by Peter Rimmer
John Lacey, the sixteenth Marquess of Ravenhurst was the first to go. Her husband. The man who had seemed to be having such a good time deluged with all the flattery. For a brief time the man of the moment. The curiosity who had something the others could never have. A title whatever that was worth except for those to whom the constitution of America made it forbidden. All these nouveau riche who made the most noise proclaiming their new wealth but found it hollow. That just having money made no difference to their lives. They were still the same men who built houses, sold bonds, sold anything. They found out in the end, they were no different to what they were before. No different to everyone else despite their apartments being full of strange expensive objects put there by the Marchioness of Ravenhurst… Stella could still feel the hollow ring echoing through the emptiness… It was all for the sake of appearance which only mattered to the other person. Never to themselves. All the art and pictures would never change who they were, not even an ancient title for a million dollars.
Stella had come without a man to drive the boat, showing the hirer in Oxford, she knew all about boats from her days out on Massachusetts Bay. Whatever happened she wanted to see the place again. Where she had been happy for her one perfect day. Herself alone. Not once trying to impress or play the bitch she knew herself to be. She had come back alone at last to the place of her dream.
Tying up the small motorboat to the wooden jetty, Stella went ashore. No one came out of the house which was good.
Walking up the path slowly, the same path she had run down into his arms, the arms that had led her down into taking her virginity, she felt the silence of the morning, heard the call of the pigeon, thought of the night calls of the owls and was happy again, the weight of her depression lifting from her mind.
A man she had never seen before came round from the back of the house. He seemed to be waiting for her. As if he knew who she was.
“My name is Stella Fitzgerald. I’ve come to see Douglas Hayter.”
“Yes, I thought so… What a pity. You are six months too late. Mr Hayter hanged himself. I am the butler. Well, I was the butler. Have you come for your clothes at last? What a pity… Please come with me into the house. Mr Hayter put it all in a special room where he hanged himself. He had put a pulley up over the beam. Another rope with a noose. He was very strong in the arms.”
So that’s how it ends she told herself. He killed himself.
“Was it because of the stock market crash?”
“Oh, no. Mr Hayter was a trader. He never bought shares.”
“Then why did he hang himself?”
“You will understand when I show you the room. He had hauled himself up in the wheelchair with the pulley, put the noose around his neck and fell forward out of the chair. It snapped his neck. Far less pain than when the Germans blew off his legs.”
Numb in mind and body, Stella followed the man into the house through the corridors and into the room. Her blue and white ballgown from the last May Ball given by Lady Harcourt was draped over a frame that made it look like it was on the night of the ball. Except she was not inside the dress. Her evening shoes were at the foot of the flared gown. In front was a mahogany writing desk. There was a photograph of a strange man who by his dress had lived fifty years before. The frame was covered in thick dust from years of neglect. In the middle of the desk was a wooden box.
Stella lifted the lid of the box and took out the sheaf of papers that were resting inside.
“Will you excuse me, please?” she said to the man.
“If you need anything.”
“Thank you. I’ll let myself out.”
Then she read the pages of their conversation the day of the ball she remembered so well. Every word was there.
Putting the sheets of handwriting paper back in the box, Stella closed the lid and walked out of Riverglade to take the same path down to the river. Taking the boat out back to Oxford, she would travel by train and then by boat to America to face the rest of her life alone.
Later, she hoped, she would be able to cry for both of them.
When she returned the motorboat in Oxford, she knew there was one last job she had to do in England. She had to go and apologise.
* * *
John Lacey, 16th Marquess of Ravenhurst was making tea in the kitchen at the back of the house when he heard the car. The last unannounced car at the old house in the Lincoln marshes had been Cuddles Morton-Sayner. He just hoped the car outside had nothing to do with him. He was back translating ancient Greek for a small living. He was happy back in his own house far away from everyone. The man he had been in America had nothing to do with him. Later in the day he would go into the woods and shoot himself a rabbit for his supper. The game birds were still out of season. He never shot birds who had young. Only the rabbits were in season the whole year round as they bred too quickly. Since running away from his life in America, John Lacey had himself fixed the new leaks in the roof of the old house. He had dug and planted a new kitchen garden. Pruned his fruit trees in the depth of winter.
When he looked up from pouring the tea, Stella was standing in his doorway. He had never before seen her looking ill.
“I came to apologise for being a selfish bitch… Can I tell you a story that happened before we were introduced like slabs of meat on a butcher’s hook? It’s not a nice story. But then I’m not a nice person and deserve what I get.”
An hour later, they were still sitting at the old kitchen table with its thick wooden legs. The room was warm with the afternoon spring sun coming through the window. They had fallen into silence not knowing what to say.
“Can I stay the night, John? It’s a long way to the nearest hotel.”
“You can stay as long as you like. However it happened, you are still my wife. In America, once the business side of the affair had disintegrated, I thought there was no point in staying. I was superfluous. Anyway, I was penniless. Those people don’t like the poor. So I went home to the last part of my family inheritance. I didn’t think you had seen me go.”
