A Season of Secrets

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘He fought in the war?’

  ‘No. Jim was born lame and the army wouldn’t accept him. He and Charlie are as close as brothers, though – and you’ve seen what German shell-fire did to Charlie.’

  Dieter had. One of the first things Gilbert Fenton had done after their arrival at Gorton had been to introduce him to Charlie. ‘Best to get it out of the way,’ Gilbert had said to him. ‘Though, knowing Charlie, there won’t be a problem.’

  Incredibly to Dieter, on Charlie’s part there hadn’t been – and Dieter had envied him. Though he’d hid it with the ease of a professional diplomat, he had been the one who’d had a problem – and his problem had been threefold.

  Though Dieter had been too young at the time of the Great War to have fought in it, he knew that if he had, and if he’d suffered injuries as grievous as the ones Charlie had suffered, he would never have forgiven any member of the nation responsible, let alone seemed genuinely pleased to meet one of them.

  He’d also found looking at Charlie’s destroyed face far more difficult than he’d anticipated. When he’d admitted this later to Olivia, she’d said it was a good job he hadn’t seen Charlie prior to all the years of structural surgeries he had undergone at St Mary’s, and that compared to how he’d looked then, he was a living miracle now.

  Lastly, he found the way the Fentons socialized without thought with people who had worked for them, such as Hermione, with people who still worked for them, such as Jim and Charlie, and with other people not of their class, such as Miss Calvert and Carrie – whom he had yet to meet – mind-bogglingly difficult to comprehend. Even more difficult for him was that they expected him to act in the same way.

  The head-on collision between English eccentricity and Prussian formality was one he had so far survived, but being asked to socialize with Gorton estate’s odd-job man was, he felt, extreme to the point of insanity.

  ‘Dieter, I’d like to introduce Jim to you,’ Olivia was saying as a fair-haired girl with the look of a Sunday-school teacher stepped into the room to cries of delighted welcome.

  Carrie’s arrival saved Dieter from having to engage other than very briefly with Jim. He did, though, sense that the distaste he felt at their introduction was fully reciprocated.

  Carrie he liked instantly. Almost from his first meeting with Olivia he had heard of how her best friend was the granddaughter of her father’s old nanny, of how they had been friends ever since they had been eight years old, and of how Carrie was in service at Monkswood, the home of Lady Markham some thirty miles from Gorton.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she said with an engaging smile and in a manner that was polite and friendly, and not, as he had anticipated, embarrassingly deferential. ‘Do you like North Yorkshire, Count von Starhemberg? Is it much different from the countryside around Berlin?’

  ‘The countryside around Berlin is more wooded – and we have more lakes. We don’t have your wonderful moors, though, and we don’t see sheep everywhere, as you do here.’

  She gave a little laugh and he said, ‘Olivia tells me Prussian-style formality doesn’t exist at Outhwaite and that we should be on first-name terms. I would like that very much, if it doesn’t displease you?’

  Carrie blushed rosily. ‘Of course it doesn’t displease me. First-name terms are much friendlier. Olivia tells me you’ve already met Hal. Did you like him? Did you think him wonderfully clever?’

  ‘I thought him very interesting,’ Dieter said truthfully, both amused and charmed by her simple directness and unsophistication. ‘He is greatly interested in Germany and German politics, and far more knowledgeable than the majority of people I speak with in London.’

  Her blush deepened and he knew it was with pleasure at hearing Hal complimented. Olivia had told him that Thea was in love with Hal, that Hal was no longer responsive to her and that everyone – including Thea herself – thought Hal would one day marry Carrie.

  Even though he had spent less than five minutes in Carrie’s company, Dieter was certain Hal would do no such thing. Carrie was too gentle-mannered and uncomplicated, and Hal too politically passionate and fiercely driven for him ever to imagine them as compatible life partners.

  As the evening progressed he found that, contrary to all his expectations, he was enjoying himself. Hester Calvert and Hermione Hardwick, both severely and elegantly dressed, reminded him of his many very intelligent, very proper middle-aged aunts. The oddness of sitting down at table to something called high tea, a meal that was neither afternoon tea nor dinner, didn’t faze him. He liked cold, thickly sliced Yorkshire ham served with home-made chutney. He even enjoyed his introduction to English trifle, all its various layers and colours shining jewel-like in a large cut-glass bowl.

