by Nicola Upson
For a while, the murder distracted her from Marta, but the contemplation of three lives so easily destroyed soon brought her back to her own situation, and she felt the pain of their separation more intensely than ever. She longed to get a cab to Holly Place and take back every word she had said the night before, but it wasn’t fair to keep changing her mind, and, in her heart, she knew that she had done the right thing: if she and Marta were to stand any chance at all, their love had to be built on honesty, and she hadn’t needed the last few days to teach her that. To pass the time, she sat in Hyde Park, watching khaki-clad soldiers pat down muddy, foot-wrecked turf. The clean-up operation had begun in earnest, but many of the streets were still covered in litter and parts of London looked like a giant refuse heap, a treasure-trove of opportunity for those with the patience to sort through the rubbish for more valuable items left behind by accident. At five o’clock, she went back to the Cowdray Club, where good-luck flowers from the Motleys awaited her, together with a note to say they hoped ‘all was well otherwise’ and an invitation to drop by their studio in St Martin’s Lane the following day to bring them up to date. As she changed into an evening dress which Ronnie and Lettice had made for her, Josephine wished heartily that she had arranged to listen to the broadcast with them instead.
The grandeur and excitement of Broadcasting House almost made her change her mind, but she had to fight her way through a crowd of scandal-hungry reporters to gain admittance, and it soon became obvious that the BBC was not itself, no matter how hard the staff tried to give the impression of business as usual. Uniformed commissionaires on night duty had replaced daytime receptionists, and Josephine announced herself and waited for Julian to collect her. Two sets of lift doors opened simultaneously and Julian emerged from one of them, spruce and dapper in black tie. She smiled and stood to greet him, but was suddenly aware that everything else had stopped around her as a tall man strode purposefully from the second lift to the front entrance. The lift attendants, commissionaires and pageboys left what they were doing and stood to attention, and even Julian folded his hands meekly in front of him and kept her where she was by a subtle shake of his head. The cause of this extreme reaction looked neither to left nor right as he passed, and when the front doors closed behind him, a collective sigh swept through the entrance hall as everyone breathed out and returned to work. ‘Was that the Director General?’ Josephine asked, as Julian kissed her on both cheeks.
‘How on earth did you guess?’
‘I narrowed it down to two and Christ has a beard.’
Julian laughed. ‘To be fair, he earns that sort of respect, but there’s a hint of fear thrown in after the day we’ve had. Nobody wants to get in his way at the moment. God help any reporter who dares to speak to him outside.’
He took her across to the reception desk to collect a pass, and the commissionaire gave them a wry smile. ‘I see you’re using more studios than ever tonight, Mr Terry,’ he said cheerfully, nodding to the noticeboard which gave a list of room allocations.
‘Yes, Cyril, I am. It’s my intention to take over the whole building, as you know, and this is the lady who’ll help me to do it.’ He winked at Josephine and called back over his shoulder. ‘She writes delightfully large casts, keeps actors in work all year round, and single-handedly soaks up my budget for a month.’ Once they were alone inside the lift, his demeanour changed completely. ‘Josephine, I’m sorry about earlier. I had no idea what I was asking you to do by sending you round to Millicent’s. It must have been bloody awful for you.’
‘Yes, it was, but how could you have known? Someone had to find her.’
‘Even so. The word here is that Viv killed them both, but I find that so hard to believe. Have you heard anything?’
‘Not really,’ Josephine said diplomatically, remembering Archie’s instructions. ‘I suppose we’ll know more as soon as they’re sure.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Whatever happened, it’s given me a bloody headache for the next few weeks. Millicent was contracted for five major productions.’
‘Really? How selfish of her to let you down.’
He had the decency to look contrite. ‘Point taken. I’m excited about tonight, though. I think Lydia’s change of role will give the whole thing an edge and a freshness that we didn’t have before.’
The lift stopped at the sixth floor and Josephine got out, depressed by how dispensable everybody seemed to be. Julian showed her into a small green room, where the cast had gathered after the rehearsal. Like its larger counterpart downstairs, the room was elegant and modern, decorated with flowers, art-deco chairs and two abstract sculptures, and Josephine was struck by how different it was from its equivalent in a theatre – probably because actors never had the chance to move in and mess it up. Everyone stood round in black tie and evening dress, honouring the production by behaving as if the audience really could see them. Lydia, in particular, looked stunning in a Vionnet design that emphasised her figure and a beautiful sapphire necklace. Any tension between them was diffused by the crowd, and Josephine comforted herself with the thought that a false kiss never looked out of place in a green room. ‘I think these chaps are the only people you haven’t met,’ Julian said, leading her over to four men who stood slightly apart from the rest of the group. ‘Allow me to introduce our musicians for the evening – Charles, Michael, William and Keith.’
Josephine chatted to the quartet for a while, genuinely interested in the music they were going to play. When the dominant black-and-green clock on the wall said a quarter to eight, Julian cleared his throat and held up his hand for attention. ‘Right, everyone. Time to take your opening places. Good luck, and remember what I said about atmosphere. I want the audience to see the dagger going in when Darnley’s killed, and I expect tears running down their cheeks when Mary realises that Bothwell’s betrayed her.’
