by Nicola Upson
“That’s rare,” Marta said, “and obviously not an achievement that Peter Whittaker aspired to.”
After their visit to Charleston, Josephine had shown her one of the stolen sketchbooks, and Marta had been shocked by the violence of the drawings. “Yes, although to be fair, I didn’t know him well enough to say whether his anger was down to the war or to something more innate.”
“Either way, those sketches of Dorothy’s body are quite damning.”
Josephine agreed, although she had grown to like Peter Whittaker during her time at Charleston. “If we accept for a moment that Dorothy’s death was murder, they’re almost a rehearsal,” she said. “It’s as if he was trying out different ideas or different fantasies until he found one to suit him.”
“Why might he have wanted to kill her?”
“I can’t think of a single reason except to bring George down. He hated her, by his own admission—but he must have also known that he couldn’t destroy George without destroying Harriet, and I don’t think he’d have risked that.”
“You said Betty was one of the girls that he was running about with.”
“Betty and Charity, yes.”
“What if there was something going on between them, and he resented the way that Dorothy treated her sister? Or maybe Dorothy found out that Betty and Peter were having an affair and threatened to tell their parents. Perhaps he’d even got her pregnant.”
“I doubt that. She just didn’t seem the type. I could believe it of Charity, perhaps, but not Betty. She was always so …”
“Quiet? You know what they say.”
They dropped the subject for a moment as the crowds outside a cinema forced them into single file. “Do you think you and Jack would have lasted?” Marta asked when they were on the other side of the street.
Josephine hesitated, thrown by Marta’s question when she had spent the last few days preoccupied by thoughts of Jeannie and Jack, and whether—in some fundamental way—she had betrayed them both. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “We weren’t together for very long, and you’re right—when things end suddenly and far too soon, it’s tempting to be sentimental about them.” Once again, she could just as easily have been referring to her love for Jeannie, although the sense of regret that had resurfaced with the newspaper article hinted at something more troubling than sentiment.
They turned into the busy, narrow street that linked the Strand to the Embankment, and found their destination halfway down on the right. The Gate had begun life in Covent Garden before moving to its current home, a former skittle alley, music hall, and restaurant, which—like many buildings used for different things—had lost its claim to any particular architectural style. Over the years, it had been designed by thrift and necessity rather than aesthetic vision, but it had the nobility of a survivor against the odds and Josephine had loved its spirit since her first visits here in the late twenties. Like the Arts Theater Club, where her own plays had been tried out over a few nights before transferring to the West End, the Gate championed experimental or controversial plays and works by lesser-known writers, avoiding censorship from the Lord Chamberlain by calling itself a club and financing less commercial productions with a series of popular theatrical revues.
The Children’s Hour needed no help in that department. Demand for tickets was so great that they were rationed to two per member, and Josephine had been lucky to get a couple of returns. The play’s notoriety—already well established by its subject matter—had been further enhanced by the Daily Mirror’s focus on one of its leading ladies, and the foyer was packed to the gills. “I’d better find stage door and deliver this,” Josephine said, taking the note she had written for Betty out of her bag.
“Do you think she’ll agree to see you?”
“I can’t see why she’d refuse. After all, she’s the one who’s been raking this up again—you’d think she’d be keen to have an audience with one of the main suspects.”
Marta smiled at her sarcasm. “I doubt you’re the only one who’s upset at having your name dragged into it, though. If she’s had flak from anyone else, she’ll be keeping her head down.”
“Yes, but don’t forget, I’ve got a professional advantage over the others.” She waved the envelope with a smile. “I may inadvertently have hinted at a part in a future play, and we both know that no actress can resist a part. I won’t be long.”
Josephine didn’t often pull rank with her own celebrity, but she knew that most stage doorkeepers subscribed to a type and treated other members of their professional club with a respect which wasn’t afforded to the general public. As she hoped, the doorman at the Gate knew her name—he’d taken his wife to see Richard of Bordeaux four times, he said; such lovely costumes—and promised to deliver her note to Miss Banks immediately and in person. She thanked him and made her way back to the foyer to find Marta, but stopped in her tracks when she saw Jeannie standing in the queue for the stalls. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised—it was natural that she too might be curious to see her former pupil, and her letter had carried a London address—but Josephine still found it hard to imagine her anywhere else but in the Sussex countryside that she loved so much and which had been the backdrop to their time together. She watched from a safe distance, knowing that she would have recognized Jeannie instantly, even if she hadn’t seen a photograph of her as an older woman; it was the gesture even more than the face or the hair—a wave across a room, which was so familiar that Josephine half-lifted her hand in response, even though she knew that the greeting was not for her. She looked for the intended recipient, but it was impossible to single anyone out in the crowd, and by the time she glanced back, Jeannie was gone.
“There you are!” Josephine jumped and found Marta behind her with two glasses. “We’ve just got time to sink a gin before it starts. Is something the matter? You seem a bit on edge.”
