Lettice & Victoria

by Susanna Johnston

  The car had to be wrenched around to enter a drive that passed a lodge half-hidden in drooping wisteria. The flowers were pearly white; drop earrings for a giant’s floozie. Victoria had never seen anything like it. Then the drive to the house – precipitous, downward sloping – rounded on a curve to the front of the villa leaving paths leading to the sea on the left. It was July and the bay was calm. Ilex and olive trees gave light to the entire space; acres of it. Silver glinted from leaves.

  Elena, the maid, was standing there beside a lemon tree planted in a terracotta tub and bowed with bitter fruit. Cascades of verbiage preceded them as they crossed the threshold. The padrone. He had, indeed, expected Signor Morton but had given them the impression that he was to be accompanied by a signorino. And here was a signorina. The signorina followed, face in a spasm, the reddish dot still showing on her right cheek. A teething baby. Fortunate she wasn’t dribbling. It was very hot, even for July.

  They were led up a wide stairway and she was in a state of wonder at the shady beauty of all around her.

  Then they were there, in Laurence Bland’s study. He held his hand high in greeting.

  ‘My dear James. You bring me help, I hear. I am most grateful. Where is he? I didn’t catch his name. Introduce me.’

  James approached and neared the chair of the misinformed host as Victoria hung back.

  ‘Laurence. The message was incorrectly conveyed. I have a young lady with me. Victoria. Victoria Pattern.’

  ‘I don’t think that will do at all. Dear me no. Not at all.’

  ‘Wait for a bit. She’s prepared to act as stopgap. Help you with letters and so forth – even if you don’t care to be read aloud to by a woman. I’m certain she can be of use.’

  Victoria stood by the door – face inflamed, under discussion.

  Egg mousse for luncheon on the terrace. Alfredo, the surly butler, attended with a smile of triumph on his lips. They were enjoying the joke – he and the cook. A young lady indeed!

  Victoria tried to talk, exclaiming on the beauty of the place, shyly and in agony. Lucky it was mousse and slipped down past the abscess.

  James talked Laurence into taking her on pro tem.

  After lunch she was shown to her bedroom. Her few possessions were with her and with the help of Elena she laid clothes and oddments on empty shelves. Elena, ecstatic to have female company other than the cook’s, attached herself with zeal.

  James Morton departed, wishing her luck with a pat on the back.

  That evening she ate alone with Laurence on the terrace. The ache in her face was harrowing. Elena had come up with some yellow pills and Victoria had swallowed a cluster as she hoped for the best. Dinner was as bad as could be. Alfredo, wearing white gloves, crept around the table and Laurence, willing the venture to flop, did nothing to encourage talk but picked at his omelette with a pearl-handled knife as a vast clay Buddha, not unlike himself, watched with blank eyes from above a tortoiseshell cabinet. She decided to make a determined effort the next day when definite duties might be laid out; letters and so on. How perfect it was in other ways. Landscape and architecture. She wanted to stay for a while – to live free in a beauty spot with time to take stock.

  As she went to her room she overheard Laurence shuffling towards his own. He gasped and muttered, ‘She won’t do at all. Hopeless. No idea. Absolutely no idea whatsoever.’

  Victoria dipped a flannel in cold water, pressed it to her cheek and lay down on the four-poster bed.

  Apart from the beauty and luxury of the place, the first few days, for Victoria, were ghastly. At least the toothache had subsided – perhaps assuaged by the yellow pills.

  Each morning, when she took up her duties in the near-shuttered room to wait for the morning post to be brought in on a pewter tray by Elena, Laurence did no more than groan as he sat blinking and as his mauve feet spilled over velvet slippers.

  Every weekday they awaited a crinkly airmail edition of the London Times, letters from Laurence’s younger relations and on Wednesdays a copy of Sir Stephen King Hall’s pacifist newsletter – with every syllable of which Laurence (who had been a conscientious objector during the war) agreed.

  One morning a letter came for Victoria – addressed in an unknown hand. It arrived with the pacifist pamphlet and she had to put it aside and get on with Laurence’s correspondence.

  Once in her own room, she opened it. It came from her new friend, James Morton, the one who had landed her in it.

  She read it absorbedly, again and again. ‘My dear Victoria. Since I got back to England I have been feeling very apprehensive about your possible plight. Believe me, I would more than fully understand if you had already left. Laurence can be prickly and negative – also extremely spoilt. If, however, you are sticking it out, I have decided to give you a few tips!

