‘I did the same as you,’ Susan told me.
‘I was a pilot.’
‘I meant in the Great War. Mother told me you also worked in the hospitals.’
‘I suppose I did. But I was an actress then. We were putting on performances for the wounded. Not cleaning up their bodies.’
We went out together to the stables, Aunt Ginny staying behind to prepare lunch. Susan had brought with her a bunch of carrots and was feeding each horse in turn as we passed by the stalls. I watched her as she attended to them, standing up on tip-toes to wrap her arms around the animals’ necks, soft words in their ears. Susan never bothered much with the way she looked, her clothes always baggy, the way she had her hair cut in an almost boyish style. That’s what she was really – a tomboy – I couldn’t remember her being dressed up otherwise. But there was an openness about her that I could see would be attractive in other ways.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’ she asked.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Have you ever been in love?’
Both she and the horse she was caressing turned to look at me, causing me to feel quite discomfited by their combined teenage and equine stares. ‘I suppose I have,’ I admitted.
Susan abandoned her grasp of the querulous beast, bounded over, linked her arm in mine, guided me over to sit on some bales. ‘Do tell,’ she said.
It wasn’t just her forthrightness that charmed me, I realised I also had a need to tell a story I had long suppressed. Not just a story but a name as well. ‘Rollo,’ I said softly. Then more firmly: ‘Roland. Roland Paxton-Jones, if you want the complete mouthful.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Well, he was tall but I wouldn’t describe him as very handsome. Quite handsome perhaps. Clean-shaven, which was unusual for the men of those days, especially the pilots who loved to play with their moustaches. And he always had a smile in his eyes. We flew in his plane to Palestine together a couple of weeks after we first met. We ate with the Bedouin in the desert, we slept under the stars.’
‘Oh, Georgie, that sounds so romantic.’
‘It was. I think it was the happiest time of my life.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Sadly, he disappeared.’
‘He left you?’
‘No, he and his aircraft disappeared into fog over the Norfolk coast. He was never seen again.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I still imagine sometimes that I might bump into him. Coming around the corner, across the street, on a station platform. Funny that, still looking for him. A face in the crowd.’
Susan clasped my hand tight, I think she might have seen me tear up at the memory.
‘I have another question,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you never have children?’
‘I don’t know. Too many other things were happening. And then it was too late. Why all these questions?’
‘I was just thinking of my own life. Mother and Father always pushing me towards marriage and a family. Well, Father mostly. He’d love me to be a farmer’s wife. But I want to be like you.’
I laughed. ‘A childless spinster?’
‘No. A strong, independent woman who does what she wants.’
‘Well, what is it you want to do?’
‘I don’t know exactly. But I think I’d like to be connected to the arts.’
‘I didn’t know you were creative.’
‘I’m not at all. But I’d like to be around creative people. I want to do an art history degree. If Father will let me.’
‘Well, we women will just have to team up to persuade him then. But first, go back and stand over by your horse.’
I had Rollo’s Leica with me, thought it would be fun to take some photographs. Susan by her favourite mare, Susan up in the saddle, Susan posing on the bales. Quite the little model she turned out to be, a good figure on her too once she had tightened up her loose shirt, pulled in her belt, a wide smile that enchanted. So busy was I with her that I didn’t notice Aunt Ginny’s approach with glasses of lemonade on a tray.
‘Taking pictures for Woman’s Illustrated, are we?’ she said.
‘Susan’s a natural.’
‘So it seems.’ Aunt Ginny put down the tray on one of the bales. ‘Show me what to do, Georgie. And I’ll take a picture of the two of you.’
‘Let’s have one with the car,’ Susan suggested.
So we all strolled over to the front of the house where the coupé was parked, Susan and I in the front seats, Aunt Ginny being quite ridiculous by crawling on to the bonnet so she could photograph us over the windscreen. Click! The two of us. Susan and I. Black and white. Frozen in time. Laughing.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A Big, Small Part
It was a late summer’s day and Laura sat out in her little Highgate garden with her laptop, putting together another batch of research to send over to Sal for his script. She loved this time of year, the turn of the leaves, the comforting smell of woodsmoke from a neighbouring garden, the squirrels scampering up tree trunks and along the stone walls, the sun still warm enough for her to linger outdoors, a time for reflection, to harvest what she had sown over the last few weeks. She realised she felt happy. Or at least content. A contentment she had not felt for a long time. She was engrossed in a project that she really cared about, that had meaning for her and most importantly – that properly defined her. Yes, that was the essential quality, this one of definition. She had learnt that from Georgie. To spend one’s life doing the work that truly reflected and described one’s inner nature, one’s creativity. That was what would give her integrity and authenticity. That was what would draw the straight line from her heart to her art. Being a serious actress immersing herself in the character of someone she totally admired. She couldn’t wait to bring the role to the public. She sipped on her coffee, nibbled on her Portuguese custard tart.
Ping!
An email from Quentin. A favour to ask, he wrote.
Me too! she replied, although asking for a contribution towards £40,000 of start-up costs was probably stretching the concept of favour.
