twenty-two

SEASON OF MISTS AND MELLOW FRUITFULNESS! Lines from Keats’ ‘Ode to Autumn’ were running through my head as I hurried along High Holborn, but today the poem I used to love seemed smug and sentimental. ‘Close bosom friend of the maturing sun …’ The dusk tasted acrid; no maturing sun in London’s damp streets. A drab civilian army of office workers marched, heads down, feet moving mechanically towards the jammed buses and packed trains. ‘Conspiring with him how to load and bless/With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run …’ What rot it all was; a cheap, picture postcard vision of a non-existent England. It began to rain. I was tired. And somehow I felt that all this was because I’d enjoyed that last year of the war and the first year of my marriage too much. I hadn’t suffered as so many had. I was having my war now. The trial was to begin the following Monday.

Julius Abrahams had called us to an urgent meeting. At least his office was warm. Alan was already there.

‘I was just explaining to your husband’ – Abrahams looked at me over his spectacles – ‘as you know, we were hoping Colin’s friend on the Daily Worker, Charlie Porter, would give him an alibi for at least the early part of the evening. It didn’t cover the whole evening by any means, but the time of death is so vague and at least it covers Colin up to about seven pm. He had a drink with Porter before he met Johnny. You know all this – but now there’s a problem.’

‘It’s outrageous, Dinah. The Party doesn’t want Porter to testify.’ Alan looked at Abrahams. ‘Can’t he be subpoenaed?’

Abrahams shook his head. ‘They’re worried about the so-called spy angle. The prosecution case will dwell on that. Their case will be that Colin murdered Mavor because Mavor knew too much about his wartime activities.’

‘But that’s all lies!’ I cried hotly.

Abrahams frowned. He seemed to be searching for words. Finally he said: ‘Yes … but how will it look if there are even hints he worked for the Russians rather than the British.’

‘For God’s sake, we were all together in the war!’ Alan was almost shouting.

‘We’re not any more though.’

‘Why can’t you make him give evidence? Is it because it won’t help Colin, or because it might upset the Party?’

‘It won’t help much,’ said Abrahams patiently, ‘it was always pretty marginal to the case. And frankly, the Party simply can’t afford to be mixed up in this.’

‘They are mixed up! Colin’s a Communist!’

‘All the more reason to steer clear of anything that underlines that.’ Abrahams looked at me: ‘This makes your evidence even more important, Dinah. You do realise that? Colin’s alibi for the afternoon isn’t really in question.’

.........

On the second day of the trial Stanley and I looked at the headlines in the Daily Telegraph and The Times. ‘A bit lurid,’ murmured Stanley, and chewed his nails. ‘We should buy the Graphic and the Mirror as well, see what they’re saying.’

‘It’ll all be the same only more so.’ In the end we bought the lot. The reports didn’t stint on Mavor’s lifestyle, his background or his work, which was treated in true philistine fashion as little more than a bad joke. One of the papers reproduced a grimy little photo of one of his paintings, A Muse in Arcadia. When you looked closely, you could see it was a portrait of Gwendolen; Gwendolen seated in an empty courtyard filled with exaggerated light and shadow, more like de Chirico than Dalí.

‘She won’t like that,’ muttered Stanley.

‘Don’t show her then.’

‘I won’t,’ he said grimly. ‘But Pauline will.’

Alan couldn’t take time off to be at the trial, but every evening we read the papers and listened to the wireless. ‘How d’you think it’s going?’ We looked at each other.

‘I’m not sure.’ Alan spoke slowly, puzzled. ‘Nothing about his politics yet. Perhaps Abrahams was too worried about that. Being a CP member himself, he may have exaggerated its importance. Perhaps they won’t bring it up.’ And we began to feel hopeful.

At the beginning of the second week, Alan did manage to get an afternoon off. I went to the Old Bailey to meet him. Abrahams had warned me that, as a defence witness, I couldn’t watch the trial from the visitors’ gallery, so I waited in the gloomy entrance hall. I paced up and down, worried in case I wasn’t even meant to be in the building, keeping an eye on everyone who passed through.

