Liberty Silk (38 page)

The lined pages were covered in the dense, hasty handwriting that she recognized as her mother’s, although it was far less legible than the letters written by the younger Jessie.

I should hate you, Scotch; yes, and despise you too & maybe I do a little sometimes, but only, sadly, when I am loving you & longing for you too much. Oh, darling, so many things I want to know; so many ordinary, everyday things . . .

I am skimming well, I think, but oh God, beneath the surface is a deadly world of my own. How can I go on? Somehow I will. Gervaise needs me, & at present there is so little of me to give, just an automatically moving, speaking, planning shell . . .

I am very low tonight, S., very low indeed and I must write these words to you; words you will never read. I am filled with a frighteningly strange foreboding . . .

The barking of a dog made Lisa look down. Rising to her feet, she moved to the window. Below, Gervaise and Raoul were on the terrace, sharing a smoke. Buster was chasing something between the rows of runner beans – a rabbit, maybe. It was difficult to see. The low sun cast rays of such intense gold upon the garden that all was a burnished blur.

Lisa felt claustrophobic suddenly. She craved air. Looping the ribbon over a doorknob, she shut Jessie’s journal, set it on the vanity table and ran downstairs to join the men.

‘Sabu?’

‘Lisa! Where are you?’

‘I’m phoning from the South of France – from Antibes. I can’t stay on the line for long – it’s so expensive.’

‘What are you doing in Antibes?’

‘I just got married!’

‘What fun! So did I. Who did you get married to?’

‘He’s – um—’ How to describe Raoul? ‘He’s French. He’s an architect. He’s very clever and he’s very handsome. I knew him from when I was a child here, and we’re living in a boathouse.’

‘Is he going to make you happy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. That’s all I need to know.’

‘Who did you marry?’

‘She’s called Marilyn. She’s American. She’s an actress. She’s very clever and very beautiful.’

‘I’m so glad.’

The pips started.

‘I’m sorry I can’t talk properly, Sabu – the pips are going. Listen. I need to ask you a big favour.’

‘Fire ahead.’

‘Can you close up my apartment for me, and send on my things – my dresses and all that jazz? I’m care of the Villa Perdita, Salamander Cove.’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s just that I have some really good stuff and it would be a pity if it ended up in a thrift store or something. I’ll reimburse you for the shipping.’

‘My pleasure. Consider it a wedding gift.’

‘Thank you Sabutage! I do love you.’

‘I love you too, Lisa. Have a good life.’

‘Have a good life yourself. Be sure to make it full of fun . . .’

‘. . . and adventure . . .’

‘. . . at last!’ she finished for him.

The pips went.

Several weeks later, a dozen or so boxes were delivered to the Villa Perdita. Sabu had had her frocks professionally packed between layers of tissue paper.

‘When on earth are you going to wear them?’ asked Raoul, who had come across Lisa sitting on the floor of Gervaise’s hallway, surrounded by yards of tulle and taffeta.

‘Probably never,’ Lisa told him. ‘But I couldn’t bear to think of them rotting away somewhere. Aren’t they beautiful? Look at this!’

She held up a frothy magenta creation.

‘Very nice,’ said Raoul. ‘But frankly, I prefer you in a sarong. Easier to take off.’

Lisa fluffed out the skirts, and laid the gown carefully to one side before reaching for a spangled chiffon number.

‘Dear God,’ said Raoul, with a pained look. ‘Where’s all that stuff going to live? There’s no room for ball gowns in the Boat House.’

‘I never thought of that. Oh! I’d forgotten about this! Isn’t it adorable!’

She placed a little velvet side beret on her head, adjusted the ornamental feather and gave Raoul a winsome look.

‘Very becoming. Perfect for a trip to the fish market.’

‘And here’s my alpaca coat! That’ll be very welcome, come winter. How thoughtful of Sabu!’

‘Why don’t you ask Gervaise if you can use your mother’s closet?’ suggested Raoul.

‘Good idea.’ Lisa started to pull pink faille from between layers of tissue. ‘It’s a lovely notion, when you think of it, that our clothes are hanging together in the same space. Imagine the conversations they could have!’

