More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  “No, it isn’t,” said Charles, and was surprised to find how indignant he felt on Matt’s behalf.

  Two weeks later, Charles was sent off to do his Wosby. Attending with him was Nigel Manners, who had been at Eton with him; on the last night they got mildly drunk together in the mess.

  Manners said he seemed to remember Charles had a “jolly pretty sister,” and Charles said indeed he had. “I’m very fond of her. She had a rather successful season.”

  “Really? Good for her. Quite a good lark, this, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Find your basic training OK?”

  “Oh—you know. Not bad. Better than school.”

  They both laughed.

  “Good chaps in your unit?” asked Manners.

  “Some of them, yes. One really bright bloke. He should be here, really.”

  “Yes? Why isn’t he?”

  “Because he didn’t go to the right school,” said Charles. “And he’d be a bloody fine officer. Sometimes I think it’s not fair, all this stuff.”

  Manners stared at him.

  “Good lord! You’re not a pinko, are you?”

  “No,” said Charles slowly, “but knowing Shaw has changed my mind about certain things. He’s a good bloke through and through.”

  “Well, it’s jolly difficult, isn’t it? I mean, would you introduce him to your sister, for instance?”

  “What—socially?” said Charles. “Oh, no, I don’t think I’d go that far.”

  1959

  MATT, THIS IS MY SISTER, ELIZA. ELIZA, MATT SHAW, COMRADE AT arms.”

  “Goodness. How very military. How do you do, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Fine, thanks,” said Matt, taking her outstretched hand. He stood there, staring at her; he felt an odd sense of disorientation, without being at all sure why. Tall, she was, Charles’s sister, with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and big blue eyes; she was wearing narrow black trousers and a black-and-white checked jacket, which swung open to reveal a black sweater, clinging quite closely to some extremely nice rounded breasts.

  “I hope you’re not off to some battlefield now,” she said, taking back her hand, and he was aware that he had held on to it for just too long and felt foolish.

  “No, not just yet,” said Charles. “Three days of serious relaxation for both of us; but Matt and I came up together from Warley, and I thought you might be able to drop him off at his place. I told him you were meeting me.”

  “Well, of course I will. Where—”

  “Really, it’s not necessary,” Matt said, pulling himself together, suddenly desperate to be away from them. “I can get the bus, easy—”

  “Of course we’ll take you,” said Eliza, taking Charles’s arm, reaching up, giving him a kiss. “I’m taking Charles to see my new flat, so it’s fine. Where do you live, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Matt, please. Well, Clapham, not too near your flat—Kensington, I think Chas said it was—”

  “Chas! Is that what you call him? I like it!” said Eliza, and Matt felt slightly patronised. “No, honestly, I’d love to drive to Clapham; I’d take you up to Scotland if you wanted. I’ve got this heavenly new car; it’s a Fiat 500. I can hardly bear to get out of it even.”

  “How on earth did you afford that?” said Charles.

  “It was a present from Gommie. You know how she loves to spoil me—”

  “Wish my godmother loved to spoil me,” said Charles. “What color is it? Come on, Matt, don’t look so nervous; she’s not that bad a driver …”

  As if that was what he was nervous about, Matt thought.

  The Fiat was parked just below Waterloo station, in the Cut; it was navy blue. “There she is,” said Eliza, “love of my life. What do you think, Charles?”

  “I think you’re a lucky so-and-so,” said Charles. “Can I drive it?”

  “No, you can’t; you can get in the back. Matt, you sit next to me.”

  “No, really, look—there’s my bus. Goes right past my door. Thanks anyway; cheers, Chas, see you; bye, Eliza, nice to meet you.”

  And he ran towards the bus as it was pulling away, seized the rail, jumped onto the platform, and then went upstairs so that he could watch the Fiat as it wove its way rather uncertainly in the opposite direction. He felt much better already.

