A Great Beauty

by A. O'Connor

  Michael looked at Arthur, startled, but nervously waved out the window to the crowd’s delight and applause.

  The cavalcade arrived into Downing Street which was teeming with police.

  “Best foot forward!” said Michael as their automobile pulled up in front of 10 Downing Street and a policeman opened the door. Michael got out and looked up at the building. Then he strode across the pavement to the front door.

  CHAPTER 38

  Hazel sat in the drawing room with Alice, looking at Michael’s photograph in the newspapers.

  “He’s very handsome,” commented Alice.

  “Isn’t he just?” agreed Hazel, studying the photograph up close. “He would make a wonderful subject for John to paint.”

  “He still hasn’t agreed?”

  “No. I am up against a brick wall every time I reach out to him and Erskine Childers.” She picked up a copy of Erskine Childers’ novel The Riddle of The Sands on the table beside her. “I wouldn’t mind but I’ve read Childers’ novel again – for the tenth time! And I keep gushing in my letters to him about how much I enjoy his writing – but still no response! You’d think he would at least have the respect to reply as one artist to another!”

  “Well, never mind Erskine Childers, Mama – it’s Collins who is the prize!”

  “Well, I give up on him!” Hazel threw her hands up in the air. “I think I’ve tried everything. I wrote again yesterday to his accommodation in Cadogan Gardens but expect no reply. All I can say is he is a very rude man!”

  Alice giggled at her mother taking offence at a man’s rudeness when half of the country was describing him as a murderer.

  Hazel set her mouth in a tight thin line. “But I will not give up, Alice. I have one last trick up my sleeve. He had a sister living in Kensington as I recall. As often is the case – the best way to a man is through a woman!”

  ***

  That evening Michael sat at the writing desk in his bedroom at Cadogan Gardens writing a letter to Kitty.

  … so, when we went through the front door at Downing Street, there were all these formal-looking staff there looking at us as if we fell down from another planet. After some small talk we were shown upstairs into this big boardroom. And waiting there was the Prime Minister and the others – Churchill, Birkenhead and the rest. So, we Irish were at one end of the room and they on the other and nobody was saying anything. We just stared uncomfortably at each other – enemies facing each other. Then Lloyd George took control and, breaking the impasse, he walked across the room with his hand outstretched and shook all our hands. Then we all sat down and started setting out our stall. It feels very strange being here. I feel like a fish out of water. I wish I was with you walking the fields around your home place.

  Suddenly there was a shout from downstairs. “Mick!”

  Michael got up and went to the door and opened it. “What is it?”

  “Dinner’s served – come down while it’s hot!”

  “I’ll be right down!” Michael shouted back and then he went to the desk and finished off the letter, signed his name and placed the letter in an envelope.

  He then came bounding out of the room, down the flights of stairs and into the dining room where everyone was in great form, sitting down to a turkey dinner.

  “Will you get that in the post tomorrow, please?” said Michael, handing the letter to Kathleen.

  “I will surely,” nodded Kathleen, taking the envelope. “Incidentally, another request has come from the artist John Lavery to paint your portrait.”

  “Oh, tell him to fuck off! As if I have time for a portrait!”

  “Well, you will be the only one in the delegation not to accept – except for Erskine Childers who says he will not have any fraternisation with the enemy while he’s here!”

  “Is John Lavery the enemy?” Michael asked. “I thought we had given him and his wife security clearance?”

  “As a British lord, Lavery is deemed the enemy in Erskine’s mind,” Kathleen said with a smile.

  Michael raised his eyes to heaven. “Move up, will you?” he said, grabbing a chair and making room for himself. He looked at the beautiful display of food on the table and the happy faces around it.

  “This is a bit like a holiday, Mick!” said one of the typists.

  “Well,” said Michael, clapping his hands together and then taking a knife to the turkey, “we may as well enjoy ourselves since we are here!”

  That night the drink flowed as a party started up. Accordions and a fiddle came out and they all danced around the drawing room.

  As Michael opened another bottle of whiskey, Malcom said despairingly, “How are you going to have a clear head to negotiate in the morning with the Prime Minister?”

  “I tell you, the last thing you need is a clear head when you’re talking with that man!” joked Michael as he downed another glass.

  CHAPTER 39

  Those first few days in London passed in a spin for Michael. The negotiations with the British cabinet were slow, bogged down in detail with neither side willing to budge an inch. Michael quickly realised why the original negotiations with De Valera had collapsed so quickly. When he wasn’t at Downing Street, he remained in the safety of the house in Cadogan Gardens. He was too intimidated to even step outside the door as journalists were waiting there to pounce on him.

  His sister Hannie visited often and that evening she was laying out his clothes for the next morning.

  Michael was at the writing desk, writing to Kitty.

  “You could do with buying a couple of new suits,” Hannie said.

  “Hmmm – least of my worries,” grumbled Michael.

  “You can’t let the side down, Michael. You don’t want to be seen in the same suit too many times. You have to –”

  “Put my best foot forward. I know!”

  “Is it Kitty you are writing to?”

