London Rain

by Nicola Upson

  Behind her, Vivienne heard the door open and the engineer nodded to Anthony as he sat down by the control desk and put on his headphones. She stood to go, but paused as the red light came on, genuinely curious to see what Anthony’s first words would be. They set the tone of his commentary – warm, authoritative, and with a richness of understanding that lifted his remarks to a different level from the more matter-of-fact observations which had preceded them. ‘And so, the King and Queen – our king and queen – begin the last leg of a triumphant journey which will bring them home to Buckingham Palace almost six hours after they left it.’ His voice danced in and out of the scene in front of her, never eclipsing the natural atmosphere of the day, and she remembered how good he was, with a strange mixture of resentment and regret. ‘They have, in a sense, travelled through many centuries between their departure and their return,’ he continued, ‘and the people – their people – acknowledge that now with the warmest cheers of the day so far.’

  Vivienne slipped from the cubicle and walked carefully down the rain-soaked wooden steps and out into the throng. Still it poured and still the crowds cheered, waving hats and flags with an exuberance that was almost frenzied. Ignoring the seat with her colleagues in the stand, she took her chances out in the open, enjoying the sting of the water against her face after the claustrophobic tension of the broadcast room. The crowd was eight or nine deep, and she peered through the heads in front of her as troops moved by in a steady stream, separated from the spectators by a double line of steel rails but still quite breathtakingly close. Even from where she stood, the sight of the Guards – bayonets silver against the solid black mass of bearskins, arms moving in a synchronised swathe of scarlet – was exhilarating. The rain gathered the intensity of a storm, as if determined to compete with the climax of the day, and for the first time the loyalty of the crowds was tested. Disciplined and obliging until now, the downpour proved too severe a test and hundreds of people broke ranks to run for shelter, creating a chaos which suited her purpose. Those who remained lined the route with a forest of black umbrellas, an incongruous replacement for the red, white and blue, and she thought how fitting it was that – in the midst of the celebrations – there should also be a sense of mourning.

  In the distance, troops marched round the Victoria Memorial and away down Birdcage Walk, and the royal coach entered the palace under a sky the colour of stone. After a wait that seemed longer than it was, the mass movement of people told Vivienne that soldiers and police had been withdrawn from the palace railings, and the crowds surged forward for the balcony appearance, demanding to see their king. She stood to the side to let them pass, anxious not to be carried away in the wrong direction; Anthony would, by now, have handed over the commentary to his colleague inside the Palace grounds, and she waited impatiently for the engineer to leave her husband on his own. When she saw him come out, the collar of his mackintosh turned up against the weather, hat pulled low over his eyes, she fought her way as quickly as she could back to the broadcast cubicle. ‘Congratulations, darling,’ she said, shutting the door behind her. ‘How do you think it went?’

  He stared at her rain-drenched clothes in astonishment and she could hardly hear his response over the roar of noise outside. The chants for the King grew louder, making everything else inaudible, but Vivienne did not need to listen to the broadcast coming through the wires to be sure that the King had stepped out onto the balcony. The cheers were deafening, and she knew that it was time; no one would hear anything in this noise. ‘It was a fitting swansong for you, then,’ she said, and he stared at her in confusion, either because he had not heard or did not understand. Quickly, Vivienne took the gun out of her bag – her sister’s gun, the one that Anthony had removed from Olivia’s house on the day she died – and turned it on her husband with a deadly accuracy, pulling the trigger before he could stop her, and before she could change her mind.

  7

  By late afternoon, a taxi was as rare as a glimpse of the King, and just as coveted. Josephine waited impatiently in the entrance hall of the Cowdray Club, looking out across Cavendish Square. Here, the buildings remained more immune to decoration than most, and – at this stage in the celebrations – there was something restful about their plain, beautifully proportioned elegance. The city’s illuminations would stay up for another week to give as many people as possible a chance to see them; perhaps it was her mood, but to Josephine they had already begun to feel as depressing as a Christmas tree in January.

