Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  ‘During the Great War, those people – long-haired layabouts living in Bloomsbury – were conscientious objectors and should have been put up against a wall,’ he said indignantly. ‘My time in the trenches was the making of me. I’d go so far as to say they were the happiest years of my life, even though I was wounded.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Verity agreed, to Weaver’s surprise. ‘There is something about the sheer excitement of war – the feeling of being alive because so near to death that makes life doubly valuable.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Weaver interjected. ‘I thought you said, Verity, that you didn’t want war.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. You’d have to be mad to want death and destruction. I’m simply saying that, once you’re in it, there can be a kind of satisfaction in seeing how one measures up to it.’

  Her eyes shone and Reith looked at her with surprise and approval. Joe sighed again. All this mutual admiration was getting on his nerves. Lighting a cigar, he said, ‘Were you sad to leave the BBC, Jock?’

  ‘I admit I was, Joe. I created it and I think I did a good job but I have learnt in life that there’s no point in looking back. The Prime Minister – I speak in complete confidence – has asked me to set up a Ministry of Information to control the media in the event of war so I’ll once again –’ his eyes twinkled mischievously – ‘regain some authority over the organization I created. Ogilvie’s a good fellow but, between ourselves, he isn’t up to the job of Director General.’

  Verity wondered at how indiscreet these great men could be, talking in front of journalists they neither knew nor trusted. Reith could not resist denigrating the man who had usurped him, whatever the consequences.

  ‘These foreign broadcasts are a good idea,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’m glad you think so. My friend Dr Wanner, who was head of the South German Broadcasting Organization until the Nazis took over, is doing a very good job, so much so that the Germans try to “jam” his broadcasts. The PM told me the other day that he was unhappy at the tone of the BBC’s foreign broadcasts, that they were too gloomy. I pointed out that the news was gloomy and that the best way of making sure the BBC was listened to and trusted in Europe was to tell the truth however gloomy. Then, when there was good news to report, it would be believed.’

  ‘And the talks by Harold Nicolson and Byron Gates – they are very popular but serious, too,’ Weaver put in. ‘Gates, in particular, strikes just the right tone – serious but not pompous, cultured but not patronizing.’

  ‘Ugh! That man Gates. I can’t stick him,’ Reith said vehemently. ‘He’s immoral and irreligious – a damned hypocrite. According to one of my people, he almost got himself kicked out of the building just before I left. I would have done so myself but Ogilvie has kept him on.’

  ‘What had he done?’ Verity inquired with interest.

  ‘Women! What else. Someone’s wife – it’s all too sordid to go into, my dear. Saving your presence, when I was in charge I tried to do without them. It’s bad enough having them as secretaries. They flirt with the men and . . .’ Seeing the twinkle in Weaver’s eye, he stopped himself. ‘Well, don’t get me on my hobby horse.’

  Verity stifled a protest. She looked at Weaver and saw that he was surprised and even a little disappointed that she had been able to control herself.

  On their way back to the New Gazette, Weaver said, ‘I hope you enjoyed that, Verity.’

  ‘I was very interested to meet Sir John but I still don’t understand why you took me along with you. Was it just to rile him? He really wanted to see you on your own.’

  ‘He’s going to be Minister of Information, as he said, and I want him to use you, if possible. I need someone who can stand up to him and who knows about newspapers, which he doesn’t.’

  ‘But . . . I’ll be abroad, won’t I?’

  ‘I hope so, I very much hope so. I don’t want to sound defeatist but, a year from now, will there be anywhere in Europe for you to report from?’

  ‘Paris – there’ll always be Paris.’

  ‘I hope so, Verity,’ he repeated. ‘It was almost lost in the last war and that was before the Germans had Panzers . . .’

  Verity, suddenly aware of the very real possibility that Britain would be defeated, lapsed into silence.

  4

  That evening, Verity didn’t altogether feel like going out but Edward had got it into his head that these were the last moments of peace and that they would look back with nostalgia on a London of bright lights and innocent pleasure. However, once she was dressed in a shimmering gown she had bought from Schiaparelli and had straightened Edward’s white tie, she felt she would, after all, enjoy herself.

