July 1925
The wedding had been a success.
No one knew what particular combination of luck, efficient organization, extravagance and taste was required to produce such an outcome, but somehow Lady Lennox had achieved it. The heavy clouds that had staled the city air for weeks rolled back, bringing a shimmering blue day and an atmosphere of a festival. Miranda had looked beautiful, and the crowd that gathered outside St Margaret’s to catch a glimpse of the wedding party had been gratifyingly large, with a satisfying number of photographers jostling to take pictures for the newspapers. The pale pink roses, anxiously tended by Patterson at Blackwood, had reached their peak at exactly the right moment, though by the time the wedding breakfast was over and Miranda and Lionel were ready to leave they were beginning to wilt. When Miranda (with uncharacteristic whimsy) tossed her bouquet, it sailed through the air in a shower of petals.
Going back into the house after the couple had departed for their honeymoon, Selina found herself beside Rupert.
‘You didn’t catch the bouquet.’
‘Oh – no.’ She hadn’t even tried. ‘I’d forgotten about that tradition. Why on earth do brides do it?’
‘I couldn’t say. I believe whoever catches it is supposed to be the next one to get married.’
Selina smothered a smile. So that was why Margot had dived so inelegantly to intercept it. ‘Oh dear. Well, of course if I’d known that I would have tried harder.’
She wondered if he had picked up the note of sarcasm in her voice. She had got through the interminable luncheon and speeches by discreetly drinking Margot’s champagne as well as her own, and was a little too tipsy to trust herself in conversation with Rupert. They stopped at the top of the stairs. She wanted to carry on, up the next flight to her bedroom, to tear off her coronet of roses and put on lipstick (forbidden by Mama for the wedding, of course) and rush outside to hail a taxicab to Marchmont Street. To see Lawrence and say thank you.
Thank you for being there amongst the other photographers, like he said he would be. Thank you for mouthing ‘you’re beautiful’ as she’d emerged from the house that morning, and for pointing his camera at her as well as Miranda. For making her blush and tingle when he lowered the camera and just looked at her.
‘A few of us are going out for dinner tonight – Margot and Pips Broughton and that sort of crowd. I wondered if you might like to join us?’
‘Oh—’
That sensation of coming back to earth with a bump. For a second she floundered, even though she had a perfectly respectable excuse. ‘I’m so sorry … I’m – I mean, I didn’t expect – I’m meeting friends – Flick Fanshawe and Theo Osborne – one last evening before we go our separate ways for the summer. They’re dying to hear all about the wedding, and then of course we’re going on to The Embassy. It’s Thursday,’ she finished lamely.
‘Of course. Another time.’ His face was shuttered as he stepped away, and she couldn’t tell whether the invitation had been motivated by duty or a genuine desire for her company. ‘I gather that you’ll be in Scotland for the twelfth?’
‘Yes.’ The ‘glorious’ twelfth of August, when the shooting season began. Glorious for the men perhaps, but anything but for bored women and doomed grouse. ‘Staying with the Rutherfords at Inverosse.’
‘I’m with the Blair-Fergussons at Braedoun. It’s less than an hour away, by motor. Perhaps we might see each other.’ He stated it blandly, making it hard to tell whether it was an observation or invitation.
‘Yes! Lovely!’ The attempt at enthusiasm tipped over into insincerity. She winced as she turned to walk quickly away, but by the time she had reached her bedroom on the next floor, by the time she had shut the door and kicked off her shoes her thoughts were already racing ahead to Marchmont Street, and Rupert Carew had entirely vanished from her mind.
What am I doing? she asked the glitter-eyed girl in the mirror.
Once, at Blackwood, just before the war, she had been allowed to join the hunt. At nine she had been considered too young really, but one of the grooms had been ordered to ride alongside, to keep an eye on her. She had lost him almost immediately, and vividly remembered the mixture of terror and exhilaration as her pony had fought for his head and galloped with the rest of the field, out of control, caught up in something primal and unstoppable.
It was like that now, she thought, pulling pins from her hair with shaking hands. Frightening. Exciting. There was nothing to do but hold on tight and enjoy the ride, like she had that sparkling winter day with the wind whipping her cheeks and the drum of hoof beats in her ears.
And to try to forget how it had ended. With the frenzied baying of the hounds, a scarlet trail of blood in the frost.
In the faint, residual light he hadn’t quite been able to shut out of his makeshift darkroom, Lawrence watched the images slowly emerge.
It was one of the things he loved most about photography, this magical moment of revelation. Alchemy. Beneath the water Selina’s features appeared on the wet paper, taking shape, gathering clarity. Smiling at him.
That smile.
