She Died Young (24 page)

‘I heard you were expected this evening. Good to see you here. How d’you like the place?’

Blackstone struggled to his feet. ‘I’m impressed. Very successful …’

He introduced his companions without their official titles. They were just Mr and Mrs McGovern and Mr Jarrell and Miss Finch. Mallory’s gaze swept over them and fixed on Jarrell. His smile was hard as nails. It was a smile that had atrophied onto his face, a smile for all occasions, the same smile for greeting an old friend or for watching an enemy knocked to a pulp, for chatting up a rent boy or for kicking out an informer.

Mallory stayed to talk, without sitting down. Then: ‘Champagne’s on the house,’ he said, and he turned away with a parting salute. Blackstone watched him as he returned to his own party, slipping gracefully between the tables, so delicately and fastidiously for such a large man.

‘You know him, then?’

‘I thought I told you – when I worked in the East End.’

‘He knew who we were,’ commented Jarrell. ‘He recognised me, anyway.’

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ said Anita Finch. ‘It was only last week you paid him a visit.’

Lily looked anxiously at her husband. ‘It doesn’t matter you being seen here?’

Blackstone leaned forward. ‘Everyone comes here. MPs, government ministers, famous actors, film stars, the lot. Look, there’s Gilbert Harding over there.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the TV personality.

McGovern wasn’t listening. He was staring across at the promoter’s table. ‘Who’s the woman sitting next to him?’

‘Why?’ Blackstone scrutinised his companion, who looked as if he’d seen a ghost. ‘She’s his wife.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She’s also the woman I told you about – the one who was visited by your Oxford prof.’

McGovern stared. Sonia was talking to the man Blackstone had identified as Stanley Coleman.

‘Excuse me a moment.’ McGovern stood up. His movement was clumsy and he almost knocked over a chair. Sonia, distracted from her conversation, turned to look. Then she also stood up, appeared to excuse herself and glided from the room. McGovern watched her departure. He slowly turned and sat down again.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Lily’s smile was teasing. ‘You look so serious suddenly.’

‘I recognised her.’

chapter
33

W
ILLIAM DROWNES HAD CAUGHT
sight of his wife talking to Turbeville in the garden at the New Year party. He’d had an uneasy feeling about Regine for several months and because of something about the way the two of them stood facing each other, suspicion at that moment became certainty. His wife was unfaithful. He minded desperately. He’d never thought of himself as a jealous man, but then he’d never had reason to be jealous. Now he was astonished by how painful it was. A torrent of different disagreeable feelings tormented him. He was shocked, angry, wounded and disgusted by her disloyalty and her careless indifference as to how it would look. It reflected not just on him, but on Drownes’. She had let the side down.

In the following days he came to suspect that Edith Blake knew too. Now poor slighted, sidelined Edith became his ally. Nothing was said. Nor had William any thought of confrontation, much less divorce. Quite apart from the firm, there were the twins to consider. Most painful of all, he still loved Regine. He wanted not to love her any more, but he found himself incapable of disengaging himself from all the habits of admiration, affection and even awe built up over the past six years.

The liaison, however, as Edith Blake subtly hinted, could be turned to good effect. Surely Mrs Drownes’ friendship with the MP could be used to persuade him to complete his biography of Benjamin Disraeli, Victorian Prime Minister, one-nation conservative, Queen Victoria’s favourite. Everyone knew he’d been working on it for three years. Now that he was a minister he had less time, of course, but surely Mrs Drownes was capable of deploying her charm. It would be the book of the year; and quite apart from the book, to land an author who was also in the government was a catch in itself. And with Sir Avery’s money, they could afford to make a splash. Drownes’ had big ideas for 1957.

More surprising than Regine’s behaviour was that of Lady Pearson, the other Edith. William was both alarmed and flattered when she hinted that a closer relationship would be welcome. He desperately hoped he could make his wife jealous. But if Reggie noticed, she showed no sign.

‘I need to talk to you.’ There was urgency in Rodney’s voice.