  ‘Laurence likes to talk of his wife. I imagine that you, with much justification, may have been fighting shy of the topic. She was a fiend and he worshipped her. It was, I imagine, a mariage blanc – Laurence having always preferred gentlemen to ladies and neither of them having been young when they married. She, Lady Sylvia (very important to remember the Lady bit), inherited a large fortune from her first husband. It’s thought that she roped Laurence in when Godfrey Slate – her second husband – could stand no more of her. I once heard of a scene in a church in Florence where a memorial service was being held. Halfway through it Lady Sylvia whimpered, “Godfrey. I’m going to faint.” Whereupon he shouted, “All right, Sylvia. Faint if that’s what you want.”

  ‘She and Laurence came to the bay just after the war – having spent much of it in Switzerland – to the newly built house where now, perhaps, you still are. It’s rumoured that Lady S. actually caused Laurence to lose his sight by insisting he read to her far into the night by the light of a pencil torch (anything brighter brought on one of her headaches).

  ‘One night, so it’s said, she was aggravated by the noise of a dog barking by the shore and sent Laurence out to have it shot. He, of course, pacifist and aesthete that he is, had no gun and had to rouse the gardener to do the job for him.

  ‘I tell you all this to amuse you and also to suggest that you ask him about Sylvia. It might work magic. Affectionately, James.’

  She took James’s advice that evening at supper. ‘Tell me, Laurence, did your wife like you to read to her?’

  He started, brightened and smiled. He took to her and she stayed on – almost the first woman, apart from domestic helpers, since the death of his hallowed wife, to penetrate the celibate sanctuary in years.

  His stepdaughter came occasionally for a night to make sure that everything went well on the estate – destined to belong to her. The visits used to frighten Laurence into long silences for she was a formidable creature with a gigantic brain, a gigantic nose and very expensive clothes. She, Primrose, had married an Italian count and lived way south in Tuscany. She treated Victoria graciously as she might have done an invaluable servant whose notice she wished to avert. She praised her for her inner resource and increased her pocket money.

  Occasionally the telephone rang. If the call was an English one, Victoria was summoned to deal with it. Laurence had long since given up the use of gadgets and was shaved each day by the male nurse. Sometimes calls were hard to deal with. Many pilgrims wanted to visit – Laurence having become an institution as a grand old man of letters living in a sensationally beautiful place – and calls were severely filtered.

  The voice of an elderly man on the line. ‘Can you tell Mr Bland that I am in the neighbourhood? Hobson. Arthur Hobson. Two of us. We’d like to pay our respects.’

  She ran and explained to Laurence that Mr Hobson waited for an answer.

  ‘Arthur Hobson. He’s a terrible bore. I like her. Caterina. She once gave me an alarm clock. Tell them to come to lunch – any day.’ Unusual for Laurence to prefer a wife to a husband.

  The day came and as they waited Laurence told Victoria, ‘Arthur is a very limited man but – Caterina. Yo
u will enjoy Caterina.’

  Disguised eggs – soufflé, mayonnaise and meringues, were prepared by the cook – Elena doing the donkey work.

  Victoria greeted the guests on the doorstep. This had become one of her duties, for Laurence liked things to be done stylishly. The visitors arrived on time at a quarter to one.

  Arthur Hobson, in his seventies, dapper in Sunday summer white, came forward. He wore a moustache.

  ‘May I introduce you to my companion. Miss Lewes.’

  Miss Lewes was American and many years younger than her protector. Not more than forty-five, Victoria guessed. Very dressy. It was lucky that Laurence would not be able to see her in her bright colours.

  The alarm clock given to him by Caterina was wound up and ticking. Elena had scuttled about in Laurence’s bedroom until she discovered its hiding place. She set it correctly, squinting through slits, and placed it beside the Elba wine and sugary cakes.

  Laurence threw up his hands.

  ‘My dears. I draw your attention to a priceless object. It is always here – at my side. As you know, I cannot see, so the pleasure of hearing your present tick is a heightened one. Come closer.’

  Victoria went to him.

  ‘Laurence. Mr Hobson is here with Miss Lewes. I don’t think you have met her before.’

  ‘What’s that? Not Caterina? Oh, dear me no. That won’t do at all. Tell him that won’t do at all. Tell him some other time.’

  Miss Lewes was aghast. It had been her idea. She had put pressure on her elderly lover to introduce her to the man of letters. The lover was knock-kneed, unmanned; wished he hadn’t shown off about his acquaintances.

  ‘Laurence,’ he advanced towards the seated form of the blind man. ‘Laurence. Miss Lewes is an admirer of your works.’

