A Great Beauty

by A. O'Connor

  “Where was the gentlemen from?” enquired Clementine.

  “He was raised in Chicago, but I believe his family had emigrated from Ireland,” said Hazel.

  “Huh!” grunted Winston with disdain. “Well, that explains it all!”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” snapped Hazel, her jovial nature suddenly suspended.

  Winston looked across the table at Hazel’s husband Sir John and realised he had been indelicate. Not only did John hail from Ireland, hut it was a well-known fact that the Laverys, particularly Hazel, had espoused Irish Independence, a cause celébrè they had identified with. Everyone knew that Hazel, an Irish American, had almost completely rejected her American nationality in favour of her Irish heritage. In her pursuit and love of all things Irish, she had almost reinvented herself as a ‘simple Irish girl’, as she called herself, as opposed to what everyone knew her to be – the daughter of a well-known Chicago society family. The whole thing left Winston bemused, as he knew that the Martyns had emigrated from Galway to Chicago more than two centuries before. Still, he saw no harm in this idealised love affair Hazel had decided to have with Ireland. She was a romantic, he knew, and this love of Ireland was just a whimsical phase she was going through.

  “I apologise, John, I did not mean to offend,” he said.

  “Oh, none taken, Winston,” said the ever-congenial John, more concerned that his guest would be concerned than anything else.

  “But what did you mean, Winston?” pressed Hazel.

  “Nothing personal against anybody Irish, I assure you,” said Winston, his temper rising. “But this unfortunate young man you are discussing at that dance in Chicago demonstrates all the arrogance and pig-headedness the Irish continually show … which is why we are still bogged down in that bloody war in Ireland!”

  “Well, the solution is simple, my dear Winston,” said Hazel. “Just give us Irish our independence and the Anglo-Irish war will be over, simple as that.”

  Thelma Grey, a society wife who was a neighbour of the Laverys, was seated at the end of the table beside Clementine Churchill. She raised her eyes to heaven, leaned towards Clementine and whispered, “Oh dear, and here she goes! She won’t shut up about Irish politics for the rest of the night!”

  Clementine giggled and sat back to watch her husband do battle with Hazel.

  “You know it’s not as simple as that, Hazel!” snapped Winston.

  “What I know is that two sides in a war will never find peace if they continue to refuse to talk to one another!” said Hazel. “I am certain that if the Irish and British could just sit around the same table then a compromise could be reached. If people just talked to each other!”

  Winston became animated. “How can we talk to shadows? Men who hide in the shadows or behind women and children and then come out and ambush our troops and commit murder before disappearing back into the shadows just as fast? At least the Germans in the Great War came and fought us head on!”

  “Well, I am sure the Irish Republicans would come out of the shadows if they were confident your men wouldn’t shoot them or arrest them and fling them into gaol – without trial!” said Hazel.

  “It is they who are shooting us without trial, Hazel, without warning, without shame,” said Winston. “And all this is being organised with military precision by this monster Collins.”

  “Michael Collins is not a monster,” declared Hazel. “The press and the government have portrayed him as something he simply is not.”

  “And how would you know?” demanded Winston.

  “Because I have met him,” declared Hazel.

  There was silence around the table as everyone stared at Hazel in disbelief.

  “You … met Collins?” said Winston incredulously.

  “Indeed, I did. Quite a number of years ago, but I remember him well. I have a very good memory for interesting faces – it is the artist within me – and he had the most interesting of faces.”

  “But how could you possibly have met him?” pressed Winston.

  “It was before the Great War, when he lived in London. I can’t quite remember all the details – it was so long ago and so much has happened since. But I remember him well. He worked for the General Post office and he had been invited to the theatre by the Solicitor for the Post Office, Crompton Llewelyn Davies, and his wife Moya who is Irish – you know, her father was on the Supreme Council of the Irish Republican Brotherhood so, politically, she and Michael had much in common. He loved the theatre as we did and we were sometimes in his company. If my memory serves me right – and it usually does – he lived with his sister Hannie who worked in the Post Office as well.”

  “That is correct, Hazel, bless your memory,” confirmed Winston. “Indeed, Hannie Collins is still living here in London.”

  “And no doubt being watched carefully by British intelligence,” said Hazel knowingly.

  “What’s he like, Hazel?” demanded an excited female guest at the end of the table, anxious to bring the conversation back to Michael Collins and away from his sister.

  “Yes, do tell – is he as handsome as they say?” asked Thelma, who had been jolted out of her apathy on hearing Hazel had met the elusive revolutionary.

  “Michael was gentle –”

  “Gentle!” roared Winston. “How can you describe a cold-hearted assassin as gentle?”

  “But that’s how he came across to me, during the time I met him. Gentle and kind and quite charming.” She smiled at the memory.

  “You said he liked the theatre – then obviously he was also a very good actor!” said Clementine.

  “Perhaps.” Hazel shrugged her shoulders.

  “So, you would recognise him if you saw him again?” asked Winston.

  “I would,” said Hazel.

  “I ask because no one knows what he looks like. We don’t have one good photograph of him – that’s how he continually escapes our troops and walks around the streets of Dublin undetected while he plans the war against us.”