There was a rustling of paper as the actors picked up their scripts and disappeared to separate studios on the sixth and seventh floors. ‘It must be odd to take cues from people you can’t even see,’ Josephine said. ‘You mentioned opening places – does that mean they have to move studios while the play’s going out?’
‘Some of them. We need the acoustics to be different between the street scene and the queen’s room, but Bothwell has to be in both, so he’ll go from 6A to 7B.’ He must have seen the concern on her face as she looked down long corridors at identical sets of double doors. ‘Don’t worry. That’s why we have studio managers. It’ll be all right, I promise. Come on – we’re on the upper deck.’ She followed him up a steep, corkscrew staircase, beginning to understand what a clever and complex art form radio drama was. ‘I should warn you – I’m sure you’re not going to bitch about your cast, but things can easily be overheard through the microphones. One should be gagged all the time in a building like this. Now, here we are . . .’
He opened the door with a flourish, and Josephine could see three chairs lined up alongside a peculiar contraption of battleship grey. A daunting bank of apparatus – two rows of volume-control knobs and a series of tiny windows which, when illuminated, bore the number of a studio – rose up in a sort of elongated hump from the centre of a heavy, cellulosed table. ‘My pride and joy,’ Julian said, as if he were showing her a new car or his first-born son. ‘The dramatic-control panel.’ The room had a distinctly futuristic feel, and the only things that Josephine recognised were a telephone, a loudspeaker and a microphone. ‘Now you can see why this is so good,’ he continued enthusiastically, flicking a couple of switches. ‘There are no visual distractions and I don’t have to look at Dougie’s ugly mug while he’s delivering his lines – yes, Dougie, I know you can hear me and you know I’m right – so we’re as close as we can possibly be to the position of the listener at home. Have a seat, Josephine – you’re on the left. This is Peter – he’ll be handling the controls for me while we’re on air. Some producers like to do it all themselves, but I find it a distraction from the script and we work well togeth
er. He knows the play almost as well as I do, and much, much better than the author.’
He grinned and Josephine sat down, nodding to Peter but making no effort to interrupt the stream of information which Julian seemed determined to share with her before they went on air. His mood was infectious, and when the room eventually fell silent, she followed his example and stared excitedly at the light on the wall until it began to flash red. ‘Dry lips and throat-clearing time,’ Julian said, pressing a button in response. ‘Stand by, everyone.’ A second later, the red signal shone again, this time as a steady, unwavering light, and Josephine heard the announcer’s voice, rich and clear through the loudspeaker. ‘This is the National Programme. Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we present to you a broadcast of a radio play entitled Queen of Scots by Gordon Daviot, author of Richard of Bordeaux. The cast is as follows: Mary Stuart is played by Miss Lydia Beaumont; Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, by Mr Douglas Graham . . .’ The names ran on, and Josephine realised that Julian was right – the cast was considerable, and she wondered how on earth it would all be co-ordinated. ‘Incidental music is provided by the Stonehouse Quartet,’ the voice concluded eventually, ‘and the play is adapted for broadcasting and produced by Julian Terry.’
After just a few lines, Josephine realised how different in timing and atmosphere the broadcast was from its rehearsal. The read-through she had attended could have been for any stage play, but this was unmistakably radio, and not just because of the lights and the controls and the headphone-wearing engineer: the actors took their place alongside audio props – music, sound effects, artificial echo – which were just as important as costumes and stage sets, and the result was a series of mental pictures as vivid and absorbing as anything fashioned below a proscenium arch. Producer and engineer were performers, too, she noticed. In a theatre, once the curtain went up, there was nothing a director could do except bite his fingernails and give notes afterwards, but here he was as involved in the creative pace and the artistic performance as any of the cast. She watched, fascinated, as Peter’s fingers played swiftly over the controls like an organist in a cathedral, responding instantly to Julian’s instructions and getting maximum impact from every single word she had written. It was a real ensemble effort, and Josephine was thrilled to have found something that she would genuinely like to become more involved with, perhaps to write specifically for.
After a while, she forced herself to close her eyes and just listen. No one would ever know that Lydia was playing a part that hadn’t originally been hers. She spoke the lines with such feeling, as if they had been written for her – which, of course, they had – and Josephine was moved to tears by the scene in which Mary finally realises that Bothwell has never loved her, but has always stayed true to his wife. It reminded her of Millicent Gray’s disillusionment and of something Effie had said that morning – that Millie intended to ‘burst the Beresfords’ bubble’. What did that mean? It implied a bond between husband and wife which simply did not exist, and Josephine could make no sense of it. Her thoughts tore at the web of fantasy which the play had convincingly woven and wrenched her back to the present. How odd that they should all be here, absorbed in this play, when two people had been killed and another imprisoned. She could not decide if that was a creditable show of courage and a comforting insistence that the world must go on, or a simple affront to decency.
