The Iron Necklace

by Giles Waterfield

  The Benson children were scrutinised. ‘Irene has changed so much, very pale – and those clothes, really not English at all.’

  ‘And is that Sophia?’

  ‘She’s been a nurse, you know, they say she was very brave.’

  ‘She’s not been looking after herself, she looks like a working woman.’

  ‘Striking though.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the brother.’

  ‘Elegant. Good shoes.’

  ‘No signs of suffering there. Of course he was safe in Washington.’

  During the funeral tea the children looked after the guests just as they had when they were young. It was Victoria who took charge of the widow, led her to a comfortable seat, brought people to talk to her.

  Victoria talked freely about her work: having started as a stenographer in a firm of auctioneers, she had been promoted to chairman’s secretary. ‘I love it! The chairman even listens to my advice, and the work is so interesting, and now the war is over, we expect a great deal of business, people selling up, you know. I ought to regret it, but if you’re in the business. . . I wouldn’t give it up for anything.’ When a lady said, ‘But won’t you leave, now the war is over?’, she replied, ‘Certainly not, I enjoy it and we need the money.’ The lady was shocked.

  Afterwards the family sat, exhausted, around the drawing room. ‘At least I have all my children around me,’ said Lady Benson, ‘the last time we were all assembled was for Irene’s wedding – what an occasion, only ten years ago. . .’

  ‘Eight and a half,’ said Irene.

  ‘It seems a century. I am so happy to meet my grandchild.’ Actually, meeting Dorothea had been a disappointment, the child was plain and quiet, spoke hardly a word of English. ‘You must all be here tomorrow, when Mr Morgan comes, the solicitor.’

  The children stayed up late.

  ‘How does it feel,’ they asked Irene, ‘to be back in London?’

  ‘Oh, very strange, I don’t know what I feel about this country now, I’ve lived so long in a place where England’s detested.’

  ‘And will you stay for a while?’ asked Mark, who was sitting beside her on the sofa. ‘It would be lovely for us if you did.’ He slid his arm round her and gave her a little kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, a little while. Mamma needs me, and Dodo must improve her English, and realise this isn’t a country of monsters.’

  ‘Thomas will miss you. . .’

  She almost looked angry, an unfamiliar expression for her. ‘I’ve lived in Germany for Thomas’s sake, all through the war. He can allow me to be English for a while.’ She paused. ‘You can’t imagine how awful it’s been, like a long crucifixion.’

  48

  In spite of their black jackets and wing collars and pinstriped trousers and attaché cases, the two men of business seemed ill at ease; though there was no apparent reason for it, they had been kindly received.

  Lady Benson introduced them. ‘This is Mr Morgan, Papa’s solicitor and executor. This is Mr Weston, Papa’s man of affairs.’ And in an undertone to Mark, ‘The bank manager.’

  Mr Morgan cleared his throat. He made the usual remarks. He cleared his throat again. ‘I have asked you all to be here to explain the will. There are some rather particular circumstances.’ He cast his eyes sideways at Mr Weston, but Mr Weston’s eyes were fixed on the carpet.

  ‘I don’t think I need to read the will out, I will give you all copies. In brief, there are several smaller bequests, actually rather a large number, for sums of £100 or so, to people unrelated to the family. Also £500 to Mrs Wilson, a lady employed in this household for many years, I understand.’ They all smiled. ‘To each of his children Sir William has left £10,000 in trust, of which the capital may go only to the legatee. There are some individual items left to each of you, I have made a schedule.’ They tried to look detached.

  ‘In addition, Sir William has stipulated that all his books and manuscripts related to the theme of the Dance of Death should be left to his college at Cambridge, under the name of the Benson Collection. Corpus Christi College, I understand, has an outstanding library. This bequest is to be accompanied by an endowment of £20,000. Nothing may be sold, the library must remain intact. It is my duty, with Mrs Curtius, to ensure that these procedures are followed implicitly.’ Mr Morgan’s air of discomfort increased. ‘The remainder of the estate, with one exception which I will outline, goes to Lady Benson, including the house and its contents.’

