The Drowning People

by Richard Mason

  Perhaps Ella saw it too, for by that stage I was in the newspapers almost as frequently as she had been, though for different reasons. Perhaps she looked at my image as I looked at hers, and read in my eyes the signs of a suffering which mirrored her own. Perhaps … But what is the use of wondering now? In my craze for punishment I had pushed Ella from my life; and though I cherished her memory still, though I thought still with frightening pleasure of the way she smiled, or of how she lit her cigarettes, I was separated from her by three years of painful guilt, a barrier which I, unaided, could and would not cross. Perhaps she followed the progress of my career with excitement; perhaps she bought my recordings and tried to relive the afternoons we had spent together, in my tiny attic, over the course of that golden summer we shared. All this is possible.

  What is certain is that I read of her with interest in the intervals between my practice and recording commitments; but interested though I was, I could not be excited (as I hoped that she might be for me), for the news of the Harcourts was not good. Press interest in them had died down since Ella’s return from France; but it picked up again and reached new heights after the publication of Sarah’s book—a life of her grandmother—which received much public attention and a certain amount of critical acclaim. The Times Literary Supplement pronounced it “eloquent in its portrayal of the unstable brilliance of a remarkable woman,” according to the jacket of my copy at least; and after its launch photographers once again trained their lenses on the house in Chester Square in the hope of capturing the fragile beauty of Seton Castle’s youngest heir.

  For a week or more the journalists were disappointed; but then a lucky reporter in Harley Street caught Ella in tears, emerging from her psychiatrist’s, and the newspapers leaped with glee on both photograph and story. So great, in fact, was the public interest which greeted the ensuing articles that even the broadsheets ran small columns on the Harcourts and their history, while tabloid fantasy on the subject of curses and castles knew no bounds. Throughout the summer that followed my graduation, Ella and her family assumed an importance in national gossip second only to that enjoyed by the Royal family; and the various characters in their drama were discussed everywhere with an unthinking, good-natured intrusion which it made my blood boil to hear.

  Even Camilla Boardman, so indiscreet about her friends in private, felt bound in public to talk loudly about what nonsense it all was; thus subtly underlining her intimacy with celebrity to anyone who cared to hear, while maintaining at the same time a strict loyalty towards her friends. The years had not changed Camilla, whatever they had done to me; and as her twenties progressed she remained as perfectly curled, as flawlessly turned-out, as effortlessly confident as she had ever been. Her emphases did not decrease in frequency or in strength; her enthusiasms did not dim; her lack of punctuation remained legendary. She remained true to her promise and did not marry Ed Saunders. Instead, with a rare show of mettle, she left home and took out a bank loan; and when I graduated from the Guildhall, Camilla & Co. had already been open—in smart premises of elaborate design on the Fulham Road—for some time. Originally a dress shop, it had gradually become an outlet for Camilla’s own creative flair; and soon she had four seamstresses under her and her clothes were being worn by a wider clientele than that provided by her mother’s friends and her own.

  I, less in awe of her as I grew older, saw her often during those dark times: for Camilla demanded an absolute attention which distracted me from the pressures of my own mind; and I was grateful for the unfailing diversion from my own thoughts which she offered. Never having known a moment’s guilt herself; never, indeed, having experienced any mortification stronger than that of being asked to wait unduly long at her dentist’s, Camilla was unvaryingly cheerful in a way that was balm to my depressed spirits. And though she must have itched to know the details of my time in France (for she knew, I think, that I had been there with Ella), she forbore from asking for them with a tact which surprised and pleased me; which made me, in fact, reconsider my view of her and decide that I liked her wholeheartedly. Over the Boardman dinner table I heard, of course, occasional snippets of the news about Ella; but as I did not encourage them, the daughter of the house derived no satisfaction from their retelling and they soon dried up.

  I did not encourage them because, easy though her company was, I could enjoy Camilla’s conversation on certain subjects only; and her telling me, in hushed tones, that Ella Harcourt was utterly miserable, and secretive in her misery too, was more than I could bear to hear. Reliable, uncomplicated friendship was what I needed at that time; and by a happy chance it was what Camilla did best. Her warmth endeared her to me (as my willingness to listen endeared me to her, I suspect); and over the years our superficial friendship blossomed into a closer one, into an amicable bond which came to be important to us both, a bond which lasted well into the early years of my marriage.

  I do not digress when I speak of Camilla. It is important for me to place her in some kind of context once again; it is vital that I remember the precise sequence of events which led up to and beyond Ella’s trial. Detail is important to me now, for so much happened so quickly, you see; and I must make one last effort to remember. I must penetrate the haze of concerts and competitions, of radio interviews and relentless rehearsals which obscure my view of those few weeks before I won the Hibberdson. I must retrace the progression of my friendship with Camilla and remember my partnership with Regina Boardman, in whose charity concerts I regularly played.

