by Phillip Rock
“Hello, America. This is Martin Rilke speaking to you from London …”
Jennifer listened to the broadcast in a visitor’s lounge down the corridor from the studio. There were several other people in the room, men whose faces seemed familiar to her. Churchill’s entourage, she suspected, by the way they smiled and nodded when he spoke. She found herself smiling when Albert answered some questions put to him by Martin. She had always thought Martin Rilke to be a quiet, humdrum man, like a well-meaning but ultimately boring uncle. Over the radio he was all snap and fire, leading his guests through the show with the verve of a symphony conductor—asking the right questions and easing into their replies if they started to ramble. The show covered a great deal of ground and seemed far longer than the scant fifteen minutes of allotted time. Martin had the final summation …
“And so Czechoslovakia has ceased to exist as a democratic nation. Tonight, German armies march unopposed across its once strongly defended borders. In the ceded territories, Sudeten Nazis raise the swastika flag and roam the streets marking the doors of Jewish and Czech homes and shops. Yesterday, Austria. Today, Czechoslovakia. And tomorrow?” Under his voice, faintly at first, then growing to a chilly crescendo, came the sounds recorded in the Königsplatz—the rhythmic tramp of hobnailed boots, trumpets, drums, the crowd roaring Heil Hitler. A moment of utter silence, followed by Martin’s crisp sign-off … “Goodnight from London.”
“Rather powerful,” said one of the men. “A pity no one in this country heard it. I thought Winston was bang on form.”
“Perhaps it might shake up the Yanks a bit.”
The Churchill group left the room en masse and Jennifer waited alone, seated deep in a leather chair.
“Sorry you had to wait in here,” Albert said as he hurried into the room. “I’d hoped you could have sat in the control booth, but they wouldn’t allow it.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Could you hear all right?”
“Perfectly. Your voice sounds different over the radio.”
“Not too shrill, I hope.”
“Far from it. Deep and resonant, like an actor’s.”
He laughed and helped her from the soft clutches of the chair. “I certainly didn’t feel like an actor. I can’t speak into a microphone without breaking into a cold sweat. I don’t know how Martin can do it week after week.”
He led her into the studio where Martin was waiting for the feedback from New York. It came … Scott Kingsford’s voice booming at them … “Reception better than okay. Damn good show. Tell Winston I’m sending him a box of cigars.”
“I should think so,” Churchill growled as he stood up to go. “I can think of better places to be at midnight than the BBC.”
“Care for a drink with us?” Martin asked.
Churchill shook his head. “I would like nothing better, but I must have a talk with Duff-Cooper. Some other time, mister radio man … some other time.”
They went to Jacob Golden’s townhouse in Berkeley Square. It was one of a row of fine old mansions, most of which had been converted into flats or office buildings. Jacob’s house was a combination of the two. He maintained a spacious residence on the upper floors and had turned the lower into what he liked to call his command post. Teletype machines and shortwave radios kept him in touch with all branches of his far-flung press empire by day or night.
He led Jennifer on a tour of the new communications room where the night staff tended the chattering teletype machines.
“I don’t see enough of you these days, Jenny … or of your mother. How is she?”
“Very well. Busy.”
“She must be pleased that Chamberlain … pulled it off, as they say.”
“I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her about it. But knowing her sense of fair play I think she may have mixed emotions.”
“Yes,” he mused. “She may at that. Winnie was always more of an idealist than a pacifist anyway … but don’t tell her I said so.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I must say, I was surprised to see you arrive with my man Thax. How long has this been going on?”
She felt her cheeks burn. “Nothing’s … ‘going on,’ Uncle Jacob.”
“No? Pity.”
They went upstairs where drinks were being served and a cold supper had been laid out. There were a dozen or so guests, most of them members of Martin’s CBC radio team. Martin took Jennifer in hand and introduced her to them. They were young men, easygoing and casual, referring to Martin as either “Chief” or “Pop.” They had spent most of their time on the Continent and were unfamiliar with London. Clustering around her, they wanted to know where the best “hot spots” were to be found. She answered as best she could, but they would have been better served by her twin. Vicky knew every dive in London. Albert, bearing a glass of champagne in each hand, extricated her.
“The most popular girl at the party.”
“The only girl. That might account for it.”
“So you are. I hadn’t noticed.” He handed her a glass. “Something very Edwardian about serving champagne and oysters at one in the morning.”
“I could do without both.”
“There’s a duck pâté that looks good.”
She took a small sip of her wine and set the glass on a table. “I don’t really want anything. Fresh air, perhaps.”
“Not feeling well?”
“Claustrophobic all of a sudden. I don’t know why.”
“Would you like to go home?”
“I think so. I’ll just slip out.”
“Don’t be daft. I’ll go with you.”
“It’s not necessary. It’s only a short way.”
“I know, but the streets are crawling with white slavers at this hour. Seriously, I wouldn’t think of allowing you to go home by yourself. Chivalry may be dormant in jolly old England, but not totally dead.”
It was beautiful in the square, clear and brisk. Taxis rattled past on their way to the May Fair Hotel in Berkeley Street.
