by Ann Swinfen
Paul looked at the pasteboard rectangle. 'St Martins', somewhere in Herefordshire. From that moment on, Hugh Appleton was his hero.
* * *
No one was now directing cars in the driveway. Latecomers made their own way into the field and parked where they could. The beautiful silver Mercedes, nosing over the gravel paused doubtfully, then rolled on. Clearly no one could expect it to be accommodated amongst those muddy ruts and plebeian Fords and Vauxhalls. There was one gap in the row of cars parked in front of the house, but it had clearly been occupied previously by a much smaller car.
'Turn left through this archway,' said Giles, relieved to have arrived intact. The Merc had been doing 100 m.p.h. on the motorway. 'There will probably be room round at the back in the stableyard.'
The Mercedes hesitated fractionally.
'Don't worry,' Giles smiled broadly. 'No horses. Only the studios, and the entrance to my eldest son's house. I'm sure we can fit in there. Ah, yes, just beyond Frances's Cavalier.'
Like an aristocrat slumming, the silver car slid condescendingly into the space he indicated, partially blocking the door to Gregor's studio, and the two men got out. Nigel looked quickly around, noting the arched doorways Giles had told him about.
'The studios?' He raised an enquiring eyebrow.
Giles nodded. 'Painting, sculpture and so on below, music above.'
The back door of the main house swung open and a gawky young girl came out, dressed in a man's grey T-shirt and some nondescript layers of black below. She was struggling with a large tray heavily laden with dishes.
'Hi, Dad,' she said, thrusting the tray at him so that he was forced to take it from her. 'Who's your friend?'
Giles closed his eyes briefly. 'My daughter,' he said resignedly. 'Katya.'
Chapter 9
'May I present Nigel Laker, Natasha?' Giles bowed gravely towards Natasha, seated again in her Jacobean chair. 'Nigel, this is my wife's grandmother, Natasha Devereux, the artist. And, of course, founder and guiding light of the St Martins community for half a century.' The persona he had assumed for the scene had the hushed gravity of a Richard Dimbleby, with a touch of Peter Ustinov's Slav exoticism. He had considered introducing Natasha as the Princess Natasha Greshlov, but thought better of it when she turned her sardonic eye on him. He was convinced that she had seen him thrust the loaded tray into Sally's surprised arms as he passed her.
'Speak to you later,' he mouthed to his startled daughter-in-law.
'Ah, Giles,' said Natasha gracefully, playing the scene back to him. 'How good you were able to come.' Her Russian accent was a shade more noticeable than usual, and she lifted her hand, palm down, in the gesture of her girlhood.
Totally upstaged by her, Giles was obliged to raise her hand to his lips.
'And Mr Laker. I was told you would be coming with Giles. They brought me word he had telephoned.' Suddenly behind her there seemed to be a shadowy throng of ghostly servants standing, in gorgeous livery. 'I welcome you to St Martins, Mr Laker, and our little celebrations.' She lifted her hand again, and Nigel, who had instantly fallen in love with her, kissed it with far more fervour than would have been permitted in the Romanov court.
'You are one of Giles's theatrical friends, I believe?' There was a certain shading to her tone on the word 'theatrical' – a musical rise and fall – that made it sound at once racy and slightly disreputable.
Nigel, usually so suavely in command of every situation, found himself bowing slightly.
'Television, Mrs Devereux. I haven't worked in the straight theatre for fifteen years.'
'Everyone,' she said, with a sweep of her fine eyes over the crowded garden, 'calls me Natasha. Except my daughter Irina, who feels obliged to call me Mother, in order to make a distinction.'
'I should be honoured,' said Nigel, feeling that he ought to sink on one knee, as if he were about to be knighted, and wondering how long he could keep this up.
Suddenly she laughed, a full-throated, appealing, girlish laugh.
'Off you go, Giles,' she said, in her normal tone of voice, 'and see your neglected family. Mr Laker can stay and talk to me.'
'Nigel, please.'
'Certainly. Nigel.'
