The Blue Note

by Charlotte Bingham

  Yet it had not been Christmas at Baileys Court, with its awful falsities, Beatrice’s pretence of heading some sort of motley Christmas family, made up purely of people who had eschewed having children but now wanted to prove that they too could enjoy Christmas, that had determined Bobbie to run away. Nor had it been Beatrice’s new butler trapping Bobbie behind a door and trying to drag her towards the mistletoe, his hot alcoholic breath making her feel quite faint. It had been none of those things, because in truth, once they all went away and the house was left with only the Duddys to look after it, and Bobbie was able to go back to the Sheds and lead her own life once more, Baileys Court became a kind of haven. The seas pounding, sometimes right over the Sheds, the winds whistling and circling round and round the old servants’ quarters, the beach with its strange outlines from the war still left to rust, were all, as it happened, particularly pleasing to her.

  No, it had to be faced – and since Julian had left Bobbie found more and more that she did like to face things, that she was not happy to pretend – she had to leave Sussex and go to London not because she was necessarily more unhappy than anyone else, but because, finally, she could not stand Beatrice and her empress-like ways any more.

  She wanted to go away to a place where the telephone would never ring with Beatrice on the other end. She wanted to go away to a place where no letters arrived addressed to Miss Roberta Murray in Beatrice’s handwriting. She wanted to get away from her guardian so fast and so furiously that she actually thought she would not mind starving to death in preference to ever seeing her again.

  And yet along with this desperate desire for escape came the inevitable self-accusations. How could she be so ungrateful to Beatrice Harper of all people, her mother’s friend? She had found out Bobbie’s whereabouts, never an easy thing during a war, and discovering that she was ill, had paid for the sanatorium thereby probably saving her life. Compared to Bobbie’s, poor Miss Moncrieff’s defection would be as nothing.

  Perhaps Mrs Duddy had become more of a friend than Bobbie realized, for, on the morning following Bobbie’s decision, as she put down the groceries on the kitchen table, and blew on the ends of her mittened fingers, her small eyes staring at Bobbie from a face that was made up of such hardened, reddened skin it was more like a piece of rosy leather than a face and her short-sided wellington boots stamping on the tiled kitchen floor, she announced, ‘God forgive me for what I am about to say. But. You’d best be out of this place, love, really you would. You’d best be out of here, and off somewhere on your own. Somewhere you can be young again. This place is making you into an old woman, really it is. It is making you as old as me, and that will never do, will it?’

  Bobbie stared at her. Was her misery and loneliness that obvious?

  ‘I – er – I am fine. I mean, I’m very lucky really. So lucky. I have the sea. I have this house, and I hardly have to do much to earn my living.’

  ‘That’s jus’ the trouble, love. You do hardly have to do anything. You’re like a dog in a kennel. You’ve got a roof over your head. You’re given a bowl of food once or twice a day, and occasionally there’s a visitor and you can bark – show you’re not dead by barking at someone arriving – but otherwise you might as well be. Dead, God forgive me. But. You might, mightn’t you?’

  ‘Well, I dare say it is rather quiet here during the winter—’

  ‘And who’d choose to be a kennelled dog, love, ask yourself?’ Mrs Duddy continued relentlessly. ‘Better to be free and barking when you want, even if it does mean you’ve got less in your bowl. Now that’ll be half a crown for the eggs and all that there, and sixpence for the two loaves, if you don’t mind.’ She took the money and gave Bobbie a look that was both kindly and firm. ‘Believe me, Miss Bobbie, I am a mother and soon to be a grandmother too, and I know. Times is hard in England, course they are, but nothing’s worse than being a prisoner. And nothing gives security except what’s right down there inside of you. It’s what’s inside of you – right in there, in your heart – that gives security, not three meals a day and beef of a Sunday. Not that, not nothing, not at all, I know because I’m the mother of children, and that teaches you as nothing does. It teaches you what’s what, really it does. Children teaches you what matters, and what doesn’t matter any more than a fly on a cow. It’s because I’ve had children that I can tell you that you could ruin yourself just sitting here, love. God forgive me. But. You want to get out of here. Go somewhere.’

