‘Come,’ I said.
I took her to the bathroom where she let me bathe her. I dried her off, dressed her in one of my nightgowns, led her like a little girl to my own room, tucked her into my bed. I slept on the settee in the lounge.
In the morning, she came down to breakfast all bright and cheerful, behaved as if nothing had happened. She looked at me straight, didn’t pull away from my gaze in the slightest, not even a hint of shame or embarrassment. I remembered the London windows devoid of black-out curtains, my mother’s eyes possessed that same clarity, the awful night before erased, forgotten.
With a warming sun and a light breeze, it was an ideal day for washing so I tackled what I could of the soiled sheets and my mother’s nightgowns, pinned them out to dry while my mother sat in the garden, face to the sun, ignoring what was going on. I telephoned Aunt Ginny, told her what had happened. She said she would drive over, ‘come to the rescue’ as she put it. I quietly blessed her.
After lunch, I was ready for a nap after all my exertions of the morning. My mother hadn’t spoken a word to me up until then but just as I was clearing away the dishes, she piped up and said:
‘Let’s pick some apples.’
I said that I would and she instructed me to keep my pinny on or bring out a bucket if I preferred. There were four heavily-laden trees to the side of the garden, a small three-step ladder resting against one of them.
‘Up you go,’ my mother said, pointing to the ladder. ‘After all, you’re the pilot.’
I looked over at her. The colour was back in her cheeks and she was smiling at me. I couldn’t remember the last time she had ever acknowledged that I flew aeroplanes.
We worked away together, with me on top of the ladder, picking apples into my bucket, my mother pointing here and there to the best ones to be plucked. She remained below, taking whatever was in reach into the nest of her pinny. It was the reverse of our positions when I used to pick with her as a child. I glanced down at her and for a moment I felt I could see right through to the heart of her. Through the layers of skin lined and loosened by age and experience, through lens clouded by cataracts, through the despair of losing a loving husband in battle, to the bright-eyed, fresh-skinned beauty of a young girl full of her own hopes and joys. I felt my own eyes tear up from the sheer brutal truth of a lifetime contained in those few moments and my love for her came streaming back to me.
During a break in our efforts, I went into the house for my Leica, came back, took some photographs of her resting against the tree. She became quite animated by my efforts, stood up and even performed some exaggerated poses as if she were a professional model showing off the latest country wear. I never was quite able to capture that essence of her I had observed earlier from the top of the ladder but the photographs turned out well nevertheless. It was into this rare scene of mother-daughter bliss that Aunt Ginny arrived. She had come equipped with a rubber sheet from her own children’s bed-wetting days, some adult diapers she had acquired from a friend who was a nurse, and a promise to get her hands on some rubber pants as well.
‘This is a quick turn-around,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain to sis how to put these on, then I’m off.’
I made my own promise that I would visit her and Susan the following week once I felt my mother was settled.
I sat with my mother in front of the radio that night to listen to the BBC Home Service and her favourite show, It’s That Man Again. Her bed was all properly made-up upstairs with fresh linen and a rubber sheet, she wore diapers under her clean nightgown. She stirred a drop of brandy into her tea, blew on her cup as she always did before taking a sip.
‘I remember when you played Pocahontas in the Festival of Empire pageant,’ she said. ‘You could only have been eight or nine.’
‘I was eleven, mother.’
‘Robert and Viv Shaw’s son, Eddie, he played the part of King James. He went on to become a doctor somewhere.’
My mother’s sudden lucidity surprised me. I tried to keep the conversation going. ‘Canada, I think it was,’ I said, although I had no idea if that was true.
‘Yes, Canada. Lucky for him. Missing the war.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Lots of Canadians signed up.’
My mother sighed, blew on her tea again. ‘Your father and I were so proud of you that day.’
‘The day of the pageant?’
‘Yes, of course, the day of the pageant. That was what I was talking about.’
‘I don’t remember Papa being there.’
‘That’s because you were too busy with your young friends. But I remember clearly how you came over to us after your performance, your face was beaming with the excitement of it all and your father twirled you around like a ballet dancer on a music box and said: Look, at our beautiful young actress. One day you’ll be a star. How could you forget a thing like that?’ My mother chuckled. ‘You’re worse than me.’
‘I don’t know. I must have blocked it out somehow.’
‘Hmm. Strange to think that.’
It was also strange to hear my mother talk about my father at all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A Tête-à-Tête on the Terrace
Laura had Sal on her mobile. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘A pal gave me his London pad for a month.’
‘That’s kind of him. But whereabouts?’
‘Kensington somewhere.’
‘Where should we meet?’
‘Hey, Laura. This is your city.’
She knew a million places. That was the problem, honing in on just one when she was put on the spot. ‘How about Somerset House?’
‘In Somerset?’
‘No, silly. It’s just off the Strand. I’m not sure what the nearest tube is.’
‘I’ll take a cab.’