  What floored him was the lack of alcohol. ‘You could have warned me,’ he whispered to Olivia when it became apparent that the choice of liquid refreshment was ginger beer, sarsaparilla or tea.

  ‘It would have spoiled my fun,’ she whispered back. ‘I wanted to see your face when you realized. Hermione is a strict Methodist. She doesn’t allow any swearing either – or card-playing. It makes things a bit difficult for Charlie, but he idolizes her all the same.’

  Dieter was just about to say that Charlie was a hero in more ways than one, when, from the other side of the table, Carrie said with shy pride, ‘I have some news to share with you. Mrs Appleby, Monkswood’s housekeeper, is suffering from rheumatism in her legs and although there has never been an underhousekeeper at Monkswood, Lady Markham has asked me to take on that position in order to ease Mrs Appleby’s workload.’

  ‘Under-housekeeper?’ Hermione clapped her hands together in delight. ‘And at twenty-one? You have done very well for yourself, Carrie dear. Your late granny would be proud of you.’

  ‘Will you have to wear a black dress and carry a huge bunch of keys at your waist, like Mrs Fairfax in Jane Eyre?’ Violet asked, enraptured at the thought of how dramatic Carrie would then look.

  ‘Don’t be so daft!’ Jim helped himself to a large slab of Wensleydale cheese. ‘She weighs nobbut more than a feather. How could she walk around all day wi’ keys weighing a ton and a ’alf at ’er waist?’

  ‘It means that when you’ve gained enough experience, you’ll be able to look for a position as a housekeeper,’ Hester Calvert said, as pleased as Hermione at the way Carrie had worked her way from being an insignificant tweeny to being a step away from the most prestigious domestic position a great house could offer.

  When sincere congratulations from everyone were over, Olivia regaled them with an example of the Duke and Duchess of York’s idyllic family life. ‘Elizabeth invited me for afternoon tea two weeks ago,’ she said, knowing how Hester, Hermione and Carrie loved hearing royal gossip, ‘and we spent a hilarious half-hour playing hide-and-seek with little Elizabeth.’

  Charlie shot her a grin; proud, for Hermione’s sake, that such intimate chat about royalty was taking place around their dinner table.

  Rozalind saw an opportunity and seized on it. ‘I’d love to be given the opportunity to photograph the Duke and Duchess of York with Princess Elizabeth. Would you put in a good word for me, Olivia, the next time you are with the Yorks?’

  Olivia promised that she would, and Dieter said, ‘Why don’t you do some portraiture work in Berlin, Rozalind? Both the British and the American press are growing increasingly curious about Hitler and the growing strength of the NSDAP. They are a perfect subject for a press photographer, and I could arrange some introductions.’

  A week later, Thea and Roz were sharing a first-class compartment on a train speeding towards London. ‘Dieter’s offer could really kick-start my career, Thea,’ Rozalind said, breaking through Thea’s thoughts. ‘I’ve wanted to go back to Berlin ever since I visited Olivia there. It’s a very photogenic city.’

  Thea gave a rude snort. ‘It’s a very politically troubled city. There are more different political parties in it than I can count – and the NSDAP is the one least likely
to gain any prominence. Don’t let Dieter influence you into looking at it with any admiration, Roz. A left-wing friend of mine who visited recently says brawls between communists and Nazi Brownshirts are nightly events.’

  ‘Is your friend a communist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Not quite. Not yet. But I feel the day approaching.’

  For the rest of the train journey, as Rozalind read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, Thea was sunk deep in thought. Her disappointment that Hal hadn’t walked into the room when they were all gathered at Hermione and Charlie’s was crucifyingly deep. Time wasn’t helping her get over him. What, then, would?

  As she watched Rozalind read, Thea pondered her life and her future. Compared to what was happening in the lives of Olivia, Violet, Carrie and Roz, her life was bleak. Olivia was deliriously happy in her marriage to Dieter. Violet had at last persuaded their father to allow her to study drama at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and was quite obviously going to go through life always getting exactly what she wanted. In becoming under-housekeeper at Monkswood, Carrie had achieved far more than she had modestly hoped ever to achieve. Roz had both her photography and Max.

