“Speaking.”
“Splendid. Firstly, Beatrice – you don’t mind me calling you Beatrice, do you, surnames are such a bore, don’t you agree? I liked your letter so much, and as I’m sure you’ll appreciate I’ve received quite a number. Secondly, I haven’t a great deal of time as I’m only in the Great Wen on a flying visit, which means we need to meet as soon as possible. Can you make seven o’clock in the bar of the Royal Garden? I’ll wear a pink carnation in my buttonhole just in case you’ve been lucky enough not to have encountered my ugly mug on the box.” Light dawned, that Selwyn Woodhead.
“That would be great Mr Woodhead, I’ll look forward to it. When exactly –?”
“Tonight, my dear, tonight. Sorry to rush you, but as I said, I’m on a flying visit and need to get things settled before I leave town.” Oh God, she’d never make it, it was after six already. But she must. This was fate with a vengeance, she had no option.
“Tonight would be fine, Mr Woodhead, only I may be a little late. I’ve only just got back from work, you see, and it’s already…” But with a confidence no doubt born of long experience, Mr Woodhead had known what her answer would be, and already hung up.
An hour later, hair all over the place, no time to organise it properly after the shampoo, blouse minus a button (not discovered until she was halfway to the Royal Garden) and a skirt she’d had for yonks, she just managed to make it on time, to find Mr Woodhead, unmistakable even without the pink carnation, already waiting for her at the bar.
“My dear, how clever of you to have made it on time and at such short notice.” Elegantly uncoiling from his stool, he rose to greet her. “I’m sure we’re going to get along famously.”
“Er, hi.” Beatrice found herself smiling fatuously, proffered her hand (Mother always said, when in doubt, shake hands). Mr Woodhead took it in his, looked into her eyes, smiled.
“Now my dear, I’ve a dinner engagement at eight with my agent, a necessary chore I’m afraid, a poor hack’s work is never done, so we’d better put our skates on and get down to business.” He was quite tall, and despite his age had kept his figure, she noticed as he led her to a reasonably quiet table near the door, raising a sort of valedictory hand as he passed by tables of people who obviously either knew him, or had seen him on TV. Once there, without consulting Beatrice, he ordered two dry martinis from a respectfully hovering waiter.
And despite her initial nervousness, she had to admit it had all turned out to be rather fun. He might have been a bit pretentious, and obviously very conscious of his celebrity, but he was entertaining and kind and what he had to offer sounded intriguing, not to mention the salary, which was, considering she would be living in, enormous.
“I write, for my sins,” he told her as she sipped her ice cold and extremely powerful martini, “and from time to time make the odd appearance on the box; not acting of course, but as a sort of peripatetic presenter. Someone needed to host a team game in the Outer Hebrides, judge a beauty contest in Skegness, host a supper for old folk in Penzance, send for good old Selwyn – that sort of thing. Currently, however, as I don’t happen to have any TV commitments,” (when he said this Beatrice noticed his voice took on a certain waspishness hitherto missing), “my publishers have commissioned me to write what they describe as a popular history of sex life in Britain; possible serial rights in the Daily Mail, that sort of thing. ‘Start as far back as you like,’ they said, ‘cave men, whatever, but make it easy to understand and just a little naughty.’ The whole to be completed in three months.”
“Goodness, that’s a tall order, isn’t it?”
“It is, my dear, it is, but with your help not, I hope, impossible.”
“You’re offering me the job, then – just like that?” The drink was making her bold. “You don’t want references? I mean I could be anyone…”
“You could indeed.” He was smiling at her now; his shrewd intelligent eyes appraising. “But I like what I see and that’s what’s important. You’re a beautiful, I think rather lost, young woman. I’m sure you’re efficient, you wouldn’t have applied for the job if you weren’t. And if you’re worried about sex rearing its ugly head between us, don’t be. I have a beautiful wife to whom I am devoted, I lead a busy life, have a great many interests, not to mention irons in the fire, and no time nor indeed inclination for extra-marital affairs. Does that satisfy you?”
Feeling a conceited idiot, Beatrice nodded. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry. It’s just it sounds such a great job I can’t believe you’re offering it to someone like me.”
