by Maggie Ford
She’d been so utterly stupid, had been totally carried away. But the urge to get up and put distance between them faded as quickly as it came, for it would have tarnished even more those moments of joy, as though she were no more than a woman of the streets. Instead she asked a question, harking on all he had said as he made love to her. “Geoffrey, do you really love me?”
Having said so in the throes of his passion, what if after all it had meant nothing, had been just words? Mary waited.
For a while he did not reply. Then he said slowly, in a low voice: “I never thought I’d love anyone like this.”
It was all she needed. True joy overwhelming her, Mary leaned over him impulsively to lay a gentle kiss on his cheek.
“I love you too, Geoffrey,” she returned, with confidence now, yet still hardly able to believe that she, out of all those he must have known, was his girl. She was still hardly able to believe that this was all happening to her. Her, ordinary Mary Owen.
But what about Will? All through that weekend, during which they made love repeatedly, the thought of how she was going to tell Will overrode the joy of knowing that henceforth her life would change. Geoffrey eventually proposing marriage would take her into the world of wealth and security.
Poor Will. Would he get over it? But there had never been anything binding in their relationship. He had only talked about marriage a couple of times, going on immediately to put obstacles in the way by saying that it took a lot of saving up for anyone to get married and it was more or less too early to think about things like that. No, nothing had been fixed, no engagement ring given. He had no claim on her.
Yet the thought of telling him all but spoiled the weekend for her, the most marvellous weekend any girl could want.
Seven
It was a sombre day, the day of James Lett’s funeral, April shower clouds clumping together to make a flat and glowering mass by mid-morning. But despite the continuous light rain, the exceptional turn-out for the funeral was a talking point for weeks afterwards.
Every last one of his staff was required to be present, the restaurant closed as a mark of respect, the cost of some hundred employees getting to Halstead Green church paid by courtesy of his widow. Yet they were still only a third of the numbers who came. In life, James Lett had made a vast amount of friends and everyone who’d known him professionally or been in any way connected with him crammed into the tiny country church alongside the family. Lesser attendees were obliged to stand outside under a sea of umbrellas among the ancient leaning gravestones of those who had, perhaps more modestly, gone before him, their epitaphs for the most part indecipherable.
Mary and William had been found a place just inside the church itself, he expressing mystification as to why they should be so privileged compared to the rest of James Lett’s staff. Standing with her head bowed as the coffin, borne on the shoulders of the pall-bearers, passed her with slow dignity to the low and solemn strains of a hymn, Mary knew exactly why they had been given this place.
Discreetly positioned at the rear so as not to attract too much attention from closer mourners or fellow colleagues, it appeared they’d merely been lucky to find space inside. Mary was just able to glimpse the back of Geoffrey’s fair head as with his family he rose to his feet in the front pew. She leaned close to Will as every poignant note of the hymn, every measured step of the pall-bearers, prompted a twinge of guilt about standing beside the man who still thought her an honest, true friend and fiancee.
She had returned from Paris a thoughtful – and, in truth, downcast – girl. What had she thought she was doing, going off to spend the weekend with a man who surely had no lasting interest in her, for all he’d declared undying ardour every time they made love? Yet his passion had been so convincing, at the time she had believed every word. All the way home on the aeroplane he had taken such care of her, as though she were the most precious thing in his life. His parting words had been, “I must see you again soon, my sweet Mary.” It had borne out his feelings for her. Then he had spoiled it by saying, “I’ve had an absolutely marvellous weekend.”
Too lightly said. She had been merely the instrument of a marvellous weekend for him: now he could forget her, the insistence on seeing her again instantly losing all she had read into it, turning into a casual invitation. They could now go their separate ways until he fancied her again.
The last week had borne that out, it seemed. He had virtually ignored her. But then, his mind had been taken up with other things – guilt at not being present at his father’s death, having been most likely making love to her at the moment of his father’s demise. Such things would weigh on a person’s mind. Indeed, she felt some of that guilt herself. Perhaps when things settled he might again turn his mind to her, but at the moment it seemed a forlorn hope. At least Will was constant. She should be satisfied, and she did love Will, really.
Will often wished he saw more of Mary, but his hours were long – he often worked from early morning until late evening, far longer than her office hours of eight thirty to six o’clock – and getting together was difficult.
His working day would run on until way past midnight if there was one of those late suppers with dancing afterwards for which Letts had become fashionable since the end of the war. “Let’s go to Letts!” had become quite a byword with much of the smart set, the well-known and well-heeled descending upon the place after a theatre or night-club, the night ending only when the last stoic patrons had staggered off in the small hours. In fact Will had become used to famous faces: European royalty visiting London, even lesser members of England’s royals, as well as stars of the London stage, the American stage, and now film stars. It all brought fame and prestige to the place, much as it had before the war when Edward VII as Prince of Wales had patronised it in James Lett’s younger days.
Little thought was given to the weary staff who continued to smile and look as bright and sociable as when they had begun. Expected back at work next morning with only a few snatched hours of sleep, Will would bicycle all the way home to Shoreditch to let himself in quietly, his parents long since in bed.
