Running to Paradise (20 page)

‘
To everyone’s relief, they left the boat at Marseilles; they were, they said, going to see the Russian ballet in Monte Carlo. “Dave needs educating,” Char informed me. “He’s never had a chance, you see.”

‘
When I asked her what they would do when they got back to England, she looked quite surprised. “Get married, of course, what else? Dave doesn’t mind being a co-respondent, and he adores children and animals.” But what would they live on? Money, I was told, wasn’t important, and anyway, Dave was such a marvellous actor he would get a job in no time. If all else failed, she could always work in a bookshop.’

At
this point in Natasha’s narrative the bedroom door opened to reveal the taciturn young man, followed closely by two of the dogs.

‘
What to do about supper?’ I realised suddenly it was dark outside and I must find a room for the night. ‘May I come back tomorrow,’ I asked, ‘and hear some more?’

‘
Please come,’ she said. ‘The Spotted Calf will do you proud. Just mention my name to the landlord.’

Next
morning Igor Ivanovitch had been replaced by a rather pretty blonde. She was, however, equally monosyllabic. ‘She’s waiting for you,’ she said. ‘D’you want coffee?’

‘
Thanks,’ I said — when in Rome...

Natasha
was sitting up in bed wearing a crochet shawl of many colours round her plump shoulders. She put out her hand and I kissed it. She beamed. ‘Charming.’ Then we got down to business.

‘
Was Dave Brent a good actor?’ I asked, to start her off.

‘
He did a passable imitation of Noel Coward. He might, I think, have been not bad in films. Dick and I saw him once as the hero’s best friend in some spy movie just before the war and he wasn’t bad at all. He had a good voice; deep and a bit sexy.’

‘
And what about Algy and the children?’

‘
Algy bought a house in Suffolk, but never lived there. He got it for Char, you see; he couldn’t bring himself to realise it was all over. He came to Amberley once when Char was ill, and sat beside her bed holding her hand. She didn’t seem even to recognise him. “It wasn’t my fault,” he kept saying. “I always did my best for her,” and there were tears in his eyes. That was the last time, I think, I ever saw him.’

‘
Sophia told me the divorce was a messy business.’

Natasha
nodded. ‘Such things are usually messy, especially when the people involved had loved one another as Char and Algy.’

Suddenly
I thought of Beth and me. ‘It was a mistake, Guy, let’s face it,’ Beth’s letter said, ‘but no harm done and all the best for the future...’ A few depressing, but fairly painless visits to the solicitor — ‘The Petitioner therefore prays that the said marriage be dissolved...’ Once again I felt a sense of inadequacy sweep over me; I hadn’t even managed to have a full-scale hammer and tongs divorce.

‘
Char,’ Natasha continued, ‘expected to be allowed to keep the children. It didn’t matter to her whether she was living in a caravan or a tumbledown cottage miles from anywhere with no drains; Ann, Evelyn and Sophia were part of her and that was that. She had no interest in caring for them in any practical sense; they just had to be there, making her laugh, learning about pictures, books, politics, all the things she was interested in and wanted them to be, too. Well, you can imagine what Algy and his smart-arse lawyers made of that. They insisted the children must be cared for properly, in a manner suited to their station in life, or some such nonsense, I forget their exact words but Char was caught in their net, and Algy was given the custody of the three girls, although they must spend a part of each holiday with their mother. Perhaps it was better so, though poor Char did not think so at the time, especially as Dave turned out not to be as fond of children or animals as Char had decided he should be. One cannot blame the young man; he was only twenty-four, ten years younger than Char; three noisy kids under nine was not quite what he’d bargained for, and then there was that frightful collie dog Char had from the Battersea Home, too. She worshipped that little dog — now what was his name...?’

‘
Raffles?’

‘
Ah, Raffles, that was it. How clever of you to know.’

Natasha
gave a throaty chuckle ending in a kind of a snort. ‘We had to have him at Amberley when Char was sick, Raffles I mean. He killed the chickens, bit the postman, frightened the maids: we were at our wits’ end to know what to do with him. Then Dick discovered our butler, Tooley, was a dog man; all he had to do was nod his head and dogs would do anything he asked them, it was quite extraordinary, so after that, he took care of Raffles.

