by Maggie Ford
Perhaps she and Will would go out later, Helen left in the care of Jenny, their nanny. These days Jenny was merely part time, Helen at infant school.
Mary switched her glance to her daughter busy enjoying sandwiches, blancmange, jelly and cake with the rest. A surge of love filled her breast. Forever occupied with the restaurant, she saw so little of her. Soon Helen would be going on to junior school. Her daughter was fast growing away from her. Even so, life was sweet. She thoroughly enjoyed her work. There was money enough to have nice things. She didn’t do all the things she had once done, going abroad, going to mad parties, but she was content. Letts gave her a lot of pleasure and some excitement. She had Will who was a caring husband. And she had Henry. How nice it would be if they could be together more… but the waiting for that weekly occasion when they were was a kind of sweet agony that made their meeting all the sweeter. Had they been free to be together all the time, perhaps some of the sweetness would have gone out of it. She was content enough with her lot. If only…
Her eyes strayed again to Helen on that last unfinished thought. If only Helen could know who her real father was. Did it matter? It did, of course. One day she would know. Should anything ever to happen to her natural father, he’d see his daughter would want for nothing, but he’d do it cautiously so that the world would never know of Helen’s illegitimacy. If he left a legacy to her and Will, she would know it was really for Helen and pass it on to her. Then Helen would have to know – but life had a way of exposing the truth, sooner or later, in any case. How would Helen feel, the truth kept from her all these years? Would she understand? Would she hate her mother? Would she hate him, her true father? Would she be left to grow up and spend the rest of her life in bitterness, her father not there to explain or defend himself?
Mary shuddered, put these thoughts away from her and turned her mind to this happy occasion, the sun shining, the day beautiful, this sixth of May – not a day for dreary thoughts. She smiled automatically at a stiff-faced woman standing beside her and, their eyes meeting, was surprised to receive a smile in return.
Twelve
“I don’t know how he finds the money to gallivant around A the globe,” Mary said, she and Will and Henry having a quick supper break before returning to their various posts, Henry himself to wait upon the wishes of a party of very special guests occupying one of the restaurant’s private rooms.
“I think most of it’s his wife’s,” he said hastily.
“More fool her,” said William as he tucked into the pudding one of the waiters had brought them.
“Well, if she’s willing,” said Henry, giving the waiter a smile of thanks. “It’s her business what she does with her own money.”
“Granted,” said William.
It was the evening after the opening night of Ivor Novello’s immense success Careless Rapture at Drury Lane. That had been notable for, among a huge gathering of well-known faces, the attendance of the popular film star Marlene Dietrich, crowds going wild to catch a glimpse of her as she arrived. Tonight Novello had organised a select little supper party for six, she among his guests, in one of Letts’ private rooms. He’d asked for strict privacy, certain of getting it here rather than at one of the larger hotels where fans hoped to see famous faces sneaking in and out and would congregate to harass their heart-throbs with their excitable adoration.
Not that Letts wasn’t accustomed to entertaining the well known, but Dietrich was among one of its more exciting figures, and Henry had asked Will and Mary to have supper with him as an opportunity to discuss what measures they should take to keep the celebrities happily away from the limelight for a few hours.
Work matters settled, the conversation had turned lightly to other matters until, answering Will’s casual question as to when his brother would be showing his face here again, Henry had mentioned that he was at present still in Budapest, having spent the latter half of August and the first half of this month there.
“Went by the Orient Express, you know,” Henry had said, somewhat coldly, which had drawn the caustic remark from Mary as to how Geoffrey could find the money to travel the world. In early May he had gone on the maiden voyage of the huge Cunard liner, the Queen Mary, which must have cost him a fortune, and now only four months later he was enjoying himself in Budapest.
“Well, I think she must be crazy,” she added, to William’s “granted”. Amusement lit her face. “And a bit surprising that she spends her own money for her own holidays. Though I suppose she’d have to chip in with all the places they go off to. His resources aren’t exactly infinite, even if he thinks so.”
