Sophia now considered herself entitled to assume the gratifying rôle of mourner in chief. She took a day off from the Post, instructed Rawlings to fill up the car with a month’s ration of petrol, and drove round to the Brompton Oratory. Here she spent an hour with a high dignitary of the Roman Church arranging for a Requiem Mass to be held at the Oratory. The dignitary was such a charmer, and Sophia was so conscious of looking extremely pretty in her new black hat, that she cast about for ways of prolonging the interview. Finally she handed over a large sum of money so that masses could be sung in perpetuity for the old gentleman’s soul; and when she remembered the eternal basting to which he had so recently condemned her, she considered that this was a high-minded and generous deed on her part. This transaction over, she made great efforts to edge the conversation round to her own soul, but the dignitary, unlike Florence, seemed completely uninterested in so personal a subject, and very soon, with tact and charm but great firmness, indicated to her that she might go. Sophia, as she drove away, reflected that whatever you might say about Popery it is, at least, a professional religion, and shows up to a great advantage when compared with such mushroom growths as the Boston Brotherhood.
On her way to Vocal Lodge she went to pick up Lady Beech who had consented to accompany her on her sad pilgrimage. She was to meet the solicitor there, see Sir Ivor’s servants and make various arrangements connected with her legacy. Lady Beech lived in Kensington Square. She was evidently determined to take the fullest advantage of Sophia’s petrol ration, for, when the car drew up at her front door, she was already standing on the steps beside an enormous object of no particular shape done up in sacking.
‘Very late,’ she said. ‘Most unlike you. I know, darling, that you won’t mind taking this little bed to Heal’s on our way.’
This rather delayed matters. It became evident, during the course of the drive, that Lady Beech very much wished that Vocal Lodge had been left to her instead of to Sophia.
‘Oh, darling, what a pity,’ said Sophia; ‘silly old gentleman not to think of it. Of course I’m going to give it to the Nation, don’t you think that’s right, really? To be kept exactly as it is, a Shrine of Song, and I am giving some of the money he left to keep it up. He left nearly a quarter of a million, you know, so I am going to build an Ivor King Home of Rest for aged singers, and an Ivor King Concert Hall as well. Don’t you think he’d be pleased?’
‘Very wonderful of you, my dear,’ said Lady Beech gloomily. ‘Tell me, now, had it occurred to you what a very much more interesting gift to the Nation Vocal Lodge would be if somebody lived in it – I mean somebody rather cultivated, with rather exquisite taste? She could preserve the spirit of the place, don’t you see? Like those châteaux on the Loire which have their original families living in them.’
Sophia said she had just the very person in mind, an old governess of her own, who was extremely cultivated and had perfectly exquisite taste. Lady Beech sighed deeply.
When they arrived at Vocal Lodge, Sophia was closeted for some time, first with the solicitor and then with Sir Ivor’s servants, whom she begged to stay on there for the rest of their lives if it suited them. Larch took her upstairs and showed her all Sir Ivor’s wigs laid out on his bed, rather as it might have been a pilgrimage to view the body. He was evidently, like Sophia, divided between genuine sorrow and a feeling of self-importance.
‘The Press, m’lady,’ he said with relish, ‘awful they’ve been. Nosing round everywhere and taking photos. And the lies they tell, I don’t know if you saw, m’lady, they said cook had been with Sir Ivor ten years. It’s not a day more than seven.’
‘I know,’ said Sophia. ‘I can’t go outside the house for them. Why, look at all the cars which have followed us down here.’ And indeed there had been a perfect fleet, greatly incommoded, Sophia was glad to think, by the roundabout and, to them, surely rather baffling journey via Heal’s.
Lady Beech meanwhile had not been idle. It was quite uncanny what a lot of Sir Ivor’s furniture, books, knick-knacks and even cooking utensils had been lent him by Lady Beech. The house was really nothing but a loan collection. She had, with great forethought, provided herself with two packets of labels, stick-on and tie-on, and by the time Sophia had finished her business, these appeared like a sort of snow-storm, scattered throughout all the rooms.