‘Maybe you should install a bugging device,’ said Raoul, hefting one of the boxes and moving towards the stairs. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

When she’d finished unpacking, Lisa was delighted to find that Sabu had included little gifts at the bottom of one of the boxes: items that would not be readily available in Europe. They included several pairs of Charnos nylons, a box of Elizabeth Arden products, a pair of Ray-Bans and half a dozen magazines.

This editorial is dedicated to all sulky Hollywood girls, and to Lisa La Touche in particular.

Lisa, you’re a smart cookie – pretty, popular, talented. You made a stunning debut in
Crimson Lake
. You became increasingly versatile in several pictures. Suddenly life opened up to you. People pointed you out. Your future looked as rosy as an extra’s cheeks after a bawling-out by a third assistant director. And then – something happened. You flounced away to Europe, shaking off the ‘sordid dust’ of that commercial Hollywood. You were cited as co-respondent (among others) by poor little Judy Kinnear in her divorce proceedings from Lochlan – but you didn’t have the guts to show up in the courtroom.

The motion picture industry is bigger than you, Lisa. It can get along without you, but you can’t, excuse me, get along without it. Because no other profession in the world can give you so much. And don’t think that Hollywood will welcome you back with open arms when you get tired of sun worshipping on the French Riviera. (Be warned! We’ve seen the pictures!) Because, Miss Lisa La Touche, we think you just may have burned those inter-Continental bridges . . .

Recumbent under a peerless sky on a turquoise beach mat, Lisa smiled, tossed the magazine aside, slid on her Ray-Bans and reached for a peach.

July 1950

Dear Auntie Lisa,

Thank you for the book of fairy tales. I like the one about Gretel pushing the witch in the oven best. I think the Little Mermaid was an awful eejit to get her tongue cut out just so she could dance with the prince.

I go to school in a place called Kylemore Abbey. There is a farm, and there are goats. We push the girls in the lake on their birthdays and sometimes climb up the cliff to where there are caves to explore. Lessons are boring but I like the art room. Sister Carol is a good art teacher. It’s the holidays now.

Love,

Cat

She had included a self-portrait, in crayon. It showed a smiling girl with rosy cheeks and scribbly yellow hair, surrounded by pink hearts. She had put five of them. One for Mammy, one for Daddy. One for Cat’s kitten, one for her fat hen. And one for Auntie Lisa, because Mammy had told her to, even though Cat had never met Aunt Lisa.

July, 1952

Dear Auntie Lisa,

Thank you for Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. I liked the baby who turned into a pig. I wonder could you do that in real life? My friend Sally has a brother who she would turn into a pig but I told her he is one already. I have no brother yet thanks be to heaven and Mam says I will not get one because I am an only child and Sally says I am a lucky duck.

Thank you for the photographs you sent me of your house in France and your dog. Mam says you were a film star once in America. Sally is from America, but she has never seen any of your films. She says her Mom might have. My favourite film is Peter Pan by Walt Disney. I like Tinkerbell best – she likes to break rules. Mam and Dad took me to see it in the picture house in Galway last week for my birthday.

I hope you are well.

Love,

Cat

This time she enclosed a class photograph. All the Kylemore Abbey students were smiling politely to camera – bar two. Bang in the centre of the middle row, a couple of bold-looking girls were in fits of laughter, sharing a joke. One of them was Cat, the other her friend, Sally. They’d been reprimanded after the photograph was taken and sent to detention, even though, as Cat had pointed out to the Mother Abbess, laughing wasn’t a sin.

Dear Cat,

I’m glad you like the books. It is difficult to get books in France that are written in English, so I have had the bright idea of setting up what is called ‘an account’ with a bookshop in Galway called Kennys. That means that you can have any books you like without having to pay for them, and they will post them to you. I have already asked them to send you two books that I love – the Just So stories and The Secret Garden. (Mary in the book is an only child like you. I was an only child when I was little, and Sally is right – we are lucky ducks.) My favourite of the Just So stories is the one about the cat – you will love it too because it tells everyone how the cat is the most SUPERIOR of all the animals. SUPERIOR is a big word that means THE BEST – I hope you have a dictionary? I will order one specially for you from the lovely people in Kennys.

