Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  Her voice tailed off as she moved away to go downstairs and Charity lay down again to try and go back to sleep. But for some odd reason her mind kept turning back to Mr Marshall.

  It was just after eleven when Charity knocked at his door, balancing a tea tray on one hip. She was aware that this was the first time since she arrived at the hotel she’d felt any interest in anyone, and the sensation was quite pleasant.

  ‘Come in.’ His voice sounded weak; in the past it had always been quite commanding.

  ‘It’s Charity. I thought you might like some tea.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’ All she could see of him was a dark shape against the white sheets. ‘I was hoping to run into you at some time today. I believe I’ve you to thank for my rescue?’

  ‘No thanks necessary,’ she said, putting the tray down on the dressing-table. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

  ‘A bit woozy.’

  ‘Shall I open the curtains a little, then I can pour you the tea?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said and she heard a movement as if he was trying to sit up. ‘I have to warn you I’m not a pretty sight!’

  Charity pulled the curtain cord and weak sunshine spilled into the room. The window overlooked Piccadilly Circus and as always at this time of day it was choked with traffic and milling with thousands of people, though through double glass the noise was a mere dull drone.

  When she turned she found he had pulled himself up in bed and was leaning back against the head-board. His deeply tanned chest was bare, but aside from a dark shadow on his chin and slightly puffy eyes he looked normal enough.

  ‘Have a cup with me?’ he said unexpectedly as she poured his. ‘I feel I owe you an explanation.’

  Charity turned to him, his cup in her hands and for some inexplicable reason knew she had to stay, even though visiting guests in their rooms was frowned on.

  ‘Don’t feel you’ve got to,’ she said, putting the cup right into his hands. ‘If you want to talk, that’s fine, but I’m not sitting in judgement.’

  There was an empty coffee cup on the dressing-table, presumably brought to him last night. She rinsed it out in his bathroom and came back to fill it.

  ‘Have you finished your work for the morning?’ he asked. ‘You aren’t wearing your uniform.’

  ‘It’s my day off,’ she explained, looking down at her jeans and sweater. ‘I’d get shot if I worked like this.’

  As she looked at him sitting up in bed she realised his long face was attractive. He had a small, almost pretty nose and beautifully shaped lips. His body too was youthful, slender, yet strong looking and muscular. Although he had the covers well over his stomach, she could see it was taut and flat like that of a far younger man and his curly hair was endearingly tousled. Suddenly she felt rather self-conscious.

  ‘You look nice in jeans,’ he said. ‘Your uniform makes you look like a Victorian maid. So what prompted a girl on her day off to bring me tea? Curiosity or a touch of the Florence Nightingales?’

  Charity wasn’t sure what to make of his remarks. Was it sarcasm, joviality or just plain interest? She perched on the edge of the dressing-table and sipped her tea.

  ‘A bit of both,’ she admitted. ‘Dr Cole told me last night he hadn’t sent you to hospital, but hotels can be very lonely places, especially if you don’t feel quite yourself.’

  ‘I had no intention of doing away with myself,’ Mr Marshall said. His eyes were brown and very sad looking. ‘At least not consciously, anyway. I had some terrible news yesterday and I think I just tried to shut out the pain.’

  He paused and tears sprang to his eyes.

  ‘Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes I can, very well.’ Charity put down her cup. ‘It might help to talk about it.’

  She could see he was struggling to compose himself, a nerve twitching in his cheek.

  ‘I heard my daughter had been killed in a car crash yesterday,’ he said hoarsely, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘She was only twenty-one. She died and was buried and I didn’t even know about it.’

  Instinctively Charity moved across to him and sat down on the bed, compassion wiping out all hesitancy.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. ‘How terrible!’

  Her small hand on his felt cool and comforting. Minutes before she came into the room he’d been steeling himself to get up, pack and leave without telling anyone. This little chambermaid was only a child, several years younger than Susie, yet he had an overwhelming desire to pour it all out to her.

  ‘I’d been an absentee husband and father, always off on another assignment,’ he said gruffly. ‘I suppose I deserve punishment for neglecting my family, but I loved Susie so much and I never got the chance to tell her.’

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘We were all washed up.’ He turned away so Charity couldn’t see his expression. ‘The last time I came home she’d got another man and she’d changed the locks on the door. I resigned myself to that, she deserved more than a husband who was never there. But I was angry because she turned the girls against me too. So I went back to Africa on another assignment for the National Geographic.’

  Charity nodded.

  ‘I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve stayed longer and tried to talk to her properly. Once I was in Africa I could see that. So I cut the job short, intending to handle it better this time, give her the divorce she wanted and make my peace with her and the girls. That’s why I’ve been staying here, trying to get through to her. I rang, and rang, our home in Norfolk, but there was no reply. I thought maybe she had taken a holiday, then I wondered if she’d moved. Then finally yesterday I rang our family solicitor and he told me what had happened.’

  Charity could think of nothing to say. She felt it all – the first time since parting with Daniel that she’d felt anything for anyone. But she couldn’t find the words to say it.

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this.’ He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. ‘You’re too young.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she whispered. ‘I’m the right person to tell, age has nothing to do with it. I know how you feel. You must talk about it.’

