Stardust

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘No, you were saying. Actually, I don’t know what you were saying. I didn’t understand one word of what you were saying.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t making myself very clear.’ Cecil was confused, and not really feeling at all well. ‘Let’s start again, shall we? What I was going to say was – I wonder what the best way is of putting this?’

  Elizabeth looked up at him, quickly, her eyes glinting through half closed lids, and she began to smile slowly, and beguilingly.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ she agreed. ‘Let’s find the best way of putting it we can. I like that. I like putting it the best way.’

  Cecil was temporarily mesmerized, a snake caught by its charmer, a moth fluttering round the light. Then the music stopped, and the light went out, as Elizabeth closed her bright green eyes and began to laugh, rather raucously. Even so, Cecil laughed too, seeing that what Elizabeth had said had after all been a joke, that she had as usual been lightly making fun of him.

  ‘To get back to Jerry,’ he said. ‘I think Jerry’s problem—’

  ‘Who’s Jerry?’

  ‘Sorry. Jerome.’

  ‘Who’s – Jerome?’

  ‘Your husband, dear girl.’ Cecil laughed. ‘Who’s Jerome indeed?’

  ‘My husband,’ Elizabeth said slowly. ‘Ah. The black man. The naughty black man.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cecil agreed, ‘probably.’ He was quite used to Elizabeth’s games. She was always inventing names and identities for people, particularly Jerome. Last time they had all talked and Elizabeth had been patently cross with Jerome, she had spent the entire time referring to him as the Boeotian. So now he was a black man, Cecil thought, and who cares? Just as long as Elizabeth doesn’t start scratching her face to pieces again or trying to cut her wrists, as far as Cecil was concerned Jerome could be the man in the moon.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘your husband’s problem really is only a question of confidence. Self-confidence. He seems to be brimming with it, but in fact like all great actors—’

  ‘No!’ Elizabeth suddenly sat bolt upright in her bed, her cigarette still stuck absurdly and quite out of character in the middle of her mouth. ‘No,’ she repeated slowly and firmly. ‘The black man is not an actor, you dope. The black man is a drummer. In a jazz band.’

  These were the moments Cecil always dreaded, the moments Elizabeth started playing her games and he was expected to join in, either in some terrible telephone jape, some not always kind practical joke, or some fantasy conversation she would force him into making in public, all of which Elizabeth would find screamingly funny afterwards, while Cecil, who was hopeless at doing anything impromptu, always and resolutely failed to see the joke.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear girl,’ he began, ‘but I don’t really think this is quite the time or place, you know, do you?’

  ‘Oh, Cessy!’ Elizabeth interrupted him with a laugh of delight. ‘Cessy don’t be such an ass! You don’t want to listen to a word she says! You’re such an ass!’

  ‘Who? A word who says?’

  ‘There is no black man. There is no black man who’s a drummer in a band! Don’t be such a complete ass! What else do you believe?’ She leaned forward suddenly, so that her face was only inches from Cecil’s. She smelt faintly of nicotine, but more of violets, mixed with some very pungent and exotic scent. ‘What else do you believe?’ she repeated. ‘Do you believe in fairies?’

  Cecil smiled and extinguished his own cigarette. The sea had become even rougher, and the brandy hadn’t done quite the trick Cecil had hoped. He got up, holding on to the edge of the bed.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘perhaps this isn’t the best time to talk, dear girl.’

  ‘No perhaps it isn’t, old boy,’ Elizabeth giggled. ‘You are looking a little green round the edges.’

  ‘I’ll pop in again at tea-time,’ Cecil said, clutching on to whatever he could as he swayed towards the door. ‘I’ll look in then to see how you are.’

  ‘Why not?’ Elizabeth said gaily. ‘One of us is bound to be here.’

  If Muzz hadn’t returned at that very moment, and been opening the door as Elizabeth spoke, perhaps Cecil would have questioned exactly what Elizabeth had meant. But because there were now two women in the room and because Cecil feared he might be sick at any moment, he simply smiled in response to Elizabeth’s cheery wave and hurried out. Muzz clutched the large handbag she was holding as Cecil went, and then closed and locked the outside door.

