The Magic Hour

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Yes – yes I suppose I am.’

  ‘Did you do anything special?’

  ‘In a way.’

  Tasha looked interested while her daughters merely went on eating diligently, as if they were used to her trying to turn the attention away from Douro Partridge.

  ‘Yes, I found out about my mother, and how I had a twin sister who died after I was born, when my mother died, and from then on for some reason – I don’t know why, my stammer started to really go. It was as if it solved something, which it obviously did.’

  They all stared at her, fascinated, while Tasha pushed her plate away from her as if she could stand her own cooking less than anyone.

  ‘We always did wonder, Jamie and I – well, all of us did wonder what exactly happened to poor Laura.’

  ‘Well that’s what happened. My grandmother had to do the delivery, and she delivered me, and none of them knew about the second baby, but when she arrived, my mother was already dead, the shock apparently having killed her, but. Well. Anyway. That’s all in the past. Like my hesitation, I hope, it’s all in the past.’

  Alexandra smiled.

  ‘Only wish Douro was,’ Jessamine stated gloomily, returning to what was obviously her favourite subject.

  ‘Douro can’t keep a proper job for more than five seconds, so we all have to keep him, worse luck,’ Cyrene moaned.

  ‘Don’t talk about Mummy’s new husband like that, Cyrene,’ Tasha begged her. ‘He does his best, really he does.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had married him, Aunt Tasha? How lovely.’

  ‘She didn’t,’ Cyrene put in quickly. ‘Douro married her, and a dratted nuisance he’s proved to be.’

  ‘Please, Cyrene, Douro is a very sweet person, and you both always used to like him, in the old days.’

  ‘No, I didn’t like him. I always thought he was a dratted nuisance then, at Knighton, if you really want to know. I thought he was a dratted nuisance full stop.’

  ‘What does he do?’ Alexandra asked Tasha, trying to ignore the other two and look sympathetic.

  ‘He’s working in a meat-packing place adding up little bits of meat.’

  Jessamine stared hard at her mother across the table as if it was her fault.

  ‘He’s quite quick with figures, and suchlike, because of the Army; and the pay is very good.’

  ‘He gets paid in one week what we get paid in one day, and he thinks that’s good. He’s pathetic, he really is.’

  Alexandra stared at her plate. She did not know why but she had imagined that their fall in fortunes might change her cousins.

  Now they both sighed, pushed their plates away from them and lit cigarettes as Alexandra dabbed her lips with her napkin, yet another small embroidered relic from the old days at Knighton. She had spent the past hour avoiding a thought that would keep occurring, a thought that would not go away, but now was difficult to reject wholly.

  She remembered Bob once staring at an over-opulent car outside a house in Deanford and how he had said, ‘Money that quick never comes from anything good, Mints. Mark my words. Never.’

  Jessamine and Cyrene were too well dressed, their wrists decorated with bracelets made of fool’s gold that jangled with each movement that they made, the expression in their eyes defiant and guarded. They were obviously making money quickly, but perhaps not from anything that they would care to talk about at dinner.

  The rest of the dinner passed quickly, principally because Jessamine and Cyrene were obviously keen to have an early night.

  ‘Can I help you wash up, Aunt Tasha?’

  ‘Sweet of you, Alexandra, but no, really. Just wish I could offer you a bed for the night. Sorry you missed Douro, he won’t be back until after midnight.’

  ‘Thank God she can’t,’ Jessamine told her mother. ‘It’s overcrowded enough in here.’

  ‘Thank you so much. It’s been lovely seeing you all again.’

  Alexandra could not have said who she felt was gladder to see the back of her – her aunt or her cousins. They quite obviously felt as if they had done their duty by her, and could not wait for her to go, so that they could get their clothes off, enjoy a hot bath, and see what tomorrow would bring.

  ‘We escort businessmen who are in London,’ Cyrene confided when she walked Alexandra quickly down the many stairs to the street. ‘Jessamine’s right, you could do it too. It’s easy-peasy work, really it is. You just have to be well brought up and have dinner or lunch with these old codgers. You know, turn up smartly dressed, be decorative and amusing. Nothing more to it than that.’

  The light from the lamp caught Cyrene’s face as she finished speaking, highlighting the dead look to her eyes, and at the same time her childish words caught at Alexandra’s heart.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Cy, but I think I really must try to make a go of Deanford first.’

  Cyrene nodded, not really paying much attention, her eyes drifting down the road to where an expensive sports car was being parked.

  ‘Well, anyway. Don’t forget: give us a ring if you change your mind. It’s perfectly respectable. The old Colonel who runs it used to be in the Army with Douro. He’s not bad, and he does pay. God knows what he wrings out of the old codgers though.’

  A moment later she was gone, leaving Alexandra to drive off, wanting to leave behind the dreary square, the dark of London, determined to make Deanford by the early hours. The further she drove from the great city, the more she felt peace returning to her as she thought with relief of her own life, of dear Mrs Smithers and the old ladies who came to the house and were so lively and fun, and of course she thought of Bob, and how much they were both looking forward to his coming home on leave, and how he was going to take her to meet his parents at last.