  Laurence gave in with no grace and speeded up the arrival of lunch. It was served on the arched terrace, immediately outside the upstairs sitting room looking across rocks to the sea. Alfredo, white-coated, carried the food from the bowels of the house. That had become one of the cook’s many bugbears. Since the padrone had been confined to one floor, soufflés flopped on the stairs.

  When the guests departed with minimum farewells and ‘another time bring Caterina’ as parting shot, Laurence broke the lifetime habit of sticking to writing letters in the morning. He wanted to share his little bit of scandal and to send letters that very afternoon.

  Together Victoria and Laurence tackled four.

  One to a niece, two to nephews, and one to a correspondent in Northamptonshire.

  ‘Imagine my surprise,’ Victoria wrote four times. ‘Not Caterina but a certain Miss Lewes…’

  Laurence’s crabbed lawyer came from Florence – all the way in a hired car with driver. Bernadini, he was called. Laurence ordered stuffed eggs and said that lunch must be on the dot. One o’clock sharp. Bernadini had been tipped off by the Contessa, Primrose, who had been worried by the state of financial chaos at the villa on one of her recent visits.

  Laurence lived in dread of Bernadini. Blindness, though, came in handy. Victoria must deal with him. Discussions were to take place before lunch; eleven thirty, with Victoria taking notes. On the occasion of his previous visit to the villa the lawyer had warned Laurence that funds were running low. Were three gardeners really necessary with – ‘how shall I put it? – the padrone chair-bound and unable to enjoy the sights and smells out there? Wouldn’t one lad be sufficient?’

  Then there was the indoor staff. Alfredo, the cook, Elena and Dante doing odd jobs. Couldn’t Elena and Dante manage on their own now with the signorina living in and able to help with household matters; only the two of them to be fed?

  Letters from the lawyer written during the six months between visits had been left unanswered. On this occasion Victoria greeted Bernadini and guided him across the hall, upstairs, past her own bedroom door to the sanctuary – ashes included. The nervy old lawyer steeled himself as Victoria stood by. He refused to sit but went up close to Laurence saying, ‘Signor. There is no money left. It has run out.’

  ‘Run out? No. No. I felt sure there was enough for another fortnight.’

  Eyes to heaven, the lawyer answered, ‘It need not be a disaster, Signor, if you will kindly listen to me. Here you have a valuable property.’

  So it was. Acres of sea frontage, olives and vines.

  ‘One building – one only, perhaps one of the lodges – could be sold off separately for a large sum. Large enough to save the day.’

  ‘If you say so. Perhaps we must. My wife would never have allowed it. My stepdaughter must be consulted.’

  ‘She has agreed to it, Signor.’

  Victoria guided his old soft hand over a provisional document prepared in advance by Bernadini. He had arrived full of pessimism but now there was hope. Laurence’s blank eyes turned towards the urn on the mantelpiece.

  As she opened the morning’s post, Victoria’s eye fell on a flimsy envelope; postmark English. Voice raised, she read it aloud.

  ‘Dear Laurence (if I may call you this.) What an age since we met! Who are you, you may ask yourself. And well you might! Lettice. Lettice Holliday.’ Bold italic hand and engraved daffodil telephone plugged into the paper. Relief nib dipped in mauve ink.

  ‘Do you remember? But why should you? Lunch – on a lawn. Jugs of wine, straw hats, tennis. Yes! You’ve guessed! Tennis at the Lovelace’s. Where have those days gone?

  ‘And now a favour! My son, Edgar, can it be true? Oh, the tragedy of the passing of time! Yes! He’s no longer a child! He will be in Italy (my wicked green eyes are glinting). Can he, might he, call on you? He works in the production department of one of the larger publishing houses. Bliss to be involved with books! They’re sending him to Italy (then on to Yugoslavia – what it is to be young!) investigating printer’s ink.’

  Laurence winced and planned to say no.

  Victoria, increasingly aware of her isolated position, was scared. Only the day before she had heard from a school friend asking if they could meet in Florence for a few days. Surely the old geyser would let her off the hook for the odd night? He only paid her a pittance after all. She had asked for permission to go but Laurence merely replied, ‘Oh no. I don’t think that would do at all. What would become of me? Oh dear no. It wouldn’t do at all.’

  Defeated, Victoria thought of novels she had read. A Handful of Dust. She was captive. Lettice’s letter was in her hand.

  ‘Let’s give the absurd person’s son a try, Laurence,’ she found herself shouting. ‘I’ll see to the room and he might have news from London. Theatres or something.’

  ‘Very well, but one night only.’

