Authors: Laura Wilson
Monica looked down at her paint brush. ‘I’ll have to wash this first, or it’ll get hard.’
‘What about me?’ asked the actress.
‘You’ll have to stay put till we start again,’ said Monica. ‘I’ll finish you off on set. It’s all right, I’ll put a notice on the door so noone’ll come in. It’s for a Donald Colgate picture,’ she explained to Diana. ‘I’m not supposed to be doing it, but one of the girls is off with chickenpox.’
‘I’m just the legs,’ added the actress. ‘Still, at least I’ll be able to tell everyone I’ve been killed by Donald Colgate. It’s practically a rite of passage.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Monica placidly, from the basin, ‘he’s always playing men who murder their wives – they get him if they can’t have James Mason.’
She put on her coat and scarf and the two of them wandered down the causeway. Despite Monica’s remark, it wasn’t a ‘nice day’. It wasn’t raining, but above them, dark clouds were beginning to
conjoin so that the sky resembled an ominously heavy grey eiderdown. Turning her collar up, Monica said, ‘I told Dad about meeting you.’
‘Oh …’ Diana, gratified by this – she’d thought the girl might have forgotten – asked, ‘What did he say?’
‘He remembered you.’ Another grin, quick this time. ‘Very well, I think – although he didn’t say that.’
Diana, wondering what to make of this, said, ‘He was very kind to me.’
‘That sounds like Dad.’ The girl stared at Diana for a moment, then blurted, ‘I’m worried about him,’ and stopped abruptly, looking alarmed.
Surprised, Diana said, ‘Why?’
Monica looked as if she wished she hadn’t said anything. ‘It’s probably nothing, but he’s gone sort of quiet. Gone into himself.’
‘Perhaps he’s worried about something … a case.’
Monica nodded. ‘I know he is,’ she said, more enthusiastically this time. ‘It’s a man who killed his wife, and it’s horrible for Dad because of Mum.’ Before Diana could say anything, she added, ‘Mum was killed, you see.’
‘During the war?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t a bomb. It was a woman that Mum and my Auntie Doris were looking after when she was bombed out, and she went sort of mad and attacked Mum … stabbed her. It happened while I was evacuated. Dad feels guilty because he thinks he should have saved her, but he wasn’t there in time. He’s never told me that, but I know he does. I’ve known for ages. And I know he keeps on remembering what happened, and it’s this case, making it all worse … He misses her like mad. We all do, but … I’m sorry, I don’t really know why I’m telling you this. I don’t normally talk about it.’ Monica huddled into her coat, and Diana had the impression that she was battening down the hatches.
‘I’m not surprised.’ Seeing Monica’s stricken face, she hurried on, ‘I just meant it must be very hard for you, that’s all. But you
can tell me, if you like.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m quite good at listening.’
Monica considered, biting her lip, then said, ‘I didn’t really think about it until recently – or I suppose I didn’t notice – but it’s as if his life has sort of stopped. His memory, I mean. Sometimes he tells me things, stuff from the past … It’s always me he tells, never Pete – that’s my brother – because he won’t talk about Mum at all, and anyway he’s not at home any more … But when Dad says things, it’s always stuff from when Mum was here.’
‘Perhaps he thinks those are the things you want to hear about.’
‘Yes, I do, but … The years between then and now are like a big …
nothing
, as if there’s only what happened today, or yesterday, and then before that it was nineteen forty-four, before Mum died. I mean, I don’t want him to forget about her, but I think he should start living properly, not just going to work and his allotment and reading the paper as if he’s just pretending, because that’s how it seems. Auntie Doris and Auntie Lilian think he should get married again.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think I’d mind if it was someone nice, but I don’t see why he should have to if he doesn’t want to. Look, I really am sorry for telling you. It’s just that I really can’t talk about it with Pete, or Auntie Doris, or my cousin Madeleine, and you’re … you’re …’
‘I’m …?’ Diana prompted.
‘You’re so …
different
, I suppose – sorry, I hope that doesn’t sound rude or anything.’ Monica paused for a moment, frowning at Diana, then added, ‘Was your husband killed in the war?’
‘No,’ said Diana. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well …’ The colour in Monica’s cheeks intensified.
‘Go on. I shan’t be offended.’
‘Working here, for one thing. And it was what came into my mind when I first saw you – that you’d had a loss. I mean,’ she said, ‘I suppose it could have been anything,’ Monica gave an
awkward little laugh, ‘but it seemed as if you’d lost something important.’
