‘John darling, don’t go on about it! Offhand, I can’t think of a more boring subject.’ But she smiled at him with her clever grey eyes and asked him to light her a cigarette and he subsided again into an amiable and total silence.
They didn’t actually talk about the war, but there was some gossip about personalities. General de Gaulle: ‘Awkward chap – very stiff, and none of that famous French tact,’ the man who slept at the War Office said; and General Ismay who, it turned out, had been a prefect at the school the other chap had been to, ‘Charming feller – gets on with everybody.’ Everyone seemed pleased about President Roosevelt’s re-election. ‘We stand a far better chance of help, tacit or otherwise with him than we would with a Republican.’ The conversation became rather dully technical then with the men talking about a deal Churchill had made for fifty American destroyers. The women were talking about their children: ‘Would you believe it, Jonathan cried because we didn’t have fireworks on Guy Fawkes night!’ and Louise was beginning to feel disappointed when the man opposite her leaned over the table and said, so softly she could barely hear him, ‘You – are – lovely!’ and then held her eye with a look of such beguiling admiration that she felt herself beginning to blush, and was quite unable to think of a reply.
He smiled then, and said, ‘I could see that destroyers are not your subject.’
‘Oh no! How could they be anybody’s?’
‘Well, here I must tell you that they have to be mine because I’m in one.’
‘Oh!’ What traps there were when you knew nothing about the person! ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Tell me your subject.’
‘Well, I’m learning to be an actress. At least I was – but the school closed down because of the blitz.’ And after that it was easy: she told him all about how she had auditioned for repertory companies, but without success; how the school might be going to evacuate to the country somewhere where there was a free theatre and continue as a student rep; how she had always wanted to play the men’s parts in Shakespeare; and how her family were against all this, and felt she should do something useful for the war. By now they had reached the chocolate mousse.
‘Don’t you want your pudding? It’s absolutely delicious.’
‘I don’t really care for puddings,’ she said untruthfully, but it sounded grown up not to care about them.
‘Don’t you? I adore them. The stodgier the better, My favourite was suet roll with treacle at school.’
She was rather taken aback by this. ‘Well, I do like some. It’s just that I’ve eaten rather a lot of everything else.’
‘Well, you are probably very wise.’
Somebody claimed him then, and she ate a few spoonfuls of the chocolate mousse not to seem rude. She looked up and Hermione gave her a marvellously reassuring smile. She had earlier introduced Louise saying, ‘This is my new daughter.’ I wish she was my mother, Louise thought. She’d be perfect as a mother. She looked unbelievably glamorous in a scarlet silk dress that clung everywhere to her with a long slit up the side so that she could walk, and red satin shoes that matched. She smelled of gardenias. Louise only knew this because she had asked. The whole flat had this faint perfume, as though she only had to walk through a room to scent it. ‘It’s Caron’s Bellodgia,’ she had said. This had been before people arrived, when she had walked round the dining-room table, putting knives and forks completely straight, twitching napkins, tweaking the roses in the middle of the table, telling the waiter to change the claret glasses. Everything seemed to be made perfect by her in a few moments, and Louise had noticed that the waiters did not seem to mind her drawling, imperious voice telling them how wrong something was at all. ‘I really cannot bear glass butter dishes,’ she had said, ‘do change them. White china is what I said I wanted. And not a speck of parsley in sight, please.’ And they all said, yes, m’lady, and rushed off to do what she wanted.
After dinner, they repaired to Hermione’s drawing room, which had fat chairs with gilded arms – reminding her of Stella’s home a bit – and there was coffee with the proper coloured sugar to put into it. The man who had admired her sat himself down next to her – she remembered that he was called Michael something, but she felt shy about asking him what else he was called because she’d been told when they were introduced and hadn’t remembered.
But then, Marion said, ‘What about the famous picture? Is it finished? May we see it?’
And the man said, ‘I left it in the hall. It’s Hermione’s picture.’
