‘He actually wrote that? Come on down.’
Chapter Sixteen
The Hepburn Archives
Extract from an unpublished memoir
I never told anyone except Max about what happened that afternoon at the Savoy Hotel. Throughout my life, it was certainly an episode I tried to forget, some may even say suppress. Many years later when I was being interviewed on a programme for BBC Radio, the presenter, Sir Peter Delaware, asked me why my silent movie career had come to such an abrupt end. I was tempted to tell him then and there. But what was the point? Montgomery was long dead and his studios were defunct. What was to be gained from such a disclosure so late in my life. The truth will be revealed in these memoirs when I myself am gone and my ashes have been scattered across the earth. Until then, whenever I have an opportunity, I stay at The Savoy or enjoy an afternoon tea there. It is my private indulgence and a personal act of defiance.
But sometimes when I hark back to the past as I shuffle towards the end of my days, I wonder – was Max right? Should I have slept with Montgomery? Of course, it would have been morally wrong to do such a thing. But perhaps I should have taken the pragmatic course and compromised my body and my integrity for the sake of my career. Many other aspiring actresses who have gone before and after me have succumbed to such an offer. Where would I have ended up if I too had agreed? As a glamorous star of the Golden Age of Hollywood? As a wartime pin-up? Or as an old hag tormented and disappointed by the follies of her youthful ambition? What is certain is that these moments of decision in a person’s life are absolutely crucial. They might come along a mere three or four times in your entire existence. And they will come mainly when you are young. Should I marry this or that person? Should I live here or there? Should I take that job offer or not? Perhaps like mine it will be a moral choice. Should I fight or flee? Should I speak up or keep quiet? Should I kill or be killed? The decisions you make will forever define who you are. Or the kind of person you aspire to be. The rest of your life is merely coping with the consequences.
Now that Max had left me and I was persona non grata as far as all the film studios were concerned, it was to my Aunt Ginny that I turned. If truth be told, I probably loved her more than my own mother, a feeling that always made me feel guilty. But it was hard to recall a moment when I actually felt my mother loved me. Certainly not after my father died. I do remember how she used to teach me things and while there was probably love buried somewhere in these lessons, I felt her efforts were executed more out of duty than any motherly affection.
It was different with Aunt Ginny. Even as I write this, I immediately recall that day we spent together in Brighton after going to see my first film appearance in On the Pleasure Pier. How she bought me ice cream, ordered me to take off my shoes so we could walk barefoot on the pebbled beach. Aunt Ginny, so modern, so positive, so independent, so supportive. Always sending me money at every opportunity, here a postal order, there a postal order. For my birthday, for Christmas, for ‘just because’. Aunt Ginny on her farm with the horses. Aunt Ginny driving her automobile. Aunt Ginny my saviour, my confidante. Aunt Ginny more like my older sister than my aunt.
I used to marvel how effortlessly she embraced the traditional values of marriage and parenthood but somehow did so in a modern way. It was easy to forget she was a mother and wife at all within that all-male environment of hers. The boys were away most of the time at boarding school while Uncle Richard hovered away happily in the background like some kind of wraith, not capable of being touched or making an impression. He hardly spoke and when he did it was never in an attempt to engage conversation but merely the passing on of information in that inexpressive, matter-of-fact voice of his:
‘Going out to the far field. Fence needs fixing.’
‘Milking time.’
‘Driving over to Loxley for some feed.’
‘The tractor. No oil in the hydraulics. Disaster.’
‘Early start tomorrow. Lambing.’
‘Scraped knee. Broken finger. Boys will be boys, Ginny.’
I was never quite sure what Aunt Ginny saw in him. He was quite good-looking though in that well-built, well-mannered, fair-haired, florid complexion kind of way, like the captain of some English sports team. Perhaps Ginny had just married him for the money. Or for the protection. Or for the independence. While Uncle Richard got on with running the farm, he left her to manage the house and raise the children. Which was just as well, under the circumstances.
