October 1925
As usual, Flick was late.
Selina stood beneath a leafless plane tree and peered out from under her umbrella, along Bayswater Road. It was going dark already and raindrops shimmered in the headlamps of the motorcars and buses swishing past. Every now and then a tram rattled along, its bright windows fogged, reducing the occupants to an impressionistic blur.
The advertisement for the flat in the Evening Standard had sounded promising, although after almost three weeks of flat-hunting she knew not to get her hopes up. Close proximity to Hyde Park, it had reassuringly stated: all modern improvements and constant hot water. The first blow to her optimism had been delivered on the telephone, when an overly elocuted female voice had informed her of the flat’s address, thereby revealing that while it might be close to Hyde Park, it was on very much the wrong side of it.
It had taken much persuasion and two very strong Sidecars to convince Flick that Bayswater wasn’t such a bad address, and they should at least look at the flat. Even after two weeks of disappointment Flick refused to accept that compromise was going to be necessary, and that the kind of accommodation she had in mind (which, so far as Selina could make out, was something with the space, comfort and staff of her father’s house in Eaton Place but without the oppressive presence of Aunt Constance) was simply beyond their budget.
Money was another problem. Selina’s search for a job had proved no more fruitful than the quest for a flat. Less so, in some ways, since everyone to whom she mentioned it seemed to think it was a huge joke. Everything was so much more difficult than Selina had anticipated.
It was the time of year, she thought wearily, struggling to hold her umbrella while pushing the cuff of her coat up and the top of her glove down to peer at her wristwatch. Autumn was always a trial. The Americans called it ‘fall’ which always struck her as wonderfully appropriate, describing as it did the season’s effect on her spirits.
When she was little she’d adored it. She’d loved the majesty of the trees at Blackwood, the crisp morning walks with Nanny when the first frosts made the red-gold carpet of leaves crunch underfoot; the glossy conkers and jewellike blackberries; sweet chestnuts that she was allowed to stuff into her pockets and bring back to roast on the nursery fire. On rare trips to London she loved the crackle of energy that arrived with the cold, carrying the first whisper of Christmas. She had never really noticed the rain, or the way the colour drained from the world as the leaves fell and the skies turned from summer blue to gunmetal grey. Until Howard died.
The news had come on a chilly morning in late October. No one told her at first, but she had known something was wrong because the maids were wide-eyed and silent and her governess had allowed her to play jacks while she left the schoolroom to talk with Nanny. She hadn’t played, of course; she had listened at the door, and that was when she had heard it first. A word like the rustle of silk, so pretty she had kept hold of it. Passchendaele.
And then the next autumn had brought the Armistice; the leaden, exhausted relief that it was over tainted with bitterness that it was too late. And every autumn since, the attention of the whole nation had turned to its collective loss, with flag days and the Cenotaph and the building of village memorials, and the craze for wearing a paper poppy to signify remembrance.
As if one could forget.
She shivered and tugged up the collar of her coat. A taxi turned the corner at the end of the road and came towards her, its windscreen wiper waving cheerily. Maybe this would be Flick. She squashed down her irritation and stepped forward, summoning a smile. No doubt Flick would complain that she was late because Bayswater was such a terribly long way out, practically in the wilds of nowhere … Hastily Selina went over the arguments in its favour. Proximity to the park, of course, and the darling coffee stand where they all congregated at the end of evenings out, and Whiteleys Department Store, which was almost as good as Harrods, really … She briefly considered adding the tram route on Bayswater Road and Queensway underground station, but thought that mentioning public transport was more likely to put Flick off than anything.
The taxi sailed past, spraying her with water.
She gasped, and gaped down at her feet. In the gathering darkness she could see that her ivory stockings were now splattered with black, like the milkman’s piebald pony. She gritted her teeth and gripped her umbrella more tightly, fighting back a shameful urge to cry.
Flick obviously wasn’t coming, which was hardly surprising. Since the summer her habitual vagueness had reached record levels. Selina hesitated, wondering whether to give up and hail the next taxi that passed, or go on alone. A dray horse plodded towards her, head down, mane dripping. Behind it she could just make out a taxi. She thought of Chester Square, and tea by the drawing room fire, but even as she thought of those things her hand went to her chest, to clasp the stone that lay warm and heavy against her heart.
You won’t fall. I’ve got you.
She turned and began to walk down Queensborough Terrace, to find number seventeen, with its modern improvements and constant hot water.
It was late when she got back to Chester Square. She had braved the underground, starting as she meant to go on in her new life as an independent working girl, but it had been choked with people making their way home and the journey had been more complicated than she’d realized, with a change of line at Notting Hill Gate. It had taken over an hour, and by the time she reached Chester Square her shoes had rubbed her wet skin raw.
As Fenton ushered her in she tried not to compare the accommodation she had just viewed with her present surroundings. Her mother’s taste was still firmly rooted in the Edwardian style and Selina had always been disdainful of the heavy furniture and richly patterned wallpapers and curtains. Tonight she only noticed that it was deliciously warm and smelled of pot pourri and polish, and had an indefinable atmosphere of stability. The flat in Queensborough Terrace had been dark and clammily cold, and had smelled like the potting sheds at Blackwood – of leaf mould and mushrooms. Its fittings had been flimsy, with newspaper stuffed into the window frames and handles missing from the doors. It was just as well Flick hadn’t seen it. She would have fainted on the bald linoleum.
She shrugged off her coat and handed it to Fenton. ‘Could you leave that out for Polly to take care of ? I got splashed by a beastly taxi and I’m sure the oily water will stain.’
‘Very good, miss.’ Fenton was usually rather chipper, but tonight his tone was almost as sepulchral as Denham’s. ‘Sir Robert and Lady Lennox are waiting for you in the drawing room. Mr and Mrs Atherton are with them.’