“No, I’m fine. I was just looking for you.” She accepted the drink gladly, wondering why—after all these years—she was still hiding her feelings for Jeannie, even if the reasons had changed. “I’ve ingratiated myself with the man on the door,” she said, raising her voice above the hubbub. “By fair means or foul, I think we’ll get backstage.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to meeting the woman I’ve heard so much about.” A bell rang for curtain up, and Josephine drained her glass, hoping that fate hadn’t seated them anywhere near Jeannie. Though small, the auditorium had been skillfully designed to please both actors and audience, with a generous stage and steeply raked stalls that offered excellent sight lines. There was no sign of an auburn head in the first few rows, and Josephine wondered if Jeannie had noticed her walk past. If they were to meet again, she hoped it wouldn’t have to be here, in the middle of a crowd, with all the awkwardness and affectation that entailed; after the way that things had ended between them, the last thing she wanted was to pretend that their love had meant nothing.
“I was reading the program notes in the bar,” Marta said when they were settled in their seats, “and apparently Lillian Hellman based her story on an exclusive girls’ school in Edinburgh called something I can’t pronounce.”
“Drumsheugh.”
“So you’ve heard of it?”
“Yes. I bought a true crime book a few years ago for an article on Deacon Brodie, and ended up being much more interested in Miss Pirie and Miss Woods.”
“The program says they lost every single one of their pupils within forty-eight hours of the rumors starting.”
“Are you surprised? Two women making love in a bed next to their students? They’d be drummed out of town today, let alone in 1810.”
“If that’s what they were doing. The girl had a grudge against them, apparently, and they won their slander case against her grandmother—eventually, after it went to appeal.”
“It still ruined them, though. They never taught again.” Now, just as it had when she first read about it, the story reminded her of George and Harri
et, and she wondered if their love had survived the scandal and if they’d ever been given a chance to rebuild their lives.
“Do you think Pirie and Woods were lovers, or was it all just a terrible misunderstanding?”
Josephine looked at Marta, one eyebrow raised. “The girl said the bed shook every night—do you really believe that it was a massage for rheumatism?”
“No, I suppose not, although come to think about it, my back has been killing me lately.” She grinned, and opened the program again. “This bit made me laugh, though. One of the judges said that sex between women was as likely as ‘thunder playing the tune of “God Save the King.”’ ”
“He wouldn’t be the first Scotsman to disregard anything that happens south of the border.”
Marta was still laughing when the lights went down. The curtain rose on a comfortable room, part study, part lounge, where a group of young girls was gathered around an older woman, all sewing or engrossed in their schoolbooks. After a few innocent exchanges, the conversation began to expose Mary Tilford—the girl who would eventually make the fatal accusation—as a liar and manipulator, and Josephine could only admire the subtlety with which Hellman was laying the foundations of her tragedy. She took against Mary instantly, as she was supposed to, but there was nothing so far in her personality to suggest the comparison with Dorothy Norwood that had supposedly left her twin so shaken.
The character of Martha Dobie entered through the center stage door, carrying a couple of books that she returned to a bookcase, and Josephine nudged Marta. “That’s Betty,” she whispered, noticing that several other people were responding in exactly the same way. When Betty spoke her opening line—“What happened to her? She was perfectly well a few hours ago.”—there was an audible stir as the audience recognized the words from the newspaper, and it seemed to Josephine that a deliberate pause had been built into the script to allow the words maximum impact. It had been unfair of her to assume that Betty would be at best a mediocre actress; she was actually very good, instantly conveying her character’s nervous, highly strung nature and delivering her lines with a perfectly judged restraint. Her American accent was convincing too—so convincing that Josephine began to wonder if she had spent some time there. She took the program from Marta’s hand to check the actress’s credits, but the stage lights were far too dim to be able to read by, and she sat back to enjoy the production.
As the play progressed and the actors began to relax, the intimacy of the small theater really came into its own. The proximity of the audience to the stage required a particular sort of performance, Josephine noticed. There was no room for melodrama when even those at the back of the auditorium were privy to subtle gestures and changes in facial expression, and the actors could speak as they would on a film set or in a broadcasting studio, without any need to strain their voices. The effect for everyone watching was to be uncomfortably caught up in the emotions of the play, and Josephine was struck by how accurately it portrayed the infectious nature of fear and suspicion as a young girl began to exploit her power to hurt. The helplessness of the accused women in the face of prejudice and waning trust reminded her so acutely of the aftermath of Dorothy’s death that she felt it physically, a return of the nervous tension that had been her constant companion during those terrible weeks. It was exactly the same: a scandal grows and takes on a life of its own until it’s virtually unstoppable, like a forest fire extinguished in one spot, only to burn twice as strong somewhere else. Suddenly, she felt less skeptical of Betty’s claim that the play had brought back the horror of her sister’s death with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
“Do you want another drink?” Marta asked at the interval, when the curtain had fallen on a damning piece of evidence that seemed certain to seal the teachers’ fate. “I have a feeling we’ll need something to get us through the final act.”
Josephine glanced back toward the foyer, imagining Jeannie in every queue and every doorway. “It’s a bit of a crush,” she said. “Why don’t we wait until afterward?”
“All right, but I’ve got to do battle for the cloakroom. I may be some time.”