“Each to their own,” said Henry. It sounded a little sharp. “Some enjoy saving and going nowhere. Others enjoy spending and going places.”
Mary saw Will catch briefly at his lower lip. Perhaps he had taken the remark as a dig at himself. They seldom went out. He was always taken up with his work, and it lay to Henry to give her a break. Will had never been abroad. He saw no need. But sometimes she longed to see Paris again, and New York, and all those other places she could now only dream about. Although Will had savings enough these days to go anywhere modestly priced if he fancied, they didn’t even holiday in this country. Neither did Henry, for that matter, but she felt that had they both been free, he’d have taken her places, doing exactly the same as Geoffrey and his wife were doing, enjoying life.
This past eighteen months had been so dull, except when Henry took her out Friday evenings, and those occasions too had become commonplace - theatre, cinema, dinner, cocktails, the glittering surfaces rubbed pale by repetition. Being made love to was still exciting, but soon over. Even the bittersweet tension of counting the days until Friday had dulled. Oh, for one weekend together.
And so the months had slipped by. So far there had been very little of 1936 to rejoice about: in January the death of King George, the country in mourning, the face of the new king forlorn, as though kingship was the last thing Edward wanted. Mary could remember him last year hiring a small private room for dinner with a stunning young American woman with the unusual name of Wallis. He’d looked so happy then.
There had been a few good times, she and Henry still enjoying each other’s company if she overlooked the tedium of once-a-week meetings. But he had not lost that brooding silence. He took her to see the Charlie Chaplin film Modem Times which at last had made him laugh. But he often didn’t look well. Elsewhere there had been little to laugh about as Europe seemed to begin to seethe: the Nazis walking into the Rhineland, all news coming out of Germany not pleasant; Italy’s dictator Mussolini overrunning Abyssinia; in July civil war breaking out in Spain between the alarming fascists and the Spanish Republican government. It all seemed so threatening. Mary could feel it deep inside her, and had felt there was little to laugh about this year.
Only Geoffrey and Pam seemed still to find life pleasant. But where Geoffrey managed to find all that necessary money from was nothing short of amazing. It had to be Pam’s money, and it struck Mary as a little despicable that Geoffrey could take her money that way.
Will had fallen silent after Henry’s quip about people who spend nothing and go nowhere, and Mary felt compelled to prick conversation into life again.
“I mean, the days when a woman’s money belonged to her husband are gone long ago. The days when a man had sole charge over his wife’s money, giving her just a dress allowance—”
“Pam’s a natural spendthrift,” Henry cut in sharply. “And so’s he. It’s obvious they couldn’t live on his money alone, the way they live. Anyway, it’s their business.”
The meal over, Henry got up rather abruptly, not lingering for his after-supper cigar though he had smoked cigarettes between courses, even taking a puff while eating.
“I think I’ll have my coffee upstairs before going back on duty. Look in to see how Grace is. See you both later.”
Giving them a tight smile he left them still sitting at the table in the small side room next to the kitchen that he
kept for his own meals. They looked at each other in bewilderment.
“Did I upset him?” asked Will.
His narrow, good-looking face was a picture of bewilderment and Mary gave him a comforting smile. Odd to be so easily upset, so thin-skinned in private, while in public he always appeared at ease with himself. “He’s a bit on edge tonight,” she advised warmly. Will was such a good man. She felt at times that she didn’t deserve him. “Celebrities expecting to be kept out of the public’s way this evening, he needing to keep his reputation for prudence; it’s a lot of responsibility.”
It was the only excuse she could think of, but it was more than his merely being nervously on his toes. Henry didn’t seem the man he’d once been. He was growing quieter by the month, though he’d always been thoughtful, and this past year he’d been given to sombre brooding until she jogged him out of it, then breaking into a too vigorous smile with the excuse that he had been thinking about the restaurant. At work he was withdrawn – not with customers but with his staff, she included. Only with William did he ever converse with any ease.
