Cool Repentance (4 page)

'This television business: do you pay us or do we pay you?' Having received a roughly reassuring reply - no money need necessarily change hands - he relapsed into a morose silence. This left him free to contemplate Cherry's decolletage with apparent outrage, while every now and then casting a look which Jemima interpreted as acute dislike towards his nephew's wife.

Surprisingly, it was the Major who chose to answer Julian's open question to Christabel about her accident. She had given her little laugh and taken a sip of wine before answering - Jemima noticed that throughout the lunch Christabel's drinking, like that of Miss Kettering (and Cherry), had kept well up with the pace of the Blagges' refilling. Before Christabel could speak, the Major butted in, making his second remark of the luncheon, so far as Jemima was concerned. His voice, like that of his nephew, was commandingly loud.

'The woman's not used to gardening any more, living in some basement in London. That's all there is to be said on the subject.' The Major took a deep swig of his red wine; Christabel drank further of her own glass. At which the Major added something like: 'Damn it', and proceeded to glare round until Mr Blagge refilled his glass. Further draughts of red wine silenced him once more completely. Christabel's fair powdered skin looked rather pink, but perhaps that was the effect of the wine.

It was left to Nat Fitzwilliam, riding with Jemima in her Mercedes after lunch to inspect the Watch tower, to voice the obvious about the very odd social occasion they had. just attended. He was able to curl himself confidently into the front seat since Cherry, attempting to hitch a lift from Julian Carrwright, had found herself palmed off with the Major as her chauffeur.

'I always ride with the girls on Sunday,' had been Julian Cartwright's excuse. 'Otherwise the horses wouldn't know it was the Sabbath.' He elected not to hear Cherry's valiant offer of mounting a steed herself - or perhaps a glance at her tight skirt discouraged him from taking her offer seriously.

'Wowee,' breathed Nat Fitzwilliam. Then as if that were not sufficient, he whistled and passed his hand over his brow. 'Wow,' he added. 'What about that? Christabel
Herri
ck
back at Lark Manor. Why on earth do you suppose she came back? After all these years?'

'Perhaps she repented her wicked ways. Alternatively perhaps she missed the very comfortable gilded cage.' Jemima spoke lightly. As far as she was concerned, the events whic
h had overtaken Christabel Cart
wright, or had been provoked by her, lay in the past.

While Jemima admitted to a healthy curiosity on the subject of
Christabel's
reappearance and the strange combination of graciousness and tensity which the atmosphere at Lark Manor presented, her main concern was with Megalith's seventy-five minute programme on the Lanninster Festival. Jemima could see in Christabel's dramatic return a possible obstacle to the successful execution of her endeavour. Already Gregory Rowan, one of the most prominent local residents and one who should certainly feature in the programme, had issued his appeal for cancellation. Now
if
everyone at Larminster was going to spend the summer discussing the concerns of Christabel Cartwright, it might be very difficult to film the Festival in a relaxed and spontaneous manner.

Nat Fitzwilliam's next remark made her heart sink.

'Do you suppose, since she is back, I could persuade her to take part in the Festival? Smashing television for you, of course, and smashing publicity for us. Absolutely transform the programme.' He paused. 'Wowee,' he exclaimed. 'I think
The Sunday Times
might take a piece from me now .
..
they've turned me down once .
..
now that I've got Christabel Herrick, the return of Christabel Herrick, to offer . . .'

As Nat Fitzwilliam expatiated on these daydreams, Jemima took another look at his cherub's face, its look of candour and sweetness enhanced by the broad brow and wide-set trusting eyes. She realized with some alarm that the cherub's exterior only partially hid the ruthless and empire-building ambitions. Did he cultivate the look of youth to trap the unwary? But Nat had already passed on to the subject of the visit of the touring company, named after its famous theatre of origin, the King Charles at Bridesbury.

