by Nicola Upson
‘No, we can’t,’ he said softly, turning towards Charing Cross Road. ‘The trick is not to want to.’
4
Josephine delivered her article to Broadcasting House on Friday afternoon, just in time to receive a late lunch invitation from Julian, who was holding court in the foyer. ‘Go on,’ he said persuasively as she looked at her watch. ‘Give me an excuse not to go back upstairs yet. Our sound-effects department has got thirty-seven different engine noises waiting for me in the library, and they expect me to listen to the lot. I only want the sound of a bloody car driving away.’
She laughed. ‘All right, when you put it like that. I have to get the Ipswich train at five, though. Can we go somewhere nearby?’
‘Oh, I can do better than that. I’ll introduce you to the BBC canteen. If you haven’t eaten there, you really haven’t lived.’
Intrigued, Josephine followed him downstairs to the basement, which was a mixture of communal spaces and smaller studios. It seemed an odd place for a restaurant, surrounded by politely phrased signs requesting silence, but when they left the functional rooms behind in favour of the buzz of conversation and chink of crockery, Josephine was glad she had come. It was as if all the excitement and camaraderie of the organisation had been distilled into this one room; like many areas of Broadcasting House, the canteen was stark and modern in design, with long glass tables and tubular steel chairs, but it was saved from its own formality by the people who used it – a glorious mix of staff, performers and visitors, universally attracted to the offer of three courses for sixpence. Now and again, the columns which punctuated the room lit up, calling people away from the groups they were gossiping in and back to work. ‘This is lovely,’ Josephine said, watching a row of women behind the counter dish up plate after plate of delicious-looking food. ‘I’m surprised you get anything done at all.’
‘It is hard, I admit, especially now it’s open into the early hours. If it were licensed, I suspect most of the output would be run from here. As it is, that honour goes to the George in Mortimer Street.’ They took their place in the queue behind two variety performers dressed in sailor suits. ‘What will you have?’ Julian asked. ‘I should tell you that steak and chips is customary if rehearsals have gone well, but there’s salad if you’re feeling miserable.’
‘I’ll have whatever you think we deserve.’
‘Steak and chips it is, then.’ They took their plates and found a space on the table farthest from the counter. ‘How’s everything going with the film?’ he asked, pouring them each a glass of water.
‘I have no idea and no wish to find out,’ Josephine said firmly. ‘A friend of mine is with the Hitchcocks in Cornwall at the moment, filming the opening scenes, and I’ve told her I don’t want to hear a word about it. The very fact that they’re in Cornwall when the book’s set in Kent tells me everything I need to know.’
Julian smiled at her indignation. ‘Who’s in it?’
‘Derrick de Marney’s playing Tisdall and Nova Pilbeam is Erica.’
‘Clever casting. Nova did Dear Brutus here for me recently – she was Margaret. It’s a strange part, but she did it brilliantly.’
‘Yes, I heard her. Millicent was excellent, too.’
‘She always is. I find I take that for granted these days.’
‘It was so exciting to hear her read Mary on Wednesday. I thought the awkwardness of what had just happened might put her off, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.’ Julian hardly ever needed an excuse to gossip, but this time he remained uncharacteristically reticent. ‘How long has the affair been going on?’ she asked, abandoning any pretence at subtlety.
‘A couple of months or so, but there have been others before Millicent. I don’t know why Viv puts up with it.’ He smiled at someone over Josephine’s shoulder, and suddenly spoke more loudly. ‘Anyway, all that wide-eyed innocence is wasted on radio.’
The sudden change of subject confused Josephine until Vivienne Beresford sat down next to him, holding a copy of the brand new Radio Times. ‘Whose career are you trashing now, Julian?’ she asked, taking a chip from his plate and smiling at Josephine. ‘I suppose I should be able to guess – wide-eyed innocence rather narrows it down.’
‘Nova Pilbeam. She’s in Josephine’s film, and I was just saying how good she’d be.’
