A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  She walked back out to the garden, sat down at her patio table, tore open the envelope. The figures appeared as a jumble before her eyes. She put on her glasses. It was worse than she had expected. All that text in red, the capital letters, the penalties, the final figure. She wished she had Marcus Green in her employ now, protecting her with his enormous bulk from these demands of the tax authorities. She thought about phoning Edy again, getting down on her knees, begging for the part the same way as shameless Kate had done, regretting the finality of their ‘fuck you’ exchange. She picked up her mobile, retrieved Edy’s contact number, let her thumb hover over the green icon of the call button. Swallow her pride, that was what she should do. Instead she swallowed the bile of terror that had risen in her throat, replaced the phone on the patio table.

  She looked around her garden, then back through the open doors into her bedroom, viewing her property not as a home-owner but as an estate agent might. Two bedroom ground floor flat situated in quiet cul-de-sac in sought-after part of Highgate. Recently refurbished to exceptionally high standard. Both bedrooms en-suite. Large handcrafted kitchen-dining area. Italian marble worktops. Delightful private garden and patio area. Owner desperate to sell due to slump in career and horrendous tax problems. She glanced back down at the form in her lap, the sum total of her arrears, then called for help. Victoria arrived within the hour. Laura was at the ready with a chilled bottle of white wine and two large glasses.

  ‘What happened to the thirty percent rule?’ Victoria, also a client of the formidable Marcus Green, asked.

  ‘I followed it for a while and then…’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Things came up.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Holidays. The fees for my father’s nursing home. Those in themselves are almost £3,000 a month. Renovating this place. The new Mini. Hotels. Meals out. You know me, Victoria, I’m not an extravagant person but money just seems to slip through my fingers. Like water down a drain.’

  Victoria shook her head solemnly in the same way Marcus Green used to do when confronted with the economic frailties of his clients. ‘Receipts?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘In an accessible container?’

  ‘I have a box.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start. You could take it over to Marcus, get one of his minions to sort out the paperwork.’

  ‘It’s not going to make much difference. This bill is for money already owed.’

  Victoria whistled then took a slug of wine. ‘Any work?’ she asked.

  ‘Only the Georgie Hepburn project.’

  ‘I hope your pal Sal is paying you for that.’

  ‘We’re approaching a couple of investors for some seed money.’

  Victoria gave one of her patient sighs that made Laura feel like a child.

  ‘What about a proper paid acting job, Laura?’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She recounted the telephone conversation with Edy.

  ‘Not the best of moves,’ Victoria noted. ‘At the worst of times.’

  ‘You know what? I don’t regret it.’

  ‘You might when the bailiffs start pressing your buzzer. What about June? Can she help you?’

  It was always strange to hear Victoria use her mother’s first name like that. When they were at drama school, Victoria would always call her Mrs Scott when she visited. But then somewhere along the line, Mrs Scott became June. When did that happen? When Victoria became a wife, a mother, reached a certain age? It was as if they were the best of friends now. Or at the very least, it suggested that Victoria had a different, more intimate relationship with her mother than she, her own daughter, could ever have.

  ‘I’ve never asked my mother for money. And I never will.’

  ‘Even in a crisis situation?’

  ‘Especially in a crisis situation. She’d just lecture me until her dying breath on what a mess I’ve made of my life. Anyway, I doubt if she has that kind of cash lying around.’

  ‘How is she anyway? June.’

  ‘Still cruising the world. Probably having more sex than I am.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be difficult. How old is she now… seventy-two?

  ‘Seventy-five.’

  ‘I hope I can be like her at that age.’

  ‘What? A self-centred old bag with no time for her only child.’

  ‘I was thinking of her joie de vivre.’

  ‘And I thought you were here to talk about me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Victoria leaned forward, poured herself another glass of wine. ‘What will you do then?’

  ‘There is only one thing I can do. I’ll have to sell this place.’

  ‘But you love it here.’

  ‘I know.’

  Victoria surveyed the space in which they sat and sighed. ‘It’s so nice to have a garden.’

  Laura knew that whenever Victoria talked about anyone else’s garden she was using it as a metaphor for the break-up of her marriage and the loss of her own family home. A three-bedroom Victorian semi with extensive acreage at the rear that had to be down-sized for the modern garden-less flat she and her two children now occupied. ‘We had rabbits,’ Victoria recalled. ‘And tortoises.’

  Laura refused to be drawn. ‘Jobless and homeless,’ she said of her own situation. ‘Who would’ve thought it?’

  ‘I wish I could help you. But you know my own position is…’

  ‘That’s sweet of you. But I need to work this out by myself.’

  ‘What about Jack?’

  Laura stared at her fingernails, the lack of varnish here and there. That was what happened when she wasn’t working, no make-up artist to keep her right. ‘I’m not going to ask Jack for money.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I was just wondering if you could get him to lean on the producers of that Boston Tea Party film to give you back the part. He’s bound to have influence.’

  ‘I don’t want Jack to help me. And I don’t want that part.’

  ‘God, Laura, you’re impossible sometimes. You told me just a few weeks ago that being a film actress was what gave your life meaning.’

