A Splash of Red

by Antonia Fraser

  Jemima wrenched her mind from Valentine to his note. Marriage. Valentine and Chloe. Was it possible? Anything was possible with Chloe, that she had long ago learned. But Valentine? He could hardly be Chloe's new lover - already a married man by her own account. Or was it her former lover who had been married? Her last words had been ambiguous.

  'Tuesday' - and today was Friday. The position of the books suggested that they had not been there very long. Was Chloe really contemplating marrying Valentine Brighton? It was odd, if so, that Chloe's remarks about Valentine, her sales, and the likely problem of her new book had had a genuinely cross rather than a romantic tinge. For that matter, the note itself was ambiguous. 'The marriage of true minds' did not necessarily refer to holy matrimony.

  Yet there had been something to the relationship. 'Quite riveting', Chloe's words. Scheherazade would inform her on her return. Still, Chloe might perhaps cast some light on the topic which had troubled the gossip-mongers in literary London of the past. Exactly what if any were Valentine's sexual proclivities? On that subject, Valentine himself generally took refuge in a cloud of what Jemima privately termed his 'feudal' references: 'Mummy simply won't let me marry the sort of girl who can tell one end of a book from the other.' On another occasion: 'Mummy says the library at Helmet was full up at the end of the eighteenth century and a bookish girl would only ruin it, by rearranging things, or worse still reading the books.' It was easy to put all this together, the allegedly dominating figure of 'Mummy', Valentine's bachelor state and the pseudo-comic references, to make of him a homosexual. If so, Valentine was an exceptionally discreet one, surprisingly and surely unnecessarily so for the times in which he lived.

  On the other hand there was the question of his health. 'This weak but well-bred heart beats for you' had been his characteristic way of proposing a publisher's contract to Jemima. It was common knowledge that Valentine's father had died young of a heart condition and that his mother dreaded the same fate overtaking her only child. 'Mummy positively panics when I play the third set at tennis.' That at least was a modest smoke-screen, for Valentine Brighton, far from being the effete performer his appearance might promise, was an exceptional athlete, at least by the standards of the set in which he moved.

  Perhaps 'waiting for Lady Right' - another of his teasing phrases -was indeed what he had been doing. And Chloe Fontaine, twice married already, had turned out to be the chosen she. The picture of Chloe queening it at Helmet was indeed a seductive one - even if her reign might prove short-lived. How long would she stand it? A year? Two years? There was still something odd about the whole business. At this point Jemima decided that she had spent enough time in one evening on Chloe and her amours. Resolutely, she ignored both Brighthelmet Press books. They belonged to an elaborate History of Taste, whose main object was to induce feelings of guilt in the purchaser, pangs to be assuaged by buying (but not necessarily reading) the books.

  Jemima picked up her own Nadine Gordimer novel, and went to the wide balcony, hoping that there would be light enough to read in the comparative cool of the summer's evening. However, she found an outside switch and turned it on. Suddenly the balcony was flooded with light: for a moment she had the impression of being on a stage in a darkened theatre when the lights are switched on. The dark balcony to the right and the equally dark scaffolding to the left, gave the irresistible effect of theatrical wings.

  Jemima felt totally vulnerable, even at that great height over the square. She was exposed to whatever strange malignant forces were out there in the darkness. Moreover, an extraordinary fear seized her - she, not given to such things - that there was someone waiting in the wings. Someone perhaps in the obscurity of the scaffolding to her left.

  As a result, an unexpected soft thump very close to her made her give a light scream until she realized it was Tiger, returning from some nocturnal prowl. The ghost of the dead Colette, who had so often glided into her flat at night through the cat flap, a small unmistakeable sound, called to her. But she had not come here to listen to the mew of Colette's ghost.

  Resolutely Jemima gave herself up to concentrate on Nadine Gordimer. She was immediately carried into another far-off and sombre world. When she next squinted at the elegant little gold bracelet watch she always wore, it was 11.30.