‘Oh? What film is this?’
‘Well, it’s not exactly mine. The Hitchcocks are adapting a book I’ve just published.’
‘How exciting! Have you met them?’ Josephine nodded. ‘What are they like?’
‘Surprising, and very, very memorable,’ she said, well practised by now at telling people what she thought of Britain’s favourite film director. ‘Actually, the two of them make quite a team. He’s a genius, but I don’t think he’d have achieved half as much without Alma. No matter what people say, they have a genuinely creative partnership and a really strong marriage.’
‘Lucky them,’ Vivienne said caustically, and Josephine wished she had chosen her words more diplomatically. ‘What’s the book about? I hope it’s more uplifting than Dear bloody Brutus.’
It wasn’t hard to see why a wistful play about second chances and lives as they might have been lived would not be to Vivienne Beresford’s taste, and Josephine tried to think of something less inflammatory to say. ‘It’s about the triumph of good over evil,’ Julian explained before she could answer, ‘like all good detective stories.’
‘Or in your case, a shoot-out on the roof when you run out of ideas.’
‘Harsh, but fair. She hides it well, Josephine, but Viv’s not a fan of crime fiction.’
‘Let’s just say I grew out of it.’ She smiled and turned back to Josephine. ‘Is he right?’
‘Yes and no. The book’s about a man accused of murder who tries to prove his innocence.’
‘That rings a bell. I’ve just read your article on Richard III and it’s very interesting – thank you. Justice is obviously important to you.’
‘I’m not sure it’s quite as laudable as you make it sound,’ Josephine admitted. ‘I’m just a coward where injustice is concerned. I’ve always thought it must be so much worse to be accused of something you haven’t done than to be caught for something you have.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s true.’ She moved her chair along to make room for half a dozen members of the Henry Hall Orchestra at the other end of the table. ‘But he’s vindicated, the character in your book?’
‘Yes, he is. I don’t agree with Julian that good should always triumph in a detective novel – life’s not like that – but this one does have a happy ending. Not because of the justice system, though – he’s only cleared because someone else believes in him. That’s the point.’
‘I bet that went down well with your friend at Scotland Yard.’
Josephine looked at her, surprised that she should have remembered such a fleeting piece of information; no wonder she excelled in a job which relied on attention to detail. ‘We agree to differ,’ she said. ‘And he’d be the first to admit that real life isn’t always perfect.’
Vivienne nodded but said nothing, and Josephine wondered if she was thinking about the unanswered questions surrounding her own sister’s death. She longed to ask what had happened, but it would have been tactless to mention the scandal even if she had known Vivienne well enough to venture into personal territory. A column to her left was suddenly illuminated and Julian stood up. ‘That’s me, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Back to work. I’ll see you next week, Josephine. Have a lovely time in Suffolk.’
He kissed them both and left. ‘I have no idea how they know which light is for whom,’ Vivienne said, anticipating Josephine’s next question. ‘I’ve spent years trying to work it out. I’m glad he’s gone, though. There’s something I’d like to ask you – in confidence, if I may?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Vivienne hesitated, and Josephine noticed how tired she looked around the eyes. ‘What’s she like?’ she asked eventua
lly.
‘Who?’
‘My husband’s mistress. I can’t ask anyone here – my pride won’t let me. But you must know her from the theatre, and I couldn’t be more embarrassed in front of you than I was the other day in the green room.’
‘I’m not sure I can answer that,’ Josephine said truthfully. ‘I’ve only met her once or twice at after-show parties, and no one behaves normally at those.’
‘Even so, you must have formed some sort of impression of her and you strike me as a good judge of character. Please tell me, Josephine. Is he just flattered because she’s young and pretty? Should I be more worried than I was last time?’ She looked down, embarrassed by her own behaviour but committed now to the conversation. ‘God, this is so bloody demeaning. I’ve always been able to rise above it before, but there’s something different about him lately and I don’t know what to do.’