‘Darling, I have just labelled a few little things of my own which dear Ivor had borrowed from me from time to time,’ she said, putting a sticky one firmly on to the giant radiogram as she spoke.
‘Very sensible, darling.’ Sophia secured the jet tiara, an object which she had coveted from childhood. ‘Good-bye, then, Larch,’ she said. ‘Keep the wigs, won’t you, and we’ll send them to the Ivor King Home of Rest. The aged singers are sure to need them, and I feel it’s just what he would have liked.’ Larch evidently thought that this idea was full of good feeling, and held open the door of the car with an approving look.
They motored back to London in silence. Sophia loved Lady Beech and would have done almost anything for her, but she knew that it would be useless to present Vocal Lodge to the Nation if Lady Beech was always to be there, sighing at whatever visitors might venture in.
ST ANNE’S HOSPITAL FIRST AID POST
Darling Rudolph darling,
Well, the Memorial Service, I mean Requiem Mass. Did you see the photograph of Luke and me with the glamorous Mgr? I thought it was quite pretty. The object behind us in silver foxes was Florence in my ex-ones. You never saw anything like the crowds outside the Oratory, and inside there were people all over the statues. When we arrived at the front pew reserved for us, who do you think was in it dressed as what? Of course Olga as a Fr. widow. You should have just seen the looks darling Lady Beech gave her. She would keep singing just like one doesn’t in Papist churches, and Serge was crying out loud into a huge black-edged handkerchief, fancy at eleven in the morning, but I believe it’s really because of his Blossom they say he can’t stop.
As we all came down the aisle Olga threw back her veil, and, supported by Fred, gave plucky little smiles to right and left. I forgot to say poor Fred turned up late, looking too guilty and hoping nobody would recognize him, and of course Hamish insisted on bringing him all the way up to our pew where there wasn’t room, and after fearful whisperings Luke had to give up his place to the Minister. Then on the way out Olga felt faint so that she could cling to him as you will note if you see the Tatler.
The whole of the stage world was there, of course, as well as all of us. Just think how old Ivor would have enjoyed it. What waste we couldn’t have had it while he was alive, can’t you see him choosing which wig he would wear? But you know, funny as it was in many ways I couldn’t help feeling awfully sad, especially when we got outside again and saw those huge silent mournful crowds. There’s no doubt the dear old creature was a sort of figurehead, and I suppose there can hardly be a soul in England who hasn’t heard that – let’s face it – slightly cracking voice. I thought The Times put it very nicely when it said that the more that golden voice was tinged with silver, the more we loved it. I hope those fiends of parachutists killed him quickly before he knew anything about it – they think so at Scotland Yard because of no cry being heard and no sign of a struggle.
As soon as Fred had shaken off Olga she came floating up to us in her veil and began hinting that she knew more than she cared to reveal about Ivor’s death. I’m afraid I was rather rude to her but really I’m getting tired of Olga in the rôle of beautiful female spy – it’s becoming a bore. I’ve just sent her a telegram saying ‘Proceed John o’ Groats and await further instructions. F.69.’ Hope she proceeds, that’s all. Darling, what a heavenly idea that Floss might be a B.F.S. – so teasing for Olga if she were. Now get some leave soon and we’ll proceed to her bedroom and investigate.
Love my darling from your darling
Sophia.
PS. Did I tell
you Luke is proceeding to America on a very secret mission for the F.O.? Fancy choosing that old Fascist. I must get him some Horlick’s malted tablets for the 100 hours in an open boat which will almost certainly be his fate – I keep advising him to go rowing on the Serpentine to get his hand in. So here I shall be, left all alone with Florrie and her gang, isn’t it terrifying for me? Should you say Heatherley and Winthrop are ones too?