  Time to sleep and be fresh for the Reading Room of the British Library tomorrow. The intoxication of having disappeared in London overwhelmed Jemima with childish delight. She would read - or perhaps she would not read - in bed. She would read, but she would abandon Nadine Gordimer for the night and read John Le Carre; she had spotted one by Chloe's bed. It was a great help that Jemima had read this Le Carre before, and would thus, in her sleepy state, have a head start with the plot. It was, in its own way, delightful that she was not in her own luxurious but somehow demanding bed at home, with all its little pleasures and appurtenances about it, books, photographs, articles to read, paraphernalia. Last thing, she put the telephone back on the hook in the sitting room.

  Afterwards she was not quite sure whether she had actually fallen asleep or not over Le Carre (it was in fact no help to her that she had read it before; the plot remained dazzling but impenetrable) when she was startled by the plaintive peep-peep of the little telephone by the bed.

  'Dollie?' It was a woman's voice, anxious and quite elderly. 'Dollie? Is that you, dear?'

  'I'm afraid that you have the wrong number,' began Jemima. 'There's no Dollie here.'

  'Is that 6368471?' quavered the voice. Jemima glanced at the dial.

  'Yes, but this is a new flat: the number must have been reallocated.'

  Jemima had just said again: 'There's no Dollie here', when she suddenly remembered, feeling rather remorseful, that Chloe Fontaine's mother always called her Dollie. Jemima, having been at Cambridge with Chloe, was dimly aware of this fact. As far as she could remember Chloe, formerly Dorothy or Dollie, had changed her name on arrival at Cambridge but, as she occasionally complained, had never succeeded in getting her somewhat elderly mother to acknowledge the fact.

  'I see, dear. I'll just go on calling you Dollie, if you don't mind,' was the most her mother could be persuaded to comment.

  'Is that you, Mrs Fontaine?' said Jemima hastily. 'I'm afraid Chloe's gone away.' She did not feel like entering the Dollie charade herself; considering Chloe's ancient annoyance at her mother's obstinacy, it seemed somewhat disloyal to her friend. Chloe had after all lived as long under her new name as her old, and had written a great many books under it (for which reason she had never adopted either of her two married names).

  'I'm her friend, Jemima Shore,' she threw in. 'You may remember: we met once at Cambridge. I'm borrowing her flat while she's on holiday.'

  There was a moment's silence. Jemima had a picture of an old person at the other end of the telephone, grappling with unexpected information. And Mrs Fontaine, having, as far as she could remember, borne Chloe when she was something like forty, must be in her seventies by now.

  'Not Mrs Fontaine, dear. Mrs Stover,' said the voice at last. It was less plaintive, much firmer. Further Cambridge memories came back to Jemima. The trouble with Chloe's change of name was that she had changed both her Christian name and her surname on arrival at university. Fontaine was the name of her real father who had been killed early in the war, and Stover the name of her stepfather who had adopted her. Presumably the reversion represented some kind of protest; at this distance Jemima hardly remembered. Where 'Chloe' came from, Jemima had absolutely no idea; it was an unlikely middle name for Dorothy Stover. At all events, Mrs Stover had persisted in addressing letters to Miss Dorothy Stover at first, until Chloe defeated her by sending them back unopened: 'Not known at this College.'

  'Jemima Shore. Well,' went on Mrs Stover, as though digesting this information in its turn. Jemima heard her say to someone quite loudly: 'Dad. Did you hear that? Jemima Shore Investigator is in Dollie's flat. I'm talking to her on the telephone.' A strong and very angry man's voice could be heard saying: �
��I don't care who you're talking to on the telephone, not even if its Michael Parkinson himself or the Queen of England. I want to know where Dollie is, that's what I want to know.'

  'You see, Dollie said she would come down here and spend the night with us.' Mrs Stover was now speaking directly into the telephone again: 'And she hasn't come. And Dad's worried.'

  'Worried!' came a shout from the background. 'Tell her I'm not worried. I'm bloody fed up, that's what I am. She rings up her mother the other day, out of the blue, haven't seen her for ages, too busy, that's what she says, busy with what, says I, she rings us up, says she'll be late, so we sit up for her, Mrs Stover prepares a meal, and now her royal highness doesn't even turn up before midnight. Worried. I should bloody well think I am worried.'

  'Whereabouts do you live, Mrs Stover?' enquired Jemima cautiously, when this tirade appeared to have stopped.

