The Twilight Hour (21 page)

twenty-one

HOW COULD TIME PASS SO SLOWLY
and so fast together? It felt as if Colin had been in prison on remand for years rather than months, yet the weeks until the trial flashed by quicker and quicker. We hardly saw Gwendolen and Radu now the film was ‘in the can', and there was a coolness between Alan and Hugh. In September Alan's new friends at the Stag's Head told him about a job on the new BBC Third Programme; he applied, and suddenly found himself with a career in radio! This was marvellous news and brought us into a different social circle. The future was still blocked by the coming trial, but making new friends at least took our minds off it to some extent.

I hadn't seen much of Fiona over the summer either, but one day I bumped into her in Oxford Street. ‘Oh, I'm so glad to see you! I've been trying to get in touch, but I lost your address, and you never come to the Wheatsheaf any more.'

We sat ourselves down in the very same café where Alan and I had tried to recover after we'd been to Mecklenburgh Square and the police station that fateful Saturday morning: so long ago, so recent.

‘I'm in a bit of trouble,' said Fiona. She certainly didn't look well.

‘I'm sorry, I wanted to see you too, but with Colin and everything …'

‘It's okay, the Colin business – must be awful. But now you're here there's something I was going to ask you … but I don't know if you'd understand.' She smiled wanly. ‘You've led such a sheltered life, Di.'

‘Sheltered! I don't think so. I'm married, after all.'

‘Exactly.
You're
married,' she said, and looked at me meaningfully.

I guessed immediately. ‘Is it … are you …?'

She nodded miserably.

That was about the worst thing that could happen to a woman; to have an illegitimate baby. ‘Who's the father? Can't he – can't you get married?'

‘Oh God, Di! I'm not even sure who it is!'

I blushed. ‘Sorry,' I muttered. At least she was honest about it.

‘Thing is … I haven't any money and even if I had – well, I thought I had a contact, but he's disappeared, I really don't know what to do.'

‘I could lend you some,' I offered rashly, seeing she was close to tears.

‘Oh,
would
you? I can't ask my parents. They used to be in service, but now Dad works in a hotel in Eastbourne and Mum looks after old people. And anyway, how could I explain it? I dunno what they'd do. They'd die of shame – probably turn me out of the house. They're so respectable. But it has to be soon, I'm nine weeks already.'

Abortion was illegal; and terribly dangerous. Of course if you had money and could go to Switzerland it might be all right. Otherwise …

She lit a second cigarette off the first and looked at me intently. ‘You still see Gwendolen Grey and that lot?'

‘Not much these days.'

‘You see … I remembered something Titus said. About some woman who lived with them.'

‘
Pauline
?'

‘I don't know her name, but he kind of hinted she'd been a nurse or something in the war, and was prepared, you know, to do a girl a favour.'

‘Good grief!' Stupidly, the first thing I thought of was, where would she do it? ‘In their flat?'

‘Oh, not
now
. But I just thought she might … just possibly … out of goodwill, you know …'

Goodwill was not something I associated with Pauline. ‘If you like, I'll get in touch with her,' I said doubtfully. Anything to take my mind off the trial.

.........

I was relieved it was Pauline who answered the phone. How could I have explained it to Gwen, let alone Radu? I took a deep breath. I had to let her know what I wanted without mentioning the word.

‘Gwen's out, I'm afraid.' Pauline's voice was frosty.

‘Actually it was you I wanted to talk to. I have a friend who's in trouble.'

I thought she might stonewall or even put down the phone, but she said guardedly: ‘I'm not sure what you mean by trouble – or why you think I could help. It depends on what sort of trouble.'

‘It's difficult to discuss on the phone.'

‘You'd better come round and see me,' she said. ‘Come tomorrow lunchtime if you can. They'll be out then, we'll have the place to ourselves.'

I took the bus to Ormiston Court in my lunch hour. When Pauline opened the front door she looked me over in an insolent way. ‘I'll send down for some coffee.' She gestured me towards the drawing room and walked down the hall.

