The Magic Hour

by Charlotte Bingham

  Mrs Smithers shook the paper yet again.

  ‘I dare say your grandmother was a woman with plenty of opinions, some of which were undoubtedly her own, Minty, but I had still rather you were at home here, even if I am not, most especially if I am not. No one to answer the telephone, and so on.’

  ‘Mer-Mer-Mer-Mr Atkins wanted most especially to take me out, today being what it is, ma’am, with your per-permission, of course.’

  Alexandra was now not just playing the contrite maid to the hilt but managing to look it too, while secretly enjoying it all the time.

  ‘Mr Atkins should stick to taking you out on Sunday afternoons.’

  ‘Well, he would have der-der-done, but seeing it was my birthday today …’

  It was Alexandra’s trump card, and she had played it at just the right moment, for in contrast to Alexandra, Mrs Smithers became instantly and genuinely contrite, insisting on pouring them both a sherry and toasting Minty’s health, and ending by pressing a panic-stricken five-pound note into her maid’s hand, a note which Alexandra promptly refused, knowing only too well that her employer needed it almost more than she did.

  ‘Now off you go, Minty. And by the way, Mr Atkins has very fine taste. That dress is most fetching.’

  Bob had brought the evening dress – well, it was not so much an evening dress as a cocktail dress – round by special delivery that morning. Its arrival had been a heart-stopping moment, for Alexandra had hardly woken when there was a knock at the basement door and she had opened it only to discover Bob, a cap on the back of his head, a cigarette stuck to the side of his mouth, a pile of boxes in his arms.

  ‘Miss Minty Stamford? Morning to you, miss, I’m here to make a delivery for you from a Mr Atkins. He says to tell you he’ll be round to fetch you in a chauffeured car at seven o’clock prompt, and he nicked your measurements when you was upstairs last Saturday doing tea for Lady Bobbity and her friends.’

  ‘Ber-Ber-Bob! You shouldn’t!’

  From the first swanky box and startlingly white tissue paper had emerged a pale pink three-quarter-length dress, the bodice made of organza and decorated with three black bows; from the second box and yet more startlingly white tissue paper had come pale pink shoes and a matching clutch bag.

  ‘Oh Ber-Ber-Bob …’

  Bob, still glorying in the character of the errand boy, had been just about to back out of her flat again, when Alexandra reached up and kissed him extravagantly.

  ‘Just as well I put me fag out, eh, Miss Stamford?’

  They had both laughed, but what with Alexandra still being in her pyjamas, and Mrs Smithers, as if by sixth sense, calling down to her maid from the door above that led to the flat, Bob had been forced to flee.

  It was only when he had reached the top step and had gone a few yards that he stopped and leaned against the black iron railings. Minty had really kissed him! She had really, really kissed him. She had kissed him as if she loved him. If Minty loved him, he was certain he would never need anything else.

  Tom was meeting Bob once again for lunch. Bob was looking just the way Tom was feeling, on top of the world, the whole world outside the restaurant, where they were once more being tempted by ribs of beef in great silver dishes, roasted vegetables and what Bob insisted on calling ‘lashings of thick dark brown gravy’.

  ‘So, you’re off to America, Tom O’Brien, and on the Queen Mary. You must be the luckiest devil alive, in love with a brilliant woman and sailing for the New World.’

  ‘I suppose I must be.’ Tom smiled ingenuously. He certainly could not think of anyone luckier than himself. ‘How about you, Bob? How is the wonderful Minty?’

  Bob smiled, and he sighed a sigh of such contentment and happiness that Tom, who had his fork raised, put it down momentarily and stared at him.

  ‘Going that well, is it, Bob?’

  ‘She is in love with me, and I with her.’

  ‘But that is wonderful, my dear chap, wonderful.’

