Cool Repentance

by Antonia Fraser

  'But at least whatever scene you shoot, you can't miss me. No need to worry,' he told Jemima engagingly. 'I should say my best moment is when I come to hoik her - he indicated Christabel - 'off to the guillotine. You can forget Dr Dorn: there's nothing in it for me, particularly in our Nat's seaside version. In my sou'wester and oilskins I'm probably quite unrecognizable.'

  'I'll remember,' Jemima promised.

  The most ancient member of the company - and indeed of any company likely to be formed - was Nicola Wain. 'Old Nicola', as she generally termed herself, had survived her legendary amount of years as an actress by dint of an outwardly placid nature which concealed something altogether more ruthless beneath.

  'I hear you have a part for Old Nicola in your latest,' she would murmur in the ear of unsuspecting directors - and even, when times were very bad, playwrights. 'Oh you naughty boy, nothing for Old Nicola? That's not what I hear. Trying to pull the wool over my eyes, are you, you naughty boy? Waiting for Sybil Thorndike to rise from the dead, eh? Oh, he is a naughty boy.'

  Certain roles however Nicola considered to be her own. The jailer's mother in Widow Capet - a tearful old revolutionary crone armed with knitting needles - being one of them, she had resolutely imposed herself on the Larminster Festival. Even Nat Fitzwilliam had proved incapable of dislodging her. When it was pointed out that there was nothing remotely suitable for her in The Seagull - Tobs as a youthful Dr Dorn hardly needed a geriatric Polena - Nicola had the effrontery to suggest that they should play The Three Sisters instead, where audiences always loved to see her in the part of the old nanny. Hastily, Nat had settled for giving her the single role of the jailer's mother, as being the lesser of two evils. He had not reckoned on the fact that being in one production only afforded Nicola an excellent opportunity for 'observing all you naughty boys and girls' as she put it, in the other.

  Now Nicola sat on the shore holding forth to Major Cartwright on the subject of Anglo-Indian politics, based on a theatrical tour of the Raj in the early twenties when she had played Juliet. Something about the Major's correct but ancient white summer suit and a straw hat with faded ribbon had obviously excited her. Pointedly, the Major denied ever having been East of Suez: he failed to stop the flow.

  Ketty had cornered Emily Jones, the rather sweet-looking girl who would play Masha to Filly Lennox's Nina; Ketty, like Old Nicola, was indulging in theatrical reminiscences, although hers were vicariously based on Christabel's career, not her own. Emily Jones looked younger than Filly Lennox in real life, much as the unknown Tobs looked younger than Vic Marcovich; she was beginning to have a rather desperate air as

  Ketty's amber beads dangled closer and closer to her face, when Mrs Blagge acidly recalled Ketty to her duties.

  'If you would be so kind, Katherine, there are certain tasks for you as well as Jim and myself.'

  If you looked backwards, the tall harsh shape of the Watchtower Theatre could be seen in the distance, looking down from its great height on the sylvan shore, the dark glass of its structure giving the air of enormous eyes keeping an eye on events. But no one did look back -none of the actors, or the other participants in the Festival picnic. Much as Regina Cartwright had predicted, the actors concentrated mainly on the Lark Manor food - asparagus quiches, smoked-salmon cornets filled with prawns, and cold chicken pie cut in slices. They also drank Julian Cartwright's claret which he dispensed personally with a lavish hand. He used the same formula to everyone as he poured.

  'A good light Beaujolais Brouilly '76. Sorry about the plastic tumblers but we can't have broken-glass tragedies on the beach. All the same I think you'll enjoy it.'

  He was quite right. The actors certainly did enjoy it.

  Filly Lennox, who had definitely drunk too much - a great deal too much - became quite pink and giggly. It was in fact Filly who was responsible for one of the few awkward moments of the picnic. After announcing that she was absolutely pie-eyed, she added that she was bound to regret it. Then she started to hum a popular song, filling in a word here and there. It took those present several instants to realise that Filly was happily intoning 'Coo-ool, oh so cool repentance', and several more instants to shut her up, since Filly was quite impervious to winks and frowns. On the contrary, she seemed more than likely to plough right on through Iron Boy's repertory, one song leading to another - until Gregory Rowan saved the day by pulling her back down beside him. Then there was some much safer talk of an expedition to France when the Festival was over - 'I'd love to show you what's left of pre-revolutionary Paris', he was heard to say eagerly.

