The Magic Hour

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘It only takes a couple of generations of money and everyone is forced to bend a knee when the so-called quality walk by, that’s what my old father used to say.’

  ‘He’s only taking John into the dining room again – look.’

  Janet nudged Betty and they both looked around.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Going to try and adopt her again, I dare say, but John won’t have that. She’s his daughter, John Stamford’s daughter; a Stamford born here, and that’s an end to it.’

  Once again in the dining room Jamie Millington looked round and felt strangely relieved to see that there were two more books on the shelf. He leaned forward, curious to examine their titles, and then sighed inwardly as he read the gold letters on the new volumes – The Family Doctor Volume I and The Family Doctor Volume II. He raised his eyebrows towards them.

  ‘It’s a good twenty miles to the nearest surgery.’ John nodded almost affectionately at his two new books, in a way that he might have done had they been new acquaintances at market. ‘Probably more than twenty, more like twenty-five miles I would say, so I thought I should learn a bit of home doctoring, childhood diseases and suchlike.’

  He sighed. Normally a farmer would have a wife, and wives, as everyone knew, would be able to diagnose at two paces any and every malaise, differentiating between measles and German measles, between chicken pox and eczema, between whooping cough and tuberculosis; but his Laura had gone, and he had no such luxury, so – despite his mother jeering at his purchase as being an unnecessary expense – he had gone ahead and bought both volumes. He stared at them solemnly now, peering forward as if to satisfy himself that they were indeed what he had ordered.

  ‘The point is, Stamford,’ Jamie began, attempting to adopt a casual tone while succeeding only in sounding patronising. ‘The point is, at the moment you are simply not placed to be able to bring up little Alexandra, now really, are you? As a single man, it is not ideal, is it?’

  There was a long pause while John breathed in slowly and out through his nostrils again, quite loudly, the sound reminding his brother-in-law of the sound made by stabled horses or cows on a frosty morning.

  ‘I have a name, you know, Millington, and so do you.’

  Jamie coloured. Stamford had attended a minor local private school whereas Jamie had gone to what he and his generation facetiously referred to as ‘Slough Grammar School’ but which the rest of the world customarily knew as Eton College, widely regarded as the most exclusive school in England.

  ‘Very well – John.’

  ‘Yes, James?’

  John swayed slightly forward again, this time towards Jamie, who for reasons he did not like to examine too closely, immediately stepped back and away from him.

  ‘The point is, John, and I must return to this point again, now Laura’s dead, and you have no wife to help bring up your child, I really think it would be better if you let Tasha and me adopt little Alexandra. It won’t mean that you can’t see her. After all, Knighton Hall is only a couple of hours’ drive away, and we can bring her over for the weekends, and so on and so forth. But really, in view of Laura’s death, it would be better for the little girl, as I am sure you must realise. She will have company at Knighton.’

  John stared at James Millington. Ordinarily in a day-to-day situation he might have said ‘bloody cheek’, but try as he might he was always a little overawed by James, as overawed as he had been when James’s sister Laura had consented to marry him, John Stamford of Lower Bridge Farm.

  ‘I have to thank you for your concern, James, but Mother and I are determined to bring up Alexandra here in the country, with us. She will be perfectly well looked after on the farm. This is the family into which your sister married, and it’s only right that her daughter should be brought up by her father’s family. After all, she bears our name, she is Alexandra Stamford.’

  ‘What if you remarry?’

  ‘That is not something I am contemplating at the moment, and perhaps never will. As you know, Laura, my wife Laura, your sister Laura, was an angel, and angels are not easily replaced.’

  Jamie was perfectly aware, as are most brothers, that his sister was anything but an angel, but seeing the look of grief reflected in his brother-in-law’s large brown eyes he turned away, momentarily embarrassed by the extreme sorrow on the other man’s face. After a few seconds he turned back again, nevertheless determined to try to persuade this grieving hulk of a man that the Millingtons should have some influence over his daughter, that she could not be brought up solely as a Stamford.

