The Wardrobe Mistress

by Natalie Meg Evans

  As he passed, he said, ‘I’ve managed to get a few gallons of petrol. We’ll go tomorrow, after lunch.’ Not waiting to discover if that suited, he went to speak with a group of cast-members, The Book under his arm.

  It took them just under two hours to reach Brookwood, slower than it should have been because they took a diversion past St George’s hospital in Tooting, where Vanessa bought a bunch of past-their-best flowers from the seller at the gate. As they reached the cemetery, the sun was low in the sky.

  Alistair took her arm and they set off to find the Nonconformists’ ground, where the Catholics’ graveyard was located. He wasn’t certain of remembering the way and in the end, their route was so circuitous, Vanessa feared they’d lose the light.

  ‘We need to stop walking every path twice. Concentrate, Alistair, please.’

  ‘Fine.’ Five minutes later, he found the path and soon located the tablet of grey granite that marked Eva’s last resting place. Releasing Vanessa’s arm, he said, ‘I’ll be a few yards away. Call when you need me.’ When, not if.

  She tightened her belt for courage. Here, both her parents were buried, though far apart. As in life, in death. A nerve jumped below her eye, out of time with the beat of her heart.

  She crouched before the stone.

  Sacred to the memory of Eva Elizabeth St Clair, born 1st March 1888, died 31st August 1946, aged 58 years. ‘Then shall I know as I am known’.

  ‘As you are known, to me, at last.’ Vanessa put down her flowers. There was no vase. ‘What would I have called you? Mum or Mother?’ Or some other name? Fern had called her mother Marge. Wiping tears away, Vanessa saw that Alistair had come a little closer, an upright, angular shape in his dark blue coat. He called to her, ‘Ready to go?’

  No, not quite. Vanessa’s attention turned to the stone to the right of Eva’s. This one was no bigger than the back of a child’s chair, green with moss. As she bent to read it, Alistair came up at a robust pace, whisking her around so her feet combed the top of the grass. He carried her some distance before putting her down and saying, ‘We need to go.’

  She fought off his grip. He was ashen, and it had to be something to do with the little grave. She tore away, falling to her knees in front of it. A moment later, a garbled noise ripped from her throat. Alistair was beside her again. She wailed, ‘This can’t be true. Read it. It can’t be.’

  He did as she bid. ‘In loving memory of Vanessa Elizabeth, daughter of Eva St Clair. Born 29th May 1920. Taken to God 12th July 1920.’

  ‘It’s me. My name, my birth date.’

  ‘I know. I saw it the day Eva was buried.’

  ‘I was born May 29th, 1920. It’s me. Alistair, this is my grave.’

  ‘This is what I wanted to stop you seeing.’ He helped her to her feet and took her back to the car. Long shadows doubled the reach of trees, obscuring the path. It felt inevitable that they should get lost, finally reaching the car in darkness.

  As they drove off, she said to Alistair, ‘You will help me understand, before I go insane?’

  From Brookwood, Alistair drove them to the outskirts of Guildford, some fifteen miles, to the hospice where Eva had lived out her last years and where the staff added some flesh to her history. Though having known her only in the aftermath of her injury, she would always be an enigma to them.

  Eva’s family had come originally from Waterford in Ireland, the matron told them. That was in the last decade of the nineteenth century. In London, Eva had trained as a seamstress, and had joined The Farren as a wardrobe assistant, aged fourteen. ‘Where she met her husband.’

  ‘She wasn’t married, sister.’

  ‘To us, she was married.’ That informed Vanessa that in this sanctuary run by Catholic nuns, Eva’s irregular life was neither acknowledged nor referred to. Nor was the fact that she’d given birth out of wedlock.

  ‘The child buried next to Eva . . . that was her daughter?’

  The matron nodded. Indeed.

  ‘Sister, did Eva have other children?’

  ‘No. None. We made enquiries after her death. Her one living relative is her brother, William. Billy, as he’s known.’ The matron found his address for them. Wild Street, Covent Garden.

  Vanessa asked, ‘Did she leave anything here? Anything I might have as a keepsake?’ But the matron informed her that all Eva’s belongings had been sent on to Billy.

  As they drove away, Alistair said, ‘Billy probably lives in the Peabody Trust buildings. They take up most of Wild Street.’

