The Magic Hour

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘My darling Tom,’ she had explained, lying back and luxuriating in a vast bed, which dominated an ornate bedroom and was part of her permanent suite at the Ritz Hotel. ‘A gentleman has to have an array of clothing to suit all occasions. All we have bought so far is un petit rien.’ On Tom turning back to her with a mystified expression, she added by way of explanation: ‘We have bought only enough for a few informal occasions. You have to have a gentleman’s wardrobe, Tom. You have to have properly tailored suits, hand-made shirts, hand-made shoes, a morning coat, evening dress. A gentleman is his wardrobe.’ She had paused to take a cigarette from a heavy gold cigarette case and light it with a slim gold lighter. ‘And after all you are a gentleman now, Tom, and if I have anything to do with it, you will always be a gentleman.’

  Tom did not now want to remember how beautiful Florazel had looked in that vast bed. It was not the moment, instead he smiled at Mr Cooper the tailor.

  ‘Yes, you must show me where to go to your “brother” street,’ he agreed. ‘For I have no idea. I am quite new to London.’

  Mr Cooper smiled back at him, even managing to bring a vaguely astonished look to his eyes, as if he were surprised that such a customer did not know where to purchase shirts of a first-rate quality suitable for a gentleman of some standing. If he were not quite sure that Lady Florazel, famous beauty and sister of the Duke of Somerton, was one of the few aristocratic ladies who always paid her bills on time, he might not have been looking so relaxed. But knowing Lady Florazel of old, he was more than relaxed, he was purring.

  ‘Yes, of course, sir, it is just around the corner, most convenient for our customers. Shirts are crucial, are they not? The cut of the collar of a shirt is most particularly important, it has to be most particularly right, for there is nothing worse than a collar cut too small, too mean, too large, or too exaggerated, the collar after all is what is most noted …’

  Mr Cooper stood back and regarded Tom gravely, so gravely that Tom, who had actually thought the shirt he was wearing was pretty fine, now reddened slightly and looked back at the famous tailor from the dressing mirror with some uncertainty.

  Tom knew that he had not yet acquired what someone like Mr Cooper would call taste. He was already aware that the shirts to which he would be attracted might well be the wrong style, the wrong colour, the cut of the collar not suitable for the expensive suits that Mr Cooper and Florazel had chosen for him: the cloths picked from books of cloths, the linings held up to the chosen cloths and taken to the light to make sure that they were neither too vulgar nor too dull, for Florazel hated dull linings, and said so repeatedly.

  Naturally no one needed to tell Mr Cooper that the aristocracy favoured stronger colours, even down to the linings of their jackets, in the same way that they enjoyed bright colours in their homes.

  There was a sound reason for this love of colour, for colour, whether in paint or materials, had traditionally always been vastly more expensive than the staples of black or white, grey or brown. The less wealthy could only run to whitewash or black serge, not having the money, or the means, to be able to choose anything more sophisticated. It was just a fact, in the same way it was a fact that the aristocracy never bought furniture, only wine and paintings, for the very good reason they always had far too many furnishings handed down to them already.

  As it happened Tom would have liked to have asked Mr Cooper to accompany him round the corner to his ‘brother’ street, but fearing ridicule he asked instead to see some of his more recent fashion books. Mr Cooper, understanding only too well what was required, once again produced large books, which Tom studied. As he flicked through the glossy pages illustrating the fashion of the day, Tom saw at once that here were depicted men wearing casually elegant clothes, nothing too defined, everything understated; so it was really understatement that made up the elegance of the English gentleman. This was the man into which he was being turned by Florazel, and he suddenly realised that he did not mind a bit. More than that he could not wait to note the cut of the collars and the ties, by turn regimental or club, patterned or plain, or countrified to be worn with tweeds.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Cooper,’ he told him eventually and, turning on his heel, he left the tailor’s establishment for the foreign field of the shirtmakers, and ultimately for the wilder shores of the shopping arcades beyond Mr Cooper’s Savile Row shop.

  He knew now what he should look like, and look it he would, although he did take care to promise himself that he would not, at any point, kid himself that he was not still plain Tom O’Brien, just a better-dressed version of the same person.

