The Rose in Winter

by Sarah Harrison

  Johnny Eldridge.

  How, and why, do we know when people wish to be unobserved? But we do and instinct told Barbara not to approach. She had an umbrella with her and put it up, pausing a few yards away by the embankment wall, as if watching the river traffic.

  Everything about them conveyed intimacy. But not the intimacy of romance or, well, what she had seen that night at the house party. There was nothing romantic in their attitudes. This was something different, deeper somehow, and older. Molly talked on. When she stopped, she continued to stare into Johnny’s face and he must have said something, briefly, because she put her gloved hand on his arm and moved it up and down once, fondly, as you might do to encourage a crestfallen child. He threw his cigarette butt down on the pavement and pressed it with the sole of his shoe, both hands now back in his pockets. Molly lifted her chin and clasped the sides of her thick collar together in a gesture Barbara recognised as typical – an armouring of herself. Next to Johnny she appeared taller, vital and brimming with confidence; the contrast between them was shocking.

  It seemed the conversation was at an end. Molly turned to go, as she did so, she gave his arm another lighter, quicker touch and then she was setting off smartly towards Westminster Bridge. Johnny turned, head down, he was going to come Barbara’s way! Just in time, she angled the umbrella behind her shoulders, a perfect screen. She saw his feet in worn, black shoes come towards her, the soft crunch of his footsteps. When she glanced after him, his head was up once again and his stride had quickened. A fine, sleety snow was starting to fall and his uncovered hair looked wet already.

  For a moment she considered calling his name so that he would look round and see her and smile. But the moment passed and he was gone.

  Not long after that, Molly suggested they have tea at the Ritz.

  ‘With champagne! My treat – I’ve had a promotion!’

  Sitting in the Palm Court, with the string orchestra playing, the filigree cake stand between them and waiters for whom nothing was too much trouble dancing attendance, Barbara realised that this was in every sense more Molly’s treat than hers. Though she would never have dreamed of mentioning it, she had been here before, whereas this was Molly’s first time. Her glee was glorious to behold.

  ‘Too marvellous,’ she stage-whispered. ‘I’m tempted to ask for more cream just for the sake of it.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ They raised their glasses and took the first, fizzingly glorious mouthful.

  ‘Now,’ said Molly, ‘I do hope you don’t mind but someone else is quite likely to turn up.’

  ‘It’s a celebration, why would I mind?’

  ‘No reason at all! I just thought I’d mention it.’

  The little orchestra was playing ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’ when Johnny Eldridge walked in. It was Molly’s expression that told Barbara he was arriving and when she glanced over her shoulder she noticed other female heads discreetly doing the same, like sunflowers to the light. With his perfect suit, his shiny shoes and his light, insouciant step, he appeared to move to his very own theme tune.

  ‘Ladies – how rude of me to be late.’

  Molly flicked a hand. ‘You’re always late.’

  ‘Unkind!’ He directed a collusive smile at Barbara as the waiter held the back of his chair and fluttered a pristine napkin. ‘I hope you ordered for three.’

  While another glass was poured and all three clinked together, Barbara marvelled at the difference. The last time she had seen him he had appeared scarcely more than a tramp – dejected, skinny and down-at-heel. The man sitting with them now was as sleek and polished as any West End star, from the top of his groomed head to the toe of his shiny shoes. When he placed his right ankle atop his left knee he exposed a smooth expanse of dark silk sock. His pearl-grey tie was also silk, with the tiniest blue motif. His hands – those thin, expressive hands – were spotless, the nails manicured. Could it possibly be, she asked herself, that the dreadful painting had garnered further commissions? She remembered Gerry’s scathing ‘no recommendations’ and doubted it.

  Molly had picked up the conversational baton.

  ‘My stock has risen. They’ve gone so far as to tell me I’m invaluable. From now on, I shall have a say in the running of the place.’