  “I am – if you would ever give me a bit of peace to concentrate!”

  “So, when will we get to meet the future Mrs. Michael Collins?”

  “We just want to keep it private for now. There’s too much going on. And there’s Harry to consider – we want to tell him in person and not have him read it in a newspaper.”

  “The whole scenario is rather complicated, but she sounds like a lovely girl anyway! Oh, by the way – I got this letter in the post from Lady Lavery.”

  She laid an envelope on the desk in front of him.

  “What?”

  “Yes, she tracked down my address. She met you years ago when you were working for the Post Office here and going to the theatre with the Solicitor to the Post Office, Crompton Llewelyn Davies, and his wife Moya. She remembered you had a sister living in Kensington. She wants you to pose for a painting to be part of this Irish collection they’re working on.”

  “Oh, I know, I know! She’s managed to inveigle all the others – except Childers – into posing. She’s very persistent, I must say – coming at me now through you!” He took out the letter and scanned it.

  “She’s a great lady, very connected – she’s always in the magazines. She knows everyone in society and is offering her home once again to you and the delegates as a home from home.”

  “Sure, I have a home from home here in Cadogan Gardens with all my best friends and people around me here – and you. Why would I want to be going to –” he picked up the letter and peered at the address, “5 Cromwell Place to be amongst posh strangers?”

  “Well, I think you should at least consider allowing them to paint your portrait, Michael. It’s not every day you get the chance to have your portrait done by a world-famous artist. Mam and Dad would have loved it – they would have been so proud to have their son painted by one such as John Lavery.” She bent down and kissed his head before turning to go. “I’ll be off now. Will you try and get an early night? I’m hearing stories there’s wild parties going on here every night!”

  “They’re lying!” Michael called after her, laughing loudly.r />
  “Hummh!” Hannie grunted as she left.

  Michael sat back, took up Lady Lavery’s letter and began to read through it properly.

  CHAPTER 40

  The doorbell sounded through 5 Cromwell Place as Gordon hurried up from the kitchen downstairs, putting on his blazer. He quickly smoothed his hair as he passed the huge mirror in the hall – then he unbolted the front door and opened it.

  “Good afternoon, sir – may I help you?”

  Gordon observed a large automobile in which three unsavoury and suspicious-looking men sat staring up at the house.

  “Is Sir John Lavery home?”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Who is it, Gordon?” came a soft female voice.

  Hazel Lavery came walking down the wide staircase at the back of the hall.

  “Michael Collins!” she cried, her voice filled with delighted surprise as she walked to the front door and gently pushed Gordon aside.

  As Hazel and Michael stared at each other, Gordon didn’t know what to do or say.

  “Shall I inform Sir John that Mr. Collins is here, my lady?” he asked.

  “Yes – yes,” said Hazel, waving him away with her hand.

  Gordon bowed and left.

  “Do you remember me?” Hazel asked, staring into Michael’s face.

  “Yes – yes, I do now,” Michael said, nodding. Indeed he remembered the stunning woman who used always be centre-stage among the theatre crowd he used to occasionally meet. Of course she hadn’t been ‘Lady Lavery’ then, so he had never imagined it was the same woman. What perplexed him was how she remembered him, a post office clerk from many years before.

  “Do come in!” said Hazel, stepping aside and beckoning him in.

  Michael paused, turned to his men waiting in the automobile and nodded to them. He entered the house and Hazel closed the door. He glanced down the huge hallway with the impressive stairs and the balcony that stretched around the landing upstairs.

  “I had nearly given up on your ever agreeing to come,” said Hazel.

  He turned to her and said, “I’m sorry for ignoring the invitation before – it’s just been very hectic since I arrived. It’s been like stepping into a circus.”

  “Or a zoo!” She smiled sympathetically at him.

  He smiled back. “That’s probably a better analogy. And I’m the caged animal they all have come to see.”

  “You poor thing, I can’t imagine how unsettling it is for you,” she said.

  Her face creased with such genuine concern that he didn’t know how to react. He was so used to dealing with sarcasm and wisecracks at best, aggression at worst, that genuine kindness from a stranger felt uncomfortable.

  They stared, each studying the other intently.

  Suddenly there was a click of heels and John was hurrying down the staircase, fastening his cufflinks.

  “I could scarcely believe it when Gordon informed me you were here,” he said as he hurried down the hallway to them with an outstretched hand. “My dear fellow, it is a pleasure and an honour to meet you.”

  Michael reached out and they shook hands.

  “What kind of hostess am I, leaving you standing in the hallway?” said Hazel. “Gordon, will you bring tea to the drawing room for Mr. Collins, please?”

  “That won’t be necessary – I’m afraid I don’t have that much time,” said Michael. He turned to John. “You said you needed just three hours to do the portrait?”

  “Ah, yes – if that is all your schedule allows then I can have the portrait mostly completed in that time.”

  “Mostly?” asked Michael.

  “Well, yes – later I can work on anything further that needs to be done.”

  Michael stood awkwardly in the hallway, as if undecided.

  “Did you want to sit now?” John asked.