'The Seagull
and that hoary old favourite of Gregory's about Marie Antoinette in prison, showing how she came over all noble at the end,' he was muttering. 'Repertory companies always trot it out if they've got a talented leading actress. Two wonderful parts for
her,
anyway. I believe I could get Anna Maria to step down, she owes me a favour, or if she won't, the bitch, there's always blackmail, isn't there? Then I'll tell Boy Greville that he can't direct the second episode in my series unless he steps down—'

The cherub's eves were gleaming.

'Look here,' Jemima interrupted strongly, wrenching his attention away from the King Charles Company to his present situation. 'My dear boy, this is all moonshine. What on earth makes you think that Christabel

Herrick
wants
to return to the stage? Isn't it rather the point that she's returned to her family and abandoned the stage? And I should add that Megalith Television is concentrating on Larminster as its typical homespun English festival, not as a major
piece de scandale.'
Jemima made her words as cold as possible, hoping to punctuate Nat Fitzwilliam's wishful thinking.

'Oh right, right, absolutely. Sorry I got carried away. You're absolutely right. Look, here we are. Park on the left. Then you get a good view of the sea
and
the Watchtower, right in line. As it was meant to be seen.'

Jemima gazed dutifully up at the extremely modern pentagonal building, constructed of blackish stone and darkened glass which loomed above them. Her appreciation was just turning to admiration - at first sight it was one of the most successful modern buildings she had seen -
when she received an unpleasant inkling that Nat Fitzwilliam was one of those people who never wasted time in argument, merely proceeded with their plans underground when checked.

'To think,
she's
never even been here!' he was exclaiming fervently as he unlocked the front doors. Jemima could see the empty interior of the foyer through the transparent cinnamon-coloured glass.

'I want you to see it this way,’
Nat continued. 'Our little modern masterpiece. Featured in the
Architectural Review
twice. All built with Cartwright money when the dry rot made the old theatre a public hazard.
She
must have had the idea; and then she never saw it finished.'

They crossed the foyer. Jemima did not like empty theatres. She found something creepy about them; even the locked box office, also made of cinammon glass, did not please her. She made a mental note not to allow the architectural properties of the Watchtower to dominate her programme: this was to tell the story of the Festival, not a little modern masterpiece. Even so she had to admit that the stage and surrounding seats - on four of the five sides - were so well constructed as to give the interior of the theatre an appeal in its own right. All the same, all Guthrie Carlyle's shots would show people, lots of people, or would if Jemima had anything to do with it
...

Nat Fitzwilliam fumbled for another switch and flooded the theatre with more light.

'Can't you just imagine it?' he said gloatingly. For a moment Jemima actually thought he was referring to the television programme she would make, they would make together. But Nat was once more in the grip of his vision.

'Christabel Herrick makes her come-back, directed by Nat Fitzwilliam. Oh, I know she'll do it for me,' he added quickly and joyously, to quell Jemima's objections. 'You see, I was a great friend of Barry's.'

'Barry?' queried Jemima.

'Barry! Barry Blagge! The infamous or famous boyfriend, depending on your point of view. Me for the latter, of course. Barry Blagge! Better known as Iron Boy! Don't you remember: "Coo-ool Repentance"?' He crooned the words as though clutching a mike.

'Iron Boy!' exclaimed Cherry, coming through the doors behind them. 'And that was my favourite of them all, that and "Daring Darling". I told you, Jem. Listen, very quickly, while the old boy parks his car, do you know what he told me on the way here? The solitary remark he made as a matter of fact. That couple, serving that Buckingham Palace of a lunch. Can you believe it?
They're his parents
- Iron Boy's parents.
¹
Cherry's eyes were now as round as mill-stones.

'She runs off a la Lady Chatterley, well, that sort of thing, with the handsome stable lad. That's all he was - Iron Boy was - in those days. And his old parents are still there working at the Manor. They just keep on working. And they're
still
there when she returns .
..
Talk about Cool Repentance. Under all that quietness and graciousness, they must absolutely
loathe
her.