There was at times a harassed look in his eyes. She would ask him when they were out together what was wrong, and he’d become sharp with her, asking why anything should be wrong. It seemed better to keep silent and let him get over it until he relaxed again. Even his love-making was different, restrained.
“You’re not tiring of me, are you?” she asked on one occasion. He had become angry and lost his temper, his voice raised.
“Why d’you need to ask that? Have I said I’m tired of you?”
“No,” she’d gasped, taken aback by his uncharacteristic attitude.
“Then why ask? What more d’you expect me to do than what I do?”
“It’s just that you don’t seem yourself any more,” she’d ventured. “When we’re together you’re not like you used to be.”
“If you want me behaving like a lovesick eighteen-year-old, I can’t. I’m getting a bit too mature to play silly fools. If I don’t suit any more, you can always—”
“Henry, don’t!” In fear she had thrown herself into his arms, feeling them circle around her body with desperate strength. His show of temper had dissolved, he had apologised and they had made love as in those early days of secret meetings in the darkened empty office.
From then on she had been careful never to refer to his moments of moodiness, though she was at a loss to think why they should be, and what could be worrying him for such a prolonged length of time. Was he in some ill health which he was keeping from everyone? She recalled the odd occasion when he’d pause in walking after spending time sitting down, go very quiet for a second or two, ignoring her concern whether he was all right, then straighten his shoulders to continue walking. At such times, she’d shudder from a vision of really ill health, of the start of some serious illness he wasn’t aware of, even of losing him. But she dare not ask lest he flare up.
* * *
It hurt Henry to speak to her as he did. He would catch himself too late and try to make up for it, but a word once said was not easily forgotten, and it must have lingered in Mary’s mind for all his passionate loving of her.
He wanted so much to say “Forgive me,” but it would have led to long explanations, and something he’d not intended to say being revealed.
Eighteen months and Pam was still a burden on his back, growing heavier every time she came into the restaurant. He’d hurry away from whatever he was doing, signalling to one of his waiters, or maybe William, to take over from him. He would hurriedly guide Pam away from curious eyes, but he was often certain that they followed him, William’s forehead puckering in a frown, Mary’s eyebrows raised. Neither asked questions. But one day they would. It would be hard to think up a plausible reason and he merely prayed that he might never have to.
She never came with Geoffrey when he condescended to show his face, always with beaming gratitude towards his brother, as if he had no idea why all these advances were being given so readily to sustain his ever-growing need of money. Finding it so easy to obtain, Geoffrey threw the money about, never bothering to see that he was draining the business dry. He’d wintered in the south of France in a chateau he’d bought – “Just a modest little place,” he’d remarked lightly when Henry had queried its cost – and this spring, of course, he and Pam had cruised to the Canary Islands. In August they’d attended the Olympic Games in Berlin despite Pam once remarking that the atmosphere in Germany after Hitler had come to power had bothered her.
It seemed to Henry that Geoffrey spent for the sake of spending, the money coming so easily. It made his flesh crawl to find himself hating his own brother. There seemed no end to it, but in time others would begin to raise their eyebrows, wonder why the place did not sparkle as it once had.
* * *
It did indeed become noticed.
“I tell you, Mary,” said Will one damp October Monday afternoon as he took off his wet raincoat and flapped it about in the hallway, hooked it on the coat rack there and came on into the kitchen, having come home earlier than usual, “there’s nothing doing. That place is going to rack and ruin.”
It wasn’t exactly going to rack and ruin, but to someone previously used to all the bustle of a thriving restaurant, the sense of hush that had descended over Letts these past months was all the more unnerving for being so unusual. Worse, no one really seemed to know why it should be like this.
“Henry’s cutting back on everything. The place needs smartening up, redecorating, but he ignores what anyone says. It’s utterly dead today.”