  Bob looked at Tom, who now felt quite able to continue eating. Tom had changed so much since they had both met gardening, it was almost impossible to recognise him from the taciturn, roughly dressed young man with the slight country accent whom he had first taken to the pub. In the old days Tom would never have said ‘my dear chap’ or been able to cope with a wine list.

  ‘So are you to propose? Will you marry?’

  ‘No, I can’t marry Minty, Tom, at least not yet.’

  ‘Why? Because – because she’s in service? Surely not? Will your parents not approve? To hell with their opinions, Bob, marry the girl you love.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I know my parents will love her, she’s kind and beautiful and innocent. No that is not why I can’t marry her, at least not yet.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘National Service.’

  Tom immediately put his fork down again and felt swamped by guilt. He was just about to suggest to Bob that he could ask Florazel to influence somebody to stop him having to do National Service, when he stopped, knowing instinctively that his friend would be repelled by the suggestion.

  ‘You poor so-and-so.’

  ‘And you. Have you had your call-up papers yet?’

  ‘Yes, they chased me, right to the Ritz.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have been rejected.’

  ‘For what reason – not the usual?’

  ‘No, the unusual. TB gland. They don’t like us tainted folks. Can’t have people getting ill before they’re shot, can they?’

  ‘Ah, you have a nifty turn of phrase, old boy, you really do.’ Bob looked amused and sober at the same time. ‘So while I am falling to and square-bashing and all that, you will be sailing on the Queen Mary with the love of your life. Well, if that is not all the luck, I don’t know it. You couldn’t let me catch your TB, could you? Sniff, sniff, I could catch it if I tried hard enough, couldn’t I?’

  ‘You wouldn’t want it, dear chap, really you wouldn’t.’

  ‘And when you get to New York? What then? Another round of luncheons and dinners, hiring a house on Long Island, the whirl of the social life, dancing your life away, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No. At least I don’t know. No, I – am going to start a business.’

  Tom did not know why he had just said what he had said. He did not understand why he had suddenly stated something about which he had not even thought. It was really only a reaction to Bob’s light sarcasm, and to the idea that he was some sort of gigolo just dancing his life away in the company of an older woman, but said it he had, and now that he had it seemed to him he had a strong feeling that was exactly what he would do. He could not spend the rest of his life socialising. It was not the kind of thing that a man would do. All of a sudden he felt ashamed that he had let Florazel get his papers passed not fit for active service. He determined he would make it up by making something of his life instead. More than that – he must.

  ‘I say, what a cracking future you have, Tom. New York, America, and starting a business. The moment I get out of the Army, I will not only marry Minty, but we will join you in America, see if we don’t, lucky devil that you are. You’ve already brought me luck, you’ll bring me more, I know it.’

  Early next morning, while Tom was having his hair cut at Trumper’s, Florazel was busying herself putting the finishing touches to their packing. There was a mountain of luggage, as there always was when you sailed to New York. Florazel’s own luggage had been made especially for her, large enough to take the most elaborate gowns, gowns that could be hung on hangers in vast trunks which opened like doors in a wardrobe and from which rails could be pulled forward so that the dresses did not crease.

  Her maid had been busying herself with everything, both of them in that state of suspended excitement which comes with the prospect of a long sea journey, a change of scene, and social adventures to come, in another land.

  There was a knock at the door of the suite. The maid wen
t to open it. A messenger boy in a pillbox hat held out a silver tray on which was placed a card, and waited outside the door for a possible return message.

  ‘A message for Lady Florazel Compton.’

  Maria took the card and hurried back into the suite to present it to Florazel. It had a single name and a telephone number written on it. Florazel’s mouth tightened and she paled as she saw the name, and then turned the card over and read the message on the back.

  ‘Tell the bell boy— No, wait.’

  She took one of her own cards and scribbled on the back.

  ‘Give him this.’

  When Maria returned Florazel was standing in the middle of the room looking wretched as she so often did when Tom was out and she found every minute seemed an hour.

  ‘Maria, I must go downstairs and meet this lady, can you finish without me?’