It had been far more dazzling than the diamonds her sister wore. She had come out of the house just ahead of the bride, flawless in pale green silk, but he could tell from the stiffness of her shoulders and the way her eyes kept darting to the huddle of pressmen that she was tense and on edge. He had dodged his way past the sharp elbows of the seasoned hacks, whistling Offenbach’s Can-Can tune to catch her attention and as she saw him her rigid posture relaxed and her face lit up. That was the moment he had caught.
The first of many, throughout the day. Once she and the other bridesmaid had left in the huge black Daimler, he had hailed a taxi and followed on, without bothering to wait for the bride to appear. This had given him a head start over some of the other photographers, though there were plenty outside the Westminster chapel already, and an excited crowd of onlookers: members of the public who pored over the illustrated weekly papers and followed the antics of the Bright Young People, those who had a wistful fascination with the gilded lives of the aristocracy, or people who were simply passing by and couldn’t resist stopping for the spectacle of a society wedding on a bright summer’s day.
Peering into the developing tray balanced on the stovetop, he let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. The photographs were better than he’d dared hope and he murmured a ‘thank you’ to Sam, who had managed to get hold of an up-to-the-minute compact camera to lend him for the day. It was a Leica, the latest design from Germany, and used rolled film in place of the cumbersome plates Lawrence was used to working with, enabling him to shoot twice the number of frames with a fraction of the fuss. He had been suspicious of its simplicity, but the clarity of the images was remarkable, not just for such a small camera, but for any camera at all. The fast shutter speed had meant that even when Selina had turned her head it had somehow captured the motion, instead of just producing a blur of movement.
Looking at that last photograph he felt a sudden lurch, the sensation of missing a step in the dark. The moment when he had taken it came rushing back. It was after the service, when the wedding party had come out of the church. The bride and groom were in the foreground, of course, but he had framed the shot so that Selina was at the centre. He had begun whistling again just as he had taken it, and she had swung round towards the sound, knowing it was him. The camera had captured that second of recognition.
It was like a love letter.
He let out another breath, a sigh this time. How had it happened? How had he got to this place, with a girl like her? Sometimes, lying in bed in his stuffy room, the sound of other people’s breathing filtering through the thin walls, he thought of her and was certain he’d imagined it all. Imagined sharing a cigarette with her in the undergrowth. Imagined running away from the party and kissing her on a rainy street. Imagined dinner and candlelight and shared confidences.
Here was the evidence that it was real.
And yet it was still impossible. A chance meeting that had led to an impulsive, illicit evening, that was all. A rash promise made and now fulfilled. It was their differences that attracted them to each other; the fascinating, magnetic pull of opposites, but those differences were too great to sustain anything more than a few spontaneous moments, secretly snatched. He had no place in her world, amongst her people, and no more did she belong in his. After today he wasn’t even sure he’d see her again. She would be leaving London for the summer, like they all did; going back to the country estate she had talked about. Their paths, which had come together so unexpectedly, would diverge again, and revert to their rightful course.
Which was for the best.
As he lifted dripping sheets of photographic paper out of the developing fluid, dropping them into the stop bath (on the draining board) and then into the fixing solution (in the sink) he could feel the sweat dampening the hair at the back of his neck. He’d shut the skylight when he’d pinned the black crepe over it, and the landing was hot and airless, filled with the sulphurous smell of the developing chemicals. At any other time he might leave the photographs in the fixing solution and go outside for a cigarette, breathing in comforting nicotine and fresh air while the chemicals did their work, but there was no time for that now. If he was going to sell the photographs to one of the illustrated magazines, where he would get the best price, Sam had told him he needed to have them by seven o’clock at the latest.
When the process was finally finished he climbed up onto a chair and yanked away the black fabric, pushing up the glass and wincing in the sudden flood of evening light. Her face looked up at him from the images, laid out to dry on newspaper on the floor. He looked down at her – all the versions of her that he had captured that day, pinned like butterflies. In spite of the uncomfortable heat and his weariness, his stomach twisted with want.
It might be over, but it felt unfinished.
Stupid bastard, he said to himself, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt and going out onto the landing, to the bathroom he and Sam shared with Mr Kaminiski and the Hicksons on the floor below. As if it ever could be finished. She wasn’t Hannah from the fairground, with her knowing eyes and quick, grasping hands. She wasn’t one of the girls who haunted the artists’ lofts in Paris and Bloomsbury, drifting from couch to couch, bed to bed, not much caring who they sat for or slept with as long as they were provided with food and booze and kept warm when posing nude. He splashed his face with water, again and again. Straightening up he looked at his reflection in the small square of mirror and dragged a hand over his jaw. He needed a shave, and a haircut. He looked like a gypsy, or a bare-knuckle fighter in one of the less salubrious pubs around Smithfield Market.
His father’s voice came back to him. Your trouble is you’ve got ideas above your station, boy. You need to know your place.