  'I suppose that's France over there, isn't it?' Filly cried, waving a hand towards what was in fact the next Bridset headland. 'Take me to it.'

  Emily Jones drank a little too much and, freed of Ketty's attentions, moved closer to Spike Thompson; who nevertheless showed no signs of leaving the side of Jemima Shore. Ollie Summertown drank enough to do some startling gymnastics on the beach, for the particular edification of Cherry and the general edification of anyone else who cared to watch.

  'Do you fancy that sort of thing?' Spike spoke quite casually in Jemima's direction. Jemima, who was alone in drinking white wine, took first a sip and then a look. Ollie was currently indulging in a prolonged hand-stand.

  'It's rather difficult to tell when he's upside down, isn't it?'

  Blanche and Regina Cartwright were both poured half-tumblers of wine by their father. But it was impossible to tell how much he, as host, had drunk. Julian continued to look urbane if slightly flushed. He accepted the frequent compliments of the cast on the quality of the wine with every sign of pleasure. Nat Fitzwilliam alone lifted his glass spasmodically without any sign of noticing what he was imbibing; when Blanche, after colloquy with Tobs, tested this theory by pouring Coca-Cola into his claret, he took a sip quite happily.

  Christabel definitely drank a great deal: Jemima watched her. Her hands as she held her shell-painted tumbler trembled. It was possible that her large straw bag also contained a small bottle of solacing vodka.

  Vic Marcovich drank the most but without any sign of inebriation at all; until the moment when he threw off his shirt and marched straight off in the direction of the sea, uttering the single superbly articulated word: 'Forward!' The picnic party watched him go. The tide was now very low. His figure, with its fine bull-like shoulders and short muscley legs - it could have been the figure of a wrestler - could be seen for a long while proceeding out across the rippled sands left by the sea.

  Suddenly it was as though an emergency warning had been given for the whole party to abandon the site of the picnic as fast as possible. Blanche Cartwright grabbed Ollie's hand as he finished a somersault and before he could object - or cast an eye round for Cherry - pulled him off towards the distant sea. Regina too remounted Lancelot, and galloped off in the direction of the sea: she was reciting Shelley at full tilt as she went. The horse's hooves splashed Blanche and Ollie as Regina passed them. Riding bareback in her scarlet costume, with her black hair flying, Regina looked, thought Jemima, like an advertisement for something - not necessarily something as young and innocent as Regina herself.

  Her protests about the tide, wind and water ignored, Ketty proceeded to don a severe but not unbecoming black costume and stalked after her charges in the direction of the sea.

  Cherry, distinctly flown with wine and free of Ollie's chaperonage, saw her chance with Julian Cartwright.

  'Sware for a swim?' was how the words actually came out. But it did not seem to matter since he evidently looked on the proposition favourably. 'What about you, darling?' he enquired briefly of Christabel. 'Are you going to have a dip?'

  Christabel was in the throes of hearing from Nat about his encounter with J.S, Grand, editor of the powerful and prestigious Literature, at some elegant First Night supper party in Connaught Square, at which Nat by his own account had reduced the mighty editor to silence with his ideas on Chekhov.

  'Jamie Grand is such a darling, isn't he?' broke in Christabel.
'And so amusing. I remember he once said to me that the thing about Chekhov and sex - or was it Turgenev and sex - anyway...' Her voice trailed away. She was obviously relieved by Julian's interruption. 'Definitely I shall swim!' she cried with a great deal more energy. 'Definitely. But I make no promise as to exactly where and when. In the meantime why don't you join the lady?'

  Nat Fitzwilliam looked a good deal less pleased by Julian's sudden appearance. He announced his intention of going back to the Watchtower to get further inspiration for The Seagull from its vantage point 'by seeing the shore as an empty hole' - or perhaps he meant whole, it was not immediately clear.

  He was also promising darkly to rethink various Chekhovian characters by viewing them at a great distance. Arkadina, for example.