  ‘Of course, my lady. I will finish everything, my lady.’

  Florazel gave a quick look at herself in the mirror, and then looked away. The very sight of that name on the card made her not just feel ugly, but look ugly. She turned to leave the suite, which now seemed strangely worn and shabby as hotel suites can do after a long stay. She picked up her handbag, which suddenly looked vulgar with its silly cipher in gold, and the beringed hand that picked it up, that too looked vulgar, the ring too big, the hand too soft and white, like someone else’s hand, the hand of a person with whom you would not wish to become friends.

  ‘Florazel.’

  She might be much aged, as she would be, but her voice was almost precisely the same.

  ‘Sally.’

  Florazel kissed the aged cheek in a non-kissing manner, either side of the closely hatted, white-haired head.

  ‘Would you like a glass of champagne? Champagne in the morning is good, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ Sally looked momentarily pleased, distracted. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, I would.’

  She paused, obviously feeling, in the face of this generosity, a little hampered, as if she could not continue until the wine had been served.

  ‘Delicious. You are quite right, champagne in the morning can sometimes be just the thing, particularly when you are old.’ She paused before starting again. ‘The reason I have come to visit you after all these years, my dear, is because it has been brought to my attention that your newest beau is a young man who closely resembles someone …’

  With her heart sinking Florazel sipped her champagne and listened to the old woman. Ever since she was very young she had always had a horror of older women calling her ‘my dear’. For some reason the moment an older woman said ‘my dear’ you always knew that they were either about to tell you something you did not want to hear, or about to induce you to do something quite against your will. She already knew this morning was going to be no different, as with a sinking heart she realised that in some way the net was closing in on her affair with Tom, that Sally Hardwick had come to make a claim on her grandson.

  The moment she had said ‘my dear’ Florazel knew instinctively that she would lay before Florazel the kind of ‘either or’ choices at which old women were so adept. Of course there would be no suggestion of blackmail, of that there was no need. Gerald her son had after all died, but her grandson now lived, and she could not, would not willingly look on while he went the same way as his poor father, leading a life of debauchery, pulled down by paper-thin social values, frittering away an existence of a life that depended only on the next party, the next invitation.

  ‘How did you know it was him?’ Florazel asked, eventually.

  ‘How did you?’

  ‘His mother’s passport – maiden name, all that. And you?’

  Florazel lit a cigarette and sat back, but her pretence at relaxation fooled neither of them.

  ‘I saw you with him at Ascot, and I knew at once that Gerald had stamp-marked his only progeny. Can you imagine what it was like for an old woman seated on a bench on those green lawns to imagine that she was seeing her dead son coming towards her? Can you imagine what that was like?’

  Florazel was silent. Ascot, dammit! And they had only gone on Ladies’ Day, everything so crowded, people passing all the time, hats and laughter, champagne and strawberries, and yet with all that Sally Hardwick had still managed to recognise that Tom had to be Gerald’s son.

  ‘I knew at once that you must have, somehow, God alone knows how, Florazel, that you must have found Gerald’s son. It didn’t seem possible, and yet I knew it had to be. There are some fathers and some sons who look so alike it is like a punch in the stomach when you see them. My poor son, Gerald, was a weakling, we know that—’

  ‘He was not a weakling, Sally, he was a monster.’

  ‘If you say so, drink does destroy character I will admit, but I will also say this: I will not stand idly by while someone like you, Florazel, sets about the next generation.’

  ‘Someone like me, Sally?’

  ‘Yes, someone like you, Florazel. Whatever Gerald did to you is far into the past now. I may be old, may be dying, but I am not a fool. I know the kind of set in which you now move, and spending his time with people like you is no place for a young man. You know it, and I know it. You must end this affair before it is too late and the poor young man has gone in too deep. You must end this affair at once. If you do not, I will go to him myself.’

