hospital today. I have here all her latest mail; the postman thought it would be a good idea to leave them with me until Miss Hudson returned." Only now did Gerald notice the considerably large packet of letters in the woman's hands. "I've come to give these to Miss Hudson. I thought… That is, if she's well enough to receive visitors."
"Of course she is," Gerald answered. "But I could save you the trouble and give these letters to Miss Hudson myself if you wanted." His generous offer was met by a disappointed look on Mrs. Bates' part. She clutched tighter at the packet of letters and pressed it closer to her chest.
"I was rather hoping that..." At the face of another let-down and yet another dismissal from the Hudson house, Mrs. Bates' voice took on a hurt shiver.
"It's all right," Gerald interrupted her kindly. "I understand. Come on in, Mrs. Bates. I will announce you."
That Mrs. Bates had been a very nice and warm person after all. The two women had exchanged their sides of the story. Blanche had found out just how much of the story had been covered in the papers. And Mrs. Bates—Pauline, as she had insisted—had been pleasantly surprised and just a little bit uncomfortably self-aware at finding out that her little silly thought of Blanche Hudson watching her when she was out in the garden had been right. Blanche had held herself back from telling her about the note she'd tried to get to her. She had realized the woman would have felt guilty for not helping her, and that was the last thing Blanche wanted to stand in the way of her potential new friendship with Mrs. Bates.
The letters she'd brought were mostly fan letters, some of them about her pictures, and some about Jane. Mrs. Bates herself had admitted to being a long-time fan, and Blanche had, in return, promised to give her a signed photograph of herself as soon as she found one in the house she could sign.
They had made a promise to meet for tea in two days. This person behind the door couldn't possibly be Mrs. Bates.
A few moments after the sound of the front door opening had reached Blanche's strained ears, Gerald appeared in the living room.
"There's a man here to see you, Miss Hudson. He says his name is William Carroll." As Gerald retreated into the hallway, he was replaced in the doorway by a man Blanche had last seen over twenty years ago, and had given up all hope to see again until the arrival of his letter just before Jane had had her last spell.
A sudden dizziness overtook Blanche as she stared up at the familiar kind face. Blanche had forgotten all about the fluttering feeling and the excited quickening of her heartbeat at the sight of him. Her hand clutched at the armrest, lest she fall against it in her stunned spell of weakness. She had dreamed of William Carroll many times over the years, wondered what had become of him after they'd lost contact.
Ha had changed with time, naturally. As he'd said in his letter, he was an older man now than he'd been when they'd been working together. His thinning hair had turned silver, and he'd lost the boyish slimness in his body; his face had gained a few wrinkles that hadn't been there before. But nevertheless, he was the same wonderful close friend Blanche had known all these years ago, with his kind, smiling brown eyes and gentle smile, and even with the same ever straight posture.
As seconds passed and the two of them looked at each other across the room, you could have heard a needle drop. After so many long years and so many sad, doubtful thoughts Blanche was overwhelmed with happiness to see that nothing had really changed about the man. He'd always looked at her this way—from the first day they'd met for their first screen test together—with undeniable and unbreakable love. And Blanche was in a dire need to be loved, to feel loved.
"Bill." Her voice seemed to have come from somewhere far away and in such a soft breath that it felt impossible for him to have heard it. But he did.
"Blanche." He dropped his hat on the library table nearest to him and stepped forward, the soft word falling from his lips into the broken silence. Blanche raised her arms to meet him as he nearly crashed into her in his eager haste.
His strong and safe arms felt so warm around Blanche's petite wasted body, his cheek so soft against hers.
"It's been so awfully long, Bill," she breathed with relief.
"Too long," Bill said tenderly in reply, placing a kiss on Blanche's cheekbone.
It was like a scene in a motion picture, all that was missing was the soft background music, the picture fading into black, and the happy words, "The End" appearing. However, this was not a motion picture, and eventually Bill had to let go of Blanche.
Retreating carefully from their embrace, Bill sat down on the sofa, still close enough to hold Blanche's smaller hands in his own. And not once during this movement did he break eye contact with her.