This time they were not to meet at his flat or at ‘their’ restaurant. They were apparently not to make love at all. They met at Kew Gardens on a sad, cold February afternoon. They dropped their pennies in the slot and walked through the turnstile. Turbeville pulled his hat down and thrust her arm through his. Then he changed his mind and his arm went round her waist.

‘You know I’m mad about you, don’t you?’

Regine ducked her face away so that he did not see her sad little smile. They walked at a stately pace, despite the cold, along the broad avenue. They seemed to be entirely on their own. The gardens were deserted.

‘Couldn’t wait to see you. Wish it could have been sooner – but now I’m at Transport … I’d have happily stayed at the Home Office, y’know. The Hungarian chaps deserve all we can do for them. I really felt I was doing some good there. I told Harold. Begged him to let me stay. But you know how it is – new top chap has to make his mark on his cabinet – obligatory reshuffle …’

‘Will he make a good prime minister?’

‘Couldn’t be worse than Eden, I tell you that much – anyway, this bloody Oxford road scheme. You would not believe the viciousness – some of those old dons – have they got the knives out! I’m only surprised there hasn’t been a murder. And your friend, Quinault, he’s one of the worst.’

‘My friend, darling? I thought he was
your
friend. You said you thought the world of him.’

‘Thought the world of him? Did I say that? Well … he’s a clever old bastard. Involved in all sorts of hush-hush stuff in the war, you know. The trouble is, like a lot of them, he’s a bit too clever by half. He’s ruthless, too. For some reason I don’t entirely understand, he was absolutely gung-ho to get the relief road running through Christ Church Meadow.’

‘That lovely meadow …?’

‘Well, something has to be done about the traffic. Magdalen Bridge is practically impassable at all times of day. And the Littlemore link road is a big question mark too. Years of indecision. For every scheme there’s some vested interests against it. One of the colleges always has an objection. To cut through the Meadow would be in many ways the best solution. Cut the Gordian knot, you know. But it’s bloody controversial. Raise a lot of hackles, and … I sometimes think Quinault’s so keen on it just to do down some enemy or other. The politics of it all is absolutely – Machiavelli’s hair would have stood on end. Labyrinthine. The Vatican couldn’t do better – or do I mean worse? Quinault’s been on and on at me about it. Old reptile. I wish I knew why the road’s so important to him. He’s a bit too keen on interfering with the Hungarian arrivals, too. I mentioned it to Duncan—’

‘Duncan?’

‘You know, sweetie, my replacement at the H.O.
He
doesn’t give a toss about the refugees. Cold fish, if ever there was one. And not one to risk crossing MI5 if there’s anything going on there.’ Unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘But anyway, I have some news for Quinault about Christ Church Meadow. Christ Church just withdrew consent. It was so simple in the end. The Gordian knot cut after all. The meadow belongs to them and they just weren’t having it.’

‘That must be a relief.’ She looked up at him. ‘Does that mean you’ll have more time? You know Drownes’ is terribly keen on the Disraeli biography. William would absolutely love to publish it. You do know that?’

‘More time? I doubt it. The Oxford road scheme was the least of my worries – well, not exactly, but as soon as one thing’s sorted out something else comes along. That’s politics. Building a better Britain! Trouble is, the boat’s holed beneath the water line. Britain, the great post-imperialist nation! More like the
Titanic
in slow motion.’

Reggie didn’t think this was what Rodney had met her to discuss.

‘The thing is, Reggie, there’s a hell of a lot of pressure on at the moment …’

Now she was alarmed. She huddled into her violet coat. To feel cold was to feel unloved. Untended. She needed attention. She could only flower when a lover’s attention beamed on her, opening her petals, exposing her heart.

‘It’s a wonderful subject,’ she said obstinately. ‘Surely the Prime Minister has the same ideals – a one-nation Tory – it’s a book for the times …’

Perhaps she’d said the wrong thing, for Turbeville’s laugh sounded an impatient note. ‘Oh, Macmillan’s a wily old fox. Don’t be taken in by the performance. He can out-act Laurence Olivier any day.’

They walked on. Where paths crossed, Turbeville stopped. ‘Isn’t there a tea room somewhere? Over there?’

