Flora Mackintosh and The Hungarian Affair

by Anna Reader

  “Don’t be so poor-spirited,” Flora replied with a chuckle. “I am sure that your Aunt will forgive you in time to disappoint Eustace, and imagine how popular you shall be if the footage does go out – it sounds just like something out of a Charlie Chaplin picture.”

  Professor Moore’s demeanour softened slightly, and he permitted himself a rueful smile. “Well, I must say that it has been a relief to share the horror with somebody – and I daresay it was rather amusing for the spectators. I shall be in no end of trouble with my mother, tomorrow, though. Lord, what a lowering thought.”

  One of Flora’s numerous advantages was the fact that she was not, by nature, an introspective girl. Many young ladies in her circumstances would have been wracked by nerves, endlessly turning over in their minds the fact that they were charging into the unknown; that they had no idea what they might be walking into in Szentendre; and that the telegram from the self-styled Uncle Antal had contained the distinct suggestion of Foul Play. As it was, Flora was able to make herself quite at home in the little MG, proffering the occasional observation but otherwise enjoying her whisky and the exquisite stillness of the winter’s evening. Professor Moore was also privately delighted to have the company – the one ray of sunshine in an otherwise ghastly day - and by the time they arrived on the outskirts of London, they were both very pleased with one another.

  “Where would you like me to drop you?” Professor Moore asked, as they sped past Alexandra Palace. “I’m heading to Hampstead myself, but I’d be delighted to take you wherever you need to go.”

  “That’s awfully good of you,” Flora replied, thanking the fates once again for steering this delightfully eccentric man in her direction, “I’m heading for Mayfair actually, but that’s a good distance out of your way.”

  “Nonsense,” Professor Moore replied, brimming with sudden gallantry, “I’m in no particular hurry, and must see you safely to your destination before heading home to face the music, as it were.”

  He would brook no argument, and so it was that rather than having to make her own solitary nocturnal journey from Cambridgeshire to the city, Flora found herself deposited at the steps to the Mackintosh’s apartment block by her new friend.

  “You’re such a terrific sport,” she said as she leapt from the vehicle, offering the Professor a final cigarette as a parting gift. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Professor Moore replied gaily, greatly restored by his time in the company of this charming young woman. “Do look me up when you are next in Cambridge – I should very much like to take you to tea at the Orchard, if you’d be brave enough to get into a punt with me.” Revving the engine in a final display of renewed exuberance, the Professor put the MG into gear and sped off down the road at a truly reckless speed.

  Flora watched him go and then, rummaging through her bag, fished the keys out, nodded to the night porter and walked up the two flights of stairs to her mother’s apartment.

  THREE

  It was almost eleven by the time she walked into the dark hallway, and Flora was decidedly ready for her bed. She kicked off the brogues, unwound the scarf from her head and shook out her curls before heading towards the living room to pour herself a quick night-cap. She flicked the light on in the hallway as she moved through the apartment, eyed her mother’s curious taste in bronze statuettes with misgiving (all of which had apparently frozen with embarrassment at various stages of the dance of the seven veils), and dangled a cigarette between her scarlet lips. Suddenly she stopped, lighter held motionless in mid-air. The muted strains of Duke Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood” wafted towards her from the crack under the living room door, and she could just make out what appeared to be lamp-light spilling from the room.

  Her mother was supposed to be in Paris attending a series of life-drawing classes and, although Flora was only too aware that where Beatrice was concerned such plans meant very little, she decided it would be best not to take any chances - particularly given the ominous undertones in her uncle’s telegram. Seizing one of the statuettes, Flora crept towards the doorway. The bronze dancer, Flora was pleased to note, had managed to retain a single swathe of thin material about her pneumatic person; Alice might enjoy the anarchic possibilities of beating an intruder over the head with a bare bronze bosom, but the idea struck Flora as being rather vulgar.

  Pushing the door open Flora edged into the room, Gauloise in mouth, statuette in hand, and eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Darling one!” her mother squealed, nearly over-turning her easel as she jumped up to embrace her daughter, “I had no idea you were in Town!”