‘I’d adore you to see it. Do bring it in, Michael.’
It was a full length portrait of Hermione in a dark grey satin dress standing by a white marble fireplace with one arm lying on its shelf. Behind her on the other side of the fireplace, was a very dark rather dirtyish yellow velvet curtain. It was tremendously well painted, Louise thought: you would know immediately that it was Hermione, because her hair, her features, all seemed to be right, but at the same time it didn’t give you much idea of what Hermione was actually like. The satin of the dress, the heavy folds of the velvet curtain, the white veined marble were immaculately painted. It seemed to her a brilliant picture, but somehow not really a good portrait of her. She didn’t have to say anything about it, because everybody else was exclaiming, ‘Fabulous! So like you! Jolly good! I was afraid it was going to be one of those modern jobs when you don’t know what’s going on, let alone whether it’s meant to be any particular person.’
Hermione said, ‘It flatters me, but I expect I should have been cross if it hadn’t.’
People ran out of things to say about it quite quickly, but she noticed that Michael went on looking at it in a serious way, almost as though it was new to him.
Soon after that, a night club was proposed: ‘There’s been a warning,’ someone said; and somebody else retorted, ‘There’s always a warning. I don’t intend to have my night life disturbed by Herr Goering.’
Marion said, ‘I honestly think I’ll opt out. I’m on duty tomorrow night, and I’m frightfully short of sleep. But do go, Frank, if you want to.’
‘No. I’ll take you home, and then I’ll repair to the old bunker. I may be chairborne, but there’s a hell of a lot of work at the moment.’
In the end, it was just four of them: Hermione, the silent John, Michael and herself who went to the Astor in Berkeley Street in John’s car.
The place seemed very dark when they went into it, but Louise found that one soon got used to that. It was fairly full, but they knew Hermione and a table was quickly found for them. Champagne was ordered and Michael said that he would like some soda water as well. Hermione asked Michael to dance with her and, slightly disappointed, Louise was left with John, who also seemed disappointed.
‘Shall we?’ was all he said.
But he was easy to dance with: the small floor was very crowded and he was skilful at avoiding other dancers.
‘Did you like the portrait?’ she ventured, to break the silence.
‘Don’t know anything about pictures,’ he answered. ‘But I should think anyone could make a good picture of Hermione.’
‘She’s the most glamorous person I’ve ever met.’
This animated him. ‘Isn’t she? Tremendously bright with it, too. In fact, she’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met in my life. Have you known her long?’
‘Well, she’s a very old friend of my mother’s. So, in a sort of way, I have. Although, you know, you don’t ever know your parents’ friends.’
‘I suppose not.’ After a while, he said, ‘Do you know Michael?’
‘Never met him before. What’s his other name?’
‘You don’t know that?’ For some reason this pleased him. ‘He’s supposed to be famous. A famous portrait painter. His pictures cost the earth. Hermione would never have afforded to be painted by him. Someone gave it to her, but she won’t say who.’ He was depressed again.
‘How did he paint it if he’s in the Navy – he said in a destroyer?’
When it became her turn to dance with Michael she discovered that he was an almost frighteningly good dancer. It was a quickstep, and he whirled her into all kinds of elaborate decorations. She became tense with the effort to keep up with him.
‘Just relax and follow me,’ he said, but these directions seemed incompatible to her.
‘Sorry. I’m not good enough for you.’
‘Nonsense! I’ve just had more practice. I used to go to the Hammersmith Palais every week. See? When I turn your shoulder, you just go the only way you can go.’
But it didn’t seem to be like that at all for her.
‘The others are dancing,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back and talk. My subject is only beginning to be destroyers. What it has been up till now is faces. And you have the most extraordinarily beautiful face. I can’t wait to draw it. Lots of people think my paintings are rather vulgar, and I expect they are right, but I draw rather well. When can I draw you?’
