by Annie Dalton
After so much sterile perfection, it was almost a shock to walk into Robert’s study and see his waste bin overflowing with crumpled pieces of paper. Tansy lifted out the piece nearest the top, carefully smoothing it out. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘I think these are, like, his first attempts.’
‘You mean at a suicide note?’ Isadora suddenly looked pale.
Tansy nodded. ‘And there’s a ton of other stuff underneath.’
‘We should probably take a look,’ Anna said.
Tansy tipped up the basket and they started to sort through the crumpled papers. Some of them had been ripped across several times, but it wasn’t difficult to piece together Robert’s increasingly dire predicament: demands from banks, credit card companies, his firm of solicitors, letters about deals that had gone sour, letters from furious investors.
Anna pictured Robert, alone in his study, at one end of this cavernous house, a house that it seemed his bank had already taken into its possession, as he struggled to find words to express why his life had become unendurable. ‘I’m going to get a bin bag,’ she said. ‘I don’t think anyone else needs to see this, and the police will have photos of the evidence by now.’
‘I agree.’ Isadora looked strained.
Anna found some bin bags in a utility room off the kitchen and they bagged up the distressing contents of the waste basket.
‘Did Robert say where in his study he’d left the letter about his funeral?’ Anna asked.
Isadora shook her head. ‘I assumed he’d have left it on his desk, somewhere that was easy to spot.’ But apart from a heavy crystal tumbler that still smelled faintly of whiskey, Robert’s desk was empty.
‘Top drawer maybe?’ Tansy suggested.
They hunted through all the desk drawers without success.
‘We haven’t looked in the filing cabinets,’ Tansy pointed out.
‘We’ll need a key,’ Isadora said.
Tansy tugged experimentally on a top drawer which immediately slid open. ‘Apparently not!’
Taking one stainless steel cabinet each, they embarked on a systematic trawl through the drawers.
‘Any other bright ideas where we might find this letter?’ Tansy asked once the filing cabinets had been exhausted.
‘Perhaps the bookshelves,’ suggested Anna. They began taking each book down, flicking through the pages in the faint hope that something would fall out.
‘I don’t get it.’ Tansy looked up from her search through the kind of heavyweight volumes that invariably end up stacked on bottom shelves. ‘Why would Robert ask you to come and find a letter but not give you a helpful hint as to where to find it?’
‘It does seem rather perverse,’ Isadora agreed.
‘He’s got a huge number of art books,’ Anna said.
Isadora straightened up, rubbing her back. ‘No need to sound so surprised. Even a banker is allowed a soul, you know.’
Tansy sat down cross-legged, and started to flick through a leather-bound album. ‘Look what I found. Happy photos of Robert!’
The album offered a glimpse of such a different Robert to the man she’d met that Anna was tempted to ask Isadora if he’d had a twin. All the photographs seemed to have been taken on a foreign holiday of some kind. One picture showed him at a table in a vine-covered courtyard relaxed with other smiling men and women. Two of the women wore long floaty skirts. Everyone was drinking red wine.
‘Where was he do you think?’ Anna asked. ‘Italy? South of France?’
‘Definitely somewhere Mediterranean,’ Isadora said. ‘I wonder who all those other people are.’ She turned a page. ‘I didn’t know Robert painted!’ The photographer had caught him unawares, with an expression of deep concentration as he added a fresh brush-load of colour to his canvas. In the background, Anna could see a glimpse of one of the floaty-skirted women and the corner of someone’s easel.
‘And I found this little sketchbook, look.’ Tansy held it up to show them. Anna’s grandfather had a similar pocket sketchbook, which he carried everywhere. The first pages of Robert’s sketchbook were crammed with tiny vigorous drawings: a slack-jawed man sleeping on the Tube, a flower stall in a street market, a side view of a woman at a bar. It was a beguiling visual diary of a particular time in Robert’s life.
Isadora merely glanced at the first few pages before resuming her search for Robert’s letter, but Anna kept flicking through. Robert’s art holiday must have inspired him because he’d drawn in his miniature sketchbook every day for almost six months. The last picture, dated May 2006, was a self-portrait, in which a stiffly smiling Robert in his business suit, was looking into a mirror at a shabby homeless man who was also Robert. After that, there were only blank pages.