“Well I am, dear, and a formal letter saying so should arrive on your door mat in a day or so, or at least when I can get some kind soul to type one for me. Meanwhile here’s the deal…”
And this was the deal. He and his wife had recently purchased a country retreat in Suffolk, an old farmhouse with bags of history, into which they were moving shortly. TV work was tending to dry up at least for the time being – he wasn’t sorry the whole absurd business was beginning to pall anyway – and he wanted to concentrate on his writing. Beatrice’s job would be to act as all round live-in secretary, and would include the usual technical skills, an ability to transcribe his atrocious handwriting, and the opportunity to help him with his research. When not needed by him, his wife Clarrie would be grateful for any assistance she could give in overseeing the extensive building work necessary to bring Brown End (that was the name of the farmhouse) up to her own, exacting standards. A great deal had of course been done already, the place was virtually uninhabitable when they purchased it, but they were far from being out of the woods yet, especially as the young designer Clarrie used initially had not proved to be entirely satisfactory. In return Beatrice would receive a generous salary, a charmingly furnished bedsitter complete with en suite bathroom, and plenty of time off. There would be no set routine, he tended to be an erratic worker: for example, might even require her services late at night if the muse took him, but she would of course have time off in lieu, and he was sure they could come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Part of her duties would be to socialise with any guests they might have. He and Clarrie liked the simple life, a touch of whitewash here and there, the odd rush mat, basic but nutritious food, lots of exercise, that sort of thing (looking at him, Beatrice had found this somewhat difficult to believe) but they had many friends in show business and the arts, and he could assure her there would be plenty of interesting company.
An incident occurred just as they were about to leave which did make her wonder if her future boss was quite as happy about the drying up of his TV work as he claimed. He had just paid their bill and she was hunting for her handbag under her chair – for a moment she thought it had been stolen, it didn’t seem to be anywhere – when this tall, fantastically good looking young man, his face vaguely familiar although she couldn’t put a name to it, paused at their table on his way out, his rather wicked eyes very obviously taking in her presence: “Sel, darling, how are you, man? We were beginning to think you’d died, it’s been so long. I see however we couldn’t have been more mistaken, do introduce me to your charming companion,” he purred, squeezing Mr Woodhead’s shoulder and winking at Beatrice. Mr Woodhead – she must learn to call him Sel; he insisted – flinched; rather over dramatically, she thought, but supposed that was what you’d expect with theatre people, she’d never met any before.
“Not dead, Foster, simply having a well-earned rest,” he said, his voice acid, his smile full of ice. “And how are things at the Beeb these days? The bongo drums were tapping out that replacements, even cabinet reshuffles are in the air, but of course I never listen to rumours, let alone bongo drums.”
“Quite right, dear boy, quite right, you never know what you might hear, do you? As a matter of fact I was over at Granada the other day and asked after you; they said they hadn’t seen you in months, but the rumour was you’d gone to ground in the wilds of Suffolk, opted to lead the simple life and write. But of course I never listen to
rumours either. And how is the gorgeous Clarrie? I haven’t seen her for yonks, not since we both got pissed at that frightful Frost party and –”
“Look, Foster, heavenly as it always is to see you, I happen to be in the throes of interviewing a new secretary and am running late as it is, so if you don’t mind –”
“Of course, man, of course,” Foster took the hint, he didn’t have much option really, although he didn’t look too pleased. “I’m late for a meeting myself, a few chums kicking ideas around really – there’s a plan afoot for something on the Indian Mutiny, prestige stuff, you know the sort of crap, but seeing dear old Sel after so long, felt I simply had to stop and say hi.”
“Most kind.” The acid was still there, if anything more so. “I’d buy you a drink, but as I’ve said… Incidentally, hasn’t the Indian historical seam been well and truly mined by now? Don’t tell me the dear old Beeb are running short of ideas.”
“You could be right, dear boy, you could be right, but you know our masters, they travel hopefully, even if sometimes they fail to arrive… Look, I simply must dash, or I’ll be the one out on my ear.” He paused, waiting perhaps for their incredulous laughter; not getting it, he winked once more at Beatrice and with one last, graceful wave was gone.
Sel looked after him, a rather pensive expression on his face; turned to Beatrice, “Foster Chapman, dear, I expect you’ve seen him on the box. Not one of my absolutely favourite people, I’m afraid, but as they say, it takes all sorts. Welcome to the world of showbiz.”