“I like the house.”
“It’s comfortable. Even in winter if I have cut enough firewood during the summer.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“The war killed him, Stella. He thought he wasn’t a man without his legs… How is your father coping with the pension scandal? Your brothers?”
“They want to put him in prison.”
“That wily Irishman! Never. He’s got too much on too many people… Does he want his million dollars back now I’ve gone? He can’t even have this house as it is in a trust entailed to the son I never had. Someone will claim the title and the house when I die. There must be some male descendant I don’t know of. All he has to do is prove direct lineage back to one of the Ravenhursts. If no one comes forward the property reverts to the state.”
“Unless we have a son.”
“Stella. Be sensible. After a month in this wilderness, you will be going round the bend.”
“I’m nothing in America.”
“Poor girl. You really are in a state. Don’t say any more. Just see what happens… Rabbit stew for supper. How does that sound?”
“You will have to teach me to cook… Do you think there’ll be another war in Europe?” Stella said, for something to say when her husband did not pick up on the idea of them having a son together.
“There are always wars in Europe. Humanity always fights among itself.”
“What are you doing for money?”
“Translating ancient Greek text. I’m an educated man, Stella, for what that is worth financially. That is all I am… Did I ever tell you I can also speak French and German? Good. That would have been boasting. I was taught a gentleman should never boast about himself. My goodness, Stella, you look terrible. When did you last have food?”
“Yesterday. I think it was yesterday… Thank you for being so kind to me.”
Only then did the tears break.
* * *
&n
bsp; Tina Brigandshaw booked them all on the SS Corfe Castle, the encounter with Barnaby St Clair finally making up her mind. She was still the major shareholder in Colonial Shipping and entitled to the owner’s cabin when she wanted to take a trip. Everything was free until the Department of Inland Revenue sold her up in September. Share prices, despite her hopes, were still going down around the world.
The trip she planned was in August. There were other jobs she had to do like the letter she had written to Brett Kentrich a week before she received the phone call from Cuddles Morton-Sayner saying how much the Royal Albert Hall needed a new roof. Flattered someone had phoned to include her in a social event, something that had not happened since Horatio Wakefield stopped writing about Harry in The Daily Mail, she had accepted without thinking why the woman would want her at the Dorchester. The devious Cuddles never did anything without a reason. A last-minute invitation should have warned Tina something was wrong. Maybe because the Dorchester was round the corner she accepted on first impulse. Giving the Royal Albert Hall money that would be claimed by the government in September also had something to do with it, which set her to thinking of stashing cash away where no one would know where to look for it.
She was back wearing the size of clothes she had worn before her first child was born. All the worrying had given her little appetite for anything, which included food. The children had their food in the nursery given them by Ivy and Molly who had both surprised Tina by wanting to go on the boat.
“We love the children,” Ivy had said.
The thought of five children, running riot around the first-class deck of the Corfe Castle had been through her mind. In Africa, the family would give her nannies to look after the children. With so many things on her mind, Tina had said yes to the nurses and booked another cabin for Ivy and Molly. It would cost her nothing. Maybe the girls would find themselves rich husbands in Rhodesia where Tina knew the young men outnumbered the young girls four to one. She could see Ivy and Molly were pretty enough in their nurse’s uniforms and caps. Ivy had a pert little nose.
As she confidently walked through the entrance to the Dorchester Hotel, Tina was hoping her life was going to fall into some kind of place. Waiting for her in the lobby was Barnaby St Clair with a grin on his face. Only then did it dawn on her what Cuddles Morton-Sayner was up to: looking after one of the few young men in London still stinking rich.
“This is not a coincidence, is it?” said Tina caught between the door and the reception desk of the hotel.
“It was not my idea. I’m surprised you fell for one of Cuddles’s old tricks. How are you, Tina?”
“Didn’t I tell you to go to hell?”
“You look wonderful. Most important I hear you need my financial expertise. Not my money, Tina. My expertise. I thought I would be sadly wanting if I did not help such a very old friend. Anyway, you forget I have an interest in the whole debacle.”
“What have you heard?”
“That you wrote to Mrs Marlowe, our esteemed Brett, to the effect the government would likely sell her leasehold flat. That Harry had given her the keys to the flat in Regent Mews and the keys to the red car. That he registered neither in Brett’s name. Christopher phoned me. They’ve moved out already. He’s back in his attic can you believe the man? Now she’s out of a part on the stage, she’s singing at Clara’s. With Christopher back on the piano. The strangest part is they look happy… I can never figure out people… You see we need a chat. First, we go up to the ballroom and give the roof some money. Then you and I are going to Clara’s. Did I mention you look smashing?”
“Barnaby, you are incorrigible.”
“I know.”
Tina’s knees had gone weak as usual at the sight of him.
* * *
Clara’s, when they got there after the cocktail party, was not as full as usual. What the papers were calling the start of a world depression was affecting everyone. Christopher Marlowe waved from where he was sitting on his piano stool. There was no sign of Brett.