  ‘I am so glad, you will be quite comfortable, Mamma,’ said Irene.

  Mr Morgan and Mr Weston exchanged looks. ‘We all hope so,’ said Mr Morgan, ‘but I should ask Mr Weston to explain a little more.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Mr Weston. ‘Yes indeed. I am of course familiar with Sir William’s affairs. I have been looking after them for over twenty years, and may I say how much I regret. . . A man of such distinction. . .’

  ‘Thank you, we are most grateful.’ Mark looked impatient.

  ‘Yes. If Sir William was in any way to be faulted in his handling of his financial affairs, it was perhaps in his generosity. I understand that on occasion he would not charge fees if he felt the client could not afford them. Most. . . most. . . most Christian and commendable, but from the bank’s point of view. . . He also made many donations to charities. And a great deal went on his collecting, very large amounts in some years. In all, the rate of expenditure was quite considerable.’ He wiped his brow, though it was by no means hot.

  ‘What is this leading to?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Yes, yes. I cannot at this stage give you a full summary of Sir William’s financial position, we still have to explore various aspects, but a great deal of his estate is indeed tied up in the library. . . The point is that at present Sir William’s credit account is. . . is. . . is quite heavily overdrawn, to the extent of – well, I am sure the ladies do not wish to be bothered with such details.’

  ‘Oh, the ladies will not be offended by the mention of money,’ said Irene.

  ‘Very well, then,’ and he consulted a piece of paper. ‘Sir William’s current account is overdrawn to the sum of £19,582. 2s. 6d.’ They tried not to look shaken. ‘Of course, we are aware that Sir William had considerable investments, on which I have advised him on. . . on. . . on occasion. There was never any difficulty over that overdraft, but in latter years the outgoings have. . . have. . . have tended to exceed the incomings.’

  Lady Benson burst into tears. ‘I never knew, I always thought we were completely comfortable.’

  ‘Please don’t distress yourself, Lady Benson,’ said Mr Weston. ‘As I say, there are considerable investments, which of course can be realised. They will easily meet the bequests. But I am afraid that the sum left after the bequests have been paid will be modest. Of course there is the house, that can be sold.’

  ‘But how am I to live? How am I to feed myself ? Will I have to leave this dear house and live in a boarding house with a lot of dreary widows?’

  Irene looked puzzled. ‘Need the bequests amount to so much? If each of us is to receive £10,000– we could pass our legacies on to Mamma.’

  Mr Morgan rubbed his cheek rather hard. ‘I fear the transfer of capital is not permitted by the terms of the will, though there is no control over income.’

  ‘I don’t understand, it’s as though everything has been done to make sure I’m as poor as possible.’ Lady Benson burst into sobs. Sophia took her hand, the sobs subsided.

  Mr Morgan coughed and looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘There is one other bequest, and a stipulation which I have left to last, as it is rather complicated. Mr Edward Jenkinson also receives a bequest of £10,000, and Mrs Jenkinson, £3,000.’

  His aunt brightened. ‘Oh, Edward, darling Edward, I am so pleased.’

  ‘But on one condition.’ Mr Morgan gave the impression he would sooner be anywhere else. ‘On condition that you, Lady Benson, explain to your children the material contained in this letter, within a month of your husband’s de
ath. I regret to say, this must be done in my presence. It need not be done now.’

  ‘What material?’

  ‘I have not thought it appropriate to open the letter, Lady Benson, though Sir William did give me some understanding of its contents. I can only say. . .’ and perhaps the merest shadow of a smile crossed his features, as though he recalled the novel with a similar title, ‘written on the envelope is “Lady Benson’s Secret”. If you wish, the secret may remain yours, Lady Benson. But if Mr Jenkinson is to receive his bequest, your secret must be shared.’ Lady Benson gave him the strangest look and stood up, took the letter, opened it unsteadily, glanced at the contents, gathered herself, faced her astonished family.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I know what secret is meant, though it was hardly a secret – I told him voluntarily, though there was no need for me to tell him at all. But how could he do this, as though he were laughing at me from the grave like the figures in that beastly picture,’ and she gestured at the engraving of the Dance of Death over the fireplace. ‘I’d better tell you now, while you’re all here.’

