by Laura Wilson
‘Well,’ said Diana defensively, disengaging herself, ‘You’ve never said anything about your war, either.’
‘I was a junior member of the Crown Film Unit. Propaganda – very unheroic and not the least bit hush-hush. All very dull, which yours evidently wasn’t.’
‘I—’
‘Look, Diana, even before I met the Andersons, I knew that something must have happened to you, or you’d still be mouldering away in Hampshire, opening fetes and giving out cups at gymkhanas.’
‘I didn’t—’
James put a finger on her lips. ‘I don’t want to know. It’s the past. Over and done. All this’ – removing his finger, he flung out his arms – ‘is the future. Our future. And you are so beautiful. Utterly radiant. Would you care to dance?’
‘Why not?’ At that moment, flooded with relief, everything seemed so exciting and momentous that, with a waltz striking up in the background, Diana felt as though she were in a musical.
‘Come on, then.’ James took her hand and led her into the dancing throng.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Stratton wrenched off his tie and flung it down on the bed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling such a complete and utter idiot. Seeing Diana like that, and not knowing what to say … what an ass she must have thought him. Mr Carleton, too – he’d caught the amused look on the man’s face as he’d stammered and fidgeted and generally behaved like an imbecile.
He sat down on the bed, his head in his hands. Seeing Diana again, in his mind’s eye, he recalled the sensation of breathlessness, as if he’d just been walloped in the solar plexus, the feeling that suddenly, nothing else existed in the world but her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. All he could think of to say – Oh, God, he hadn’t actually said it, had he? – was ‘You. It’s you.’ Everything seemed to go into slow motion, and the touch of her hand, cool and soft, had seemed to go on for ever as, dry-throated, he’d mumbled a few words.
She’d only called out to them to be friendly, and had obviously begun to regret it when he couldn’t manage to string two sentences together, and they’d stood there, awkwardly, until Carleton had said something about the exhibition. God knows what he’d said in reply – he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember what the bloody man looked like. Young and fine-featured, damn him, and clearly intelligent and well-educated and witty and all the rest of it, otherwise he wouldn’t be directing films, would he?
It was all too easy to imagine the conversation afterwards, the two of them laughing at his ineptitude – he’d not dared to look back – what a clumsy, slow-witted creature, what a clod, what a big lummox … Even his own daughter was embarrassed for him. She hadn’t looked at him once, never mind spoken to him, the entire way home.
He wondered how Diana would have explained knowing him – ‘The war, darling … One ran into all sorts of odd people …’ That was all he was to her – a curious memory of a strange time, with no place in her world.
He lifted his head and looked around at the cheap furniture – the wardrobe and the bedstead, the shoddy bedside table with its barley-sugar legs and the utility dressing table which didn’t match any of the other bits – at the curtains, faded with washing and several inches too short for the window, and at the rag rug on the lino. This is where you belong, chum, he told himself, and don’t you forget it.
Diana belonged – would always belong – with a man like Carleton, and he was a fool to waste his time mooning after a woman he could never hope to have.
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘. . . and she keeps complaining that Mr Hotchkiss has shaved off her eyebrows – as if it’s my fault!’ said Anne.
‘Never mind. It’s nice to be outside.’ Monica and Anne were leaning against the back wall of the department, enjoying the May sunshine after a hectic morning making up dancers as chorus girls for one of The Belle of Bow’s music hall scenes.
‘Yes, isn’t it? Ooh, I forgot to tell you – I saw Raymond Benson this morning. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, very handsome,’ said Monica, wearily. She was sick and tired of hearing about Raymond Benson. She could see that he was handsome, with his corn-coloured hair and insolent blue eyes – looks that had got him a score of parts playing wayward but ultimately decent young men who saved the day and won the heart of the girl whilst being terrifically modest and self-deprecating – but honestly …
‘Shame we’re so far away from D Stage.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Benson was working in a picture about Bonnie Prince Charlie. Every single woman in the studio, it seemed to Monica – as well as several of the men – was sneaking over there every chance they had to catch a glimpse of him prancing about in a kilt like something off a McVitie’s biscuit tin.