‘Once you’re there, go right through to the river. There’s a smart restaurant on the terrace. Lunch at one?’
‘See ya then.’
And she did see him then, saw him first, for she decided to get there before him, settle herself down nice and relaxed for their business meeting. It was a good choice. Even though the restaurant was outside on the terrace, it boasted covered awnings that not only offered shade but protected her from prying eyes. She had ordered a glass of Prosecco and some mixed nuts, was sitting back, admiring the view of the river when Sal arrived. He was looking rather cool and casual, all dressed in linen – blue suit, white collarless shirt – no socks, sunglasses. Very Californian, she thought.
‘You’re paying,’ she told him as he pulled out his chair.
‘It’s customary to wait until offered,’ he said.
‘I’ll take it as an advance. You still owe me for the camera crew.’
‘You’re annoyed with me?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Fair enough.’ He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘Prosecco.’
‘Another two of the same,’ he told a passing waiter, then sat down.
‘When did you get in?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Sleep last night?’
‘Not too bad. Still a bit lagged though. Fell asleep in the cab on the way over. The driver could have taken me on a tour of the sights and I wouldn’t have known. By the way, you look fantastic.’
The compliment threw her. She couldn’t recall Sal ever flattering her before. Her acting perhaps, but not her looks. ‘It takes a lot longer to achieve these days.’
‘Damn you English women.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Can’t just accept a compliment straight off.’
‘Modesty is welded into our DNA. I thought you’d know that by now.’
Sal sat back, spread out in his seat. ‘You’re not still with Jack Muirhead, are you?’
‘No.’
‘I saw his latest movie on the plane. Some Japanese thing. I remembered reading somewhere how you t
wo used to be… connected.’
‘Well, our connection finished a while ago. By mutual consent.’
‘Really?’
‘Mature adults are quite capable of making such decisions, Sal.’
‘Are you saying I’m not a mature adult?’
‘I’m saying you don’t have to be so cynical. Have you come across him out there in LaLa land?’
‘Met him once at a party. Must have been quite something going out with a guy like him?’
‘We had our moments.’
‘Are you still in touch?’
‘We could be if we wanted to be,’ she said, not entirely convinced of the truth of that statement. She finished off her Prosecco. Bad move. She was feeling quite tipsy already and there was another one coming. But Sal’s rather aggressive questioning was bothering her. ‘What about you, Sal? I don’t hear you talking much about Dominique.’
‘How do you know about her?’
‘A little Wikipedia told me.’
Sal laughed. ‘Don’t believe everything you read on that. Dominique and I split a year or so back.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘No need to be. We were beating the hell out of each other. Psychologically, not physically. Only stayed together for the sake of the kids. Until it was time to move apart… for the sake of the kids.’
‘Do you get to see them?’
‘Not as often as I would like. What about you? Ever married?’
‘It seems I forgot to.’ Fortunately, before this line of conversation could go further, the waiter came with their drinks. They clinked glasses. She took a sip, she would leave the rest until she had some food in her stomach. ‘I thought we were here to discuss business,’ she said.
‘I was just making small talk.’
‘If this is your small talk, I’d hate to be around when you get serious.’
‘I guess I just wanted to rock your boat a little.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘I don’t know, Laura. Maybe it’s because you always seem so cool and aloof.’
‘Can we talk about what we came here for?’
‘Apologies. Put it down to the jetlag. What have you got for me?’
She placed a memory stick on the table. ‘First instalment.’
‘What’s on it?’
‘My notes on Georgie’s early years. Growing up in a small village in Sussex. Her brief career in the silent movie business. But I guess you knew most of that stuff already from your documentary.’
‘Yeah, I just finished the editing before I got on the plane. It’s going to be called No Talking, Please – We’re British.’ He smiled at her, as he waited to be congratulated on his choice of title. She ignored him so he went on. ‘Any info on why she gave up on her film career?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Strange. Did you ask Quentin?’
‘He says she refused to talk about those days.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Not so sure. He seemed a bit touchy on the subject.’
‘Well, keep digging. It would be good if we could put some meat on the bones of her early life. What about her relationship with Max Rosen?’
‘Pretty stormy by all accounts. Dumped her as soon as she left the movie business. Killed in the war during a London bombing raid.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Did you know she was one of those pioneering female pilots?’
‘You mean like Amelia Earhart?’
‘Same era. Georgie was one of the first aviators to fly to Palestine. Co-pilot was the millionaire playboy Roland Paxton-Jones. Rollo, to his friends. They were a bit of a celebrity flying couple.’
‘Did they marry?’
‘I guess they would have but Rollo died flying. Plane disappeared in fog over the Norfolk coast. Body never found. Georgie never really got over that. She even gave up flying for a while… until the war came along.’
‘Excellent. All good dramatic material. Is that it?’
‘So far. I’ve scanned in a few documents as well. Photographs, playbills, interview transcripts.’
‘How are you managing with Quentin?’
