Would it be an idea to invent some phrase, some characteristic, perhaps for the Aunt, so every time the reader heard it, she’d know who was speaking? Or would the reader heave with boredom and go and see Gone With the Wind for the tenth time?
Eugenie had read two books on how to write a novel. In the main, they both gave completely contradictory advice. The first told her that the characters would take over, they would take on a life of their own and, in a way, write the novel for her.
The second writer said snappily that there was no question of the characters taking over. ‘It’s my train, it’s got my name on it, and I’m the driver. I don’t mind if two characters pop their heads into my cab to ask if I’ll stop at the next siding so they can have a bit of how’s your father. But they are not, repeat not, going to drive my train.’
What both writers did agree on was the need for the aspiring writer to really know her characters. To get under their skin. ‘What you have to do,’ the first book said daringly, ‘is get into bed with all your characters.’
To Eugenie this meant lists. She went home, took a foolscap pad and headed up several pages with the main characters’ names. She’d learned from David, when he was marking up his copy of Macbeth to learn for his exams, the advantage of using different coloured pens. Body text (plot) was underlined in red. Essential quotable quotes were in green. It was a good method because the different colours helped fix each page in David’s mind.
So, in red capitals, Eugenie wrote headings on her foolscap pad.
AGE. WHERE BORN AND WHEN. APPEARANCE. CLOTHES. FOOD LIKES. FOOD DISLIKES. INTERESTS (HOBBIES.) JOB. TEMPERAMENT – Jealous, passionate, emotionally detached etc. FAVOURITE COLOURS. TYPE OF CAR.
On Boxing Day she slipped a couple of five pound notes into an envelope and, as usual went down to the caretaker’s office. ‘A Christmas box for you.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Plantagenet.’ The caretaker’s wife took the envelope. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t spend it all at once.’
She said this every year. To Eugenie it was as much a part of Christmas as the carols round the gigantic tree in Trafalgar Square.
Since the caretaker’s wife would not be doing her usual Friday stint in Eugenie’s flat, she whisked round herself with the Hoover and a duster. There wasn’t much to do in what she now thought of as David’s bathroom. He always left it clean and tidy.
Shining up his shaving mirror, she found herself smiling. Why on earth was she smiling when she was cleaning a bathroom?
She knew perfectly well the answer to that, and wondered what time David would get here. He had told her the trains would be running on Boxing Day. Mr Carter and Art were going by train to the dog track.
‘How did you get on?’ David asked, not quite as soon as he arrived, because they spent the afternoon in bed. He brought her a cup of tea and sat on the bed.
‘With Minx? It’s much harder than I thought.’
‘Am I in it?’
‘No. I already told you, you’re not in it.’
‘Is it set in London?’
‘I haven’t even worked out where to set it. Starts in the South of France, but that’s easy, there’s lots been written about Nice. But I want to move it away to somewhere really remote, really foreign.’
‘Let me think about it.’
When they came back from dinner, instead of tearing off her dress as he usually did, David got out his atlas. After a while, he pointed at a large brown splodge.
‘Romania. It’s remote, no-one really goes there. And it’s massive. Borders with Ukraine, Hungary, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and the Balkan Sea.’ He read on, ‘About 75 per cent of the people are Romanian. The rest are Magyar, German, Jewish, Ruthenian, Russian, Bulgarian, Turkish and Gypsy.’
‘Would they speak any French?’
‘It says yes. Reading between the lines, this lot seem to be able to speak anything.’
‘Is there a royal family? I’ve got someone who’s a count.’
‘Hang on. I’ve got a sort of atlas companion book. Gives you potted histories of people…Yup, here we are. Queen Marie, granddaughter of Queen Victoria. She’d have been Princess Mary in England, of course. Married the heir to the Romanian throne when she was seventeen. Horror in Britain…Where the heck was Romania? Oh my God! Romania semi-barbaric, English not spoken. Oh dear, poor Princess Mary! But Marie got on with the job. Learned Romanian and dressed in traditional peasant clothes. Very colourful, the book says. The people adored her.’
‘This is great. Can you think of a name for my count? So far I’ve just called him Count Thing.’