‘
But that Raffles, he hated Dave Brent; jealous I suppose; they were jealous of each other! Two angry young males fighting over a woman! I remember one evening after we had all gone to bed, there was a knock on my door; there was Dave in his beautiful red silk pyjamas, simply trembling with rage. “Nat, that bloody dog won’t let me get into my own bed! I’ll have to get Tooley. Can you tell me where he sleeps — Char’s no use at all, just encourages the animal.” Of course, I couldn’t stop laughing, which didn’t help, but I obediently put on my dressing gown and off we went in search of Tooley. We found him in the pantry drinking Dick’s best port. Then the three of us traipsed back upstairs to Char and Dave’s room, and there she was, sitting up in bed stark naked, the dog in her arms, screaming with laughter. She was a wicked little thing at times.

‘
But those years just before the war were not plain sailing for any of us. Algy and Char’s divorce went through early in 1937 and she and Dave were married immediately after, in the Register Office in Winchester. It was a quiet affair, just Dick and I: Dave’s parents had refused to come. They considered Char to be a scarlet woman and ruining their precious boy’s life. Mr Brent was such a rude little man. Dick and I met him and his wife to try and sort things out: I remember it was a pouring wet afternoon, and we had tea at some dreadful hotel in Virginia Water. “You must realise, Mrs Osborn, I’ve a position to keep up. I’m Secretary of the golf club; Chairmanship of the Rotary Club is on the cards for next year, and this divorce business just simply will not do.”

‘
“But Mr Brent,” I kept repeating, “it isn’t you who are being divorced, it isn’t even your son...” but he simply would not listen.’

‘
Were they happy, Char and Dave?’ I asked.

There
was a pause while Natasha considered the question. ‘I think so. It couldn’t have lasted, of course, but there was little chance of that: they’d barely been married two years when the War came and Dave joined the RAF. They had a little house on the river at Hammersmith: Con lent them the money for the lease. Char painted all the floors bright red, I remember, and they had a black bathroom. She learned to cook there. I can see her now, in that tiny kitchen they had, a cookery book open on the table, a cigarette in her mouth and a look of such concentration on her face. “Don’t speak, Nat, I simply must get this right.” But she would try such ambitious things, and if Dave even hinted they’d not turned out quite as they should, she’d throw the dish, contents and all, at him and storm upstairs! I remember once when we were in town for the Eton and Harrow match, they had asked us to dinner. Dave came downstairs to let us in. “I’m afraid my wife has thrown the dinner out of the window,” he announced and you could see he was seething. “Would you mind awfully if we went out?” Dick laughed so much he cried.’

‘
She became a good cook, though, when she was in the mood,’ I said, and thought of the pile of hardbacked exercise books, each containing recipes carefully copied out in Char’s bold hand. Some of the pages were blotched with antique gravy stains, others had odd little drawings in the margin, the work, no doubt, of one of her children, and I realised with a shock how much I still missed her.

‘
They can’t have been very well off,’ I said. ‘How did they manage?’

‘
Once Dave got into films they didn’t do too badly. Char had an allowance from Algy for the girls when they were with her. She had a nanny for Beth and a woman to scrub the floors; you could do a lot in those days with very little.

‘
Beth was born in the middle of the Munich Crisis in 1938, six weeks early. What a performance that was! London stifling hot, everyone talking about gas attacks and filling sandbags. I was staying the night with them and the pains began just as we were going to bed. We couldn’t get hold of the doctor at first. He was out at some wretched official dinner. Dave was in tears, saying he knew Char would die and it was his fault, and Nanny was flapping about like a frightened sheep. “My mother was delivered of my brother in a cattle truck in the snow, while escaping the Bolsheviks,” I told them. “I’m sure, if necessary, we can do the job ourselves.”

‘
But we didn’t have to; dear Dr Scott arrived, still wearing his dinner jacket, just in the nick of time. All Char could say when it was over was, “Christ, not another girl.” She so much wanted a boy. I’m afraid it was a great disappointment.’