As they walked in the direction of the Orangery, Turbeville conceded: ‘Well, it would be good to get it finished. You’re right. It is timely. Good old Dizzy.’ Silence.

It wasn’t until they were settled opposite each other at a spindly tea table, that he continued: ‘Lettice thinks I don’t spend enough time with her and the kids.’

So it was what she had feared. He wanted to end it. Reggie braced herself.

‘She must know you have to be in the House and that as a minister your work is relentless,’ she said calmly. ‘She comes from a political family, after all. And there’s your constituency.’

‘The thing is – I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for ages, but it’s so – so humiliating. You see, I’ve not always, well, I think I told you a bit about my – you know, colourful past. Things haven’t always been easy with Lettice. All her back problems – and the pregnancies. And of course she’s utterly conventional. In a way …’ and now he was almost talking to himself, the words were familiar. If she hadn’t heard them herself at first hand, she had friends who had and there was nothing new, after all. He’d just wring his hands for a bit and then everything would go on as usual. Either that or – but she couldn’t bear the alternative.

Turbeville continued to talk in an undertone. ‘She’s conventional so she expects me to have mistresses, that’s how men are … and so forth …’

Regine said quickly: ‘I do understand. If you think we should see less of each other for a while, I’d perfectly see – I know how difficult it is …’ Reggie knew how to save face, although this was only an opening gambit.

Turbeville gripped her hand across the table. ‘That’s not what I want. It’s not that straightforward. You and me – that’s one thing. But before I met you there were times … when I was still gambling a lot, you know, I got in with a crowd who – well, there were parties. There was this woman who organised parties – there’d be lots of girls – now it turns out someone took photographs … the fact is, I’m being blackmailed.’

chapter
34

B
LACKWELL’S BOOKSHOP SPREAD
through a warren of low-ceilinged rooms. Charles loitered at the tables where new books were set out, but made sure to reach the classics section well before 4 p.m. He was again deliberately early so as to exclude the possibility of a misunderstanding about the time. He half suspected – and more than half hoped – Andras wouldn’t turn up. He didn’t look forward to seeing him again after the night they’d spent together, so clumsy both physically and emotionally. He didn’t want the responsibility of the Hungarian’s distress. He didn’t want to feel guilty. He didn’t want to feel sorry for Andras. For Charles, pity was always messily mixed up with contempt. He felt responsible for Andras, felt he had some sort of obligation to help, but at the same time he knew there was little he could do. And that made him feel impotent and angry.

So he arrived early. Then, should Andras fail to keep the appointment, Charles could not blame his own lateness. He would know then that the Hungarian had decided not to see him and he would not need to feel guilty. He’d be able to tell himself he’d done what he could.

He waited, and while he did so, continued to prowl the bookshelves. The very situation of being in a bookshop offered infinite possibilities. Each volume opened a door and beckoned him along a different path. He bought books lavishly, but too often they then lay unread or merely dipped into, and instead of providing nourishment the end effect was like eating too many sweets from a box of chocolates.

He wandered up and down the shelves. He became immersed in a new translation of Juvenal, his favourite classical author. The next time he looked at his watch he saw that it was twenty to five. Andras was forty minutes late; he wasn’t coming. Now that his half-wish had been granted, Charles was – contrarily – disturbed and even disappointed. Andras had been agitated. Something might have happened to him. He might have fled to London to escape the strangers who had tracked him down and started to ask questions. The mysterious visitors could even have kidnapped him. Or, as a Catholic, he might have found refuge in one of the many religious foundations in the city. He might even have
confessed
. That could get Charles into trouble.

Even to think of the Catholic dimension unnerved and irritated Charles. Only an idiot could go on practising a religion that went against your every normal and natural desire. Charles hated the Christianity that saturated the university. Religiosity swamped the place from every direction. He’d even encountered a Jesuit who’d tried to seduce him on the grounds that sodomy was only a little sin of the body. The hypocrisy of it was both disgusting and comical.

He wished he could forget Andras, but he couldn’t, because he knew that Andras had been genuinely frightened. It was real – it wasn’t like his own life, sliding idly along from one indifferent experience to the next. Andras was skating on very thin ice. He might actually have fallen through into the freezing water beneath.

