by Beth Corby
‘She was Donald’s pimp,’ I prompt.
‘And Donald was her . . . what? Merchandise?’ Alec asks incredulously.
I nod, but I still think he’s waiting for the punchline.
‘He was sort of forced into it by Mrs Jennings threatening someone he cared about.’
‘Bloody hell!’ He pushes his hands through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles. ‘But I guess that would make him do it. He’s always been fiercely loyal,’ says Alec, frowning as he tries to make sense of it. ‘And if there was no other option . . .’
‘There wasn’t,’ I assure him.
Alec rubs the back of his neck distractedly. ‘So the secrets she mentioned are to do with that?’
I nod. ‘Through him she gained power over a lot of influential women in London.’
‘Sounds like she had quite the racket going. But why is she so against him? What did Donald do to upset her?’
‘I don’t know, but I think he managed to leave her somehow, and from what Mrs Jennings said about blackmail, I’m guessing he discovered something that stopped her in her tracks, but I don’t know what and nor does Jane.’
‘And Jane’s involved somehow?’
I nod, feeling terrible that I’m now breaking Jane’s confidence, too.
‘And she’ll be affected if Mrs Jennings carries out her threats?’
I nod again.
‘So, we need to find out what Donald discovered,’ concludes Alec. ‘And our best hope for that is Donald’s letters.’
‘Exactly,’ I agree, my eyes finally meeting his.
‘Did you complete the lunch task with Jane?’
‘Yes.’
Alec smiles. ‘Then keep your fingers crossed while I get the next letter.’
His hope is infectious, and as he bounds out of the room, I pray it’s that simple.
Alec comes back in and hands me the letter.
I tear it open and read.
My Dearest Hannah,
Toy boys are only that when they have younger, firmer flesh than the husbands they replace. After that, they make the inevitable transition to escort. However, the year I turned thirty, my life took a different turn, and as had so often been the case, Judith was the cause of it.
She returned to London in January 1974, quite beautifully pregnant with her third child, and asked to see me. Not in my usual capacity, she explained, but she had a favour to ask: she had a new friend who needed my services.
It transpired that there was a new wife on the circuit who was not adapting. Judith explained how the grief of separation from her family, and the impatience of her older and sexually frustrated husband had left her friend drowning, and the wives were repeatedly ducking her, much as they had Judith.
I could easily believe it, for though I liked them individually, these women found the sport of someone insecure too much to resist. Judith, remembering exactly how that felt, wanted me to step in, and as she explained the situation, I deduced that she meant for me to seduce the girl. I wasn’t sure to what ends, or whether it was a good idea, but I agreed to meet her socially, nothing more.
It was a strange meeting. The wives watched like hungry lions spying a gazelle in their clearing, and everyone seemed to know what was going on, except the person it was aimed at. The gazelle sat on a sofa, barely lifting her eyes from the carpet, and seemed so brittle she might break if she moved.
I sat next to her, and everyone held their breath. I glanced around the room, and one by one the wives returned to their conversations, and I was at last able to ask the poor woman how she liked London. I waited. Her eyes lifted to mine, showing she hated it, but more than that, the hopelessness of her situation was clear on her face and I could see what Judith said was true: she was drowning. If ever my heart went out to someone, it was then. Never had I seen someone so hurt. I wanted to help her, but I was being watched.
‘It only takes a little knowledge to make London fun,’ I assured her. ‘I could show you,’ I offered, my skin crawling at how the wives smiled at each other. ‘What do you have to lose?’ I asked, desperate to get her away from them and out in the open.
She looked into my eyes for a long moment as if searching for sincerity. I don’t know if she found it, but she answered me.
‘Nothing,’ she acknowledged sadly, with a tentative, but genuine smile.
I loved her from that smile, and I don’t mean lustfully. I loved her as a friend and from that moment, making her life as good as it could possibly be became the most important thing to me.
‘Then let me show you,’ I offered.