Jennifer looked up at the stars and took a deep breath. “That’s better. I love London at this time of the morning. The air feels so fresh.”
“A million buses off the streets.”
“I’m sure that has something to do with it.” She started to walk in the direction of her flat and then hesitated. “I don’t feel like going home. Are you up to a walk?”
“Fine. Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, I don’t much care. Just around.”
“I believe all walks should have a destination.”
“You choose, then.”
“Soho. I’ll show you my digs and brew some coffee.”
“You don’t seem the Soho type.”
“I’m not,” he said as they started across the square. “I’m too gainfully employed for the neighborhood. But Martin leased me his old flat years ago. It’s a big place above a Russian restaurant in James Street. It belonged to Jacob Golden at one time, before the war.”
“I don’t imagine you spend much time in it.”
“Not since I left university. But I’ll be using it now … at least for the next six months or so. Jacob’s decided to keep me in England.”
“Oh? You don’t sound happy at the thought.”
“I would have preferred a foreign assignment, but he believes I can be of more use here. The Post will be starting an all-out campaign to get Churchill back into the government and to thrust the rearmament program into full gear. I’m not sure how we’re going to do it, but he’s given me a week’s holiday to think it over.”
“I’m sure you could use a holiday. Fatten yourself up. Where are you going?”
“I have no idea. I might take a run up to Cambridge for a day or two and see how young Colin is settling in.”
“But haven’t you heard? Colin’s left … he sailed for New York three days ago.”
He stopped walking and stared at her. “Gone? But why?”
She told him of the trouble in Manchester as
they walked on toward Regent Street, of how the reporter had dropped all charges, but not before writing a mocking story in Foto-Mail about the “Cambridge Cowboy.” The whole experience had embittered him so much he had decided to go back to California.
“Archer,” Albert said. “That horse’s arse. If I ever run into him he’ll have a real assault case to write about. It must be upsetting to Lord and Lady Stanmore.”
“Mother talked to them. They’re philosophic about the whole thing—it’s Kate who was devastated. I never realized how fond she was of him … a major crush, it seems. She went back to school in utter misery.”
The Soho streets were crowded, all the restaurants and private clubs ablaze with lights. At the Café Moskva, singing and music spilled into the narrow street in a melodic flood. Albert unlocked a door beside the café’s entrance and led Jennifer up a steep flight of dimly lit stairs. He switched on a lamp, revealing a spacious, comfortably furnished room with crammed bookshelves rising from floor to ceiling.
“Interesting,” Jennifer said, glancing about. “The place has a good deal of character.”
“That it does. A perfect flat for anyone who appreciates balalaikas. I only pay Martin a token and I’m rarely here, so it would be foolish to find anything more modern and less noisy at this stage of my life.”
“A place to hang your hat.”
“Exactly—if I owned one to hang.”
He made coffee in a brass contraption that looked like a miniature ship’s boiler. “Something Jacob brought back from Bulgaria in the twenties, I understand. Looks fearsome, but produces a unique brew.”
She took a tentative sip. It was thick as syrup and bitter as gall. “Unique is the proper word.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Perhaps if I were Bulgarian …”
“I usually lace it with Drambuie or Grand Marnier.”
She held out her cup. “By all means use both.”
Jennifer carried the potent mixture around the room, looking at the books. Albert trailed along beside her.
“Cheap editions mostly. When I was at university I used to haunt the used-book shops in Charing Cross Road. The better-looking volumes belonged to a long-time tenant of Martin’s, a writer and a recluse. He was trying to write the definitive history of mankind, a twenty-volume work, but gave up in despair halfway through the first. Killed himself, poor chap.”
“By drinking the coffee?”
“Quite possibly,” he laughed. “Off London Bridge, actually. Anyway, I was glad he didn’t do himself in here. I didn’t relish his anguished ghost knocking about.”
She stood still, head cocked, listening. “I can hear groaning.”
“Downstairs. The Russians. They get drunk and maudlin about now and start singing dark songs of the Volga.”
Jennifer finished her drink and handed him the cup. “One more of these and I’d be joining them.”
“Feeling light-headed?”
“A bit.”
“They affect me the same way. Must be the Drambuie. Would you care for a glass of water?”
“No thanks.” He took the cups into the kitchen and dumped what was left of the coffee. It flowed down the sink like oil. When he came back she was seated on the couch, her head back and eyes half closed. The shaded lamp threw a soft wash of pink across her throat.
“You must be exhausted,” he said, looking down at her. “I’ll go scare up a taxi.”
“Not just yet. I was listening to the music. There’s something so sad and … lost … about Russian melodies.”
“That tune certainly is. It’s always the last one of the night. I asked old Vassilievich about it once. He owns the place … an ex-colonel in the Imperial Russian Guards … although they always say they were something grand. He was probably a cook. Anyway, he explained it was a folk song about a dying Cossack dreaming of the homeland he will never see again.”
“One can’t get much sadder than that.”
He leaned toward her and pressed his lips against her throat. She opened her eyes and stared at him, almost in curiosity. “I hope you didn’t mind,” he said.
“No. Should I?”
“Taking advantage. Balalaikas and brandy. An unfair mixture, like moonlight and roses.”