  He looked at her, really looked this time because her words had a ring of complete understanding. Now he saw for the first time that her eyes were sad, he remembered one of the other chambermaids telling him she was strange because she had nothing to do with anyone, and he knew suddenly she’d been to the same dark place as him.

  ‘You do know, don’t you?’ he whispered.

  She nodded.

  Outside the wind had dropped, watery January sun played on the windows and traffic hummed. But all Charity was aware of was this man’s pain, the sound of muffled sobbing and a feeling that there was more to this meeting than pure chance.

  She wanted to make him tell her all about his daughter, but sensed that he couldn’t, not yet, just as she couldn’t speak of Daniel.

  His sobs gradually subsided.

  ‘I haven’t cried since I was a child,’ he said. ‘Whatever must you think of me!’

  ‘I think you are a very honest man,’ she replied, stroking his hair just the way she used to do with the children. ‘Crying is good at times like this, nothing to be ashamed of.’

  He moved back from her as if suddenly recalling where they were and how it would look to someone else. ‘Will you meet me later for lunch?’

  Charity looked at him slumped against the pillows. She was touched that even in grief he was concerned about her reputation and job.

  ‘OK.’ She smiled. ‘If you feel up to it. Where shall I meet you?’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Outside Swan and Edgar’s at one. I’ll take you to the Ritz.’

  It was only back in her room that she panicked. If he’d suggested a walk in St James’s Park, or even going to the Wimpy bar that would have been all right. But the Ritz!

  As she stood by the wardrobe m
irror she saw for the first time what she had become. There was no shine in her bedraggled hair, no colour in her thin face and she knew she had nothing suitable to wear. But he needed someone. If she turned him down now when he was at a low ebb, anything might happen.

  She opened the wardrobe door and flicked through the few clothes hanging there. The blue dress she had worn to hand over Daniel and came here wearing was too summery; a pink wool dress she’d worn in the earlier part of her pregnancy was too stretched.

  Faced with embarrassing herself and him she suddenly realised how far she’d let herself go. All her underwear was grey and worn, she hadn’t bought one new item since coming here, even her shoes were down at the heel. The only things that weren’t too bad were a navy blue skirt and a pale blue sweater. Maybe if she polished her shoes they wouldn’t look too bad.

  John Marshall stood outside Swan and Edgar’s, warm in a navy blue cashmere overcoat over a dark grey suit. To his surprise he felt much better for getting up. A bath, a shave and a brisk walk through the snow in Green Park had blown away his headache.

  Out here with all the hustle and bustle of Piccadilly Circus going on around him he felt less fraught. It was good to see shoppers flocking to the January sales, undeterred by ice and snow or reports that half the country had come to a standstill. Little office girls were rushing in and out of sandwich bars, swathed in scarves and hats. Tourists photographed each other against Eros, just as they did day in and day out all year, and cars, buses and taxis forced their way round the busy Circus with their usual aggressiveness.

  A gypsy woman was trying to force tiny bunches of purple heather on to people who tried to sidestep her. Somehow the busy scene was comforting, a reminder that life went on, even though at present he found it impossible to look forward.

  John Marshall was tall, over six feet, and he could see over the heads of the crowds of people milling across the bottom of Regent Street. He spotted Charity at once.

  She hesitated by the lights, afraid to run once they’d turned amber and to his dismay he saw that she looked as forlorn and waiflike as she did in her uniform. She was wearing a shabby blue coat which was too big on the shoulders, clutching a shiny plastic handbag and her shoes slopped on her feet. She looked so young.

  John Marshall’s world was one of smart hotels, airport lounges, beautiful, well-groomed women and good restaurants. An acclaimed photographer, he’d made his name taking compelling pictures of famines, earthquakes and floods. But he observed poverty and suffering only through a lens and until yesterday he’d never known heartbreak.

  The lights turned to green and Charity hurried across the road. As he watched her she suddenly caught sight of him, smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

  Only then did he see the effort she’d made. Her white-blonde hair was tied back with a ribbon the colour of her eyes. Her rundown shoes were polished and she wore pink lipstick and a touch of rouge. Suddenly he was ashamed that he’d even noticed her clothes.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said shyly as she approached him. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you, you look so different.’

  ‘In clothes?’ He smiled down at her, noting her perfect white teeth and the clarity of her complexion.

  She blushed and dropped her eyes from his. In fact she was stunned at how smart and almost handsome he looked. Much taller than she’d realised, with the straight back of a guardsman; but even though he looked young, he had to be at least forty-five, she thought.

  ‘Let’s go then.’ He put one hand on her arm.

  She didn’t move, but looked up at him with fear-filled eyes.

  ‘Not the Ritz,’ she stammered. ‘It’s too posh and I don’t look right. Can we go somewhere else?’

  ‘I’d gone off that idea myself,’ he reassured her, all at once seeing the place he usually went for celebration lunches as inappropriate. ‘Not because you don’t look right, but because it’s stuffy. I know a place in Chelsea that’s much nicer.’