  Strains of a carnival atmosphere drifted over from Oxford Street, but the club itself was peculiarly quiet. The public rooms off the foyer were usually buzzing with conversation around now, with nurses coming off duty and taking tea or an early evening drink, but today they all stood empty; and even the wireless, given temporary pride of place by the door for the coronation coverage, had a sense of anticlimax about it, as commentators tried to fill a fifteen-minute slot with the news that play at Lords had been rained off. ‘Are you sure it’s on its way?’ Josephine asked the receptionist, more snappily than she had intended.

  The girl looked at her in surprise, either because she wasn’t usually one of the club’s more demanding members and rarely caused a fuss, or because it smacked of insanity to request a taxi at all. ‘I’ll check for you,’ she said, and the weary note in her voice implied that if Josephine was really so indifferent to the day’s celebrations, she would happily trade places with her. ‘It won’t be long,’ was the best she had to offer when she replaced the receiver. ‘He’ll be as quick as he can.’

  Josephine sighed and returned to the table of newspapers, unable to concentrate on anything but Marta. She was heartily sick of the advice she had received sporadically throughout the day, well-intentioned as it had been, and none of it had changed her mind. What she had to say to Marta might not constitute ‘putting her back into it’, to use Mrs Snipe’s expression, but there was no other way – God knows she had tried hard enough to find one. Just as she was considering doing battle with the Underground, a taxi drew up by the kerb and she hurried out into the rain to claim her prize. The route north from the centre was necessarily circuitous to avoid the endless street parties, and Josephine wondered if a crowded tube would have been quicker after all. She gazed out of the window at tables of food covered in tarpaulins, admiring the stoicism with which the English made the best of the weather. Some roads had had the sense to hang their decorations so thickly that the rain barely got through; most had put their faith in a fairytale day of sunshine, and could only look on as the flags began to surrender their dye to the weather and the gutters ran with red, white and blue.

  To her relief, Hampstead seemed to have confined its celebrations to the High Street, and the approach to Holly Place – a quiet byway on the south side of Hampstead Hill – was almost as tranquil as usual. Somehow, without any sense of compromise, the area managed to combine the excitement and stimulus of London with a quiet, rural feel, and she could understand why Marta loved living here. A thin plume of smoke rose bravely from the chimney, unseasonal but welcome against the rain; the ground-floor windows glowed cheerfully, and a softer, understated light was just discernible in the bedroom upstairs. The whole house seemed to await her arrival, and, just for a moment, Josephine was defenceless against images of the evening as it should have been. She paid the taxi driver and said goodbye, then thought better of it and asked him to wait.

  Marta opened the door before she had a chance to knock. ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ she said, giving Josephine a hug. ‘I was worried when you didn’t call last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘But you’re all right?’ Josephine nodded. ‘Good. Come into the kitchen for a minute. I’m running behind with dinner, but you can tell me all about the Coronation while we wait. It sounded extraordinary on the wireless.’

  Josephine followed her down the hallway, trying not to notice how many of the coats on the rack were Lydia’s. In spite of Marta’s protestations, the hou
se smelt enticingly of lamb and rosemary, and the kitchen testified to a meal being well on its way. Marta was the only person Josephine knew who could use half a dozen pans to make an omelette, and the scope offered by three courses had obviously driven her to explore the darkest corners of her cupboards; pots, utensils and a bewildering amount of ingredients were strewn across every surface. ‘It looks worse than it is,’ Marta grinned, handing her a corkscrew and a bottle of wine, ice-cold from the refrigerator. ‘Here – do your worst with this while I rationalise things a bit.’ Josephine did as she was asked, her heart in her mouth at the thought of what she had come to say, knowing that the longer she waited, the more painful it would be. She felt Marta’s hand brush her back whenever she walked past, and already her resolve began to weaken. In the end, it was Marta who gave her the prompt she needed. ‘Why is your taxi still here?’ she asked, looking out of the window. ‘Didn’t you tip him?’