The wives exchanged looks, convinced of their own cleverness, and I’ve no doubt the scenario played out exactly as they’d hoped. Judith, too, was pleased, and I saw her as one of them for the first time, which changed everything. For I finally admitted to myself that, although I loved Judith passionately, I did not always like her. This young woman, on the other hand, I liked from beginning to end, and I wanted to protect her from them all.
So I took the young woman under my wing and taught her how to enjoy London, how to dance, cope with the wives, and most importantly, how to enjoy herself. I watched her blossom and grow in confidence, and I was pleased when my work was done, because she was happy and her husband came to value her. To this day, my work with her remains one of the things I am most proud of, and she will always be one of my closest friends.
For your next task you must read three Isadora Layton novels. You will find them in my study. Any three will do, though I recommend Milady’s Lover, The Greedy Governor and The Resident Gigolo.
Musingly yours,
Uncle Donald
I refold the letter carefully.
‘So?’ asks Alec.
I shake my head. ‘I already knew most of this. There’s nothing new.’ I bite my lip, noticing that Donald didn’t mention Jane by name anywhere in his letter. But even though Donald hasn’t written her name, given the promise I just made to Jane that this would all stay between us, I still don’t feel right handing the letter over to Alec without her express permission. Alec watches me slide it into its envelope and put it to one side, but he doesn’t look annoyed, merely resigned.
‘So there’s just two letters left that might tell us about Mrs Jennings,’ says Alec thoughtfully. ‘And I only have one of them.’
‘Where’s the other?’
‘Mr Sanderson held on to it.’
‘And we can’t open the letter we have?’
Alec frowns, biting his bottom lip as he contemplates my request, but then he shakes his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, not until you’ve completed the task. Donald was very insistent about that. What is the next task, by the way?’
‘To read three Isadora Layton novels.’
Despite our current situation, Alec surprises me with a laugh. ‘You’ll find a whole stack of them in the study. Go and have a look. Do you want help choosing?’
I hold up the letter. ‘Donald made recommendations. I must phone Jane back first, though. She’ll be wondering what happened. I was just hoping Donald’s letter might give me some good news to pass on.’
‘Maybe the next one,’ says Alec optimistically, and I go to phone Jane.
Jane is so understanding about my slip-up and about having to come at ten tomorrow that I feel even more terrible, but I haven’t got the time to wallow. After saying goodbye, I head straight for the study, and just as Alec said, there is a whole shelf of Isadora Layton books. I check Donald’s letter and pull out the three he recommended, pausing for a moment to examine their bawdy covers.
‘Why these?’ I ask, holding them up as I join Alec in the drawing room.
‘Just read them,’ he advises with a small smile. ‘All will become clear. How was Jane?’
‘Lovely, considering,’ I say guiltily. ‘She’s going to contact her friends in London to see if they’ve heard anything incriminating about Mrs Jennings, and said she’ll meet us here before ten tomorrow.’
Alec nods, and I slump
into a seat. I frown at the woman on the cover of Milady’s Lover, pouting as her lover cups her corseted breast. It feels odd curling up with a book, what with everything that’s going on right now, but I guess reading these is important. I try to shake off the air of impending doom, and turn to page one.
The story is about a girl who is unhappily married to a fat old aristocrat. The girl takes her husband’s valet as her lover and they fall in love. The husband, finding out, sets about separating them. He eventually succeeds, but only by threatening their lives. The writing isn’t particularly refined, but the plot is good, and I find myself enjoying it even though I have to speed-read my way through.
As I reach the end, Alec puts a sandwich, a plate of sliced fruit and a glass of wine next to me.
‘Mrs Crumpton went home early,’ he explains, and looking at the time, I see we’re late for dinner. I put the book aside and stretch.
‘What do you think?’ he asks, taking a seat and tucking into his sandwich.
‘It’s fun. I don’t normally read this kind of book, but it’s surprisingly . . .’
‘What?’ asks Alec.
‘Gripping?’ I suggest, and take a bite of the ham and salad sandwich.
Alec laughs. ‘Pure, indulgent, swashbuckling fun was how Donald put it.’