"You haven't changed," he said, his voice low as if in fear of this wonderful moment fading into a mere unreal dream. Blanche looked so beautiful when she blushed. "Or if you have, you've only grown more beautiful."
The first delighted shock beginning to leave her, Blanche wanted to say that he was only saying that or that he'd always been good with compliments. But her usual modesty seemed to have gotten lost in those deep brown eyes of Bill's, so instead her mouth formed a nearly soundless, "Thank you."
As the pregnant silence resumed, Blanche tried with all her might to concentrate on the task of saying something. Bill didn't seem to mind looking at her wordlessly, his eyes swallowing up the pleasant intensity of Blanche's pretty looks. No doubt he could have sat there looking at her for hours—he'd proven that early in their career.
"You've put on some weight," Blanche finally mustered up the courage to say. And with that the unusual tension between them was broken, reinventing the friendly and comfortable atmosphere they'd always shared.
"Well, I am a married man now," Bill laughed. "That's the influence of a loving wife's cooking."
"Oh, yes! How is Margaret?" Blanche remembered well the young blonde make-up artist who had worked at her last two pictures.
"Oh, you know her," Bill replied airily. "She's still just as full of energy and optimism as she used to be, still seeing the glass half full."
But talking about Bill's wife, never mind how lovely she was, made Blanche frown in cautiousness. "Doesn't she mind you visiting me?"
At that, Bill shook his head with a chuckle, and strengthened his gentle grip on Blanche's hand. "Oh, no," he said encouragingly. "Maggie's got very fond memories of you, and she knows how close we used to be." His words brought a relieved smile onto Blanche's face. "In fact," Bill added, "she was the one who encouraged me to come and see you after what we read in the papers." He lowered his voice to a sympathetic tone. "I'm sorry about Jane."
The name hit Blanche like a sharp slap across the face, and for a moment the terrible feeling of guilt returned. But last night, lying awake in this old house, a house that knew so many horrible secrets about both of the Hudson sisters, Blanche had decided to put the past behind her—all of it. From her own hatred for Jane to Jane's hatred for her. From the painfully persistent memories of her youth to the last weeks with Jane. From her affection for Jane to Jane's confused love for her. In order to start a new life for herself, Blanche had to stop feeling bad about all that. She had to concentrate on the future.
It would be hard. It would be almost impossible. But she had to try. She had to, because there were so many good things left for life to offer her.
"Thank you," she whispered absently, her thoughts racing for something she knew she had to mention. However, with all the madness lately, things didn't seem to come to her as quickly as she'd have liked them to.
"Oh! I got your letter," she said triumphantly. "I'm sorry for not writing you back, but Jane was not well, and it would have been impossible for me to..." Her voice trailed off thinly at the sight of Bill's expression of vague enquiry. In anxious uncertainty, Blanche waited for his next words.
"Which letter?"
Blanche's apprehensive smile fell. "How do you mean?"
"I've written to you at least twenty times just this year."
An enormous weight seemed to have been lifted from Blanche's shoulders. She gave a happy, relieved sigh, and blinked rapidly at the delighted tears that threatened to come. "And all this time I thought I had no friends..."
Blanche smiled back at Bill, and saw his own eyes glistening with unrestrained happiness. It felt so good to look at him and feel the same fluttering way as she had in the bygone days.
"Tell me more about your life," Blanche asked pleasantly, leaning back in her chair comfortably. "Did you and Margaret ever have any children?"
"Yes, we did—three boys." Bill reluctantly tore his eyes away from Blanche's to able himself to talk more freely. Ever since he'd first seen Blanche on the silver screen, he'd fallen in love with her enrapturing eyes. The years she'd spent as an invalid had softened her look; the beautiful snooty eyes that had captured hearts in her pictures had turned into a lovely pair of bewitching orbs that held in them all the despair and purity in the world.
"Our eldest is finishing acting school, the second one is following in his footsteps, and our youngest is entering medical school."