  'In Folkestone - "Finches", Bartleby Road. Near the park if you know Folkestone. She was going to spend the night here and take the ferry to the Continent tomorrow morning. She did say she would be late. But now it's nearly twelve o'clock.'

  'It is twelve o'clock,' came the voice of Mr Stover in the background. 'It's tomorrow already, that's what it is.'

  Jemima gave Mrs Stover her most soothing television voice. 'How very worrying for you - both,' she said diplomatically. 'Chloe left here about nine so she certainly should have reached Folkestone by now. There wouldn't be much traffic. She didn't however mention that you were expecting her. She told me she was driving to Dover. I just wonder if she could have forgotten.' As she spoke Jemima - rather wearily, for she agreed with Mr Stover that it was tomorrow already - was rehearsing the familiar routine of checking for the non-arrival of a person. She would, she supposed, have to telephone the hospitals and the police, in case Chloe had had an accident or breakdown on the way.

  There was another silence. Jemima half expected a roar from Mr Stover: 'Forgotten! She'd bloody well better not forget.' Slightly to her surprise there was silence from both Stovers. Then she realized that Mrs Stover was whispering to her husband. A moment later she heard Mr Stover himself take the receiver before speaking in a more conciliatory tone.

  'Well you see, Miss Shore, it's like this. It is just possible that she, Dollie, as Mrs Stover and I are in the habit of calling her, has overlooked the appointment. The reason being—' another brief silence of hesitation - 'I may as well say, to save your time and ours, that I indicated to Dollie that she had better be here by six o'clock in the evening or not come at all. And she said she couldn't, why I don't quite know, but still we'll leave that one. So I said, I indicated to her, that if she couldn't be here at six in the evening to eat supper with Mrs Stover and myself she had better not come at all, under the circumstances, if you understand me. It's true that she still said to her mother that she would come—'

  'I understand.' Jemima felt relief. Chloe had quite clearly not gone to Folkestone, but had driven directly to Dover. It made no sense to leave so late, to spend her time in Bloomsbury chatting to Jemima, if she had been intending to have supper in Folkestone. Why not mention casually to Jemima that she had to visit her parents?

  'Look, I think she probably decided in the end not to come,' Jemima went on. 'Not wishing to keep you up late.' That was a diplomatic way of putting it. 'Will you ring me in the morning if you have any further problems?'

  The Stovers, both of them, rang off. Jemima turned off her light. But sleep did not come. She lay for an hour, rather irritated by the whole affair. In the end she decided that it was because she was not quite convinced that Chloe had not set off for Folkestone. A responsible person would ring the police.

  Jemima Shore rang the police, and after being put through to the various exchanges, established that there had been no road accidents involving a Miss Chloe Fontaine in central London or on the Folkestone or Dover roads that night. A call to the hospitals? No, at this point; that was really going too far. It was quite the wrong way to spend her 'disappearing in London' holiday, trying to track down Chloe Fontaine. She drifted into sleep.

  The next time she was woken by the telephone, she was aware that it was morning. The next thing she was aware of was that the anonymous caller was back again.

  At eight thirty in the morning, to her amazement, Jemima Shore found herself listening to words which began something like: 'Shall I come and give it to you in that great bed? I could, you know. Or shall I just watch you through the walls, my private view? I haven't made up my mind. Have you made up your mind? How do you want it, Jemima Shore?' The mention of her own name broke the spell and Jemima slammed down the telephone.

  It rang again instantly, as though the slamming action had set off the ringing. Trembling more with annoyance than anything else, she picked it up ready to swear at her anonymous friend.

  'Look here—' she began in a loud and furious voice. Then she stopped.

  'Miss Shore?' someone was saying at the other end. 'This is Mrs Stover, Dollie's mother. Miss Shore, we don't know what to think now. We had a letter from Dollie this morning. You know what the posts are - it was posted three days ago. First class too. She left out the road number, of course, she always does, although I've written to her about it over and over again, and sent her the Post Office's communication that the name is no longer sufficient, you need the number, and you have to put in Lethermere Road as well as Bartleby Road. Still, as she writes so seldom, I suppose - anyway "Finches" ought to be enough after seventeen years. There's really no call for marking it "Insufficient Postal Address".'