Although taken aback – Monica was clearly as observant as her father – Diana found that she didn’t in the least mind the girl’s frankness and found herself willing to repay one confidence with another. ‘I did lose my husband in the war – just not in the way you thought. We’re divorcing.’
Monica’s blush was now a vivid scarlet. ‘I really didn’t mean to pry, Mrs Calthrop. I’m terribly sorry.’
‘I’m not,’ said Diana. ‘I left him. Not,’ she added hastily, ‘that I’d like it generally known.’
‘No. No, of course not. I shan’t tell anyone.’ She put her hand on her chest and said, ‘Not a soul – cross my heart.’ The childishness was deliberate, put-on, but the sincerity was real enough.
‘Thank you. And please … tell your father how very, very sorry I am.’
A few minutes later, Monica set off back to her drying actress, mimicking ‘At least I’ll be able to tell everyone I’ve been killed by Donald Colgate!’ with surprising accuracy, and leaving Diana to contemplate the sheer magnitude of grief, in all its forms, in everything that the girl hadn’t said. A sudden image made her wince and blink as if avoiding something real: the picture of a prim, rigid little woman, lace handkerchief dangling from one sleeve of her cardigan, who said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and set about gouging at Monica’s cowering mother with a pair of sewing shears. Ridiculous, she thought. She had no idea what Mrs Stratton was like, or the woman who’d killed her. She had, in fact, no idea about Stratton’s home life at all, except that it must now be lonely and, judging by what Monica had said, haunted by the spectres of guilt and regret as well as his murdered wife. Poor, poor man … She hoped he’d got somebody he could talk to – if he wanted, that was, because men very often didn’t. He’d been so understanding – a good friend to her, when she’d needed one. It would be nice, she thought, if she could do the same for him – comfort, perhaps,
or just listen. But I shall probably never see him again, she thought sadly – after all, she wasn’t likely to meet him socially, was she?
Diana found Marita in the restaurant, huddled with Alex McPherson in the corner. The tables around them were deserted, but across the room, in the middle of an appreciative coterie of studio staff and partially costumed actors, was Anthony Renwick, declaiming, brandy balloon held aloft. ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Alex. ‘I’m on a spying mission for Mr Vernon. Management needs to keep tabs on the Means of Production, and I shall have to report that one of the Means has dined not wisely, but a bit too well. And,’ he added, glancing at his watch, ‘we’ll have the unions on our backs if this sort of thing keeps happening.’
‘Mr Renwick was wonderful this morning,’ said Diana.
‘So I gather,’ said Alex wryly. ‘Let’s just hope he gets a few more takes under his belt before he falls over. Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Have this,’ said Marita, pushing a full cup towards her. ‘I haven’t touched it, and I need to get back.’
When she’d gone, Alex said, ‘So … Mr Carleton is making quite a pet of you, according to Marita. Taking you under his wing, so to speak.’
‘He’s been very … kind,’ said Diana carefully, realising, as she said it, that these were the exact words she’d just used to Monica about Inspector Stratton.
‘So I understand.’
This seemed so pointed that Diana found herself saying, ‘Marita hasn’t taken against me, has she? She certainly hasn’t said—’
Alex held up one hand like a traffic policeman. ‘Marita,’ he said, ‘never “takes against” anyone. She may look like a human exclamation mark, but she’s as tender as a lamb. Except where the interests of the studio are concerned, and frankly, my darling, it’s not you that’s likely to incapacitate the Means of Production. In fact,’ he raised an eyebrow, ‘you may have quite the opposite effect, so—’
Whatever else he’d been going to say was lost in a bellow of laughter from the other side of the dining room. This seemed to signal the end of Renwick’s performance, because a moment later people began to leave. Alex glanced at his wristwatch and stood up. ‘The triumph of hope over experience,’ he murmured. ‘Well, he can’t say we didn’t warn him.’
‘Mr Renwick, you mean?’
‘Mr Vernon. Sorry, Diana, got to dash.’ He loped off, waving his arms at someone at the far end of the room.
As she gulped the remains of her coffee, Diana wondered what on earth Alex had been talking about. Still, he’d seemed to have implied that she was an asset to the picture and not the reverse, which was obviously a good thing. Anyway, it couldn’t have been all that important, or he’d have stayed and elaborated…
Diana looked up as a shadow fell across the table. Mr Carleton was standing beside her. ‘My rudeness this morning was unforgivable,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’
Jolted by this, Diana said, ‘Really, there’s no need.’