  In the taxi John made small talk, pointing out landmarks and telling her about restaurants he’d visited. When Susie was Charity’s age she’d been full of chatter about records, clothes and boys, and he wondered again what had driven such an obviously intelligent girl, who spoke so well, into a job as a chambermaid.

  The Marco Polo, an Italian restaurant just off King’s Road, wasn’t quite as intimidating as Charity had expected. Very simply decorated with plain white walls and red and white checked tablecloths, it had a jolly atmosphere. There were a great many businessmen lunching there, but at the next table to the one the waiter ushered them to in a corner, there was a family with two children and that took the edge off Charity’s fear.

  Faced with a menu in Italian, she could only stare in horror.

  ‘Do you like Italian food?’ John asked gently, sensing her dilemma.

  ‘I’ve only ever had spaghetti.’

  ‘Well that’s a bit hard to eat in public. Shall I order for you? Chicken, perhaps?’

  He rattled off an order to the waiter in a stream of Italian, and Charity listened in awe.

  ‘Have you lived there, Mr Marshall?’ she asked.

  ‘You can’t call me Mr Marshall after what we’ve been through,’ he said. ‘It’s John, and no I’ve never lived in Italy, but I’ve worked there quite a bit. That Italian might sound impressive to you, but believe me I only know enough to order a meal, or book a hotel room.’

  She sipped the red wine the waiter poured into her glass. She had only ever tasted red wine once before and that was at the cottage. Compared with that vinegary stuff, this was nice!

  A few more sips and she felt easier. No one could see her shoes tucked under the table and her awful coat was hung up out of sight.

  ‘Tell me all about you,’ she said. ‘From the beginning.’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything if afterwards you promise to tell me all about you! We’ve met under unfortunate circumstances, so we’re pals. That means we both have to be truthful.’

  ‘OK.’ She shrugged her shoulders and folded her arms on the table, looking earnestly at him. She could see that many of his facial lines were from a lifetime of laughter before he’d hit what Dr Cole called ‘his rut in the road’. Two deep ones ran from his nose to his mouth and there was something undeniably attractive about such a lived-in face. ‘You start.’

  ‘Well,’ he fidgeted with the stem of his glass, ‘I was born in 1913. To my horror, that makes me almost fifty. I was born in London, Highgate, the youngest of three and I was fortunate enough to have a wonderful childhood. My father was something of an explorer, always off to far-flung places, coming back with thrilling stories and strange artefacts. I went to Uppingham, a public school in Rutland, but I never ever thought of getting a “proper” job or entering the professions. I was interested in photography even then and I drifted off to Paris as a young man to starve in a garret.’

  Charity’s eyes widened.

  ‘I didn’t starve,’ he added. ‘Instead I found a job in an art gallery. But when my father died in 1938 I had to face up to the real world. He left very little money and Mother had to sell the house and move out to a cottage in the country. Next thing was the war and I joined the air force. They channelled me into aerial photography because I was useless at everything else. I met Hester in 1940 at a dance and we got married in 1941, Susie was born a year later, Anna my second daughter in ’44.’

  Charity saw pain flicker into his eyes and again wondered whether they’d done the right thing to come to such a public place. But it was too late now to change their minds.

  ‘Were you happy together then?’ something prompted her to ask.

  ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully as if he wasn’t sure. ‘I have to admit with hindsight it was more a marriage of companionship than deep love, but I suppose the war distorted things. Hester moved out of London to Sussex when she was expecting Susie and I couldn’t get home very much. I missed so much of the girls when they were small, but then so did every other father at that time.’ />
  The waiter brought their food. Charity had never tasted anything so wonderful as the chicken filled with garlic butter.

  ‘But after the war?’

  ‘I began travelling,’ John said, filling her glass yet again. ‘I spent a great deal of time in Germany and Poland and my first successes came then through pictures of Birkenau that I took for the National Geographic.’

  ‘And your wife and girls stayed at home?’

  John nodded.

  ‘I was making very little money in those days. I wasn’t motivated by money anyway, and Hester inherited a small amount of money from her family. I suppose while I was away we were growing further and further apart. Hester could never really understand my need to travel, or my love for my job.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t consider your family important?’

  John had the grace to look slightly sheepish. ‘I thought children were women’s work and my father had always been a wanderer, so I saw nothing wrong in what I was doing. Mother had always been delighted when Father came home, she made a fuss of him, and I suppose I thought this was the way all marriages should be.’

  ‘I bet your wife got fed up with you.’

  ‘She did,’ John agreed. ‘But each time she brought up the subject I whisked her and the girls off with me for a bit, and I thought that kept her happy. About ten years ago I started to make a name for myself and commissions began to pour in. I’d be home for a week, then suddenly I’d be off to India or Africa. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was in Mexico last year when I got a letter from Hester asking for a divorce. She’d met someone else. I should have flown home there and then, but I didn’t, I stayed another three months to finish what I was doing and wrote to her saying we’d discuss it when I got back.’

  Privately Charity was amazed that he could be so thoughtless and self-centred.

  ‘I know,’ he agreed, seeing her expression. ‘I deserved everything. That was when I got home to find Hester had changed the locks.’