The Iron Necklace

by Giles Waterfield

  ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘I don’t always understand you. When we speak English. . .’

  ‘Your English is perfect.’

  ‘My English is mostly correct, but that is another matter. Your language is so full of ironies, I do not always know whether you are serious. If I cannot understand your language fully, how can I understand you?’

  ‘There are other ways,’ she ventured.

  ‘Yes, but even with those other ways – I suppose you mean sexual cohabitation. . .’ He lowered his voice here, as though the painted saints might be shocked. ‘Or even flirting – even that is more difficult for educated people, the nuances are so great. . . Sex is a language too, of course, or so good Dr Freud would have us believe. But perhaps we should not talk about sex in this sacred building.’ He peered at her again. ‘And then there is the language. When you speak German, it is difficult not to correct you because I want your German to be perfect, like you.’ He hurried on. ‘But if I correct you, it is annoying, and our honeymoon should be a time of perfect happiness, how can it be perfect if I correct your word order?’ He closed his Baedeker. ‘Then I make you look at all these churches, my dearest. I am trained to look at such things, but for you it must be fatiguing. Shall we have lunch? A proper lunch, with wine?’

  She blinked. Usually he preferred a modest lunch with water, before retiring to their room for a little passion and a long slumber. Not that he couldn’t afford it, there was always money for books, or architectural casts or whatever he wanted, money not discussed but comfortably there. As in her family. With Julian, there’d been no money; she’d not minded, except when he’d tried to borrow from her.

  ‘You are so English, I don’t know what you are truly thinking.’

  They were standing in the piazza. He was sweating. She did not sweat, she stayed cool even in extreme heat. He looked like a child, pink, eager to please. She was glad he was thinking about her rather than Borromini. Could you add together good qualities, she wondered, and by nurturing them, create a solid lifelong love? She laid her hand softly on his shoulder to see whether by behaving lovingly she could make herself feel loving. Was she play-acting? Was she expressing her underlying feelings? Really, she didn’t know.

  But if she was play-acting, she succeeded. He was touched, and took her hand.

  ‘I know I annoy you,’ he said. ‘I am selfish, I have not been in love before, I do not know how it is done, even though I am in love with you since Dresden July 1905, do you remember?’ He was always precise about dates. ‘I want to learn from you, my dearest. You understand so much, about love, about everything.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her. He had never done this so publicly.

  ‘Lunch?’ he said, releasing her.

  They passed a flower seller. ‘Signore,’ he said and pushed his basket towards Thomas, who took a single red rose. ‘Luna di miele?’

  Thomas nodded and smiled, she nodded and smiled, as though to make it clear that this was the most magical experience of their lives.

  The flower seller did not wave away payment as Irene thought he might. Instead there was an awkward pause while Thomas looked for change.

  ‘How much?’ he said, in a muffled tone.

  The flower seller shrugged as though to say, ‘Whatever you like.’

  By this time Thomas had taken out his wallet and could only find a large note. When Irene made to help, he shook his head. He gave the note to the flower seller, who moved rapidly away without offering change. Thomas looked annoyed, caught Irene’s eye, shrugged.

  ‘It’s a beautiful rose,’ she said. He looked at her vaguely, as though bruised by this encounter with modern Italy, less tractable than a church ceiling.

  He handed Irene the rose. Or rather, he went down on his knee on the pavement. She was touched but embarrassed. Such gestures could be made more gracefully, she knew. And she worried about his linen trousers. Still, she smiled delightedly, and put the rose behind her ear.

  After lunch, they went to the hotel. Their room was pleasantly warm, the sunlight hardly penetrating the shutters. As though in unspoken agreement, they took off their clothes and lay down naked, as they’d never done. It was delicious, being naked in that heat. He took her in his arms. Again, seeing him through half-closed eyes, bright pink down to the neck and then white, she felt sorry for him. But not for long.

  They stayed in bed all afternoon. He shouted ‘No’ when the chambermaid knocked at the door. They stayed in bed as the light expired until he said, ‘Every dining room in Rome will be closing, we need some dinner,’ and they threw on their clothes, laughing as they tidied the rumpled bed, and went outside into the warm soft air, the streets full of Romans strolling or sitting by the fountains.