  Jemima thought she distinguished a cry of 'Bloody ridiculous' from the background. Mrs Stover continued hurriedly.

  'Anyway, she said she was sorry she had to be so late, to tell Dad not to be too angry, she was sorry about their words, but she'd definitely be with us by eleven. She said she had something special to tell us. She had to tell it to us personally, couldn't write it. We didn't know what that was, of course. So, Miss Shore, she's not here, her bed's not been slept in, she didn't come in the night. Miss Shore, wherever can Dollie be?'

  3

  'Care for a visit?'

  The next voice on the telephone was more vigorous. Mr Stover also sounded angry, as though Dollie had deliberately failed to arrive during the brief period of forgiveness he had extended and must now take the consequences. But his actual words were jovial enough, if hardly likely to cheer Jemima herself.

  'I've just said to the wife,' he half-shouted, 'we're dealing with the Press here. This is Miss Jemima Shore we've got on the other end of the telephone. Jemima Shore, Investigator, no less. People round here would be queuing in their thousands to speak to her about the slightest thing, and we have her on the end of our telephone. She'll find Dollie for us, Mother...' But Jemima had not, she reminded herself, established a singularly successful career in television without being able to deal with the likes of Mr Stover.

  She interrupted him firmly as he was still relating at some length his dialogue with his wife.

  'I advise you to call the police, Mr Stover. That is, if you're really satisfied that Chloe—' she refused to adapt to Dollie; the persistent use of the name seemed to her part of the Stovers' fantasy about their daughter - 'if you're really satisfied that Chloe was intending to visit you and not go straight to the ferry.'

  Jemima heard Mrs Stover's more plaintive voice in the background. It was still unfortunately clear.

  'Show her the letter, Dad,' she was saying. 'We must show her the letter.' Strangled sounds from Mr Stover. A pause and an even more plaintive cry. 'You're wearing your spectacles, Charlie.' Mrs Stover added something which sounded like: 'But the telephone is cheaper on Saturday, Charlie. Your cousin Poppy told us.'

  The image of the two old people in Folkestone - 'near the park, if you know the town' - worrying over their daughter and their telephone and their spectacles made Jemima feel increasingly desperate. Her holiday, her disappearance in London, was being melted away by the most unwelcome compassionate feelings.


  It was not at all difficult for Jemima to imagine the Stovers at home in 'Finches' because she had just completed a programme on the special loneliness of elderly parents whose successful offspring had moved up the cultural scale, leaving them financially secure, but desperately, uncomprehendingly, lonely on their lowly rung of the ladder. It had been called The Unvisited. Chloe Fontaine had not contributed to it. She was, involuntarily and rather too late, contributing to it now.

  'Read it over to me.' It was the best she could do. Yes, Chloe's letter sounded positive enough about her arrival as Jemima listened and the clear light of the August morning filtered delicately through Chloe's Japanese blinds. She imagined 'Finches', an immaculate little home, breakfast long since finished, crockery washed up, beds made, house garnished. The rooms would be small, unlike Chloe's airy palace. There would be plants in rows in unequal pots on the window sills, all green and rather bushy, with a small red flower or two, all quite unlike the graceful symmetrical white and grey shapes of Chloe's floral decor.

  She could imagine photographs. A dark-haired Dollie with plaits winning prizes at her local grammar school. Dollie - now Chloe - in the group photograph of their first year at Cambridge. Dollie/Chloe marrying Lance Strutt? Chloe marrying Igor? Jemima had been to both weddings and not met the Stovers. It was more likely that one of those large romantic photographs of Chloe by Snowdon and Bailey and Lichfield and, best of all Parkinson, which adorned the backs of her novels and almost swamped the paperback versions, causing sardonic grief to reviewers, one of those must surely grace the Stovers' piano. Chloe in a picture hat, nestling on a swing, modern Fragonard, rising out of roses, corrupted Boucher; on one fabulous occasion actually surrounded by a flight of doves - only Binnie Rapallo could have decided to make a pastoral Greuze out of the author of Old Miss Stevenson, a wry tale about a spinster and her past.