The Infinite Air

by Fiona Kidman

  The house was not all Jean had dreamed of: the one she had planned in her imagination cost more than they could afford. Nellie kept a careful eye on the stocks and shares she had managed with such skill and thrift over the years. ‘Totally impractical,’ she said, when she saw the plans, and what the house would cost.

  They settled for something more simple and conventional, not unlike an Auckland villa, with three bedrooms, a good-sized kitchen and a verandah looking out to sea. As if to stamp some sign of wealth on it, Jean had a swimming pool built that stood between the house and the sea. She chose the name Blue Horizon for the property. It was her decision, too, to have a high fence built around the house, with a gate that locked. Inside its walls, Jean planted a garden full of brilliant colour. After lunch, they sat in low-slung deck chairs, under large sun umbrellas, and read.

  A man stepped through the gate one afternoon in January, when the gate had been left ajar for the delivery of groceries. He was tall, hollow-cheeked, with a crooked nose, as if it had been broken and badly set, like a scar on his otherwise perfect features. His eyes were heavy-lidded. ‘I was just passing,’ he said, holding out his hand. As soon as he spoke, Jean noticed that his teeth were rather long, so that, after all, the symmetry of his face was flawed. She still noticed teeth, remembering the way her father used to give an involuntary glance at people’s mouths before he looked at their eyes. ‘Excuse me if I’ve interrupted anything.’

  Jean was slow to take his hand. The man could have been fifty, it was hard to tell his age, but he smelled of cigarettes and gin. ‘We were having a rest, Mr—?’

  ‘Fleming, Ian Fleming. And you’re Miss Batten?’

  Jean nodded. ‘We enjoy our own company here,’ she said crisply. She was dressed in a floral patterned halter-neck top and wide-legged shorts, not what she would have chosen to wear to receive guests. Her feet were bare.

  ‘I’ve heard of you, Commander Fleming,’ Nellie said, getting to her feet. ‘Royal Navy? You’re one of our neighbours, aren’t you?’ She was in her seventies now, but she was still strong and supple in her movements. Her hair formed a silver cloud around her shoulders when she released it from the pins that held it in place in public.

  ‘Not all the time. I come here when it’s winter in London.’

  ‘Ah yes, you’re in newspapers now, aren’t you? You own that house, Goldeneye, on the cliff at Oracabessa?’ Nellie said.

  ‘Very well observed.’

  ‘It’s a little hard not to know who’s who in this place,’ Jean said. ‘Which is why our gate is generally closed.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Fleming, with a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘I’ll remember it the next time I’m in this neck of the woods. I’d been going to suggest dinner at my place.’

  Nellie said, ‘Commander Fleming, dinner at your place would be delightful. Did you have a date in mind?’

  He suggested the following Sunday — drinks around six and they could watch the sun going down, then Violet, his cook, would prepare them some fish. He hoped they were partial to the local fish.

  Jean had moved away from her mother, her back rigid, as this conversation took place. Fleming came and stood beside her for a moment, before he left. He looked down at her, sideways, his hooded eyes resting on her. ‘I like solitude, too, as a rule. But now and then I like a change. We could get on well, you and I.’

  ‘I doubt it. I don’t care much for men.’

  ‘Really? Well, I wouldn’t have picked that.’

  Jean shut and locked the gate firmly behind him. ‘Why did you do that, Mother?’

  ‘You don’t want people to think us odd, do you?’

  ‘They do already. What does it matter?’

  ‘Well, just say I’m curious. I understand he’s the foreign manager of the Kemsley group — the Sunday Times and all that. Quite an important position.’ Nellie, who had grasped the patois of their servants more easily than Jean, often had conversations with them, and had become well informed on local matters.

  ‘You know I don’t want newspapers anywhere near me,’ Jean said.

  ‘Well, of course not. But Mr Fleming comes here for a rest. All I’m saying is, he could be interesting. Now come on, dear, you should have a swim, and I’ll brush your hair out for you afterwards. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  FLEMING’S HOUSE HAD A ROUGH, DO-IT-YOURSELF QUALITY and was Spartan in its furnishing. The canvas chairs, once blue, had faded to grey, and the concrete living room floor, originally intended to be navy blue, had turned out with an odd but not unattractive marbled effect.

