A Season of Secrets

by Margaret Pemberton

  Carrie handed her another glass of hot lemon, honey and saffron and began to tell her about Charlie and Jim, Hermione and Miss Calvert.

  Elizabeth told her about another of her childhood homes, Glamis Castle in Scotland. ‘I remember once, when I was about ten,’ she said, in a room that was now lamplit, ‘when, with a coachman by my side, I was driving a pair of horses and they started to run away with me. We were hanging on, making straight for the gates – which were shut – and I said to our coachman, “What are we going to do?” and he took his bowler hat off and said, “We must trust in the Lord, Lady Elizabeth.” And with that we hung on and, do you know, as we got nearer the gates they opened, and we flew through them at great speed. Wasn’t that amazing? I’ve trusted in the Lord ever since.’

  Carrie told Elizabeth about Charlie. About how she and Violet had been in the post office when he was being name-called by the women queuing up in it, and of how Blanche had taken her in the silver Rolls-Royce to Charlie’s home and offered him employment at Gorton. She told her of how Lord Fenton had arranged for Charlie to be treated by the great Mr Gillies, and of the silver mask Charlie had worn in between his many facial reconstruction operations, and of how it had made him famous all over their part of the Dales.

  That night Elizabeth slept soundly and in the morning, when Dr Todd came to see her, he announced that her temperature was back to normal.

  ‘I had a very good nurse,’ Elizabeth said to him.

  ‘I’m grateful to hear it, Your Grace,’ he said, with a smile in Carrie’s direction. ‘You are completely fit enough to travel, and may I take the liberty of wishing you and your husband a safe journey.’

  Assuming the role now of a lady’s maid, not a nurse, Carrie helped Elizabeth to dress. Standing behind Elizabeth as she sat at the dressing table, Carrie fastened the duchess’s three-strand pearl necklace for her.

  Elizabeth smiled at her through the mirror. ‘In all the times in my life that I have been unwell, I can never remember a happy side to it, as there has been this time. Talking to you brought back so many good memories of my childhood, and I so enjoyed hearing all about Hal, and the voles, and men in silver masks.’ She lifted her hand, taking hold of Carrie’s. ‘Thank you so much for these last forty-eight hours, Carrie. When the day comes when you can legitimately be addressed as “Mrs”, please let me know so that I may send you my good wishes.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  JULY 1936

  ‘In Spain the government has asked France for assistance in suppressing the Nationalist insurgents led by General Franco. The Nationalists have, in turn, asked for assistance from Italy and Germany.’

  Thea was in Mount Street, listening to the early-morning BBC news.

  ‘Opinion at home is that the Republican government is unlikely to receive help from France, which is opposed to any intervention in Spain’s internal affairs. It remains to be seen what the Nationalist emissaries will bring back from Rome and Berlin’. There was a slight pause and then, in a different tone, ‘King Edward’s coronation is to take place on May the twelfth next year.’

  Thea turned the wireless off. King George had died in January and, incredible though it still seemed to her, her friend, Prince Edward, was now King Edward VIII.

  She wondered if she would receive an invitation to the coronation. She wondered just what kind of status would be accorded at the coronation to Wallis. Most of all, though, she wondered what help would be given to Spain’s left-wing government by Britain’s Labour Party and Communist Party.

  The only person who would know what – if anything – was being planned was Hal. She had his telephone number, though pride ensured that she seldom rang it. She hesitated long enough to smoke a cigarette, then dialled his number.

  He was still living in his little flat in Orange Street at the back of the National Gallery and she could visualize the telephone ringing in his minute hallway, and Hal coming to answer it, from where? The bedroom? The sitting room? The equally small kitchen?

  ‘Hal Crosby,’ he said abruptly, when he finally answered its insistent ringing.

  Her stomach muscles tightened as they always did when she heard his voice. She wondered if he was dressed and, if so, what he was wearing. She wondered if his hair was still wet with the water he used every morning in an effort to tame it.