So it had all been arranged. She’d given in her notice at work, delighted to see the last of Mr Taylor, who had actually taken her for a farewell drink. It occurred to her as they sipped their gin and tonics in the pub next door trying to think of something to say to each other, he was as happy as she was at her departure.
Her family’s response to the news she was heading for the hills to work for a TV star was much as she’d expected. Her mother, uninterested; slightly disapproving. “Darling, isn’t it time you settled down and found yourself a really decent job? After all you are thirty-two years old, and skivvying for some frightful man – and if he is the man I think he is who hosts those ghastly team games on TV he really is frightful – in the wilds of Suffolk doesn’t sound a step up the career ladder to me. The trouble is you don’t make the best of yourself. Johnny,” (husband number three) “always said you hid your light under a bushel and thick as two planks he may have been, but he was right about that. So odd really, with a father like Marcus – he is your father by the way, despite what people say – being one of the biggest exhibitionists in the business bar none, you’d have thought… but I suppose you can never bank on heredity. And all your school friends have done so well too. Look at Mary Barker, not half as bright as you and no better looking , top of the tree at whatever it is she does and according to her mama, who I agree is not the most reliable of sources, earning thousands.” Her mother had continued like this for some time, but Beatrice, as was her practice, ceased to listen. Her mother was a selfish, self-centred bitch, she told herself, but as always there was a small amount of truth in what she said, and her spirits, so buoyant since the interview with Sel, plunged back to their customary, abysmal level.
Sister Daphne’s reception of her news was little better. The gist of it being how lucky Beatrice was to be single, and how little she made of her opportunities. Lottie and Horace, she had to admit, had been a trifle more encouraging. Somehow or other though their enthusiasm (“how absolutely marvellous, darling, what a super opportunity for you! Only one way now and that’s up,”) had failed to lift her flagging spirits. Syl of course had been great and it had been agreed between them that she would let Beatrice’s room in the flat for three months only, just in case, as she said with the tact she was famed for, things didn’t turn out quite as planned.
At last! Coming up on her left, a sign half obscured by trailing brambles, announces, to her considerable relief, she’s approaching the village of Kimbleford and would she please drive slowly. The lane, although pretty, had begun to seem interminable, and she was sure she’d gone more than two miles. No houses to be seen and yet another hill, but the sign held out some hope. However, she’s not out of the woods yet. On reaching the top of the hill, she’s compelled to force a reluctant Mini up the bank in order to avoid head-on collision with some idiot driving much too fast in a green Volvo. She can hear by the noise the engine’s making that this manoeuvre isn’t doing the aging Mini any good, and cursing all men, especially men in green Volvos, she pulls up in a layby at the brow of the hill to check everything’s OK, not that she knows anything about car engines and wouldn’t know what to do if there was any damage, but it might be a good idea to give the wretched thing a rest; by the smell of burning rubber emanating from the bonnet it was getting a bit on the overheated side.
All seems well, however, and she’s just about to climb back into the Mini and get going again, when all at once she’s struck by the silence and beauty of the place. Worried about finding the way, then about the car, she hadn’t had time to notice her surroundings. Until now, that is. Slowly, as though impelled by a force outside herself, she closes the car door behind her; stands quite still beside it listening, for what she’s no idea, and whatever it is she doesn’t hear it. All she hears are the normal sounds of a summer’s day in the deep countryside: the chirp chirp of a bird in the hedge behind her, the distant drone of a plane, a bee busily buzzing away in one of the tall purple foxgloves lining the bank; that’s all. What did she expect, for God’s sake? Her smart, London shoes are already soaked from the long grass, but she notices that only a few yards away from where she’s standing the road begins its descent into the next valley. She might as well have a quick look at the view before getting back in the car: Sel was expecting her at Brown End in time for lunch, and it is only 11.30. Beside the road, just as it begins its descent, there’s a heap of gravel, no doubt left from last winter, it must be awful driving round here in bad weather. Will she have to? she wonders, as she scrambles up the heap, doing even more damage to her shoes. Probably, if she stays, that is. But… who cares… because there it is, far below, straggling along the valley bottom beside the river, the village of Kimbleton, and like Sam before her, she experiences this strange, inexplicable feeling that she’s returning home. Unlike Sam, however, she also experiences a spasm of annoyance. Fleas on a dog’s back, that’s what Father said of the village’s inhabitants – too many and too lazy; refused to learn and only interested in sitting on their backsides or breeding.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She hears her own voice shouting into thin air. What in heaven’s name’s going on? She hasn’t a clue about the inhabitants of Kimbleford, how could she? Despite the warmth of the July sun on her back Beatrice shivers; finds herself, of all things – she hasn’t smoked in years – wanting a cigarette. Don’t be daft, she tells herself, a little frightened now, as slipping and sliding down the gravel heap, she hurries back to the safety of the car: first voices, then this. Back in the Mini things return to normality and, taking a deep breath, she lets out the clutch. Sounding its – it has to be said, pretty inadequate – horn at each and every twist and bend in the road; there are many and she can’t cope meeting another idiot head-on; she slowly descends towards the village.