  The Battens were not his only guests. A man, wearing a patterned satin tunic over white linen slacks, held out his hand before Fleming greeted them. His face was long, saturnine and smooth-skinned, his smile white. ‘My dears,’ he said, ‘welcome to Golden Eye, Nose and Throat.’

  Fleming now appeared from behind a wreath of smoke. ‘Take no notice of my dear friend Coward. He can’t resist a dig at my lodgings, although he makes himself perfectly at home when it suits him.’

  ‘I stayed here once,’ Noël Coward said. ‘It was perfectly ghastly, no hot water, iron bedsteads. And he charged me fifty pounds a week for the privilege. And he’s still got this awful stool thing to sit on at the dining room table.’

  ‘There’s hot water now,’ Fleming said, sounding grumpy.

  ‘I have my own house along the road these days,’ Coward said. ‘You’ll have to come and visit me next. Miss Batten, I expected you to be wearing wings of diamond. I’m a great admirer of yours.’

  ‘Well, nobody could admire you more than my mother,’ Jean said, laughing in spite of herself. She wore a sleeveless white silk dress, like many she had worn in the past, only shorter, the hem swirling around her knees, and silver sandals. The only diamonds she wore were her small ear studs, which she touched a trifle self-consciously.

  ‘I’ll never forget Blithe Spirit in the West End — 1941,’ Nellie said. ‘The war, and all of us so down-hearted, and then that wonderful play.’

  ‘You enjoy the theatre, Mrs Batten?’

  ‘My mother is a thwarted actress. Worse, she’s a thwarted spiritual medium,’ Jean said, mocking Nellie. ‘Of course she loved Blithe Spirit. She could see herself in it.’

  ‘Now then,’ Fleming said, fitting another cigarette in his holder, ‘what’s it to be? A vodka martini? Whisky soda?’ An ample West Indian woman had appeared from the kitchen.

  ‘Have you got champagne?’ asked Jean.

  Fleming looked put out. ‘Champagne, oh well yes, if you insist.’ There was nothing welcoming about him at all. Jean wondered why he had bothered to invite them. Nellie agreed to a whisky soda, as if to humour him.

  ‘Violet, Miss Batten wants champagne, if you please,’ he said.

  Violet put her hands on her hips. ‘Oh Lordy, Lordy,’ she muttered, as if there had been an invasion of locusts. ‘Champagne.’ But she was soon back with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  While the drinks were poured, Coward asked, in a desultory way, whereabouts exactly they had come from in New Zealand. When Jean said she was born in Rotorua, he clapped his hands.

  ‘I’ve been there,’ he said. ‘You can pop an egg in the ground and boil it.’

  ‘You could,’ Nellie said, ‘although we never tried it.’

  ‘Oh. But such a bonus, hot water everywhere. Although I’ve heard you boil up some poor devils out for a walk as well.’

  ‘We did have to keep an eye on Jean. She was a very adventurous little girl.’

  ‘I can imagine. I have to say, in spite of all the domestic possibilities, I wouldn’t find it compensation for having to live immediately on top of the hidden fires of the earth.’

  Dinner was now served, conch gumbo and fried octopus tentacles with tartare sauce. ‘Violet’s food is perfectly vile, too,’ Coward said. ‘Fleming, pour Miss Batten some more champagne.’ They were all perched on the narrow banquette seating that ran along either side of the table.

  ‘So
what did you do in the war, Miss Batten?’ Fleming said.

  ‘I worked in munitions until I was released to give talks for the war effort. I raised a considerable amount of money.’ Fleming appeared to be listening intently, but he made no comment. ‘I spoke at factories and dockyards, textile mills, town halls. I went to coal mines, and another time I spoke to thousands of dock workers at the Chatham Naval Base.’

  ‘But you didn’t fly?’

  ‘My plane was requisitioned at the outset of the war.’ Jean’s eyes filled, and she raised her napkin to catch the unbidden tears. ‘I wanted to fly for the Air Transport Auxiliary. I was disappointed, to say the least, when they turned me down.’

  ‘Now, why I wonder was that?’