  “Perhaps Hazel could go to Dublin and help track him down,” suggested Thelma acidly.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly do that,” Hazel said.

  “Why ever not? You would be helping to put the most wanted man in Britain behind bars,” said Winston.

  “Oh, no, it just wouldn’t be the right – etiquette, you know!”

  “What?” Winston looked at her.

  “Well, he was an acquaintance – hardly a friend, but he was an acquaintance – and I couldn’t just shop him to the authorities any more than I could have pointed you out to the Germans, Winston, if we had lost the war!”

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the table.

  “Hazel!” admonished Clementine.

  Hazel looked around the table and shrugged. “Well, it’s true! What ails you all?”

  “Hazel!” snapped Thelma. “You simply cannot draw comparison between Winston and that – that – murderous thug!”

  “The one you were dying to know whether he was handsome or not?”

  She turned to Winston and saw his face was red with rage.

  “Madam!” growled Winston.

  “Yes, Winston?” she asked sweetly, her eyes wide with innocence.

  “I–I–” he stuttered.

  “Yes?” She smiled at him, making a small guilty pout.

  He drew a deep breath before saying, “I am glad that I can always rely on your loyalty – even if there had been the unlikely event of a German victory!”

  His cracked a wide smile and Hazel blew him a kiss as the rest of the table heaved a sigh of relief and began to laugh.

  They had left the dining room and were now having drinks in the sumptuous upstairs drawing room which was located at the front of the house.

  All the men at the party now had gravitated towards Hazel and literally surrounded her as she held court. Thelma studied Hazel and felt the familiar pang of jealousy she always inspired in her. She wasn’t sure if it was Hazel’s auburn ha
ir, her delicately refined features or her porcelain skin that unnerved her more. Or it could be the fact that all this was polished by Hazel’s glamour and style, and accompanied by a witty and sparkling personality. The fact was that Thelma was always left feeling inadequate after an evening in Hazel Lavery’s company.

  “I must say you are very brave or very patient – I’m not sure which is the right word to use,” said Thelma to Clementine Churchill as she watched Hazel and Winston laugh over some private joke across the parlour.

  “In what way?” asked Clementine.

  “Allowing the friendship between Hazel and Winston.”

  “But why ever should I mind?”

  “Well, you know what they say about her? That no man is safe from her?”

  “I should think Winston is quite safe – from any woman!” chuckled Clementine.

  “Well, if it were my husband I would most certainly be concerned!” said Thelma.

  “Well, if it were your husband you probably would have every right to be concerned!” said Clementine with a smirk.

  Clementine viewed Thelma’s pretty features, her wavy black hair and chic clothes and wondered how a woman as fetching as her could allow herself to be jealous of another. But she realised what an untamed monster envy could be once it got a person in its clutches. And it had certainly got Thelma in its clutches.

  Thelma became annoyed at Clementine’s nonchalance. “I’ll have you know some of the wives in Kensington are so concerned about the matter that they have formed a husband protection society!”

  “And I believe you are a founding member of that society, Thelma!”

  “I would not trust Hazel as far as I could throw her with any man, and I don’t mind who knows that!” said Thelma.

  “Hazel isn’t a threat to me or to any other woman … and those who feel threatened by her are just jealous of her in my opinion.”

  Thelma scoffed. “What is there to be jealous of? She parades around pretending to be from some noble Irish family, when we all know she’s just another American nouveau-riche social climber!”

  Clementine frowned. “You mustn’t speak so unkindly of Lady Lavery, Thelma.”

  “Well, it’s true. She has very cleverly used her husband’s talent as an artist to infiltrate the very top level of society. She even managed to wrangle him a knighthood and herself a title along with it through this infiltration … he paints the great and the good, and she sneaks in behind his easel and makes them her friends. She gives new meaning to the words social climbing!”

  “If she manages to become friends with the ‘great and the good’, as you put it, that is because they want to be her friends. And they want to be her friends because of her many wonderful qualities. I’ll never forget the great kindness Hazel showed Winston in the past.”

  “What kindness?” asked Thelma dismissively.

  Clementine’s large eyes became misty as she recalled that awful time in their lives.

  “It was during the war, after Winston’s disastrous military campaign at Gallipoli. When he had to resign from the Admiralty and we had to leave Admiralty House, we came to live here on Cromwell Place with Winston’s brother. We were political and social pariahs at the time. Winston was in such a dark depression. We rented a small country house, Hoe Farm, to spend time there at the weekends. To try and distract him from his troubles, Winston began painting. One day he ran out of some oils and was wondering what he could use as a substitute. Then I remembered that John Lavery lived on the same road as us here in Kensington. So, I telephoned looking for advice but the Laverys were out. Two hours later Hazel Lavery arrived at our front door at Hoe Farm.” Clementine smiled at the memory. “On hearing about our query from her butler, she had got into her automobile and driven herself down to Hoe Farm with the missing oils that Winston needed.”

  “How energetic of her.” Even Thelma was impressed.