  ‘I shall therefore have to ask you, as Alexandra’s uncle, for regular visiting rights. In the name of my sister, your late wife, I must insist that we, the Millingtons, have some say in the upbringing of my niece.’

  ‘I can’t see that there will be much harm to that,’ John agreed, after a few minutes’ leaden silence during which Jamie wondered yet again what on earth his sister could have been doing even contemplating marriage to such a man. ‘No, I can’t see that there is much to object to in that.’

  But he counted without his mother, and as Jamie said goodbye to Betty Stamford he realised that he had taken the wrong person into the dining room. John Stamford might be slow, but his mother was not, and as he drove away Mrs Stamford’s ‘goodbye’ seemed to Jamie to hold in it a dreadful finality.

  Comings and Goings

  The news of Laura Stamford née Millington’s death was such a shock to her ex-fiancé that although Gerald turned up at the church on time with his best man Edward Foster in tow, in his mind he could have been anywhere. He had after all been engaged to Laura for fully six months, and before that they had known each other, on and off, since they were children, remeeting in London when Gerald was on leave from his stint in the Army, so the idea that she was now dead was somehow inconceivable. Nevertheless he knew his duty. He had to put Laura’s death from his mind. He had to smile and say his vows, look happy for the photographer, make a speech, remember to thank his in-laws for giving him the happiest day of his life so far – all that – he had to do it. He just had to.

  Once ensconced in their Dorchester honeymoon suite, he found his smile was as fixed as a poster on a billboard. Notwithstanding, he took Ariel in his arms and kissed her as passionately as was possible given the fact that at that moment he felt drained of every emotion except the will to drink.

  ‘I love you, darling, what a wonderful wedding.’

  His voice sounded strange even to himself and he saw that Ariel, who was now standing by the bedroom window in a pure silk champagne-coloured nightdress and matching peignoir, turned and stared at him possibly because, for some reason he could not explain, he found himself tightening rather than loosening the sash of his fashionable silk Sulka dressing gown.

  ‘Are you all right, Gerald?’

  Gerald smiled.

  ‘Of course, Laura.’

  He had not really said that, had he? He stared, panicstruck, at his wife of a few hours, wondering if he had, not knowing if it was in his head or from his lips that the phrase had inadvertently materialised.

  ‘You look strange.’

  Ariel turned back to the window staring out at the traffic in the street below.

  Gerald moved closer to her, hoping that the nearer he drew to her the less she would look like Laura. Laura smiling, Laura laughing, Laura riding beside him on a beautiful spring morning in Hyde Park, both of them at ease with the day.

  Ariel turned from the window and walked back past her husband.

  ‘I think before we go any further we should both have a brandy, don’t you?’

  In the morning Gerald’s head was as thick as the carpet upon which he placed reluctant feet. He could hardly remember anything of his wedding night, and Ariel was certainly no better. Happily they both realised that there was only one thing that could pull them together and that was a glass of champagne, which Gerald promptly ordered to be brought up with breakfast.

  ‘You’ve heard, have
you?’ he asked her as they met in the adjoining room, each unable to look the other in the eyes.

  ‘Yes. Suki told me as I was changing for the honeymoon.’

  ‘Suki would—’

  Gerald poured them both a glass of champagne and shook his head. He could just see Suki bursting through the door with the appalling news. He looked across at Ariel, wondering if she was feeling as he did: wretched and at the same time defiant. It wasn’t his fault that he had fallen out of love with Laura Millington and into love, if that was the word, with Ariel. Happily it seemed that despite everything, Ariel had other things on her mind.

  ‘Blasted hairdresser ruined my hair yesterday,’ she was complaining as she brushed her hair in the mirror above the chimneypiece. ‘After all that rehearsing of my hairstyle, he still managed to make me look as if I had a haystack on my head.’

  Gerald considered this for a moment.

  ‘Not a haystack, darling, no, more a cottage loaf!’