Giles looked as though he was about to protest – he wanted to keep his finger on developments here – but changed his mind. Natasha was a very clever woman. She would know exactly how to handle Nigel. It might be better to leave them alone.
'Do sit down – Nigel,' said Natasha as Giles left them. On her lips the name sounded faintly absurd, and he coloured slightly, recalling certain uncomfortable episodes of his schooldays. With a nod of her head she indicated an upright and not very comfortable-looking dining room chair placed at right angles to her own. He sat, obediently.
Natasha set herself to amuse this young-middle-aged friend of Frances's husband. She had sensed immediately that Giles had some urgent reason for bringing him down, and knowing the precarious state of Frances's finances, Natasha was prepared to humour him if it would help. She had decades of experience at this sort of strategic conversation masquerading as party chatter, and this well-groomed, slightly precious man was no match for her.
She began to entertain him with anecdotes of her life in Paris and London between the wars, throwing in the occasional scandalous story. Nigel adored her. He wished that he dared take notes, for her reminiscences were the very essence of his work in television, but instead he set himself to file them away in his capacious memory. As he grew bolder, he put questions about some of the more famous names – Picasso, George Bernard Shaw, the Bloomsbury set. Perfectly aware of what he was doing, Natasha answered him tranquilly, with no more and no less than the truth. An experienced interviewer, he could recognise the rich authenticity in what he heard. This was wonderful – the St Martins programme began to take shape in his mind. He had intended that it should form only the first half of the first programme, but now he was beginning to wonder how he could confine so much material to a mere two hours.
Having laid her bait, Natasha now began to reel in her fish. She asked him about his work in the past, his plans for the future. Like everyone in his profession, Nigel loved nothing better than to enlarge on such fascinating topics. He found himself telling her about his first fumbling steps in the theatre, after he had failed his degree through spending too much time with the university dramatic club. He told her humorous tales of his time as an ASM with a provincial repertory company and later at a down-market London theatre. These stories had often been a success – told with wit and salaciousness – when poured into the ears of suggestible girls hoping for a television career and willing to sleep with him as part of the price. He felt that they fell somewhat flat after Natasha's own tales, although she listened with flattering attention and inserted keen comments that somehow enhanced their interest.
At some point he was handed tea and a plate of sandwiches and cakes by a young woman. He noted merely that she looked troubled, and bore a very faint resemblance to Giles, before he dismissed her from his mind. He was leading up to the important part now, his plans for The Great Eccentrics.
Just in time, and with great self-control, he stopped himself mentioning the provisional title for the new series. It had suddenly occurred to him that this remarkable lady – he could not think of her simply as a woman – was way out of his class, and might not appreciate being thought of as an eccentric. Indeed, now that he had met her, her whole career seemed to him not eccentric at all, but a wonderful flowering of a rich talent for life. He felt, to tell the truth, somewhat humbled, and drunk with the fascination of her.
Natasha, however, was too quick for him. As he described his new series, his enthusiasm shaped it before her.
'I do not,' she said, 'watch a great deal of television, apart from drama and some of the nature programmes, which I feel television does so well. It seems to me, however, that this series you are talking about could be very appealing.'
He felt as if she had given him a present.
'You have a title for it, yes?' She cocked her head to one side and smiled at him. 'Something like The Great Eccentrics, perhaps?'
Damn it, he thought, is she a witch?
'Well – er,' he stammered, 'perhaps something along those lines. But –,' he rallied, 'I would be using the term according to its root derivation. Meaning people who have been "off-centre" because they have been the explorers, the innovators, the ones to push back the frontiers of new ideas and modalities.'
Natasha winced slightly.
'And did you,' she asked innocently, 'think of using St Martins in this series?'
He threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
'I am found out!'
She smiled at him quite kindly, as if he had been Johnny Dawlish caught scrumping amongst the lichen-covered apple trees in the orchard.
'It might be a good subject for you. Whether it would be good for us – this is another matter.'