  Parking the Alfa outside The Farren, they walked to Wild Street which lay parallel with Drury Lane. The night was moonless, and Alistair’s torch saved them from stepping into craters and fissures in the pavement. The Peabody estate was a residential fortress formed of several blocks. They followed signs into a middle court where heaps of blackened brick described a direct hit during the Blitz, or perhaps from a V2 rocket strike at the end of the war. Billy Chalker lived on the third level of block D. There was no answer to their knock, and a prim-looking female neighbour told them that Billy was away on tour, up north.

  ‘He went a month ago.’ She added a quirk of disapproval. ‘Four trunks with him, for all his dresses, I suppose. When will he be back? Soon. The milkman’s had notice to start delivering again.’

  On their way back down to ground-level, Alistair explained that Billy Chalker was a professional Dame, though he took straight roles too. ‘You saw him, come to think of it. He was Nurse Witless in Sleeping Beauty.’

  ‘Stripy stockings and red-spotted drawers. His boyfriend always sat mid-row of the stalls, you said.’

  ‘Reputedly. Though you’ll have gathered by now, theatre gossip is like an extra member of cast, whose full-time role is to spin yarns.’ Without breaking stride, Alistair put his arm around her.

  She said, ‘Officially, I’m dead. It’s a horrible feeling.’

  ‘I have coffee in my office. I’ll drop a shot of brandy in it.’

  They collected Macduff from Doyle, who was waiting for Mr Kidd to come on duty. Alistair passed his torch to Vanessa and as they walked through the auditorium, she pointed the beam upward, challenging the void. There was something brooding about The Farren in its late night state. Macduff began to bark and growl. Playing the beam along the dress circle rail, she illuminated the torso of a woman in black, looking down. She pulled in a gasp.

  The shadow-figure dissolved.

  Alistair grunted. ‘Doyle didn’t mention she was in tonight.’

  Vanessa shuddered. ‘She had no face.’

  Alistair affected a stiff-lipped drawl. ‘You are unobservant, my dear Watson. That was no spectre, it was our own Miss Bovary. Haven’t you noticed Barbara coming into work wearing a hat with a veil obscuring her face? She invariably wears unrelieved black . . . Her appearance has given many a theatre employee the fright of their lives.’

  He was teasing, and it helped dispel Vanessa’s sense that death was edging close to her. ‘All right, Sherlock. Who was Back Row Flo?’

  ‘Florence Nettles, a Victorian barmaid who loved a leading actor. A misguided fool, in other words.’

  Still teasing. Or was ‘mocking’ nearer the mark?

  Alistair opened the swing door to the foyer, which was in darkness. Letting Macduff off the lead, he held the door for Vanessa. Macduff went off to sniff a trail along the floor, perhaps left by the tomcat Doyle had recently acquired to deal with the theatre mice. Vanessa turned off the torch. Such dark descended, they might have been blindfolded. ‘Tell me more about Flo.’

  ‘Miss Nettles fell pregnant by the rotter. Actor, sorry. Only to be jilted. In despair, she threw herself to her death from the upper circle balcony.’

  ‘A myth, surely.’

  ‘No myth. Bo had the original newspaper cutting reporting the tragedy. Ever since, Florence has haunted The Farren, placing it among that elite band of West End theatres with predictive phantoms. If she appears during rehearsals, we expect bad reviews and a play’s early cl
osure. If she appears on opening night, buy the champagne.’

  ‘Cottrill’s been seeing her since day one.’

  He laughed. ‘Cottrill stays awake all night, writing his play, and suffers sleep-deprived neurosis. If Florence really comes, we’ll know. Now let’s talk of something else. Death does not become you, Mrs Kingcourt.’ Alistair’s arms came around her. Vanessa dropped the torch, but held herself stiff. Her head was too full even for desire.

  ‘How can Eva have had one child, and that child be dead, yet here I am with the same name, and the birth certificate to prove it?’

  ‘A certificate proves nothing.’ Alistair said. ‘I have a dog license. It doesn’t prove my name is Macduff.’

  ‘You’re saying – ’

  ‘I’m not saying any more. I have no special knowledge. I just know that right now I want to take you to bed.’

  She melted. She dipped her head, so that it rested against his chest. She wasn’t ready to be kissed, not at least until he’d answered one, desperate question. ‘Who did you go away with last weekend? You came back with an auburn hair on your jacket. If it was Fern, don’t tell me.’

  ‘I’m not ready to tell you,’ he said, his lips against her curls.