Blanche chuckled. "I hope you've told them what a tiring job acting is."
"They know the risks they're taking," Bill assured her.
"It's so wonderful that your boys have chosen such honourable careers." Blanche had long before stopped grieving for the children she'd never had the chance to have. At some point she'd even considered it a blessing, thinking about her own childhood when she'd always been overshadowed by her sister's talent and ego.
There had been times when Blanche had heard some children playing in the street and had longed for a child's presence and laughter in the house. However, with Jane around there had never been enough time to linger on these empty fantasies.
To fill the fresh silence, Bill chose to risk with the question he'd been impatient to ask. "I suppose it wouldn't do any good to ask about your health?"
Blanche averted her eyes, her gaze falling to her wasted, useless legs. "You suppose right," she admitted with an unintentional thin sigh of despair. "Nothing has changed. I will never walk again." Blanche forced the last words out with great effort. She had accepted the harsh reality long ago, saying it aloud, however, was still a hard task for her.
Bill remained politely silent for a while as Blanche regained her composure. And then he asked ever so carefully, "Do you remember what I told you the last time I saw you?"
Blanche looked up with an air of interested enquiry. "Bill, it was such a long time ago..." she replied wearily.
"I told you you could always walk with me," Bill recalled fondly. He watched as Blanche's lovely eyes widened in recognition, her expression becoming one of astonished disbelief. "May I have this dance?" Bill then offered with an affectionate smile, and stood.
Taken aback by Bill's sudden and totally unreasoning offer, Blanche sank deeper into her chair. Looking up in confused fright, she saw him watching her with a kind of encouraging and all the same challenging smile. Blanche's hand made a small gesture of unease when Bill started to bow closer to her. He couldn't make her walk nor dance, he must have known that. Blanche winced in remembered alarm when Bill's arms wrapped themselves around her upper body. "Oh, Bill, don't..." she whispered in a desperate pleading. "Please..." Nevertheless, she set her arms around Bill's neck in that same affectionate way she'd done so long ago in their pictures.
Bill knew very well when Blanche was acting and when she wasn't—perhaps even better than she did herself. And in light of that certainty, he pulled the woman close and carefully lifted her out of the wheel chair.
Blanche fought back a squeal of protest, but in a reaction of fright her arms tightened their hold on Bill. They were now in a very intimate position with Blanche's weak feminine body pressed closely against Bill's, her head resting against his shoulder.
Blanche hadn't stood upright for the longest of times, or come as close to standing as this position could be. She could feel her legs dangling uselessly underneath her. Bill didn't seem to mind her inability one bit. Another moment passed before Blanche sighed in exhausted resignation. She didn't really mind being held so familiarly by Bill.
The latter tilted his head against Blanche's, and started to sway on the spot.
"The falling leaves drift by the window..."
A soft gasp of recognition left Blanche at the sound of Bill's warm voice. It had been ages since she'd danced last. She hadn't thought she ever could again.
As they moved comfortably in the pleasant music, Blanche's hard, frightened grip gradually became a loving embrace. Bill's hands stopped burning her skin through her dress, but instead became a safe haven from all the worries in the world.
No one had ever treated her the way Bill did. He was always so kind and gentle with her. It was as if he always knew exactly what she needed. And today she needed to be loved. Bill's tender, brotherly love was more than Blanche could have ever hoped for.
"Since you went away, the days grow long..."
Blanche had missed him so. She didn't notice the hot tears that began streaming down her face.
"But I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall."
Bill lingered on the last notes, relishing the feeling of their closeness for the last fleeting moment. Who knew if he would still have enough strength in his body to take her dancing ever again? But it had been worth it. Lowering Blanche back into her wheel chair, Bill experienced a curious feeling of reluctance. Pulling away, he noticed with alarm the tears on Blanche's cheeks.
"Did I cross the line?" Bill asked with a frown of concern.
Blanche managed a soft laugh. "Oh, no," she said with an evasive shake of the head. Looking up at Bill's handsome face through her tearful eyes, Blanche smiled. "I haven't been so happy in twenty years."