  ‘Tom!’ someone was calling but, not expecting anyone in London to know him, since he knew no one except Florazel, Tom did not turn but continued staring at an array of white shirts all of which seemed perfect to him, but all of which the salesman was going to considerable lengths to point out were actually appreciably different, not only in the cut and style of the collar, but in the materials used.

  ‘There are no buttons on the cuffs of these shirts,’ he pointed out to the salesman. ‘Shouldn’t they have buttons?’

  ‘No, sir, they are left buttonless, for your cufflinks, sir.’

  For a second the salesman stared sorrowfully at the buttons on the shirt that Tom was wearing, before reverting his gaze to his customer’s face.

  ‘Our shirts never have buttons, sir, as you can see. Doubtless you have let your cufflinks at home, sir. We can provide you with some temporary cufflinks to slip into one of these, so that you can see the look of the cuff.’

  The shop asistant was expertly pulling a pair of cufflinks through the cuff of one of the shirts when Tom was tapped on the shoulder.

  ‘Tom! You old goat!’

  Tom looked round, mystified as to who in all of London should know him by name.

  ‘Look, it’s me! Tom! Bob!’

  And it was not just Bob, any old Bob, it was Bob Atkins, smart as paint, with his long blond fringe flopping into his eyes, eyes which as usual wore a permanently mischievous look.

  ‘Bob.’

  Tom stood back feeling embarrassed, although for what reason he could not have said, until he realised how odd and how different he must look to Bob. But Bob, effortlessly optimistic and open-hearted, did not seem to notice the change in Tom, or if he did, he did not register it, for he quickly urged Tom to finish his transactions and come and have lunch with him.

  ‘Smashing little place just round the corner,’ he told Tom, while gaily nodding to the man behind the counter. ‘Sir will take all of those,’ he told him, heaping a half-dozen of the shirts up in front of the stiff-faced assistant while at the same time winking round at Tom. ‘And he’ll have a pair of those blue and gold cufflinks, while he’s at it too, won’t you, Mr O’Brien?’

  Tom, unable to think of why he should not have the shirts, or indeed the cufflinks, since he already had the suits, after a second or two nodded in agreement. After all, Florazel had ordered him to have whatever he wanted.

  ‘Where would sir like the order to be sent?’

  Tom turned from Bob back towards the counter.

  ‘The Ritz. Care of the Ritz, please. Thomas O’Brien, care of the Ritz, Piccadilly.’

  Bob reacted to this with his usual, suddenly familiar, soundless whistle before taking Tom’s arm and guiding him out of the shop.

  ‘I say, Thomas old boy, has a great-uncle turned up his toes and left you his fortune? Have you just won the pools? Is there something you should tell me? If so, keep the story to yourself until after we have had a spot of lunch in the Strand.’

  Tom stopped.

  ‘Stay there for a second, will you, Bob? I’ve forgotten something. Won’t be more than a moment.’ He turned and darted back into the shop. ‘I forgot to say that the account is also to be sent to the Ritz, care of Lady Florazel Compton.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  The shop assistant stared after the handsome young man, half admiring, half resentful.
Some people had all the luck. But for a pair of sparkling grey eyes, a tall, slim figure, and tanned face, he too might be sending his shirt bill round to the Ritz. Life was very unequal.

  Over plates of rare roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and any amount of roast potatoes, all of which slipped down surprisingly easily considering that he had already eaten a hearty cooked breakfast at the Ritz, Tom listened as Bob talked non-stop.

  Bob liked to talk about himself, having an artless belief that other people were as interested in Bob Atkins as he was himself. It seemed he had fallen in love with the maid at his aunt’s house, but that the maid continually refused to have anything to do with him, for reasons he could only imagine.

  ‘After all I am a catch, I have a car, I am at university, that is not nothing, Tom.’ He looked across the table at Tom, and sighed. ‘She’s such a beauty, Tom. You should see her, dark shining hair, the bluest eyes, but will she have anything to do with me? Not on your life. I have written to her from university, sent her flowers, but it seems she wants nothing to do with me. Now if you were a pretty little maid, wouldn’t you want to come out with me? After all, I have a car,’ he repeated proudly. ‘I mean, wouldn’t you want to go out for a picnic on the Downs, or take tea on the beach with just such a fellow as I? But no.’ He sighed. ‘It is such an agony, being in love is such an agony, really it is.’