Yet realistically, there was absolutely nothing Charles could do. He considered going round to the Quinault residence, but that would never do. He could bike up the hill to the hostel at Headington to see if Andras was there. But Andras disliked the hostel and anyway, the moral and physical effort demanded was beyond Charles in his present mood. The flu he’d thought he was sickening for before hadn’t materialised, but now he felt he might be getting it after all.

The most likely explanation was that Andras simply did not want to see Charles again. The whole thing had been a mess, an experiment neither wanted to repeat. You could hardly blame Andras. Charles felt exactly the same.

Partly relieved, Charles was at the same time annoyed to now be at a loose end with no plans for the evening. He decided to pay a call on Fergus Berriman on the off-chance. His friend’s digs were near his own, so he wouldn’t have gone much out of his way if Fergus was out.

Fergus was at home. He was by himself and was toasting crumpets in front of the gas fire.

‘I’m glad you dropped round.’

‘Haven’t seen you for ages.’

There was a lot to discuss. The topics hardly varied: the Communist Party, the Hungarians, Harold Macmillan, Suez and – a new and dramatic piece of gossip – the three Oxford students who had run away to join the Hungarian revolution. One was the granddaughter of a senior Labour Party figure.

Charles envied them. He’d have liked to cut a dash in a similar dramatic and glamorous way.

‘You’re too lazy to do anything like that. It’s hard work being a militant. But in my view the three of them are just adventurists. They’ve romanticised the uprising. It is a counterrevolution …’

‘You’re talking as if you’re still in the CP.’

‘No I’m not! Mind you, I’m not sure it was the right thing to do, leave I mean … but anyway, two wrongs don’t make a right. The Soviet intervention was wrong, misguided, a bad error, but the uprising was doomed from the start and you can bet the CIA was in there somewhere.’

Charles feared Fergus was about to embark on a lengthy investigation both of the strategic failures of the uprising and of his own conscience. To see off this possibility he said quickly: ‘I met up with those Hungarians again. The ones I talked to before Christmas. You know, at that meeting.’

Fergus took no notice. ‘To get a perspective on the Party – now that I’ve left – I’ve embarked on a novel about it. One can’t understand the deformations of revolutionary consciousness without an analysis of the unconscious motivations underlying action.’

‘God! Are you going to go all Freudian now? Doesn’t sound like a bestseller to me, with all those long words. Shouldn’t you actually
meet
some of the refugees? I got off with one of them if you want to know. I can introduce you if you like. I know a lot more about totalitarian bloody consciousness after one night than you’d find out in a lifetime. He could tell you quite a lot about deformations of consciousness.’

‘Sex as the royal road to knowledge. Also very Freudian.’

‘He’s a tortured Catholic. He’s billeted with Quinault.’

‘That would be enough to make anyone tortured.’

‘He said some sinister Hungarians came round to see him.’

‘What?’ Fergus stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘These men came round. Andras was terrified. I think he may have … I dunno, run away somewhere.’

‘The attentions of the police are a perennial hazard for revolutionaries.’

‘Don’t be so bloody pompous.’ Berriman’s highfalutin words jolted Charles into beginning to feel once more rather alarmed for Andras. It was hardly a matter for jokes or irony. ‘Well, no, actually that’s a really
frivolous
remark. You’re always accusing me of being frivolous, but—’

‘You’re right. Sorry. That is a bit sinister.’

‘He might really be in danger. But I couldn’t persuade him to go to the police or tell the welfare people. And when I was there with him – at Quinault’s house – another policeman turned up on the doorstep. I think he was some kind of detective, pretending to be a welfare officer. Said he wanted to talk to Quinault as well as Andras.’

‘How very odd. Mind you, Quinault’s a thoroughly sinister character in my view.’

‘Well, yes, because I tell you what else happened. Andras was showing me the old man’s collection, you know, all those Roman things, and I poked around in his study a bit. And you’ll never guess what I found – I found a drawer with an enormous sum of money in it – a whole drawer full of cash. And I told the detective about the money.’