  ‘Then it was Fern.’ She tried to pull away but he stopped her.

  ‘I’m not telling you here. Walls have ears.’ Putting his fingers beneath her chin, he tipped her lips up towards his. For a blissful five seconds, their mouths met. Then the foyer lights went on and strident voice blasted down.

  ‘Commander, is that you standing about with the lights off? Answer or I will go straight to my office and telephone the police.’

  ‘That’s murdered the moment.’ For Vanessa alone, Alistair whispered, ‘We never got our coffee and brandy.’

  ‘I can offer you instant Nescafé or Bovril.’

  ‘At yours? Beware, I may not want to leave afterwards.’

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. As she prepared her expression for Miss Bovary, who was switching off lights as she came downstairs, she murmured, ‘There won’t have been any heating on since eight p.m., so you won’t be seduced by the warmth of the welcome. What will we do with Macduff?’

  ‘Leave him with Mr Kidd for the night. Three’s a crowd, even if one of them’s a dog.’

  Chapter 25

  Taking a chair at the kitchen table, Alistair watched Vanessa set the kettle to boil. He’d chosen coffee, knowing its reputation for disturbing sleep. He didn’t want to sleep. He watched her check the ice-box, heard her murmur, ‘Damn.’

  ‘No milk?’

  ‘Do you mind black?’

  ‘I prefer it.’ He stretched out his legs, which made the room seem absurdly small. Vanessa had plugged in the electric fire, aiming the glow at the table. Even with that and the gas ring going, he decided to keep his coat on a bit longer. She hadn’t removed hers either.

  ‘I very often drink a last cup of tea or Bovril wearing my gloves, before crawling into bed with a hot water bottle.’ She abruptly fell silent, and he saw shell pink creep into her cheeks. Desire spiralled through him, rising from his groin. That tightening ache that shortened the breath and brought a sensation like feathers falling on the back of the shoulders . . . a long, long time since he’d followed this craving to its natural finish. Was that how the night was going to end? She’d used the word ‘seduce’ but he wondered if Vanessa had ever seduced a man. Nothing in the way she fastened her hands around her cup to draw in its heat as she sat opposite him, indicated bedroom virtuosity. Vanessa’s mystique lay in the total absence of feminine wiles. It was what had caught him from the first. Now she was staring at his hands. Putting down his cup, he extended his fingers. ‘What are you trying to see?’

  She stroked the base of his ring finger, where lighter skin made a stubborn reminder of a wedding ring. ‘Is it really, truly, over with Fern?’

  ‘I’ve not seen her since you stayed that night at Ledbury Terrace and in that time, I’ve no reason to suppose she’s lived alone. I spent last weekend in Brighton with a Mrs Duckworth.’

  Catching a flash of jealousy, he decided a dose of mild teasing might be good for both of them. ‘Primrose by name, though by nature, she was no shy flower. A natural redhead and her perfume was Evening in Paris. We slept together in room fourteen of the Sea View Hotel, on a grainy mattress that smelled of boot polish. I assume some of the guests sleep with their shoes on. It was that kind of place. What have I said to offend you?’

  Vanessa had scraped her chair back and was at the sink, refilling the kettle, though neither of them had finished their drinks. Water jetted off the top, splashing as far as his feet.

  ‘Aren’t you curious to know why I went away with Mrs Duckworth?’

  ‘I know why men go to hotels with women.’ Her voice was hard as a nib. Slamming the kettle on the burner, she faced him. ‘I only invited you back here because of what I went through today. I’m feeling disconnected. I could really do with Hugo right now.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t. He’d make off-colour remarks about illegitimacy.’

  ‘Patrick, then.’

  ‘Even worse. He’d say trite things while ensuring none of your emotion spilled on to his jacket.’

  ‘Patrick says my eyes are like my mother’s.’

  ‘Really?’ He stood and reached for her, drawing her closer. ‘Let’s not fall into argument. Primrose Duckworth is a professional co-respondent. She hires herself out to men in my position.’

  ‘A prostitute?’ Vanessa hit him. A swipe of frustration.

  ‘Far from. Well, perhaps not that far from, but far enough. I’m allowing Fern to divorce me on the grounds of my adultery, and to make that work, I had to be seen to commit some. Hove is the adulterer’s first choice, two hours from London with sea air thrown in. “The respondent was witnessed in a hotel bed, m’Lud, during the weekend of the 9th and 10th of November alongside a woman who was not his wife.” I paid Primrose.’