  Edward stood up. ‘Shouldn’t we go? It’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘But it has everything to do with you. You see, Edward, you are my son. I am your mother. That’s the secret.’ She gazed at him, and in spite of herself she smiled as though proud of what she was saying.

  There was a peculiar silence, interrupted only by the crackle of the fire. Her children – her four children, as it turned out – gaped at her, unable to speak.

  ‘Perhaps, Lady Benson, you should explain.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She looked round the room, flurried and embarrassed, yet eager. ‘You see, years ago, when my sister Catherine and I were girls living in Suffolk – we were very young, innocent, we had no idea of anything – a remote cousin from Canada, Robert Jenkinson, used to come and stay. We both liked him, I suppose we competed for his attentions. He said he wanted to marry me – I was longing to be married, and he proposed. I was pretty, you know, prettier than Catherine, everyone said that, and we became very close. Then out of the blue Catherine received a generous legacy from her godfather. Within days Robert proposed formally to her instead, and she accepted him and our parents agreed. I was so angry. . . The wedding followed very soon and after that I discovered that. . . that I was. . . well, going to have a child. I was so young, you see, and he was so handsome, he’d even given me a ring. I went to Robert and Catherine in London and told them.’ She was half-sobbing by this time. ‘And Robert was unkind, but not Catherine, and they said I would have to stay with them as their companion so that when the child was born no one would know and Catherine would adopt my child and take it away to Canada. Robert was very firm about this – we were afraid of him, he could be so angry, and of course he didn’t want anyone to know what he had done. And that’s what happened, and I never knew my little boy because he was taken away when he was only a few hours old. I never knew him until. . . until he came back. Nobody else knew the history but when Edward wrote to say he was coming over, I couldn’t stop myself, I told William everything, I felt I had to, I couldn’t deceive him. Deceive him any longer, I suppose.’

  ‘You told Papa?’ asked Irene. ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said, in that way he had, that I would be pleased to be reunited with my son. He did not say very much else. I think he was angry that when we were married. . . Then he said that I shouldn’t tell you, Edward, you would be upset, and the others would be upset too. But you aren’t upset. Aren’t you pleased, Edward darling, to know who your real mother is?’

  Pleadingly, she held out her arms. He looked at her coldly, moved to the furthest corner of the room. ‘So I’m a bastard, that’s what you’ve done to me. You gave birth to a bastard.’

  Victoria put her hand on his arm. ‘Edward, darling, it’s a secret. Nobody outside this room need ever know.’

  ‘That’s not the point, there’s still the shame, the shame of being a bastard. And rejected by my mother. . .’

  ‘Oh, Edward,’ she said, ‘I didn’t reject you, I wanted you more than anything. And ever since you arrived here, haven’t I shown you how much I loved you?’

  He did not reply.

  It was a curious moment, one they all remembered for the rest of their lives. The sombre room in the darkening light of a winter afternoon. The seven figures in black: Mamma gazing eagerly at Edward, who had turned his back on her, her other children still seated and staring as though transfixed, the two men of business by the fire, studying the floor. And added to these seven, one or two felt the presence of another being, one who had inhabited that room, who had planned that moment, and who had successfully discomforted so many members of his family.

  49

  Dorothea and Pandora sit in the drawing room. No boxes have been taken out of the cupboard, no papers laid out on the table. It is late afternoon, Pandora has been there for an hour or more, making conversation.

  ‘Have we seen all the boxes, Mum? Or is that all you’re going to show me?’

  ‘There is more material, yes, but it’s less interesting, it’s mostly about Irene’s career as an artist – reviews, catalogues, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’d love to see it. . .’

  Her mother does not look at her. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘one of these days. Not today.’ And she shifts around, as though they should be moving on to something else.