A woman came out of the courtroom. I was standing inconspicuously in an embrasure and shrank even further back, so that she didn’t see me as she left. I recognised her. It was Joan Mainwaring. What was she doing at the trial? I tried to calm down and told myself not to be stupid. She was his aunt, after all. It wasn’t surprising she should come to the trial. And probably I’d got it all wrong – she hadn’t come out of the court at all. She must have been in the gallery.

There was movement. People were leaving the court. I joined the trickle of men and women and waited by the visitors’ gallery entrance for Alan.

His face was stony.

‘How did it go?’

‘Wait – I must have a fag.’ When it was lit, he gripped my arm and propelled us along towards Holborn.

‘Well, tell me – how did it go?’ I was frightened now.

‘Disaster.’ Through gritted teeth. We were almost running. He was dragging me along, as if he couldn’t get away from the Old Bailey fast enough.

‘I saw his aunt. She must have been watching the trial.’

He stopped abruptly, then, still holding my arm, walked on more slowly. ‘Watching! She was giving evidence. She made him sound like Stalin’s right-hand man. It all started to unravel when the waiter from the Café Royal took the stand. He gave all this evidence about the row between Titus and Colin – the evening when Titus accused Colin of being a spy. He made it sound as though Colin really did threaten Titus. He didn’t say how drunk Titus was. And he got it all wrong. He said it was Colin who talked about liquidating Titus. But it was Titus who said that, wasn’t it? I can’t remember any more. Oh God, the whole thing’s so ridiculous, no one took it seriously at the time. Abrahams should call someone – Stan, anyone – to say it wasn’t like that. But then this old scarecrow appeared and it got worse. She said she saw Colin. That evening. She said Colin was round at the house and she heard noises from next door. She saw him leave. She was rock solid. Couldn’t be shifted. I thought our man’s cross-examination was quite weak, anyway. And then somehow she smuggled in all these hints about what he did in the war.’

‘But I thought Mavor didn’t do anything in the war.’

‘Colin! What Colin did in the war.’ He shouted above the traffic noise. ‘The judge stopped it, of course, but it was too late by then. All kind of implying that Colin was a pretty shady character and had a strong motive for shutting Titus up. It was a disaster.’

Alan was in a rotten mood all evening, sunk in an angry gloom, a kind of impotent rage. I tried to cheer him up, but I felt as bad as he did.

‘You know this makes your evidence even more important. Absolutely vital. It’s all up to you now, Dinah.’

.........

The prosecution case came to an end, and the defence case began. It would soon be my turn in the witness box. If there really was a doubt about the time of death, the prosecution would be out to destroy me. I had to be strong.

I wore my grey flannel suit. Now that the New Look had caught on in a big way, I felt it looked terribly dowdy. The papers that day were full of Princess Elizabeth’s New Look trousseau for her impending marriage (she’d saved enough clothing coupons!). I couldn’t decide whether I should try to look young and innocent, or confident and sophisticated. In the end I fell between the two stools and, I felt, looked too bohemian, messy, in spite of my suit, and even a bit tarty with too much dark red lipstick to keep my spirits up.

I was called after lunch. I had a horrible hollow feeling inside. A faint fog hung over the panelled courtroom. There was a continual scraping of papers and small sounds, like mice behind the wainscot. The proceedings were slow and tedious. There were unnerving pauses and silences. It was difficult to believe a man was on trial for his life. I looked at Colin, hoping he’d look back at me, but he didn’t, just stared ahead, looking quite pale and calm.

It was all right at first. Colin’s barrister took me through my statement. He did ask me about the Café Royal quarrel, and obviously my account was different from the waiter’s. I thought I did quite well on that. Then we came on to the evening Titus died.

I said I had gone round to see the artist because I was thinking of buying a painting. The front door was ajar, so that although there was no response to my knock, I was able to enter the premises. I found Titus upstairs. I thought he was asleep and I left. However, afterwards I became uneasy. He’d looked odd. Had he been breathing? I was so anxious that at Notting Hill underground station I’d phoned 999. The next day I returned to Mecklenburgh Square with my husband and we found that Mavor was indeed dead. We immediately reported this to the police. Some time later I was still worried, and came to realise that Mavor had been dead when I first found him.