Josephine exchanged her seat for the one next to Vivienne so that they no longer had to talk across the table. ‘Different in what way?’
‘It’s hard to explain. More settled, perhaps. Less angry. It’s as if he’s arrived at some sort of resolution, some sort of peace with himself, and that frightens me. It feels too much like the calm before the storm.’
Josephine considered her own impressions of Millicent Gray and found little there which might be of reassurance to Vivienne. ‘As I said, I really don’t know her, but from what I’ve seen, she’s very talented and very ambitious.’
‘So she wouldn’t think twice about breaking up a marriage?’
‘Probably not, but that’s just my opinion.’
‘Do you think these women have any idea of the pain they cause?’ Josephine said nothing, and Vivienne misread her hesitation. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve put you in an impossible position. You might not know her very well, but you don’t know me any better and there’s no obligation to be on my side just because I’ve asked you to be.’
‘It’s not that. It’s a perfectly valid question, but my house isn’t quite sturdy enough for me to be throwing stones at other people’s.’ Vivienne looked at her curiously, but was too discreet to take advantage of her honesty. ‘I understand what you’re saying and I agree with you,’ Josephine added, ‘but I also know that people do things out of character because it’s hard not to be selfish. I can’t tell you what Millicent Gray is like, but I’m not even sure that matters. Your answer doesn’t lie with her, it lies with your husband – what he wants and what he’s capable of. Does he know how you feel?’
‘I’m not sure Anthony’s ever known that.’
‘And you can’t talk to him about it?’
She shook her head. ‘We’re beyond that.’
‘Then can I ask you something?’
‘I’m hardly in a position to refuse.’
‘Wouldn’t you be better off without him?’
‘It’s funny,’ Vivienne said after a long pause, ‘but I was just beginning to wonder that myself.’
Part Two
Private Lives
1
It was funny, Josephine thought: all the elaborate preparations that London had made, only to be eclipsed by a small corner of a Suffolk woodland. Everywhere she looked, swathes of violets, wood anemones and luminous pink campion offered their own patriotic tributes, and if their shades were not quite the true colours of pageantry, their subtle, nonchalant beauty was a more authentic celebration of Englishness than anything she had seen in the city’s streets. Since she was last here, the tentative spikes of bluebell leaf had been replaced by a vein-blue tide that spread through the woods as if spilt from a glass, and the flowers filled the air with their strong, green scent. She moved the picnic rug to follow the dance of sunlight, softly filtered by the youthful foliage of early summer, and wondered how many more surprises this newly discovered landscape would give her.
Larkspur Cottage, which she had inherited out of the blue from a godmother she barely knew, had arrived as a gift of fate when she most needed freedom and peace. The time she had spent there – sometimes with Marta, mostly alone – had given her the chance to find out who she really was and what she wanted from her life. The knowledge had grown hand in hand with the joys of each new season, until the cottage and everything it stood for became inexplicably bound up with her own sense of being. Summer was new to her here, and it was as if the countryside had saved its most precious promise until last. The pure, melodious song of a skylark drifted across from the neighbouring field, sweeter and more jubilant than anything composed for the new king, and Josephine made a vow to herself there and then that – no matter how busy or complicated her life became – she would always find time to see Suffolk in May.
‘We could just listen to it on the wireless,’ Marta suggested, sharing her thoughts.
‘The play or the whole Coronation?’
‘Both. Why would we want to leave this?’
Josephine smiled, pleased that Marta loved the life they were building here as much as she did. ‘That suits me. I’ll make sure the battery’s charged.’
Marta sat down and looked for the corkscrew. ‘It’s a lovely idea. I wish we meant it. Arranging a party with the rest of the country wasn’t the best way of finding some time for ourselves, was it?’
‘It’s not the rest of the country that bothers me.’ Josephine had hedged round the subject of Lydia ever since Marta’s arrival. It would not have been her choice to threaten the beauty of the afternoon with a row, but she had put off the conversation with a cowardice that was typical of her when it came to talking about her feelings, and now she was running out of time before they headed back to London. ‘Are you happy the way we are?’ she asked.