  Perhaps she did love him, after all. If only she could abandon herself to emotions, without having to analyse them. During dinner they said not very much, it was companionable. She felt differently about him, now. He gazed at her without stopping, sometimes did not answer when she spoke, merely nodded. Clearly he was wholly in love, ‘hook, line and sinker’, as her Chelsea friends would say. She recognised the signs.

  Perhaps she should be firmer about how they passed their time. Perhaps he would appreciate that.

  9

  ‘This is my English granny’s drawing room, what a period piece. So artistic in that peculiar Victorian way. All those whatnots and tapestry-covered chairs – there’s one over there, it’s hideous, isn’t it? – and blue and white vases. Piles and piles of papers – she loved telling other people how to lead their lives. As a little girl I thought it was beautiful, and it was enormous, compared to today’s houses.’

  Pandora peers at the photograph. ‘Well, I think it’s quite charming.’ She looks round the room. ‘Some day people may feel that a beige interior with sand-coloured curtains is not so wonderful.’

  ‘They may, but you like this room, don’t you? Of course we did it up a long time ago.’

  ‘I like it because it’s yours, and I’m used to it. By the way, surely I recognise that sofa, isn’t it in Irene’s studio?’

  ‘Yes, Mother did keep a few things. When you go through the studio you’ll find more, I expect. When the probate is settled.’

  ‘When the probate is settled.’ Pandora stands up. ‘But I suppose it’s all right for me to go and look at the studio now, isn’t it?’

  Dorothea looks at her daughter sharply. ‘Yes, I believe so. Of course you’ll be selling it.’

  ‘Oh but I don’t want to sell it.’

  ‘What on earth would you do with it, darling?’

  ‘Live in it.’

  ‘Live in it? But what a strange idea, who’d want to live in a funny old place like that?’

  ‘I would. I love it.’

  Dorothea is standing too, facing her daughter. ‘I know you went there all the time. . . Pandora, why would you want to live there, how would you pay the bills? Surely you’re better in a little flat with chums?’

  ‘Mum, don’t be so annoying. I’m twenty-six, let me remind you. I don’t want to live “in a little flat with chums”. And Granny didn’t only leave me the studio.’ Her mother turns away, frowning. ‘I can certainly “pay the bills”, as you put it.’

  10

  One September afternoon, the Bensons’ friends assembled for Mrs Benson’s first At Home since the wedding. She had given At Homes on the first Sunday of the month for years, with a shift lately away from literary and artistic guests and towards more social people, whom she had met through her charitable work. To the family, this September evening seemed especially different. Papa seemed quieter than usual, as though he wished the guests hadn’t come. None of Irene’s friends appeared – Mamma had anyway never entirely approved of them. Instead, in a body, several new people arrived and introduced themselves as friends of Teddy’s: the men in tweed suits, the women in well-cut coats and skirts, all healthy and nicely presented, standing up straight and talking politely to strangers and handing round cups and plates. Mrs Benson was encha
nted.

  ‘No, Scoones isn’t fun at all,’ Mark said to Mrs Beaumont, one of his mother’s oldest friends. ‘The Diplomatic Service exams are so difficult. I pity the people who have to cram us, it must be soul-destroying, particularly if their candidate fails and they have to fill his dull mind all over again.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t fail, Mark. Have you ever failed an exam?’ People who knew Mark well and saw through the reserve that he presented to the world liked him better than strangers did. ‘Are you excited by the thought of being a diplomat?’

  ‘What does it mean, being excited? So many people are only truly excited by football and cricket.’ He bit into a slice of cake.

  ‘But you will be serving your country.’

  ‘Oh yes. But I feel, if God and King need me, they must be in a bad way.’

  ‘Of course cynicism is the thing at your age.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mark investigated the room. Sophia was listening to an ancient professor. In her nondescript brownish dress, she looked like the schoolgirl she was. Long straight red hair, pale pinched face, inward-looking features. Seven years younger, she seemed infinitely his junior.