  ‘You took your time,’ Elizabeth said, smoothing her top bedsheet back with both hands to get rid of the creases, her cigarette still stuck in the corner of her mouth. ‘You certainly took your time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, but it’s difficult to hurry when it’s as rough as this,’ Muzz said, fetching a glass from the storm holder on the wall before sitting on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed and opening her copious handbag. ‘And they only had Moët. No vintage Bollinger, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Elizabeth said reaching under her covers for the empty bottle she had hidden there from Cecil. ‘We’ll forgive you.’

  With that and a little smile she handed her mother the empty champagne bottle in exchange for a full glass.

  After successfully staving off what he’d considered to be a surefire bout of sea-sickness by the quick intake of another two brandies, Cecil made his way topside to the wireless room and cabled a message to Jerome in the style in which he had been instructed. The message read:

  NANNY’S CHARGE A.1. IN FACT QUITE HER OLD NAUGHTY SELF.

  Then he retired to his cabin to try and sleep until it was time for him to look in on his charge once more.

  Apart from the terrible weather, the rest of the journey passed uneventfully enough, with Elizabeth behaving herself impeccably. Whenever Cecil made his rounds early morning, midday, mid-afternoon, and twice in the evening, his charge was either sitting up in bed playing cards with her dresser, or lying propped up on a pile of pillows reading or sleeping. Apart from the scars on her face, she was beginning to look her old self, and far less fatigued, Cecil also noted happily, putting the improvement in her appearance and attitude down to the enforced rest and his careful management.

  By the end of their third day at sea, Cecil had every reason to be pleased with himself. Elizabeth was now up and about in her suite, and he had even managed to get her to eat a light lunch with him, which he ordered to be served to them in her state room. She was in high spirits throughout the meal, and now that the seas had calmed down dramatically, Cecil was fully able to enjoy himself and the excellent fare, even though he was forced to accompany the superb Dover Sole with a glass of barley water. After lunch Cecil sent another cheering cable back to Jerome to report the continued good progress, before returning to his cabin for a well-earned cognac and a post-prandial slumber.

  He was awoken an hour later by Elizabeth’s maid knocking on his cabin door.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked through the half open bedroom door as he hurried to get himself dressed. ‘Do we need the doctor?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ the maid replied, admiring herself privately in a mirror. ‘Muzz just asked me to fetch you. Quick as is possible.’

  Elizabeth was in her state room when Cecil arrived, sitting in an armchair with an open book on her knees. Tears were flooding down her face, but there was no sound of her sobbing. She just sat as still as a waxwork, a silently weeping doll-like figure.

  Muzz was sitting in the armchair opposite, which she vacated as soon as Cecil entered.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’ Cecil asked sotto.

  ‘Like what?’ Muzz answered, as if there was more than one answer.

  ‘Like this,’ Cecil repeated. ‘Crying like this?’

  ‘Oh.’ Muzz thought for a moment, while turning to stare back at Elizabeth. ‘Since you left I’d say,’ she said. ‘Since after lunch.’

  ‘Do we need to call the doctor?’ Cecil asked, taking Muzz by the arm to stop her leaving.<
br />
  ‘You tell me, Mr Manners,’ she replied. ‘You’re the one in charge.’

  Cecil postponed calling the ship’s doctor until he had taken the chance to talk to Elizabeth and see if there was anything he could do. Left alone in the state room with her now, he sat down in the vacated armchair and smiled across at his charge, who so far had given him no indication at all that she even knew he was there.

  ‘Now then,’ Cecil began in his best avuncular fashion. ‘What exactly seems to be the matter, my dear?’

  Elizabeth made no reply. Instead she began slowly to wash her hands in her lap, staring at them as she did so, as if to make sure she had removed every mark.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ Cecil said, suddenly worried, suddenly sensing a dread, a dread that Elizabeth might indeed be going insane. ‘Elizabeth, it’s Cecil. Elizabeth – do say something.’ She still said nothing, just continued with her dry handwashing. ‘Elizabeth dear,’ Cecil said hopelessly. ‘It’s me. It’s Cessy.’