  Gerald laughed humourlessly, and as he did so his eyes slid towards the small ormolu clock on the hotel mantelpiece. It was hours before they had to catch their plane to Kenya for their honeymoon, hours and hours. Hours that he had to spend with Ariel avoiding the topic of his ex-fiancée. He knew that Ariel too had drunk too much the previous night for the very same reason as himself. She must feel horribly guilty about Laura, about how she had pinched Gerald from her, quite ruthlessly really, now he looked back on it. That was why she was going on about her hair, her stupid hair, about how awful it had looked, which it had really.

  ‘It wasn’t even as good as a cottage loaf,’ Ariel continued, moaning. ‘I wouldn’t have minded looking like a cottage loaf if it had been a good one, but it was terrible. My big day ruined by a wretched two-bit hairdresser. It’s just not fair.’

  Ariel shook out her hair. It was her crowning glory. She loved her hair the way other people loved their own hands, or their eyes. Her hair was thick and dark and she was proud of the Titian lights in it. The fact that it was fine and thick, that too was a source of pride.

  ‘I’m not going back to him, I’m not going back to François when we get back from Kenya, Gerald. I am definitely going to change my hairdresser, no one does that to me and gets away with it.’

  Gerald, feeling slightly sick, tried to stifle a yawn.

  ‘I say, Ariel, is it going to be in the gossip columns, do you think?’ he asked, attempting humour. ‘Mrs Gerald Hardwick is changing her hair torturer?’

  ‘How anyone could fail a bride on her big day the way François failed me yesterday, I don’t know.’

  ‘I am afraid it wasn’t just your hairdresser who failed you on your big day, Ariel, darling.’

  Gerald gave a short laugh. At this Ariel stared at him.

  ‘You had a bit too much to drink last night, Gerry, that’s all.’

  Gerald looked rueful but gamely started to tackle his cooked breakfast. All too late he realised he hated Ariel calling him, ‘Gerry’. Laura had never called him by a diminutive, it had always been ‘Gerald’.

  It seemed to him now that he could see how happy and carefree his life had once been, until he saw those words on the telegram, and then he had known immediately that his life would never be the same again.

  It wasn’t just that Laura and he had been childhood friends, and then drifted into adolescent love and from there to being engaged, it was the fact that Gerald had ditched Laura so precipitously, not even giving her a proper reason. Now he had no idea what he could have been doing, what he could have been thinking, most especially since he knew now that everyone would somehow blame him for Laura’s death.

  ‘What would you like as a real opener, darling?’

  Ariel turned momentarily from staring at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Bloody Mary – with plenty of Lea and Perrins in it.’

  Gerald started to fill two large glasses. Drink had never really been a mainstay in his life, but just at that moment, drink seemed to be the only answer to the way he was feeling, because Laura was dead.

  When they returned from their honeymoon Gerald’s mother was the first to telephone them.

  Ariel answered the telephone sounding as if she had only just woken up.

  ‘Ariel, my dear, how are you? How was everything?’

  ‘Everything was fine.’

  There was a small pause as Ariel did not add anything more.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you sound just a little monosyllabic for someone just returned from their honeymoon, my dear.’

  ‘No, just a bit tired, Sally, that’s all. The train was very hot.’

  Sally waited for a few seconds, wondering whether this was the right moment to remind her daughter-in-law of the dinner-dance she and Gerald had promised to attend with her, and then decided against it, determining instead to let a few days pass, to let them both settle in to their new life together, before she herself went to Baden Baden to take the waters, travel the continent, and generally behave as all widows do who have been left a sizeable income and do not know quite how to spend it.

  When she returned after some weeks, she felt it perfectly acceptable to remind Ariel gently of the date they had made to go to the dance together, before once more sitting back to wait for the next few weeks to drift by again, as all her days seemed to do since her husband had died.

  And when at last the day did arrive, she dressed slowly and carefully, and was ready long before it was necessary, because she had to admit that she enjoyed sitting about her drawing room in a long, glamorous, albeit old evening dress, waiting for her maid to bring her a drink on a tray.