  ‘I told you that since I hadn’t fulfilled my biological function by having children, I needed to fulfil my life in other ways. This is what I am doing with this play about Georgie.’

  ‘You’d better call the estate agents then.’

  Chapter Forty

  The Hepburn Archives

  Transcript from BBC Radio 4 interview

  Broadcasting House, London

  16th May 1982

  Interviewer: Sir Peter Delamere

  Interviewee: Georgie Hepburn

  PD: Are you ready to start again, Georgie?

  GH: I think so. I really needed that cup of tea.

  PD: I’m sorry for turning it into such a long day but we wanted to make the most of your time while we had you.

  GH: [LAUGHING] You mean in case I pop my clogs sooner rather than later.

  PD: [ALSO LAUGHING] You know what I mean. [PAUSE] What are you doing afterwards? We can have dinner if you would like? Or are you heading back to Oxfordshire?

  GH: That’s kind of you, Peter, but I’m meeting up with my god-daughter once we’re finished here.

  PD: Ah yes. Susan. Well, next time you’re in town then. Helen and I would love to have you over… oh, there’s the signal from the producer. Shall we begin?

  GH: Ready when you are.

  PD: OK. We’ll just pick up from when you were talking about this lost generation trapped between the end of the Second World War and the Swinging Sixties… I’ll count us in… one, two, three and… What do you mean by that exactly? A lost generation?

  GH: Well, if I can go back first to the Great War. When that was over, things changed very quickly. There was an immediate reaction to all that had gone before. I think women were a great driving force because they had become used to going out to work, earning a wage. Of course, there was the suffragette
movement as well. And then along came the movies and the radio and jazz and the telephone. We had iconoclasts like James Joyce, DH Lawrence, TS Eliot, Louis Armstrong, Picasso, Chagall. The Dadaists. I don’t think it was like that after the Second World War. It was a slower process. The old values like loyalty and civility and class division and honour and collective responsibility and sexual modesty, well they were being eroded more slowly. Until The Beatles came along. And bang! Everything changed overnight.

  PD: What about Elvis?

  GH: He could have been the trailblazer. But then the army sucked him in and that was the end of any real influence he had on transforming the prevailing culture.

  PD: So you blame everything on The Beatles?

  GH: Only in so far as they were the focus, the headliners, the star act. Of course, there were lots of others too. Jagger and the Stones, Warhol, Dylan, Mary Quant, Twiggy, Hendrix, David Bailey and many, many more. But The Beatles became the poster boys for the revolution. They just seemed to wipe out everything that had gone before. Not just in music. But fashion, art, photography. Attitudes to sex, attitudes to government, to war, to authority, to religion, to the previous generation. There was no sense of shame anymore. The young had money in their pockets and they were going to make the most of it. It was brutal if you were of that previous generation.

  PD: And that’s what made your work so important. You photographed that lost generation.

  GH: I was part of that lost generation, Peter. But as I said before, I just got lucky I suppose. I started off taking photographs of my mother because she was dying and it just grew from there. I had to put her in a home where many of the residents were ex-servicemen and women or just plain elderly. I ended up spending time with many of them, listening to their stories, gaining their trust. And eventually, they would let me photograph them. At first, it was just simple snapshots. In the end, I would visit with lighting equipment and back-drops. Proper portraits. Black and white.

  PD: I have a copy of your latest book in front of me. It’s quite a remarkable collection.

  GH: Well, Susan was responsible for that. She curates all of my photographs for me.

  PD: Susan, of course, for the benefit of our listeners being…?

  GH: My god-daughter. Susan Holloway. But not just my god-daughter. She has a fine arts degree. And many years experience working in the art world. Also very good taste.

  PD: As is evident in this collection. We also have a few fascinating photographs of big time movie stars. Cary Grant. Audrey Hepburn. Gary Cooper. Just to mention a few.

  GH: They were all around me at the time. Susan insisted I put them in.

  PD: It sounds as if you were against that?

  GH: I never wanted to be known for these kind of celebrity shots. But Susan says I need to think of them as my Trojan horse. Drawing the audience in before I reveal the true nature of my work.

  PD: That sounds like a reasonable tactic.

  GH: Perhaps.

  PD: I sense a reluctance there.

  GH: It’s always been a touchy subject with me.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Hidden Treasure

  Laura tried to put all thoughts of tax bills behind her as she drove down to Kent, destination All Saints’ Church in the village of Tudeley. Quentin had sent her one of his usual enigmatic emails just before she set out: Church location challenging. Lane to left, off B2017. Eyes peeled. Q.

  He was right. Her destination wasn’t easy to find. Her satnav had no knowledge of such a place and she ended up passing the entrance lane twice before finally noticing it. Fifteen minutes later than expected, she drove into a car park adjoining a grassy graveyard and a modest stone church. Quentin was waiting for her, all in a lean against a beautiful, vintage open-top motor car. He had dressed for the occasion in a tweed suit and peaked motoring cap. She had to smile. All he needed was a pair of goggles and his touring outfit was complete. He waved her in to park beside him, gallantly opened her door.

  ‘So is this the surprise?’ she said, pointing to his car.