6
Sophia was now designated by the newspapers as ‘Wig Heiress’. The reporters pursued her from the pillars of her own front door to the Post, where Sister Wordsworth finally routed them with a hypodermic needle, in an effort to find out how she intended to dispose of her legacy. As she refused to make any statement, they invented every kind of thing. Ninety-eight Granby Gate was for sale, and Sir Luke and Lady Sophia Garfield would take up their residence at Vocal Lodge. They were only going to use it as a summer residence. They were going to pull it down and build a block of flats. (The Georgian Group, wrapped in dreams of Federal Union, stirred in its sleep on hearing this, and groaned.) They were shutting it up to avoid the rates. They were digging for victory among the Lesbian Irises. Only the truth was not told.
Luke, who really hated publicity, even when it took the form of a beautiful studio portrait of Sophia in Vogue, because, he said, it did him harm in the City, became very restive, and speeded up his arrangements for leaving England. Sophia spent a busy day shopping for him. Her heart smote her for not having been much nicer to him, as it did periodically, so she tried to atone in Harrods’ man’s shop, and he left England fully equipped as a U-boat victim. Florence saw him off at his front door and presented him with the balaclava helmet, but Sophia, who accompanied him to the station, threw it out of the taxi window explaining that there was a proper machine-made one in his valise. She kissed him good-bye on the platform to the accompaniment of magnesium flares which, rather to her disappointment (because although she always looked like an elderly negress in them, she liked to see photographs of herself in the papers), were prevented by the Ministry of Information from bearing any fruit. Luke’s mission was a very secret one. As a final parting present she gave him a pocket Shakespeare to read, she explained, on the desert island where his open boat would probably deposit him.
‘And if you hear a loud bang in the night,’ she added, as the train drew out of the station, ‘don’t turn over and go to sleep again.’
‘Luke hates jokes and hates the war,’ she said to Mary Pencill who was also on the platform, seeing off one of Trotsky’s lieutenants, ‘so isn’t he lucky to be going to America where they have neither?’
Mary carried Sophia off to her flat when the train had gone, and they had a long and amicable talk during which they managed to avoid the subject of politics. Sophia, who was considered absolutely red by those supporters of Munich, apologists for Mussolini and lovers of Franco, Fred and Ned, was apt to feel the truest of blue Tories when in the presence of Mary whose attitude of suspicion and obstruction always annoyed her.
‘Still writing on foreheads?’ Mary inquired when they were settled down in front of her gas stove.
‘It’s all very well for you to laugh, just wait until you’ve got a crushed tongue and slight oozing hæmorrhage like one of the patients we had in yesterday – you’ll be only too glad to have me writing on your forehead.’
‘How d’you mean, yesterday? Was there an air raid – I never noticed a thing.’
‘Darling, you are so dense. Practice of course. The telephone bell rings, and I answer it and it says “Southern Control speaking. Practice air raid warning Red, expect casualties.” Then, some time later, a lot of unhappy-looking people are brought in out of the street in return for threepence and a cup of tea. They are labelled with a description of their injuries, then we treat them, at least the nurses do, and I write on their foreheads and take them up to the canteen for their cup of tea.’
‘With their foreheads still written on?’
‘Well, they get threepence, don’t they? First of all, we used to practise on each other, but then Mr Stone very sensibly pointed out what a shambles it would be if there were a real raid and real casualties were brought in and found all the personnel tied up in Thomas’s splints, and so on. Think of it! So they work on this other scheme now; it seems much more professional too.’
‘Well, all I can say is, if there’s a raid I hope I shall be allowed to die quietly where I am.’
‘Don’t be defeatist, darling,’ said Sophia.
The next day Sophia, looking, she thought, really very pretty and wearing another new black hat, went off to the Horse Guards Parade where, in the presence of a large crowd, of the microphone and of cinematographers, she handed over to Fred, who accepted it on behalf of the Nation, a cardboard model of Vocal Lodge, the Shrine of Song.
Fred made a very moving speech. He spoke first, of course, about Sophia’s enormously generous action, until she hardly knew where to look. He went on to say that the Shrine of Song would be a fitting memorial to one whose loss was irreparable both to Britain and to the whole world of art; the loss of a beloved citizen and venerated artist.