David laughed. ‘You don’t want anything too foreign, too tongue twisty. Something that sounds foreign, but sounds familiar at the same time.’
‘Well I’m going to bed.’
‘Oh thanks! I’m only trying to help.’
In the morning, he opened his eyes, put on his glasses and said, ‘Got it!’
‘What?’
‘Your name. How about Count Alexandru?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.’
‘I need to phone Art. Is that all right?’
‘Of course.’
He spoke to Art at length. When he’d finished, Eugenie was soaking in a scented bath.
‘Can I come in?’
‘You mean into the room or into the bath?’
‘I’ve never done that. Had a bath with anyone.’
Well, well. Something the teacher didn’t teach you. Still, if she was in digs, she probably had to share a bathroom, down the stairs and on the landing, with a load of other diggers.
She flicked some warm water at David. ‘Come on in then. The water, as they say, is lovely.’
‘So are you.’ He put his glasses on the bathroom shelf and joined her in the water. Sounded romantic in novels, but in reality it was damned awkward. He was taller than she was, and he didn’t want to bang her with his long legs. And he could have done without the taps jabbing into his back.
‘Right. Romania. Art says one of the biggest areas is called Transylvania. You remember your Latin?’
‘I didn’t do Latin.’
‘Sylva means wood, or wooded. It’s where Dracula was supposed to have had his castle. You know, I told you, Art’s joined the Dracula Society. So Transylvania’s got woods, and castles. Your count could have a castle, probably near a big lake.’
‘It’s just very difficult to imagine, when you’ve never been to a place.’
‘No it’s not. Author called Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, and he never set foot in Transylvania. He lived in Aberdeenshire. And Count Dracula’s castle was inspired by Cruden Bay castle in Scotland…’
Eugenie was doing very interesting things to him with her soapy sponge. Suddenly, this bath lark seemed a very good idea.
When they were dressed, David said, ‘You haven’t asked about your Christmas present.’
‘Well I thought you’d let me in on the secret eventually.’ He had arrived yesterday with a large package, but they’d been so busy, somehow, the moment hadn’t seemed right for her to open it.
‘It’s on the sofa,’ David said. ‘Go and look.’
Propped on the sofa was a gold-framed pencil portrait of her. She picked it up and saw it was signed, ‘Art.’
‘He did it from one of the shots I took of you wearing your blue dress. What d’you think?’
‘It’s fantastic. He’s really got talent, your friend. He’s got my eyes beautifully.’
‘Pity it’s not in colour. Your hair. But Art said he wanted the portrait to be expressive of you, not dominated by marigold hair. Art’s a bit of a purist when it comes to colour.’
He hung the gold-framed portrait on a hook above the sofa. In Marisa’s day the hook had held a picture of a swoony Victorian girl, which Eugenie suspected was a cast-off from Toby’s people.
Mentally, David was still in Romania. ‘Well you’ll want to get on with this novel, now you’ve started. How w
ill you fit that in with your job?’
‘I thought – since I don’t see you in the week – I’d bash on with it in the evenings.’
‘Good idea,’ David said. ‘Keep you out of mischief.’
For her birthday in February, David insisted on taking her out to dinner. He suggested that, just for a change, they should ‘do’ English, so he suggested the Top of the Tower. The tower was the Post Office tower, and the tallest building in London. Butlin’s ran the revolving rooftop restaurant, providing panoramic views of the capital.
Eugenie, prone to vertigo, said she’d rather not go. Instead, they tried a place they’d never been to before called the Tiddy Dols Eating House in Mayfair’s Shepherd Market.
The menu took some reading. It was very detailed.
‘ROAST SADDLE OF SOUTHDOWN LAMB. Wild thyme, parsley, mint and marjoram are powdered and rubbed into the lamb which is left on the bone to preserve its special flavour. A few cloves of Welsh garlick are stuck into the lamb and it is roasted on a bed of rosemary to a dark crispy finish by basting continually in its own juices. Southdown lambs are bred to be England’s best. They graze on fine spicy turf. A complete saddle for two persons 19/6 a person.