'Everything would be done with the greatest care. I am aiming very much for the upper end of the market. Civilisation?' he murmured, reminding her of what he had said earlier.
'Ah, yes.' She hadn't been so entertained for a good while. The parry and thrust of their discussion, despite her unequal opponent, reminded her of negotiations over exhibitions in the past, and the many dragons she had had to slay in setting up St Martins in the first place.
'And where does Giles fit into this? Or was he simply used to provide an introduction?'
'Oh, not at all,' he protested. 'St Martins was on my list from the outset. But I didn't realise until this morning that Giles had any connection with St Martins. I am hoping to use him as the narrator, in voice-overs. That was what I rang him about.'
Natasha considered.
'And how did he react to that?'
Nigel gave her a measuring look. 'Not too well. I think he was hoping to be asked to front it. But I'm not going to use anyone on camera. Too intrusive. Too apt to create a cult figure. And Giles –'
'Quite. Poor Giles no longer quite has the looks for it. But his voice –'
'Exactly,' he cried in delight. 'His voice. It's a wonderful resource. I really want to have it for the series. And he has agreed.'
Suddenly he noticed the cup of cold tea he was holding in his hand, and the plate of uneaten food balanced on his knee. He began to nibble at the edges of a cucumber sandwich. It was excellent.
'Would you be willing for us to use St Martins?'
Natasha steepled her fingers together and propped her chin on them.
'I will need to consider this. And talk to my granddaughter, Frances.'
'Not Giles?'
'Oh, no. Giles has nothing to do with St Martins. We will speak again this evening – or else I will get Frances to talk to you.'
'Thank you.' He took a gulp of the cold tea, and regretted it.
'One other thing,' he said.
'Yes?'
'I believe Hugh Appleton is your grandson.'
'He is.'
'Would there be any chance I might interview him? Is he here? Will he be coming to the anniversary?'
'I am afraid I really do not know,' said Natasha.
* * *
'I'll have a vodka and orange,' said Hugh Appleton, 'and bring me some of those smoked almonds.'
The stewardess, who had recognised him at once without looking at the passenger list, came back, simpering slightly, with his drink and nuts on a tray. A large American businessman, whom she had bypassed, made protesting noises and glowered at her, but she whisked past his outstretched hand. She prolonged the arranging of glass and plate on Hugh's tip-down table, and the pouring of his drink, as long as she could. Then she leaned forward confidingly towards the ear so enticingly framed by the wavy dark brown hair and asked for his autograph, for her younger brother – she said.
Hugh, who was accustomed to the effect his appearance and his fame produced on women, and regarded it as a great joke, gave her a pleasant smile and complied, writing his name on the back of a Russian railway timetable he had in his breast pocket.
'You won't need this again?' she asked deferentially.
'Not at all. I have plenty of other fiction with me to read.'
To make his point he pulled out of another pocket a volume printed on poor quality paper – but boldly for all that – of miscellaneous stories and essays in Russian, which would have secured any of the authors a life sentence in the gulags of Siberia just a few years earlier. The stewardess tiptoed reverently away, to attend to the importunate American.
Hugh turned the open book face down on his lap and struggled to tear open the recalcitrant foil packet of nuts sitting so incongruously on one of the porcelain plates reserved for first-class passengers in the front of the plane.
What would that girl have thought if she could have seen me a month ago? he thought. Unshaven, dirty, and smelling like a rank goat from the uncut pelts used as bedding in the cave up in the mountains of Kashmir. It had been a sobering trip. He had not visited the area for nearly twenty years, and this time had found few of the old friends from his youth still alive. Or at any rate admitting to it. The area was dangerously divided, politically, and the old, remote, mountain simplicities had been overtaken by events in India, in Pakistan and in the broken Asian fragments of the old Soviet Union. Religion, once a fateful but calm certainty in the tribesmen's lives, had been tainted by a nasty cocktail of fanaticisms. It's always a mistake to go back, he thought, and I was driven by no more than nostalgia. Much better to go on. To find somewhere fresh, a new perspective. He sipped pensively at his vodka, and thought humorously: Though I am rather running out of new and unexplored places. Bhutan, now, I've never been there. And there are certainly a few areas deep in the African interior that offer possibilities. And there's the Siberian expedition.