  And she, if she wanted to, had Kyle.

  The train stopped at Nottingham. Roz, who was now asleep, never stirred.

  Thea wondered if, for her own survival, she should give up all hope of Hal returning to her and instead accept Kyle’s proposal of marriage. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her the best course of action she could take. There was no logical reason she could think of why the two of them shouldn’t be happy together. Kyle was handsome in the same dark, sleek way that Roz was beautiful. He was intelligent. He was ambitious. He made her laugh. Perhaps most importantly, as a Democrat he was tolerant of her socialism. If she couldn’t be with Hal, then there was no one else she would rather be with than Kyle. Marrying him made absolute sense. It would be a brand-new start: a completely new way of life.

  By the time the train pulled into King’s Cross she had even decided on where they would marry – St George’s, Hanover Square – and which designer she would go to for her wedding dress: Paul Poiret.

  As she stepped down from the train and began walking with Roz towards the barrier she was filled with such relief at having come to a decision about her future that she felt almost lightheaded.

  Then, within shattering seconds, everything changed.

  Roz let out a deep-throated cry and, with one hand holding onto her summer hat, broke into a headlong run towards the barrier.

  A crowd of people was standing there, but Thea – like Roz – saw only one of them. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a man with a strong-boned face and hair attractively touched with silver at the temples. As Rozalind raced towards him, he pushed the barrier aside and sprinted to meet her.

  Thea came to a halt, unable to move, barely able to breathe as, uncaring of the spectators at the barrier, Rozalind hurtled into his open arms like an arrow entering the gold.

  It was then that she knew there would be no wedding at St George’s. No Poiret-designed wedding dress.

  To marry Kyle, when she knew it wasn’t within her ever to greet him in public – or anywhere else for that matter – with the blazing joy and naked fervour with which Roz had just greeted Max, would be to short-change him. And she liked and respected Kyle far too much to do that to him.

  Slowly she began walking down the platform, knowing that unless Hal returned to her one day, the happiness that Roz had found in her relationship with Max was a happiness she would never know.

  ‘Hello, Mr Bradley,’ she said, moments later. ‘I’ve been hearing a lot about you for a long time now.’ She held out her hand, saying with a warmth towards him she had never thought she would feel, ‘It’s very nice finally to meet you. I do hope that we’ll be friends.’

  Chapter Twenty

  SEPTEMBER 1930

  ‘Okay. Let’s wrap this up in one last take. Back on your marks, everyone – and this time, Violet, when I say swoon, you swoon!’

  Violet nodded indifferently. Sárközy always treated everyone on-set with high-handed contempt, believing that such behaviour went with his job description of director. He knew, and she knew, that there had been nothing wrong with her swoon in the previous takes. It had been Basil Curtis, an actor with years of film experience under his belt, who on the first six takes had fluffed his lines and, on the last six, had swept her up from her swoon as if she was a sack of potatoes, not the most beautiful, desirable woman in all of ancient Israel.

  Violet, her turbulent hair streaming waist-length, and wearing an ankle-length gown of emerald silk girdled low on her hips, walked back onto the set and hit her marks, every inch Delilah standing before a Philistine ruler who wanted Samson, scourge of the Philistines, dead.

  ‘Ready?’ Sárközy barked as Curtis fidgeted nervously. ‘Let’s try again. This is a talkie, remember? A groundbreaking movie. And make it good this time, Curtis. You’re supposed to be a ruling despot, not a frightened mouse. Quiet on the set, everybody. Hold it down. Roll ’em.’

  The focus boy checked the focus. The clapper boy stepped forward in front of Violet and Curtis and held the clapboard up before the camera.

  ‘Scene forty-six,’ Sárközy said through gritted teeth. ‘Take thirteen.’

  Violet slid silently and effortlessly into the part. The lead actor who was playing the part of Samson, and who was seated in a canvas chair next to Sárközy’s director’s chair, watched in disdain as, yet again, Curtis launched into a thundering rendition of his ‘I am ordering you to lure Samson into showing you the secrets of his great strength so that we can overpower him and slaughter him!’ speech.

  Violet gasped, clutched at her heart and slid into a graceful faint.