  He had still not got completely over his rage at not getting a commission, and he was depressed at the thought of Charles’s departure from Warley barracks. He had become, Matt realised, a genuine friend, and he was going to miss him. The three days’ leave marked their final separation. Charles was off to Mons, and the four of them, tough little Walton and Nobby Clark, the Geordie, had got very drunk the night before and sworn they’d stay in touch. Bloody likely, thought Matt, the three of them working-class lads and Chas the posho.

  The other public school wallies were wallies indeed: “Thick as the proverbial,” he remarked to Nobby one night as they polished their boots. “I reckon we could get the better of ’em, you and I, Nobs, if we only got half a chance.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe,” said Nobby, “but who’s going to give it to us, eh? I don’t see either of us being welcomed into the stock exchange where old Chas is going.”

  “Maybe not,” said Matt. “Trick is to find a place where we could box clever, you know? I’m not going to be a builder like me dad; I want a cushy job, in an office, with a desk.”

  “Yeah, and pigs flying past the window,” said Nobby.

  Matt did actually have an idea about what he wanted to do, although he wasn’t sure how he could accomplish it. Before he went into the army, he had worked as an office boy for six months in a big insurance company. His sharp eyes had led him to where he was sure a lot of money lay: the world of property.

  Big buildings were going up all over London: the company he was working for insured some of the smaller ones; Matt always read very carefully the memos he carried about from office to office, realising how much he would learn from them, and one of the girls who worked in the typing pool and who fancied him would supply—in all innocence—information on the figures she typed up all day during an evening at the pictures or in a coffee bar. She didn’t realise she was doing this, just found Matt’s interest in her work rather touching.

  It was small-beer stuff, a few thousand here and there, but Matt would work out for himself how the thousands would multiply to the power of millions for the big boys behind the big buildings. And it wasn’t just the money; he felt a sense of genuine excitement as he travelled to work each morning on the bus—watching the buildings grow, watching London turn modern, as he put it, staring at the bomb sites that still scarred it, and wondering what might be growing shortly in their place. He had read in his Daily Mirror that the money spent on new buildings had almost doubled in the past ten years. It seemed very clear to Matt that this was the industry to go into.

  When he left the army, he’d decided to get a job with one of the commercial estate agents that were multiplying almost daily; he could earn at least eight pounds a week just for starters. The sky towards which the great towers soared could be literally the limit. And Matt would have a part of it.

  That was his dream, at any rate.

  “So—any news?” Charles said as they drove towards Kensington. “Got a job yet?”

  “Not really,” said Eliza. “I mean, I’ve got one, but it’s not what I want; I’m just a secretary.”

  “So, what do you want exactly?”

  “Well, I’d like to get into the fashion business, work on a magazine maybe, but I haven’t quite got there yet.”

  “Jolly good. I can’t say I quite understand, but—”

  “It’s very simple. I want a career; I don’t just want to get married. Well, I do one day, but I certainly don’t see getting a rich husband as the be-all and end-all, even if it is what Mummy and Daddy hope for.”

  “They’re struggling a bit, aren’t they?”

  “I really think they are. And the house is a huge expense and worry, lovely as it is. Incidentall
y, I thought he was rather sweet, your Mr. Shaw. Awfully good-looking.”

  “Is he? I hadn’t noticed. Eliza, do look out; you nearly knocked that chap off his bike. Now tell me about your flatmates. Anyone I know? And where are we going tonight? I’m ready for a bit of fun, I can tell you.”

  Sarah took a deep breath; she had to broach this subject; she couldn’t leave it any longer.

  “Adrian?”

  He was deep in an article in the Telegraph. They were having breakfast outside.

  “Interesting. They could start work on this Channel Tunnel in two years. I can’t believe it. Wonder if it’d be a good investment.”

  “Adrian, please don’t talk about investment. We can’t afford to buy as much as a premium bond at the moment. And anyway, if—”

  “If what, my love?”

  She stopped somehow. She’d been about to say one of the unforgivable things, about how Adrian’s investments had invariably left them worse off.

  “If we did have any money, we’d need to spend it on Summercourt.”

  “On what exactly? Seems fine to me.”