  Flora had to hand it to Beatrice; she certainly knew how to create a spectacular tableau. The burgundy walls were positively glowing with the amber light being cast by numerous candelabra, and the fire was blazing with such intensity that the room felt almost tropical. Beatrice had created an artistic haven for herself by the far window; her easel was surrounded by velvet throws, plump cushions were strewn about its legs like small, sleeping animals, and Flora was sure that she could spy a bottle of Veuve-Clicquot tucked away by the paint-brushes. The real surprise, however, came in the form of a naked man standing in the middle of the room, his modesty protected only by a bunch of artfully placed grapes. Beatrice’s portrait suggested that he ought to have been evincing a kind of languid, classical sprezzatura; as it was, he looked distinctly uncomfortable and inescapably English.

  Beatrice flung her arms around her only child, encasing Flora in that familiar smell of turps, Vol de Nuit and tobacco. She was still an extraordinarily beautiful creature possessed of a poker-straight blonde bob, china-doll eyes and a slender figure which belied her maternal status. Unless one knew better, one might assume that the two women were sisters.

  “Hallo, Beatrice,” Flora said, passively accepting this embrace and extending her arms so that her mother would neither be stabbed by the flailing limbs of the bronze dancer nor set alight by her cigarette, “I thought you were in Paris.”

  “I do wish you’d call me mother, dearest,” Beatrice replied, sighing theatrically and wafting back across the room to retrieve her champagne. “I’m not sure it’s terribly appropriate of you to be bandying my name about like that, even if it does make me feel considerably younger than “mama” would. Anyway, I am in Paris. I only popped back for the day to run a few errands – you know – when I bumped into Teddy here. One simply had to immortalise him in oil. He has such an exquisite jaw-line, it would have been criminal of me to leave him in Harrods.”

  “Yes,” Flora said slowly, “how silly of me not to notice his inspirational jaw.”

  “I’m Bertie Cavendish,” the young man interjected, seizing a dressing gown from the sofa behind him and managing to wriggle into it without mishap. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Now that she was no longer distracted by his marble flesh, Flora was at liberty to observe that her mother’s muse was in fact a very handsome young man. He was tall, athletically built, and smiling at her in the most charmingly crooked way. She guessed that he must be in his mid-twenties and, from the unmistakeably intelligent look in those hazel eyes, not your run-of-the-mill nudist.

  “Flora Mackintosh,” Flora replied with a slight incline of the head, as she accepted a saucer of champagne from her mother and arranged herself on a chaise-longue near the mahogany drinks cabinet.

  “Now, darling,” Beatrice said, sweeping across the room in the long black velvet jacket she always wore when she was painting, “shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “Indeed I should, Beatrice,” Flora replied, unperturbed, “however I’ve received a most unexpected telegram from a man claiming to be my uncle, and it looks as though I shall have to go to Hungary.”

  “Good lord, Antal!” Beatrice said with a gasp, clapping a milky-white hand over her pretty mouth, “do you know, I have been so distracted by Bertie that I utterly forgot about him. How absolutely ghastly of me.”

  “I say, would it be better if
I waited in the other room?” Bertie asked, knotting the dressing gown cord and edging towards the door. “Give you both a little privacy?”

  “Oh no, Bertie darling,” Beatrice said, wafting her hand rather vaguely. “He wasn’t a close relation. Have a little more champagne.”

  “Close or not, you might have told me that I had an uncle,” Flora observed, remonstrating gently. “It was quite a blow to receive a telegram from him and to hear the news of his death on the same day. Miss Baxter was agog with curiosity.”

  “Who is Miss Baxter?” Beatrice asked vaguely. “Is she a friend of yours, my love?”

  “She is my Housemistress,” Flora replied simply, deciding not to reveal to her mother that she and Miss Baxter had met above ten times, and had even sat next to one another during the speeches at Commem the previous summer. “Uncle Antal said thank you for the portrait of Father, by the way. He described it as being “splendid”.”

