The weather was threatening to compete with the outbursts that had been a feature of the evening so far, but Archie was glad to be outside. Hitchcock’s gathering had brought together the sort of people he most despised, people whose personalities he would never understand, and he was relieved to have an excuse to leave them behind in exchange for something more familiar. He laughed to himself as he left the hotel, amused by the irony of his situation: never, as a young man, could he have imagined himself turning to Bridget for sanity and a world that made sense, and he wondered what had made the difference – whether it was wisdom, as Josephine had suggested, or simply a happy acquiescence.
White Horses formed a gateway between the hotel grounds and the headland, and seemed to Archie to act as mediator between the civilised world of the village and the miles of untamed woodland that surrounded it, ensuring that the values of one did not encroach too far on those of the other. It was a simple, single-storey building and its whitewashed walls shone proudly in the lantern light, as if pleased to offer a contrast to the more elaborate style of the rest of the village. A lamp was on in the window but there was no answer when he knocked, so he waited a couple of minutes and let himself in. The cottage was small and seemed designed for a solitary lifestyle – a contemplative life, he would have said, were it not for the thoroughness with which Bridget had made herself at home. His job had trained him to read people’s lives from where they lived, usually in the most tragic of circumstances, but there was no need here for either his professional expertise or his personal knowledge: any stranger would know instantly that the room’s occupant was happy with her own company, and that was exactly what Bridget had always been. It was one of the things he admired most about her: the ability to stand on the outside without ever seeming detached, to mix without letting anything of herself be compromised, and it was true of both her life and her art.
The two mingled easily here, although the basic necessities of eating and drinking played a secondary role. He walked over to the central table, which most people would have reserved for dining, and looked affectionately at the clutter of paper, pencils and half-finished sketches, at the mug used to wash brushes and the plate which had become a makeshift palette, and felt a sudden connection to his past which was both welcome and unsettling. The battered old box which Bridget used to store her paints was, he noticed, the same one that she had carried twenty years ago. He unclipped its lid and ran his finger across the row of small tubes, variously shrunken and misshapen with use, reading the names of the pigments: cerulean‚ chrome yellow‚ crimson alizarin. He had always loved the words she used, a secret language of colours and techniques which punctuated her everyday speech and made her inseparable from what she did; the words were not his, and yet they had become familiar to him, an important part of his life, signposts in their conversation. Now, he was surprised to discover how directly they still spoke to him.
He heard footsteps and laughter outside, and, when Bridget opened the door, he was surprised to see her with Hitchcock’s cameraman. Like him, Spence had changed into something more casual since dinner, but neither of them could hold a candle to Bridget for informality; she was wearing the paint-stained overalls he had seen her in earlier, and not an inch of the dark-blue material seemed to have escaped unscathed. They were in the room before he had a chance to close the box‚ but, if she felt any irritation at having caught him looking through her things, she didn’t show it. ‘Archie!’ she said, dumping a large bag on one of the chairs and letting two overexcited dogs off their leads. ‘I didn’t expect you so early. How nice.’
The words were genuine‚ and the awkwardness which Archie felt was of his own making, but that didn’t help to ease his embarrassment. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but you told me to make myself at home. I didn’t realise . . .’ He tailed off, hoping that the disappointment didn’t show in his face and angry with himself for assuming that he and Bridget would be on their own. It had been a casual meeting, after all, and the offer of a drink was made on the spur of the moment; she had probably been regretting it all evening.
She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand and deftly moved one of the border terriers off the remaining chair. ‘Do you know Jack Spence? He’s here with those film people.’
Archie couldn’t help smiling at the way in which she made film sound like a dirty word. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced,’ he said. They shook hands, and he noticed that Spence didn’t seem any more comfortable than he was. ‘But we’ve shared some difficult moments thanks to Mr Hitchcock.’
‘You were there too? Well, I’ll let you get to know each other better while I have a quick shower. I won’t be a minute.’
She left the room, shadowed by one of the terriers. ‘That was a very eloquent parting shot,’ Archie said to Spence when they were alone. ‘And a very moving one. I rather got the impression that your boss’s evening backfired on him.’