She'd been sorting through some old photographs. Inquisitively I looked at the snapshot on top of the pile. It was faded and one corner was bent. Four young men and women, grouped in front of a tennis court, smiled squinting into the camera. There was a large mansion in the background.

Gwendolen did look different, but you could see it was her, in the middle. Her hair had been curlier then, tied back with a ribbon round her head, but she was just as striking.

One of the young men was the psychiatrist, Dr Carstairs. I was sure of it.

I stared and stared at the photograph, convinced it held a secret, if only it would yield it up. I turned it over, and saw, pencilled on the back: Broadstairs, May, 1940. What funny things old photographs were, I thought. This one was a little piece of Gwendolen's past. It was an archaeological find, like a piece of bone or a shard of pottery, a fragment of an inscription; a hieroglyph with a hidden meaning, if only I could decipher it.

‘Just some old photos.' I hadn't heard Pauline re-enter the room. She gathered them up and put them back in their box. ‘So what about this trouble your
friend
finds herself in,' she said – quite neutral, no nasty innuendo. ‘I thought it might be you, as a matter of fact. That's why I suggested you came round. But it's not, is it. I'm not working now, it was just – as I know you and you're a friend of Gwen's … though I suppose you could give your friend this number. I might be able to suggest something.'

She passed me a cup of coffee. ‘They've finished the film then,' she said.

‘Apparently.'

‘Any plans for another one?'

‘I don't think so.' Why was she asking me? ‘Alan's got a job at the BBC now.'

‘Radu won't want to sit twiddling his thumbs. He's getting restless already.' She looked at me. I felt myself blushing. I had a feeling she knew something – knew that Radu had made a pass at me. ‘He wants to get out of England – shake the dust of Blighty off his feet.'

‘Really? Why should he want to do that?'

‘You tell me, dear. Too hot for him here, I daresay. His Romanian friends pestering him, you know.'

‘What Romanian friends?'

She looked at me slyly. ‘I don't really know much about it, dear. All I know is, he's restless.'

.........

I gave Fiona Pauline's number and lent her £20 I borrowed from Stan. But if Fiona ever went to see Pauline, she didn't tell me. I didn't hear from her, and when I went round to her room above the restaurant, they told me she'd moved out. No forwarding address. Another unsolved mystery. It bothered me, but with the impending trial I had no time to worry about anything else.

One afternoon in October I came back to the office after lunch to find a note from Stanley: ‘Gone to Ormiston Court. Come round at once.'

Pauline answered the door. Grim-faced, she gestured towards the drawing room.

‘I'll tell Mr Colman you're here.'

While I waited I looked at an old copy of
Vogue
. It was a while before Stanley joined me.

He sat down on the deep sofa. ‘Radu's gone to America.'

‘America?'

‘Hollywood. Left. Just like that. Gwen's taken it badly. Seems to think he's ditched her.' He sighed and wiped his face with his handkerchief. ‘Don't tell a soul, but she took a small overdose – nothing serious, just a gesture, Pauline says she doesn't need to go to hospital, she's looking after her.'

‘He's
left
her?'

Stanley shrugged. ‘Looks like it.' Perhaps he wasn't entirely displeased. This might be his opportunity. ‘The reason I called you round is about my appointments. I need to dictate a couple of letters. Well – that's not the real reason. I wanted you to know about Gwenny, but don't tell anyone else.'

He told me whom to telephone, but when I got back to the office the first person I rang was Alan. Alan got hold of Hugh and it all came out. Hugh was leaving too, on the Queen Mary, the following week. Radu had some deal with one of the studios, but they wanted one of their own big stars in Radu's next film; Gwendolen Grey wasn't a big enough name, apparently.

‘Pretty ruthless,' said Alan. ‘Trust Hugh – he didn't even bother to let me know. He sort of hinted that Enescu might still try to get Gwendolen into another film. Apparently it all depends how well
Be Still My Heart
does out there.'