‘And we must remember,’ he went on, warming to his work, ‘that Death never has the last word. When we think of the King of Song, when we pay our pious pilgrimage to Vocal Lodge, it is not of Death that we must think but of that wonderful old spirit which is still watching over us, merged with the eternal Spirit of Patriotism. The work he would have done, had he lived to do it, will now be left undone. But will it? Those who loved him – and they were not confined to this country, mind you, they mourn as we mourn in palaces and cottages the world over – those who loved him know that before he died he had intended literally to devote every breath in his body to an Ideal. He knew that if our cause is lost there will be no Song left in the world, no Music, no Art, no Joy. Lovers of music everywhere, yes and inside Germany too, will remember that the greatest singer of our time, had he not died so prematurely, was going to give his all in the struggle for Freedom. Many an Austrian, many a Czech, many a Pole, and even many a German will think of this as he plays over the well-loved gramophone records, fearful of the creeping feet behind his windows, yet determined once more to enjoy, come what may, that Golden Voice. The cause of such a man, they will think, as they listen to those immortal trills, to that historic bass, and of such an artist, must be indeed the Cause of Right. Who can tell but that the King of Song will not finally accomplish more in death than he, or any other mortal man, could ever accomplish in life.
‘Oh Death! Where is thy sting? Oh Grave! Where is thy victory?’
This speech, which was extremely well received, put Fred back on his feet again with everybody except that irascible fellow who indicates daily to Britain what she should Expect.
‘We learn,’ he wrote the following day, ‘that Vocal Lodge has been presented to the Nation to be kept as a Shrine of Song. How do we learn this news, of Empire-wide interest? Through the columns of a free Press? No! A Minister of the Crown withholds it from the public in order to announce it himself in a speech. Praise Lady Sophia Garfield, who gives. The clumsy mismanagement of the whole affair is not her fault. Examine the record of this Minister. It is far from good. We should like to see him offer his resignation forthwith and we should like to see his resignation accepted.’
However, all the other newspapers as well as Fred’s colleagues thought that it was first-class stuff and that he had more or less atoned for so carelessly mislaying the King. He was extremely grateful to Sophia who had given him the opportunity for turning Sir Ivor’s death to such good account. He and Ned took her out to dinner, fed her with oysters and pink champagne, and stayed up very late indeed.
Sophia, when at last she got home, was surprised and bored, as well as rather startled, to find Greta in her bedroom. She never allowed anybody to wait up for her. Greta seemed very much upset about something, her face was swollen with tears and it was several moments bef
ore she could speak.
‘Oh Frau Gräfin, don’t let them send me back to Germany – they will, I know it, and then in a camp they will put me and I shall die. Oh, protect me, Frau Gräfin.’
‘But Greta, don’t be so absurd. How can anybody send you back to Germany? We are at war with the Germans, so how could you get there? You might have to be interned here in England if you didn’t pass the tribunal, you know, but I will come with you and speak to the Magistrate and I’m sure it will be quite all right. Now go to bed and don’t worry any more.’
Greta seemed far from being reassured. She shivered like a nervous horse and went on moaning about the horrors of German concentration camps and how she would certainly be sent to one, unless an even worse fate was in store for her.
‘You’ve been reading the White Paper,’ said Sophia impatiently. ‘And it should make you realize how very, very lucky you are to be in England.’
‘Oh, please protect me,’ was all Greta replied to this felicitous piece of propaganda. ‘They are coming for me; it may be tonight. Oh please, Frau Gräfin, may I sleep in your bathroom tonight?’
‘Certainly not. Why, you have got Mrs Round in the very next room, and Rawlings next door to that. Much safer than being in my bathroom, and besides, I want to have a bath. Now, Greta, pull yourself together and go to bed. You have been upset by poor Sir Ivor’s death, and so have we all. We must just try to forget about it, you see. Good night, Greta.’
Greta clutched Sophia’s arm, and speaking very fast she said, ‘If I tell you something about Sir Ivor, may I sleep in your bathroom? He is –’ Her voice died away in a sort of moan, her eyes fixed upon the doorway. Sophia looked round and saw Florence standing there.
The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford Page 61