Ping! Oh good, tit for tat. Let’s meet to talk.
My place or yours?
Ping! Prefer a neutral venue. Do you know All Saints’ Church in Tudeley? It’s near Tunbridge Wells.
Never been there.
Ping! You’re in for a big surprise then.
I like surprises.
Ping! Excellent.
They arranged a day and time, and no sooner had she signed off than her mobile started to thrum. She glanced at the number. All the way from America. Edy.
‘Laura, Laura, Laura. I said I wouldn’t forget you.’
‘It’s been a while since your cull.’
‘Since I what?… since I called?’
‘Since you dumped me.’ She heard Edy suck hard on a cigarette. Then the inevitable bout of horrible coughing. She took another bite of her custard tart while she waited for her former agent to recover.
‘I didn’t dump you,’ Edy went on. ‘I merely effected a pause in our relationship.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Please don’t be so curt. We used to be friends.’ Suck, suck, cough, cough. ‘Still are, I hope. Aren’t we?’
‘Why did you call, Edy?’
‘I got something for you.’
‘What?’
‘A big, small part.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? A cameo?’
‘Remember Dame Judi in Shakespeare in Love. It’s a bit like that. An Oscar for eight minutes’ work. This is the same. Trust me, it’s juicy.’
‘What is it?’
‘A hundred million dollar mega movie. It’s called – wait for it… The Boston Tea Party. Can’t believe they haven’t done that before, can you?’
‘What’s the part?’
‘Elizabeth We
lls. Boston-born daughter of an English merchant family. Wife of Samuel Adams.’
‘Who was Samuel Adams?’
‘One of the founding fathers of this great and noble land. An architect of the Revolution. It’s so perfect for you, Laura. You’ll be one of an all-star cast.’
‘Who’s playing Adams?’
A pause. Another drag of her cigarette. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters.’
‘Jack. Jack Muirhead.’
‘Jack.’
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘You know something, Edy? I was having a perfectly enjoyable afternoon. Until you called.’
‘You told me it was an amicable split.’
‘Jack and I. We’re fine. It’s just that… I’m feeling so balanced right now. Working with Jack would be so… disruptive.’
‘This is a big movie, Laura. A serious part. Not some stupid voice-over…’
‘The voice-over was your idea.’
‘It was? Anyway, a chance for you to shine again in front of the camera. And the money’s decent too. I thought you needed some cash.’
‘I do, I do, I do. But you know what, Edy? I’m doing exactly what you told me to do when you dumped me. I’m involved in a project I really care about.’
‘Nobody is saying you should give up what you’re doing. Fly over to LA. Shoot your few scenes with Jack. Go back with a few bucks in your pocket and a top-class movie under your belt. What’s not to like?’
‘Who else is in this all-star cast?’
‘Nothing’s finalised.’
‘Come on, Edy. What are you not telling me?’
‘OK then. If you have to know. Kate.’
‘Kate,’ Laura shrieked. ‘Fucking Kate. She’s a drunken wreck. You told me you’d axed her the same time as me.’
‘What could I do? She was desperate. She begged me. She actually came round to my apartment, got down on her knees, hugged my ankles and begged me. What could I do? I have a heart you know.’
Laura seriously doubted this was true. ‘What part has she got?’
‘George Washington’s wife. Martha. It’s only a small role.’
‘How small?… forget it. You know what, Edy. I don’t want to be dragged back into this. It’s all bubbling up inside me again. I can feel it as we speak. The ego, the jealousy, the bitchiness. I don’t want it.’
‘I’m trying to mend broken bridges here.’
‘I didn’t ask you to.’
‘I was anticipating your needs. That’s what an agent is for.’
‘I’m turning you down.’
‘Why? Because of Jack? Because of Kate?’
‘No. Because of me.’
A pause. Edy’s heavy breathing. Then her soft but threatening voice. ‘I called in a lot of favours to get you this. Don’t let me down.’
‘I’m afraid I have to.’
‘Fuck you, Laura.’
‘And fuck you, Edy.’
She would have liked to have slammed the phone down, that was the problem with mobiles, no facility for dramatic endings. Unless she dropped it in the pond like the last time. She found herself instead clicking off in a rather lady-like fashion, her hand shaking but feeling exhilarated nonetheless. She couldn’t remember the last time she had sworn at someone like that.
The sound of the entrance buzzer.
She waltzed down the hallway, quietly singing to herself. She opened the front door to be greeted by the postman with a recorded delivery envelope.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Hepburn Archives
Transcript from BBC Radio 4 interview
Broadcasting House, London
16th May 1982
Interviewer: Sir Peter Delamere
Interviewee: Georgie Hepbur
PD: The war was over, Georgie. And you survived, of course…
GH: I was one of the lucky ones. A lot of ATA pilots lost their lives. Planes going down in bad weather. Engine failure. We might have just been ferrying aircraft around but it was a dangerous business.
PD: You could have gone on to be an instructor or some other job in aviation but you chose not to. Why was that?