The Hepburn Archives
Letter from Mrs Virginia (Ginny) Williams to her niece Georgina Hepburn dated 10th March 1928
Dear Georgie
I am absolutely delighted this new baby is a girl. Richard though remains unflustered by her arrival. Now that he already has two boys under his belt, he says I can do absolutely anything I want with a female of the species. I am therefore going to call her Susan, even though I know he has a preference for Ethel (such an old-fashioned name, don’t you think?). I will spoil her as much as I can before I teach her to be a strong, independent woman with a healthy disregard for the arrogance of men. I trust you will be in agreement with such nurturing.
Ollie and Percy are away at boarding school so they haven’t seen their new sister yet. I hope they will treat her kindly as I noticed they have a certain vicious streak towards small animals around the farm. Boys can be such aggressive creatures. I am so glad I now have Susan to balance the boat.
Please don’t think it inappropriate of me to ask, but I feel it would be a good idea if you were to be Susan’s god-mother. I do hope you agree. However, I also hope you realise that along with acceptance comes the responsibility of attending all birthdays, religious festivals and other important family occasions. You should also expect to be sought after for your advice and expertise. As you can see, I expect you to take your role very, very seriously.
Please accept.
With much love
(Signed) Aunt Ginny
Chapter Seventeen
Quentin
‘Wanna know what stinking rich sounds like?’ Sal asked Laura.
‘Tell me.’
‘These tyres on this gravel. The crunch of untold wealth.’
They had already driven about a mile off the main road along a tarmac driveway flanked by ancient oaks, across a moat via a small wooden bridge, before arriving at a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates. There they had encountered one of those self-standing electronic intercoms into which Sal announced their names as if he were ordering a couple of Big Macs with fries. The door opened into a courtyard with a gravel path around the perimeter and at the centre a lawn mowed to within a centimetre of its roots. Off to her right, beyond a high hedge, Laura could see the wire fencing surrounding what she assumed must be tennis courts. To her right there were stables and assorted outbuildings. Sal slowed the Porsche down even more. He seemed both intimidated and enamoured by what he was seeing. This handsome mansion built from that blond Cotswold stone she so admired. The extensive grounds. The sculpted hedges. Laura didn’t give a damn about such things. When confronted with such grandeur, she just imagined herself on a film set.
A solitary figure awaited them at the front of the house. Quentin Holloway. Wearing a blue, silk dressing-gown over shirt, slacks and a Paisley pattern cravat in matching blue. He skipped round to her side of the car, very graciously opened the door, held out his arm so that she could extricate herself from the passenger seat with dignity. The touch of his hand was dry and cold despite the day being warm. There was a smell of talc and lemons about him.
‘Mizz Scott. How delightful to meet you.’
‘Laura,’ she said. ‘Please call me Laura.’
‘Laura it is.’ He escorted her around the front of the car where Sal grabbed his hand and said: ‘Sal Yerksaw. Magnificent place you got here.’
‘It has its charms, Mr Yerksaw. The main manor house dates back to the early seventeenth century. Of course, a lot has been added since then. I can give you a tour late
r. Once you’ve settled.’
Laura was surprised to see that the interior of the house was not as grand as she had expected. The old beams were varnished and exposed but the rooms were compact, the ceilings quite low so that everything appeared slightly squashed. They were led through room after room, the décor, fittings and art work representing a mixture of the dark and antique (inherited from generations of Holloways) and the light and modern (his ex-wife’s taste). They ended up in a large bright conservatory full of cream sofas and plants with a view over an outdoor swimming pool and the hills of the Cotswolds beyond.
‘English or Indian?’ Quentin asked.
‘He means tea,’ Laura explained to the perplexed Sal.
‘Coffee if you got it,’ he said. ‘Instant is fine.’
Quentin looked offended. ‘I have a machine,’ he said as he pressed a bell-button in the wall. ‘Laura?’
‘Indian is fine.’
‘Assam or Darjeeling?’