  ‘There was something wrong with my eyesight, or so they said. So, as I couldn’t fly for the Auxiliary, they took my plane. I suppose I got lucky. Look at Amy Johnson, the war had hardly begun and she was killed. I was surprised at that, but then her health wasn’t good and she was a wreck after her divorce. All those things going wrong for her and they took her on. I don’t think she was fit to fly.’

  ‘Tell me then, when was your last flight?’

  ‘I flew back from Sweden, right at the outbreak of the war.’

  ‘Hmm, I see. That was over Germany. You must have been the last British plane to fly over Germany?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘How on earth did you get permission?’

  ‘I had friends.’ She fell silent again, sensing that Fleming knew more about her than she did about him.

  ‘Oh, now who might that have been?’

  ‘Really, Fleming, my dear chap. Surely Miss Batten doesn’t have to be interrogated at the dinner table,’ Coward said.

  ‘Axel Wenner-Gren,’ Jean said carefully. ‘He was suspected of being a spy for the Germans. I didn’t know that at the time.’

  ‘Ah, Göring’s mate,’ Fleming said. ‘You know he lives in the Bahamas now?’

  ‘I haven’t followed his movements. They don’t interest me.’ Jean returned to her meal.

  The conversation continued, while Jean picked around the tentacles of the octopus. If Fleming noticed his guest’s lack of composure, he made nothing of it.

  Suddenly she asked, ‘Mr Fleming, who did you spy for?’

  He looked at her and snorted what might have passed for a laugh, although there was a touch of contempt in it, too. ‘I’ve had Violet mix a special cocktail,’ he said. ‘We call it Poor Man’s Thing. Orange and lemon skins. A bottle of Three Daggers rum. In a minute she’s going to bring it through and set it alight. I’m sure you’ll like it, Miss Batten. Jean, you said I might call you Jean?’

  COWARD WAS APOLOGETIC ABOUT HIS FRIEND FLEMING. He had finished showing them around his own house, and they were settled in deep comfortable chairs. The fourth chair was occupied by a young man called Graham Payn. ‘What could I call this place, except Blue Harbour? Look at it, isn’t it magnificent? Well, blue horizon, blue harbour, we’re not meant to be original here. Mind you, Graham’s here to work, aren’t you? Graham’s got two new films coming up. He has to rehearse his lines. Don’t you, Graham?’

  ‘I am, I am, I’ve been at them all day.’

  ‘You have to practise. You can’t carry the script around when the action starts. I’ve written this screenplay with Graham especially in mind.’

  ‘How immensely fortunate to have a film written for you,’ Nellie said. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘The Astonished Heart,’ Coward said. ‘I’m going to be in it myself.’

  ‘It’s quite gloomy,’ Graham said, frowning a little. ‘I’m not sure it’s quite me.’

  Coward looked at his watch, and then at the door. ‘Graham, be a dear and fetch us some water please.’

  Graham stood up in one quick, graceful movement. He wore a deep purple shirt and a gold bracelet. Jean noticed that Coward was wearing a similar bracelet.

  Nellie raised her eyebrows slightly. Coward inclined his head towards her, as if to say that it was all right, it wasn’t catching. Or that’s what Jean thought.

  ‘Fleming will be joining us soon. He’s a good chap, really,’ he said, during Graham’s absence from the room. ‘He’s had a spot of bother. His little girl died shortly after birth.’

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ Nellie said. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know Mr Fleming was married.’

  ‘He’s not. This happened some little while ago, you understand, but the trouble still raises its head.’

  ‘So — where is the mother of the little girl now? Is she all right?’ Nellie asked.

  ‘She hasn’t been well, but I hear things are improving. She’s at home in London with her husband. This is between us, you understand. But you might find the situation here a little unorthodox. You’re bound to come across Ann, that’s the lady’s name, if we’re all going to visit one another. Something I should like, by the way.’

  ‘Ann? It’s an ordinary enough name. Would we know her?’ Nellie asked.

  ‘She’s the Viscountess Rothermere. Before that she was Lady O’Neill. Her first husband was killed in action. Goodness knows who she’ll end up as, but I do think she’s rather set on Fleming.’ He put his fingers to his lips, motioning them to silence.