  Bobbie smiled at Mrs Duddy, who was turning away, putting Bobbie’s money into a leather pouch that was strapped satchel-like around her. It was only as she smiled that Bobbie realized, with horror, that it was the first time she had smiled, actually smiled, for weeks and weeks and weeks. Probably since Beatrice had arrived, since Julian had gone, and a whole lot of other ‘sinces’.

  She had smiled politely, of course, when Beatrice had given her a truly fabulous coat and skirt for Christmas. But it was not the kind of smile that she was giving now. It was a polite smile, a grateful smile, but a smile that was ‘on account’, that was in part payment, as so much of what happened around Beatrice was on account. In contrast to the smile that Bobbie was giving now, it had been a look I am being properly grateful for your present smile. It had not held an ounce of warmth, any more than the bump on the cheek that she had given Beatrice had held an ounce of affection, any more than Beatrice’s label on the present To Roberta from Beatrice had held an ounce of love.

  ‘So.’ Mrs Duddy turned back. ‘I’ll be saying goodbye then. And I hope to see you some time in the future. Hope not to see you here next week when I make my rounds. A girl like you, you’ve got a future. Get on a train. Get away. Go on. Get away. God forgive me. But. Take my advice. Free yourself.’

  And of a sudden Bobbie was on a train and heading for London, passing each station with increasing excitement. ‘Haywards Heath’, ‘Three Bridges’, ‘Crawley’. They could have been the names of battles fought across France or Italy for all she knew of them. The last time she had been on a train was when the Dingwalls had put her into the special carriage at Mellaston station, and the silent, frightened young nurse had accompanied Bobbie to the sanatorium, scampering off as soon as they arrived, terrified that with just one cough, just one sneeze, Bobbie would infect her too.

  Almost mesmerized by the scenery that they were passing, Bobbie found it amazing to stare out of the window and see not just the countryside, but the houses when they approached the stations, and the people, still thin and white from the war, but making the best of themselves in their hats and mended gloves, their polished shoes, everything about them showing a cheerful determination to make the best of everything, and never mind that there was rationing and clothing coupons, and queuing. They would make sure they looked as good as they could.

  And again, as the train approached Victoria station, Bobbie found it marvellous to stare out at the old abandoned train carriages they passed, carriages that were now converted into a form of eccentric housing for the desperate and the determined. They too looked as good as they could, despite the smog and the train dirt, set about with geraniums at gaily painted doors, with smoke curling upwards out of crooked chimneys stuck into the top. They actually looked so nice that Bobbie wanted to stop the train and go and live in one, and she could not help thinking that if Julian was with her they would have one of their endless discussions about them.

  In her mind she smiled as she imagined Julian saying, ‘Well, Roberta, it has to be faced, if there is anywhere that could suit you more than living in the Sheds by the sea at Baileys Court, it has to be a converted train carriage beside the railway. Just think, instead of the sound of the pounding sea there would be the sound of the Brighton Belle pulling past your window. It would suit you. Living in a converted train carriage would suit you. You should get one.’

  She remembered that Julian was always saying that. It would suit, you should get one.

  Part of Bobbie’s determination to leave behind the past had
meant that she had burned everything from her childhood. Made a big bonfire in the grate of the old fireplace at the Sheds. And then, of course, she had to sit down and write a letter to Beatrice.

  It had been a strain, to say the least, as why should it not be? Doing what you wanted always required being brave. Being selfish, having your own way, was probably not good, probably not right, and it was definitely not proper, but – taking the gamble that Mrs Duddy was right – Bobbie knew it was correct.

  And that was what she had written to Beatrice. That she was terribly grateful to her, that she would not hurt her feelings for the world, but that she could not stay any longer, living alone at the Sheds, as her country secretary, only waiting for her to come down. Bobbie tried to explain that while she was very grateful she had to make her own way. She had to find herself, if that was not too pompous a way of putting it, swim out into the ocean of life, on her own, stand on her own two feet. She would try to repay her for everything that Beatrice had done for her, and she had taken nothing that was not hers, except the coat and skirt which had been a gift at Christmas.

