Felix emerges from the dining room, clutching his serviette and a newspaper.
“Eleanor! Whatever’s the matter? Is it Anne? Have you told her? Oh, God, is it the worst? Did she throw you out?”
She tries to catch her breath. “This has got nothing to do with Mummy.” She grabs Felix’s shoulders. “It’s wonderful news. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”
“So tell me, for God’s sake.”
She pulls him into the empty bar and shuts the door. “My darling Felix, I think you’d better sit down.” He flops into a leather armchair and she stands beside him, clasping his hands. “That holiday I took with Anne a couple of months ago… Remember?”
Felix nods. “But what—”
“I went to Juan-les-Pins to find your mother.” She swallows. “It was one of the craziest things I’ve ever done.”
Felix’s eyes fill with amazement. “Why there?”
Eleanor crouches beside him. “I found some letters from Pierre in Moira’s bureau.”
Felix frowns. “You never told me.”
“No. I wanted to prove they could lead somewhere… And they have.”
Disbelief, joy and triumph flash across Felix’s face as he listens to Eleanor’s story. He grabs the letter from her shaking hand. He reads it, tears sparkling on his cheeks.
“Mama is alive… Mama is alive… I can’t believe it. How can I ever thank you?”
“She might have returned to St Ives to find you. Now that Pierre’s dead—”
“But she might not.”
“We’ll never know. Things have changed for her—”
“And for me.” Felix wipes his face. “Out of all recognition.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ve no idea… I can’t think straight.”
Eleanor glances reluctantly at her watch. “Will you forgive me if I leave you? I’ll meet you back here for luncheon at one o’clock. And I hope Anne will be with me. I can’t promise, but—”
“Yes, of course.” For a brief, wonderful moment Felix takes Eleanor in his arms. “You’ll never know how grateful I am and how much I love you. Hurry back.”
Anne spends an hour in the dress shop, trying on half their stock.
Eleanor paces around, trying to be patient. When her mother can’t decide between two outfits, Eleanor buys both, and hustles Anne out into the street. She has decided to tell her about Felix as they drive back to Woodstock. Anne will have to listen. She won’t be able to flounce away or call for Vera.
“Thank you so much, darling,” Anne says happily. “I adore both the frocks… I shan’t know which one to wear!”
Eleanor mutters, “I wish my problems were as easy to solve.” She takes her mother’s arm, guides her through the traffic. “I have something extremely important to tell you. We’re going straight home, fast.”
But when she tries to start the Morris, the engine coughs and dies. She stares at the dashboard in disbelief. There’s no mistaking that crashing red finger on the dial. The car’s empty of petrol.
“Honestly, Eleanor! This isn’t like you at all. You’re usually so well organised!” Anne grabs her handbag. “I can’t be late for Jonny. He’s leaving for Wales this afternoon. I’ll run for the bus. Ring the garage from that shop over there. They can send a mechanic.”
In tears of frustration, Eleanor stands in a cramped back office, ringing first the Woodstock garage, then The Bear.
“Could I leave a message for Felix Mitchell, please? My car’s broken down and I’ll be late. Very late… Could you ask him to meet me for tea at four? My name’s Eleanor Drummond.”
A Safe Pair of Hands
Oxford and Woodstock, 1936
The day becomes a nightmare of waiting. And then it gets worse. The mechanic says Eleanor will have to wait for at least an hour. She leaves the shop and the car, and wanders into town. She might as well have a sandwich in the Covered Market.
Thinking about Felix, longing to be with him, Eleanor walks swiftly to the Cadena Café. As she pushes at the door, she hears a baby crying. Sitting in a corner, rocking the handle of a fashionable perambulator, is Perdita Willoughby-Jones.
The two girls stare at each other. Perdita turns scarlet. She jigs the pram up and down with increased fervour. Its hood is decorated with a flapping pink-satin bow.
Eleanor says, “My God! How wonderful to see you again!”