‘Yes, but I still don’t know why he wanted me to read them. Surely they must have some significance?’
‘You’ll figure it out,’ he says. ‘Give it time.’
‘The one thing we don’t have,’ I huff. ‘Couldn’t you just tell me?’
Alec shakes his head. ‘Not a chance.’
I pick up The Greedy Governor, frowning, and while Alec settles back to look through some paperwork, I start to read.
This one is about a man who forces women, besides his wife, to be his lovers. He has something over each woman, but they find out about each other and conspire to kill him. They succeed, but not before he kills one of the girls in a most horrifying manner. I can’t help sniffing as I feel their grief, and Alec kindly pops a box of tissues next to me before carrying on with his work. Finishing the last page, I let my head roll back against the seat, feeling emotionally exhausted.
‘You OK?’ Alec asks, and I nod numbly.
Wishing I could sleep, I rub my eyes, stretch and yawn. ‘I’m going to take this last one up to bed,’ I say, picking up the third book, and preparing myself to be put through the emotional wringer once more. Alec nods. I say goodnight and leave him to his paperwork.
Once in bed, I brace myself for the next book, but The Resident Gigolo proves to be a far more light-hearted account of a man trying to please the many women living in a stately home. He has to juggle his attentions, approaches and times, at which point something about the turn of phrase, and how Donald wrote about his time in London, clicks into place.
I almost drop the book. Donald is Isadora Layton. This is his life glamourised and exaggerated, pushed back in time and spilled onto the page. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I must have been blind! But dare I really think that Mrs Jennings is the inspiration for the Greedy Governor, and is Milady perhaps Jane? Smiling to myself, I finish the book and put it on my bedside table. I turn out the light and lie in the darkness, just hearing Alec play his guitar very quietly in his room.
As I listen, I think back, remembering Donald’s interest in my aspirations to become a writer and his choosing me starts to make a bit more sense. We had writing in common. Pleased by this thought, I turn over and listen to Alec play ‘Imagine’ and ‘Eleanor Rigby’, and during a particularly beautiful rendition of ‘Stand by Me’, I finally fall asleep.
Chapter 24
My dreams are a mishmash of scenes from Donald’s books, interspersed with leering images of Mrs Jennings, and I wake up very early and stare anxiously at the ceiling. I haven’t a clue what we’re going to do about her. There’s still Donald’s letter, of course, but unless it’s a dossier of recordings, photographs and microfilms proving that Mrs Jennings is an arch-criminal, I don’t see how it can help.
Wanting at least to find out, I tiptoe down the hall to see if Alec is up. I tap on his door just loudly enough for him to hear, if he’s awake, but there’s no answer. I return to my room, but am too anxious to go back to bed, so I pull on some clothes and head out for a walk.
I trudge down the gravel drive and along towards the church, stopping to look over the church wall at the graveyard. It’s beautifully tranquil with the early morning sun on it, and since the church gates are open, I wander in to visit Donald’s grave.
His brand new headstone is easy to find, as it’s rudely pristine amongst the sea of weathered stones. I stand back to read the inscription, and can’t help smiling:
Donald Makepiece
1944-2018
Dramatic in life,
Provocative in death,
I was magnificent.
Sorry you missed me!
I perch on a conveniently bench-height tomb, picking at the yellow lichen clogging up its letters, and mull over the possibilities of how to handle Mrs Jennings. Trouble is, what with her chauffeur waiting outside, our options are limited.
I close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face, and concentrate on being mindful instead. I sit very still, breathing in and out, trying to be calm . . . like the calm before the storm. I take a deep breath and empty my thoughts . . . the deep breath before the onslaught! No, relax. I pull back my shoulders . . . like the sea pulling back before the tsunami wave hits.
Wow, this really isn’t helping.
I jump down off the tomb, and give Donald’s grave one last look.
‘I really hope you’ve written something useful in this next letter,’ I tell him, and go for a brisk walk around the village before heading back to The Laurels.