He picked up his book, and began to read.
* * *
'Peter,' said Frances, 'could we have a talk? Just for a minute before I round up the children for the nature trail?'
She had found him on the terrace, dead-heading flowers in the tubs and urns that framed it. He swung his wheelchair towards her and cocked an eyebrow.
'Of course. Provided you help me with this. It's been overlooked in all the fuss, and I don't want the terrace to seem neglected when people gather here for drinks before the play.'
Frances looked at the lavish displays cascading over the sides of the containers and grinned. 'Oh, I don't think it will seem neglected, but I'm happy to help.'
She bent over the nearest urn and began to pinch and pluck, remembering how Peter had taught her to dead-head when she had first taken an interest in gardening, at the age of about seven. In those days she had preferred growing things she could eat, and quickly, like mustard and cress and radishes, but he had assured her that the time would come when she would prefer the beauty of gardening to its utility. He had, of course, been right.
'Potatoes and cabbages,' he had said with some contempt, 'are all very well for peasants, but an artist grows roses and a philosopher grows oak trees. For the future.'
Then he had laughed, and added, 'But potatoes and cabbages are useful also to the artist and the philosopher, who without them would starve.'
They worked now in companionable silence for a few minutes, and it was Peter who spoke first.
'What was it you wished to speak of, Frances?'
'Nick has been talking to me.' She hooked her hair behind ears as she used to do when she was a child. 'He's told me about the worrying financial situation here at St Martins, and the work that needs to be done on the house.'
'Yes.' He wheeled himself over to a big rectangular trough of marble, where the blurred faces of putti peeped out from behind rings of grey-green lichen. 'It is very serious, Nick thinks. You know that I am no good with money, Frances. Birgit always used to try to save a little, but we never seemed to manage to hold on to much.'
Frances, who knew of his many private charities and sponsorships over the years, made a quick
gesture. 'I wasn't talking about you personally, Peter, but the trust.'
'I know, my dear, but I would like to be able to pay more into it. Unfortunately I only have the state old age pension and the royalties my recordings still earn – we sometimes get a little bonus when one of them is reissued on CD, but it doesn't amount to much.'
'I realise that. Mum and Dad don't have a lot either – Dad's done so much for my children.'
She began to count the members of the community off on her fingers.
'Natasha only has the money from the farm, and she's never charged a realistic rent for that. Nick is probably paying all he can afford for the moment. Jonathan, Desmond and the others don't have much disposable income. Jonathan's plays won't ever earn him real money. It's possible Desmond's pots might catch the eye of a buyer for one of the big London shops, but he's never going to be rich! Who else? Eric's silk-screen printing . . .'
'What it needs,' Peter interrupted, not looking at her, 'is someone to take charge. See whether there is some way to raise the money for the repairs – Nick thinks they'll be in the order of £100,000.'
'Oh, no! That much? He didn't mention the amount.'
'Oh, yes.' He turned to face her. 'Natasha cannot be expected to go on, you know. We are all so accustomed to leaning on her, and she is so unusual a person, that I think we forget her age.' He laughed. 'Natasha and the Queen Mother – it must have been an exceptional vintage year, 1900!'
'But – raise the money? How?'
'I don't know.' He turned back to the marble trough. 'How did Natasha raise the money she needed in the early days? I know your grandfather didn't inherit much money with the house, and Natasha found, after she had been here a few months, that there were rotted joists that had to be replaced. And there were the studios. I know most of the work was done by the community – Birgit and I helped too after we arrived – but the materials must have cost something.'
He paused. 'I do remember that when we decided to renovate the Edwardian generator, so we could make our own electricity, it cost nearly a thousand pounds, but that was cheaper than having mains electricity put in. That time we gave some concerts and Natasha sold three large paintings, just for the generator fund. That was in 1953, I think.'