‘I don’t know.’ She was overwhelmed by his description of her face and longed to go away and look at it to see how it had changed. ‘I’m only up for one night. My parents are sticky about me staying in London.’
‘I’m sure they’re right. Well, perhaps you could—’
But at that moment something so extraordinary happened that it seemed as though everything stopped. There was a dull, very loud explosion, and the next second it felt as though the whole room lurched, as though the walls were stumbling to stay upright; the large dimmed chandeliers shook with an uneven chinking sound, the little red-shaded lamps on each table quivered, and their champagne swayed in the glasses. There was a gasp in the room and she heard one woman cry out, ‘Oh!’ in an unnaturally high voice, but all this seemed to happen at once. Then, very slowly, a small piece of plaster fell from the ceiling on to their table beside their glasses. Through it, she had sat bolt upright, motionless.
Michael took her hand. ‘What a brave girl,’ he said. ‘I had been going to say, come down to Wiltshire for a weekend, my mother would like to meet you. Now I am sure that she would.’
‘A bomb?’ she said.
‘A bomb fairly near, I should think.’
Hermione and John returned to the table at this point.
‘They really are the limit!’ Hermione drawled. ‘One can’t even have a little innocent exercise and fun without them trying to spoil it. Let’s have another bottle of delicious champagne to cheer us up.’
When the waiter came for the order, he said that they said the church in Piccadilly had been hit. Some people were leaving, but Hermione said they should stay. ‘It isn’t as though they’re raining down on us.’ She looked at Louise. ‘Are you all right, my pet?’
Louise nodded. Now, after being called brave, she was feeling rather shaky.
A long time later, when she and Hermione had been deposited at Hermione’s flat and were taking off their wraps in the hall, Hermione remarked, ‘You were a great hit with Michael Hadleigh. Did you have a good time?’
‘Oh, it was a wonderful evening. It was terribly kind of you to ask me.’
Louise kissed her sculptured scented face; Hermione gave her a little pat, and said, I warn you, he’s a great breaker of hearts. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him again, but don’t get too taken with him, will you, darling?’
‘No, I won’t.’ She said that because she felt it was expected of her, but privately she wondered whether he could, or would break her heart.
Hermione eyed her, looked as though she was going to say something, and changed her mind.
Then, when Louise had undressed and was brushing her teeth, she knocked softly on the door. ‘Forgot to tell you, darling, I’ll be off early in the morning, so I shan’t see you.’
‘Are you going to your factory?’
‘I’m off to my very own factory. Yes. You sleep as late as you like, and ring for Yvonne when you want your breakfast. And be a good girl and catch your train back to Sussex before lunch, or your mother will never let me have you again. Compris?’ And she was gone.
As she got into bed, the all clear went. It was twenty past four. It would hardly be worth poor Hermione going to bed, she thought, as her head touched the pillow and sleep overcame her.
The next morning she was awoken by Yvonne who said there was a gentleman on the telephone.
‘This is Michael,’ he said, ‘Michael Hadleigh.’
‘Hallo.’
‘Have I woken you up?’
She looked at her watch: it said ten. ‘Not really.’
‘I’ve rung my mother, and she says it would be lovely if you came down next weekend.’
‘Well – I don’t think—’ She had planned to see Stella then.
‘The thing is that it is my last weekend before I rejoin my ship. So it is rather then, or heaven knows when. Do come; I shall be unspeakably sad if you don’t.’
So, she said that she would see if she could rearrange her plans and, of course, she could.
‘Michael Hadleigh? The one who paints those Academy-type portraits? Why on earth do you want to see him?’ This was Stella at her most spiky. ‘I know,’ she added. ‘I bet he told you you were unbearably beautiful and you couldn’t resist the bait.’ She could be maddening as well. ‘And his mother’s the daughter of an earl. It’ll all be frightfully grand.’
‘How do you know all that?’