  It was to no avail. Elizabeth said nothing, she didn’t even look at Cecil. She just concentrated all her attentions on trying to remove whatever it was on her lily-white hands. Cecil eased himself out of the chair, intending to reach for the telephone and call the doctor, but as he did, Elizabeth suddenly spoke.

  ‘Look,’ she said, holding out her hands. ‘I can’t get rid of them, you know. Whatever I try, I cannot get rid of them.’

  ‘What, old girl?’ Cecil asked, sliding back into his seat. ‘What are you trying to get rid of?’

  ‘You can’t see them, can you?’ Elizabeth sighed, turning each hand up to stare down at the palms. ‘Of course you can’t. It’s only the people who’ve done something who can see the marks.’

  ‘What marks?’

  ‘The marks, you oaf. The marks of what you’ve done. And they’re all over my hands.’

  ‘But what have you done, old girl?’ Cecil tried a laugh, as if to make light of the whole thing, but Elizabeth paid it no heed. ‘You haven’t done anything, Elizabeth,’ he said.

  ‘Oh I have, I have. I’ve done something dreadful. I have killed somebody.’

  ‘No, you haven’t, Elizabeth,’ Cecil said finally. It was all he could think of saying. It was all he could do to stop himself shaking he was so frightened. ‘You haven’t killed anybody,’ he assured her. ‘Don’t be so silly. Who could you have possibly killed?’

  ‘Oh, stop being such a complete and utter oaf, you clodhopper!’ Elizabeth suddenly rounded on him, staring across at him for the first time. ‘You know bloody well what I’m talking about! Because you conspired too! But I was the one who killed her! Juliet! I was the one who killed Juliet Bumpkin! And I have her blood on my hands to prove it! Look, damn you! Look!’

  She thrust her hands out for Cecil to see, and the next thing he knew as he bent forward was that she was at his throat, and his face, and even his eyes. She was like a demon, possessed with great strength, while she fought to tear at his skin, hissing her hate at him while moving with the speed and agility of a wild cat.

  ‘You should have her blood on your hands as well, you bastard!’ she seethed. ‘You were all too willing to listen to Lalla and to go along with what I’d planned! Because and damn you to hell, Cecil Manners, because you were in on it too! You were a part of it, damn you! Yet there’s not a mark on you! There’s not a mark anywhere! But there will be, you bastard! There will be! Because I’m going to tear your eyes out!’

  She might have succeeded too, such was the ferocity of her unexpected attack. But fortunately for Cecil the extra two stones he had put on over the years gave him an enormous advantage in weight, and after being totally overwhelmed in the initial wave of Elizabeth’s attack, losing his glasses and a handful of hair, having two deep cuts gouged out of one cheek and suffering near asphyxiation when Elizabeth with superhuman strength managed to get both hands on his neck in an attempt to strangle him, he managed to wrestle her around under him and simply fell on top of her on the cabin floor, immobilizing her with his sheer weight.

  They lay there for how long Cecil couldn’t say. He just held Elizabeth down, kneeling on her upper arms as if back in the school playground, holding her down by the wrists with his hands, while they both fought to regain their breath, and while the blood from the wounds on Cecil’s face dripped down on to the white swansdown of the négligée and nightdress worn by the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Then suddenly Elizabeth went totally limp under Cecil and in his grip. He could feel it, as if all the life had abruptly left her body. Her eyes glazed, and her beautiful head rolled to one side, with the tip of her tongue lolling out of the corner of her mouth. For a moment Cecil was sure she had died, and scrambling awkwardly to his feet, he stood above her, still panting, still short of breath while the most beautiful woman in the world lay on a patterned beige carpet, motionless and white as driven snow.

  He bent down to pick her up, to see if she was alive, and as he did, she took a massive intake of breath, the whole of her frail body heaving with the effort. Cecil got an arm round her waist, holding on to the side of a chair to steady himself against the pitch of the great liner as she still gently rolled, and as he eased Elizabeth up off the floor she fell backwards, faint in his arms. She was so light, there was simply nothing of her, Cecil thought, as he carried her through into her bedroom and laid her down on the bed. He simply couldn’t imagine where all that brute strength had come from, because he could carry her practically in one arm.