  ‘I love him.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Florazel.’ Sally nodded, but she went on, her voice now devoid of any particular emotion: ‘But the simple truth is that you have loved before, many times, and you will love again.’

  ‘This time is different.’

  ‘Every time is different. You must give him up.’

  ‘Or?’

  Sally turned her faded green eyes on Florazel.

  ‘Or else I will use my influence …’

  ‘On?’

  There was a small silence as Sally stared at Florazel.

  ‘Proprietors of newspapers do so enjoy a campaign against someone new, you know. You have been very lucky so far – your reputation has been kept in the shadows. As I say – so far, but only really on account of your brother. That protection can be swiftly removed. Do you really want to have to leave England, live the kind of bored and bitter existence that the Windsors now live? Be cut off from all that is familiar because doors everywhere will be closed to you—’

  ‘As a matter of fact I am on my way to America even now,’ Florazel interrupted flippantly.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I am sure; but that is only exciting because you know that whenever you want you can, after all, come home. One should remind you that aside from death, the Romans’ greatest punishment was exile. To have to live away from your friends and family, to hear only a foreign language spoken, reduces the most robust personality to a state of listlessness. I have seen the exiled English, in Florence, in Rome, in Paris, in the South of France; wherever they are they seem forever suspended in time. Always waiting: waiting for the English newspapers to arrive, waiting for English friends to visit, waiting for news of home. That very word – home – is surely the most emotive in the English language, and to be away from it means to be in a state of permanent limbo.’

  Florazel was silent. It was true. She loved England, not because she was particularly patriotic but because in England she was after all the Duke of Somerton’s sister, she was someone who was used to respect, deference, status. Once abroad she knew only too well she would be yet another ageing woman in search of entertainment, and perhaps, given Tom’s youth, quite soon in search of another young lover. And too, as Sally Hardwick well knew, if Florazel became a victim of the British press, if she was made notorious, her already fragile reputation permanently destroyed, her brother would drop her, he was so old fashioned she imagined that he might even strike her name from the family bible.

  ‘Dragging the family name through the mud.’ How often she had heard that phrase when growing up. Relations forever distanced, confined to the lower echelons of
Society, black-balled, doors shut against them for just that reason. No one, it seemed, stood by someone who dragged the family name through the mud. No one from a great family encouraged publicity. It was just not done.

  ‘You can see the sense in what I am saying, can you not?’

  Florazel stared at Sally. How she hated her! And the truth was she hated her all the more for being right.

  ‘I can see what you are saying, yes.’

  She stared down at the table in front of them, thinking in a dazed way that she could see everything that might happen as if it already had.

  ‘Common sense, my dear, mere common sense. Tempus fugit. Time flies. You are getting older, you are still beautiful, but not young.’

  ‘I was only young when your son first seduced me.’

  ‘Exactly, then you know the danger and how much unhappiness it brought. My grandson is only young. You will give him up. You are too sensible not to.’

  ‘Tom.’

  He was looking so smart, so handsome, bursting with the kind of happiness that Florazel realised was heartbreaking in its lack of self-consciousness, its longing to share his joy with the rest of the world.

  ‘At your service, my lady.’ He kissed her hand, and turned his head. ‘Like the cut?’

  ‘Very fine, the finest haircut I have seen this morning. Tom.’ She smiled, ‘I want you to go on ahead to the ship, taking your luggage, in the first car, and make the suite ready for us. I will follow with Maria and my luggage in the second car. Here, take your passport and your tickets and reservations.’ She touched him lightly on the shoulder to be sure of his attention, and pretended to frown. ‘Now, you know how I like the rooms to look, Tom, you will be sure to make them look how I like?’

  ‘Of course. White flowers, champagne in a bucket, et cetera.’

  ‘Exactly. So, will you do this for me?’

  ‘I will do anything for you, you know that.’

  He leaned forward and kissed her as he always did, raising open eyes to heaven just a little, whereas Florazel closed hers, and they were still closed as he turned away.