  “Not only that, but she then proceeded to spend the rest of the day tutoring Winston on his painting. I can see her still out in the garden at Hoe Farm ordering him not to be afraid of the canvas and to be dynamic and dramatic with his colours. I think painting saved Winston’s life at the time, and the Laverys were a big part of that. Why, Winston practically lived in John’s studio here, being encouraged with his art.”

  As Thelma watched Hazel float and flit around the room, she wondered what benefit it would have been to a social climber like Hazel to befriend the socially expelled Churchills at the time. She decided that Hazel was such a shrewd operator she probably knew the Churchills would come back into fashion one day and wanted to be their best friend when they did.

  CHAPTER 2

  Hazel was at her writing desk in her sitting room as she finished penning a letter. The comfortable room was on the first floor, at the front of the house, overlooking Cromwell Place. When at home she preferred to spend her days there as opposed to the main drawing room downstairs. For a start, the window overlooked the busy street so she could keep an eye on the comings and goings of her illustrious neighbours. Secondly, as this was her own private room, she could be sure of every item always being where she had left it and not being misplaced.

  She reread aloud the last paragraph of the letter she had just written to a Member of Parliament.

  “‘And that is why I beg you as matter of urgency to change your opinion and to stop supporting this vicious and fruitless war the British are conducting in Ireland. The Irish have already established a parliament (the Dáil), government departments and a court system and the British presence in Ireland, and the terrible acts of violence being committed by the new constabulary forces there, are looking more like an illegal occupation as each day goes by. I would be more than happy to meet you in person to discuss this matter further and I offer you an open invitation to high tea at my home in Kensington at a time and date suitable to you. I look forward to meeting with you.’”

  Hazel nodded in approval and finished it off by signing Lady Lavery with a flourish at the bottom of the page.

  There was a knock on the door and Gordon the butler entered.

  “Sir Shane Leslie is here to see you, Your Ladyship,” said Gordon.

  “Ah excellent! Show him in,” said Hazel, rising from her desk.

  A dapper man in his mid-thirties, with a large frame and slicked-back hair atop a long oval face, came bounding into the room past the butler with his arms outstretched. Shane was Winston Churchill’s cousin and, unusually for an Anglo-Irish aristocrat, a believer in Irish independence. He was a firm friend of Hazel’s and made no secret of the fact he was besotted with her.

  “Hazel!” he declared, coming around to her behind the desk and embracing her tightly.

  “Shane, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

  “Well, I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d drop by.”

  “Tea, my lady?” asked Gordon, disapproval evident in his voice.

  “Yes, please, Gordon,” said Hazel and the butler retreated as Shane continued to hold her.

  Hazel tried to wriggle away from Shane’s ever-tightening embrace. “Shane! Your cologne is quite overpowering me!”

  “But I put it on especially for you!”

  “Perhaps use a little less next time then, my dear?” she said, pushing him away, forcing him to release her.

  He glanced down at the letter on the desk and picked it up, his eyes scanning it.

  “What are you writing to him for? He’s a lost cause – you’ll never convert that fellow to the notion of Irish independence.” He then burst out laughing as he read the ending of the letter. “And you’ve invited him to high tea! What are you expecting to do – convert him by crumpet with cream and strawberry jam?”

  “I’ve often found a little tenderness and hospitality can change the way a man views the world. And I’d try anything, Shane, to try and stop this dreadful war in Ireland. If I could meet this MP in an informal setting and express to him what the situation on the ground in Ireland is, then perhaps he could be con
verted.”

  “Hmmm – you mean flutter your eyelids and widen your big hazel eyes and he will do your bidding as the rest of us do?” Shane smirked at her. “Well, I think even your charms will fail with this fellow – the man is an imperialistic warmonger who will never believe in Irish Independence … Empire before all else!”

  “Well, we can but try … And did your mother never tell you it was rude to read other people’s letters?” She took the letter from Shane and, folding it over, placed it in a drawer of her chesterfield desk.

  She then drew him away from the desk to the centre of the room.

  “Where’s John?” asked Shane.

  “He’s out on a commission – he’s painting an exiled Russian count.” She clasped her hands in glee. “I can’t wait to hear later how the man escaped the Bolsheviks!”

  “Well, as long as the chap escaped the Bolsheviks with enough money to pay John his commission!”

  “My heart goes out to the Russian nobility – they have been treated in such a beastly fashion by everyone,” said Hazel.

  Shane’s voice was full of mockery. “Do not tell me that your next cause is going to be the Russian nobility and their plight in exile! Are you about to abandon the Irish peasants and start campaigning for Russian aristocrats ousted by their own peasants?”

  “No – I am not!” She feigned anger at his mockery. “I am just curious to hear what the Russian has to say about his escape, that is all! Do not mock my involvement in Irish affairs, Shane. It is the issue most dear to my heart and I am determined to do my best to resolve the situation.”

  “Oh, I know, Hazel dear! We all know how you cut short your stay at your villa in Tangier to come back and try to use your influence to end the Irish war. Not that it was any great sacrifice on your part – the fact that you never particularly liked Tangier whenever John forced you to stay there is entirely beside the point, is it not?”

  “If you are going to continually mock me then I suggest you just leave!” she said, now genuinely annoyed.