GH: I would have loved to have done something like that. But my mother’s health had started to deteriorate by then. Senility they called it in those days. She wasn’t even that old. Mid-sixties it was when it started. I went down to the cottage at Five Elms Down to look after her. It wasn’t easy as we never got on at the best of times.
PD: It was around this time you started taking photographs.
GH: I didn’t have that much to do around the cottage when I wasn’t looking after mother. I dug out the Leica camera Rollo had given me on our trip to Palestine, started playing around with that. I took photographs of my mother mainly. I wanted to preserve my memory of her, that was all. I had no idea I was sowing the seeds for a new career.
PD: These photographs of her became iconic, didn’t they?
GH: Well, no-one was really taking pictures of the elderly in those days. It was all glamour or war photography. Robert Capa was the biggest instigator of that, of course, with his Magnum Photos outfit and photo-journalism.
PD: Were you ever tempted yourself?
GH: Robert and I did have a chat about it once. In the very early days. But I told him I had experienced enough of war without having to go off and take pictures of it. He gave me the impression he was pretty fed up with it all himself. Yet, he couldn’t resist. All that excitement. All that adrenalin. It was addictive. I knew that myself from just flying the Spits. In the end Robert was blown up by a landmine. How tragic. He could only have been in his early forties. A handsome man. Very intense. Very intellectual about his work. We don’t really respect intellectuals in this country. Britain is more of an emotional nation. [LAUGHING] Sorry, I’m rambling on here. Getting a bit senile myself. Where were we?
PD: Well, your resistance to Capa’s style of photojournalism certainly paid off as you ended up carving out your own niche.
GH: I’ve often thought about that. I used to think it was just pure luck. But I believe it was more than that. It was about staying true to myself. It was about taking the photographs I wanted to take. The line that goes straight from one’s heart to one’s art.
PD: That’s a fine way of putting it.
GH: I am merely paraphrasing the words of Marc Chagall, my favourite painter. He used to say: If I create from the heart, nearly everything works.
PD: Well, there is certainly an authenticity to your work that the public has responded to. Myself included.
GH: That’s very kind of you to say.
PD: I’m sure it’s true.
GH: My subjects were a lost generation, Peter. A generation trapped between the end of the Second World War and the Swinging Sixties. Once David Bailey and the rest of his gang came along, it became all about fashion and celebrity after that. Still is.
PD: How did you feel about that?
GH: I have no problem with it at all. They captured the zeitgeist of their generation and I suppose I captured the zeitgeist of mine. That surely is what the contemporary artist must strive to do.
PD: Would you say that the zeitgeist you captured in your work was this feeling of being lost? Of being abandoned?
GH: Not only ‘of being lost’ in that sense of not knowing where you’re going because everything ahead of you has changed. But also the sense of ‘loss’ for what had been. People of our generation, we all lost something or someone in that damn war. It was certainly a feeling I could relate to myself. We’re contemporaries, Peter. Didn’t you feel it yourself?
PD: I suppose I did.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Her Majesty’s Inspector Calls
‘There are two basic rules that a self-employed person should follow.’ That is what Marcus Green, Laura’s former accountant used to tell her, a giant wardrobe of a man speaking from his uncomfortable wedge behind his tiny desk. Marcus was not fat, he was just tall and wide, very wide.
Visiting him was like visiting Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. Clothing that frame in the expensive fabrics he enjoyed must have cost him a fortune. He had been recommended to Laura as someone well-versed in the erratic earnings and lifestyle of the modern-day artiste. ‘If there is no other advice you take from me, Laura.’ Marcus’ voice would rumble threateningly from deep within his cavernous belly. ‘Please let it be Marcus Green’s two commandments. They are set in stone.’
Marcus’s two basic rules for the self-employed were as follows: One – keep handy a large container for receipts. ‘Before you retire for the night, you must be able to easily empty your wallet, purse, handbag, pockets, satchels, envelopes, parcels, packages and plastic bags of all relevant receipts and place them in this receptacle. Now this container must not be kept in a cupboard or under a coffee table or behind some ornament, but nestle out there in the open, in full view, so that in one simple swoop you can place your receipts therein. A box, a vase with a wide neck, a bowl, it doesn’t matter, any easily accessible container will do. And at the end of the financial year, all that you need to do is collect these bits of paper and deliver them to me. How simple is that? The more paper, the less tax. That’s rule number one.’
And basic rule number two? ‘Take thirty percent of everything you earn and place it in a separate bank account marked TAX. In that way, Her Majesty’s Revenues and Customs will never surprise you.’
Unfortunately for Laura, HMRC was surprising her now. No, in all honesty, she could not say that. For lodged in the back of her mind was always the thought that one day the very recorded delivery manila envelope she was presently holding in her hand would eventually arrive. It was just that she had been in denial. Marcus Green, her former accountant, would have been very pleased to learn that she had indeed trained herself to save all her receipts daily in an accessible receptacle. The problem was that she had failed for a number of years to follow basic rule number two to any extent whatsoever. She had also failed to follow Marcus Green’s basic rule number three – and that was to retain his services as an accountant.
A Woman of Integrity Page 17