  ‘It’s me, Thea,’ she said, when she knew she could trust her voice to sound steady. ‘I’ve just been listening to the early-morning news. There’s no longer any pretending Spain isn’t in a state of full-out civil war. I’d like to know what help the left in Britain will be giving the Republican forces. Can we meet and talk?’

  ‘I’ll see you in the Hand and Racquet in half an hour’s time.’ The line went dead.

  It was the terse way Hal handled all telephone calls and, knowing it, she replaced the receiver on its rest, unfazed.

  The Hand and Racquet in Whitcomb Street was Hal’s local, and the kind of traditional pub he liked best. Licensing hours in Soho bore little relation to those in the rest of London, and it didn’t surprise her that Hal would be using the Hand and Racquet as a meeting place long before the time when it officially opened its doors.

  Pausing only long enough to put on a bright-red jacket and snatch up her handbag, she was out of the house in under five minutes. From Mount Street to Whitcomb Street was a twenty-minute walk. She would easily be there on time.

  When she entered the pub it was to find it deserted, apart from an elderly Mrs Mop sweeping the wooden floor, and Hal. He was seated at a corner table, nursing a pint of Guinness.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked.

  There was no one behind the bar serving and Thea said, wondering if Hal had been given free run of the bar, ‘An orange juice would be nice.’

  ‘D’you hear that, Elsie?’ Hal called across to the cleaning lady. ‘An orange juice, if you can manage one.’

  The cleaning lady gave a near-toothless grin. ‘Only for you, Mr Crosby. I wouldn’t do it for any other bugger.’

  Hal cracked with laughter and Thea said, ‘Spain, Hal. What’s the latest news you have?’

  ‘The latest news is that the Civil Guard has joined ranks with the Nationalists, as have a good half of the Assault Guard.’

  The Assault Guard comprised special police units that had been created by the government five years earlier, to deal with urban violence. That they were so divided in loyalty showed just how dire the situation was.

  ‘It looks as if the Nationalists are receiving support in huge swathes of the north, from Vigo to Burgos and down to Salamanca, and that they have support in a smaller section of the south, around Cadiz and Seville. The problem is that there aren’t enough British reporters in Spain sending back reliable news.’

  ‘And what help are left-wing organizations giving the Republicans? There must be something you and I can actively do, to help keep the government in power.’

  ‘There’s talk of international brigades being formed to fight on the Republican side, but so far nothing has been set up.’

  ‘If there is, will you join one of them?’

  ‘No.’

  It was so not the response she had expected that Thea’s eyes widened. ‘But why not? Surely none of us can sit idly by, while a fascist like Franco is threatening to put an end to a left-wing government?’

  Until now Hal’s demeanour had been as serious as hers. Now, however, he grinned. ‘What’s the matter, Thea love? Disappointed in me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said unhesitatingly. ‘Socialists and communists in Spain – men, women and children – are being shelled from the ground and bombed from the air by fellow countrymen who are right-wing fascists and want a military dictatorship; and even if there is an opportunity of helping them, you say you aren’t going to!’

  ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t going to help them. I said I wouldn’t be doing it by picking up a rifle.’

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘By being what I am. A reporter. I’m going out to Spa
in as a war correspondent. I’m just waiting for my visa.’

  He drained his glass of Guinness and then held her eyes with his. ‘Instead of simply spouting off about things from the safety of London, you could do something else, Thea.’

  ‘What?’

  There was a sudden flexing of the muscles along his jawline. ‘You could come with me.’

  For Thea it was so unexpected, so momentous, that the world seemed to stand still.

  She didn’t ask him if he meant what he’d said. She didn’t need to. The look in his gold-flecked eyes told her he had.

  She said simply, ‘Yes.’ And a beat of a second later. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why now?’ he asked, a raw edge to his voice, not misunderstanding the question. ‘Because twelve years of being tormented by loving you and never holding you, kissing you, making love to you, is twelve years too bloody long. Because I thought you’d marry within your own class. Become Mrs Kyle Anderson and be happy. Because I asked Carrie to marry me and she very sensibly turned me down, saying that although she was sure I loved her, I wasn’t in love with her, that I was in love with you. Because as usual she’s right – Carrie’s always right about everything – and because I was thirty in February and you’ll be thirty in a week’s time and life is too short to waste any more of it. And last, but by no means least, because when I go to Spain, I’d like to bloody well have you with me.’