‘He gets a little too close for comfort. But I can handle him.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ Sal sat up straight, clapped his hands together. ‘Here’s my proposal. I say we go with a straightforward fifty-fifty.’
‘Can we be a bit more precise?’
‘You keep on with all the research stuff, I’ll write the script. You act, I produce. A small tour to iron out the kinks, then we’ll try to push for a London run. Get it all down on film interwoven with some talking heads. I’ve got plenty of silent screen footage to throw into the mix and I’m sure I can get hold of newsreels on the early flying years as well. I’ll tout the documentary around to the festivals, I’ve got a lot of contacts there. Anything you can add from people you know on the film side much appreciated. We split the costs and the profit right down the middle. How does that sound to you?’
‘I want it all in writing.’
‘I’ll get my lawyers on to it.’
‘What about start-up funding?’
‘I guess we’ll need about ten grand up front to keep you and me going for a couple of months. Another fifteen for when we move into rehearsal. Let’s say twenty five to get us off the ground. Make it thirty to keep us cosy.’
‘Dollars?’
‘Let’s stick with your local currency.’
‘And where’s this money coming from?’
‘Now we’ve got our hands on all this original material, I can start talking to investors. I had a chat with your Lady Caroline.’
‘I told you I wasn’t going to go begging to her.’
‘And I told you that I’d sort it out by myself. I’ve arranged a meeting with Sir Lew.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be interested. He’s into oil, real estate, mining, Sal. Plays are not his kind of thing. I doubt he’s ever been to one.’
‘I thought I’d get Caroline to sweeten him up. After all, she kind of owes us for getting her back on the boards again. She was telling me how much she loved the other day.’
‘I’m sure she did. She managed to make herself the centre of attention in a play that wasn’t about her.’
‘Jesus, Laura. What is it about you two?’
‘We go back a long way.’
‘To where exactly?’
‘Oh, where do I start with Caroline? Our early twenties.’
‘Rivals in love?’
‘In just about everything.’
‘Well, you just leave Caroline to me. What about Quentin?’
‘What about him?’
‘As a backer. It’s his dear Aunt Georgie after all. And especially now the two of you are such great buddies.’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Well, give it a try. I’m sure he’s got money to burn living in that fancy place of his. Forty thousand sterling is probably small change to him.’
‘I thought you said thirty?’
‘Might as well go for broke.’
‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘Perfect.’ Sal took off his sunglasses, held out his hand. ‘We gotta deal, partner?’
‘We’ve got a deal.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Hepburn Archives
Extract from an unpublished memoir
I took the country bus across Sussex to Aunt Ginny’s farm, for the trains ran only back into London and out again for such a trip. It would be just the three of us – Ginny, Susan and me. I preferred it that way. The three girls. Uncle Richard I hardly ever saw anyway, he was always off managing the estate. As for the boys, my cousins Oliver and Percy, when I had visited previously they had either been at boarding school, university, or surviving the war – Oliver as part of essential food production, Percy for the Royal Engineers in India. Where they were now, I had no idea.
Aunt Ginny picked me up in a gorgeous royal blue o
pen-top motor car.
‘It’s a Triumph Dolomite Roadster Coupé,’ she informed me with a little flourish of her gloved hand.
‘I know nothing about cars.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t drive,’ she said, as the vehicle spun up the dirt and dust close to a roadside ditch. ‘You being a pilot.’
‘I prefer the open skies to the open road.’
‘You should let me teach you. Out on the farm.’
‘You’re right. I probably should learn.’
Aunt Ginny, her eyes hidden behind her fashionable sunglasses, turned to look at me while I preferred she kept her attention on the road. I might not have been a motorist myself but I could see she was a terrible driver. ‘And how is my big sister?’ she asked.
‘She’s much more comfortable. I’m so grateful to you for sending over the rubber pants. They’ve made a big difference. It’s her memory that I worry about now.’
‘We’ll need to arrange for some help once you’ve gone.’
‘I can organise that. She has friends in the village… Aunt Ginny, there’s a tractor up ahead…’
‘Yes, yes, I see it… these country roads… so narrow. What were you saying?’
‘She has friends in the village who will come in.’
‘I’ll try to take her eventually. When the time comes. Unless she goes totally doolally. Then we’ll need to think about a nursing home.’
‘I realise that.’
‘But for now, you need to start spending more time with Susan. You’ve been very lax in your godmotherly duties.’
‘I’m sorry. But my work with the ATA…’
‘The war is over now, Georgie. New beginnings.’
‘I understand. New beginnings.’
Susan was all grown-up, appearing older than her eighteen years, not in her outward appearance but I could see it in her eyes. That same clouded look of all those youngsters who had lost their childhood and adolescence to a war. Aunt Ginny told me Susan had spent the last few months before armistice working in a London hospital, scrubbing up the bodies brought in from the rocket bombings, scraping off the blood and dust ready for medical inspection or the morgue. Not a sight for a teenage girl who should have had eyes for boys, lips for kissing and feet for dancing.
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