by Nicola Upson
London Rain
Nicola Upson
For Mandy, and for my Mum and Dad, with all my love.
And for Phyllis. Friend and inspiration, still.
Part One
At Broadcasting House
1
There had never been a finer time to see London, Josephine thought as she strolled down Cavendish Place, enjoying the way in which the early summer sun seemed to welcome her back to the city. With only a few days to go before the Coronation, it would have been hard to say which had done more to put a spring in England’s step: the sudden, unexpected heatwave, softening the disappointment of a lacklustre April; or the months of work that had gone on behind the scenes as the nation looked forward to crowning a new king. Everywhere she looked, those quiet preparations had come magically to fruition: government buildings encrusted with the soot of ages were given a new lease of life by vigorous cleaning; stands of tiered seating sprang up in front of churches; poles and planks now obscured famous statues, caring little for the celebrity of history when there was a sparkling new future ahead; and the West End took on the appearance of a colourful, streamered fairground, with decorated masts standing proudly in main streets and marquees beginning to dot the parks.
The air of celebration was infectious, and had spread like a tide of goodwill through the country. Yesterday, as the train from Scotland brought Josephine south, she had stared in amazement at suburbs dressed from top to toe in red, white and blue, their narrow streets a tunnel of ribbons and paper crowns. It could have been garish, but Josephine – who was inclined to mistrust public displays of any emotion – found it strangely touching, a rare declaration of unity after the uncertainty of the abdication. Businesses everywhere were shrewdly taking advantage of the nation’s excitement: no one could compete with the vast golden crowns and specially commissioned sculpture that had won Selfridges every front page, but even more modest shop windows were crammed with coronation souvenirs to suit most pockets – embroidered silk sheets and engraved cigarette lighters sat alongside sponge bags, playing cards and flower pots, and it was impossible now to buy anything remotely necessary for daily life without its being adorned by a royal motif: as she brushed her teeth each morning, Their Majesties stared up at her from a bar of Yardley’s soap, and even the label on her face powder advised her – with a shameless lack of irony – to begin a reign of personal loveliness.
The latest bus strike had entered its second week and the pavements were crowded with reluctant pedestrians, a mixture of tourists in town for the special occasion and seasoned Londoners trying to go about their business. At the junction with Regent Street, Josephine glanced to her right and saw the hordes of people spilling slowly from Oxford Circus; their stilted, shuffling progress was so different to the normal bustle of the capital that it gave her the peculiar sense of watching a newsreel played at the wrong speed, and she was glad that her club was only a short walk from Portland Place and her afternoon appointment.
Broadcasting House was an austere, modern building in a stripped classical style, which dwarfed its Georgian neighbours and seemed itself to be torn between past and future. In its five years of operation, it had set critic against critic on every subject from architecture to programming, with an admiration for one often encouraging a tolerance for the other. Josephine had never really liked the building, but it interested her to note that today – when she was more than just a passer-by – it looked finer than she remembered it; like most clubs, it seemed, the British Broadcasting Corporation was best viewed from the inside. The long approach from Oxford Street showed the building’s design off to its greatest advantage, curved and streamlined like the bow of a ship, the masts and flags on its rooftop lending further touches to the nautical feel. Window boxes on three of the eight floors provided a welcome splash of colour, relieving an otherwise stern and unforgiving exterior, and Josephine wondered if the multitude of tulips in red and yellow – recently announced as the official coronation colours – had been a lucky guess, or if someone with good connections had been given a helpful hint.
Taxis paused one after another outside the entrance, and she noticed a group of young girls with autograph books waiting hopefully at a discreet distance to see who might be delivered or collected from the studios. She was obviously not at all what they were hoping for: even if they had known her name, writers here were the poor relations of announcers and variety stars, and her approach barely warranted a second glance. It suited her that way: she felt more comfortable as a fan than as a star, and had Bing Crosby suddenly alighted from a black cab, her own fame would not have prevented her from rummaging in her handbag for a scrap of paper and entering wholeheartedly into the scrum. Still, as she paused under Eric Gill’s hauntingly beautiful statue of Prospero and Ariel, she realised that she had not felt this excited since the opening night of her play, Richard of Bordeaux. She was still astonished that another of her West End hits – Queen of Scots – had been included in a cycle of royal radio dramas to celebrate the Coronation, taking her work into thousands of homes throughout the country. The choice amused her: Mary Stuart was hardly a good advertisement for a long and happy reign, but if the irony had escaped the BBC, she wasn’t about to point it out.
The entrance hall – semicircular in form and lined with English marble – gave the immediate impression of a much older organisation, solid and established, and more like a bank than a state-of-the-art home for a pioneering venture. It was a beautiful space, softened by the grace of natural curves, and the only extravagance was a show-stealing arrangement of gladioli in a brilliant white vase. The display would have held its own in the grandest of churches, and the comparison was an apt one: a second Gill sculpture, this time of a figure sowing wheat, occupied an altar-like position opposite the main door, looking down on everything with a calm, almost spiritual benevolence. Above it was a chiselled inscription in Latin, and Josephine recognised enough of the words – temple, wisdom, Reith and Director General – to understand why the statement of intent had inspired some of the more cynical newspapers to new heights of sarcasm.