  At last it was time to walk round to Gerald and Ariel’s house, from where they were all due to take a taxi to meet Sally’s friends for the dinner-dance.

  ‘Oh, Mama, there you are.’

  As he opened the front door to her Gerald’s smile was as crooked as his bow tie. Sally stared at her son in his otherwise smart dinner jacket. She had not seen him for weeks, which possibly made the shock of his appearance all the worse, for it was immediately quite obvious to his horrified mother that he was not just drunk, he was incapable. She felt her mouth go dry as she assimilated the state he was in. He would be lucky to get as far as the taxi without passing out.

  ‘Where’s Ariel?’

  ‘She’s gone out.’

  ‘Gone out? But we’re all meant to be going to the dinner-dance, Gerald. Did you not remember? I reminded you both, before you went on honeymoon, you were meant to be going to the dinner-dance at the Berkeley with me. We’re joining the Goslings and the Griffins, remember?’

  Gerald shook his head, leaning against the doorway of his house, his right arm holding on to the doorframe. Despite the fact that he was taking up most of the doorway Sally pushed impatiently past him, the skirts of her silk evening dress rustling against the doorway.

  ‘Don’t mind me, Ma!’

  Sally stalked up to the first-floor drawing room, and once there turned and faced her son, who had walked all too slowly and over-deliberately up the stairs behind her, catching on to the banisters every now and then to steady himself.

  ‘Gerald, I don’t mind people getting a big tight, really I don’t. God knows I’ve been tight enough in my time, but when you’re as drunk as you are now, it’s too awful, darling. More than that it’s such an insult to your hosts. How could you get like this when you knew we were all meant to be going out? The Goslings, everyone who is coming, they are all old friends of mine who were not able to come to the wedding, so they were all looking forward so much to meeting Ariel and seeing you again, and now look! She isn’t here, and you’re as tight as a tick. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you, really I can’t. And you know, they are frightfully well heeled, and would be only too glad to put business with you and Edward, really they would. I can’t think what’s got into you lately.’

  ‘Nor can I, Mama, nor can I. Can’t think, but I will soon, really I will, I will see what has got into me soon.�
��

  Gerald smiled fatuously, staring into space, and Sally immediately realised it was useless to go on at him, about as useless as she herself felt to deal with the situation. She went to the white telephone in the corner of the room.

  ‘I shall telephone to the Goslings and the rest, and tell them that you have been taken suddenly and inexplicably ill, which you have, and that Ariel has to stay behind and look after you.’

  ‘Jolly good.’

  Gerald sank down on one of the old chintz-covered sofas that had once belonged to Sally’s mother, but now looked as they would never have dared to look in her day, worn and dirty, their poor colours faded. Sally thought briefly of her mother, as she always did in times of crisis, and sighed to herself. What would she make of Gerald? She stared down at her son who had now fallen into a reverie, his head subsiding beneath a clutch of cushions, which half obscured his face.

  Sally turned away from her disappointment and telephoned through to her friends, who immediately made the best of the inevitable gaping hole in their evening that her news had caused. Then, feeling thankful that she had at least paid for their tickets to the wretched thing, she finally left Gerald to his drunken stupor.

  Later, after the dinner-dance, Sally stepped out of a shared taxi and waved goodbye to her friends, before walking back up the steps to her house, letting herself into the hall, and thankfully taking off her earrings and pulling off her evening gloves. The evening had been vaguely disastrous, as evenings always are when some of the guests do not turn up. She walked up the steep stairs of her Chelsea home to her own first-floor drawing room and went to the drinks tray in the corner, thinking as she did of the disappointment that her friends had done their best to try to hide from her, of how much they had been looking forward to meeting Gerald’s new wife. She leaned forward and sunk her head into her hands. She had never thought to feel so low. Everything could have been so different – if only Gerald had not thrown Laura over in such a peremptory manner, if only poor Laura had not died on his wedding day.