  Even now that she was arriving at the great bustling, comfortingly crowded station, Bobbie shuddered mentally at the thought of what Beatrice would say when Mrs Duddy presented her with Bobbie’s letter. Mrs Duddy had actually volunteered to take it to her guardian. She had wanted to have her say with Mrs Harper for some time, she had told Bobbie when she called to say goodbye to her.

  And besides, Mrs Harper’s manager had not paid any of the Duddys since before Christmas, which meant that they had been forced to buy everything on tick, which was not at all a Duddy kind of thing to have to do. They were a proud family, used to being paid, and it was not right to leave them without.

  As Bobbie picked up her cheap suitcase, purchased from the village store, she contemplated the quite splendid notion of Mrs Duddy, her short flowered apron peeping beneath her milking coat, her faded leather satchel strapped across her, marching in her thick stockings and brogues across the stone-flagged floor of the hall of Baileys Court towards Mrs Harper’s study.

  Of course she would have to wait for Beatrice to ring the bell for her to come in, after which Mrs Duddy would pad across the floor unconcernedly, towards the dark oak Tudor table at which Beatrice would be seated with her telephone to one side, her leather-bound, gold-tooled writing folder in front of her. Beatrice would not anticipate it, but no sooner would Mrs Duddy fetch up in front of her desk than Beatrice would have lost. Beatrice was used to being like Cleopatra on a burnished throne, looking down from on high at folk like Mrs Duddy, but Bobbie knew that as soon as Mrs Duddy fetched up in front of her, she would have lost. For despite all Beatrice’s stylish simplicity – her couture country tweed suit, her country make-up with its lips correctly bare of lipstick, her simple country pearls, one strand only, her thicker silk stockings and lower-heeled shoes, everything so perfectly correct, so perfectly beautiful, so perfectly in keeping with her surroundings – despite all this there was not a whit of truth about her. Whereas Mrs Duddy, with her freshly flowered apron, her highly polished complexion, her deep commitment to work – she was real. Mrs Duddy had done battle with life where Beatrice had merely jousted with it. Mrs Duddy had rowed bare-handed across deep seas that had been rocked by storms and finally arrived at a harbour, whereas Beatrice wore white gloves for fear of contagion.

  ‘May God forgive me.’ That was how Mrs Duddy would probably open her maiden speech in Mrs Harper’s study. ‘May God forgive me. But.’

  Bobbie stared around her from under her hat. May God forgive her too, but for the first time since Julian had left, she felt happy. She queued for a taxi, which was a terrible extravagance, but she had too much luggage for a bus or a train.

  Having helped heap her suitcase and various bags in the front, the taxi driver opened the door into the cab and held it for her.

  ‘Where to, miss?’

  ‘Where to? Yes.’ Bobbie stared back at him.

  The man’s face under his cap was creased with the kind of lines that can only come from many anxious hours spent working for someone else for too little money.

  ‘Yes.’

  He waited.

  ‘Yes.’ Of a sudden it came to Bobbie – the memory of Miss Moncrieff talking about her flat in London. Ebury Street, was it? ‘Yes. I know. How about Ebury Street?’

  As she stared into the cabbie’s kind, round, brown eyes, Bobbie saw a resigned look creep into them.

  ‘Well, how about it, miss?’

  ‘Well, let’s try Ebury Street. Would they have letting rooms there, do you think?’ She leaned forward to the edge of her seat.

  ‘There’s letting rooms everywhere in London at the moment, miss. But if it’s Ebury Street you fancy, I’ll take you to Ebury Street. If it’s Soho Square I’ll take you there.’ He started to walk round to his side of the cab. ‘Ebury Street, right-ho.’

  Bobbie reddened, realizing at once that he knew she had no idea of where she was going, but then she leaned back against the leather seating and stared out of the window as the cab started up. Really, it did not matter. What mattered was that she had made it. She was in London. And as long as she never crossed the tracks and went near Mayfair and Beatrice, everything would be fine. She had, at last, arrived.

  PART THREE

  ‘Hey everybody, let’s have some fun –

  You only live but once – so let the

  Good times roll.’