Reception was flanked by an information desk and a bookstall selling various BBC publications. She announced herself, then took a seat as directed on one of the leather benches and watched the Corporation go about its daily business. Pageboys hurried through the building in smart blue uniforms, collecting and delivering letters; men of all ages went up and down stairs, some wearing suits, others more casually dressed in roll-neck jumpers and corduroy trousers, and Josephine wondered if she was making assumptions by dividing them into ‘management’ and ‘creative’ accordingly. There were very few women, but, on the dot of two o’clock, the front door gave way to a surge of chatter and perfume, and Josephine smiled as a battalion of secretaries walked across the glossy entrance hall in high heels and sheer stockings, beautifully made up and talking disdainfully in high, clear voices: the hub of the organisation had obviously just returned from lunch. As the army disappeared up the stairs, she was reminded of a scene from the film Metropolis. How many people worked here, she wondered. Five or six hundred? More? The organisation was its own small town, broadcasting to the world from a world of its own, and Josephine envied the sense of communal endeavour. It was so different to her own work, and she could only imagine how exhilarating it must feel to be part of it.
After a few minutes, she saw a distinctive figure with small, round glasses and a goatee beard bound down the stairs. She had known Julian Terry for several years, but as a fellow detective novelist rather than the BBC’s Director of Features and Drama. His younger brother, John, was a celebrated classical actor who had starred in or produced two of the West End productions of Josephine’s plays, including Queen of Scots, and Julian dabbled with minor parts on
stage and screen, most recently in a film based on his own novel, a murder mystery set at Broadcasting House. He shared his brother’s lean, graceful figure and sharply chiselled features, and the similarity was even more remarkable when he opened his mouth: the voice – a milder version of his brother’s – would have justified a performing role in the plays he produced. ‘Josephine, how nice to see you,’ he said, with a warmth and charm that explained how he had reached his third marriage before his fortieth birthday. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’
‘Not at all, but I wouldn’t mind if you had. I could sit here for days without getting bored.’
‘It is impressive, isn’t it? You only start to see the drawbacks when you work here.’ He kissed her and led her over to the lifts. ‘It’s stupid of me, but I still miss our old offices at Savoy Hill. They were chaotic and inadequate and falling down around our ears, but it was all an adventure. This feels very grown-up, and I’m not sure some of us are ready for that yet.’ Josephine did know what he meant. Even to someone visiting Broadcasting House for the first time, it felt as though the organisation had made a conscious decision to shake off the old world of cosy amateurism and start again, free from the clutter of those first faltering steps. As the lift made its flawlessly smooth ascent to the seventh floor, Terry continued: ‘I’m the last person who should complain, of course – being here has revolutionised what we can do in the drama department. We’ve got a suite of studios now, all with different acoustics, and you’ll be astonished when you hear your play next week.’ He grinned. ‘In a positive way, I hope. But first things first. I thought we’d have a quick chat about the rehearsals before we go down for the read-through? The cast has been called for two o’clock to do some photos for the Radio Times, then we can crack on. It’ll make a nice change for us to have the author there – anything to make them eager to please . . .’
Josephine laughed. ‘The next time I have that effect will be the first. In my experience, being present at any sort of rehearsal just makes an actor more determined to prove that the character he wants to play is so much more interesting than the one you’ve actually written.’
‘Even my brother?’
‘Especially your brother. The irritating thing about him, though, is that he’s invariably spot on. Richard of Bordeaux was a much better play for the suggestions he made.’
‘Yes, Johnny was born right, but I’ve learned to live with it.’ The remark was made without a hint of bitterness and, in any case, Josephine knew that there was a genuine affection between the brothers, each successful enough in his own right to admire the achievements of the other. ‘I wish we could have included Bordeaux as well,’ Terry added as the lift opened its doors onto a labyrinthine series of carpeted corridors, ‘but the schedules were too tight and the powers that be felt we needed a queen.’ He offered a conspiratorial grin. ‘Believe me, you’ve no idea what a novelty that is in this organisation.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Actually it’s nice for Mary to get her day in the sun. She’s always lived in Richard’s shadow.’
‘Exactly. And let’s hope our new Scottish queen will prove more popular with the English public than yours was.’
‘I suppose being called Elizabeth is a good start. Actually, though, Queen of Scots does seem rather a backhanded coronation tribute. Is there a republican working secretly in the Drama Department?’
‘Several, probably, but I think it’s got more to do with available material. How many plays about happy kings can you name?’ Josephine gave it a moment’s thought as Terry led her past a bewildering number of offices and studios, but eventually had to admit defeat. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with celebrating a deposed monarch as long as you don’t mention the one who went of his own accord.’ He stopped suddenly and showed her into a pleasant room on the eastern side of the building, overlooking Langham Street. ‘They’re not making any announcements about the wedding until after the Coronation, you know.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘I make my living out of drama, Josephine, not tact.’ He pushed a glass cigarette box across the desk and leaned forward expectantly, a child waiting for a story. ‘Lydia tells me you’ve met Wallis Simpson.’