The prosecuting barrister rose to cross-examine me. He was tall, large, exquisitely polite. He even smiled in a friendly fashion.

‘You say you telephoned the emergency services, yet there seems to be no record of this call.’

I swallowed. ‘I don’t understand why, because I did phone them,’ I said firmly – and of course it was true. What I couldn’t explain was why the call hadn’t been logged – because I’d hung up in a panic. My palms were sweating. I felt slightly sick.

‘The next day you and your husband found the victim dead. Yet when you reported this fact to the police, you said nothing about your visit the previous evening. Why was that?’

‘It – it didn’t seem relevant.’

‘It didn’t seem relevant.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps you can tell the court when you sought a further interview with the police and gave them this additional information.’

I swallowed and told him the date.

‘By that time it seemed relevant after all?’

‘Yes. I’d thought about it a lot. I became increasingly worried.’

‘Let me refresh your memory. You gave a further statement to Inspector Bannister on the day after the defendant was charged with murder. I put it to you, Mrs Wentworth, that this alleged earlier visit of yours only came to seem relevant when you were anxious to get your friend off the hook.’

I stared at him, genuinely indignant. ‘That’s not true.’

‘I suggest that you never went round to see Mr Mavor that evening at all. The whole story is a complete fabrication in order to suggest that the victim was already dead before the time at which the defendant was seen at the house.’

‘No.’

‘You seriously expect the court to believe that although you thought you had found a dead body you did nothing about it until the following day?’

‘I wasn’t sure.’ My voice sounded unconvincing, but I stuck my chin up. I just had to endure, I had to stick to my guns. ‘I know it sounds odd, but the whole situation was – strange and the house was so dark and creepy. At first I thought – I assumed he was alive. Afterwards I began to wonder – and then I thought I was probably being silly, that I was being morbid, not thinking straight.’

‘You weren’t thinking straight! And perhaps your thinking became a little more twisted still when your friend was arrested. And you suddenly remembered that on the very evening when the crime was committed of which your friend stands accused, you had been to the scene of that crime and had found a dead body, which you failed to report to the police! I suggest that your story is a complete fabrication, Mrs Wentworth.’

‘No!’

It went on and on. The more I stuck to my story the less plausible it sounded. By the time the ordeal was over, I even doubted it myself. I hung on doggedly but the KC annihilated me. That evening I sat at the kitchen table and cried and cried. Alan tried to be optimistic, but I knew he was worried – desperately worried.

Now that I’d given evidence, I could have attended the trial alongside Alan, but I never wanted to go near Number One Court at the Old Bailey again. I preferred to go to the office, where Stanley and I went over the trial reports obsessively, discussing it from every angle.

Subtly my relationship with him had changed. At one point he had half-heartedly offered to take the stand, to back up my story; but that was when we still thought we had an alibi witness. By the time that fell through, he’d changed his mind. He’d discussed it with Julius Abrahams – all Abrahams said to us afterwards was that he didn’t think Stan would be a very strong witness. ‘Just open another can of worms.’

I still liked Stan – he’d been very good to me – but I began to nurture an irrational resentment towards him – for backing the film, for marrying Gwendolen, for not doing more to help, when really there was nothing he could do. My resentment should actually have been directed at Radu and Hugh, but they had deserted the sinking ship, so there was no one to be angry with but Stan.

.........

In his summing up the judge referred to me as ‘naïve’ and ‘confused’. I suppose he was trying to be kind, and not to go too heavily for the idea that I’d deliberately lied. But of course he had to say it in the end – had to mention the prosecution’s suggestion that I’d made the whole story up on purpose, in an effort to protect a friend.

The jury retired. At the end of the day there was no decision. They continued the next day, without a result.

On the third day they reached a verdict. Everyone hustled back into the court. Colin came out between two uniformed warders.