  ‘To sleep with you?’

  ‘To pretend to. We got up to nothing whatsoever. We chatted about the weather, and her son who was in the Home Guard and is now a milkman. The key is that the chambermaid saw us. It’s how it’s done, as Fern was good enough to remind me. When it comes to court, Redenhall versus Redenhall, the chambermaid will swear to what she saw.’

  Had he expected Vanessa to fling her arms around him? To sob her admiration and gratitude? Yes . . . a soft tear or two would be a start. But she was stony.

  ‘What about the impossibility of divorce for you, which, apparently, I wasn’t clever enough to understand?’

  He regarded her in climbing exasperation. They’d been within a hair’s breadth of falling into bed, and now she was pumping cold water over them both. But she’d had a terrible day. She was lashing out. ‘Have you forgotten Fern’s photographs? I’ve yielded to her demands on the condition she hands the negatives over. I did it to protect you.’

  ‘But she’d already done her worst, showing the pictures to Ruth. What more could she do? Pin them to lamp posts on Shaftsbury Avenue?’

  ‘Possibly.’ He rubbed an eye, aware of tiredness creeping into his body. Shrewish argument had that effect. ‘You’re disappointed that I’ve compromised?’

  Her lip trembled. In the severe light of the kitchen, the split given her by a policeman’s elbow looked like a stroke of carnation-coloured ink. He waited for the tremble to deepen, for tears to come, but she bit them back stubbornly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve ripped up my lifelong, personal code to prevent your name appearing in a dirty divorce case.’

  ‘You didn’t need to.’

  ‘My God, Vanessa, I’m beginning to see what Lord Stanshurst was getting at. He said you were destructive.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When he was speaking of you and Leo, your separation.’

  ‘We didn’t separate! There wasn’t time.’

  ‘All right. When you kicked your husband out of your bed while he was in the middle of ac
tive duty. I knew something of it already, from Fern. Instead of being the loving new wife, you demanded a divorce. True?’

  ‘If Lord Stanshurst and Fern say so, it must be.’

  He got up, put his lips to her forehead. This was dangerous ground, studded with ‘keep out’ signs. ‘I’ve a heavy, burning itch to my eyelids. We need our sleep, both of us. I’ll let myself out.’

  She trapped him in her arms. ‘Don’t go. I want you. I’ll shut up and apologise in kind.’

  He considered her offer with his entire body and buried a long breath in her hair. Deep intuition told him that if he followed her to her bed, it would end badly. He put her aside firmly. ‘I don’t want to.’

  For a full minute after the door closed behind him, Vanessa stared at the space Alistair had occupied. She tried, from the bumps and sighs of the cold building, to conjure evidence of him returning. He did not come back and she slumped with her head on the table, sobbing until dry gulps warned her she’d hit empty. Then, from the table drawer, she took lined paper and a pen and wrote him a letter.

  This is the truth of what happened between me and Leo. It was 1940, this time of year. The weather over Kent was atrocious but German bombers kept coming with their fighter escorts. All of us were exhausted . . .

  She filled a page, then signed her initials at the bottom. The following morning, she got to work while Mr Kidd was still on the premises, sliding a sealed envelope under the door of Alistair’s office.

  Chapter 26

  Alistair read the letter, ignoring a shrilling telephone. Vanessa’s jagged handwriting suggested she’d allowed no time for caution to set in. She’d written:

  Leo and his section were flying formation over the Dover strait. Visibility twenty yards, they didn’t see the ME 109’s coming in over the top of them. A mass dogfight occurred . . . Leo got separated tailing one particular ME 109. He hit it astern and reported black smoke coming from it. How elated he sounded, getting a kill! He came through to me on his wireless, talking, as if nothing bad had happened between us. Nor was he anxious at being way out over the water, on his own. I got his co-ordinates and gave him a weather report. Fog getting thicker, rain squalls coming. I could already hear some of his section coming in to land. He said, ‘Message understood, Mrs K.’ He was turning back when there was a rattling rush, the sounds of gunfire. He shouted, ‘Got me!’ I knew he’d been hit from the way his voice swerved upwards. A moment later, he screamed he was burning. The fuel tank is at the front in a Spitfire; they rupture and within seconds, the cockpit’s a ball of fire.