‘He’s just my type,’ said Anne, dreamily.
Thinking that if she had to listen to any more she might not be able to stop herself screaming, Monica changed the subject. ‘What about your boyfriend?’ she asked. ‘You said you were going to the Festival with him, and Kenneth’s real.’
‘So’s Raymond.’
‘You know what I mean. Did you go?’
‘Yes. I did enjoy it, but there was so much of it – we kept getting lost. Have you been yet?’
‘Yes, on Saturday. We had a family outing.’ Seeing Anne’s look of pity that she didn’t have anyone else to go with, Monica said, quickly, ‘It was wonderful, wasn’t it? Pity they didn’t have much in the way of fashions, but the crafts were really interesting – all those people making things – and the fabrics and furniture …’
‘Those funny spiky legs?’ Anne made a face. ‘I bought a nice tea caddy for Mum, though, and a scoop. One of those red, white and blue ones. She was ever so pleased.’
‘We bumped into Mr Carleton and Mrs Calthrop. My Dad knows her – he met her during the war. It was a bit odd, really. Nobody quite knew what to say.’
‘I’m surprised they even saw you. They never seem to have eyes for anybody but each other. Oh, sorry, Monica. But you know he’s spoken for.’
Anne’s constant references to her being keen on Mr Carleton were irritating, but Monica played along because it saved her from questioning. It was expected that she’d have a crush on someone, and her reticence on the subject had led to Anne choosing a candidate for her. Carleton, she knew, had been arrived at because he was often spoken of in the same breath as Mrs Calthrop, and Anne had misinterpreted her reactions – or rather, the person to whom she was reacting. But Dad had reacted to Mrs Calthrop, all right. Monica didn’t think she’d ever seen him so stiff or tongue-tied – stammering, almost. She hadn’t known what to say to him afterwards. Not that it had been a problem, exactly, because he’d hardly said a word for the rest of the day. She wondered if Mr Carleton had noticed – awful if he had, and even more awful if she had given herself away, somehow. The whole thing made her feel sick with shame – at least Dad, even if he was Dad, was feeling something entirely normal, whereas she…
Glancing at her wristwatch, Anne said, ‘We’ve still got a few minutes left. I think I’ll go for a walk in the direction of D Stage … You coming?’
Monica shook her head. ‘You are stuck on Mr Carleton, aren’t you?’ said Anne. ‘You can finish my cig if you like. Here …’
‘Thanks, Anne. Don’t be late, will you?’
‘For your precious James?’ Anne winked. ‘I’ll be back, never fear.’
Left alone, Monica slumped back against the wall, and turning her face up to the sun, closed her eyes. I must stop this, she thought. It’s horrible. I’m horrible. And, after all, it had been a thoroughly enjoyable day, even with Uncle Reg talking nineteen to the dozen about scientific advances and the shape of things to come all the way round the Dome of Discovery. There’d been a funny moment when Uncle Donald, dragged along by Auntie Doris against his will and grumbling all the way, had tapped an ‘Out of Order’ sign on one of the exhibits and said that that was the shape of things to come. He and Uncle Reg were still arguing
when they stopped to eat their sandwiches by the fountains, but then he’d cheered up a bit and taken some snaps of them standing in front of the Skylon. She and Dad had gone off by themselves after that, which was a lot more fun. He’d wanted to see the farming exhibition, which had been quite interesting – except the new battery cages for hens, which anyone could see were cruel – and then they’d had a ride on the Water Splash at the funfair and had a look round the Mississippi Steamboat that was moored on the promenade …
Hearing her name called, she opened her eyes. Mrs Calthrop was waving to her as she crossed the lawn on the other side of the causeway. Self-conscious and aware of her heart beating like a tom-tom, she waved back, then stared after Mrs Calthrop until Anne’s cigarette, which she’d completely forgotten she was holding, burnt her fingers.