Alan and I sat at the front of the packed gallery. The atmosphere was thick with expectation and excitement. They were in at the kill. I hated them. They craned forward, their eyes gleaming with malice, licking their lips in anticipation. To them all this was just a gruesome thrill. One or two of them noticed me, nudged and stared. My face went hot, but I ignored them.

The jury filed in. The judge asked if they’d reached a verdict. A split second’s silence: ‘Guilty.’ The guillotine clanged down, hope decapitated.

A murmur rustled round the gallery. Alan gripped my hand.

Colin made a single, stifled movement. The warder held his arm. Colin stared straight ahead. The judge placed his black cap on his head and spoke the frightful words. Hanged: Colin would be hanged.

I looked and looked at Colin. He looked stunned. Then he looked up towards us in the gallery. I wasn’t sure he saw us. He must have felt so alone.

The crowd bulged forward, eager to see. The smell of their bodies seemed like the miasma of their satisfaction. They’d been fed. They’d got what they’d come for.

I was numb as we pushed through the crowd of spectators and out into the London dusk. We made for the kerb, hoping for a taxi. A man stepped forward. It was Inspector Bannister.

‘You’ll be hearing from me again, Mrs Wentworth. We’ll be considering charges.’

I stared at him in bewilderment, but just then a taxi halted in response to Alan’s gesture of command, and Bannister was swept aside as a few onlookers ran forward to see who we were. Alan and I clung together as the cab bore us away through the busy streets and back to anonymity.

.........

The days and weeks that followed were dreadful. The strain made me ill. Alan raged. There were more visits to Julius Abrahams and frantic phone calls as we tried to find character witnesses.

With Bannister’s threat hanging over my head I went down to Alton in the hope of some help from my father. The reports of the trial and my part in it had enraged him. He shouted at me: what the hell had I been thinking of? ‘And now that dismal little policeman is going to have you up for perverting the course of justice or accessory after the fact. Serves you damn well right.’ As he raged, my mother twisted her hankie and looked unhappy. Afterwards she tried to comfort me, but it was just fussing about my health.

That evening was the worst of all. When I told Alan what had happened – the row, the accusations – I started to cry again. Instead of being sympathetic, this seemed to enrage Alan and he started to shout at me too. ‘For God’s sake, stop snivelling, you stupid little bitch,’ he yelled.

I sobbed harder. Suddenly he sprang up, lunged across the table and slapped my face. There was a moment’s silence. Shock – pain – disbelief. I stumbled backwards, making for the bedroom. I was shouting incoherently, shouting at him to leave me alone, shouting that it was all his fault.

I flung myself on the bed, still sobbing, great gasps, I couldn’t catch my breath. The kitchen door banged. ‘Leave me alone,’ I shouted, but he came after me, and now he was hitting and punching me as I lay defenceless on the bed, unable to get away. Until finally I started to scream and he reeled back, staggered away, stumbled out of the room, slammed the front door.

I don’t know what time he came back. Next morning we stared at each other in white-faced horror across the breakfast table.

‘Dinah … please …’

I refused to speak to him. It was only later that day that I started to bleed. It was terrifying. Luckily the doctor agreed to pay a home visit. He told me I was having a miscarriage.

I hadn’t even known I was pregnant. We’d never stopped taking precautions and one missed period when I was so worried meant nothing – or that’s what I’d thought.

Alan didn’t realise, but the tears I wept were of relief. I couldn’t have coped with a baby. My mother would have been thrilled, but that would only have made things worse. The last thing I wanted was to be pulled back into her orbit – good God, I was barely twenty-one! My life would be over if I had a child now. Alan couldn’t have coped either. It would have been the last straw for him.

We didn’t discuss it, but I knew he felt dreadfully guilty; guilty because his violence had probably brought on the miscarriage; guiltier still because he hadn’t wanted a child, and was thankful to have been let off the hook; guiltiest of all because he assumed I did want the baby. Women naturally wanted babies, of course!

I was glad, so glad I wasn’t pregnant. Such mixed emotions – the relief – the dread for Colin – the fear at the back of my mind that Alan would hit me again, the dark cloud of fear.