  She also amused herself thinking of Bob’s letters to her, letters that he always decorated with funny drawings such as: The Colonel trying to light his cigarette in a gale, Sergeant Gumley’s gaiters, Me assembling a firearm.

  Bob had loved reading Rupert Brooke’s poems, loved the old churches in the villages that were set so sedately at the foot of the Downs, loved simple things like taking tea at Ann’s Pantry. Most of all she thought about how Bob had brought normality into her life, not just stopped the loneliness, but taken Alexandra away from all the dreary family complications, seeming to have run her off into a dear, decent life, up the hills and fields with the dogs chasing after them, run off the greyness that sometimes descended on her when her speech problem grew tiring and tiresome. But he had made everything seem right, and she mentally kissed her hand to him as she had kissed her hand to his departing train.

  It was a long journey, but when she finally arrived outside the old Regency house in the old Regency square, she truly felt as if she was coming home, and that was before she opened the door to the basement and, bending down, allowed the dogs to jump into her arms. It was then that she realised that neither Jessamine nor Cyrene had referred to their beloved pets, not even when their mother had left the room, and was safely out of earshot. The dogs were obviously quite dead to Jessamine and Cyrene, along with so much.

  ‘You’re back early, Minty dear.’

  Mrs Smithers looked delighted and surprised, but curious.

  Alexandra nodded.

  ‘Am I?’ she joked, looking around about her as if she hadn’t realised quite where she was. ‘Well, so I am. I wonder what happened?’

  ‘Not enough to keep you in London, at any rate?’

  ‘Oh, quite enough.’ Alexandra put her head on one side. ‘Quite enough. But not enough of what I would enjoy, so I came home.’

  ‘I’m glad that Deanford still has its attractions.’ Mrs Smithers turned towards her drawing room. ‘By the way, a letter came for you, but I didn’t think it worthwhile sending on. I kept it here, until you came back.’

  Alexandra stared at the unknown handwriting, and then at the postmark.

  It was from Bob’s village, someone in the village had written to her. She opened the let
ter and turned it over, looking with interest at the signature. She turned the sheet of paper back, and as she did so, inexplicably, she thought she could see the set of Bob’s handsome head and hear his voice, saying, ‘Don’t worry, Mints, your Bob will come bob, bob, bobbing back to you.’

  Dear Miss Stamford,

  We have never met, but I feel I do know you because Bob told me so much about you, before he had to go away on his National Service. The reason I am writing to you is because I have to impart tragic news, and knowing how he felt about you, although not yet engaged, thought you should know, felt that you ought to know, that poor young Bob was killed last week caught in cross fire on an exercise …

  ‘Oh my dear, I am so sorry …’

  Alexandra could hear Mrs Smithers’s voice somewhere, but she could not see her face because everything inside her head had gone still and dead.

  ‘Sit down, dear, sit down, I will fetch some brandy.’

  * * *

  Alexandra sat in the pew of the old church staring dully ahead of her at the altar. If she could wish anything more than that Bob had not been killed she would wish that he had not died in an utterly futile accident.

  She had never met Bob’s parents, had no status, so had seated herself at the back of the church. As a consequence, since she had arrived early, she was eventually passed by everyone.

  ‘That’s Lady Florazel Compton,’ the woman next to her murmured as a tall, elegant blonde woman was escorted up the aisle to her seat at the top. ‘She would be representing the Duke, on account of his being abroad at the moment, in Morocco. And that’s the manager, Mr …’

  The woman went on murmuring names as Alexandra sat remembering how Bob had swung through the basement door of a Saturday evening, or a Sunday afternoon, his face alight with that marvellous love of life that only the innocent of heart can ever quite achieve. She remembered how he had stood on the station looking suddenly so young and vulnerable saying, ‘I can’t wait to be coming home to you and the dogs, Mints.’

  She knelt forward suddenly, sinking her head in her hands, trying to pray – despite the woman beside her keeping up her wretched murmurings – and remained kneeling until the organ started to play the entrance music and the coffin, held aloft on young, broad shoulders, passed slowly by, at which point Alexandra forced herself to look at it, trying to make sense of its reality.

  Bob was not lying silenced in some wooden box, he was just away, sure to come back to her soon; and just as soon she would be flying into his arms and they would go walking on the Downs, and on the bright days to come they would take picnics, simple sandwiches and fruit and bottles of beer, and the flowers would sway and the larks rise singing, and there would be no Army, no bullets, just peace and love and beauty, and some time during tea he would be sure to quote their favourite lines from Rupert Brooke’s ‘The Great Lover’.

  These have I loved:

  White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

  Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;

  Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust

  Of friendly bread; and many tasting food;

  Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;

  And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;

  And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,

  Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon.

  Then the sounds changed and despite the noise of the congregation rising, Alexandra was sure she could hear Bob’s voice, not saying the poem, but saying, ‘I just don’t want to lose you again, Minty mine.’

  Now Alexandra had lost him, but not for an hour, for ever.