The only good to come out of it for him were the high tips, if the supper-goers were happy enough, drunk enough and satisfied enough to be generous towards the staff who’d helped create the atmosphere which Letts bestowed with style. Geoffrey Lett’s easy charm, wit and energy did much for the place, his brother rounding it off with his politeness, grace and friendly, easy-going nature. It all helped to please customers and bring out their small change.
For William, the smallest gratuity, saved religiously, meant one step nearer the day he could decently ask Mary to marry him. In fact customers seemed to take to him, often acknowledging the good-looking young waiter who worked hard and long, cheerfully and with friendliness, many referring to him by his first name. Having his station head waiter nod his satisfaction at him – good staff being a feather in his own cap – Will saw it only as means to an end; in time, maybe, he might be recommended for promotion and a resultant raise in salary. If only he had more time off to be with Mary, that was all.
He often worried that she must be bored during the time they didn’t see each other. She had friends, of course, girls she’d known from childhood, and now and again a little crowd of them went to the pictures together, she told him, so she wasn’t too bored. And last week she had gone with her aunt to see some old friend of the woman’s in Southend, staying until the Sunday afternoon, which had let him off the hook, since he’d had to work late on the Saturday. She’d seemed tired when he met her on the Sunday evening, and of course she would be, having to travel all the way home from Southend with her aunt, who seemed to him to be quite a drag on Mary.
“You look a lot brighter than you did last week,” he whispered as the coffin came to rest on the trestles before the altar rail and the congregation was asked to kneel in prayer for the soul of the deceased. “You looked so tired Sunday evening, I was worried for you, love. You do too much for o
ther people.”
He saw Mary incline her head, then bring her clasped hands up to hide her face. It wasn’t a time to begin a conversation. He too bent his head as the priest began on prayers for the dead. He’d bring it up when this was over.
* * *
Letts was back to normal, once more thronged by parties of diners.
Henry was relieved. That first week following the funeral of his father had itself been almost funereal – quiet, as though his father’s old clientele in some way felt they might be expected to adopt some sort of sentimental reverence, recalling in hushed tones the days of his strutting among them, laughing and joking; that not to do so might abuse his memory. Better to stay away than have what should have been a jolly evening ruined. They were, of course, sorry at the death of James Lett, but prolonged sorrow should not extend to them. It wasn’t their business.
Moving between the many empty tables, the huge gilt-framed wall mirrors had reflected the vacant places, the painted ceiling and columns giving the whole a mausoleum-like quality where once they would seem to disappear amid the happy tumult of diners. The dance floor had been empty, the bar almost so, and Henry wondered if, with his father gone, the old crowds would ever bother to return. Perhaps they would find other, equally good restaurants – and there were plenty enough around the West End – preferable to the danger of constant reference to the sad demise of James Lett and the sort of embarrassment that can occur when one is unsure whether to mention a subject or avoid it altogether.
Time and time again Samson came out of his unusually quiet kitchen, his heavy jaw jutting sullenly as he complained of his staff falling into lax ways with so little to do, debating whether he should lay some off – something Henry could not contemplate. The sense of defeat if he allowed that, as well as the idea of compelling his staff to join the ever-lengthening dole queues 1921 was beginning to see, was unthinkable.
He had consulted Geoffrey about laying off staff. All his brother had done was shrug and voice an opinion that the place could be on a downward slope without their father there to boost it.
“He wasn’t there to boost it for months while he was ill,” was Henry’s argument to that. “We kept it going. The place was always crowded. It can’t make that much difference, Father being gone. We have to make it work.”
Geoffrey’s second shrug had angered him a little. Geoffrey showed so little interest in the place while eager enough to draw any profit – though for a while it had looked very much as though profits were a thing of the past and as though the place would finally have to be closed for lack of customers, wealthy customers. Henry shuddered at the thought of it even going downhill enough to end up as a lesser establishment to which workers came only at lunchtime, all its prestige gone, its name mentioned only with a pitying sneer – “Used to know it when it was filled to the doors with titled people, well-known people – shame seeing it go like that.” Such thoughts usually took the form of night fears – not exactly nightmares but the mind being left free in the small quiet hours to wander in chaos between sleep and lying awake, contemplating his father turning in his grave.
But over the second week came signs of encouragement: first a trickle of old faces among the casual customers, then by Friday the atmosphere beginning to liven up considerably. Now, three months later, Friday night was as seething as it had ever been with telephoned bookings flooding in daily.
Now Henry sidled between crowded tables, nodding to this famous face and the lady with him, to that titled host with his family about him, receiving nods of appreciation in return. “Doing a splendid job, Mr Lett. Splendid job.”
Mr Lett – he might almost be his father. He looked like him, he knew. Maybe just a little of the good-looking part, but, judging from old stiff studio-type photos of his father, very much like him as a young man. Odd, though, that he should have Mother’s ways, a tendency to be formal. He wished he could be more like Geoffrey who, while favouring Mother in looks, had inherited the easy, charming nature of their father.