  “It isn’t fine, Adrian. It needs painting, the whole house, outside, every door and window, and that would cost at least five hundred pounds. And there’s damp in the cornices of some of the top bedrooms; I think there’s quite a lot of water getting in. Really and truly we need a new roof, you know. Mr. Travers warned us about that last time he replaced the slates, said he couldn’t patch it all up indefinitely.”

  “Now, darling, think of the money he’d make if he reroofed the whole of Summercourt. Of course he’s going to say that.”

  Sarah took a deep breath.

  “I don’t agree, Adrian. He’s a careful builder, a proper craftsman, and I would put a lot of faith in anything he had to say. And looking at those ceilings, I think the time has come.”

  “But, sweetheart, we can’t afford it.”

  “Well, we could if—”

  “If what?”

  “If we sold a bit more land.”

  There. She had said it.

  “But I wouldn’t even consider it,” he said. “We’ve always agreed that we’ve kept the absolute minimum necessary to ensure the place is safe, so there’s no risk of it being spoilt.”

  “We need the money, Adrian; we really do. It only need be a few acres.”

  And then it did all sound dreadfully bad, and she was horrified to find herself near to tears. He went over to her, put his arm round her shoulders. “Hey,” he said, “don’t cry. You know I can’t bear you to be upset. It’ll be all right, darling. Look, leave it with me; I’ll find someone to help us.”

  “But, Adrian—”

  “I’ll talk to Bert Chapman, see what he says. He’s a bit more realistic about these things than Travers.”

  Bert Chapman was what her father would have called a spiv. He botched everything, cut corners, and employed people who had no real idea what they were doing.

  She opened her mouth to say so, but Adrian was already moving into the next hideously predictable phase of the discussion.

  “Oh, Sarah,” he said, his face suddenly infinitely sad. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve been pretty useless to you, haven’t I, in lots of ways. Never brought any money in.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Of course, she’d known when she fell in love with him that he had no money and only a modest job in the city. Which he’d given up on his fiftieth birthday, because he was finding it so exhausting doing the journey up there every day, and a friend of his had offered him a partnership in his company, selling guns and fishing rods by mail order. But that had gone bust, taking Adrian’s investment with it. Of course, he had a small pension. But he was terribly extravagant, spent a lot of money on shooting, on wine, clothes …

  “I’m not being silly,” he said now. “I feel bad about it. And I hate to see you so worried.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help that.”

  “Sometimes,” he said suddenly, “I think your father was right. You should never have married me. How much better you’d have been with Johnny Robertson; how many millions is he worth now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I think you do,” he said, and his eyes were very sad. “Oh, Sarah, I’m not surprised you’re disappointed.”

  “I’m not disappointed,” she said quickly.

  He ignored this. “But there Charles was. So you didn’t have much choice, did you?”

  “I didn’t want a choice.” And she hadn’t, in spite of her mother’s grief, her father’s rage at her announcement she was pregnant. She had wanted to marry Adrian. Had insisted on marrying Adrian.

  She reached up and kissed him.

  “I’ve been very happy,” she said, “as you know; we both have. It’s all been lovely.”

  “I hope so. Certainly it has for me.” He picked up the paper again, clearly feeling the matter settled. “Anyway, darling, I’ll get Mr. Chapman in early next week. Don’t worry anymore.”

  She would, of course, but silently. These discussions just made matters worse.

  As she went into the house, the phone rang.

  “Mummy?”

  “Hallo, darling. How are you?”

  “Very, very well. I’ve got the most wonderful news.”

  Engaged? thought Sarah, her heart leaping. To that nice Barrett boy, perhaps. That would solve an awful lot of problems; he was so rich, so … so suitable in every way. “What’s that, then?”

  “I’ve got the most amazing and brilliant job. It’s everything I hoped for—in fashion, not just secretarial—oh, Mummy, I’m so happy …”

  Sarah’s heart lifted in spite of herself as she listened. It did sound wonderful. And Eliza was only eighteen, was still a little too young to think about getting married …

  “Look! Isn’t it lovely?”