  'Not Arkadina, darling, if you don't mind,' said Christabel sweetly. 'You've thought about her quite enough for one production. Give the others a turn. Why don't you keep an eye on Blanche and our Konstantin instead. Or Gregory and the lovely Miss Lennox? There might be insights into Trigorin and Nina there. Or even Julian and Miss—' she paused and gazed speculatively at Cherry in her gravity-defying costume '—Miss Cherry. So much more rewarding.'

  The roar of Nat's motor-bike was heard as he left. Jemima saw Christabel's graceful figure drifting in the direction of the trees at the head of the beach in order to change. She bore a very large straw basket on her arm, containing the despised costumes and caps unearthed by Mrs Blagge. Despite picnic conditions, vodka and Beaujolais consumed in large quantities and her cumbersome burden, Christabel still managed to look immeasurably elegant: she conveyed the impression of a star leaving the stage to the minor characters - purely for the time being.

  Filly Lennox now seemed loath to take to the water, even escorted by Gregory Rowan, and murmured or rather giggled a series of rather thin excuses. There was some rather prolonged and playful discussion on the subject of swimming with or without costumes which Jemima found increasingly irritating: why could not Gregory and Filly simply strip off and plunge in and be done with it? But in the end the matter was resolved differently. Filly was not so loath to adjourning with Gregory to the shade of the trees on the far side of the river bank to discuss the matter further: she confessed to the need to lie down. Their figures also vanished. Jemima felt meanly pleased that Christabel had also meandered off in that direction, a fact of which they were evidently unaware.

  Jemima found herself alone with Spike Thompson at the now deserted picnic scene - alone except for the Blagges, that is. It was the polite but embarrassing presence of the Blagges which decided her. Taking off her own shirt and trousers, to reveal a new white bikini which she was not at all averse to displaying, she cast an inviting smile in the direction of Spike.

  'Our turn,' said Jemima. Spike looked distinctly disappointed when she tugged him off in the direction of the sea, much as Cherry had pulled away Julian Cartwright.

  'So many swimmers. Even Her—' Mrs Blagge gestured back to the group of trees to which Christabel had retreated. 'You'd better get the boat, Jim. If you meant what you said this morning about the breeze at the point.' So Mr Blagge departed in the direction of the boat pulled up on a steep bank of pebbles near the river bed. After a bit Mrs Blagge vanished too.

  The fire smoked and went out. Only the seagulls still whirled round the deserted picnic site for a while; then they too flew away. The breeze at the point did blow up a little, making a few white crests on the waves outside the bay. The tide started to come in, very fast over the level sands. There was still no one present where the picnic had once been.

  Jemima Shore had just changed back into her clothes in the group of trees near the cars, and was busy towelling her thick hair, dripping with sea-water, when the screaming began.

  It seemed to come from a little knot of bathers - all men - advancing together through the shallow waters to the edge of the beach. They were moving curiously slowly, staggering slightly. That was because they were carrying something, something heavy. With a sick feeling Jemima recognized the ridiculous black and white bathing-cap Christabel Cartwright had been mocking only a few hours before, and the turquoise bathing-costume.

  The person who was screaming was Blanche Cartwright. She was facing the advancing party and their burden.

  Blanche Cartwright was screaming: 'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.'

  7

  Her Last Hour

  In death Christabel Cartwright's face looked quite young and vulnerable. Even her body appeared slighter and more childish than the full middle-aged figure Jemima remembered.

  Julian Cartwright and Victor Marcovich were taking it in turns to kneel over her urgently trying to breathe some movement back into that sodden body, or knead some beat from its still heart. For how long? - it seemed like hours. Now Julian was kneeling back on his haunches with a look of despair on his face. Vic Marcovich bent forward again. Ollie Summertown had rushed past Jemima, still in his striped bathing-shorts, to get help; she heard the angry whirr of his motor-bike ascending the track from the beach to the village.

  Christabel's eyes were closed. A strand of fair hair escaped the black and white cap and lay along the pale cheek: the sight of that, no longer fluffy, no longer the bright colour of a daffodil, was unbearably touching.

  It was at that moment that Jemima realized that she was looking into the dead face of Filumena Lennox, Filly Lennox with her pretty full youthful body, in Christabel Cartwright's vivid turquoise costume. Filly Lennox with her fair hair escaping from Christabel Cartwright's magpie cap. She realized it a split second before she heard the characteristic melodious voice of Christabel herself calling from a distance.