“Perhaps it’s the weather,” said Mary without conviction, busy putting away the last of the washed crockery from her lunch. Mrs Saunders, who cleaned the flat three times a week, had gone before lunch, leaving Mary to deal with the washing-up of her own lunch things. “Monday never was a busy day.”
“The food’s not half what it once was. Chef’s been grumbling his head off, given no free rein these days to do his own ordering as he sees fit. He says he feels he’s not being trusted any more to know what’s needed. After all, every restaurant’s reputation rests on its head chef. He says Henry is interfering all the time. He’s even threatening to leave. One of the best men we’ve ever had. He’d have no trouble finding another place. Good hotels and restaurants aren’t backward in poaching men of his calibre. Some even start restaurants of their own. He could go anywhere, name his own price, cock a bloody snook at Letts. Henry doesn’t know how lucky he is to have him. He needs to tread carefully. And he must know all this penny-pinching is putting customers off, especially our regulars.”
He watched Mary pour the soapy water away down the sink and wipe the stainless steel draining board dry until it shone. “I tell you, Mary, it’s not the big evening spenders so much as the regulars who matter, the lunchtime lot. Not finding the old variety of choice any more, they’re beginning to go elsewhere.”
He was right. Letts had always seen politicians flocking in at midday, taking the short taxi ride from Westminster. Journalists too, and publishers, medical men, lawyers, people from every walk of professional life in fact, lingering over after-lunch coffee, brandy, cigars, enjoying a brief light-hearted chat with the likeable Henry Lett, exchanging jokes with his even more amicable brother. But for not much longer if things went on the way they were going.
“Some are even giving a few sly digs, jokingly, but jokes meant as I see it, of going elsewhere if Letts isn’t careful. You don’t get things like that, even in fun, when they’re satisfied.”
Mary dried her hands on a sparkling white tea-towel and hung it over a rail beside the small enamel sink.
“I’ve noticed things too,” she admitted now, making her way down the hall to the living-room, he following close behind like a spaniel at its master’s heels. She sat down in one of the armchairs to stare beyond the art deco bookcase and the lace-curtained window at the drizzle-dull mews and sombre brick walls of the flats opposite while he selected a pipe from the ra
ck beside the tiled fireplace. The gas fire was on, had probably been on all day. The flat was, as usual, too warm, for it wasn’t really cold outside.
“Shall I turn this down?” he asked absently.
“No, leave it. I want it warm for when I get Helen from school.”
Helen no longer needed a nanny, though Jenny, who’d once had full charge of her, still came in the evening to be with her while Mary was at the restaurant and put her to bed, staying until Mary came home. Apart from first thing in the morning Mary saw very little of Helen and she seemed to relish a walk to the local junior school to pick her up and bring her home.
William let himself relax in the other armchair. He tamped his pipe from a tobacco pouch and lit it. Nice to be off duty, though it would have been more enjoyable were it not becoming a regular occurrence. Business was slow, and waiters, trying to appear occupied under the gaze of their station head waiters, saw dole queues still too long for comfort. Andre, Letts’ wine waiter, spent more time in his cellar checking his stock than serving it, and Henri, their practically irreplaceable head chef, fumed in his kitchen, berating his staff on the tiniest excuse and no doubt thinking seriously about his future here, maybe with offers already singing in his ears.
Even Mary wasn’t needed so much these days, telephone bookings having gone down. Friday and Saturday nights were still busy, but not as they’d once been. William’s own job was secure as long as the restaurant stayed open, he knew that, he and Henry Lett having seen a lot of water flow under the bridge together. They had more in common than most people knew about. But what if Letts itself failed?
He picked up the Daily Telegraph that lay on the coffee table. “I don’t know what’s got into Henry. It’s not like him, watching the place going down and not turning a hair. At least he doesn’t seem to be. He tells me nothing.”