1953
Chapter Thirty-Six
Alone in the Make-up Department, Monica sat in front of the line of mirrors, sponging foundation over her face and rubbing it in, careful not to overdo it. She’d kept her promise and hadn’t told anybody where she was going, even Anne. Actually, especially not Anne, because she knew that if she did she’d never, ever hear the last of it. They’d agreed to meet in the lane around the corner from the main gates, to minimise the chance of anyone seeing – which, Monica thought, was pretty unlikely at seven o’clock in January. She’d told them at home that she was working late. She’d been promised a ride back, so at least she didn’t have any worries on that score, and she could get out of the car a few streets away from Lansdowne Road …
On just about every other score, though, she felt more agitated than she could ever remember. Her hands, so deft when applying cosmetics to other people, were nervous and clumsy. Putting down the sponge, she picked up a pencil and began darkening her brows. Her elbow nudged something on the work surface and the pencil slipped, leaving a line down her cheek. Scrubbing at it, she decided it might be better to give up and just put on some lipstick – she didn’t want to go out looking like a clown.
Brushing her hair, she wondered, for the thousandth time, if she were doing the right thing. Despite all her efforts to change, her feelings and inclinations were exactly the same as they’d ever been – more so, if anything. In desperation, she’d been on lots of dates with local lads, but each had proved more disastrous than the last, and only served to cement the fact that she simply wasn’t attracted to men. The problem wasn’t the lack of offers – rather the reverse, if anything – but after so many failures on her part to feel anything at all, she’d given up hoping that she’d wake up one morning and think differently about them. Her cousin Madeleine was engaged to be married, now. So was Anne, and both of them were madly excited about it, so that all the chat, both at home and at work, was of very little else. Monica made a face at her reflection; Anne certainly would be talking about something else if she got wind of what happening this evening …
I must do this, she told herself. I must try … After all, if she couldn’t manage to fancy Raymond Benson, who was everybody’s heart-throb, what hope was there for her?
Tilly was Raymond Benson’s fourth film for Ashwood Studios, and the first in which he’d been given top billing. Monica, now promoted from extras and occasional retouching to full make-up for supporting actors and actresses, was also working on the picture. It was the story of an aristocratic widow who, discovering that her wheelchair-bound son – Benson – had secretly wed a dancer, tried to prevent them from consummating their marriage. In the end, the dancer faked a drowning accident in order to demonstrate that her husband’s inability to walk was all in his mind – which it proved to be when he leapt into the river and saved her. Originally, Mr Carleton had been the director. He’d had a great deal of time away from the studio in the past six months, and there was a rumour that he’d wanted to do a project of his own – a drama about life in the slums of Liverpool or somewhere – but the studio wouldn’t let him. What was definitely not a rumour, but a horribly obvious reality, was that, despite the fact that he was now married to the person Monica still could not help thinking of as her ideal woman and the loveliest in the world, he was drinking very heavily indeed. This, and his disgust at having to work on yet another costume picture – Tilly was set in Edwardian times – had made him uncharacteristically savage, so that everyone on the set had been walking on eggs for weeks.
Carleton had been sacked a couple of months ago, after an incident on E Stage. As the film got further and further behind schedule, the atmosphere on the set had grown ever more tense and miserable. The final straw came when Carleton, enraged by what he saw as interference by the studio head Mr Vernon, had taken a swing at his assistant, Mr McPherson, causing him to stagger backwards into the make-up trolley, knocking it over and breaking his wrist in the process. Carleton had stormed out after that, leaving poor Mr McPherson on the floor, cradling his arm.
In the confusion that followed, nobody quite seemed to know what to do, but all the same she’d been astonished when Benson, who’d been lolling in his wheelchair nearby, had got up and begun to help her gather the bits and pieces scattered across the floor. She’d noticed him watching her a few times – at first, she’d thought she must have imagined it, or that perhaps it was the way he looked at all women, but she kept catching him eyeing her. Not so much her face, but the rest of her, in an intense, speculative way that made her feel unpleasantly self-conscious.