  Impervious as ever to all obstacles, the fund-raising efforts of this redoubtable lady went from strength to strength as my degree proceeded; and although memories of Eric prevented me from frequenting her “mornings,” I was always grateful for her kindness and for the expertise which she had once shown in her management of the Guildhall authorities. I owed Mendl’s teaching, after all, partly to Regina’s influence; and I did not forget this or the fact that she had given me my first break. So I played, when asked, in a series of her benefit concerts, my growing fame drawing ever larger audiences; and although I declined to play again at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square, I came to know the interiors of a good many other London churches in this way, churches which I might otherwise never have seen.

  But my architectural opportunities are not what concern me here; I have no time to dwell on afternoons long past spent rehearsing in icy naves and crumbling side chapels. I must remember Regina’s words after the annual meeting of her Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings. I must see her again, legs neatly crossed, at her desk in the drawing room at Cadogan Square. I must remember the purposeful tones of her commanding voice; the massive immobility of her sculpted hair.

  She has returned from her meeting bright with enthusiasm at a new idea; an idea that involves a new series of concerts, held this time in private houses and preceded by champagne receptions; an idea which, she assures me, can’t fail to double the efficacy of her fund-raising. “After all, darling,” she says with an arch smile, “what is the use of having friends with large houses if one doesn’t use them?”

  There is a brief silence while I, to whom the point has never occurred before, can do nothing but ask “What indeed?” And inevitably I fill the expectant pause by volunteering my services for the first of these concerts, an event which I am told is set for the day after the Hibberdson semifinals.

  “It will be at Cheverel House,” says Regina with pardonable pride; and she goes on to reward the prompt offer of my time with some mild flattery which I try not to hear. “Just think what fun it will be to play to a friendly audience for a change,” she finishes, smiling. “You do far too many competitions, James.”

  I am tempted to say that the Hibberdson is my first; but before I can speak Regina is saying that I’ll have carried off the prize before I know it and that then I really will be too grand for the likes of her.

  Thinking that nothing and no one could be too grand for the likes of Regina Boardman, I smile politely at the complimen
t and promise to come back in a week to finalize the program.

  “That would be splendid,” Regina says, rising from her seat to kiss me. “I don’t know where my appeal would be without you. I’m so grateful, James, for the way you share your genius with us.”

  And I, uncomfortable with such gratitude from others, make my excuses and leave; and I go home and take out my violin, which I play all afternoon and well into the evening, frightened of sitting alone with my thoughts, Regina’s praise burning my ears with its well-intentioned kindness.

  It was a busy summer for me, that first one after graduation; but because I continued to find my best escape in music, I did not resent the hours of intense practice which recording commitments (and my progress through the rounds of the Hibberdson prize) demanded. I found freedom in the endless hours of hard work which my life required of me; and in the concentrations of performance I found a release from myself, a release which sustained me through the dark times.

  I did not see Ella, though I read and thought of her frequently; and I might never have tried to see her had not Fortune, with characteristic cruelty, devised otherwise and tempted me into undoing the work of years; into unleashing the pent-up desires of so many lonely months. But Fortune did; and she chose the night of Regina Boardman’s concert at Cheverel House to do so, a night that found me at my weakest, trying guiltily to suppress my delight at having secured a place in the finals of the Hibberdson. I still had not resolved my attitude to success, you see; I still had not learned how to accept it with anything approaching ease. And as I played on an improvised stage at the end of a long room filled with respectful faces, I tried not to think of Eric’s face, of his glassy stare as his body swung slowly up the sides of that quarry in the chill wind.

  I did not see my audience as I played to them; I did not distinguish more than the blur of their heads and the enthusiastic clatter of their applause as I bowed my thanks for their attention. I played well to them, but cautiously; and after my performance I allowed myself to be led meekly, numbly, to a small dark room where a glass of champagne waited for me. And there, telling the attendant that I needed to be alone for a moment, I remember sitting with my head in my hands, unwilling to face the congratulations of those who had spent their evening listening to me, steeling myself for the smiling and the handshaking which I knew would be necessary before I could leave.

  “Darling, you were marvelous.”

  The creaking of the door told me that I had been found, and I knew that Regina Boardman’s embraces could not be far behind her daughter’s.

  “Come out and enjoy your success,” Camilla said to me, eyes shining. “Everyone’s mad about you. Mummy’s told them all that you’re going to win the Hibberdson and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you did, after the way you’ve played tonight.” She waited, smiling, as I put my violin into its case. “Come on, James, don’t be bashful,” she whispered as she slipped her arm through mine and opened the door onto the landing. “You’ve got to get used to all this if you’re going to be famous, you know.”

  “I’m not going to be famous,” I said, irritated for once by her cheeriness.

  “But you are already,” she said simply, leading the way out of the room. “And there’s not much you can do about it now.”

  Certainly I could not politely avoid the crowd which waited for me on the stairs; and so I smiled grimly as the men shook my hand and introduced me to their wives: deftly made-up women who told me, according to personality, that I was either as dashing or as good as they had been led to believe. The audience that night was an invited one, you see: a selection of Regina’s richest and most influential friends; and her guests seemed to take an introduction to the performer as one of the unspoken rights of their expensive admission. So I was duly introduced, for Mrs. Boardman never disappointed her public; and as I was led slowly down the overcrowded stairs, smiling awkwardly, trying not to hear the words of adulation, I looked forward to my departure and to solitude as a man in a desert dreams of water.