Perdita gives her a crimson smile. “You too.”
“May I join you?”
“Of course.” Perdita can hardly refuse. “This is my daughter, Rosemary.”
A violent wail comes from beneath the perambulator’s bonnet. Eleanor pokes her head around it to take a good look. The baby opens her eyes to take a good look back. Her eyes are Walter’s violet-blue eyes, her nose is Walter’s nose.
Eleanor straightens her back and takes a deep breath. She touches Perdita’s shoulder. She says with all the courage she can muster, “Your daughter looks very like my father.” She can hardly get the words out. “Is she… Did you… Is it possible? Tell me I’m wrong, Perdy. Please tell me I’m talking nonsense.” Abruptly, her legs give way beneath her. She collapses on the nearest chair.
Perdita looks down at the baby, then at Eleanor. “It only happened once. We’d been to the picture house on Walton Street. You must remember, you were with us. You went off to powder your nose. Your father invited me out. We were in the back row and we’d been holding hands. It was extremely stupid of me to respond, to flirt with him, but I did. There was something irresistible about him…
“We went to a small hotel in North Oxford.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I thought maybe we’d have a late supper together, a glass of champagne, a romantic kiss and cuddle. But Walter had only one thing on his mind. At the last moment, I panicked… I tried to stop him, but he was surprisingly strong. He didn’t threaten me, exactly, but he told me I knew what I was doing and he certainly didn’t give me a chance to get away. I risked my neck for him, too. I nearly fell, climbing a wall, getting into College after midnight.”
Eleanor is almost speechless. “Is that why you chose to leave Somerville?”
Perdita gives a sharp, high laugh. “I didn’t choose, dear little naïve Eleanor! I was pushed. Somebody must have spotted Walter and me together. It might have been Scroggs. He’s always been a bit of a spy as well as a College porter. I was summoned to see Miss Darbishire. She was absolutely vile. She told me I was a total disgrace, that I’d let everyone down, that I didn’t deserve a place at Somerville. Ten minutes later, Scroggs was helping me pack.”
“But what did you—”
“Tell my parents? That I’d had enough of College life. That I wasn’t a bluestocking. When I discovered I was pregnant they were furious. So was I. I wrote to Walter but I never got an answer. I never saw him again. He’d had his way with me and obviously, he didn’t give a damn. My parents packed me off to Paris. I had Rosemary there.”
Eleanor clenches her fists. “I’m so terribly sorry, Perdita. I can’t believe my father could have behaved like—”
“Can’t you? Miss Darbishire knew all about him without my saying anything. She implied I was having an affair with someone who had a terrible reputation.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well I’ve also left Somerville!”
“I’m married now, you know. No more Willoughby-Jones for me. I’m Mrs Martin Travis. We own one of those swanky houses in Park Town and we put up a decent pretence that Rosemary’s our child.”
This time Eleanor’s bereft of words.
“I married one of my father’s friends. Second wife, young and glamorous and all that… Martin’s stinking rich and – to tell you the truth – a bit on the boring side. He loves horses and golf. But he’s safe.” Perdita glances at the wailing infant thrashing her arms and legs lik
e a tiny windmill. “A safe pair of hands. That’s what my manipulating mother said I needed. And that’s what I’ve got!” She starts rocking the pram again to drown the noise. “We’d better go. The only thing that stops Rosemary bawling is being on the move.”
Eleanor watches Perdita stand up, pull on her hat and march away.
Suddenly sick to her stomach, she finds she has no appetite.
The car mechanic gives Eleanor a lecture about always carrying a can of petrol in the boot. When she finally climbs into the Morris to drive home, the traffic on the Woodstock Road has slowed to a snail’s pace. There’s been an accident at the roundabout. The usual twenty-minute drive extends like loose elastic to an hour.
By the time Eleanor gets home, tired, frustrated and famished, she has to face a list of queries from Vera. At a quarter-past four, she slams out of the house and makes a dash for The Bear.