'What a weird set-up,' pronounced Cherry, with much satisfaction, adding with that talent for stating the obvious which never deserted her even in moments of greatest crisis: 'I mean, it would never happen in London.'

5

'I'll be Safe'

During May a great many things happened both in London (Megalithic House) and Larminster (the Watchtower Theatre) to advance the planning of Jemima Shore's Festival programme. Most of these things happened more or less on schedule. Even the things which did not happen on schedule, like Guthrie Carlyle and his cameraman Spike Thompson going to the wrong restaurant in Larminster when they were on a reccy - not the one in the
Good Food Guide
- did not in the end impede the development of the programme overmuch. It was an error incidentally for which they most unfairly blamed Cherry: but Cherry was quick to point out that she had booked them into absolutely the right restaurant in the first place; it was pure male chauvinism which had led them to prefer Christopher's Diner (unlisted) to Flora's Kitchen (highly recommended) once on the spot in Larminster.

One of the unscheduled things which was felt to be a hindrance was the constant presence of Nat Fitzwilliam in London. As Director of the Festival being put together in Larminster, rather than the programme being worked out in London, it might have been supposed that Nat Fitzwilliam would have concentrated on the rustic side of things. But this would have been to underestimate the cheerful cherub's capacity to be in both places at once, or at any rate to commute on his motor-bike all too regularly between them.

'That young man will be the death of me,' grumbled Guthrie Carlyle after one of Nat's unsolicited calls at Megalithic House. ('I was supposed to see both Peter
mid
Trevor this morning - they're interested in my Sung
Hamlet
at the National - no, no, it's Trevor who's talking musicals and
Middlemarch
at the
rsc
- but luckily Peter chucked, so that I thought that on my way to see Jonathan at the
bisc
, I'd just pop in—') 'Correction. This Festival will be the death of me,' continued Guthrie. 'Or if not me, 
the death of someone probably in the contracts department, in view of Spike Thompson's latest
coup
over his expenses.'

'Wouldn't it be lovely if it was the death of Nat Fitzwilliam?' Jemima spoke wistfully. 'I speak purely professionally, you understand. Just his reputation. I don't want his youthful corpse on my hands, looking all pathetic, appealing to the mother in me. But this morning he gave me most cogently
his
views on
Jonathan Millers
views on Shakespeare and I'm not sure that I can take—'

'Have you heard the latest?' Cherry tripped in. 'Our Nat is going to direct
The Seagull
himself. Boy Greville has withdrawn. Personal reasons,
he
says. And that is not all, my friends.
What
about this?
¹
She paused for effect, and who could deny the effect was ravishing - pale-pink
‘I
-shirt perilously scoop-necked and pale-pink skirt slit up both sides to reveal plump smooth olive-skinned thighs.

Guthrie whistled appreciatively. 'Wowee, as Nat Fitzwilliam would say. And has Spike Thompson taken time off from his expenses to have the pleasure?' But Cherry for once was not in a mood for tribute.

'Believe or not, she's agreed! Our Nat has fixed it. Christabel Herrick stars!
The Seagull.
And that lovely weepy piece of Gregory Rowan's everyone does at school,
Widow Capet.
You know, Marie Antoinette in prison, thinking about the diamond necklace etc., etc. She'll be Marie Antoinette, yes? Tres, tres revolutionary France. And
The Seagull.'
Cherry's voice dropped. 'Very, very nineteenth-century Russia.'

'Knowing Nat Fitzwilliam, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it was exactly the other way round,' observed Jemima tartly. But she was more concerned to digest the surprising and not particularly welcome news of Nat Fitzwilliam's successful recasting. She had no doubt already that the return to the stage of Christabel Herrick - even to the stage of the Watchtower, Bridset, would attract a great deal of interest not all of it purely theatrical in origin. Was this quite what Cy Fredericks had in mind when he had spoken to Jemima of including in her series 'one really superbly insignificant country festival'?