First signs of habitation: a line of council houses, followed by a dilapidated looking building with a corrugated iron roof, which turns out to be the village hall; a garage-come-work shop – Bogg’s Repairs, states a bold, but rusty sign over the door – equally dilapidated, its forecourt jammed with broken cars; a row of what looked like alms houses and at long last, round a right-angle bend, the main street. This is more like it! This is how a country village ought to look – like the one depicted on the posters in the London underground. Tarted up, prosperous looking cottages, mostly slate roofed, but some still thatched. On the right half way along, a village store, newly painted, fashionable pottery in the window, a sign above it (green
with red lettering, Emmie’s idea) announcing they do deliveries, and at the far end of the street, where it descended gently towards the river, an ancient looking church surrounded by yews. No immemorial elms of course, they’d all gone.
Following Sel’s instructions, she ignores all this; there’ll be plenty of time to explore later; and carries on through the village, past a pair of 1920s bungalows designed to look like Swiss chalets and a newish looking housing estate, until she reaches the river. “Over the bridge,” Sel had told her, “follow the road uphill, down the other side, and you’ll come to Brown End.” The bridge is narrow, no pavement for pedestrians: as she crosses it there’s time to look down and notice the large, ungainly grey bird standing still as a statue on one of the flat stones protruding from the bubbling water below the bridge. The bird looks up, startled at the passing car, and with an angry flap of his wings takes off, gliding away up the valley towards a distant belt of trees. ‘Ardea!’ says a voice in Beatrice’s head, ‘Ecce ardea – so long, so long it has been…’
“Rubbish,” she shouts, anger overwhelming her, as she grinds the Mini into bottom gear in preparation for the climb up the hill: “It’s not a bloody ardea, it’s a bloody heron…”
The auguries, it seems, are not good…
At the top of the hill, as the road enters a small wood and flattens out before descending to Brown End, the Mini gives up the ghost. A knocking noise, a splutter; that’s it, the engine conks out. “Bloody car! Bloody, bloody useless little car!” Her anger, already stoked, turns to a fury of frustration, as hastily switching off the engine she opens the door and gets out. The smell of burning rubber’s back and there’s smoke coming out of the bonnet. The damn thing passed its MOT only three weeks ago, how could it let her down at such a crucial moment; how could it? Far from the cool, efficient image she tried so hard to promote at her interview, she’s going to look a flustered, overheated idiot when, sans luggage, sans car, she arrives at Brown End on foot. What about her luggage, for that matter? Would it be safe in the car? Anyone could force the boot open, one bang would probably do it. She wants to cry, scream; she can feel one of her headaches coming on. She can’t cope, really she can’t; one’s done one’s best and this is how one’s rewarded. She tries a breathing exercise featured in one of Syl’s health magazines; closes her eyes and tries to think of something nice (what? – for God’s sake); slowly begins to calm down. Opening her eyes she finds she’s being scrutinised by a rook. There’s a gate leading to a pathway into the wood, just beside where the Mini gave up; he’s sitting on it, head on one side, peering at her. She’s pretty sure he’s laughing. “Bugger off,” she shouts angrily and squirting a quick, contemptuous message, he hops away, but she can still see him further up the fence, and he’s still looking at her.
An Affair to Remember Page 5