He turned away, sickened by the contrast between his own appearance and the men he had observed that day; seal-sleek, as well-groomed as race horses. He had found himself watching Rupert Carew in particular, and was taken aback by the loathing he felt for him; for his haughty self-assurance, his bland, superior face and plummy voice, clipped to the point of unintelligibility. He knew that none of these things were the real reason for his antipathy, though. He was a cold bastard. The idea of him with Selina was obscene.
Whereas the idea of you with Selina…? A little voice inside his head mocked.
Back in his room he found a clean shirt hanging on the back of the door and felt a moment of grudging gratitude for Sam’s insistence on paying Mrs Hickson to char for them and do the laundry. He didn’t know what time it was, but could tell by the mauve sky that day was tipping into evening. Hurriedly he gathered up the photos and shoved them in a folder, slamming the door behind him and clattering down the stairs.
Outside the air was cool against his damp skin. He walked quickly, heading towards Russell Square where he was likely to find taxicabs coming and going from the smart hotels. It was a comfortable walk to Sam’s office – a little under half an hour – but it was half an hour he couldn’t afford to waste. More so than the money for the taxi.
As he turned into Bernard Street he saw one, but its ‘for hire’ flag wasn’t displayed, so he kept walking. A few moments later he heard a shout behind him; someone calling his name in a voice that was unmistakable.
He turned.
The taxi had come to a halt at the side of the road and Selina was coming towards him – running – the breeze flattening the thin silk of her bridesmaid’s dress against her body. His heart crashed.
‘I was coming to see you.’
She was breathless, glitter-eyed, unsmiling. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, right there on the street. It was out of the question, but the spectre of it – of them, embracing – seemed to hang in front of him. He didn’t dare touch her, though their gazes locked.
‘I’m going out,’ he said, unnecessarily, holding up the folder. ‘I need to hurry. I’m taking the photographs to Sam – he’ll find the best buyer for them. If that’s all right with you?’
She laughed shortly. ‘Well, that depends on how awful I look…’
‘You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful, but today you were…’ He shook his head, reaching for a word that didn’t sound trite or insincere or trivial. Finding nothing.
‘Can I see them?’
He thought quickly, his eyes leaving hers to dart to the taxicab still waiting at the kerb behind her. ‘Can I appropriate your taxi and show you on the way? Sam needs to have them by seven o’clock. Once I’ve delivered them we could … go somewhere…?’
As he said it he knew how desperate it sounded, and how unlikely. She was still wearing the dress she had worn for her sister’s high profile society wedding. She could hardly risk being seen out drinking in the sort of places he frequented, and it would take more than a clean shirt for him to fit in at The Savoy.
‘I can’t.’ They were standing a careful distance apart, but her eyes were still fixed on his, unblinking and urgent. ‘I have a dinner arrangement.’
Of course she did. Disappointment knifed him in the guts. He gestured to the taxi. ‘Can we share it?’
She nodded, and they hurried back to where it waited. He gave the address of Sam’s office to the driver (who stared at him with such open curiosity that he might as well have come out and said ‘What’s a geezer like you doing with a fancy bird like her?’) and climbed in beside her, handing her the folder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, keeping her voice low so that the driver couldn’t hear through the glass. ‘About dinner. Everyone’s leaving town tomorrow, so it’s the last time we’ll see each other all summer. I can’t cry off. But I wanted to come and say thank you, for being there today.’
‘You haven’t seen the photographs yet.’
She slid them out of the folder, but didn’t look at them straight away.
‘I don’t have to see them to be grateful. Just you being there … We spoke about it so briefly, but you understood, and remembered…’
That almost made him laugh. As if he would forget.
The taxi was speeding down Gray’s Inn Road. At this time of the evening the carts and drays and delivery vans had mostly finished their business; in spite of the time pressure he found himself wishing there was more traffic to hold them up. Beside him she had begun to look down at the photographs, slowly studying each one in turn, her hair falling forwards and obscuring her face with a veil of gold. He looked out of the window, waiting for her to say something, wondering if she was disappointed.
The seconds ticked by, marked by the click of the taxi’s meter. The driver swung into Fleet Street, and Lawrence noticed an ornate clock with embellished gold hands suspended over the doorway of a building. Ten minutes to seven.
‘We’re nearly there.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘If you don’t like them – if you don’t want me to give them to Sam, say now.’
‘They’re wonderful.’ She gathered the photographs together and slid them back into the folder. ‘You’re wonderful. And I want every editor in London to know it.’ Handing it back to him she leaned across to cup his cheek, and kissed him.
It was swift and fierce, over in a heartbeat. If the taxi driver had looked in his mirror he would have seen nothing too untoward, nothing to shock or shatter a reputation, but Lawrence felt the urgency in the press of her mouth; the longing and regret. When she pulled away her aquamarine eyes had a brilliant glitter and her cheeks were flushed.
‘Thank you.’