  “Did he?” Beatrice replied, evidently slightly confused. “How very peculiar of him. I’m terribly glad he liked it, of course, but I’ve only ever given him one picture and I’m sure that that was more than twenty years ago. I’m no stickler for punctuality, of course, but two decades seems an indecently long time to wait to send a thank you note.”

  Flora did not hold much store by this. If Beatrice could forget that she had a child for huge swathes of the year then she could certainly send a painting to Hungary without remembering she’d done so. It did seem rather odd, but Flora didn’t consider it to be something worth dwelling on; if Uncle Antal’s powers of recall and punctuality were anything like her mother’s, then it seemed perfectly possible that his thank you note could indeed have been so tardy.

  “Now how long are you staying, my own one?” Beatrice asked as she placed a Lucky Strike in the tip of her amber cigarette holder. “I thought that I might head back to Paris in a day or so – you’d be more than welcome to join me. There’s plenty of room in the pension, and it’s always such a scream in Montmartre.”

  “That’s terribly kind of you, Beatrice,” Flora replied, genuinely touched by this unusually expansive maternal gesture, “however I really must be setting off for Budapest in the morning. Uncle Antal was quite specific regarding the level of urgency required, and in any case if I don’t get a move on the school is sure to catch up with me.”

  “I quite understand, my love,” Beatrice replied abstractedly as she started to dab at the portrait of Bertie with a fine brush. “How are you planning to get there?”

  Flora dipped her nose into the champagne saucer. “As a matter of fact I hadn’t made any firm decisions on that front,” she confessed. “What would you recommend?”

  “If I may,” Bertie interjected, taking a seat opposite Beatrice and absent-mindedly eating the grapes, “I think I may have just the thing.”

  “Really, Bertie?” Beatrice exclaimed, entirely charmed by this pronouncement. Flora waited in measured anticipation.

  “Well, I’m something of an amateur pilot, you see,” he said somewhat bashfully. “Ma and Pa gave me a light air-craft last Christmas, and I’m always jolly keen to use it any chance I get. In short,” he added, throwing a grape high into the air and catching it in his open mouth, “I should be delighted to run you across to Hungary tomorrow, if you like.”

  “What is it that you say you do for a living, Mr Cavendish?” Flora asked, reluctantly impressed by this surprising offer of aerial transportation.

  “I didn’t,” he replied with a grin. “Currently, Miss Mackintosh, I would say that I am a flâneur.”

  “How desperately romantic,” a delighted Beatrice replied, clapping her hands once again. “Why, I am half minded to go with you myself!”

  “Alas, it is only a two-seater,” Bertie replied, quashing this fledgling dream. “However I should be more than happy to fly you anywhere you wish once I have returned from dropping Flora off.”

  Flora lit a cigarette and puffed on it thoughtfully. Her uncle had told her not to trust anyone, of course; however, she didn’t for one moment imagine he would include the nude, grape-throwing Bertie in his camp of suspicious characters. The fellow may be a touch unusual, but he certainly didn’t scream danger. Moreover it seemed to present the perfect solution to her problem. She’d seen advertisements for the new night ferry between London Victoria and Gare du Nord in The Times (which she had delivered to St.Penrith’s each day, and typically enjoyed reading whilst drinking her first cocktail of the evening) but even were she to experiment with a channel crossing, she’d still need to find a car in France and navigate her away across the continent. In short, Bertie’s offer was extremely tempting, and she was minded to accept it.

  “I can of course procure character references, should you wish to have some comfort on that score,” Bertie offered magnanimously, as Beatrice topped up his glass. “Wilky and Jumbo are more than likely to be making inroads into the Travellers Club’s single malts at this sort of time, and I’m sure they would be more than happy to vouch for me, if we called them up.”

  “I don’t suppose that will be necessary,” Flora replied graciously, finishing her champagne and rising from the chaise-longue. “If you’re quite sure that it wouldn’t be an imposition then I should be most grateful for your assistance, Mr Cavendish. Shall we start after breakfast? Say 11 o’clock?”

  “Splendid,” a beaming Bertie replied, genuinely pleased to have had his offer accepted. “I should be making tracks myself in that case – lots to be done before the morning.”