  It was only as I neared the last of the couples waiting to meet me, only as I turned to complete the last flight of the staircase, that I saw Alexander and Pamela Harcourt standing near the end of the line; and I saw as I did so that three years had changed them sadly. Though Pamela’s coiffure was as complicated as ever, though her fingers still wore their large rings, she had an air of weariness which elaborate grooming and expensive clothes could not disguise. And I saw white where the knuckles of her bony hand gripped her husband’s arm, an arm which showed thin and almost frail through the sleeve of his dinner jacket. Alexander had lost his vigor also, I saw that at once; I saw too that his eyes no longer shone with the confidence of one used to the admiring glances of others. He looked gaunt and old; and his hand, as it stretched to shake mine, shook slightly.

  “Hello,” I said, thinking of the last time we had met, in the lobby of the Grand Hotel Europa, when Ella’s troubles were just beginning.

  “Hello, Mr. Farrell. How good to see you again.” It was Alexander who spoke, and his voice was older than I remembered it, too; older and sadder, I thought.

  “We did enjoy heating you play.” Pamela smiled at me: a formal movement of made-up lips.

  There was a moment’s silence between us. Then I thanked them both for coming and made as if to move down the staircase; but Alexander’s fingers caught at the sleeve of my coat.

  “Could I … see you for a moment? In private?” His blue eyes met mine steadily.

  I said nothing.

  “Please.”

  I felt Regina coming down the stairs behind me, ready to move me on.

  “I’ve almost written to you before now,” said Alexander quickly, seeing her also. “Please. I can’t tell you how much I’d appreciate a few moments alone.”

  The quiet dignity of Ella’s father touched me, for Alexander’s aging face had a look about it which caught his daughter’s exactly; and I nodded. “Of course,” I said, as I moved away down the last of the stairs.

  He was waiting for me by the steps of the house as I left it; and I saw Pamela’s face in a disappearing taxi as her husband quickened his stride to match mine and walked with me down the road towards the tube station. There was a moment of awkward silence; then Alexander spoke, and as he did so I heard that his voice was trembling.

  “Something is very wrong with my daughter,” he said slowly.

  More silence.

  “What do you mean?” I asked at last, though I knew.

  “I mean that she hasn’t been the same since she went to France with you and that poor boy who died.”

  We walked on a few yards, neither of us speaking.

  “You mustn’t think that I blame you,” her father continued. “I was worried about Ella before she went away. Even then she wasn’t behaving like the person I knew. But when she came back she was much worse. She wouldn’t talk to Pamela or to me; she wanted to be alone as much as possible. She seemed to have lost her interest in life.” He paused. “We thought at first that that Frenchman’s death…. What was his name?”

  “Eric,” I said quietly.

  “Quite so. We thought that Eric’s death had upset her, as well it might.”

  Another pause.

  “So we gave her time; we didn’t press things. But she got worse and worse. She stopped seeing anyone; she seemed to lose the ability to enjoy herself. And that was hard, because Ella had always taken such a delight in life before that. She seemed so happy around the time of her engagement.”

  Alexander looked down; and as he did so I thought of the days and nights of that passionate summer when Ella and I had thought ourselves immortal.

  “We all tried to help her,” he went on. “Her cousin Sarah, in particular, was a great source of strength. But now Ella won’t see anyone. And all this newspaper attention doesn’t help, of course. She spends all day alone now, in her room. She won’t talk to me anymore. She…”

  But he could not speak.

  “Please
James.” His eyes turned to meet mine, and I saw that they were wet with tears. “I’m worried about my little girl. I’ve no idea what to do. I feel like I’m losing her. And the only person she talks of, the only person she says she wants to see, is you.”

  We were at Notting Hill Gate now and it had started to rain.

  “I’ve almost written so many times…. And then tonight, seeing you, I felt I had to tell you. She says you don’t answer her letters and I’ve been anxious not to interfere. But now I’m worried. If only you would see her, it might make a difference.”

  There was silence again.

  “It’s worth a try at least, isn’t it?” he said; and there was something tragic about the pleading of this middle-aged man.

  “What is there that I can do?” I said slowly, more to myself than to Alexander.

  Eagerly he grabbed my arm. “Write to her, James. Telephone her. Come to see her.” He paused. “My brother is giving a party at Seton next month. Bring her to that.”

  I shook my head.

  His eyes fell. “Please James, do something. Don’t abandon her like this.”

  There was a long silence as I stood, my head reeling. “All right,” I said at last. “I’ll write to her. Tell her that I’ll write to her.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.” Alexander held out his hand to me. I shook it and our eyes met.

  “Good-bye,” I said, trying to smile. And turning quickly, without another word, I went down the steps and into the Underground.