Felix is nowhere to be seen. He’s not outside the hotel, or sitting in the bar, or reading a newspaper in the lounge. The restaurant is empty apart from an elderly waiter polishing glasses and humming a weary tune.
Eleanor stands at reception and asks for Felix Mitchell. Frowning, the receptionist consults her list. “I’m sorry, Miss. Mr Mitchell has checked out.”
“But I was supposed to meet him here for tea.”
“May I have your name?”
“Eleanor Drummond.” Eleanor’s mouth is so dry she can hardly speak. “I rang—”
“Ah, yes, Miss Drummond. Mr Mitchell left you a note.”
Eleanor’s heart skips several beats and then seems to freeze before thumping into overdrive, leaving her breathless. “Thank you.” She stares at the envelope. There’s no mistake. It has her name on it.
Eleanor sits at a table in the empty bar to read the message. The black letters jump up and down in front of her eyes. She tries to steady her hands.
My darling Eleanor
I feel so humiliated. You haven’t told Anne about me. About us. I just know in my heart you haven’t. I understand – or at least, I’m trying to! But I couldn’t bear to listen to any more of your excuses today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that.
I’ve laid all my cards on your table. I can’t do any more than travel to Woodstock to offer you everything I have. Now I’ll drive home without you, because I can’t bear another night here with you so close to me and yet so far away.
I love you. Look at my portrait of you in your scarlet frock. See the love in it, in every single swirl of glorious paint. Remember how we danced together when you wore it. Please remember me.
I shall be leaving for Juan-les-Pins to see Mama as soon as I can. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for bringing us together.
Always your loving
Felix
Eleanor heaves herself out of her chair. She stands in a corner of the bar, by the window, her back to the door, out of the reach of prying eyes if any guest should enter.
Today she has received two letters. The first gave her one of the most joyful and triumphant moments of her life. Only a few hours ago she’d been standing here on this very spot in her lover’s arms. The second leaves her devastated and alone.
How can disaster follow triumph so swiftly? How can life be so cruel? She feels like a handful of spindrift that’s been flung against a sea wall, catching the sun, only to be crushed and devoured by the rising tide.
For a moment she stands holding the letter, staring blindly out into the busy street. Then she crumples the piece of paper in her fist.
Reading the words on it, ever again, will only break her heart.
Reaching Cinq Saisons
Juan-les-Pins, August 1936
Felix Mitchell swings himself onto Le Train Bleu. He wears a cream linen suit, a sharp blue scarf instead of a tie, new patent leather shoes and crimson leather gloves.
He looks a real dandy. He feels a real dandy.
He’s beside himself with joy.
He springs up and down Le Train Bleu, tipping his hat at the ladies, grinning benignly at the gentlemen.
“Bonjour, Madame… Bonjour, Mademoiselle…”
The fact that it’s early evening doesn’t bother him. He never wears a watch.
The ladies gasp, whether they want to or not. Who is that ravishing man, they ask each other, fluttering their fans, murmuring like turtle doves.
Mon Dieu! Those eyes! That hair! So comme il faut!
Felix sits down to dinner on Le Train Bleu, alone at his own table. Beneath the cream linen suit, he’s skin and bone. He never knows when it’s time for lunch or supper. But a dinner like this – wafer-thin smoked salmon with cool cucumber, roast duck, creamed potatoes fluffy as air, goat’s cheese with delicate oat cakes, raspberries with the lightest touch of cream – well! He eats and savours every morsel. He drinks every glass of whatever’s offered him with a graceful gesture of gratitude, slinging it down his throat as if he were a parched well.
He’s ravenous with excitement and joy.
After the meal, ignoring several silent requests from three splendid-looking females, Felix walks slowly and unsteadily back to his compartment, clinging onto the sides of the train as if they were boon companions.