I
knew this. It had been one of the things Beth had held against her mother.

Outside
the window the sound of a car. The sulky girl poked her head round the door. ‘Doctor’s here, Mama. Is Mr Horton staying to lunch?’

I
leaped to my feet. ‘I must get back to London,’ I said; the invitation to lunch had not been a warm one.

Natasha
held out her hand to be kissed. ‘I have enjoyed so much your visit and chatting about old times,’ she said. ‘No one here is interested, you see. It is sad you were not able to meet my Giovanni, but he is away — at a marketing conference, if you please. When I met him he was just a simple boy wheeling a garden barrow, now it is marketing conferences and TV commercials. Are you a gardener, Guy? Perhaps you would like to buy our seed catalogue, it is only 50p.’

‘
Thank you,’ I said, ‘it would be most useful, and thanks for all your help. May I write?’

‘
Of course,’ she said. ‘I like getting letters from nice young men.’

Her
daughter accompanied me downstairs and out to my car. ‘We have to ration her time with visitors. She’s pretty frail, you know,’ she said, and I thought she sounded rather apologetic. As I drove away, the tractor had started up again and someone had drawn the curtains in Natasha’s room.

13

And then there were the War years. Letters from the children, letters from Ma, letters from Algy, letters from Dave (a few); yellowing cuttings from the
Times
on the progress of the War; hints from the Upper Blatchford Women’s Institute on how to make sugarless jam and a meat loaf that contained no meat, and tiny wartime diaries written in tiny writing on utility paper, containing such cryptic announcements as: ‘six eggs today’, ‘brown hen to sit’, ‘sowed B beans’ and ‘S to A’s’. I ploughed on...

*

Cuckoo Farm

2nd
January 1939

Dearest
Char,

Snowed
up yet again! We live like medieval peasants! However, the Jankowski children enjoy the snow and play all day, sliding down the hill on an old tin tray. Mrs J, I’m afraid, is beginning to be a little tiresome. She makes borsch all day and complains about no water. ‘I am from the city, Madam O,’ she says. ‘I do not like this life.’ These refugees are always so ungrateful. Never mind, one soldiers on as best as one can.

Now,
dear, I must thank you for the really wonderful Christmas presents. So thoughtful and imaginative. Dear David, he’s such a talented young man; you must cherish him. Artists need cherishing; they are not like the rest of us. How exciting he has a small part in the new Korda film and how marvellous he will look in doublet and hose! Please give him my warmest congratulations.

Yes,
dear, do bring the children for Easter. I think the Jankowskis will be gone by then so there will be a little more room.

Such
a wonderful light over Digbery Hill today, I wish you were here to see it.

Your
loving Ma

4 Rutland Mews, SW

16th
February 1939

My
dear Char,

I
agree to your having the girls for Easter. I suggest you get Nanny, or some equally responsible person, to collect them from here on the 5th April. They
must
be returned by the 15th, as we are going down to Wales for the last week of the holidays. Please don’t send David. I’ve no wish for a repeat performance of what happened last time he came to fetch the girls and I would rather you didn’t come yourself (I’m sure you will agree with this). Madeleine asks me to remind you not to let Sophia over-eat this time. She’s much too fat and lethargic for her age. We are, in fact, taking her to see a specialist about this, but meanwhile, please bear it in mind. She also says please make sure they wear their old clothes when down at your mother’s. Last time Ann’s best dress was completely ruined; she had apparently slid down a haystack in it!

Maddy
’s divorce is finalised in April and we hope to be married in early May.

Yours,

Algy

PS
. In future, when writing over money matters, I would prefer you to correspond direct with my solicitors.

*

From the marriages’ column of the
Times
, Saturday, 6th May 1939.

On 4th May at Kensington Register Office, Algernon George Charterhouse to Madeleine Veronica Scott (née Dudley).