  ‘My dearest Mol, you are invaluable,’ said Johnny. ‘They’ve always been lucky to have you and they’ve finally realised it.’

  Barbara agreed. ‘I bet the customers—’

  ‘Clients, please!’

  ‘Sorry, clients. I bet they adore you and want to look just like you.’ He leaned toward Barbara, so they were surveying Molly with heads together. ‘Some of them are famous, you know.’

  ‘Are they? Are they really?’

  ‘No,’ said Molly. ‘Stop making things up.’

  ‘Make things up? Me?’

  Molly quirked her mouth sarcastically. ‘You. Anyway, I thought I would invite my two favourite people to this little celebration.’

  Only later did Barbara wonder exactly when and why she had become one of Molly’s ‘favourite people’. For now it was sufficient to bask in the moment, the sparkle of the wine and the company, to be included in these teasing exchanges as if she were part of an inner circle.

  ‘Of course,’ said Molly, ‘now that I’m terribly important and you’re Scoop of Maiden Lane I shall be making use of you.’

  Barbara nearly choked on her bubbles. ‘I’m the most junior member of staff on the least fashionable magazine in London!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Molly, ‘but we could change all that. Even countrywomen want nice clothes for … whatever it is they do.’

  ‘Walk dogs? Ride horses? Work in the garden?’

  Molly waved a hand as if fending off a fly. ‘All those ghastly things … At any rate, it’s a market waiting to be tapped. I’ve said more than once that we should introduce a small collection of perfectly-cut tweeds, with perhaps a little fur detailing here and there, pretty buttons, clever stitching, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Exactly what Marjory Gorringe would wear,’ said Johnny and they all, Barbara included, laughed like drains.

  There followed a great deal more laughter, mainly at other people’s expense. Encouraged by the scurrilous atmosphere, Barbara treated them to embellished descriptions of the denizens of The Countrywoman office. There was something liberating, even exhilarating, in entertaining two people, who were themselves entertaining and who had no scruples whatever about mocking others.

  ‘Please!’ cried Molly, affecting a stitch in her side. ‘No more!’

  Johnny shook his head. ‘Do these poor unsuspecting souls know they’ve taken a viper to their collective bosom?’

  ‘No, and anyway I’m not,’ protested Barbara. ‘I like them all, but describing them makes me realise what an ill-assorted bunch we are.’

  ‘Note the “we”,’ said Johnny. ‘Even when shredding her colleagues to pieces, she has to do the decent thing.’

  They moved on to the rich dowager, whose lapdogs Johnny was walking daily. He had every inflection and mannerism down pat, to uproarious effect.

  Not long after that Molly announced her departure.

  ‘I must dash, there’s an equally demanding lady waiting for me in Harley Street, but no need for you two to stop the fun. Stay here and finish the bubbly, it’s all taken care of.’

  Johnny looked at Barbara. ‘I think we should do as we’re told, don’t you?’

  Barbara, slightly squiffy on champagne and hilarity, was in no position to judge whether this was a good idea.

  With the founder of the feast gone, the mood changed a little. Johnny sat back, surveying her as if she were the most delightful and intriguing sight in the world.

  ‘How nice this is. Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all. Thank you, I won’t.’

  There was no nonsense with matches this time, the waiter was ready with a lighter before the cigarette had reached his lips. He exhaled luxuriously.

  ‘A little high life does
a person good, don’t you think? From time to time.’

  ‘Yes it does.’

  ‘Although something tells me you’re quite used to it.’

  ‘Well …’ In her present mood she wasn’t going to deny it. ‘But never tired of it.’

  ‘A good answer.’ He widened his eyes. ‘Am I allowed to say how elegant you look?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not only elegant. Elegant is about clothes and such. Lovely – you look lovely, Barbara.’

  ‘Why thank you.’ Buoyant with her new-found confidence, she added, ‘You look pretty smart yourself.’

  This made him laugh. ‘That may not be saying much! Last time you saw me I was living in the Gorringes’ attic and spending my days in their garden shed!’