  ‘Honestly, Mum, it’s as though you’ve decided that all this material is your personal property, only to be shared when you feel so inclined.’

  Her mother looks away, hesitates. ‘Darling, I want to tell you something. Your friend at the Tate, she’s asked me to write an essay for Irene’s catalogue.’

  ‘She’s what?’ Pandora slides away along the sofa. ‘She’s what?’

  ‘She said I had memories that no one else could have. She wants me to write about my memories of the 1920s in Berlin. Isn’t that nice?’

  ‘But you’ve not written anything for years and years, have you? Not since I was born, or at least that’s what you’ve always told me.’

  Dorothea frowns. ‘How d’you know? I know you see me as a stupid, limited woman who has spent her life as a wife and mother, but how do you know I’ve not been writing? I don’t tell you everything. I showed her a reminiscence I’d written about Irene, she liked it very much.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I–’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it. I have a great deal of material, not just in these boxes but my memories too. She wants eight thousand words. And when it’s finished, perhaps I will write a life of Irene. What d’you think of that?’

  ‘If it’s what you want to do. . .’

  ‘Unless, of course, you’re planning to do it yourself? In that case, of course I must give way, since after all you have been published in the Chelsea Voice.’

  ‘You don’t need to be sarcastic.’

  Dorothea strokes the large sleek cat sitting on her lap. ‘I’m not as stupid as you think.’

  They stare at each other angrily.

  50

  The afternoon after the reading of the will Irene and Sophia sat in the drawing room at Evelyn Gardens. Shivering, they looked out of the dirty windows at the pouring rain. Lunch had been thin and nasty because the servants were tired and there was not much in the shops. The Jenkinsons had all been invited but Edward stayed at home and Mark went out to lunch, which made Sir William’s absence weigh even more heavily.

  ‘Edward is so sad,’ Victoria said to Lady Benson. To the others she admitted he was not sad, he was furious, he felt betrayed; it was Lady Benson’s fault he was illegitimate, it was a disgrace. The little boys were subdued, and shied away from their granny all in black, and did not once speak to their little German cousin. Edward’s absence depressed Lady Benson even further. After lunch she announced she was going upstairs to rest, Victoria departed, Dodo retired to the nursery to talk to Wilson. The sisters sat and watched the clock. A fire seemed an extravagance in this
house where for the first time poverty was not remote.

  They discussed yesterday’s revelation. Was it an act of cruelty by their father, this clause in his will? A determination to establish the truth? A joke? If it was a joke, who was the victim – was it Mamma or was it Edward? Mamma was oddly unembarrassed, as though being able to announce her motherhood of this fine young man was liberating, even exciting. She had talked about it the night before, ‘Robert had promised to marry me, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. If he had kept his word, Edward would have been born legitimate. . .’ They’d stared at her in silence.

  ‘I find it upsetting,’ said Sophia. ‘Mamma is difficult sometimes, but she’s always been available, she’s been a refuge, always kind and loving. Suddenly she’s no longer the completely safe person I thought she was.’ She hesitated, looked at her sister’s kind face, continued. ‘When I was in Paris during the war, I would see handsome men and they would look at me in that way Frenchmen have. But I never smiled back, and one reason was the thought of Mamma and what she would think. Or rather my notion of who Mamma was. Even though she’d never have known, I felt I’d be betraying her.’ She shivered. ‘Oh God, it is so cold. I was also repelled by men’s bodies, having seen so many. . . It was not until I met David. . . I’ve never talked to anyone about all this.’ She looked at Irene gloomily. ‘Perhaps you were less inhibited than I was, were you?’

  ‘What do you mean, darling?’ Irene looked away and into the empty fireplace.

  ‘Well, that man. . . What was he called?’

  ‘You know what he was called.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to see him.’

  Irene stood up and also said how cold it was. She said she was not shocked but equally not glad to have acquired Edward as a brother, though Victoria as a sister-in-law was a bonus. What she found most difficult was that Mamma had never told them the truth. She would have been afraid, Sophia thought, afraid of disgrace and rejection, having her family broken up.