Isadora found the box file in a bookcase next to an elaborate marble fireplace. She lifted it up and placed it on Robert’s desk. ‘I feel as if we’re opening Pandora’s box.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Though did you know it was originally a jar that held all the evils of the world, not a box? I suppose Pandora’s jar doesn’t sound so ominous?’
Tansy was already investigating the contents. Her expression changed. ‘Oh shit. She handed Isadora a cream-coloured envelope addressed in a familiar flawless longhand.
Isadora said very quietly, ‘So there was something evil in here after all.’ With an expression of extreme distaste, she laid it aside unopened.
‘Don’t you want to know what it says?’ Tansy asked.
‘No,’ Isadora said with emphasis. ‘I don’t and I shall burn the ghastly thing the first chance I get.’
Underneath the letter was a large manila envelope. Isadora cautiously opened it, sliding out a pile of grainy photocopies. Anna looked over her shoulder. ‘That looks like it’s from Hetty’s diary.’ Hetty’s chaotic scribble was unmistakable.
Tansy scanned the first entry. ‘These aren’t the same as your ones, Isadora. These are new.’
‘Oh, this is just unbearable!’ Isadora said angrily. ‘Who is sending these things? And why?’
Under the envelope, they found more copies of the same pictures of the Oxford Six that Anna had seen in Isadora’s kitchen: everyone posed around or inside Piers’s lovingly maintained black cab, the survivors’ picture after the May Ball, with Isadora and Hetty in 1920s-style evening gowns, a picture of a young Isadora in a punt wearing a fluffy sweater that made Anna itch just looking at it. Tansy carefully took the photographs from the file and laid them out on Robert’s desk the way Anna had once seen her lay out tarot cards, then glanced into the now almost empty file in case there was anything she’d missed. ‘There’s a folder.’ Tansy gently shook out the contents on to Robert’s desk alongside the photographs.
‘Oh, Isadora,’ she said softly.
The desk was covered with pictures of a young Isadora Salzman. There were sketches on paper napkins, one from the Randolph Hotel, pages torn from a school exercise book, one sketch dated June 1992 had been ripped out of a Filofax. Clearly drawn from memory, it was an exquisitely tender drawing of a teenage Isadora smiling at someone the viewer couldn’t see. There was an electric silence in which Anna saw the colour drain from Isadora’s face.
Out of all this morning’s discoveries – Robert’s dire financial situation, the second anonymous letter, the new extracts from Hetty’s diary – Isadora seemed most overcome by the drawings. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, stricken. Her hand went to her face. ‘I never caught him drawing me. I never saw him draw anyone. Until you found that little sketchbook, Tansy, I didn’t know he could.’
‘You must have known he had feelings for you?’ Anna said.
Isadora shook her head. ‘No.’ She unconsciously traced along her cheekbone with the back of her hand, as if seeking for the young woman she had been. ‘I thought he was in love with Catherine at one time, but I never dreamed …’ her voice trailed off.
‘This was at the bottom of the file.’ Anna handed a folded piece of paper to Isadora. ‘I think this is your letter.’
Isado
ra made no attempt to read it. She looked completely numb.
Tansy abruptly sat down in the desk chair. ‘Isadora, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to tell us what happened to you all back then.’
Isadora’s eyes were wide with dread. ‘I will, darling, I promise.’
‘When, though?’ Tansy insisted. ‘I know you guys all made some kind of creepy vow of silence, but if you don’t tell someone very soon this is seriously going to make you ill.’
‘I know!’ Isadora almost sobbed. ‘And I am going to tell you! I want to. I need to.’ In her distress, she tugged on a wiry strand of her hair as if she wanted to rip it out. ‘But I simply can’t speak about those things here in – in Robert’s house.’ Her gaze was pulled back to the napkin where Robert had secretly sketched her face the first time he’d seen her. Then Isadora buried her face in her hands and wept.
ELEVEN
1 February, 1966
I’ve been back at Lady Margaret Hall now for almost a fortnight, but what with fighting off a bout of bronchitis, ploughing my way through my terrifying reading list, staying up at nights writing essays, alternating with bleary-eyed nights embroidering over the moth holes in my Persian carpet coat, I’ve had hardly any time left over to write in my diary.