‘Mutti reads all the sort of papers that tell you that kind of thing. She’s always hoping to spot someone eligible for me – at least, that’s her ostensible reason when we tease her about it, but actually she’s a straightforward snob. She loves reading about high life.’
‘Well, come and stay with us the weekend after, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘All right, I’ll come, but not because I want to hear all about that. And, Louise, for goodness sake don’t fall for him because it’ll ruin your life. You’re far too young to get all tied up with anybody.’
The being far too young rankled. Stella could be very bossy. She wouldn’t think she was too young for anything, and nineteen was not that much older: it was a bit much having one’s best friend treat one as a child.
‘I have no intention of getting tied up with anybody,’ she said as loftily as she could manage.
‘Spend a weekend with Michael Hadleigh? The portrait painter? Certainly not!’
‘Mummy, it’s not just with him. It’s with his parents. They have a house in Wiltshire. He’s on leave: he’s going back to his ship after that.’
That was better, but it still didn’t do the trick. Her mother rang Hermione who gave her Lady Zinnia’s telephone number in the country, and Mummy rang her: it was all most humiliating, but it also had made her really want to go. So when her mother finally said that she might go and began fussing about things like her not wearing trousers, Louise sulked and was offhand about the whole thing.
It wasn’t until she was sitting in the train to London, a headscarf over her newly washed hair, wearing clothes that she would have died to let her friends at the acting school see – an olive green tweed coat and skirt, stockings and proper shoes (socks and sandals were the mode at school) and with a handbag (people used canvas fishing tackle satchels in which they could conceal their gas masks) and her mother’s rather expensive Revelation suitcase on the rack above her, that she began to feel both nervous and excited about the prospect ahead. She had told herself all kinds of things about it: that an actress should get as much experience about as many different kinds of people as possible, that the pangs of homesickness from which she still occasionally suffered could only be vanquished by frequent efforts, that he probably hadn’t meant a word that he had said about her – and, after all, it wasn’t much – but then she would remember him saying it: ‘You – are – lovely.’ It
was like a double brandy on an empty stomach. Her family did not mention, let alone discuss, people’s appearance, with the exception of her mother who criticised it. She knew that she was clumsy: movement classes at her school had made that clear to her, apart from her mother’s devastating remarks. But nobody had ever said that she was O.K. to look at, let alone lovely. Perhaps he is the only person in the world who would think that, she thought. She knew that painters had some funny tastes about people’s appearance, liking sometimes quite fat and sloppy people, or people whose faces could in no way be described as conventionally beautiful. It was quite likely that he was one of them. Why did it matter to her so very much? She did not know, only vaguely supposing that people loved you starting from that, and if they didn’t have that to start with they would not bother to love the rest. And it seemed to her that, apart from becoming a great actress, she wanted someone to feel that she was the most special person on earth. She was not exactly hunting, but she had begun to want to be hunted.
He met her at Pewsey station in the late afternoon wearing a polo-necked jersey and very old grey flannel bags, a stocky, rather square figure – But I do not feel like Lydia or Kitty Bennet about uniforms, she thought. How useful Jane Austen often was, because otherwise she would have caught herself thinking how much more glamorous he looked in naval dress.
‘Your train was hardly late at all,’ he said, ‘although, of course, the “hardly” seemed a long time.’ He took her suitcase from her. ‘It’s wonderful that you could come. Mummy is longing to meet you.’
A fiery sun was setting, leaving a cold, darkening, translucent sky. They drove along a valley with large fields of stubble – like golden stumpwork – and beyond gentle shoulders of chalky downs, moth-coloured in the dying light. It was far less crowded country than the kind she was used to: there were fewer trees and those there were were gracefully windswept by the prevailing wind. He drove fast through the narrow winding roads that climbed up out of the valley, through one or two dark little hamlets, whose only signs of life were the occasional wisps of smoke from chimneys, until they reached a wood, and in the middle of it a drive.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 82