‘Yes, there is. There’s every need. In fact, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me. . . By way of apology, of course.’ His expression, as he looked down at her, was solemn, but there was a light in his eyes that made her heart jump inside her chest.
‘Well, then,’ she said, in a deliberately measured tone. ‘By way of accepting your apology, I accept your invitation.’
‘Does tomorrow suit?’
‘It does.’
‘Wonderful. I’ll take you to one of my favourite haunts.’ He tapped the face of his wristwatch. ‘Drink up, then. We start in five minutes. Oh, and talking of drinking …’ He pulled a silver hip flask out of his pocket. ‘Would you mind asking the barman to fill this up? I fear that neither Mr Renwick nor I will last the distance without it.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Reg, who was carolling away fit to bust in ill-fitting suit and bulging knitted maroon waistcoat, had his back to the fire and his arms around the restive shoulders of Monica and her cousin Madeleine. It was extraordinary, thought Stratton, how his brother-in-law managed to look as if he, personally, had orchestrated all the Christmas festivities. In fact, it was Doris and Lilian who had, between them, managed to obtain everything from turkey to tangerines, and then knocked themselves out in Doris’s steaming, fragrant kitchen to produce a feast. Monica and Madeleine had livened up the place with holly, ivy and berries, provided along with the vegetables by Stratton, and Donald had fashioned ingenious decorations from newspaper and coloured inks. All Reg had done was fiddle with the wireless and give unnecessary advice to the people doing the actual work, accompanied by infuriating jabs of his pipe.
Still, there was nothing like being warm and full of grub, with a bottle of beer at your elbow, new leather slippers (from Lilian and Reg) on your feet and two new jazz records (from Doris and Donald) to listen to later, for putting you in a forgiving mood, and he had to admit that Reg (‘Joy-ful all ye nay-shons ri-ise’) did have a very nice baritone. Don wasn’t bad, either – he’d been in a church choir as a kid – and even Pete, who was on leave from Catterick for forty-eight hours, could sing a bit. He, on the other hand, couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket and, not wishing to give anyone a chance to comment on this, kept his mouth shut on such occasions. He thought
of all the previous Christmases he’d had to miss, when Jenny was alive – and now here he was, and she wasn’t. The nipper would have been getting old enough to appreciate it now, too, and they could have filled the stocking together and crept into the bedroom, Jenny shushing and giggling as Stratton put his hand on her bottom on the way upstairs and then pretended to drop things, just as he had when Monica and Pete were little …
The whole family hadn’t been together for a while, and looking round the room, Stratton noticed that the older members were definitely showing signs of age. Don’s sandy hair was pepper-and-salt now, but at least, unlike Reg, who admittedly had several years on both of them, he’d still got quite a lot on top – although not as much, Stratton thought with more satisfaction than he’d have cared to admit, as he himself had. And his hair was still, except for a few bits near the temples, almost entirely its original black. He was pretty much the same shape that he’d always been, too, whereas Reg and Don seemed to be growing fatter and skinnier at equal rates and Lilian and Doris appeared to be following their husbands’ examples. He supposed they couldn’t help it. Jenny, he was sure, would have kept her figure, which had, in any case, been better than either of her sisters’. But she never had the chance to grow old, he thought, so I’ll never know …
Wrenching his mind away from the subject, he found himself wondering what Davies was doing in Pentonville. Last time he’d been there at Christmas, the eye-catching jollity of a big painted sign – Merry Christmas To All! – suspended over the counter in the reception had struck him as gruesome in the extreme. He knew that the food rations in prison became smaller in the weeks before Christmas as the cooks saved up for a big, rich blow-out, but that was all. Christmas in prison, he thought, must be much the same as Christmas was for him nowadays: a milestone. In his case, it was a measure of time passing since Jenny died; for a prisoner, it would be a measure of how near (or far away) was the release date, or, in Davies’s case, the trial. Remembering what Sutherland the
prison doctor had said, Stratton doubted that Davies was much aware of this. Like an animal not knowing that it was destined for the abattoir … It was, he supposed, a symptom of the unease that he still felt about the whole thing that it continued to nag at him, even at a time like this.