‘JUGGED HARE Southern brown hare marinated for 12 hours in red wine, bay leaves, thyme, marjoram etc., then casseroled (‘jugged’ is our old word) in the resulting rich sauce with a dash of port. Served with fried forcemeat balls. 15/-‘
Eugenie glanced up. ‘All this explanation, probably aimed at tourists. They even tell you exactly what steak and kidney pudding is. I mean –‘ Eugenie broke off. ‘David, what’s wrong? You look as taut as an over-wound clock. What is it? You worried about your exams?’
‘Not really. It’s only mocks, just a trial run. Dawson’s in a stew about the real thing. It’s in June. He always gets hay fever.’
Then David asked her to marry him.
Chapter Three
‘I can’t marry you! You’re still at school.’
‘I’ll be leaving in the summer.’
‘All right, so we’ll wait till you’ve left school and talk about it then.’
‘No. I want to get married now.’
‘But what will you tell them at school?’
‘I won’t tell them.’
‘What about your mother, Mr Carter?’
‘I won’t tell them, either.’
‘You’ll have to tell Art. He’s your best friend.’
‘I am definitely not telling Art. He’s a blabber. He’s known as the BBC. He broadcast to the entire class that Dawson’s got a small dick.’
Eugenie grinned. ‘Well you certainly don’t have that problem.’
Eugenie applied herself to her BRAISED ROYAL VENISON and decided that actually, she felt pleasingly flattered. No-one had ever proposed to her before. The married men weren’t in a position to, and Eugenie didn’t consider suggestions like, ‘I suppose I could leave my wife,’ were meant with serious intent. Of the rest, they were either confirmed bachelors or divorced and determined not to ‘get trapped’ again.
The librarian – her name was Lou – had written to announce that she was engaged. She sent a photo of an agreeable looking, hunky guy and revealed, ‘I call him Ajax, because he’s virile and thick.’
‘I want to get you a nice wedding ring,’ David had gone to the length of taking off his glasses to peer suspiciously at his CHICKEN PIE TO AN OLD ENGLISH RECIPE, which also threatened, ‘pieces of egg, forcemeat balls with a trace of garlick…’
‘I’ll take you to Richard Ogden, Marigold. That’s the place.’
Richard Ogden was in the Burlington Arcade and was, to Eugenie, cripplingly expensive.
‘David, how do you know anything about West End jewellers?’
‘Frieda gets this magazine, Harper’s Bazaar. She passes it on to my mum and my mum shrieks at all the prices.’
‘I’m not surprised. David, let me buy the ring.’
‘No. I want to do it.’
‘But you’ll be dipping into your going-round-the-world fund.’
‘Mr Carter gave me a whopping Christmas box. Anyway, can we get married next month?’
Smiling, Eugenie reached across and kissed him.
*
Walking home to Marylebone, she asked, ‘Are you religious?’
‘No. I certainly wouldn’t want a church wedding. Bloke in Stupples had one and lost nearly two stone in the run-up. What a palaver.’
Eugenie told him that her antipathy to religion stemmed from a Religious Education class where the girls had been required, one Sunday, to tog up in school uniform and attend a high-Anglican service.
‘I’d never smelt incense. It really got my throat. And then when it came to the communion wine, what fascinated me was the way the men and women behaved differently. The men took a sip, and passed the cup on. But the women hung onto the damn thing, glugging away like they were down the pub.’
‘Didn’t your mother go to church?’
‘Marisa? No. She’d have enjoyed spending the entire week planning her Sunday outfit. But she couldn’t possibly have taken Reg along.’
Eugenie went to book the wedding at Marylebone Town Hall, and reported back, ‘Right. We’ve got a provisional date for mid-March. But you need parental consent. You’re under age. Your mother’s got to sign this Consent form. Now how can she do that if you haven’t told her you’re getting married?’
‘That’s okay. Mum’s not great on reading. I’ll slip it in with some other stuff, and tell her it’s all for school. Now. We’ve got to go and get that ring.’
They walked down to Piccadilly and entered the Burlington Arcade. Richard Ogden was next door to a shop selling cashmere in luscious, fondant colours. Eugenie was in a dream, imagining all that luxury next to her bare skin, but David was hurrying her into the jewellers.