  The West End was crowded with people intent on having a good time, determined to put out of their minds the imminent catastrophe. It would come but, until it did, they would party. Edward and Verity dined at Gennaro’s and then, as it was a warm evening, strolled down to the Embassy at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street. Verity felt her spirits lift and tunelessly – she was not musical – hummed the lines from a popular song. ‘There’s film stars, peers and peeresses, all crowded on the floor. There’s the Prince of Wales and Lady F and every crashing bore I know in the dear old Embassy.’

  The nightclub was reached down a wide, low-ceilinged tunnel. The entrance at the far end was guarded by a tall, impressive-looking commissionaire who greeted Edward as though he had been in just a few days before, though it was at least a year since he had been ‘out on the tiles’, as he put it. He bought a buttonhole from the one-legged man at the door and they made their way through a throng of dancers to a table well back from the dance floor.

  Verity went off to ‘powder her nose’. The ladies’ cloak-room was fitted out with marble basins and gold taps. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought Edward had no need to be ashamed of his wife. Her new dress, sensuous blue silk that hugged her body, made her feel desirable. Maybe she wasn’t as smart as the expensively dressed women making up their faces on either side of her – and talking across her as though she did not exist in harsh, high-pitched voices – but she did not envy them. Their air of extreme boredom and consequent discontent, though possibly adopted to convey worldly wisdom, made their eyes hard. The powder with which they covered their faces turned their skin a deathly white so that, in the bright artificial light, they appeared to be wearing masks. She thought she recognized one or two of them but they belonged to a world of which she had never been part. She might be Lady Edward Corinth but she knew – or thought she knew – that these idle, wealthy women would despise her as a parvenue if they ever deigned to notice her.

  Her ears pricked as she heard the name Byron Gates. She would hardly have imagined that – being neither rich nor titled – he would be known to such women but it appeared she was wrong. One of the women was saying that her sister worked at the BBC – ‘too amusing, my dear, but if the war comes we’ll all be expected to do our bit, I suppose.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having a job,’ the woman on Verity’s left put in. ‘It might be rather exciting driving officers round London. Men look so much more manly in uniform, don’t you think, Babs?’

  ‘Not my Reggie. He’s a dear but not even a field marshal’s uniform would make him – how did you put it? – manly. As for Byron dressing up to look like Oscar Wilde, it might have been amusing in the twenties but how he manages to look louche without being attractive, I can’t think. And he hasn’t got any money.’

  ‘You don’t really think that, do you, darling?’ one of the other women said. ‘I think he’s so handsome and he dances divinely.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you ditch him, Babs? Reggie, I mean,’ the woman on Verity’s right suggested.

  ‘But how would I support myself without Reggie’s millions? There seem to be so many fewer unattached rich men in London nowadays.’

  ‘But, Babs, you promised to tell us about Merry,’ another woman said.

  It appeared that Byron had taken ‘Mer
ry’ – who, Verity deduced, was Babs’s younger sister – to the Embassy and then abandoned her for ‘some tart’, leaving her without the money to get a taxi home. ‘I mean, what a cad! Luigi had to sub her a pound,’ Babs finished.

  ‘How perfectly frightful! Well, of course he’s not a gentleman,’ one of the women said, powdering her nose with ferocity.

  ‘No, but he’s a poet and jolly good-looking,’ another of Babs’s friends said with a giggle.

  ‘Still, Merry’s learnt her lesson,’ her sister added, painting her lips a deeper shade of red. ‘She told me she’s thinking of becoming a lesbian – so amusing. Apparently the BBC is full of queers.’

  ‘If he did that to my sister, I’d get Ronald to give him a thrashing,’ her friend said, blotting her crimson lips on a paper towel.

  Edward rose as Verity reappeared at the table. She apologized for being so long. ‘I just couldn’t drag myself away. I was eavesdropping on a conversation about Byron Gates. I gather he brought a girl here and left her without a sou while he went off with another girl. You men!’