Geoffrey should have been here tonight, but Geoffrey had a prior engagement – some young lady no doubt. Even so, as the other partner in this establishment it was his duty to forgo his amours and look to a little work, charming the customers as he was so good at doing – or at least being at home with Mother to allay her new lonely state.
“I say, good to see you, Mr Lett. Mr Henry Lett, isn’t it?”
He turned to see a small party approaching, conducted to their table by the head waiter who was doing it with marvellous aplomb designed to flatter the clientele, exactly as James Lett had required. It was second nature to a gifted man such as Eustaquio Emmanuel, more usually known as Eustace.
The host of this particular party, whom Henry recognised as Lord John Felmore, a rotund little man, had detached himself from the rest of his party.
“I’ve been meaning to come before to extend my sympathies on the sad loss of your father – heartfelt, you know. Wonderful man. Wanted to be at the funeral but was abroad – couldn’t get back in time. Still, never mind, better late than never, eh? So you’ve taken over. You’ll be every bit as good as your father was, I’ve no doubt of that. No doubt at all.”
Henry produced a sociable smile. He was good at sociable smiles, no matter how he felt inside, be it amusement towards a guest, contempt of his manners, personal despondency or, at this moment, this lingering grief. Yes, he could put on the charm – not the easy charm which came naturally to his brother, but he pleased his customers.
“It is good to see you again, Lord Felmore. I do hope you enjoy your meal.”
“Oh, Felmore, please, Mr Lett. Your late father addressed me for years as Felmore. So now this is all yours, old man, yours and your brother’s.” His gaze transferred around the room and he frowned lightly. “By the way, where is your brother this evening?”
“Unable to be here this evening, I’m afraid.”
“Pity. I like your brother. So jolly. Ah well, maybe we’ll see him next time we come. But glad to see you fully in charge of… all this.” He swept out a short arm to embrace the huge area of restaurant buzzing with life and filled with soft music until dancing began, when it would come even further to life. His action straining the button of his evening jacket, he chortled, “I take it you intend keeping the place exactly as it was in your father’s day?”
“Naturally,” Henry said quietly. “I wouldn’t dream of anything else.”
“Good. Best place in town. Best place to meet one’s own sort. Pity your brother’s not around. Where did you say he was?”
“Keeping our mother company. Early days, you know.”
“Yes indeed. Early days.”
The man had become instantly guarded – having already extended his sympathies, grief mustn’t be allowed to go on too long and spoil his evening. “Must get back to the people,” he said quickly.
Henry produced another warming smile. “If there is anything special you wish, do not hesitate to request it.”
“Surely will. I take it the place stays open late tonight? A bit of dancing and a few extra larks?”
“For as long as you and your friends wish it, Felmore,” Henry said, using the familiarity with studied deference, though not too much.
“Great, then. Great.”
“I hope you enjoy your meal.”
“Oh, we will, Mr Lett. Just like in the old days. Pity about your brother not being here. Still, never mind, eh? Doing his bit, being with his mother, eh?”
Henry continued to look pleasant. Inside, something was needling him. Far from considering their mother, Geoffrey was out enjoying himself, and Henry had a feeling he knew with whom. Gossip had trickled up from the kitchen – not widespread gossip, but from the mouth of the head chef in the form of a complaint that the little skivvy he had taken on was thinking herself too good for them all now, swanning around up there in the office, wearing dresses of the new and fashionable shorter length that a girl on her salary couldn’t possibly afford, and th
at it was obvious who must be providing them, and a wonder that the young man she was supposed to be going steady with hadn’t noticed the change in her.
Henry would never let what Samson had said go beyond his own lips, had cut his words short, dropping the hint – not exactly a warning, for no one warned the head chef about anything – not to let the gossip go any further for the good name of the establishment. He knew this sentiment would keep Samson, one of his most loyal and trusted men, tight-lipped from now on.
So Mary Owen was the girlfriend of one of his commis de rangs, William Goodridge. Then this suspicion – for that was all it was – of her larking about with Geoffrey should not be allowed to reach that man’s ears. And if it was true, he felt mightly annoyed at his brother for playing fast and loose with some working girl. Mother would be appalled if she got to know it.
But it wasn’t just his mother for whom he felt protective, it was the girl herself; a gullible young thing of… she could be no more than nineteen… taking the fancy of his brother who, young as he was, was no novice at securing a girl’s favours, though she would usually be of better breeding. Somehow a need was provoked in Henry to protect her from herself.
Moments later, he was pulling himself up sharply in the unsettling awareness that there was more to this sense of protectiveness towards her than was good for his peace of mind. Sternly he hurried towards the front of the restaurant where he should be stationing himself to welcome in another large party of diners, two of whose faces the whole world recognised – the charming Douglas Fairbanks and the vivacious Mary Pickford, who had all eyes turning as they were conducted to their table. Henry immediately dismissed the twinge of apprehension he’d had thinking of pretty Mary Owen and contemplated on the immense prestige the arrival of this famed couple would bring to Letts.