  'I'm here. What is it? What's the matter, Blanche? Do stop screaming "Mummy, Mummy" like that, darling.'

  But Blanche did not stop screaming. She merely transferred her renewed cries in the direction of her mother, who was now advancing rapidly towards the little group at the edge of the sea, and the body of Filly Lennox where the men had laid her. In contrast to the bathers, Christabel still looked inappropriately smart in her diaphanous leopard-skin printed robe. Her hair stood up from her head like a golden aureole.

  'Oh Mummy, Mummy, it's not you, it's not you. I thought it was you.' Blanche's voice rose hysterically and then she burst into tears just as Christabel reached them.

  The men who had carried Filly Lennox's body included Gregory Rowan as well as two of the actors. He stood slightly apart from the group round the body. It was to Gregory that Christabel turned, rather distractedly, as though she could not quite take in what had happened, did not quite believe it even now, thought it was all a delusion, a joke perhaps, in spite of the manifest presence of poor Filly's drowned body, lying there on the shore, with Victor Marcovich kneeling beside her, still rather hopelessly massaging her chest.

  'Darling, what's she doing in my costume?' she asked. 'And that's my funny magpie hat - I was looking for it. Why did she take it?' Christabel put her hand on Gregory's arm. 'Why is she dressed—'

  'Christabel, be quiet, the girl is dead.' It was Julian Cartwright who interrupted his wife as though determined to put an end to these frantic and embarrassing enquiries. He moved and put his arm protectively round her. For a moment Christabel stood thus between Julian and Gregory. Then Gregory moved away.

  Like Julian, he spoke heavily, almost wearily: 'She must have changed her mind and swum after me. I teased her about not daring to take a dip. But she wouldn't come. And so I left her. Oh my God, the poor, poor child.'

  'That was because she couldn't swim really, or at least not very well.' Tobs sounded pathetically eager as though an explanation of her behaviour might actually bring Filly back to life.

  'Yes, she told me this morning she definitely wasn't going to swim. We're sharing digs in Larminster. And then Filly washed her hair specially to look nice at the picnic, so I suppose she took the cap—' Emily Jones began to cry, but quietly, not like Blanche, leaning her head on Tobs's shoulder. 'She was so excited at meeting you,' Emily sobb
ed, nodding her head in the direction of Gregory. 'Properly. Not in the theatre.'

  'You see, darling, I fell asleep under the cliffs in my old nook.' Christabel was rattling on, although it was not quite clear whom she was addressing. 'I left my things under the trees in the old place where I always used to change, and then, it was so hot, and I felt so sleepy - all that claret I suppose - we should really serve white wine at picnics in future, darling—'

  'Christabel, stop,' said Julian Cartwright in an urgent voice. Jemima realized that Christabel was trembling so hard that her long gold necklaces with their pendent sea-shells shook together.

  'When I came back from my nap under the cliff,' she finished more calmly, 'the costume and hat were both gone. I was desperate to swim after my nap. I was livid. I lay down again under the cliff and tried to cool off’

  The arrival of Regina, leading Lancelot through the shallow splashing surf from the opposite direction of the eastern cliff, created a diversion. Still in her red costume, with her wet black hair hanging down her back, Regina looked slightly threatening as though she might carry away Filly's body on her horse's crupper like some modern Valkyrie. When told the news of Filly's death, she turned quite white, and stammered something which was probably a quotation from Webster since it sounded like 'She died young', before lapsing into silence.

  Even more bizarre was the appearance of Mr Blagge, rowing his boat towards the shore, up the channel of the river. If Regina had fleetingly resembled a Valkyrie, Mr Blagge had the uncomfortable air of a Charon come to row the dead girl away to some oceanic Hades.

  His words, when he heard the news, were spoken in a voice rough and cracked with emotion: 'This is at your door,' he cried turning in the direction of Christabel, adding after a pause with terrible polite incongruity: 'Madam. Our boy, this girl—' he continued wildly, looking round at Jemima and Spike Thompson, then at the still weeping Emily Jones, as though appealing for confirmation. He was wearing a khaki waterproof jacket and trousers which presumably concealed the neat suit in which he had served lunch: the outfit gave him a vaguely military air.