  ‘What? The automobile? No, no, no. Although it is a beauty. It was Grandma Ginny’s. A nineteen thirty-eight Triumph Dolomite Roadster Coupé. Exceptionally rare these days.’

  ‘It’s the one from the photograph with Georgie and your mother. Grandma Ginny on the bonnet with the camera.’

  ‘Well spotted,’ he said. ‘I take her out for a run whenever the sun shines. We can go for a spin later if you want.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Excellent. But first the real surprise.’

  She looked around her. The tiny medieval church was typical of many an English village but for a non-descript red brick tower apparently added much later than the original stonework. The building itself was surrounded by well-kept lawns hosting a smattering of ancient gravestones. A few other unremarkable outbuildings were dispersed around the perimeter. What could he mean?

  Quentin guided her towards the small porch entrance to the church, also constructed in red brick. In the vestibule, the usual busy mosaic of community posters for church services, fêtes, planning meetings, nothing to prepare her for what awaited inside. Quentin pushed open the stout wooden door. As she stepped forward onto the cold stone floor, her first visual sweep of the interior caused her to gasp.

  ‘My goodness,’ she whispered. ‘The windows. Are they…? Chagall? Marc Chagall?’

  Quentin was smiling, nodding gleefully, like a parent watching a child open a longed-for present. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘The one and only.’

  She counted them off. There were twelve of them, all done in stained glass by the famous Russian-French artist. She hadn’t noticed them from the outside because they had been covered in mesh and bars. But from the inside they were spectacular. One giant centre piece graced the apse behind the altar, the other smaller windows were scattered throughout the church. Blue was the predominant colour, not that dissimilar in shade from Quentin’s roadster, those rich and bold indigo hues so typical of the artist but various pale yellows and greens had crept into the designs as well. The main window depicted a compassionate-looking Christ in crucifixion hovering in the sky above two figures awash in a stormy sea. Quentin explained that this window had been commissioned by one of the parishioners whose daughter and a friend had drowned in a tragic boating accident in the 1960s.

  ‘Chagall was so impressed on seeing this window in situ,’ Quentin told her, ‘that he immediately decided to create stained glass designs for the other eleven windows as well.’

  She wandered around the rest of the interior. With no-one else in the building, it was like a private viewing. She had always loved Chagall’s work. She had seen his windows at the Hadassah University Medical Centre in Jerusalem but it was impossible to get anywhere near them. Here, because the windows were not positioned high up in the walls, she was able to inspect them quite closely. It was remarkable that she could approach such priceless works of art in this way – not in a museum or a gallery but in a simple English village church. The side windows were not so figurative as the main east window, being inlaid mainly with petal, lozenge or butterfly shapes. But she was quite overwhelmed by the beauty of them all. She sat down on one of the pews, watched the subtle change in the colour of the sunlight as it became diffused through the stained glass. Perhaps it was her emotional state from so much going on in her life but she felt so moved by what she was seeing that she actually felt like crying. Quentin came to sit beside her. She was grateful they could sit together silently for a while until he said:

  ‘Aunt Georgie used to bring me here when I was little. She loved this place. Chagall was her favourite painter.’

  ‘It’s not difficult to see why.’

  ‘If I create from the heart, nearly everything works. A quote of his she was fond of repeating.’

  ‘Words you could apply to her work as much as his. In the end, I believe that’s what people respond most to. Honest, heartfelt creation.’

  ‘I agree. And the
situation of these glorious windows in such a humble place only adds to the majesty of it all.’

  Quentin was right, she thought. This was how art should be seen. Not shut away in some museum or gallery. But in everyday settings like this. She looked across at him. He had closed his eyes, tilted his face so that the light through one of the windows could bathe his pale skin.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ she said.

  He stirred from his reverie. ‘My pleasure. All part of my devious plan to make you like me.’ He patted her hand. ‘Now, I believe we have favours to exchange.’

  ‘Shall we go outside? It seems sacrilegious to discuss such matters in here.’

  ‘I see our privacy is about to be invaded anyway,’ Quentin noted as several members of a coach party began to funnel into the church.

  They sat in Quentin’s car. Even though she had no particular interest in matters automobile, she couldn’t help but be seduced by the blue, cracked leather seats, the mahogany dashboard with its old-fashioned dials and switches – it all seemed so hand-crafted and bespoke, so well-used but yet lovingly preserved – belonging to a world of care and attention that didn’t seem to exist any more. Quentin drummed his fingers against the large steering wheel.

  ‘How shall we do this?’ she asked.

  ‘Ladies first?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ She sat up in her seat, turned towards him, their closeness slightly disconcerting for such a negotiation. ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Quentin…’

  ‘That’s fine with me. I prefer we should be straight-talking. Shoot from the hip, as they say.’

  ‘All right then. It’s funding we’re after. This play… Georgie by Georgie. Sal and I were wondering whether you’d be interested in investing.’

  Quentin sucked in a breath. ‘I see. How much?’

  ‘We need around forty thousand pounds for start-up costs. So a contribution towards that. We didn’t think it was inappropriate to ask. After all, you’ve had so much involvement in the project already.’