  ‘I’m not staying, Marta. I can’t stay.’

  Her smile faded when she realised that Josephine wasn’t joking. ‘What do you mean? Of course you’re staying. We’ve been looking forward to this for ages.’

  ‘I know we have, but that was before Lydia cornered me and shared a few home truths.’

  ‘Oh God, Josephine, I’m sorry. When?’

  ‘Last night at Broadcasting House, just before we went up for the rehearsal. She was in the cloakroom when I walked in, and let’s just say she seized her moment.’

  ‘So that’s why you left? You didn’t really have a headache?’

  ‘Oh, I had a headache by the time she’d finished.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Josephine paused, wondering how to explain to Marta what she had felt the night before. ‘I wanted to,’ she said eventually, ‘but I was too ashamed. When I walked away from you last night, I felt as though I were crawling on my hands and knees.’

  ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of. God, I could kill Lydia for this.’

  ‘It’s not Lydia’s fault, though, is it? I spent all last night trying to blame her, but she’s right.’

  ‘Why? What did she say?’

  Josephine heard the fear in Marta’s voice as she began to understand the damage that Lydia had done. ‘She said that whatever you’re building up to telling her, she knows already. She knows when this started, she knows when we’re together, and she knows how we feel about each other. In fact, she went to great pains to point out to me that she knows everything, especially you – and far better than I ever will.’

  ‘That simply isn’t true, Josephine. Lydia knows things about me, but that’s not the same thing at all.’ She took Josephine’s hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have sorted this out ages ago whether you wanted me to or not. I could have spared you all this anguish if I’d only talked to her sooner.’

  ‘It’s not about that, Marta. None of this is about when you tell Lydia, or even what you tell her.’

  ‘Then what is it about?’

  Marta’s apparent inability to understand why she was so upset bewildered Josephine. ‘It’s about there even being a Lydia,’ she said, her frustration getting the better of her. ‘It’s about walking in here and feeling like your mistress, which is exactly what I am.’

  ‘Of course you’re not.’

  ‘No? Look around you, Marta. You’re so used to it that you don’t even see it anymore.’ She grabbed Marta’s arm and led her through to the sitting room. ‘You want to know what it’s about? This room is what it’s about. You hate Thomas Hardy, and yet your shelves are full of his books. I’ve never seen you drink sherry, but you’ve got three different types on the drinks tray. And as for this.’ She picked up an ornament from the mantelpiece and threw it scornfully down onto the sofa. ‘Never in a million years would you have bought that, thank God.’ Marta opened her mouth to speak, but Josephine was no longer in the mood to be reasoned with. ‘Shall we go and look in the bedroom now? See how much of Lydia you’ve moved in there? How can you say I’m not your mistress, Marta? Jesus, I bet when I leave you even wash the sheets.’

  The slap came from nowhere and it was hard to say which of them was more shocked. ‘Christ, Josephine, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.’

  She put a hand gently to Josephine’s cheek, and Josephine covered it with her own. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she said quietly, more surprised by her own outburst than by Marta’s. ‘I probably deserved it. But how was I to know you felt so strongly about the ornament?’

  It was a weak attempt to claw back some normality, and Marta didn’t even smile. ‘You don’t really think that’s what you are to me, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m not explaining myself very well.’ She walked over to the window and looked out across the garden that Marta had transformed from a wasteland to something beautiful, something hopeful for the years ahead; it was, she noticed now, the only part of the house that had remained uniquely hers, without a hint of compromise. ‘When I first came here, you’d only just moved in, but everywhere I looked told me a bit more about who you were. It was a sanctuary after what you’d been through, and you only let in the things that were important to you. The fact that you allowed me in, that you wanted me here – well, that felt special. But all that’s gone. Now when I come here, I feel like an intruder.’ Josephine had dreaded this conversation but, to her surprise, she found it a relief to give voice to things she had felt for a long time but kept to herself. ‘How would you feel if you came to the cottage and it was full of someone else? We chose everything there together, and it’s as much yours as it’s mine, but this isn’t. I’m not blaming you, Marta. If anything, I blame myself for not being here more. But you asked me how I felt and it’s time for me to be honest. Last night, Lydia told me that whatever you and I say, whatever we decide among ourselves, nothing will really change, and she’s right. This house is living proof of that.’