While she was gone, Josephine flicked through the program, fumbling irritably in her bag for her glasses when she realized that she still couldn’t see well enough to read it properly. “Infuriating, isn’t it?” said a voice beside her. “I was so angry when my eyesight went, but glasses suit you.” Jeannie sat down in the seat that Marta had left vacant. “Hello, Josephine. How are you?”
All Josephine could do was return the greeting, and even that sounded forced. She realized that her lack of surprise probably gave her away, but if Jeannie suspected that she had seen her and looked the other way, she didn’t seem to resent it. “Did you get my letter? I wasn’t sure how to get in touch with you, but I found the name of your club in Who’s Who.”
“Yes, they sent it on, but I’m away at the moment, so it’s been up and down the country. That’s why I haven’t had the chance to reply.”
“It doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t. I just wanted to warn you of what was coming.”
She stopped abruptly as if she had run out of everything that was prepared and harmless, and the two of them looked at each other in silence. It was astonishing how little Jeannie had changed, and had she been a casual acquaintance, her ability to defy her age might have been a cause for envy; as it was, the telescoping of time into a merging of then and now felt dangerous, and Josephine found herself struggling for safer ground. “How did you know about the article?” she asked. “You must have written the letter long before it came out.”
“Charity tracked me down through the school’s old girl system. We meet every few years, so my address was …”
“Charity did?”
“Yes.”
“What’s she got to do with it?”
“Faith Hope is her pen name. Didn’t you know?”
Suddenly the sly, knowing tone of the article made much more sense. “No, I had no idea,” Josephine admitted. “I suppose I should have guessed, though. It’s not the subtlest of jokes.”
“No, especially when none of them are virtues that she’s ever possessed as far as I can remember.”
It was the first departure from Jeannie’s carefully neutral tone, and it reminded Josephine of the defiance that she had always found so attractive. She smiled and said, “There was a time when you fought Charity’s corner. You were sticking up for her the very first day we met.”
“Perhaps, but we’re all allowed to change our minds.” The veiled accusation hung in the air between them, and Josephine realized that she had ventured too close to old wounds. “This brings it all back, doesn’t it?” Jeannie added, as if reading her thoughts. “I almost wish I hadn’t come. Except for this, of course. It’s nice to see you, whatever the circumstances.”
Her graciousness was more than Josephine deserved, and although she longed to ask Jeannie about her life and what she had done with those missing years, something in her felt that she had waived the right to idle curiosity. “I’m hoping to talk to Betty after the show,” she said instead. “Did Charity give you any indication of why this has all been dragged up again now? Obviously those two have kept in touch.”
“No, she only gave me the line about the play bringing back old memories.”
“And do you know where Harriet and George are? They must be terrified by all this publicity.”
Jeannie’s eyes looked past her as she shook her head, and Josephine turned to find Marta coming back to her seat. She stood to make the introductions, and obviously did a reasonable job of hiding any awkwardness because Marta smiled warmly and shook Jeannie’s hand. “The other teacher,” she said, making the connection with the article.
“Yes, the other teacher.” Her sarcasm was obvious to Josephine, but thankfully not to Marta, and they were saved from any further small talk by the two-minute bell. “I should go back to my seat,” Jeannie said. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Fox.” She turned t
o Josephine, who could tell from the subtle change in tone that Jeannie had correctly guessed the nature of her relationship with Marta. “Give my regards to Betty when you see her,” she said, “and I hope we can catch up properly sometime. Come and see me when you’re next in town. You’ve still got my address on the letter?”
Josephine nodded, feeling Marta’s eyes on her. Jeannie bent to pick up her bag, and her hair fell across her face; she brushed it back with another familiar gesture, and Josephine noticed for the first time that she was wearing a wedding ring. She would have found it impossible to explain the rush of conflicting emotions that ambushed her—relief, confusion, jealousy—but Jeannie seemed to see them all pass across her face. “Funny how life turns out, isn’t it?” she said. There was no bitterness in the words, only regret, but Josephine would have found anger far easier to deal with. Jeannie stepped forward to give her a parting hug. “I need to see you,” she said, so quietly that Josephine could hardly hear her. “Please come.”
They watched her walk back down the row. “She’s obviously as upset by all this as you are,” Marta said, taking her seat again. “I didn’t know that she’d written to you.”
“Didn’t I mention it? It must have slipped my mind in all the fuss about the play. She wanted to warn me, but the newspaper had already come out by the time I got the note, so it didn’t seem important.” The response was far too defensive for a comment that had held no reproach, and Josephine forced herself to stop. She longed to look round again to see if Jeannie was with her husband, but didn’t trust herself to be casual enough about it, and the lights went down before she had the chance.
“Is she still teaching?” Marta whispered.
“I doubt it. She’s married now.”
When the curtain rose again, the play had moved forward a few months to the aftermath of the scandal. As in the original story, the teachers had won their court case, but their business was in ruins, and the action built inexorably to a tragic conclusion, as Betty’s character—in despair about the true nature of her feelings—took her own life. “Well, that was uplifting,” Marta said while the actors were taking their second curtain call. “Did that happen in the real thing?”