Spence shrugged. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll make me pay for it sooner or later. Usually I don’t mind being his pawn, but occasionally it grates.’
‘Does he make a habit of games like that?’
‘All the time.’ He sat down‚ and the other dog jumped onto his lap; Archie tried to ignore the suggestion of familiarity and how much it piqued him. ‘I’ve sat through dinners where the food was blue, had a loan repaid to me in farthings, and looked on while he smoked Elsie Randolph out of a telephone box. At the wrap party for
The Farmer’s Wife
, he hired a bunch of actors to play the waiting staff‚ just to see how long it would take us to notice. Some of his stunts are funnier than others, but they’re all designed to keep us in line.’ He leant forward and accepted a cigarette. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to see that film is his way of controlling people. A set is his doll’s house, and we’re his dolls.’
‘So Portmeirion is his set for the weekend?’
‘Oh, this is just a rather peculiar audition for the people who haven’t worked with him; for those of us who have, it’s a test of our loyalty ready for the big move.’ He spoke the last three words as if they were capitalised. ‘We’re all under scrutiny‚ and he won’t miss a thing. What gets past him certainly won’t get through Alma’s net. They’re quite a team.’
‘Don’t you resent having to perform all the time? People who choose your side of the camera don’t expect that.’
‘It’s tedious, and sometimes it gets out of hand, but we accept it because he’s brilliant.’ Spence must have seen the scepticism on Archie’s face, because he added‚ ‘Hitch really is that good, you know. Most people would tolerate far worse to work with him. For every stroke of genius the audience sees, there are two or three more behind the scenes.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, I get off lightly because I’m
almost
as good as he is.’
‘As modest as ever, I see.’ Bridget sat down on the arm of his chair. She had changed into a sleeveless white linen dress, and her skin shone deep brown in the lamplight. From where he sat, Archie could smell the subtle scent of jasmine.
‘What’s wrong with that? I said almost.’ Spence stubbed out his cigarette. ‘We’re all schoolboys at heart, I suppose. It’s just that most of us try to hide it and Hitch chooses to make it a feature.’
It was the same line of defence that Archie had used with Ronnie but, now that he had seen Hitchcock’s sense of humour in action, he couldn’t help feeling that she had been right after all: behaving like a schoolboy was a dangerous trait in someone who wielded that sort of power. He said nothing, though, and asked instead‚ ‘Are you part of the big move?’
Spence shook his head. ‘No. I have other plans.’
He didn’t elaborate on what they were‚ and Bridget stood up. ‘I’ll get us some drinks. What will you have?’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ Spence said, gently moving the dog from his lap. ‘I’d better be going. I’ll catch up with you over the weekend.’ He raised his hand to Archie and kissed Bridget’s cheek.
‘Let me know how you get on,’ she said, and Spence nodded. On his way out of the door, Archie was sure he saw him wink. ‘Ever the soul of discretion,’ Bridget added wryly when he was gone.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.’
‘You didn’t. We just bumped into each other in the woods. He was angry about something but that’s always his way: he’s got a terrible temper, but it blows itself out as soon as it arrives.’ She peered out of the window. ‘Let’s hope this storm will do the same when it finally gets here.’
‘Do you know him well?’ Archie asked casually.
‘Jack? As well as you can ever know someone like him, I suppose. We go back a long way. His family was part of the set that used to mix with Clough’s, here and in London, so we met each other as kids and then ended up at the Slade together. I often see him when I’m here.’ Archie felt someone nuzzle his hand, and he reached down to respond. ‘That’s Carrington, by the way,’ Bridget said, and he was touched that she should have named her dog after the painter; their friendship stretched back to art school, and Dora Carrington’s suicide in the early thirties must have devastated her. ‘And this is Lytton.’ She indicated the dog who had remained glued to her side. ‘Ironically, he’s a one-woman kind of chap. That would have made her laugh.’
‘You must miss her,’ he said, hoping that the tenderness in his voice would make up for the inadequacy of the words.