  Sam Theard

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda stared around her at the studio. She had just returned from Allegra Sulgrave’s funeral, after which it had transpired that her beloved self-styled guardian had ordered that Miranda be left Aubrey Close in her will.

  ‘Not that it was really hers to leave you, but nevertheless I must approve,’ one of the relatives had told Miranda, with a wry expression on her face. ‘As a matter of fact I still have no idea who you are, or indeed why you were taken on by Allegra, but the truth is you were a great comfort to her in her decline. We both know that she never got over the way Burfitt went downhill during the war. She loved the place so. Just loved the place. Loved Burfers much more than old Sulgrave. She did not love him much at all. Matter of fact none of us could understand why she married the old silly. But still, she did love Burfers. I think it was because it was a sort of daddy to her. She and her father, they were twin souls, you see, there was no getting away from that. They were never happier than when they were doing things about the place together. Nothing Allegra liked better than to be with him outdoors, and of course after her brothers were killed she quite took their place as far as he was concerned. In fact her mother always said, because of Allegra, he almost felt he had three sons. She was very much a man’s woman, d’you see. Not the kind of lady who is always at the hairdresser or the dressmaker. And as you know, she swore like a groom, and could down as much whisky as a huntsman. All jolly good fun, until the second war, d’you see, and then the army ruined it, Burfitt that is, and now there are just no funds to do the place up. Nothing there. So all in all she was gathered at the right time. By the way, was your hair always that strange colour?’

  Miranda blushed scarlet, so red that at least her hair, still horribly dark no matter how often she washed it, must look a little lighter in comparison.

  ‘I, er, had to have it tinted to – I was made to have it tinted, er – for the Paris shows. And then of course it takes so long to grow out.’

  ‘I tell you what, I’ll send you to my hairdresser in Sloane Street. Andre. He is quite the thing, and much the best. He’ll soon get you back to rights. Really, those Parisian designers, they must have a bit of a thing about dark hair at the moment. Really, when one thinks about it, it’s a wonder they didn’t decide to shave your head completely, like they did to informers after the war. Mind you, I always think people who do that kind of thing are usually trying to distract attention from their own awful wrong-doings. You know, like conjurors – they create some sort of diver
sion, so I’ve been told, to make us look the other way while they pop the rabbit down the hat. Head shavers are the same, I’d say. Busy distracting from their own nefarious goings-on.’

  Miranda had not laughed at this. She did not like to be reminded of Paris.

  ‘But never mind all that, for the moment anyway. We are all going to be part and parcel of the same struggle to hold on to those pieces of England which everyone else is so anxious to be rid of – I know, I have my own house to try to restore, so Burfers just has to go, I’m afraid. And Aubrey Close, where we all were young together – you can’t imagine that, I know, us being young I mean – I shall make it yours, because that is what Allegra wanted, the ducky, and because you brought her great cheer, about the only bit of cheer in her last years that she didn’t – like your hair colour, bless you – get out of a bottle.’

  The funeral tea at an end, they had parted, Miranda not quite believing what she had just been told, but, as it transpired, it was more than the truth, it was reality. She had indeed been left Aubrey Close in Allegra’s will.

  And so there it was, and it appeared always would be, Aubrey Close lying up a broad tree-lined street, standing a little back from the road, a discreetly Bohemian air to it, as if it was half apologizing for being a studio as well as a house. And now it belonged to Miranda, and, what was more astonishing, everything in it now belonged to her too.

  Miranda picked up the old pre-war telephone. It had the new number of WESTERN 1196 written on it. She carefully wiped its mouthpiece, and then dialled Teddy’s London number.

  ‘Teddy? Oh – Dick. I say, both of you, would you like to come round this weekend? Oh, fine. Next weekend then perhaps? No, don’t bring anything. Just come round. You know, Dick, there are some pictures here that you may be interested in, and so many frames; you might like to have some for your paintings, perhaps? Well, yes, they are quite carved. Oh, I see. Too old-fashioned. Well, never mind. Be in touch. Don’t forget, next weekend.’