Cy had warmed to his theme: 'Significant in its very insignificance, my dear Jem. A repertory company of the greatest integrity; local worthies, each more respectable than the last, whose wives have never even raised their eyes above another man's feet, sleeping in their seats, the sleep of the just after a long day's work like characters in Hardy, the whole lot preferably in dinner jackets, the worthies of course, not their wives. The wives should be wearing gowns of classical inextravagance in keeping with the plays presented, eternal values kept decently in check. This festival, through the medium of Megalith Television, should symbolize of itself all that makes English cultural country life what it is today.'

Cy had leant back in satisfied contemplation of his own eloquence. 'In short, my dear Jem, the sort of thing that you and I would run a mile rather than attend.' Remembering rather too late that he was in fact recommending Jemima to spend several weeks at such a festival, Cy had added quickly: 'Except in the line of duty, that is.'

Was this new improved version of the Larminster Festival quite what Cy Fredericks had in mind as the significantly insignificant? At the same time Jemima was uneasily aware that Cy Fredericks was hardly going to back out from televising the return of Christabel Herrick to the stage; something to which it would appear that he had inadvertently secured the exclusive rights. Under the circumstances she hardly thought that Cy would stick by his original notion of decent cultural obscurity. Her instinct told her that her own programme was due to undergo roughly the same transformation as the Larminster Festival itself in the immediate future.

And so indeed it proved. Over the next few days Cy Fredericks abandoned the whole concept of the insignificant festival with suspicious alacrity. Larminster and its Festival now became infinitely more central in the whole Fredericks scheme of things and that in turn reflected on the lives of all those concerned with the original programme.

Guthrie Carlyle, swearing outwardly over the damage to schedules, comforted himself inwardly with dreams of prime-time television. Cherry took the opportunity to end - most regretfully - a romance with a craggy forty-year-old producer in another department on the grounds of pressure of work; her secret dreams were of Julian Cartwright's handsomely greying head on her pillow in some Larminster hostelry while Christabel busied herself with her career. Even Spike Thompson, saturnine as ever in his legendary battered black leather jacket, with looks which made his claim to descend from a family of Italian ice
-
cream manufacturers named Tommaso at least plausible, spared time from the possible financial implications of such a change to murmur: 'Christabel Herrick, she looks pretty good in her photographs and some of these older women are fantastic.' 

'Christabel Herrick, isn't she absolutely into younger men?' enquired a passing secretary innocently. 'I mean, didn't she run off with a randy teenager?'

'Yes, Spike, you'd better keep an eye on your Focus Puller,' concurred Guthrie in a bland voice which was not at all innocent; leaving the secretary to wonder why the great - and greatly fancied - Spike Thompson gave her a wide berth in the Megalith canteen thereafter, despite a series of very straightforward propositions made there on previous occasions.

Jemima Shore for her part found herself with two new tasks. The first was to get to know Christabel Herrick, the distinguished actress who had dominated a generation before abandoning the stage, through the medium of the Megalith cuttings library. The second was to get to know Christabel Cartwright, the lady of Lark Manor, in person.

She was half-way through the first task, when she was interrupted by a telephone call from the object of her researches. Already Jemima had become torn between morbid curiosity and personal disgust as sensational headline followed headline. Listening to Christabel Cartwright's delightful low voice on the telephone, she found it very difficult to equate the two images.

Christabel's call fortuitously set the second task under way, for she had rung up to propose lunch together. She suggested Larminster - Flora's Kitchen - rather than her own house on the rather vaguely expressed grounds that 'there's so much always going on at Lark'.

A few days later at the restaurant Christabel was more explicit: 'We're redesigning the courtyard garden to make it less
doleful,
there are no flowers there in the summer, except climbers, which is ridiculous, lots and lots of peonies I thought, Julian says they take years to establish, but I said, we've
got
years darling, years and years, at least speaking for myself.. .'