  ‘I’ll have to have a visa.’

  After all the years of waiting for Hal to come to his senses eventually and realize that, no matter how hard he tried to live without her, doing so was not only pointless, but impossible, it was a response so mundane she could hardly believe she’d made it.

  The pub was empty except for them and, at the far end of the public bar, Elsie, swabbing down tables. Sunlight streamed in golden shafts through the Hand and Racquet’s windows. Thea had never felt happier and was certain she never could be happier, no matter how long she lived.

  ‘I love you,’ she said thickly as he pulled her roughly towards him, and the next moment his hair was coarse beneath her fingers, his hands were hard upon her body and his mouth was dry as her tongue slipped past his lips.

  That evening, in Berlin, Olivia was dining with Dieter in the elegant dining room of the Goldener Frieden, one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants. A small band was playing romantic music. A sea of chandeliers sparkled. Dieter’s fellow male diners were all wearing white tie and tails or high-ranking Nazi uniforms. The women were in lavish evening gowns, their ears, throats and wrists ablaze with jewels.

  It was a rarity for them to be dining alone and not with friends, and Olivia had been looking forward to the occasion for several days.

  ‘To us, meine Liebling,’ Dieter said, raising his champagne flute to hers.

  Olivia was just about to say something loving to him across the table when she became aware that the American wife of one of Dieter’s friends was making an angry beeline towards them.

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ she began, putting her champagne flute down.

  Dieter swung his head round to see what had startled her and immediately jackknifed to his feet, saying in a strangled voice as the woman, enveloped in a cloud of Mitsouko perfume, reached their table, ‘For the love of God, Connie! Not here!’

  ‘Why not?’

  In a slinky green lamé gown that left one shoulder bare and slithered over her slender curves, Connie Foxton was a woman on the warpath. Her blonde hair was held away from her face on one side, falling on the other in a long, smooth, shoulder-length wave. The blazing rage in her eyes was that of a woman scorned.

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded again. ‘It’s as good a place as any. And you can have this back!’ She wrenched a bracelet from her wrist and flung it down on the table. ‘And these!’ She yanked a pair of long earrings from her ears and sent them skittering across the starched white tablecloth.

  Around them diners had stopped eating and were staring. A waiter who had been approaching Dieter and Olivia’s table with hors d’oeuvres backed away.

  Still not understanding just what was taking place, Olivia stared wide-eyed from Connie Foxton to Dieter.

  Dieter said tautly, his face bloodless, ‘You’re making an exhibition of yourself, Connie.’ Then he said to Olivia, who was still seated, ‘I’m going outside to speak with Mrs Foxton.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re not,’ Connie flashed back. ‘I’m staying right here! And I didn’t come here to talk to you – you two-timing Kraut bastard! I came here to tell your wife some home truths about you.’

  Olivia pushed her chair away from the table and tried to stand, but her legs had turned to jelly and wouldn’t take her weight. She knew Connie was drunk, but that wasn’t explanation enough for her behaviour. She didn’t want to hear what Connie was about to say. She didn’t want to know. She felt as if she was standing on a precipice and that any minute she would be over the edge and falling.

  ‘Connie, please!’ she heard Dieter say in a low, urgent voice.

  Ignoring him, Connie said to Olivia, ‘You think he’s wonderful, don’t you? Well, let me tell you a few home truths, honey. He’s as faithless to you as a buck-rabbit on heat.’

  Understanding now only too well, Olivia somehow found the strength to rise to her feet. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, aware that every last person in the large restaurant was riveted by the scene taking place. ‘Would you take me home please, Dieter?’

  There was nothing Dieter wanted more than to be outside the restaurant and no longer the object of all those prurient eyes.