The
Hotel Crillon, Paris

10th
May 1939

My
dear Char,

Whilst
appreciating your good wishes for my future happiness, I cannot but suspect your sincerity, especially as your congratulations on my marriage are closely followed by a complaint that I never congratulated you on yours. In answer to the charge, I can only say I saw no reason to do so, and indeed, felt that commiserations would be more in order. Your marriage to a common young man on the make, ten years your junior, remains and will always remain, a mystery to me.

I
am sorry, my dear, unlike you I simply cannot shrug off the past, and cannot in my heart forgive you for the pain and suffering you caused me. Perhaps in the future — but now — no. Therefore, while accepting your good wishes for Madeleine and myself in the spirit in which (I hope) they are offered, I must ask you to write to me only when strictly necessary, on matters you are quite certain cannot be dealt with by my solicitors.

Yours,

Algy

*

54 Pine Tree Avenue, Westgate on Sea

5th
October 1939

Dear
Charlotte,

David
writes us he has joined the RAF. His mother and I are, of course, proud that he has decided to give up a promising career in films in order to serve his King and country and would not have wished it otherwise. However, we are concerned about our little granddaughter. What arrangements (if any) have been made for you and the child to be evacuated from London? David is a caring boy, but too young, perhaps, to realise the full extent of the responsibilities he has chosen to take on. In his letter to us there is no mention of the safety of you and Beth.

Now,
Charlotte, I realise that in the past we have not always seen eye to eye, but both Hilda and myself feel it’s time to let bygones be bygones. I am sure you would agree that private differences must be set aside in our determination to get this War sewn up and Hitler put back in his box once and for all. Please let me know by return what arrangements are being made re you and the children.

With
kindest regards,

Brian
Brent

PS
. Can you send us David’s new address as soon as you have it — Hilda is knitting him a pair of socks.

Cuckoo Farm

6th
October 1939

Dearest
Char,

How
proud you must be of David — to give up so much — but so like him. He sent me such a killing postcard — of course, he could not say where from, just ‘somewhere in England’. How absurd these men are, playing their silly war games.

Now,
dear, you simply must get the children out of London. It really is not safe, especially in that little house of yours on the river, a prime target for the German raiders when they come. Now David has been moved to Yorkshire for initial training — how handy for you all he did his first few weeks in London — there is no longer any point in your staying on to be near him. There is a perfectly good cottage in the village here, only £2 l0s a week, which would suit you and little Beth admirably, and there is plenty of room for the girls when they visit in the holidays. I’m sure David would wish you to come.

Pa
writes Amberley is being taken over by the army and they are to move into the chauffeur’s cottage: one wonders how the Russian woman will take to that!

I
must stop now. The vicar’s evacuees are trying to steal the apples again. Such dreadful children; they killed poor Dr Speed’s cat last week and literally run
rampant
through the village. The billeting officer is at her wits’ end and says they may have to be sent back where they came from.

Hurry
up and come, dear, you know it’s the
right
thing to do.

Your
loving Ma

*

ITW — Somewhere in England (in sight of the sea and B. cold)

30th
November 1939

My
Darling,

God,
how I miss you. I keep going over in my mind that last weekend together in our little house: the empty rooms, the river, eating sausages by the fire, loving you — oh, everything. Then I compare it with ghastly now and it’s more than I can take. Mercifully, we’re worked so hard and most of the time it’s so damned cold, the mind becomes too numb to think.

Our
Corporal calls me ‘Nancy Boy’ (naturally anyone on the stage is,
ipso
facto
, a ‘pansy’ in the primitive life form of the RAF), which doesn’t help, but as I’m not half bad at drill (which annoys him a bit, I think) and am the best polisher of kit in the Flight, though I say it myself, he mostly ignores me. I’ve applied to train as a pilot. Don’t be cross darling, you know I’ve always wanted to fly and anyway, as things are in the services (I’m learning fast) I’ll probably be posted somewhere as a cook!

Mother
has sent enough ‘woolly garments’ to kit out an entire Flight, also one of those chewy cakes. Do you remember how we fed that one she made for my birthday to the swans and it even gave them indigestion? Was that only last summer — already it seems a million years ago.