  This time Curtis scooped her up in his arms without fumbling and, as Sárközy rasped, ‘That’s it. Print it!’ there were sighs of relief from both cast and crew.

  Violet walked swiftly in Sárközy’s direction. Dieter had asked if he could visit the Beaconsfield Film Studios and be shown around them, and when she had told Sárközy that he was a German diplomat familiar with the Babelsberg film studios in Berlin, Sárközy had given permission with alacrity. All during the last take she had been aware that Dieter was standing only yards away from where Sárközy was sitting.

  Now, already, the two men were in conversation.

  ‘It’s a great privilege to be allowed on-set,’ Dieter was saying to Sárközy as she joined them. ‘Beaconsfield Film Studios are even bigger than Studio Babelsberg.’

  ‘How many sound stages does Babelsberg have?’ Sárközy rose to his feet, deeply interested. The sound stage on which he was shooting was Beaconsfield’s first sound stage, and the movie he was now filming the first talkie he had ever shot.

  ‘Just the one, I believe.’ Dieter replied smoothly.

  Though he had no intention of admitting it, he had no first-hand experience of Babelsberg, but via a friend whose mistress was one of Germany’s most popular actresses he knew enough Babelsberg gossip to sound as if he had. ‘The first feature-length talkie shot on it was Melody of the Heart starring Willy Fritsch.’

  ‘And directed by Hanns Schwarz, a Dane,’ Sárközy said with a rare glimmer of a smile. ‘Do you know Schwarz, Count von Starhemberg?’

  ‘Sadly, no. I am, however, familiar with Josef von Sternberg.’

  That at least was true. He’d met von Sternberg at a party the last time he’d had diplomatic leave and spent it in Berlin with Olivia.

  ‘And von Sternberg is an Austrian,’ Sárközy said, beginning to lead the way off the set and towards the VIP lounge, where the conversation could be continued comfortably over ice-cold vodka. ‘I – as Violet will have told you – am Hungarian.’

  Violet didn’t excuse herself in order to change out of her costume and remove her stage make-up. Instead, discreetly silent for once, she walked at Dieter’s side, wondering what hi
s reaction would be if she were to tell him truthfully that she and Sárközy were lovers – and that it wasn’t only her extraordinary acting skills that had got her the plum part of Delilah.

  ‘What is the latest news from Babelsberg?’ Sárközy asked as they settled themselves around a small table in the lounge. ‘What is von Sternberg directing now?’

  ‘His latest film, The Blue Angel, is just about to be premiered. Gossip is that the unknown actress in the lead part is sensational.’

  Sárközy gave a wolfish grin. ‘Whoever she is, she will not be as sensational as Violet. Violet’s portrayal of Delilah is going to be a . . . what is the French expression the English use? A tour de force.’

  Dieter didn’t doubt it. The part of beautiful seductress was one tailor-made for Violet.

  He shot her a burning glance. She met it with a naughty glint in her eye, well aware of his thoughts where she was concerned. They didn’t disturb her. She had very similar, reciprocal thoughts of her own.

  ‘Everyone is directing talkies now,’ Sárközy was saying to Dieter. ‘The subjects chosen are interesting, don’t you think? In Germany, Hanns Schwarz makes Melody of the Heart, based on an operetta. In America, the first talkie is also a musical, The Jazz Singer. In Britain, Alfred Hitchcock makes Blackmail, a thriller. No one has done what I, Sárközy, am doing. No one has taken a great biblical epic, like Samson and Delilah – the kind of epic that talkies were made for.’

  Knowing the conversation was likely to continue in the same vein for quite some time, Violet allowed her thoughts to drift. After only a year at RADA, she had attracted the eye of a talent scout and had been cast in small parts in several silent films. The films had been made at Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire, and it was when she was at Beaconsfield that she had first seen Sárközy. He, of course, thought that he had initiated their first meeting and done the chasing. Violet knew differently.

  As Sárközy and Dieter’s conversation moved on to a discussion of Alexander Korda’s first talkie, The Squall, which had been made in Hollywood, Violet wondered who had made the running in Rozalind and Max’s relationship and in Olivia and Dieter’s relationship. She rather thought that although Roz liked to think she called a lot of the shots where she and Max were concerned, in reality it was Max who had made the running and Rozalind who had been caught.