Selina was so preoccupied with the idea of going upstairs and sinking into the deepest, warmest bath that for a moment she couldn’t think who Mr and Mrs Atherton were, and it was something of a relief to realize it was only Miranda and Lionel. ‘I’m afraid they’ll just have to wait a bit longer,’ she said going towards the stairs. ‘I simply must go up and change.’
She was about to risk Fenton’s further disapproval by asking him to get Polly to bring up a large medicinal whisky when the drawing room door opened and Miranda appeared.
‘Selina darling…’
She was smiling, which was unusual in itself, but there was something about the smile that set off a dull drumbeat of alarm in Selina’s chest. It contained neither triumph nor scorn. Only pity. The solid marble floor tilted beneath her.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Come into the drawing room where it’s warm.’
‘Miranda, what’s wrong?’
‘We can hardly talk out here. Do come in and sit down…’
‘I don’t want to sit down. Tell me now.’
‘Selina…’
Who knows how long the stalemate might have lasted if Lionel hadn’t appeared. He wore the same smile as Miranda, and suddenly she remembered where she had seen it before. At Blackwood, on another October evening when she was fourteen years old.
‘I’m terribly sorry, old girl…’ Lionel’s hand was on her arm. She looked down at it and thought how pale and soft it was. Not like Lawrence’s. ‘I heard this afternoon, at my club. Details are a bit sketchy at present, but we thought you should know as soon as possible…’
‘Know what?’ Her voice sounded as if it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.
‘It’s Flick. I’m afraid – Dash it all, Selina, I’m so sorry…’
The rest of what he said was swallowed up in the booming echoes inside her head. It felt like she had slipped underwater: everything was muffled and slow. She opened her mouth to argue – to tell Lionel not to be ridiculous; Flick was always doing outrageous things, causing them to worry, but she wouldn’t do anything as foolish as dying – but found she couldn’t draw in breath. Miranda’s blurred face hung in front of her, stretching and contracting. ‘Catch her, Lionel – she’s going to faint.’
The black and white tiled floor was in the wrong place. How annoying, Selina thought; Miranda was right – she should have sat down.
Lawrence read about the death of Lady Felicity Fanshawe in the Evening Standard, which appeared in the studio two days after the event, wrapped around a bunch of dahlias Edith had bought.
He had heard about it already, from Sam, in the kind of scurrilous, speculative detail that newspapers were forbidden from going into. Especially respectable newspapers like the Standard, which had simply stated that twenty-one-year-old Lady Felicity had been discovered by her maid in the bath, and the cause of death was drowning. A bland mention of the fact that she was part of the group referred to as ‘The Bright Young People’, famed for their ‘extravagant parties and lavish lifestyle’ was the closest it came to mentioning the combination of drink and drugs that, according to Sam, had brought about her end.
Lawrence would never have imagined that the premature death of a society girl he had never met would have an impact on him. But it did. Selina had spoken about her so much, with such affection, and he knew that her death would be a huge and terrible blow. He desperately wanted to comfort her and willed her to appear at the studio, as she sometimes did in the evenings after Edith had left. Day after day he waited, and compassion tipped into concern, then slipped towards despair.
Why didn’t she come?
The worst thing was his helplessness. Or, more specifically, the painful truth it brought home, which was that the threads that connected them were gossamer-fine and easily broken. Since Selina’s birthday he had allowed himself to start believing that it might just be possible for them to be together, somehow; that they could find a way. But the tragedy of Flick Fanshawe’s death was like an explosion in the No Man’s Land between them, and in its aftermath he felt like he was left on the opposite edge of an immense crater with no way of reaching her, or knowing if she was all right.
In desperation, he wrote to her. The letter took him most of the night, and his screwed up, discarded attempts kept the fire burning into the small hours, which was some bleak, ironic comfort. He couldn’t find the words to pin down the thoughts he wanted to express. The feelings. He didn’t want to intrude on her grief, but he wanted her to know that he was there, waiting to offer her comfort and to listen and to hold her … Jesus, that was the problem. He just wanted to hold her and not say anything at all. But she wasn’t there and words were all he had.
In the morning, sleepless and dishevelled in yesterday’s clothes, he took the first tube to Victoria and walked to Chester Square through streets that were stirring with the subdued industry of maids and delivery boys. The house was cream-stuccoed, immaculate, imposing. Standing outside, he had an urge to hammer on the glossy door, to shove past whoever answered it and storm up the stairs shouting her name, pushing open doors until he found her. He had to remind himself that she wasn’t being held captive, against her will. She didn’t need to be rescued. She had closed herself off from him by choice.
When he got back to Marchmont Street Sam was frying bread and black pudding on the landing. ‘That funeral’s this afternoon,’ he remarked casually through a miasma of acrid smoke. ‘Chelsea Old Church; not very grand, but I’ll bet it’ll be quite a spectacle. Get along there with that camera of yours and you could earn a pretty penny…’
Lawrence turned away in disgust.
The worst thing was, he thought about it. Not taking his camera, of course, but just going there. The idea of standing at a discreet distance to see her and reassure himself that she still lived and breathed held a horrible attraction.
In his second year at the Slade, when they’d been allowed to move on from the endless anatomical studies of skeleton and muscle, they’d done sketches of various organs. The tutor had unwrapped scarlet-stained newspaper packages from the butchers and the room had filled with the smell of the charnel house as the day wore on and the sun had poured its warmth through the huge windows.
He thought back now, remembering the heart; a bloody fist, purplish and trailing tubes. At the time he had been struck by the absurdity of this misshapen lump of raw flesh being the symbol of love. Now he understood it better. Love wasn’t neat or pretty.
It was messy, raw and brutal.