  Fleming had appeared at the door, dressed as he was each time they had met him, in baggy pants and a loose blue short-sleeved shirt.

  Graham returned, bearing a tall jug of iced water, floating with slivers of lemon.

  ‘Well, here we are all together,’ Coward said. ‘Sit down, Ian. We’re not having one of our edgy days, are we?’

  ‘I was reading a good book,’ Fleming said. ‘I almost couldn’t put it down.’ He sighed, and cast his eyes around the room. ‘Your collection of colonials is assembled.’

  ‘Now, now, that’s enough. I want you to be civil to my guests. Better than that, I want you to be nice. Graham is from South Africa, you understand,’ their host said, by way of explanation to Nellie and Jean. ‘Which reminds me, what’s happened to that brother of yours, Miss Batten?’

  There was a silence that neither Jean nor Nellie was willing to fill. ‘Do you mean my brother John?’ Jean asked, finally.

  ‘Yes, of course. He did that rather good war movie, For Those in Peril. I hadn’t seen him acting in anything for years.’

  ‘We don’t hear much from him,’ Nellie said. ‘He joined the navy as a dental mechanic. We heard he served on the Achilles.’

  ‘With distinction, I gathered. And then they released him to do the movie.’

  ‘He seems to live his own life,’ Nellie said.

  Coward gave her a curious look. ‘Well, I suppose his divorce was inevitable. I mean to say …’

  ‘Madeleine was a flighty girl,’ Nellie said stiffly.

  ‘We used to bump into him from time to time, didn’t we, Graham? I gather he’s gone back to New Zealand.’ Coward looked at the two discomforted Batten women, with a faintly apologetic, or was it amused, expression, and changed the subject. Had Fleming been writing any articles today, he wondered aloud.

  Ian Fleming looked weary, his gaze not leaving Jean’s face, his expression impenetrable. He shook his head.

  After dinner, Coward asked Jean to play his piano, and accompany Graham while he sang. They produced sheet music, mostly of Coward’s own songs, and finished the evening all singing ‘London Pride’ together, even Fleming.

  ‘I sometimes wish we could go back,’ Nellie said. ‘We had such a nice time in London, didn’t we, Jean? Before the war.’

  The fragrance of frangipani was heavy on the air as they took their leave, the petals glimmering in light falling from the doorway as Coward and Payn bade them all goodnight.

  IN THE MORNING, JEAN DROVE TO GOLDENEYE, parked behind the house and walked around to the front verandah. It was past eight. Fleming was sitting with a mug of shaving water beside him, lathering his face. His expression darkened when he saw Jean.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  �
��I wanted to see you.’

  ‘I don’t have sex before breakfast.’

  ‘That’s not what I came for.’

  He completed the lathering, took up a razor and began shaving. ‘You see,’ he said, stopping between strokes, ‘I have my rituals in the morning. I go for a swim out to the reef at seven. I come back and I shave. Then I have my breakfast in the garden. In a minute, Violet will bring me some paw paw and scrambled eggs, and coffee. I like to do this in isolation, except for the company of the birds. You see the humming birds out there? I like to watch them. I feed the kling klang. If I wanted company I would find it for myself. What do you know about the kling klang?’

  ‘The black birds that come to the garden? I don’t like the sound they make, it’s very shrill.’

  ‘Not if you feed them nicely. I like the blackness of the kling klang. I like birds.’

  ‘So do I. They tell you when land is close when you’re far out at sea and believe yourself lost. I’ve studied birds, too, Mr Fleming, more than you might believe.’

  ‘Oh yes, the aviator, I almost forgot. Birds of the air. You haven’t always been rich and idle, Miss Batten.’

  ‘Rich? You call me rich. You have no idea.’

  ‘Of what? You weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth?’

  ‘If you call living on three pounds a week in London, year after year, rich, well that’s over to you. To tell you the truth, people around here make me sick. If it’s silver spoons in the mouth, you were all born with them welded into your fillings.’

  Suddenly he laughed. ‘Oh that’s quite a nice line. Do you want to have breakfast with me?’

  When they had finished eating and Violet had cleared up, with a flounce and raised eyebrows at the sight of Jean, he took out a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you like men?’