  He didn’t know, then, that she had seen him since; not long ago and looking far, far worse. The heady shot of relief loosened her tongue still further.

  ‘Did Marjory like her picture?’

  ‘She did. Or she said she did, which I realise may not be the same thing, the upper classes being so polite and all.’

  ‘I’m sure Marjory would speak her mind.’

  ‘That’s what I think.’ He said this with emphasis, and a slightly furrowed brow, as though she had made a strikingly perceptive observation.

  ‘Have there been any more commissions?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’ He shook his head, blowing smoke away. ‘But no triumph, no tragedy. I’m a jack of all trades, something always comes up.’

  ‘Like the dowager’s dogs?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Maybe she’d like a picture of them.’

  ‘I hope not – they’re pugs. It’s like walking a brace of hairy frogs!’

  They were laughing again. ‘I’m sure you could make them look beautiful—’

  ‘Not a chance! Landseer himself couldn’t manage it.’

  The laughter and light-hearted talk continued as the afternoon grew dark outside, the lights of London came on and the clientele of the Palm Court mutated from the teatime to the cocktail crowd. Molly had provided a second bottle of champagne before leaving and Barbara was surprised to see that they had drunk three quarters of it. She rather dreaded getting to her feet.

  Picking up her bag, she said, ‘I should be going.’

  ‘Back to that motley crew of yours?’

  ‘No, I asked to leave early today.’

  ‘And they were understanding?’

  ‘I’ll tell them I had a meeting with a potentially valuable, new contact. Which is true – Molly and her ideas for county ladies.’

  ‘You see?’ He stood as she rose cautiously to her feet. ‘These things have a way of happening. Something always comes up.’

  Outside, an unexpected wave of tristesse washed over her. A taxi was already idling at the kerb. The commissionaire opened the door.

  ‘Madam?’

  She turned to Johnny Eldridge. ‘Can we share this? I’m going due north.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll see where the mood takes me.’ His expression became serious. ‘I do hope to see you again, very soon.’

  ‘I hope so too.’

  By the time she’d taken her seat he’d set off in the direction of Hyde Park. Looking out of the rear window his retreating back view, smart suit notwithstanding, reminded her of the last time she saw him – his upturned collar, his hands buried in pockets and his head down. No coat on this bitter city night.

  She gave the cabbie her address and leaned back, closing her eyes. She felt a little queasy, not herself. This could have been due to the champagne, but there was something else making her feel light-headed. Johnny Eldridge, who thought she looked lovely. Who wanted to see her again.

  Ten

  Falling in love, she found, was exactly that – an intoxicating loss of control followed by a sudden, hurtling descent into the unknown.

  Not that she had any means of comparison; she had not so much as imagined herself to be in love before. The opportunity for worldly-wise advice from Julia had never arisen (to the latter’s mild disappointment it must be said). Until now, Barbara had remained heart-whole and curiously detached from that human experience about which poems, stories, songs, whole operas and plays were written. But from their very strangeness she had intuited something. Perhaps that was why Stanley’s proposal had been so easy to decline; she recognised something was lacking, not just in herself, but in him, too. There was no doubting his warm feelings towards her but the calm, considered nature of the request and the stoicism with which he’d received her refusal, spoke volumes.

  She had been flattered, but not tempted, and Stanley, well, she did not imagine for a single second that she had sent him back to India heartbroken. The suggestion had been that they form a stable alliance based on mutual affection and respect. Thank heavens the thought of being mistress of Heart’s Ease had so terrified her. That and some deeply buried unexamined belief in – well – whatever wonderful, unknown thing was out there.

  But this, too, was terrifying. Before, she had known herself just enough to draw back. Now, she scarcely knew herself at all.

  Johnny Eldridge didn’t get in touch, but neither did he leave another meeting to chance. He didn’t wait, either. Only two days later, when she left the office, did he step out of the dark like a ghost.