  Later, as the rest of the congregation filed out after the coffin and she remained trying to pray, rather than remember, a hand touched her lightly on the arm.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m poor Bob’s friend – Tom O’Brien, I am his old landlady, Mrs Posnet? After Tom left so suddenly, his friend Bob used to call round sometimes, and then it became a kind of a habit with him. I thought I recognised you from a photograph Bob showed me when he was home, before he went off to the Army – you know.’

  Alexandra looked up at the face beneath the black veiled hat, and then stood up.

  ‘How do you do?’ she said, shaking the woman’s gloved hand, but for some reason not letting go of it.

  ‘I wrote to Tom. He’s in America now, you know. He will be ever so cut up, I know that. You changed young Bob, you know. He stopped being such a jack-the-lad after he’d met you, became more settled in himself. Such a tragedy.’ Her eyes were sad and mournful. ‘He was ever such a character was young Bob. I can’t believe he’s gone. We must keep in touch. Really, we must. You’ll not have anyone who knew him as well as we knew him, here in his home town. It will be a comfort to you, being that you are so far away from where he grew up.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do with his car –’

  Alexandra heard her voice rising on a stifled sob and found herself still clinging to this unknown woman’s hand in a desperate effort not to cry.

  Mrs Posnet nodded, understanding, practical.

  ‘You could keep it until you hear different.’

  ‘No, I think I’d better leave it with you, really. You could have someone take it to his parents.’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  Alexandra nodded, turning away, finally letting go of the poor woman’s hand.

  ‘I couldn’t keep it,’ she said from deep within the grey-black fog that was surrounding her. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  She walked out into the churchyard outside. The burial was private, only family to attend. She walked down the road and drove Mrs Posnet to her house, locking the car and leaving the keys with her.

  ‘We’ll be in touch, won’t we?’

  ‘You know where I live, love. Any time.’

  Alexandra nodded and, turning, she walked off to the station. The truth was that it was almost a relief to be rid of the car. Unbearable to drive it again, knowing that its owner would never come back. She started to run down the road to the future which seemed suddenly darker than it had ever been.

  * * *

  Tom stared at Alfred and for a few seconds he felt filled with gratitude to him, for thanks to Al’s contacts they had already made faster progress than he would have thought possible. Inviting several of their card-playing older lady friends to tea at the Plaza had proved more than fruitful, it had proved to be a bonanza, particularly since several of them had major shareholdings in their husbands’ companies.

  ‘I do so love the idea of backing some sort of theatre in the afternoon, Mr O’Brien. You know, for us ladies there is nothing to watch on television in the afternoon, when we want to enjoy a quiet siesta, but nothing. If my poor dead husband were alive now I know that he would be taking his company in just such a direction as you are saying now. He would want his oil to oil the wheels of television. He loved the theatre. He wanted to be an actor, but of course it was out of the question, what with the company making forty million a week, or was it a day. At any rate, too much for his father to be able to entrust the business to any but a son. Still, my husband always hankered, and let’s face it, most of us do have our dreams.’

  Alfred smiled, and excused himself from the table, but not before he had passed Tom’s chair making that same familiar, sweet, low whistle, which had now become their signal to each other when they knew they were on to something good: the prospect of a calm sea, and a good breeze that would bring them into port with plenty to trade.

  ‘My friend Martha Sachs, I know she would be interested in joining in. She just loves theatre too, and of course she knows so many people in the clothing business. It would be of great interest to her, I am sure.’

  Tom turned his full attention on the two ladies delicately sipping their tea. He could not believe that business could be that simple. That by being in the right place at the right time, you really could succeed, but it seemed this was true. More than
that, it seemed it was particularly true in America, and more than true in New York. He looked round at the rest of the company taking tea. Salvador Dali was at one table, easily recognisable. Gregory Peck at another, just as easily recognisable. Tom O’Brien at his table, not recognisable to anyone, and Alfred Bodel – both of them soon to be so, if he had anything to do with it.

  ‘Now, you leave it to us, young man,’ the more powerful of the ladies was saying in that particularly comfortable tone that rich women use when they know they are on not just to a good business idea, but the on-going company of two attractive young men. ‘As soon as you have opened up the New York branch of your company, we will be ready to back you. We are all quite excited about this, you know. We women can make a difference to the quality of life in America, and what is more we are determined on doing so. Quite determined. The men have held sway for too long in tele- vision. We want something on in the afternoons that we enjoy.’

  Alfred returned and Tom and he escorted the two ladies to their limousines, kissing their hands in the European manner which they seemed to enjoy inordinately.

  ‘Outrageous.’

  ‘So mannerly.’

  Alfred looked after what amounted to a departing motorcade and sighed with deep contentment.

  ‘Do you know something, my friend? I like those old dolls better and better each time I see them. They have charm and manners, and they want nothing from us that we can’t give them—’

  ‘They want afternoon television, sponsored by them.’

  They both turned back to the Plaza, and the doors were instantly opened to them, as they were now everywhere they went – whether it was a table at 21, or at Sardi’s.

  ‘We should really toast the old Queen, don’t you think?’ Alfred suggested later, as he leaned forward over the dinner table in the main dining room. ‘After all, if it weren’t for the old Queen we would never have met, would we?’