Either way, the hour was soon over. Most West End producers would be apoplectic at the idea of so much time and effort going into a single performance, but Josephine knew that the pleasure of what she had just heard was worth every minute, and she could tell by the triumph on Julian’s face that he felt the same. He hugged her and they went down to the green room, where cast and technical staff were mingling in celebration. She looked round for Lydia, carefully rehearsing what she would say, but the actress beat her to it. ‘Congratulations, darling,’ Lydia said, coming up behind her and putting a glass of champagne in her hand. ‘You must be so pleased.’
‘I am, but don’t congratulate me. You all did the work, and it was extraordinary. Thank you.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean the play. I meant Marta – persuading her to sell the house.’
‘What?’
‘Surely you knew? Oh dear – I hope I haven’t spoilt the surprise. She’s putting it on the market as soon as the holiday’s over, apparently.’
‘When did she tell you that?’
‘Last night. She wasn’t in the best of moods, but I expect you know that.’
‘Where’s she going?’ Josephine asked. She cursed herself for acknowledging that Lydia knew more than she did, and for the note of panic in her voice, but the question had slipped out automatically and there was nothing she could do now to claim prior knowledge of Marta’s plans.
Lydia shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. She made it perfectly clear why she was doing it, though, so I suppose we must call that round two to you.’ She finished her drink and looked defiantly at Josephine. ‘But don’t think for a moment that I’m giving up.’
She walked away to join the rest of the cast and Josephine watched her go, trying to rationalise the emotions of the last few minutes. ‘A few of us are going out for dinner afterwards,’ Julian said, coming over to top up her glass. ‘Will you join us?’
‘No thank you, not tonight.’ The refusal sounded more brusque than she had meant it to. ‘There’s something I need to do and it can’t wait,’ she explained. ‘In fact, I should be going soon. Will you thank everyone again for me? It really was very special.’
‘Of course I will. I’ll walk you downstairs, though. Visitors have wandered these corridors for days when left to their own devices.’
They left the party and headed back to the ground floor. Julian was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked, and she noticed how sad he looked now that the adrenaline rush of the broadcast was over. ‘Penny for them,’ she said, ‘although I think I already know.’
He smiled. ‘That transparent, eh? She must be so frightened, Josephine. How on earth must it feel to sit in a cell and know that there’s nothing you can do? And he bloody asked for it. He treated her abominably.’
‘And Millicent Gray?’
‘As I said, I don’t believe Viv did that for a moment. It could have been anyone.’
‘Can I ask you a personal question?’
‘They’re the only sort worth asking.’
‘Were you and Viv ever more than friends?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure how to answer that truthfully. I think I’ve always been a little in love with her, and there was a time when I thought she felt the same, but it was soon over. It’s always been Anthony for her. God knows why, but it has. You don’t shoot someone out of indifference, do you?’
‘No, you don’t.’ The building was unusually silent now, as if keeping secrets of its own, and Josephine was pleased to be leaving it behind. She said goodnight to Julian and walked out into the evening air, scarcely knowing how to feel but longing to talk to Marta. There was a telephone box in Regent Street and she gave the operator the number for Holly Place. As she looked back, the white stone of Broadcasting House shone gloriously against the moon, a lighthouse of sorts amid the sea of London traffic, and she wondered how much of its magic was down to her mood. She waited impatiently for Marta’s voice on the line but there was no answer, so she decided to go back to the Cowdray Club and try again from there.
The peace of Cavendish Square was a welcome contrast to Oxford Street, where crowds still flocked to see the coronation lights, and she headed gratefully for the sanctuary of number 20. ‘Josephine?’ The voice was hesitant and came from across the street, where Marta stood in the shadows by the iron railings. ‘You’re back early. I’d settled in for a longer wait.’
‘I had a call to make, but she wasn’t in.’ Marta smiled, and Josephine walked over to join her. ‘This isn’t the first time I’ve found you waiting out here in the dark. A lot’s happened since.’
‘I know it has, but it feel
s just like the first time. I wasn’t quite sure of my welcome then, either.’
‘You’re very welcome. I’ve wanted you from the moment I left you.’
‘Good.’ She held out her hand, and Josephine took the flower that was offered, a single briar rose with deep-pink petals. ‘It’s called Mary Queen of Scots. I’ve been growing it for you. I thought all this bloody rain would kill it, but it seems to have survived. I hope that’s a good sign.’
‘It’s beautiful. No one’s ever grown flowers for me before.’
‘It’s supposed to dissolve feuds, apparently, but I didn’t know quite how relevant that would be when I planted it.’
‘There is no feud,’ Josephine said gently. ‘How can there be? You’re planting roses for me.’ She paused and took Marta’s hand. ‘You’re selling your house for me.’
‘Ah, Lydia told you.’
‘Yes, but you don’t have to do that. You love that house. Don’t do something you’ll regret on the spur of the moment just because I’ve had a tantrum.’
‘It’s not on the spur of the moment. I’d already decided to do it, but you didn’t give me the chance to tell you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You were right, and there’ll be other houses to love. Anyway, that’s not important. You are.’ Josephine held her close, feeling an irresistible mixture of relief and desire in their embrace. ‘Will you come back with me now? We could try and have the evening we were supposed to have yesterday.’