When David had explained their mission, the middle-aged manager locked the shop door and invited them into a back room, where two comfortably padded chairs were set in front of a green baize-topped table.
‘I want something very simple. Sort of thin,’ Eugenie said, her mind nervously anticipating the price. A slim ring would be cheaper, surely?
The manager nodded. ‘Yes, I think the vogue for very wide rings has passed.’ He went away and came back with five gold rings gleaming on a cushion of blue velvet.
Eugenie stared at them, helpless. They were all lovely, but none of them were priced.
The manager leaned forward. ‘This one may be of particular interest to you. It’s made of Welsh gold. Very rare now, as there isn’t much Welsh gold left and it’s supposed to be reserved for royal brides. Of course, we haven’t had a royal bride since Princess Margaret. I suppose we’ll just have to wait for Princess Anne.’
David and Eugenie smothered giggles. Princess Anne was too horsy, surely? She’d probably charge down the Westminster Abbey aisle at full gallop.
David slipped the ring onto Eugenie’s finger. It looked heavenly.
‘Twenty-four carat,’ the manager murmured. ‘Delightful. Very understated, of course. But we could always engrave it for you. If I may suggest, orange blossom would be a charming choice.’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’ David said. ‘We’d like this ring and we’d like the orange blossom engraving. Will that work all right on 24-carat gold?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I assure you.’
‘Can you do it quickly? We’re getting married in a few weeks.’
‘We can have it ready for you in seven days, sir.’ He disappeared with the other rings, and when he returned he went on smoothly, ‘Perhaps the lady would like to rest here, while you come with me sir, and give me your details.’
Spying from the door, Eugenie saw that ‘giving details’ involved David reciting the Marylebone address and phone number, and handing over a terrifying number of £50 notes.
As soon as they were bowed out of the shop, she demanded, ‘How much did it cost?’
‘None of your business.’
<
br /> ‘But cash! Surely you’ve got a bank account?’
‘No. I keep my wages in the post office. I could hardly hand him a wad of postal orders, could I?’
Eugenie had paused at the bottom of the Burlington Arcade, outside the mens’ outfitters where she had bought David’s white shirt.
‘We’d better get you a silk tie. You can’t get married in your school tie. And it’s disgusting. Looks like you mop up ink with it.’ At Wembley Grammar, like Marylebone High, pupils were not allowed to use Biros. Bottles of ink had to be carted round in satchels, with the ensuing spills endowing the leather with a smell that would stay nostalgically with the owner for life.
When David returned with the Consent form he said, ‘Sometimes I wonder about my mum. She said, Am I supposed to sign this in blood? She must have twigged, Art and me, we’re blood brothers. We each pricked two fingers and then joined hands. Then we had to ask Frieda for some sticking plasters and she said we were revolting little tykes. Ever since Art joined the Dracula Society she thinks he’s got an unhealthy interest in blood.’
To her wedding on March 15, Eugenie wore a coat-dress in the colour labelled by fashion writers as shocking pink. As a redhead, Eugenie had always shyed away from pink. But with the thrusting, young designers promoting pink with orange, splashed with lime green, Eugenie had decided to experiment with a new look.
That morning, Eugenie said to her husband-to-be, ‘You don’t have a second name?’
‘No, Marigold. My mother thought David Plantagenet was enough of a mouthful.’
‘Well you’ve got to remember, I’m Eugenie Virginia. Not Marigold. It’s ‘I David take thee Eugenie Virginia.’ Now you’re sure you’ve got the ring?’
‘Of course I’ve got the ring.’ He had collected it two weeks ago from Richard Ogden, resplendent in a red leather box lined with blue velvet.
At the ceremony, two of the Registrar’s staff acted as witnesses. David took his camera, and one of the witnesses snapped the newly-weds signing the register.
They had a celebratory beer and crisps in a pub and then, as a special treat, Eugenie let David choose a greasy-spoon caff for a blow-out bacon and eggs. Since they had to be back at work and at school on the Monday, their honeymoon was necessarily brief. So on Sunday, they boarded a train at Victoria Station for a day-trip to Brighton.
In Bed with Mr. Plantagenet Page 5