  She sank on to the banquette beside Edward and sipped at her champagne. Harry Roy’s band was playing dance music and a few couples were already on the floor.

  ‘Edward, look! That’s the woman who was talking about Byron.’

  ‘I know her. She’s Lady Gore-Bell. When I went out more often she and I used to “trip the light fantastic”.’

  ‘Well, introduce me to her. I want to see her face when she realizes she lost you to an unimportant journalist.’

  ‘Jealous, my own one?’ Edward said, taking her hand. ‘No need to be. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else tonight with anyone else. Let’s dance and we can “bump into” Barbara and I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘You know I can’t dance but I suppose no one will notice.’

  ‘Babs! Haven’t see you in ages,’ Edward said as he engineered the ‘bump’. ‘Do come and have a drink at our table. I don’t think you know my wife. Verity, this is Barbara Gore-Bell.’

  Verity tried to look pleased.

  ‘Edward, darling – how absolutely lovely! I heard you were married and to a famous foreign correspondent.’ She offered Verity a limp hand. ‘I thought I recognized you downstairs. Oh help, I hope I wasn’t being indiscreet. I didn’t say anything about Edward, did I? The moment I saw your picture in Tatler – or was it the Illustrated London News? – anyway, the moment I saw it I said to Reggie, trust Edward to marry someone different. We debs bored him silly, didn’t we, Edward? By the way – this is Reggie, my husband. I absolutely adore him, don’t I, darling? And he’s heavenly rich.’

  Reggie, a balding man some twenty years older than his wife, looked tickled to be adored for his wealth and smiled at her indulgently.

  ‘Lady Edward,’ he said taking Verity’s hand. ‘I say, beautiful and brainy! Not really fair, what!’

  Edward saw Barbara wince but Verity held her smile which had become, he thought, roguish if insincere.

  ‘Sir Reginald . . .’ Verity allowed him to kiss her hand.

  ‘Reggie, you must call me Reggie. Everyone does, you know.’

  ‘And Verity – I may call you Verity, mayn’t I?’ his wife echoed. ‘You must call me Babs. I feel we are going to be great friends.’

  ‘Babs, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation when we were powdering our noses.’ Verity took pleasure in the lady-like euphemism. She tried not to sound arch. ‘You mentioned the name Byron Gates. We’ve just bought a house in Sussex and he happens to live in the same village.’

  ‘Oh Lord, was I talking ill of him?’

  ‘No need to apologize. We have met him but he’s not a friend. In fact, I have to confess that I didn’t take to him and it doesn’t surprise me to hear he behaved badly to your sister. I hope I am not being impertinent but the coincidence . . .’

  ‘Not at all. Edward knows I have the sweetest nature and never normally say anything bad about anyone but, really, he’s a rat.’ Barbara looked towards the stairs. ‘Good heavens, talk of the devil. Here he is now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Edward explained, ‘we came up to town on the same train and we sort of agreed to meet here. How embarrassing!’

  ‘We’ll leave you to him, won’t we, Reggie? I really can’t talk to him. I might have to douse him with champagne. Who’s the woman with him? It’s not his wife. She’s the actress, Mary Brand. I’ve met her. Don’t say he’s brought his mistress! When you are the Aga Khan, you can get away with having a string of mistresses but not when you are plain Mr Gates. Well, goodbye, both of you. Telephone me, Edward – Sloane 247. We must meet and talk over old times. Come, Reggie – it’s time we went home.’

  She swept off haughtily, leaving Verity and Edward to greet Byron.

  ‘Wasn’t that Barbara Gore-Bell?’ Byron asked, sounding puzzled. ‘I wonder why she made off like that?’

  ‘She said you had abandoned her sister here one evening and gone off with some other girl.’ Verity thought it would be interesting to see how he reacted to being told the truth. Edward looked pained.

  ‘Oh really!’ Byron was indignant. ‘I brought Merry here, yes, but it was she who abandoned me. I had a dance or two with an old chum and, when I got back to the table, I found she had vanished. It was all a silly misunderstanding. She’s not still holding a grudge, is she?’