The taxi turned into a narrow street between tall, serious-looking buildings. The low evening sun was visible through the gap between them at the far end, its rosy beams giving everything a sense of finality. His mouth throbbed. Frustration tightened his jaw, his chest.
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips; an old-fashioned gesture, dressed up as courtesy but masking so much more. Turning it over he pressed a kiss into her palm and folded her fingers around it.
‘Will I see you again?’
Her voice held a note of despair that echoed his own.
‘I … don’t know.’
Except he did. He knew that the chance of their worlds colliding again was vanishingly remote.
‘I want to,’ she whispered fiercely.
Hope burned like brandy in his throat. The taxi was slowing down, bumping over cobbles. The squat, square building that housed Sam’s offices was visible ahead, the windows of its upper floors thrown open against the warm evening. His thoughts jumped around, chaotic and impossible to grasp.
‘Can you stay? In London, when your parents go to back to—?’
She shook her head rapidly, cutting him off. ‘The house will be closed up. It’s not possible.’
Their hands remained clasped, fingers twisting together on the seat, out of sight of the driver. In a few seconds they would be there. The journey would be over.
‘Come to Blackwood.’
‘What?’
He thought he’d misheard. Or misunderstood. An image swam into his head: himself, seated at an endless dining table laid with silver and damask, beneath the glacial stares of her parents. ‘What about your family?’
She gave a gasp of laughter. ‘They won’t be there. They’re going to Scotland. I’m supposed to be going too, but I’ll make an excuse – say I’m ill or something. The servants have a fortnight off, so the house will be empty. We can camp out and fend for ourselves, like gypsies.’
‘Are you serious?’
He needed to know. The moment of parting was almost upon them. He could feel resistance slipping away, common sense dissolving, like it did on boozy nights in smoky bars when he just kept drinking, even though he knew he would pay the price in the morning.
‘I think I am…’ Her eyes had a feverish glitter as they searched his. ‘Serious and possibly quite mad and maybe the slightest bit sloshed too, but I don’t care. It’s summer and we’re young and alive and I don’t want to waste any of those things. I don’t want to waste endless beautiful days making polite conversation with people I don’t care for. I know it’s wicked to lie, but it’s more wicked to wish away precious time, isn’t it? A week. Just one week off from duty and responsibility, for fun and adventure and pure selfish hedonism. A week of living, instead of just existing.’ She laughed, a little wildly, as the taxi juddered to a halt outside Sam’s building. ‘Please, Lawrence – say you’ll come.’
And so he did.
Of course he did.
Hill View
Club Road
Maymyo
Burma
12th April 1936
Dearest Darling Alice,
I’m sitting on the verandah of our new (temporary) home and thinking of you. It’s Easter Sunday and I believe that Aunt Miranda, Uncle Lionel and Cousin Archie have come to stay at Blackwood. I do hope you’re having a nice time and are not feeling too overwhelmed by ‘Athertonness’. They do mean well, of course … but I am sending you strength and support across the miles – I hope you can sense that, and know how much I long to be with you.
It’s been the oddest time. We arrived in Mandalay last week, and I must admit I felt rather wretched – still getting over the Rangoon fever, I expect. After a sticky two days in an hotel beside the old fort (the less said about that the better!) Papa managed to secure a sweet little bungalow here in Maymyo, which is a hill station about an hour’s drive away from the city.
It feels curiously English. Not just because it’s where all the Europeans come to escape the heat (which is at its peak just now) but because it’s green and lush and shaded by pine forests, and the resiny scent is wafted on the delicious breeze. The streets of the little town all have English names and it feels very odd to see signs saying ‘Downing Street’ and ‘The Mall’ in a place that looks more like a Wiltshire village than London, but is actually on the other side of the world from both. Even the clock in the town centre chimes like Big Ben!
Our house is perfectly darling, and from the outside looks just like something one might stumble across on a country walk in Sussex or somewhere seasidey. We have three servants; Ba Nayar is the cook and Thant and Lwin look after the house, and they are all marvellously kind and friendly. The owner, an Englishman, is currently in Ceylon, but he works for the Motoring Association and has a little study room at the back of the house where I found this typewriter! I thought it would be rather fun to see if I could get the hang of it, so I’ve set it up on a card table out here. I hope you don’t mind me practising on you!
There is a very established British community here, with golf courses and polo grounds, all of which is useful to Papa. In the evenings he likes to go up to the Club to talk with the other men whose business has brought them out here. I prefer to stay here, unless he needs me. The evenings are heaven, with the sunset turning the sky into a kaleidoscope of pink and orange and crimson and the green parakeets settling themselves in the trees and the noise of the jungle just audible above the music of the gramophone. I always intend to read, but I’m so terribly lazy that I usually just sit, watching the first stars appear and thinking of you.
I miss you, darling. But I hope and pray and truly believe that soon this will be over and we’ll be back together again.
Until then, my best and fondest love
Mama
xxxxx