  ‘And that’s exactly why I’ve decided to—’

  ‘She also told me that I’m never there when you really need me. Is that true?’ Marta’s hesitation was as much as Josephine could take. ‘See?’ she said sadly. ‘None of us is happy with the way things are. I can’t do this any more, Marta. It’s just not right. Something’s got to change.’

  She turned to go but Marta caught her hand. ‘You can’t leave like this, Josephine – there’s no need. Everything’s out in the open now. Let’s talk about what we’re going to do.’

  ‘We’re beyond talking, Marta. I’m exhausted with it.’

  ‘So you just walk away? That’s your answer?’

  ‘No, it’s not an answer, it’s a question. Only you know what the answer is.’ She took Marta’s face in her hands and kissed her, feeling a mixture of sadness and desire that seemed to express more eloquently than any words the risk she was taking by asking Marta to choose. ‘I love you. Come back to me when you’re free.’

  She pulled away while she still could and walked out into the street. The taxi driver glanced curiously at her in the rear-view mirror, and Josephine could only imagine how he was accounting for her tears; a quarrel, perhaps, or a death – and in that he might not be far wrong. She had said everything she wanted to say and more, but the confrontation hadn’t had the cathartic effect she was hoping for. Instead, with all the contrariness of someone in love, she wondered what she should make of Marta’s willingness to let her go.

  8

  Vivienne remembered very little of the journey home – just a sea of faces, their smiles grotesque and distorted, and a suffocating tide of bodies that threatened to overwhelm her as she fought her way through. The noise in the streets was deafening and panic played tricks with her mind, transforming the harmless shouts of the crowd into an angry, collective cry for justice, the beginning of a nightmare from which she would never wake. Anthony’s face haunted her, and she saw again and again the horror in his eyes as he realised what was happening. In that split second of clarity, he had seemed to understand her as he never had before, and she wondered w
hat his greatest regret had been. That he hadn’t achieved all he wanted to? That he hadn’t been more careful to protect his other life? That he hadn’t loved her more?

  To Vivienne’s relief, the crowds melted away as she left the heart of the city behind, and Young Street itself was eerily deserted. The slam of the front door echoed through the empty house, and in the stillness and solitude, the shock of what she had done finally caught up with her. Bile rose in her throat and she got to the cloakroom just in time, bending low over the sink as the sharp, acrid smell filled the air. The memory of Anthony hit her again – slumped in his chair, a wound in his head – and the finality of her actions shook her body with all the force of the gunshot. She retched again, as if the guilt and disgust she felt could somehow be dispelled by another physical act, but they remained now as part of who she was – permanent, inevitable, damning. She splashed her face with cold water and stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering how she could possibly look like the same woman who had left the house this morning.

  And then she heard his voice. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of what must surely be a figment of her imagination, but there it was again – coming from the sitting room, low and insistent. Panic seized her as she remembered how quickly she had fled the scene, so horrified by what she had done that she had not even stopped to check that Anthony was dead, but it was soon replaced by relief; if her husband had survived, she could put things right after all – she would explain and he would understand, and there would be a second chance for them both. In her desperation to believe in a miracle, Vivienne did not stop to ask herself how Anthony had got home ahead of her; she ran across the hall to his voice, and it took her a few seconds to register that the sitting room was empty after all. The wireless had been left on in the hurry of their early morning departure, and what she had believed to be her salvation was merely a recording of her husband’s coronation commentary, now taking pride of place on the six o’clock news. As the illusion left her, relief gave way to an emotion which she had never expected to feel. Her loss overwhelmed her, and she sank to her knees and wept.