Do
you hate it very much at the cottage, darling? It won’t be for long, I promise. It sounds pretty dreary, but honestly, it couldn’t be as bad as here. When I get a commission (!) we’ll find a house near the station, and then we can all be together again. I should get leave before posting at the end of my stint here, but not before, so won’t get away for Christmas.

Oh,
darling, you are glad you married me, aren’t you? Sometimes I have such stupid doubts.

All
my love, my dearest,

Dave

ITW
— SIE

2nd
December 1939

My
darling,

Your
wonderful letters arrived last night. I’d just returned from ghastly ‘tea’ (greasy bangers and cold chips) and was feeling absolutely wretched, when there was Cpl bloody Jones giving out the mail. ‘One for you, flower,’ he says in the special falsetto voice he uses when addressing me. ‘That’ll put a smile on your pretty face.’ No matter. Who cares about morons like him when there’s wonderful letters from you?

You
write so vividly, darling. I wish I could. The row with Ma made me die; I can just see it — you dancing up and down spitting ‘fire’ and Ma all sugary calm, smiling gently. How I wish I had been there! I know she drives you nuts, but in a way you have to admit, she is rather marvellous. So you’re learning First Aid: I hope it won’t be like when you learned cooking (!) and pity the poor unfortunate who complains his bandages are too tight. And Nanny’s in love with the air-raid warden — is it serious? Actually, their courtship in the warden’s hut sounds rather romantic. You don’t mention Beth in your letters; has she any new words yet?

Darling,
it’s no good your coming up here for Christmas, it really isn’t. I’ll be on duty all the time and there’s nowhere you can stay. It’s hell, I know, especially with Algy having the children, but it just can’t be helped. HOWEVER, Dad has sent me quite a decent cheque for Christmas (good old Dad, he has his points), so I’ve an idea. What about when I finish in this morgue, we spend a couple of days’ leave on our own in London — stay at some posh hotel and really do it in style? Wouldn’t you love to dance at Quags again? I would, if I had you in my arms, of course! I can’t give exact dates yet, but will let you know as soon as I can; probably around the end of Jan. Now, that will be something to look forward to, won’t it?

Chin
up, my love. (I’m one to talk!) Christmas at Amberley, even in the chauffeur’s cottage, won’t be too bad and Nat and your Pa are always good for a laugh.

Goodnight,
my darling,

Dave

PS. Is this War ever going to get cracking I wonder?

ITW — SIE

Boxing
Night 1939

My
Darling,

I
got drunk last night — did you? I stood on a table in the canteen and gave them my Richard III, quite impressive by candlelight with most of the audience squiffy. Then AC2 Bolton executed a quick clog dance, Cpl Jones, YES, Cpl Jones in person, did his animal impressions (the mind boggles) and we rounded the whole thing off with a few rousing choruses of ‘Roll out the Barrel’ and ‘Eskimo Nell’ (unexpurgated edition). Later, I was violently sick; it was so damned cold in the latrines, my balls nearly dropped off. Is the RAF making me vulgar, darling? You will tell me, won’t you, if it is?

How
was your Christmas? Not too grim, I hope. I tried to ring you last night, but it was impossible to get through. Had a card from Sophia; a picture of a rather curiously shaped plane with me, smiling madly, in it; or at least, I think it was me. Now, all is OK for 25th Jan. Your Pa’s a good old stick; fancy booking us a room at the Savoy! Oh God, I can’t
wait
.

There
’s talk of what’s euphemistically known as a ‘toughening’ course before EFTS (Elementary Flying Training School). The thought of batting up and down some bloody mountain in the pouring rain carrying all my kit doesn’t fill me with much enthusiasm, I have to admit: by the end of this War I should be able to climb Everest using only one leg, with one hand behind my back. Never mind, at least I’ve got my exams (can’t think how). So you see, darling, your husband is not
just
a pretty face after all, and Biggles had better look to his laurels once Leading Aircraftsman Brent gets his Wings! Joking apart, though, the real reason I’ve got through is that The Powers that Be ‘still think the War, when it really starts, will be in the air and they’ll need all the pilots they can get, even if it does mean scraping the barrel.