  Edward had risen when Byron had come over to their table and now gently reminded him that he had not introduced them to his friend.

  ‘I do apologize. May I introduce you to Frieda Burrowes? Frieda, Lord and Lady Edward Corinth. Verity, I wanted you and Frieda to meet because I thought you would have so much in common.’

  ‘Really?’ Verity said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, Frieda’s a journalist too. She works at the BBC.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Byron. Miss Browne – I mean Lady Edward – is a real journalist. I merely interview women of note, that sort of thing. I interviewed Charlotte Hassel – she’s a friend of yours, I believe?’

  ‘One of my oldest friends,’ Verity said, warming to the girl.

  ‘She’s one of my favourite novelists. I say, Lady Edward . . . or do you prefer to be called Miss Browne?’

  ‘Miss Browne is the name I work under, but please call me Verity.’

  ‘Gosh! That’s very nice of you. I say, do you think I might interview you one day? You have had such an interesting life.’

  ‘I suppose so, but it’ll have to be soon. I am expecting to be posted abroad in the next few weeks.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll talk to my producer . . . Mr Barnes.’

  ‘Have you always been a journalist?’ Verity asked.

  ‘Well, I was an actress but I wasn’t getting on too well. Then I was lucky enough to be introduced to Val Gielgud. Do you know him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not but I’ve heard of him, of course. His brother is the actor?’

  ‘That’s right. Anyway, Val said I had a good voice for the wireless and he offered me a trial. So here I am at the BBC and, I must say, I really enjoy it. It’s true we women are rather kept in our place but we’re gradually being allowed to do more – like this interviewing.’

  ‘Are you allowed to interview men?’ Verity asked genuinely interested.

  ‘Not politicians or anyone important. It’s usually writers, artists – those sort of people.’

  ‘Unimportant men,’ Byron commented acidly.

  ‘Oh no, Byron. You are important but just not . . .’

  ‘Have you interviewed Byron yet?’ Verity asked to help Frieda out.

  ‘That’s how we met, actually. I engineered it! I thought he was gorgeous and I loved his poetry. Don’t you think he’s a great poet?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t read any yet,’ Verity admitted, turning to Byron, ‘but I’m going to buy one of your books while I’m in London.’ She added in excuse, ‘I don’t read much poetry but I do like W. H. Auden.’

  Byron frowned. No one likes to hear a friend praise
d.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you in a place like this, Verity,’ Byron said, displeased. ‘With your left-wing principles, I mean.’

  ‘I could say the same about you,’ Verity responded, smiling until her face hurt.

  ‘Touché, but we have to have some pleasures, don’t we? The band’s very good.’

  ‘I’m told you’re a good dancer,’ Verity teased, and was taken aback when he seemed gratified by her compliment.

  ‘You are very kind but I just do what I can to avoid stepping on my partner’s toes. Will you . . . if your husband permits?’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Verity had no option but to take his hand and get up. She had to admit after a minute or two that it wasn’t a penance. Byron was a good dancer and, even better, he made her feel she too could dance well. They moved some distance from their table and she began to relax as the music and Byron’s instinctive grace gave her confidence.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer,’ she said. ‘I never did the Season and there wasn’t much dancing in Spain.’

  She wished she had not made the excuse. It sounded as if she was trying to claim the moral high ground but Byron did not seem to notice.

  ‘You dance beautifully. Your partner has very little to do except try not to trip over his feet,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Where did you learn to dance so well?’

  ‘You’ll laugh, but when I was young and very short of money, I used to spend what little I had going to dance halls. I don’t suppose you think of poets as being social animals but I always liked company, particularly female. No starving in a garret if I could possibly avoid it.’

  ‘Presumably there isn’t a vast amount of money in poetry, or am I wrong?’

  ‘You are not wrong. I worked in a preparatory school for some time – oh dear, you can’t imagine how awful that was – and then I hit lucky with these detective stories. In fact, there’s talk of turning one of them into a film. My wife, Mary, is in Hollywood, as I think I told you, and she has a certain amount of influence with some of the producers over there.’