Yes, thought Jemima, it was certainly very difficult to reconcile the romantic heroine - or villainess - of the newspaper with this pleasant pretty well-dressed woman sitting opposite her, rattling on about her garden planning. Jemima watched Christabel pouring herself a large vodka from a half-bottle produced somewhat surprisingly from her Gucci handbag, and thought that was about the only eccentric note she struck. And even that proved susceptible to explanation.

'No vodka here,' cried Christabel, 'and I can't have lunch without a voddy, can I? So Poll doesn't mind if I bring my own.'

Poll was a girl with very long very straight hair who served them in virtual silence, except for occasional low-voiced suggestions. She moved mysteriously and gracefully, vanishing from time to time into the kitchen at the back with a swish of her long skirts. Whereupon from the kitchen much louder noises of furious expostulation usually issued.

'That's Moll,' confided Christabel during one of these bouts. 'She cooks. And yells at Poll. They're a devoted couple except when Moll gets one of her jealous fits about Poll and the male customers. They met as art students. In Florence, you will not be totally surprised to hear.'

The menu featured Botticelli Salad, Boeuf Primavera and Syllabub Uffizi. Impressionistic figures, roughly based on those of Botticelli, had been painted all over the walls of the dark little restaurant, giving a pleasantly cavernous effect. The table-cloths and napkins were made of Botticelli-printed linen: Jemima found herself staring down at Venus's left breast, the nipple centrally placed between her knife and fork. All the food was absolutely delicious, and except for its name, there was nothing Italianate about it at all.

The house wine was also very good. Poll, unasked, brought a bottle of red and placed it before Christabel. Since Jemima then gently enquired for some white, Christabel was left alone with the red; the level, Jemima noticed, went down quite rapidly, as Poll filled and refilled Christabel's glass silently and deftly.

In the far corner of Flora's Kitchen, appropriately enough in the shadow of the Three Graces, Jemima noticed Spike Thompson having lunch with Nat Fitzwilliam. Poll's long hair drooped and dipped tenderly over Spike Thompson's plate in a way that Jemima thought would not greatly please Moll were she to witness it. Spike, in a scarlet polo-necked jersey under his black leather jacket, was the only truly Italian-looking thing in the restaurant; in contrast to the schoolboy appearance of Nat Filzwilliam, he looked quite aggressively masculine.

Jemima removed her gaze, banished some unprofessional thoughts on the subject of her cameraman, and conc
entrated on Christabel. Christa
bel's fluffy hair was framed rather than covered in the halo of a blue chiffon scarf. A ruffled white blouse under a pale-blue jacket on which a full-blown creamy rose was held by a jewelled pin made her look as ostentatiously feminine as Spike looked masculine. The jewelled pin which held the spray was in the shape of a lily of the valley simulated in pearls and jade. Yet Jemima did not feel that she had dressed with any special care for this occasion; merely that her appearance in general was the result of constant cherishing. The right word for Christabel was glamorous. In that respect she resembled royalty - or an actress.

The actress and the ploughboy
- that was one glaring headline which came back into Jemima's mind. All that side of Christabel Cartwright seemed quite incomprehensible, looking at her now - unless of course one was inclined to explain the whole history of the world in terms of sex. And that, Jemima, despite being most amiably disposed towards the subject herself, had always supposed to be an error. Perhaps Christabel's history had something to teach her.

According to the newspapers, Christabel Cartwright's torrid romance with Barry Blagge, the handsome red-haired only child of the married couple who worked at Lark Manor, had begun when he was about twenty-one. It was of course nonsense - pure headlinese - to describe him as a ptoughboy. Even the columns beneath the headlines themselves contradicted the notion. Barry Blagge, leaving aside his remarkable looks, revealed even at that stage in fuzzy newspaper photographs, had been bright, very bright. He had secured first O-levels and then A-levels at Larminster Royal, hardly a universal occurrence at that quiet school in the early 1970s.