  But Connie barred their way, swaying unsteadily on her feet. ‘D’you want to know who else he’s screwed around with over the years? Well, even if you don’t want to know, I’m going to tell you. Frau Reni Tillich. Countess Marianne Thimm. Clarita von Strempel.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her!’ There was desperation in Dieter’s voice. ‘She’s drunk and vicious and out of her mind!’

  ‘I may be drunk, and I may be vicious, but I’m not out of my mind, and your wife knows I’m not, don’t you, honey?’

  The manager of the restaurant was making his way to their table with a backup of waiters.

  Dieter grasped hold of Olivia’s arm. ‘Start walking for the door,’ he hissed at her. ‘Start walking now!’

  Olivia didn’t move. ‘But Reni and Marianne and Clarita are my friends!’ She looked from Connie to Dieter. ‘They’re my friends, Dieter! How could you?’

  He was cornered, too close to losing all dignity by being publicly manhandled out of the city’s most exclusive restaurant to even attempt a denial.

  ‘You think that’s bad enough?’ Connie persisted. ‘That’s nothing. He’s also spent years bedding your sister on and off.’

  ‘My sister?’ There was incredulity in Olivia’s voice. ‘Thea?’ For one brief blissful moment she was certain Dieter was right and that Connie Foxton was truly out of her mind. No one in a million years could imagine Thea doing anything so despicable.

  ‘Thea?’ Connie looked blank. ‘Who’s Thea? I mean your Nazi-loving tart of a sister. I mean that so-called Queen of Babelsberg, Violet Fenton.’

  ‘Violet?’

  Olivia was over the edge of the precipice now and falling into an unimaginable abyss. Slowly, and with a face like parchment, she turned to Dieter.

  ‘Is it true?’ The question was unnecessary. The agony on his face showed her it was true. ‘Oh my God!’ she whispered as the restaurant spun dizzily around her. ‘Oh my dear, dear God!’

  She wrenched her arm from his hold, snatched her evening bag from the table and pushed blindly past Connie Foxton. Her entire world had caved in, and in a way that was so horrendous, so sickening, so almost beyond belief that she didn’t know how she was going to survive it.

  Without pausing to retrieve her fur, she rushed out of the restaurant into the street. Taxicabs were lined up outside and, despite perilously high heels, Olivia sprinted for the nearest one, yanking the door open and saying breat
hlessly to the driver, ‘Number nine Bellevuestrasse. Fast!’

  As he pulled away from the kerb she saw Dieter race out of the restaurant after her, come to a foundering halt in the taxi’s wake and then turn, running towards the taxi rank.

  There was nowhere else for her to go but home, but at home, if she reached there before Dieter, she would be able to lock herself in their bedroom. She would be able to pack a suitcase and in the morning she would leave him, and Germany. She would catch the first train possible to Ostend and she would go home to Gorton.

  ‘Please drive even faster!’ she said to the driver, fumbling in her evening bag for money. ‘I have to get home before my husband.’

  Her distress was so obvious that he didn’t need telling twice. He sped up the Kurfürstendamm, made a sharp left and another sharp left into the street skirting the Tiergarten, the city’s park. They skirted the zoo, and then embassies flashed past: the Czech Embassy, the Swedish Embassy, the Italian Embassy. Then a sharp right and they were entering Bellevuestrasse.

  As he squealed to a halt outside number nine, Olivia kicked off her shoes, threw all the money she had in her purse into his lap and, with her shoes in her hand, ran barefoot into the home that had, until that evening, meant so much to her.

  ‘Gräfn! Was ist los?’ the night-maid called out to her in alarm.

  Olivia ignored her. Through the door she’d left open behind her she could hear Dieter’s taxi squealing to a halt.

  Hiking her ankle-length gown above her knees, she took the stairs two at a time, running for their bedroom. By the time she reached the door, he was in the house.

  ‘Olivia!’ he shouted as he began pounding up the stairs. ‘Lieber Christ! Wait and listen to me!’

  Before he’d reached the landing she had slammed the door shut and turned the key in its lock. Then, shivering violently with shock, cold and anguish, she sank down in a huddle against it.