  ‘When did you first meet her, did you say?’

  ‘A few months ago. My aunt gave this dinner, and asked me because I think she wanted to set me up with the daughter of a rich gentleman friend of hers, but I am afraid I only had eyes for the maid serving dinner.’

  ‘Perhaps she just doesn’t like you. Perhaps the maid doesn’t like you?’

  Bob looked momentarily put out. He did not like to think that anyone could dislike him.

  ‘Come, come, Tom, that is going too far.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Everyone likes me. It’s a well-known fact.’ He leaned over the lunch table. ‘But how about you, old boy?’ He eyed Tom’s clothes for the first time with genuine appreciation. ‘How about you? Fine clothes do a gentleman make? But how come the sudden reversal in fortunes, mmm? Bow-wow! Doggie’s dinner! Come on, tell, do!’

  Tom reddened for although he knew that he did look quite the part in his fine new clothes, he also realised from the look in Bob’s eyes that to an undergraduate like Bob he must look a little too old, a little too got up, too much the newly made young gentleman.

  ‘I too have fallen in love, Bob,’ he confided suddenly, as if this might explain the newness of him, his richly upholstered façade, his complete transformation.

  Bob was careful to look casual although Tom knew he must have heard about his sudden departure from the Duke of Somerton’s estate, and indeed from Mrs Posnet’s lodgings.

  ‘Have you, by Jove? Anyone nice? Anyone you might like to introduce me to? Anyone who might have a beautiful friend who will help take my mind off the entrancing Minty?’ He sighed, already slightly bored by having to discuss someone else’s feelings for the opposite sex. ‘A maid called Minty.’ He looked dreamy. ‘Doesn’t even her name sound mouth-watering, Tom? And that’s before you set eyes on her lovely dark hair shining beneath her little starched cap. At least my aged aunt is marrying her haberdasher beau soon, so I will have every sort of good excuse to see Minty again, I should have thought.’

  With a look Tom signalled to the waiter to bring their bill, which he promptly paid with a five-pound note, leaving a generous tip and pocketing the change. As he did so in the discreet manner that Florazel had been at pains to demonstrate to him, Bob was still happily waxing on about the little maid he had met at his aunt’s house.

  They both stood up, walked from the restaurant with its stiff white tablecloths and sides of beef covered by great silver covers, and so out into the low hum and pleasant relaxed friendly pace of a London afternoon in the early nineteen-fifties.

  As they walked towards the Ritz, Tom, now quite recovered from his embarrassment, began to think about Florazel, about the way her hair tumbled down her slender white shoulders, about the tender way she had already been at pains to teach him so much, to be so generous to him, to change his life in a thousand ways, when his pleasantly sensuous thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘By the way, Tom old boy, you never did tell me how you came to have such a change in fortunes?’

  Tom looked at him.

  ‘I told you, I fell in love with a beautiful woman, who loves me.’

  ‘Name of …’ Bob looked waggish. ‘Name of someone one might know, old thing?’

  Perhaps it was the sunshine, perhaps it was the deliciously filling lunch they had just scoffed, perhaps he was not just thinking straight, but Tom heard himself saying really rather promptly, ‘Lady Florazel Compton.’

  Bob stopped dead.

  ‘You are teasing me, aren’t you, old boy?’

  Tom too stopped, staring at him.

  ‘No, I am not teasing you, Bob,’ he assured him, his voice sounding suddenly more rural, even to his own ears. ‘No, I am not teasing you.’

  ‘But you know who that is, don’t you?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Of course I do, Bob. I am not daft, even if I am not at university like you. Of course I know who she is. She is the Duke of Somerton’s sister.’

  ‘She certainly is, Tom, and that’s not all she is.’ Bob managed to look both sad and compassionate as Tom stared at him.

  ‘What do you mean? What else is she? I know she’s a widow, but what else is she?’