Arriving back, I find Alec pacing about the front hall talking on his mobile.
‘Hannah,’ he says, sighing with relief. He hands me his phone, mouthing that it’s Jane, and I hurry to take it.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Alec thought you’d bolted,’ says Jane, giving an uneasy laugh.
‘No, I just went for a walk.’
‘Oh, well, I’ve contacted several people from my London days, but they haven’t uncovered anything useful. What about you? Any news from the task?’
‘I completed it last night, but I haven’t read the letter yet.’ I look pointedly at Alec, who dashes off. ‘I’ll phone you when I’ve read it, shall I?’
‘Yes, please,’ and with uncharacteristic curtness, Jane disconnects.
Infused with her sense of urgency, I meet Alec coming back from the study. He looks at me expectantly, holding back the envelope.
‘I read the books,’ I assure him.
‘And . . .?’ he asks.
‘Donald is Isadora Layton.’
‘Good,’ he says, finally handing me the letter. ‘You read that while I make us some coffee.’
I follow him into the kitchen and sit down at the table, really hoping that Donald’s going to give us the necessary weaponry, because anything less than a fully equipped, mission-ready tank just isn’t going to cut it.
My Dearest Hannah,
Though the wives instigated it, my arrangement with Jane had been a thorn in their sides, as perhaps unwisely, I hadn’t bothered to hide my preference for her. This annoyed Judith, of course, but seeing as she had chosen her husband over me, this didn’t concern me. Mrs Jennings, however, hated it, and though I didn’t realise it at the time, she held on to this grudge even after Jane had left London.
It was during the summer of 1976 that Mrs Jennings summoned the wives and me to afternoon tea to meet her niece, Theresa. Mrs Jennings explained to us that, to mark Theresa’s eighteenth birthday, she intended to launch her on society in a modern day ‘coming out’. She wanted it to be opulent and grand, and expected each of us to come up with ideas. Theresa, meanwhile, sat and listened with the smug confidence of a girl with a private education and obscenely rich rela
tions. I could tell immediately that people were pawns to her, and I loathed her on sight. I knew my place, however, so I was the consummate showman all afternoon, alternately scandalising and complimenting the wives in turn.
As everyone left, Mrs Jennings held me back to speak with me. It turned out that she wanted me to perform the same service for Theresa as I had for Jane. I had been expecting something of the sort, but I was surprised at how angry I felt to hear Jane and Theresa mentioned in the same breath. I was perhaps unwisely cold as I explained to Mrs Jennings that I would not do that for Theresa, and that Theresa was not a distraught wife, but an overconfident debutante (at least, I hope those were words I used) who did not need my help. Mrs Jennings was equally chilly as she told me I would do as I was told. I countered that we were not suited. She said it didn’t matter; I was merely a rite of passage. Our conversation went downhill from there, and she threatened Judith.
I think Mrs Jennings was surprised at how little effect her threat had on me. You see, I had been thinking for a while that Judith had too much control over my life, so I set my face and told Mrs Jennings to do her worst, pointing out that I could do her just as much damage in return. Mrs Jennings laughed at my temerity. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, and because Theresa chose that moment to sweep in, she sent me away.
I heard nothing for two days – no rumours, no threats – then Mrs Jennings sent for me again. I was late, just to annoy her, and I was shown in to find her scolding her cook. Mrs Jennings was dangerously angry and I remember her words even now:
‘I don’t care if your husband needs you. I pay you, which means I own you. You will cook for Theresa’s party, and you will do it to the very best of your ability or I will make sure your name and your food is poison to every household in London.’
Then Mrs Jennings turned to me. ‘As for you – you will also do as you’re told or Jane will suffer the consequences!’
I was totally unprepared for this low blow and shock rolled off me as if I had been shot. Poor Jane: manipulated into an affair, and having rebuilt her marriage and moved away was now to be used as a hostage in one of Mrs Jennings’ sordid power plays. Anger seared through me, hot and dangerous, cauterising all fear as I realised this was my future – to be whipped like a dog by my loyalties.