She’d righted the trolley, pushed it into a dark corner to be out of the way and was just beginning to rearrange the things when he came up behind her. Depositing a handful of stuff on the top, he’d said, standing so close that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, ‘I’ve been watching you.’
Monica had frozen.
‘Has anyone ever told you how attractive you are?’
She’d felt his hands on her shoulders, and he’d turned her round to face him. ‘Don’t worry, we can’t be seen. I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone ever since we started this wretched picture.’
‘Have you?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. As I said, you’re very attractive. I’ve been thinking I’d like to get to know you better.’ He’d stared down, quite unashamedly, at her breasts.
‘I …’ Amazement that the film’s heart-throb should be making a pass at her, and the fact he was uncomfortably close and she couldn’t move because of the trolley behind her, had made her falter. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you like going out and having fun?’
‘Well, yes, of course I do, but I don’t really …’
‘Don’t really what?’
‘It’s just … I’m not very good at all that sort of thing.’
‘That’s only because you haven’t met the right person.’ She’d stared at him, hypnotised, as, locking his eyes on hers, he put up a hand and stroked her cheek. ‘You think about it. I’ve been feeling very lonely on this picture.’ He’d gazed pointedly over her shoulder, and Monica, turning her head, saw that he was looking in the direction of the actresses playing his mother and his wife, who were standing in the gloom beyond the arc lamps. ‘Not exactly a bed of roses, if you know what I mean.’
‘No,’ said Monica. It was common knowledge that the three stars didn’t get on well, which compounded the already strained atmosphere.
He’d patted her on the shoulder, then stepped back. ‘Why don’t you think about it, hmm?’
Relieved, she’d gabbled, ‘All right, yes. I’ll think about it.’
She had thought about it. In fact, she’d thought of little else for the next three weeks, during which Benson didn’t come anywhere near her, so that she wondered if he’d forgotten about it or gone off the idea. Perhaps he hadn’t liked her not saying yes immediately. He certainly seemed to assume that she’d find him irresistible – but that, she supposed, was because women did find him irresistible. And when he’d finally asked her to come out to dinner, she’d agreed.
In the end, what had persuaded her was thinking about Tilly
. Of course, it was only a film, but all the same, if something as physically serious as paralysis could be shown to be all to do with the mind and therefore conquerable, surely something that was emotional might respond to the same treatment? Going out for the evening with Raymond Benson wasn’t like jumping into a river to save someone from drowning, but in this situation it seemed, as an incentive, to be on a par with it. And he could have chosen anybody, couldn’t he? But he hadn’t. He’d chosen her, Monica Stratton, lowly make-up girl.
Fluffing up her hair, Monica put on her coat and gloves and set off down the causeway towards the main gate. Even at this late hour there were lorries and things rumbling up and down, so she didn’t hear anyone come up behind her and the shout of ‘Monica!’ somewhere near her ear almost made her jump out of her skin.
Turning, she saw that it was Mrs Carleton, standing under one of the roadside lamps and looking pale, but – if possible – more lovely than ever. She’d been working in the Design department for the past year, which meant that Monica hadn’t had to avoid her because she’d seen very little of her anyway. Now – especially after what had happened with Mr Carleton – she couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘I thought it must be you,’ said Mrs Carleton. ‘I recognised your coat.’
For a second, Monica experienced a sensation of mad happiness that she’d committed such a detail to memory – but then she realised that, working in the design department, Mrs Carleton would be bound to notice what people were wearing, even if it wasn’t good quality or anything. After all, she noticed those sorts of things, didn’t she? In that way, they were alike … Staring into the beautiful blue eyes, she was lost until Mrs Carleton, frowning slightly, said, ‘Is there something wrong, Monica?’
‘Oh, no, no … I’m sorry … Sorry about Mr Carleton, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Carleton, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘So am I. Are you going home now?’