Maybe you will write back and tell me how you get on with the books? I know how boring it is to write thank you letters because I was made to do it when I was a little girl at boarding school (did you know that I went to Kylemore too? It was a long, long time ago). So don’t write unless you really feel like it, although of course I would love to hear from you.

Your loving aunt,

Lisa XXX

But Cat
did
feel like writing. She loved the books so much that she wanted to tell somebody about them, and Aunt Lisa was great at writing back, and it was such a warm, fuzzy feeling when you had a letter waiting for you in the dining room at breakfast time. So when the next batch of books came from Kennys’ bookshop, of course she wanted to tell somebody about those, too, and since writing to Lisa was nearly as good as talking to a friend (and Lisa never, ever gave out about her spelling or the untidiness of her writing), Cat decided she would make Lisa a kind of pen pal. She was the best kind of letter-writer; she was much better than the boring so-called ‘pal’ in Switzerland to whom she was made to write to improve her French (and she had to use words like ‘whom’ and ‘thereof’ because the teachers always checked the letters). Pen pals organized by the school were rubbish at writing, but Aunt Lisa was brilliant because she always wrote back at once.

July 1954

Dear Aunt Lisa,

Thank you for the camera you sent me for my birthday. My mam gave me roller skates. My new best friend here in Kylemore Abbey is a girl from Japan called Satomi. She is staying with us this summer, and some day I am going to travel to Japan to stay with her. We swam yesterday, and rode ponies bareback. There was a hawk above the mountain, and a huge great big goat chased us through the woods. I wish I had been able to take a photograph. It would make you laugh, the antics of him.

The new books came from Kennys. I loved the pictures in The Little Prince. I would like to have my hair cut like that but Mam says no. Satomi and me have started a pirate gang like in Swallows and Amazons. When Aslan died in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe I cried so much that Satomi thought I was going to be sick.

Love,

Cat

This time the enclosed photograph showed Cat standing on a sea wall, nonchalantly defying the drop beyond. She was looking unsmilingly at the lens, Box Brownie in her left hand. She looked like she meant business. She looked as if she knew where she was going, all rigged out with a life plan, a map and a compass. She looked like an adventuress. She was the personification of The Cat That Walked By Herself.

Kylemore – Monday the something-or-other of April ’59
Hi, Lisa – I’m writing this in my study when I should be concentrating on the dramatic unities in Racine’s Iphigénie. Why do they make us read such BORING stuff? I agree that Lord of the Flies would make a FAB film! V v scary, and v plausible. Did David Niven really introduce you to Scott Fitzgerald when you were in Hollywood? I enjoyed The Great Gatsby, thought Jordan was pretty cool, but Daisy a bit of a drag. I’m starting on The Valleys of the Assassins next (how gutsy is Freya Stark! Someday I’m going to be a trailblazer like her!) and I have a load of Raymond Chandlers lined up. I’m a sucker for his hardboiled heroes!

Exams coming up soon, future coming up soon, que sera sera. Yikes – here comes the supervisor – aaagghh – back to the Greek encampment in Aulis . . . ZZZZZZZZ

Cat.

Quick PS: I have loads of pictures of Kylemore – all taken at different seasons of the year with the camera you gave me. Sister Carol says that I should get extra prints made and sell them to American tourists. Sister Carol is what you Americans call far-out, even though she is a nun.

July 1963

Dear Cat,

How wonderful that a London agency is interested in your photographs! I am
very
impressed! Might you send me some samples of your work? Róisín tells me that you have a real artist’s eye.

Perhaps you’d like to come and stay with me and your uncle Raoul some time? As I’m sure you know, there is a festival of film in Cannes every year, and you could visit St Tropez, which was a small fishing village when I first came here, but is now very fashionable on account of Brigitte Bardot et al. I’m sure you could get some smashing photographs of this part of the world, it is about time that somebody dreamed up a new idea for photographic postcards: really, the ones of Picasso’s house and the Croisette in Cannes are too dull for words – I’m sure you could come up with something much more interesting.

I’ve enclosed a cheque for you to treat yourself to something for your birthday. I saw a gorgeous dress in my favourite boutique in Antibes, but then I thought that you probably don’t want an old ‘aunt’ choosing your clothes.