I'd got over my troubling attraction towards the Romanian, or I thought I had, but now came a surge of bitter disappointment. Selfishly I thought only of myself; so after all the screen test had been meaningless.

‘Why did he go now? Do you think it's because of the trial?' Radu had jumped ship for Hollywood. All our suspicions surged back. I repeated Pauline's enigmatic remark. ‘But Hugh would never have gone with him if he'd thought …'

‘Also he's safe now, isn't he. Once they charged Colin–'

‘But if Colin gets off–'

‘Radu's never been a suspect.'

‘
Why not
!'

We talked and talked, but got absolutely nowhere.

.........

Even more shocking was the speed with which Gwendolen found herself a new protector. Only a few weeks later: ‘Gwenny and I are getting married, special licence,' Stanley said bashfully: ‘I've found a place for her in Brighton – moved her down there last week. Sea air. Do her good.' It was almost as if he was moving her out of London in an attempt to hide her away. ‘It'll be very quiet – just us and the witnesses. You understand, don't you, she's still a bit fragile.'

Later that day he sent me to Hatton Garden to collect a special present for her. Diamonds weren't rationed. You didn't need coupons for them, only money.

A week after that there was a photograph of their wedding on an inside page of the
Evening News
. There they were, standing outside Westminster Register Office. She wore a long mink coat and a hat with a veil. He looked pleased as punch. As if every self-made man doesn't want to marry a film star, I thought, meanly.

They honeymooned in Torquay, and when he returned he was in a buoyant, almost cocky mood. But that put me on the alert at once. I knew him well enough to recognise that when Stanley sounded that particular cheery note he was at his most insecure, his most anxious.

‘You gotta come down to Brighton. Whaddya say? Gwen won't take no for an answer. I've a proposition for your hubby.'

.........

I had actually never been to Brighton. We followed a trickle of day trippers out of the wrought-iron station and plunged down a steep street at the end of which you could just see the sea. As soon as I heard the gulls shrieking, I knew I was at the seaside. It reminded me of childhood. Even in late autumn there was an air of holiday about the place. The salty wind bowled us down past the clock tower and past shabby little shops and houses until we reached the Front.

Embassy Court was a menacing modern building, a brutal block of concrete, but the geometric entrance was quite grand and a porter directed us from the softly lit lobby to the lift. ‘Mr and Mrs Colman are on the top floor, they have the penthouse. I'll tell them you're on your way up.'

The penthouse; how grand and film-starry that sounded! When I emerged from the mahogany lift I saw a panelled and carpeted corridor. Stanley stood by the open front door.

‘Gwen's in the lounge.' It was a great, light room looking out over the sea. Gwendolen lay with her feet up on a gold brocade Knole sofa. A bolster at each end dripped tassels to the floor. It was very hot.

‘I'm taking you for lunch at English's. First-rate new fish restaurant. My treat of course.' (It was always Stan's treat.) Gwendolen seemed unimpressed by the plan, but after a round of gin and It from their cocktail cabinet we set off again along the windy Front.

English's might be new, but it had the air of a traditional oyster bar with a mirrored interior like a cosy Edwardian railway carriage with red walls and red velvet banquettes. I looked round the crowded little room. Brighton people were subtly different from London people, from the London people we knew, anyway. Everyone looked well off; people who'd had a good war and were doing well out of the peace. Next to us sat a middle-aged couple, she in a full New Look outfit and lots of make-up, he in a blazer, flannels and a paisley cravat, with Brylcreemed wavy grey hair and an RAF moustache, the sort of couple, I thought snobbishly, you'd expect to see at a roadhouse on the A1. But everyone down here was a little more theatrical, a bit more flamboyant than in London – and Stan was boasting that lots of ‘showbiz' names had made Brighton their home: Anna Neagle and Herbert Wilcox, Tommy Trinder, Angela Baddeley, it was a glittering list, if that sort of thing impressed you.