  Tom felt his heart lurch. There was no other word for it. It lurched and at the same time it also seemed to stop beating, for he knew from Bob’s face that what he was about to tell him he would not want to know. He knew it, and yet he could not stop Bob. Bob was going to tell him what he did not want to know. He was going to tell him something that Tom had known all along, but which he simply did not want to be told.

  Alexandra refused Mrs Atkins’s kind invitation to her marriage to the wealthy proprietor of the gentlemen’s out-fitters. Obviously, given her status as a maid-of-all-work, Mrs Atkins could not ask her to the reception, and indeed Alexandra would never have expected to be asked.

  As it was, Alexandra had many reasons for not wanting to go, all of which she refrained from confiding to Mrs Smithers, but all of which she felt were valid. Mrs Smithers seemed to understand this; she even seemed to approve.

  ‘You are a good girl, Minty, and what is more you are a very sensible one too.’

  They both knew that it was Alexandra’s business to avoid socialising with anyone who had or could have anything to do with renting the rooms. After all, if Mrs Smithers’s maid started rubbing shoulders with their customers, lines would be crossed and their business affected, and that would not do, not now they were beginning to get a succession of bookings, the result of which were pleasant, gossipy luncheons, old acquaintances renewed and, most importantly for Mrs Smithers, money in the bank.

  They had also notched up two recent and very notable successes. Lord Harry had at last taken off Lady Inisheen to London, and as a result of the successful dinner given for Mrs Atkins, the highly strung widow was now marrying into a richly cushioned existence.

  ‘Two maids and a chauffeur,’ Mrs Smithers had told Alexandra, with justifiable pride, for had the dinner party not been such a success Mrs Atkins would still have been sitting in her semi-detached house sighing for a better life, and only able to afford a station taxi to go shopping.

  Now it was Mrs Smithers’s turn to sigh as she pushed the letter she had been reading back into an envelope with a London postmark.

  ‘How very satisfactory, Minty. Lady Inisheen has just written to say that she and Lord Harry are to live abroad, in Tuscany. He has bought her a villa just near to that of the famously late Mrs Kindle.’

  ‘Why famously late?’

  ‘Because …’ Mrs Smithers straightened up her highly modish hat prior to walking out of her front door and on to the church where Mrs Atki
ns was about to be married for the second time. ‘Because Mrs Kindle was even late for the late King George’s late father; so late that she became known as the “famously late Mrs Kindle”. But of course she had such charm, she could get away with it; and did. After all, kings loved her. It must be so good to be loved by kings and princes rather than ordinary men.’

  Mrs Smithers gave a little sigh, and then she closed the front door behind her.

  Alexandra, as she always did when left alone in the house, started to inspect the place, floor by floor, taking a pride in seeing that everything was to rights, in the same way that her grandmother had used to do at Lower Bridge Farm: changing the angle of a cushion here, a vase there, making sure that all the fringes on the Persian rugs were running in the right direction, that all the chimneypieces were free of dust, before finally arriving in the kitchen to start cooking.

  As she took down the old tin flour bin and put the kitchen scales in the middle of the table, a soprano was singing on the radio. Her grandmother had often mentioned that she had been in amateur musicals when she was young and giddy, before her marriage to Arthur John Stamford, a man of substance, a farmer with a fine house and acres, and not a musical note in his body, she would always add – almost proudly.

  As she mixed the ingredients for pastry Alexandra remembered going to village concerts with her, and how she had used to whisper pithy comments such as: ‘Not enough puff’ or, ‘Missed three notes there, dear.’ It was only now that Betty was gone that Alexandra had come to realise what a character she must have been when she was young. Not always a farmer’s wife, a farmer’s mother, a grandmother: once a young girl who perhaps even read novels rather than the Bible, who would go skating on the Thames or bicycling in Richmond Park, who would paint watercolours and play jokes on her friends.

  A couple of hours and some three recipes later and there was a scratch on the basement window that set the dogs barking. Alexandra looked round and up the area steps to see the over-smiling face of Bob Atkins. She immediately put her mouth to the window glass and mouthed, ‘Go away, would you?’