I’ve just had to stop writing to put on my pyjamas, an outgrown pair of Felix’s, which Maeve kindly passed on. They’re striped blue-and-cream flannel and so soft and warm I was actually purring with pleasure to myself as I put them on! Now I’m sitting up in bed with a mug of black coffee to help keep me awake while I quickly describe my intriguing evening at the Randolph while it’s still reasonably fresh in my memory.
I’d imagined that I’d be meeting the others in the hotel bar, but when I arrived there was a message waiting at reception, directing me to one of the upstairs suites, which rather revived my earlier anxieties about sex clubs. But when I arrived outside I was relieved to hear the civilized clink of cutlery coming from inside. I knocked and Tallis himself let me in. He cracked some joke about me always being late for everything then he gripped my wrist just a little too hard as he whispered, ‘You are not to speak about any of your previous assignments with these people, Hetty, understand? The people you’re about to meet may be working for my department but they are not your confidants and to treat them as such would be a dangerous mistake.’
Then he let go of my wrist and I rubbed it a little ostentatiously, and he said, ‘Sorry Hetty, my love, I didn’t mean to get so intense but a lot is riding on this – for me but most of all for the British government.’ In a louder voice he said, ‘Come in and meet the others.’ He ushered me in to the room, saying, ‘Everybody this is Hetty—’ I had the feeling he was about to tell them my full name and I really didn’t want to go into all of that with people I would probably never meet again so I said quickly, ‘Just Hetty is fine.’
There were five of them, awkwardly dispersed around the room, looking as confused as I felt. One of the boys, a typical ex-Etonian, if ever I saw one, seemed actively hostile. One of the other girls I recognized as another second year from LMH and I saw from her startled expression that she recognized me. This was the first time I’d really understood that Tallis had at least five other young protégées apart from me. It was a rather humbling moment – for all of us, I suspect. Until now we’d probably each assumed that we were special in some way, that Tallis had identified some unique quality or skill that only we could offer … Now, without a word of explanation, he was showing us – what? That each of us was disposable? That he had plenty more where we came from?
Despite a rather unpromising beginning, my encounter with Tallis’s other ‘little spies-in-training’, as Robert ironically named us, turned out to be unexpectedly diverting! Tallis had arranged the most delicious lunch and I stuffed myself like an absolute pig. I honestly thought my buttons would pop right off!
While we ate, Tallis explained why he’d called us together. It was quite a story. His people (Tallis always refers to his colleagues as ‘his people’) had discovered that the son of a minor aristocrat, currently up at Balliol, had become suspiciously embroiled with a girl from Soviet Russia who happens to be a friend of the Russian ambassador’s family. They must have been madly determined to meet, since Tallis said that Tatiana (that’s the girl’s name) was under constant surveillance by the KGB, on the one hand, and Tallis’s bunch, on the other. We’d all been called together because Tallis had learned that Tatiana was going to be invited to a winter ball at Blenheim Palace which was being held early in the Hilary Term to celebrate the young aristo’s twenty-first.
Tallis said his people were concerned that this occasion might be exploited by the Soviets in some way, possibly for the passing of sensitive information, or for some sinister eventuality that his department hadn’t yet envisaged. Our job was to attend the ball, as ourselves, partnered by other members of the group. ‘And do what?’ drawled the ex-Etonian whose name, I discovered, was Robert Keane.
‘Blend in,’ Tallis said crisply. ‘Follow them, be my eyes and ears.’
‘And report back the instant Tatiana’s magic coach reverts to a pumpkin?’ Robert suggested with a sneer.
Tallis gave him a look so withering that Robert actually flushed dark red. ‘The Soviet threat is not a joke, Robert. It’s most certainly not a fairy tale. Perhaps you’d rather I chose someone else for the job?’
Robert subsided sulkily in his chair. He was turning out to be almost as tedious as I’d feared, though I took to the others almost at once. Catherine Hetherington, the other girl from LMH, is far livelier in person than she’d seemed from a distance with her rather worthy-looking friends. As for James Lowell, he’s just too shockingly beautiful for words! Several times I caught myself shamelessly imagining what he’d look like without his clothes. (In fact, as I quickly and naughtily discovered, and as so very rarely happens in my experience, the reality was far, far lovelier than my imaginings!) The really sweet thing is he’s completely unaware of how devastatingly handsome he is! I liked Piers Courtenay enormously too. He had everyone in stitches, even Robert.