  “Oh, but I haven’t finished your portrait!” Beatrice cried in dismay, “and it has been coming on so promisingly. It would be very naughty of you to leave.” Beatrice’s bottom lip threatened to quiver, and those limpid blue eyes glistened with un-spilled tears.

  “Never fear,” Bertie replied kindly, “we shall finish it before too long, and I must say that you are doing such a top-rate job – I’ve never looked so regal.”

  Beatrice beamed with pleasure, while Flora studied this thoughtful and most peculiar young man with decided interest.

  FOUR

  The next morning, Flora trotted down the stone steps to the street below, sporting a very smart pair of high-waisted charcoal trousers, a matching grey beret and a guernsey-sweater in racing green. Pongo’s scarf was draped carelessly about her shoulders, and she carried a light travelling case in one hand and a small handbag in the other, the latter filled with all the essentials she suspected she may require during her time in Hungary: cigarettes; Alice’s hip-flask; a tube of red-lipstick and a pistol.

  In a display of uncharacteristic punctuality, Bertie was waiting by the pavement in a very smart Aston Martin Le Mans. As soon as he saw her, he tooted the horn in greeting.

  “Morning!” he cried. “Sleep well?”

  “Beautifully, thank you,” Flora replied, bestowing a grateful smile upon him. “One never sleeps so well as one does in one’s own bed, does one?”

  “One does not,” Bertie replied in solemn agreement, as he took Flora’s suitcase from her and stowed it in the boot. “I hope you were given a good feed, too,” he added. “I’m afraid that we’ll be in the air for the best part of the afternoon, and there’s only room for the most rudimentary of picnics in Cynthia-Rose.”

  “Who, or what, is Cynthia-Rose?” Flora asked, much amused by this warning.

  “Ah,” Bertie said, firing up the engine and speeding off in the direction of Wimbledon Common. “Cynthia was my maternal grandmother, you see, and Rose my paternal. They were wonderful women and both lived to a very great age, so I thought it would be rather a promising omen to name my little plane after them. So far, so good.”

  Flora laughed and glanced across at her companion as he navigated his way through the busy London streets. There was something about him that she couldn’t quite place. He looked for all the world like the carefree young man he claimed to be and there was no doubt that he was exceedingly charming, but there was something that didn’t ring entirely true to her, s
omehow. A keen intelligence lurked in those eyes of his, and a decided air of mystery. She didn’t feel unsafe in any way, but she resolved to keep an eye on this convenient knight-errant.

  “She’s parked over in Wimbledon,” he explained, “so we should be up amongst the clouds in no time.”

  Flora drew a cigarette from her bag, and popped it between her lips. “So what did you do before you were flâneuring, Mr Cavendish?” Flora asked, blowing smoke up into the frosty morning air. “I can’t believe that you’ve spent a great deal of time modelling for women you’ve encountered in Harrods. Which section, by the way?”

  “Food hall,” Bertie replied, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to look across at her. “They stock a particular kind of stilton that I’ve so far been unable to find anywhere else, and which I find I cannot live without.”

  “How romantic,” Flora retorted with the ghost of a smile. “Their eyes met across a crowded fish counter.”

  “It was by the eggs, actually,” Bertie replied, unfazed by this sally. “However I can assure you that there was nothing of that kind going on, Miss Mackintosh – my afternoon with your mother was spent solely in the pursuit of art. She really is very talented, you know.”

  “I know,” Flora said simply. “She paints beautifully.”

  “To answer your question, though,” Bertie said, skilfully weaving his way through the streets of South London, “I have had several professions. I was in the Royal Navy for a time; after that I spent a year or so working on a vineyard in France; and then there was a brief spell in Nairobi. I’ve been back in London for about twelve months now, and I must say that I was beginning to get rather restless again. This jaunt across the channel couldn’t have come at a better time, let me tell you.”

  Bertie suddenly swung the car down a small, wooded lane on the outskirts of Wimbledon, drove through a wide gate and killed the engine. “She should be perfectly safe here for today,” he reassured Flora, as he leapt out of the car and moved around to open her door. “Come along.”