‘I prefer Assam.’
‘And so do I.’ Quentin clapped his hands together triumphantly as if he had just formed a bond with her for life.
A young maid arrived, kitted out in a proper uniform, took the order, gave the slightest of curtsies and left. Quentin gestured for them to sit.
‘So who lives here?’ Sal asked, dispensing with any niceties, as he spread out his arms to claim one whole sofa for himself.
‘Sadly, just me. There is a dog rustling around somewhere. I have a maid and cook who come in. A landscape company does the gardens. My ex-wife lives in Scotland. My children have jobs in other continents.’
‘How many children do you have?’ Laura asked.
‘Just the two,’ Quentin said. ‘My son is a hedge fund trader in New York. My daughter digs wells somewhere in Africa. Chalk and cheese. Just like their parents.’ He gave Laura a quick smile. ‘I’ve thought about selling up. But you know how it is. I grew up in this place. It would be like dispensing with part of me. What am I saying? Dispensing with all of me. This house occupies me rather than I do it. Do you know what I mean?’
Laura had no idea what he meant. Her whole flat in Highgate could probably fit into this conservatory. ‘I’d love to have a pool,’ she said, thinking of the small pond in her garden. ‘Especially on these warm summer days.’
The conversation stalled at this point, and Laura was grateful when the maid returned with a trolley laden with a tea service, cakes and sandwiches.
‘Ah, Mary,’ Quentin sighed. ‘Please serve.’
Poor Mary, Laura thought. All eyes with nothing to do but be upon her as she laid out the cups and saucers, the teapots, the plates of food.
‘I’ll just fetch the coffee, sir,’ the maid said to Sal, again with a slight curtsy. ‘The machine takes time to warm up.’
With Mary gone, there was some polite chat about transport links, the best way to get here, some recent flooding, the facilities available in the nearest village, before the girl was back again with Sal’s coffee, served in a silver pot, which he insisted on pouring himself. He then pulled himself into a serious crouch on the sofa, like a bedside vigilant bowed slightly in prayer. Quentin, sitting opposite, took this as a sign to push himself up straight in his own armchair. Battle was about to commence, Laura thought.
Sal looked up from his clasped hands. ‘You know why we are here,’ he said.
‘My lawyer told me. You wish access to the Hepburn estate. But for what purpose?’
Sal outlined his plans for the one-woman play and accompanying documentary. ‘Starring the beautiful Laura Scott,’ he added.
Both men looked at her at this point as if to check she was still beautiful. They appeared to nod to each other in some kind of masculine pact. She didn’t know whether to be angry or flattered. Instead, she took a sip of her Assam. She would harbour her grievances for later.
‘So what papers do you need?’ Quentin asked.
‘Everything.’
‘Everything?’ Quentin’s tiny eyes widened in his otherwise expressionless face. He’s definitely had surgery, Laura thought.
‘Yeah. Whatever you got.’
‘I possess a substantial archive,’ Quentin said stiffly. ‘Letters, notebooks, tapes, transcripts and so on. Thousands of photographs, of course. I’ve documented everything myself over the last thirty years. A task I took upon myself after Aunt Georgie passed away.’
‘Your aunt?’ Laura said.
‘That’s what I would call her,’ he said, his tone immediately softening for her. ‘Technically she was my elderly cousin but we always knew her as Aunt Georgie.’ He then turned his attention back to Sal. ‘I certainly cannot give you access to all of the estate.’
‘Why not?’ Sal asked.
Quentin visibly recoiled then in a raised voice he said: ‘Because I don’t want every…’ He paused to search for probably the least offensive word. ‘Every Tom, Dick and Harry to exploit her memory. She was very precious to me. Very precious to the whole family.’
Sal tried on one of his sloppy smiles. ‘Well, I’m not every Tom, Dick and Harry. I am a serious documentarist. I would be preserving rather than exploiting her legacy. She was very precious to a lot of people.’