The shy, slightly prickly and distinctly intriguing Isadora I’ve left till last; partly because I still don’t know quite what to think of her except that, in direct contravention of Tallis’s warnings, I have made up my mind to get to know her better. First, Isadora is ridiculously young, still just a school girl really. She told me with a slightly defiant toss of her head that she’d just turned seventeen. Also I’ll admit that when I first set eyes on her, with that frizzy cloud of hair, and wearing a strange lumpy skirt with a hideous sweater that probably crackles with static every time she takes it on or off, I couldn’t imagine what Tallis was thinking of, involving her in his little espionage games. And then I watched her as she was talking to Tallis and I quickly realized that he knows exactly what he’s doing. For one thing, she’s bright, ferociously bright, and for another, hidden beneath those lumpy clothes, I sense a fiery femme fatale longing to break free!
I decided there and then that I would be the perfect person to help bring about this magical transformation. It was immediately obvious that Isadora was terrified at the very idea of going to the ball. I asked her if she had a suitable dress, and she said (another defiant head toss) that she had, but having seen her day clothes I am deeply suspicious. I feel horribly guilty, because I’d promised her there and then that I’d go over to Somerville College (imagine getting a scholarship to Somerville when you’re only sixteen!) in the first week of term to embark on my big transformation project. But what with bronchitis and struggling to keep up with course work, I’ve hardly had time to breathe.
6 February, 1966
I’ve finally met up with Isadora. We almost literally bumped into each other in the pouring rain outside the Bodleian and went into the nearest cafe to warm ourselves up over hot chocolate. I explained why I hadn’t been round to see her and she said perfectly seriously, ‘I simply assumed you’d decided that I was such a hopeless case that you’d
very sensibly abandoned me!’ And she gave one of her wonderful laughs. With less than a week to go before the ball, Isadora said she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I tried my best to calm her down. I told her that I have eight sisters of varying ages and am therefore an expert on absolutely everything to do with girls’ hair and make-up. What I didn’t say is that I am determined to get a look inside Isadora’s wardrobe, as soon as is feasible, and if I detect so much as a hint of mud-coloured nylon in there I shall march her straight back to LMH and make her try on one of my stolen ball dresses …
7 February, 1966
As it turned out, Isadora voluntarily showed me her ball dress – just wordlessly produced this hideous thing, and held it out to me for my approval. ‘As you see I do have a dress to wear for the ball,’ she said rather too brightly. ‘My mother got it from the bargain rail in Barkers. Will it do, do you think?’ Her expression said that she knew all too well that it wouldn’t, but she couldn’t quite bear to spurn her mother’s hideous offering outright.
I pretended to give it my serious consideration. ‘I’m not sure if it would be right for this particular ball,’ I said, choosing my words with care. ‘But if you don’t mind coming back to my room, I think I just might have a dress that would suit you perfectly.’
When Isadora saw herself in the 1920s ball gown, which once belonged to Daddy’s mama, she almost cried, and I have to confess I very nearly cried myself! ‘I look quite lovely,’ she said in an awed voice. ‘I don’t look like me at all.’
‘It does look like you,’ I told her fiercely. ‘It looks like the real you! I mean it, Isadora! No more brown nylon! Even if I have to take you out shoplifting!’
After Isadora had put her own clothes back on, I made coffee and offered her a cigarette. I’d pinched several packets of Gauloises from Lalla. Isadora thanked me and took one but made no attempt to smoke it. Still holding her unlit cigarette she wandered around my room looking at all the little things I’ve brought from home, not even trying to disguise the fact that she was looking. Isadora’s still quite young like that. All at once she stopped in front of the little pastel drawing Daddy did of me when I was six or seven, and which I take with me everywhere. ‘This looks like a Francis Vallier,’ she said, surprised. I nodded, thinking, Oh, fuck it, here we go again! ‘Francis Vallier is my father,’ I said, bracing myself for gushing comments about how thrilling it must be to have such an amazingly gifted man for your dad, la, la, la, because that’s what everyone always says. But Isadora didn’t say anything. I handed her a mug of coffee, and she curled up in my spare arm chair looking sternly thoughtful and about twelve years old. Her continued silence was beginning to make me quite uncomfortable, so I said, ‘So how do you feel about having James as your partner for the ball?’ (Tallis had told us who our partners were to be, before we left the Randolph.)