‘Told the detective – welfare officer, whoever he was? Why on
earth
did you do that? You want to be careful, Charles. Quinault’s your supervisor.’

‘Well, I thought I ought to. I wasn’t feeling very well.’

‘You can’t afford to get on the wrong side of Quinault. He has a reputation, you know.’

‘What sort of reputation?’

‘He pursues vendettas. He bears a grudge. He hounds his enemies. Of course Oxford’s the ideal environment for that sort of thing. The knives are always out in some neck of the woods or other. To mix metaphors.’

‘I don’t know why I told him. The man who came round, I mean.’

‘Just wanting to shock as usual, I suppose. So exactly what happened?’

Charles described the occasion as he remembered it, and the more he described it the more it worried him. Eventually Fergus said: ‘Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now. And I suppose you may have been right in a way. But you’d better watch your step. Are you aware Quinault’s speaking on Roman domestic deities this evening? At the Ashmolean. I was thinking of piling along. Might be a good idea if you came too. Make sure he sees you. It’ll show a proper respect.’

‘The slides were the most interesting bit.’

They emerged from the museum to find that it had started to rain.

‘I like the Roman attitude to religion,’ said Charles. ‘They didn’t take it seriously. And at the same time they were so superstitious.’

‘What is there to like about that?’

‘They knew it was all irrational and ridiculous. Everyone had to make obeisance to the Roman deities as a recognition of Roman worldly power. It had nothing to do with God or faith at all. That’s what organised religion is. It’s all about power. All the rest is just hypocrisy. Though I suppose their gods stood in for aspects of nature, a form of animism. It does make a kind of sense to worship nature.’

Fergus looked sceptical. ‘The trouble is, I just don’t find religion very interesting. The opium of the people and all that.’

‘That’s why it
is
interesting. Like any other form of addiction.’

‘Look, why don’t we bike over to Walton Street for fish and chips?’

Charles had no appetite. ‘You’ve just eaten those crumpets.’

‘That was nearly three hours ago and I’m still hungry.’ Fergus was always hungry.

As they waited in the queue Fergus said: ‘You know Regine Drownes.’

‘You know I do. You met us once, in the Mitre.’

‘I wonder … could I ask you a huge favour? You’re one of her little favourites, are you? God knows why. You never write anything.’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘Women like that always seem to have a penchant for pansies.’

‘If you’re going to ask a favour, it might be better not to be insulting.’

‘Insulting? You used to spend your whole time prancing around Oxford and boasting you’d fucked half the university. The male half.’

For once Charles actually laughed. ‘Especially the really butch ones. Giving them a surprise. Those were the days! But of course if you want me to introduce you or call on her in London or something I’m happy to oblige.’

‘I need to promote myself a bit more if I’m to go in seriously for a literary career.’

‘I’m going down this weekend. I’ll arrange something.’

They parted company. Charles biked the short distance to Park Town. Head down, for it was now raining hard, he propped his bike against the side wall before walking round to the front door. As he fumbled for his key, he was nearly knocked sideways as the figure huddled unnoticed on the steps rose up and grabbed him.

‘Charles! You’re …’ The words were stifled in sobs.

For a split second’s shock he thought it was Andras. Then: ‘Penny. For Christ’s sake. What on earth—’

‘Oh Charles, I’m so glad you’ve come back.’

‘Come inside.’

In the hall Penny was shaking. Her teeth chattered. Her hair and coat dripped on the floor. He pushed her up the curving stairs with the graceful, rickety banister and with his arm round her shoulders propelled her into his room.

‘Sit down.’ He gestured at the unmade divan. He lit the gas fire. He was wet enough himself. He hung his coat over the back of a chair.

Penny huddled on the divan in her outdoor clothes, still crying.

‘Here, give me those … I’ll make some tea – or look – what about some whisky?’ But the empty bottle lay on the floor. He put the kettle on the gas ring. ‘Or coffee? Hell, there’s no milk.’

He sat down beside Penny and proffered the cup of milkless tea. Her sobs developed into a paroxysm of coughing.

‘What’s the matter? Penny …’ He put his arm round her, but she pulled away from him.