‘Yes, every day. It was such a shock, and so inevitable.’ She crouched down and scratched the dog’s head, and he looked adoringly up at her. ‘She was never going to carry on after Lytton died. It was a loneliness too far, and nothing had a point to it without him. Even painting was meaningless, because he wasn’t there to see it. I can understand that. We all need someone to impress, someone who matters.’
He wanted to ask who mattered for her, but didn’t trust himself to be gracious with the answer. In any case, he sensed she wanted to talk about something else, so he picked up their earlier conversation. ‘I thought Jack Spence was only here because of Hitchcock. Does he come back often?’
‘Whenever Clough adds a new building. They’re very close, those two. It took Jack a while to get back on his feet after the war, and Clough gave him some work to help him out. Architectural photography, mostly – nothing as glamorous as what he’s doing now, but easier on the eye than the things he had to cover abroad. No dead bodies in sight.’ Her voice took on the cynical, ironic tone that had become second nature to their generation as they struggled to find new ways to distance themselves from the horror of war. ‘He photographed this headland as it was when Clough bought it, and he’s recorded its transformation ever since. Not that he needs the work now, but I think he has a great affection for it.’ Archie nodded‚ and she laughed. ‘Don’t look so uncomfortable. I told him you were coming, but I didn’t expect you to leave your party so early.’ She kissed him and let her hand linger on the back of his neck. ‘I’m flattered. And wine, too.’ She rinsed a couple of glasses in the sink and looked for a corkscrew among the debris on the table.
‘I would have let it breathe but I wasn’t quite sure about your – uh – system,’ he said, amused.
Bridget ignored the comment, then found what she was looking for and made an expressive gesture with it. ‘You have to leave your systems at the door with me, Archie,’ she said. ‘Surely you remember that?’ He nodded and passed her the bottle. ‘Let’s take it outside,’ she suggested. ‘It’s hot in here, and we can keep an eye on the weather. I don’t want to start that damned mural from scratch.’ The back door of the cottage led to a private inlet with its own tiny rowing boat; there was a pretty walled area with a small table and chairs, lit by lanterns and well shielded from the public footpath. Bridget sat down and smiled at him. ‘So how did you get caught up in Hitchcock’s foreplay?’
He laughed. ‘That’s an interesting description.’
‘Jack’s term, not mine. He senses worse to come over the weekend. Did Josephine’s cocktails go well or badly?’
‘Well, but we were wrong-footed by the invitation after dinner. Hitchcock’s a hard man to refuse. Did Jack tell you about it?’ She nodded. ‘At least we weren’t expected to take part, but it was bad enough as a spectator sport.’
‘Jack said it was all about fear.’
‘That’s right. If it hadn’t felt quite so voyeuristic, it might have been interesting. I’d never realised that what you’re afraid of says so much about who you are.’
‘So what
are
you afraid of? If it’s not a professional sin for a policeman to admit to fear at all?’
‘Being wrong.’ She looked at him disbelievingly, and he tried to explain before she teased him for his arrogance. ‘That’s not as egotistical as it sounds. I mean being wrong professionally. There’s too much at stake.’
‘Accusing the wrong man, you mean?’
‘Or missing the right one. People are badly served either way, and it’s not a mistake you can put right.’
‘I would have thought knowing that was half the battle,’ Bridget said seriously. ‘And from what I remember, you’re not short of compassion or understanding. I doubt you’re often wrong.’ She grinned. ‘Professionally speaking, anyway. If I were in trouble, I’d want you on my side. But isn’t the law infallible?’
‘Oh yes. Just like we learnt our lesson from the war, and this government will be more effective than the last.’ His wryness matched hers. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that the older I get, the less faith I have in my systems.’
‘Now that can’t be a bad thing.’ She raised her glass. ‘To the wisdom of age. Shame we have to wait for it.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. Hitchcock talked about his greatest fear being a knowledge of the future. It was the most sensible thing he said all night, actually; knowing what’s in store for you and not being able to do a thing about it would be terrible.’ He drained his glass and watched as the first flicker of lightning split the sky across the water. ‘A bit like having another war waiting in the wings, I suppose. It’s hard to believe that it could have been worse, but the knowledge of what we were heading for would have made it so. This time, some of us won’t have the luxury of ignorance.’