  Soon after he had refused to allow Victoria to join her friend in Florence, Laurence was fearful of her displeasure and offered one of his rationed treats.

  ‘Did I ever tell what dear Henry James said when introduced to a bevy of beauties? One of them was the celebrated actress Ellen Terry.’

  He had told her twice but she answered, ‘No, Laurence. What was it?’

  ‘One of the miserable wantons was not without a certain cadaverous charm.’

  Two weeks later, Victoria rested her elbows on the windowsill and squinted sideways to watch Edgar Holliday hop out of a hired car. He was handsome, as far as she could see, unexpectedly so. Lanky but trim. With a mother sounding like that Victoria had pictured a fright. She watched Elena greet him, washing him with words he couldn’t follow. She waited in her room. The visitor was being led past her door by the slit-eyed maid, heading for Laurence’s study, and she decided to join them there – efficient with her notebook.

  Laurence introduced them.

  ‘This is Victoria. You mustn’t distract her during your short visit. We have work to do. I hope you’ll find everything you need.’

  Edgar, ignoring house rules, asked, ‘But can I take her for a drive this afternoon? I’d like to do some sightseeing as I have a hired car and my free time is rationed.’

  Laurence sank back and patted the n
ew dressing gown several times.

  During eggy lunch the matter was raised again.

  ‘Very well. Very well. But bring her back for tea.’

  The villa was remote and there were few sights of interest nearby. Victoria, stuck on the promontory as she had been, had seen little of the neighbourhood and hankered for an outing to a town on the edge of a lagoon – not impossibly far away. She had heard about it in a letter from a friend. Puccini’s birthplace at Torre del Lago, near Viareggio. Beside the lake the maestro had been inspired to write Madame Butterfly. That was all she knew. Edgar made a dash to the car and returned with a fistful of maps. It was possible but tea would have to be scrapped. Laurence groaned and gave in.

  Edgar was pernickety in the car, fussed over the tyres and was unused to driving on the right. Victoria took charge of the route and read aloud from a guidebook. It described Puccini’s house, now a museum, as ‘enchanting’.

  They left the car beside a restaurant in the square that, on one side, bordered a lake. The restaurant, enclosed on three sides by green verandahs, jutted out over the water. Lazy drinkers sipped in sunlight. The square was semi-tropical, planted here and there with palm trees and brightened by red geraniums stuffed into massive tubs. Umbrella pines spread, tops flattened, on the other side of the lake. Half-hidden in the greenery, Victoria spotted the hero. Puccini. Larger than life, wearing a thick overcoat, collar upturned, under a broad-brimmed hat. The statue, green and speckled, might have been modelled in lead; lead or copper. She wasn’t sure which. A cigarette was stuck between his lips, tucked in under a waxy moustache. Perhaps he was wondering what next to compose. Perhaps marking down a local lass to share his bed that night. The sharp point of a handkerchief stuck out of his pocket at an impertinent angle. Edgar asked Victoria to stand beside the figure while he took a snap. She was tickled pink. Nearby there was a kiosk where souvenirs were sold. Miniatures of the swaggering statue, skimpy Madame Butterflys, cards, posters and the Pope’s head converted into a battery lamp. From a restaurant drifted strains of potted Puccini taken fast on a jukebox. Surrounded by souvenirs (Christ in a shelly grotto, tortoises and crabs combed from the lake, models of Turandot encrusted with sequins), Edgar bought a postcard for his mother. Then a miniature maestro for a speechless Victoria. She slipped it into her bag and felt disturbed. He asked for the museum, the one described as enchanting in the guidebook. A man smiled and pointed. There was something in his face that reminded her of her miniature maestro and all the other miniature maestros that stood shoulder to shoulder on the stall, as he wagged a finger towards iron railings a few feet from where they stood. A small group gathered there and waited beside a closed gate. Edgar and Victoria gaped through the railings at a modest villa. Beside the gate, moulded into the ironwork was a tatty, ill-connected bell. Under this, written shakily in pencil, they saw the word ‘Puccini’. Perhaps he was in. A tall German woman, member of the group, stuck her finger on the button and a shrill ring came from the villa a few yards up the path, flanked by more geraniums in pots. A figure shuffled towards them – fat fist pointing outwards, keys on a ring in his hand. His signal demanded patience. Again Victoria noticed familiarity in a stranger’s face. His clothes were shabby but his moustache was trim. He unlocked the gate and ushered them in. Bright art nouveau tiles lined the room. They showed willowy girls holding out bunches of lilies under a setting sun that shot out spiky rays. Victoria clasped her bag and the small statue that Edgar had given her. She was excited.