He manages to remove his suit and hang it up. Placing both hands on the window, he gazes out. It’s twilight. He has no idea where he is, only that soon, soon, he’ll meet his Mama again. The woman he hasn’t seen since that day of the Cornish storm.
The day that feels like yesterday.
Felix falls onto the lower deck of his bunk bed. In an instant he’s asleep. Le Train Bleu rocks and hisses on its way. He hears only that marvellous voice in his ears. His Mama’s voice, just as it used to be when she sang him lullabies, when his skin was itching until it bled – but Mama’s singing made everything better.
He wakes to the glow of dawn: a pearly cream sky, lit with sapphire bands. He wants to paint it. He needs his brushes, his smock, his easel. He longs to capture for immortality this most special of dawns.
Over scalding black coffee and three croissants, so light he feels he’s hardly eaten anything, with his cream suit immaculate, his fingernails manicured, and his scarf at an oh so debonair angle, Felix decides he’s the happiest man alive.
He steps onto land at Juan-les-Pins.
He knows exactly where he needs to go.
He’d asked Eleanor for directions.
His one and only Eleanor…
Heavens above! What a find she has been. So swift, so easy… So interesting. Her face! Her mannerisms! Her beautiful slim body…
Bravely, he swallows a lump in his throat.
Then he moves on.
It’s still morning, not yet hot enough for a baking sun. Felix is aware of being surrounded by tall green trees. Enormous pines. He can smell them, their high yet musky scent. He walks and walks. He’s in a trance. He moves through an air that nurses the sweet scent of oleander.
But is it really oleander? Or lavender? Or something like it?
Felix stands still for a moment to sniff the sky.
He shivers.
He can smell cloves.
O God, dearest God above, he can smell the scent of cloves.
Felix looks above his head to a sign swinging in the newly sprung breeze.
Cinq Saisons
He’s here. Where he should have been years ago… He’s reached his destination! He wants to dip his knees to the powers of the green hills that have led him safely thus far to such miraculous purpose.
He adjusts his scarf, runs his hands over his hair, licks his dry lips.
He reaches out to press the bell.
The gates swing open.
The villa’s front door opens.
There stands a pert little maid in an adorable ice-white apron with frills at its adorable edge.
Felix stutters and stammers. He speaks in English, because he has no idea at that moment how to use any other language: “Madame Tessier?”
Then he clears his throat. He sounds like an ageing parrot trying out a new set of words.
“Madame Tessier… please… is she at home?”
He has to ask the question with great care in case it comes out backwards.
The maid answers him in good clear English.
“Yes, sir. She is. Who shall I say is calling?”
Felix looks her in the eyes.
He says, “I am her son.”
He swallows. Tears well up from his entire body.
“Could you tell her, please? My name is Felix Mitchell and I am her son.”
A New Partner
Woodstock, 1936
“So then what did you do?” Kathleen asks.
Eleanor and Kathleen are walking together in Blenheim two days later, on Wednesday evening, the air sharp with a first touch of autumn chill, the path wet with the previous day’s rain.
“What could I do? Climb into the Morris and follow him to Cornwall? Part of me wanted to do exactly that. Part of me was furious that he’d assumed I’d said nothing to Mummy. Because what if I had? She’d have been upset, maybe devastated – but hopefully prepared to meet Felix. And I’d have looked a complete idiot.”
“But he was right, Ellie… You hadn’t told her anythin’.”
“No, and by the time I got home on Monday afternoon, Felix had vanished and I’d lost my nerve. I felt so appalled by my father’s behaviour with Perdita I could hardly think straight. I realised that Perdita’s daughter was my half-sister. I felt sick, disgusted… For the first time in my life, I felt my father was no longer my darling Daddy. How can you go on loving somebody who behaves like that? I went up to my room, shaking like a leaf. The first thing I saw was Moira’s still-life hanging on my wall. I’d completely forgotten to tell Felix I’d bought it.”
The Choice Page 31