  Sophia noticed him looking at her. As sourly superior as usual, she thought. Anyone would think he was already a detestable old ambassador. At present she was busy analysing the adult world, probing the falsehood and pretension endemic in society, and its oppression of women. She was not enjoying her conversation – if conversation you can call it, when he does all the talking, she thought – with the professor of archaeology. She longed to escape to Ann Veronica. Mr Wells’s new book had to be concealed from her mother, but the story of a girl escaping from bourgeois respectability to become a New Woman engrossed her.

  ‘Your little sister is growing up,’ Mrs Beaumont remarked. ‘She’ll be striking when she’s older.’

  ‘Oh, d’you think so?’ He looked at Sophia again, in a languidly considering way. She noticed, and attempted a contemptuous leer. He saw it and laughed. She looked cross but then laughed too.

  ‘Shouldn’t we rescue her? It might be nice if she met Andrew again.’ Andrew was Mrs Beaumont’s son.

  ‘He’ll think she’s an awful baby,’ said Mark.

  ‘Don’t be so superior, she’s an extremely nice girl.’

  At first the introduction was not a success. Andrew searched for a subject. He had just left public school, he had no sisters, girls were unfamiliar territory. His suggestion that this party was fun struck no spark. ‘How do you stand on votes for women?’ Sophia asked. He fumbled. She wanted to know if he was going to university, and when he said ‘Oxford,’ replied that she was more interested in the newer universities. ‘D’you want to go to university?’ he asked in surprise, and she replied, ‘If I’m allowed to, you never know with parents. And university had an awful effect on Mark, at Cambridge he turned into a snob.’

  She wondered if she was being too sharp. He’s quite nice-looking, she thought, long eyelashes, sensitive face. But boys were a waste of time, she and her friend Laura had decided long since. She applied an acid test.

  ‘Do you like Shelley?’

  He opened his brown eyes wide. ‘How can anyone not like Shelley?’ Her face softened. He saw that this awkward schoolgirl might become that mysterious thing, a Beauty. ‘What’s your favourite poem?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, Adonais. I think it’s quite beautiful.’ And she recited:

  He lives, he wakes – ’tis Death is dead, not he;

  Mourn not for Adonis. – Thou young Dawn

  Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee

  The spirit thou lamentest is not gone. . .

  ‘What on earth is Sophia doing?’ asked Mrs Benson, approaching her old friend. ‘Reciting poetry?’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite charming,’ answered Mrs Beaumont.

  Mrs Benson examined the two young people. Clearly they had been introduced for a purpose, but Sophia was too young to be taking an interest in boys. Really, one had less in common with Christina Beaumont than in the past.

  ‘Sophia!’ she called. ‘Go and help with the tea things, will you?’ She plucked Sophia by the arm. Sophia looked furious but her mother led her firmly off. They found that Teddy had taken over tea, and was giving the parlourmaid directions. ‘Oh Teddy, you are wonderful,’ said his aunt, ‘so helpful. Unlike my own children.’ Pulling her mother’s hand off her arm, Sophia slammed out of the room.

  ‘What a silly girl,’ said Teddy, ‘just at that difficult age. Aunt Elizabeth, I want you to meet a very special friend of mine, Victoria Drummond.’ Victoria Drummond was tall, with brown hair and a high complexion, expensively dressed, in her late twenties. ‘My colleague in Canada gave me an introduction, and Miss Drummond – Victoria – has been very kind to me.’

  ‘I’m so glad to meet you, Mrs Benson.’ She spoke with aristocratic self-confidence, it was thrilling. ‘Normally I’d be in Scotland at this time of year, but Edward told me I must stay in London so I could come to this. . . this gathering, which is such fun.’ She did not call him Teddy, his aunt noticed.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said her hostess, glowing.

  ‘It’s so nice of you to let me bring some friends, I hope you’ve met them all. Did you meet Bongo Ponsonby? He’s so amusing. It’s been such fun introducing Edward around, everyone loves a Canadian.’