Josephine smiled. ‘To be taken with a pinch of salt, of course. Our paths crossed in Suffolk while she was waiting for her divorce, and Archie was looking after her. I was much more aware of her than she was of me, though. I doubt I’ll be on the guest list for the wedding, whenever it is.’
Terry looked so crestfallen that she felt half obliged to make something up simply to please him. Instead, she changed the subject and asked cautiously: ‘How is Lydia?’
‘You mean how is she taking her demotion from Queen of Scots to lady-in-waiting?’
‘Something like that, yes.’ Josephine had originally written the play for her friend Lydia Beaumont, who had starred in its West End run and made the part of Mary Stuart her own. Lydia was considered too inexperienced in radio drama to take the lead in this production, though, and was instead playing one of the minor characters.
‘With her usual grace and charm, which is much appreciated. Not everyone understands what a different medium this is. I’ve had actors in here who hold packed houses spellbound every night in the West End but they can’t utter a word the minute you stick them in front of a microphone. Even Johnny, the first time he came in. Made quite a change for me to have the upper hand, and I probably enjoyed it more than I should have. I don’t doubt that Lydia will be excellent, and I’m hoping to work with her more often, but she’s got to be broken in gently. And we’re lucky to have Millicent Gray on board. She’s not the easiest person to deal with and there’s always a bit of tension when she’s in the building – for obvious reasons – but she’s one of the most brilliant radio voices we’ve got and she’ll give a good performance.’ Before Josephine could ask him what he meant by ‘obvious reasons’, Terry moved on. ‘Now, if you really don’t like any of the changes I’ve made, let me know after the run-through and we’ll talk about it then. A certain amount of butchery is always involved, but I like the author to have a say in where the knife falls – as long as it’s not in my back.’
‘I’m sure everything will be fine,’ Josephine said with more confidence than she felt. ‘As you say, it’s a very different medium from anything I’m used to, and nothing could be as drastic as what Alfred Hitchcock is doing to my novel as we speak.’
‘Yes, I heard he was filming one of yours. Lucky devil! A Shilling for Candles, isn’t it?’
‘It is at the moment.’
Terry threw back his head and laughed. ‘I suppose there is a good chance that you won’t recognise it when he’s finished. But you can’t lose with Hitchcock’s name on it. I took the coward’s way out and did my own adaptation, but I think Death at Broadcasting House suffered from—’ The telephone rang, preventing Josephine from discovering what Terry disliked about his own film. He lifted the receiver and she was amused by the expression of disdain on his face. ‘What? You mean he’s actually in reception? Good God, no, I can’t see him now. Make any excuse – tell him I’m dead if you want to – just get rid of him. And no more calls now, Stan. I’ll be busy for the rest of the day.’ He turned back to Josephine. ‘That’s the great thing about this building. No one can touch you if you don’t want them to – not even actors who think you owe them a part. Shall we go down and meet the cast?’
Josephine nodded and picked up her bag, but before they could leave there was a knock at the door and an attractive woman in her late thirties came into the room without waiting for an invitation. She glanced apologetically at Josephine. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Is there any point in my asking you for some copy for next week’s issue, Julian?’
The words were spoken with a weary resignation that suggested the conversation took place on a regular basis. Terry had the decency to look sheepish, but hid behind formalities. ‘Do you two know each other? Viv, this is Josephine Tey. She’s in this afternoon f
or the read-through of Queen of Scots. Josephine, I’d like you to meet Vivienne Beresford. She’s holding the fort at the Radio Times while Gorham’s off on grace term, and doing a better bloody job of it than he ever did, if I may say so.’
‘You mean I’ll write your copy for you if you make me wait long enough. Well, not this time, Julian. I’ve got enough on my plate. No one can decide whether Cicely Courtneidge is taking part in the coronation revue, Irene Veal has threatened to resign if I cut her copy to make room for the crossword, and someone from the Co-op just telephoned with a small change to the colour advertisement that went to press three weeks ago. So flattery will get you another few hours, but nothing more – and don’t try palming me off with the cast list again, because it won’t work.’ She smiled sweetly at Terry, then turned to Josephine for the first time and held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to get that off my chest. Bloody producers. They all want the publicity for their plays but they won’t give a column inch to get it. It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘And you.’
‘I don’t know how you’ve got the cheek to complain about producers.’ Terry drew breath to retaliate, and Josephine sensed that both he and Vivienne Beresford relished the sparring. There seemed to be an easy affection between them, and she wondered how long they had known each other. ‘You editors – you swan round the building, getting everyone else to do your job for you, while you play with pretty pictures and take the credit when the issue sells well. It certainly wasn’t like that in my day.’
‘The issue didn’t sell well in your day – that’s the point. And at least I don’t have to make my own letters up. When he was Assistant Editor, Miss Tey, he spent most of his time churning out fake correspondence about the drama department. Now they’ve let him run the damned thing.’