  “Yes, if that’s alright.”

  “Certainly. Shall we make our way to the studio?”

  Michael nodded and followed him down the hallway and up the staircase as Hazel walked alongside him.

  “How are you finding Cadogan Gardens?” she asked.

  “Very nice,” nodded Michael. “Roomy.”

  “They are splendid buildings there,” said Hazel.

  Even as seasoned a hostess as Hazel was finding Michael hard work. Having been struck initially by his aura and presence, she realised he was very uncomfortable to be there, and his eyes kept darting around nervously checking out the building.

  They reached the top of the stairs and crossed over the landing and into the studio. Michael was taken aback with the room’s size and grandeur and marvelled at the glass ceiling. As he walked around the room, he stopped to admire a huge painting of Hazel dressed in a cream gown.

  “If you could sit there, please,” asked John, pointing to a chair.

  Michael turned and walked to the chair. He was going to sit but then stopped and moved the chair to a different position.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer this angle,” he said.

  “Well, the light isn’t as good …” said John, perplexed. Then he realised that Michael had moved the chair to face the door. He didn’t want to have his back to it. “But that position is fine – whatever you are most comfortable with … although, please do try to relax, Mr. Collins. I have entertained prime ministers, royalty and film stars here and am glad to say I have not lost a single one to an assassin yet!”

  “There’s always a first time!” said Michael as he sat down.

  As he sat, Hazel saw the nozzle of a handgun in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  John went and set up the canvas as Michael shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  John nodded at Hazel. This was her cue to leave.

  “I just have to catch up with my post – if you need anything, please let me know.” She smiled at Michael.

  “Thank you,” said Michael.

  Hazel turned and, as she passed John, smiled encouragingly at him.

  Once out on the landing, she closed the double doors to the studio behind her and leaned against them. Out of all the guests they’d had there, she could hardly believe she had Michael Collins. He had such incredible magnetism that she felt relieved to be out of the room – and yet at the same time she wanted to turn and rush straight back in again. She walked slowly across to the drawing room.

  Hazel looked at the clock. They had been in the studio for two hours and there had not been a peep. She had kept expecting them to call for tea and refreshments, as always happened during one of John’s sittings, but this time the call never came. Finally, she quickly got to her feet. She couldn’t wait any more.

  She swung open the drawing-room doors and quickly walked to the studio. Knocking on the door, she opened it and entered.

  Michael was still on the chair, fidgeting and moving around. He looked even more uncomfortable than when she had left him. She walked across the room to the canvas John was working on. When she reached it, she got a shock as there was hardly any work done.

  She looked at John for an explanation, but he just shrugged.

  “He won’t sit still for a minute,” he muttered.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured.

  She went over to Michael who was at that point straining his neck to look out a window, then pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

  “How are you finding the sitting, Michael?” she asked.

  “Terrible! British intelligence could use this as a new form of torture – they would crack our men every time!”

  Hazel laughed loudly. “It’s really not that bad,” she said. “It’s like anything – you just need to know how.”

  “Easy for you to say – how many portraits and magazines have you sat for?” He gestured to the many paintings of Hazel dotted around the studio.

  “Quite a few, I will admit. Well, it’s always a bit daunting to sit for a portrait as in doing so we are exposing ourselves. We are showing a part of us that we never show the world. The artist is capturing our
soul almost … and not many of us feel comfortable with that. You are moving around today a lot because you are resisting your soul being laid bare … but there is nothing to fear, Michael. Just relax and it will be a wonderful experience for you, I promise you.”

  “And how do you – relax?”

  “When I first started sitting for my portrait I used to think back to when I was a child … I used to lose myself in memories of when I grew up in Chicago … I used to think of my parents and my sister and suddenly I’d forget I was in a studio.” As she spoke, her eyes misted over. “I’d think of the happy times we all had together … my parents were always so busy and the house was full of people … they were important socialites … often they would be out late at night and wouldn’t be home until way past our bedtimes. Sometimes I would wake and hear my sister, Dorothy, crying … she would call for Mama or Papa, but they wouldn’t be home yet. And I would get up and tiptoe past our governess’s room and into Dorothy’s room and get into her bed …” Hazel’s eyes welled up with tears as she continued to speak, “and I would take Dorothy in my arms, like this,” she cradled her arms together, “and I would sing her a lullaby as I gently rocked her until she fell asleep in my arms.”

  Michael looked at Hazel in astonishment, engrossed by her story, as a tear slipped down her cheek. He sat absolutely still, his own eyes welling up as he fought the overriding desire to reach out to the beautiful woman and comfort her. He could see there was a terrible pain there and he wanted to know what it was and comfort her.

  As Michael sat absolutely still, John quickly sketched on the canvas.

  Hazel led Michael down the staircase once the sitting was over. They had left John in the studio where he continued to feverishly work on the portrait.

  “Are you sure you can’t be tempted to stay for tea – or even dinner?” she offered.

  “No, thank you. I’d better be getting back. Besides, my lads have been sitting outside for hours – they will be going mad with boredom!”