  Though she doubted that everyone loved a Canadian or if they did, that it was sensible, Mrs Benson readily assented. She was struck by Miss Drummond’s proprietorial tone. Was Teddy already hers to be taken around? She suppressed a jealous sense that she had not had him long to herself. But then this young woman was so perfect, so comme il faut, and just the right height, an inch or two shorter than Teddy.

  ‘Did Edward tell you, I’m taking him to Scotland for the shooting? He claims he’s an excellent shot.’

  ‘But how nice of you,’ said his aunt breathlessly. ‘Where will you be staying?’

  ‘Oh, at my parents’ place in Perthshire. You must come and stay too.’

  ‘We’d love to.’ What was this place, Mrs Benson wondered. A castle? A great mansion? Already she’d decided that Perthshire in September sounded the most beautiful place on earth, that this girl (could she be titled?) made her own philanthropic peeresses seem rather dull, that the names ‘Edward and Victoria’ sounded ideal together. . .

  ‘I would so like to meet all the family,’ Victoria said. She varied her tone – often clipped, it could become caressing, making each listener feel they were the most desirable person in the world. ‘Dear Mrs Benson, will you introduce me to your husband? I should so like to meet him. And Mark. I think I’ve missed Sophia for the moment.’ And she laughed indulgently.

  They embarked on a tour round the more important people. Victoria was the personification of easy charm, while Mrs Benson talked to Victoria and Edward’s friends, pleasant, forthright, chatty young people – so unlike her own children, who could be difficult. Edward followed. From time to time, Mrs Benson noticed, he faintly touched Victoria, and she him. It was done with a subtle intimacy, like a waft of the delicious scent emanated by this splendid young woman.

  They reached Christina Beaumont, who was sitting on a sofa with her arms stretched along the back. She often did this, but this evening it was irritating, as though she possessed the place. Victoria was about to stop, but her hostess, seeing a titled Girls in Distress committee member close by, introduced her instead.

  Noticing this, Mark, who sometimes surprised himself with his own kind-heartedness, went over to the Beaumonts and talked to them warmly, saying in his mother’s hearing, ‘Oh but you’ll stay to supper, won’t you? It’s no good without you.’ But they said no.

  Edward and Victoria and their friends also left, in spite of being pressed to stay. Mrs Benson could hardly be bothered to preside over supper: she was so excited, Edward and his new friend had transformed her life.

  11

  ‘Thursday 22 September 1910, Mommsenstraße 78, Berl
in. Dearest Mamma and Papa,’ Irene began. Then she put down her pen. This was her first letter home from Berlin. She felt cheerful, sitting at her new desk in her new sitting room in her new flat. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, the street outside orderly yet bustling.

  She was wearing a loosely cut dress, in a soft pale wool. It was the kind of clothing Thomas preferred. His views on clothes were pronounced: they were more than coverings, they were charged with meaning. Women needed to be freed from the elaborate costumes, evidence of the wearer’s uselessness, that they’d worn for too long. He’d not gone quite so far as to buy clothes for her, but he’d bought her a straw sun hat with a bright ribbon round the band. When she saw it on her dressing table, she smiled, remembering discussions with her artist friends over whether hats were symbols of bourgeois convention. What would happen if one went out of doors hatless in London? They’d tried, walking bare-headed down Gower Street, provoking outraged looks which made them cackle with laughter. When she’d described this to Thomas, he’d looked at her with his patient, kindly smile. She would certainly be wearing a hat in Berlin.

  Hat or no, she must convey happiness and optimism to her parents.

  Here I am in my new home. I mean to write very often, but I hope you will understand if I do not write every single day, as I believe Princess Vicky wrote to Queen Victoria. We arrived yesterday to find Freddy and Thomas’s little sister Puppi at the station. They were so sweet and welcoming. They came back to the house but would not come in, they said we must make our first entrance on our own. I wondered if Thomas was going to carry me over the threshold, but fortunately he’s not given to such gestures!

  It is an almost new building, in what they call the Reformed Style. Outside it’s very striking, irregular in design, five storeys high and covered in roughcast painted pale green, adorned with sculpture. It has a charming front door, all black and white squares. You take the lift to the second floor, and that’s us!