  They all looked obediently at the square-cut sapphire surrounded by small diamonds, glittering in its appointed place, the fourth finger of the left hand, specially manicured for the occasion.

  “Oh, it’s gorgeous.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “How terribly exciting. Congratulations!”

  “Marvellous!”

  “Thank you. I’m so happy! I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day. Thank goodness it’s Friday; we’re going down to the country tonight, to talk plans with Mummy and Daddy.”

  “Well …” Eliza hated to break the charmed circle of beaming rosy faces all peering down at Susannah Godley’s ring, in the kitchen of the shared flat, but … “I’m already late. Sorry. Susannah, congratulations again. Let me give you a kiss.”

  “Thank you, Eliza. Thank you so much. Work hard! As if she wouldn’t,” she added to the other girls, as the door closed on Eliza’s back. “That job is just too important to her. Well, when she does get married, she’ll have to give it up; I mean, no man’s going to agree to his wife working the sort of hours she does.”

  Eliza ran out into the street, feeling the now-familiar mixture of irritation and mild depression that followed any announcement of an engagement among her friends. Irritation because she couldn’t understand how they could all get so excited about it, seeing it as the be-all and end-all of their lives—it would be the end as far as she was concerned—and depression because however much she told herself that, and that she was right and they were wrong, she was beginning to feel just a bit of an outsider. Everyone, absolutely everyone was getting married, even Princess Margaret—to a photographer called Antony Armstrong-Jones. Everyone except her, that was. Not that she wanted it, or certainly not at the moment; she was far more interested in her career.

  But it was beginning to feel a bit lonely out there, more so with every friend’s engagement.

  Anyway, at least she wasn’t a virgin anymore; she’d seen to that, rather unsatisfactorily but with great relief, a few months earlier, at a country house party. He had been the brother of an old friend, they had both been rather drunk, and she ha
d … well, seen a golden opportunity, really.

  Her relief was tempered with disappointment that it hadn’t been more pleasurable; how could that, which had been uncomfortable rather than anything else, possibly have anything in common, she wondered, with the surge of rapture that Lady Chatterley had clearly experienced with Mellors? The book had just become available on the open market and was being passed from nice girl to nice girl all over England. She told herself that everything required practice, presumed it must get better and that when she found the right person, it would.

  She did, of course, feel considerable guilt that she couldn’t yet give her mother the pleasure—and the satisfaction and relief—of seeing her safely engaged to someone rich and appropriate. She was well aware of the investment in her season and how the whole point of the ritual—and it was a ritual—was to pave her way to the altar, as it was for all the girls.

  But she had something far more important, in her opinion, the sort of job she had dreamed of: in the publicity department of Woolfe’s, a medium-size, high-fashion Knightsbridge store. Eliza had gone to Woolfe’s as a secretary, but she had recently, and to her great pride, been promoted to publicity assistant. She absolutely loved her work, which consisted mostly of driving round London in taxis, delivering clothes that fashion journalists had requested for photographic sessions; she was also sometimes allowed to show the more junior journalists clothes herself, and even suggest that such-and-such a hat or bag would go beautifully with the dress their magazine was featuring. Of course, she wasn’t allowed near the real queens of their professions, Audrey Withers of Vogue, Ernestine Carter of the Sunday Times, Beatrix Miller of Queen, but she sometimes would get the chance to sit quietly in a corner and listen to her boss, Lindy Freeman, as she talked to them. She had brilliant ideas, did Lindy, the use of live mannequins in Woolfe’s windows to launch the previous autumn’s collection being her greatest yet. She was a tough boss and often had Eliza working until nine or even ten at night, and her wrath over mistakes was terrifying, but she was immensely generous, both with her praise and in giving credit where it was due. Eliza had never got over the sheer heady thrill of hearing Lindy tell Clare Rendlesham—the petrifying Lady Rendlesham of Vogue’s “Young Idea”—that the idea of sending a cloud of multicolored silk scarves together with a simple black shift dress had come from “my assistant Eliza.”