“I suppose it is … yet pleasant.”
“Certainly that.” He sat on the couch and drew her to him. Her lips and body were rigid as he kissed her. Then she was soft against him, pliant as wax. His tongue felt the moistness of her mouth. She pulled back from him with a throaty gasp.
“I … should go now.”
“If you wish.”
“It’s best … I think.”
“Yes. It’s terribly late.”
“If you would call a cab …”
He smiled at her and touched her cheek. “One doesn’t call cabs at this hour. We walk around the corner to the White Mouse Club where the taxis wait.”
“What’s the White Mouse Club?”
“A private social spot for well-heeled businessmen. A nunnery in the Shakespearean sense of the word.”
She stared at him, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I see. An interesting neighborhood.”
“A bachelor’s paradise—or so they say.”
“Not to you?”
“I’m not here often enough to find out.”
He took hold of her hand as they went down the stairs under the appalling gloom of the low-wattage bulb. The hand seemed quite lifeless to him, rigid as a mannequin’s. In the street, he could see her expression in the brighter glow of the lights. Her face, he thought, was a mask of either boredom or indifference. He did not attempt to hold her hand, or to touch her in any way, as they walked around the corner into Bridle Lane where taxis were lined up in front of a darkly shuttered building. Albert stepped into the road and whistled for one of them.
Jennifer broke the silence between them as the taxi plunged into the now deserted streets of Mayfair.
“I had a most enjoyable evening.”
“I’m glad. I know I did.”
“I’m sorry your holiday plans were spoiled.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’m just sorry for poor Colin. I’ll find things to do. Day trips to Clacton-on-Sea, and other such thrilling excursions.”
There was an eternity of silence and then she said: “I’m rather at loose ends. Perhaps we could do something together.”
“I would enjoy your company.”
“And I yours.” The taxi pulled up in front of her building and she got out. “Why don’t you phone me on Monday and we’ll work something out.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good.” She shook his hand with a crisp formality—but the hand lingered, the fingers touched.
HE TELEPHONED HER on Monday morning and she suggested a drive in the country, to Lulworth Manor in Dorset. Would that be all right with him?
“Whatever you’d like to do,” he said.
“Good. I knew you’d agree. I ordered a hamper for us from Fortnum and Mason.”
“A what?”
“A picnic hamper … sandwiches, cold chicken. Much nicer than those horrid little roadside inns. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
She was there on the dot, pulling up in front of his door in her little green Sunbeam, the top folded back, a wicker basket strapped to the luggage rack. She was wearing slacks and a sweater, a green bandanna tied around her head to keep her hair from blowing. He got in beside her.
“You can drive if you’d like,” she told him.
“No, no. You look too enchanting behind the wheel.”
She pressed the gas pedal and shot away, threading into the London traffic.
It was impossible to talk over the snarl of the engine and the howling wind, so Albert sat back, face tilted to the sun, and enjoyed the drive. She turned off the main highway at last and drove along narrow lanes through a lush, verdant countryside and past hamlets of thatched-roof houses. An iron gate barred the end of one particularly deserted la
ne and she stopped the car, leaving the engine running, unlocked the gate and swung it open.
“Where are we?” he asked as she got back into the car.
“Lulworth Manor.”
“Which is?”
“My grandfather’s estate. No one lives here now except a caretaker and his wife. It’s a lovely old house, though, and the grounds are beautiful in a wild, overgrown sort of way.”
She was right on all counts. The house came into view, a Georgian mansion of gray stone perched on a hill with a magnificent view of the Channel and Lulworth Cove. Unpruned evergreens and the tangled thickets of what had once been a garden surrounded it. The house seemed to be rising from a jungle of native European flora.
“Good Lord,” he said. “What on earth are the caretakers for?”
“Not much. They’re quite ancient. Keep the inside of the house from being swallowed in dust, I suppose. None of the family have lived here in years and no one seems willing to buy the place.”
“Make a smashing resort hotel.”
“That’s Grandfather’s fervent wish. It’s a horrible white elephant, but I do love the place.”
She stopped at the caretakers’ cottage to pay her respects to them—a pleasant couple who seemed as weathered as the stones of the house, and as strong—and then drove on for half a mile and parked on the edge of a meadow that sloped toward low cliffs and the sea.
“Chicken in herbs,” she said, unpacking the basket and placing the items on a blanket. “Potted shrimp … deviled eggs … sliced ham … French rolls … cheeses … a bottle of Chablis, a bottle of claret …”
“Stop! Did you invite six other people?”
“You should put on some weight. I think you’re far too thin.”
“I’ve seen an infantry company exist on less food than this.” He filched a pickled onion from a jar. “Looks jolly nice, though. Must have cost you a ruddy fortune.”
“A pretty penny, as the saying goes.” She snapped her fingers. “But who counts the cost for an occasion such as this?”
“What sort of occasion is it?”
“Being with good company on a sunny, windy day. God in his heaven and all that.” She bit into a chicken wing and gazed across the wind-tossed grasses. The Channel was gray-green and flecked with whitecaps. “I used to swim in that cold sea when I was a child, even at this time of the year. I would hate to do so now.”