They sat at the bar looking at each other not having to say a word just looking at each other. It was one of the nice things, Tina told herself, about knowing a man for the whole of one’s life. Neither of them was forced to talk.
Danny Hill was playing the trumpet again. Harvey Lyttleton was crooning through an old number he had been singing for years. Clara was moving comfortably from table to table talking to her guests. It all looked so normal except she was sitting with Barnaby and not Harry. What was she going to do she tried to ask herself? Her mind told her to bolt out of the restaurant. Her body was craving for his company. Nothing over all the years had ever changed. Not even Frank. Not even having a son together. They were looking at each other. Knowing. Knowing what was to happen. That this time there was no one to hurt but themselves.
When Brett came on to sing with the band, they both sat up and took notice. Tina had not seen or heard from Brett after writing her the letter about the flat. The bar and the small bandstand were on the same level and not so far apart for Tina to know something had changed in Brett other than where she was living.
Brett had looked at Christopher as she stood in front of the microphone with a look of intense familiarity. Christopher back with his black beret on the top of his head and pulled to one side had gently smiled back tinkling the first bars of the tune she was going to sing. The love song from Happy Times. The tune that had made both of them famous.
Right through the song, Brett sang to her husband. Barnaby said not a word. Both of them watched, transfixed by what they were seeing. The girl was in love. Despite the loss of her leading part on the stage and the loss of her flat, Brett was intolerably happy, making both Tina and Barnaby look sad and envious at the same time. The tune finished. Harvey Lyttleton joined Brett to sing the Cole Porter duet. Again, instead of singing the words to the crooner, Brett sang to the man in the beret sitting at the piano.
“Can you tell me what’s going on there?” Barnaby asked turning to Tina.
“She’s pregnant. Brett’s pregnant. And happy.”
When Tina saw the expression on Barnaby’s face, an expression of pained, faraway sadness, she understood. Barnaby had yet to see his son.
“We can go back to the Berkeley Square house. They’ll all be asleep. That’s as far as it goes. You understand?”
“Thank you, Tina.”
For the first time Tina had ever heard, Barnaby sounded humble. Their unexpected evening had taken another turn.
“I’m going back to Africa in August. With all the children. Do you want to do this?”
“Of course. He’s my son.”
There was no hurry. They had the rest of their lives to work through the problem they had created. Barnaby ordered another drink for them both. Tina knew she was drinking too much. Had been drinking too much for some time. Even on her own in the Berkeley Square house. Africa she knew would be worse. Far worse. It was the national recreation getting drunk when the sun went down.
A distinguished old man in evening clothes that had gone out of fashion in the era of the flappers sat himself down at the far end of the bar. He was alone in white tie and tails direct from the theatre or a concert. The old man, Tina noticed trying not to look at him, had a glass eye.
A few minutes later a much younger woman came out of the powder room and sat with the old man. The girl’s looks had faded. The dress she wore was also old-fashioned. She was definitely not the old man’s paramour. They were familiar and comfortable with each other. More like old friends who had used each other to go to the theatre. Something they could not do on their own. The man to Tina had been in the military by the look of his bearing. His back was straight, his presence quiet while the one good eye was directed at the piano player. The woman was also looking at the band.
The one good eye was boring into the back of Christopher Marlowe’s head making Christopher look round and hit a false series of notes. Used to the mistakes, Harvey Lyttleton sang louder to let Christophe
r look for the right sounds. Even Clara stopped on her way between tables in alarm, looking quickly at the piano player… Tina smiled. Tina thought it nice to be a famous musician and still make a mistake. Only when Tina watched Clara look from Christopher to the old man at the bar did she realise something was wrong. That the false notes had come from the gimlet-eyed look of the old man.
To add to the strange moment in time, Brett appeared at Tina’s elbow.
One minute she had been singing with the band the next she was standing next to Tina looking sarcastically at Barnaby who was somehow looking sheepish under Brett Kentrich’s glare.
“Well, this is nice. On my way to placate Uncle Wallace who do I find?”
“Did you get my letter, darling? Such a shame. Harry was always bad at things like that. He never expected to die or I am sure he would have put your name on the leasehold. Of course, I don’t mind. You were his mistress after all. It’s just the government.”
“It’s better than losing everything. So sorry. Anyway, Barnaby is still rich.”
“Oh, I forgot. You also had a brief affair with Barnaby.”
“Better than giving birth to his bastard son. Poor Harry.”
“That’s enough,” said Barnaby. “Not in public.”
The two women smiled thinly at each other. Despite Harry being dead, they were still competitors. To Tina, the bitch coming back in Brett was a relief. The one thing Tina would have hated was Brett Kentrich being happy.
“Christopher and I are going to have a baby. Tonight is my last night singing in public. You must stay and have the lovely food. Christopher I know would love to talk to Barnaby between sets. Sweet Moments in Life is doing so well. You should be pleased, Barnaby. But then you always did have the Midas touch.”