  ‘What—! Oh, it’s you!’

  ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She waved a dismissive hand, but she was trembling. ‘Not your fault. There’s sometimes a tramp here and … it doesn’t matter.’

  He stood before her, all benign attention. ‘He was here when I arrived. We were talking.’

  ‘Talking? What about?’

  ‘The way of the world. You know. Interesting fellow, down on his luck.’

  She tried, and failed, to imagine this conversation. ‘You could have come up. You should have rung the bell.’

  ‘I didn’t like to disturb and I knew you’d be out before long anyway.’

  The door behind them opened and the editor emerged.

  ‘Barbara …’ He eyed Johnny. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine thank you, Mr Danby. I just bumped into a friend of mine.’

  Johnny stepped forward. ‘Jonathan Eldridge, how do you do?’

  ‘How do you do?’ Danby’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He ignored the proffered hand and turned back to Barbara. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, then.’

  ‘Yes. Goodnight.’

  Johnny was chuckling. ‘Thanks to you I knew who that was the moment he appeared.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Scuttling back to his bachelor quarters in – what – Victoria?’

  ‘I don’t know where he lives. Or if he’s married.’

  ‘Oh, I think not.’

  Barbara was suddenly sure he was right, but also sure that there was some other, more disagreeable implication which she failed to grasp.

  Johnny went on.

  ‘Is there anywhere round here where I could buy you a drink? I mean, of course, where you would be happy to go?’

  The busy cocktail bar of a nearby hotel seemed a good idea, but after the Ritz this place seemed to her too flashy and even a little – there was no other word for it – common. The gilt was too bright, the colours too garish and the waiters brash and hurried. Johnny however appeared at home and amused.

  ‘Looks just the spot for adulterous trysts, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid it does rather.’

  ‘Wonder what they make of us.’

  ‘You don’t imagine—’

  ‘Not being serious. What’s yours?’

  Cautious after the last time, she asked for a ginger beer and Johnny ordered brandy and soda. When the drinks arrived, he raised his glass.

  ‘To us!’

  She clinked. ‘Is that what we are? “Us”?’

  ‘Well, we’re not, let’s see …’ He glanced around and pointed at a loud, flushed couple at the bar, ‘… them. Thank God.’

>   ‘Don’t be unkind.’

  ‘Why not? They can’t hear.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know.’ He leaned forward, looking down into his glass. ‘And I didn’t mean to make a joke of your question. Honestly. Quite the opposite.’

  The speed with which he moved from heartless humour to childlike penitence took her breath away; she was disarmed and, yes, thrilled.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Oh but it does, we both know it does. Tell me, Barbara,’ he glanced up at her from under his brows, remorseful, questioning. ‘Have you ever experienced the coup de foudre?’

  She was going to say no, but something stopped her. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then take it from me, you haven’t.’ He set his glass down on the table, his hands flat on either side. ‘I can say that, because you see I have.’

  The atmosphere in the bar was febrile, hot and noisy, but she was shivering. His eyes were on her face, tracing a path over her skin, her thoughts.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A little while ago I was down on my luck. Living from day to day, hand-to-mouth, making a hash of things as I mostly do. No—’ Barbara had opened her mouth to protest against him ‘—not always, but mostly. I couldn’t afford the rent on the hovel I was living in and didn’t know where it was going to come from. I was pretending to be a rather unsuccessful painter, but I even failed at that.’

  ‘Pretending?’ she said, though her eyes slid away. ‘Surely, you are a painter?’

  He shook his head. ‘Listen. After a couple of months, I left the cottage one night and never went back. Never paid the last bit of rent either. Not so good, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘But here’s the thing. Long before that, in the summer, I was at a dance in Chelsea. It was one of those parties full of carefree young people, with nothing to do but enjoy themselves and had the time and money to do it.’ He tilted his head. ‘You know the sort of thing?’