  As he quickly washed the blood off his face and took a clean towel to dress the wounds, he could safely see her in the bathroom mirror, but she was still lying absolutely motionless, a beautiful doll someone just dropped on the bed, one arm across her stomach, the other palm up sticking out to one side, her head turned the other way, her legs splayed apart. Cecil held the towel tightly to his throbbing face, trying not to look at the pathetic sight, a sight which he found deeply distressing.

  Still holding the towel to his face, and uncertain of quite what he should do next, he went and sat beside her on the bed. Again, he didn’t know how long he sat there as the ship gently pitched and rolled in the seas off the south of Ireland, but it must have been a long time, certainly long enough for Cecil to have reviewed in his mind everything she had said, everything of which he stood accused, and certainly time enough for him to find himself guilty, an accessory before and after the fact of what Elizabeth chose to call Pippa’s murder.

  After a very long time, Elizabeth stirred, awakening as if from a dream. She stirred back to life and seeing the sad hump of a man sitting with his head bowed beside her, she put a hand out, first on his back, which made the man flinch, and then as he half turned his head, she put her hand on one of his and took it. The man turned to her and she saw he had cut his face, there were two or three very deep cuts on one of his cheeks and several scratches elsewhere. She knew who the man was, of course, even without his glasses, she knew it was poor dear Cecil, and she knew at once who had done this awful thing to him, and she sighed, she sighed hopelessly and helplessly. Even worse, there was blood all over her best night things, her favourite night things, things J had bought her on their first trip to New York, the négligée and nightdress in which Vogue had photographed her for their piece on The Most Beautiful Woman In The World.

  ‘Poor Cecil,’ she whispered as he turned further round to her. ‘Poor dear Cessy. Are you all right, darling man? Do you want a doctor?’

  ‘Are you all right, Elizabeth?’ Cecil asked by way of a reply. ‘I think if we’re thinking of getting the doctor—’

  ‘I don’t want a doctor, Cess,’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘It’s not me who needs the doctor.’

  ‘Even so,’ Cecil said unsurely. ‘I think perhaps he’d better come down. And take a look at us both as it were.’

  ‘You’re shaking,’ Elizabeth remarked, as she watched Cecil reach for the telephone. ‘You’re shaking like a leaf.’

  ‘It was quite an attack, dear girl,’ Cecil replied,
doing his best to laugh it off. ‘It was rather like being hit by a windmill.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Elizabeth sighed, biting her lip and sinking back on her pillows. ‘Oh dear, what is going to happen, Cessy?’ she asked. ‘What are they going to do with her when we get home?’

  They had to wait, of course, to do with her what the doctors all said they must do with her. They had to wait until Jerome could sign the papers, but Jerome was away in Hollywood, deeply engrossed in the filming of Encounter in the Park, thanks to Cecil’s astute and diplomatic negotiations, filming opposite the last minute but inspired replacement casting of Dorothy Brooks. From all reports Cecil gathered the stars had finally hit it off after a very awkward start, the chemistry was magical, and the prediction was for the film to be everything and more the studio had hoped it would be when they had finally given the go-ahead.

  So Cecil had a difficult hand to play, some would say impossible. The longer he waited approaching Jerome, the worse Elizabeth’s condition was becoming, but if on the other hand he broke the news too early, he could wreck Jerome’s chance of scoring a solo hit with the movie. Finally, after long and private transatlantic calls to the producers and the director, Cecil chose the moment to fly in, namely the last week of the shoot when all the difficult scenes had been safely and successfully filmed. He arrived on the Monday in Los Angeles and drove straight to talk to Jerome privately. After a three hour meeting with him in his luxury caravan on the studio lot, Cecil finally made Jerome see sense and secured his signed permission for Elizabeth to be admitted to The Hermitage at Beckhampton, a nursing home which specialized in the treatment of mental disorders.

  18

  Pippa read about Elizabeth. She read about her quite by chance because she never took English newspapers and listened only to the French radio. She also read and listened selectively, persuading herself that because she no longer had any interest in films or theatre there was no point in reading about them. But the real reason was that she was afraid. Pippa was still afraid of what her reaction might be if and when she saw a news item on or more importantly a photograph of Jerome, which if she did not censor her reading carefully sooner or later she knew she was almost bound to do.