‘That may well be but…’
‘I met her once, you know. Must have been not long before she died. The Savoy, London. My boss wanted to do a documentary about her back then. She seemed to be up for it…’
‘Up for it?’ Quentin exclaimed. ‘Up for it? I doubt that. She was probably just humouring you. Anyway, a documentary when she was alive to monitor the content is very different from allowing you carte blanche to an archive I have taken years to assemble.’
‘You’ve allowed access to some of this material before.’
‘That is true. But only a few letters. For academic purposes. To clear up some discrepancy in matters between Georgie and her late husband.’
‘You mean Douglas. Uncle Doug.’
‘He was most definitely not Uncle Doug.’
Sal sighed, sat back on the sofa, looked across at Laura. Now it’s your turn, his eyes seemed to say.
‘This tea is delicious,’ she commented to no-one in particular.
‘It comes exclusively from the Numalighur estate,’ Quentin said. ‘It was Aunt Georgie’s favourite too.’
‘You must tell me where I can buy some.’
‘I am happy to give you a few packets when you leave. It would be my pleasure.’
‘That is very kind of you,’ she said. She laid down her cup and saucer, rose to her feet, walked over to the window, stared out across the countryside. How quintessentially English she thought. The rolling landscape. The church spires. The cultivated fields divided up by their stone walls and hedges. It was like being in a Thomas Hardy novel. Although here was Oxfordshire and not Dorset. She used to love this part of the world, yet today she found it stifling. ‘How I envy you,’ she said. ‘It is so peaceful here. Did your Aunt Georgie come here a lot?’
Quentin drew up beside her, a little too close perhaps, the rather acrid smell of his citrus cologne biting into her nostrils. In the reflection of the glass, she could see Sal moving restlessly on the sofa.
‘She came to live here not long after I was born,’ Quentin told her. ‘My mother was her god-daughter after all.’
‘You must remember her well.’
‘I was in my early twenties when she died. I have many memories.’
‘What was she like?’
‘A magnificent woman. Even in her old age, she was still carving out her own path. Only a few people can do that. For everyone else, life just seems to swallow them up in the end. Don’t you agree?’
She did agree. Or at least that was how her life felt like right now. All chewed up and spat out. When had she lost control of her own destiny?
‘What about your own work?’ she asked. ‘Sal told me you are an art critic.’
‘I don’t do so much of that any more. The occasional article or exhibition review. I am concent
rating on my own writing now. Short stories. A play.’
Laura turned from the window, gave Sal a look with the visual message: See. This is how it is done. In the English manner. Softened up and calmed down. It’s back to you now.
Sal tipped his head in acknowledgement, reassembled his large body into his bedside praying posture. Quentin returned to his armchair.
‘Tell me, Quentin’ Sal said. ‘When you granted permission for the publication of the letters, what were your conditions?’
‘There were no conditions. Just a price.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Three pounds per word.’
Sal actually whistled his surprise. ‘What? Five dollars a word?’
‘If that is the current exchange rate.’
‘That’s a bit excessive.’
Quentin smiled condescendingly. ‘I found it helped the publishers to be precise in their request.’
‘That kind of price tag is way beyond anything we could afford,’ Sal said. ‘I mean we would want thousands of words of original texts.’
‘Use of the photographs would cost a lot more.’
‘Any room for negotiation here?’
‘I wish to remain consistent in my response to all approaches for access. And anyway, I would not consider a request for access to the entire estate.’
‘I’m offering you a quality production here.’
‘I appreciate your good intentions, Mister Yerksaw. And I have no doubt Laura could provide us with an excellent portrayal of Aunt Georgie. But those are my terms.’
‘Come on. Can we not be a little bit more flexible?’
Quentin rose abruptly, rubbed his hands together as if he were washing himself clean of the whole matter. ‘Would you like a tour of the house, Laura? I have some lovely pieces of porcelain from Aunt Georgie which may interest you.’
Sal was also back up on his feet. ‘We need to get back to London,’ he said.
A Woman of Integrity Page 7