It was an ambiguous question, clumsily introduced, and no one would have guessed that she had spent days mulling over the best way to broach the subject. Marta sighed and Josephine knew that she was irritated by how much of their precious time was spent in analysing their situation – as yet, without any hint of resolution. ‘How many times have we been through this? Look at me, Josephine. Think about the day we’ve had and the night we spent together. Is that really such a hard question to answer?’
‘I don’t just mean here and now. This is the easy part.’
‘So what do you mean?’
There was an edge to her voice, but it was eagerness rather than anger and Josephine sensed with relief that the conversation might not be as unwelcome to Marta as she had feared. The thought gave her strength. ‘I want you to tell Lydia about us,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s because you and I are getting closer, perhaps it’s because I’ve seen more of her than usual over the last few days, but we can’t go on like this.’ She thought of the expression on Vivienne Beresford’s face that day in the green room and imagined Lydia in a similar situation because of her – then, more selfishly, she considered how she would feel if she were the subject of the sort of gossip that had followed. ‘I won’t take part in one of those charades where everyone puts their head in the sand until it all comes tumbling out in the most destructive way possible. It’s cheap and it’s shabby, and we’re better than that.’ Marta nodded and started to speak, but Josephine knew herself well enough to finish what she had started before the moment was lost. ‘And apart from anything else, I’m tired of having to be so bloody careful all the time. Lydia might still have her own digs but she always seems to be at Holly Place whenever I’m in town, so I have to stay at the club when I want to be with you. I don’t even feel that I can phone you in case she answers and I have to pretend that it’s both of you I’m interested in seeing – then we have one of those excruciating evenings where we all try to be normal. And I want to surprise you, Marta – I want to turn up at your door and see the joy on your face because you weren’t expecting it. How can I do that? Even when we’re here, it’s always at the back of my mind that Lydia has a cottage half an hour down the road. Jesus, I wouldn’t put it past her to appear over the horizon at any minute.’ Marta laughed, and Josephine felt suddenly vulnerable. ‘Don’t la
ugh at me,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of pretending. I know it’s unreasonable, and I’m not the one who has the right to be angry here, but . . .’
‘Why not? I wish you’d be angry more often, so don’t stop on my account.’ Marta put a hand to Josephine’s cheek, forcing her to look up, and the touch was enough to dispel her fear instantly. ‘I’m not laughing at you, Josephine. I’m laughing because that long and very eloquent speech has just said everything I’ve been longing to hear for months. I know I’ve let things with Lydia get out of hand and I’m sorry, but you asked me to wait. You told me not to rock the boat.’
‘I know I did. But the more I have of you, the more I want.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Marta leaned forward to kiss her. ‘You know what you’re asking, though, and how difficult it might be for you? It will probably cost you your friendship with Lydia.’
‘I don’t think “probably” comes into it.’
‘And we can’t rely on her to be discreet. I’m not sure I’d be gracious in her position, and if she wants to lash out, your reputation will be first in line. Mine’s shot to hell already.’ Josephine hesitated. The shame of being publicly linked with another woman – at home in Inverness, even in the more liberal but still competitive world of theatre – terrified her, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. ‘You once told me you weren’t brave enough to face that,’ Marta said gently.
‘I know I did, and I’m not sure I am now, but there’s only one way to find out. And anyway, it might not come to that.’
Marta looked unconvinced, but let it go. Eventually, the afternoon grew chilly and they walked home across fields strewn with thistles and buttercups. ‘It’s almost the anniversary of Maria Marten’s murder,’ Josephine said, thinking about the infamous crime that had taken place in the village a century before. Her own cottage was closely linked to the story, and she often felt the ghosts of the past there, the happiness and tragedy of other lives engrained into old iron door handles or well-worn floorboards. ‘These fields can’t have changed much since she walked across them. It’s easy to imagine her still here.’
