The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets (27 page)

The next thing that
happened was that we heard the front door opening and both of us nearly jumped
out of our skins. Harry shoved the tickets back into his pocket, pressed his
finger to his lips and stalked off, leaving me struck dumb in the middle of the
room. Five seconds later, Charlotte burst through the door.

‘Oh,
Penelope, you’re here! Goodness, you must be starving.’

I
nodded, but for once, tea was the last thing on my mind.

‘This
whole city has gone quite mad,’ said Aunt Clare, sweeping into the room and
kissing me hello. ‘I’ve never seen so many people shopping in all my life, and
I’ve never felt so violated by the power of advertisements! All I wanted was a
simple ribbon for the typewriter, but I’ve come home with two new skirts, a
bottle of perfume and a book that I am quite sure I will never get round to
reading.’

‘Why
did you buy it then, Aunt?’

‘I
liked the title. We must think of a good title for my book, Charlotte.
Something rare and controversial.’

‘How
about
My Autobiography?’
suggested Charlotte, who was looking fed up.

Aunt
Clare gave her a withering look and flopped onto her chair. ‘This need to buy
everything one reads about is quite frightening,’ she said. ‘Still, Harry has
his job now; we should be grateful for small mercies. Goodness, Sir Richard is
such
a ‘friend.’

I
hardly knew where to look.

‘I
wouldn’t get
too
complacent, Aunt,’ warned Charlotte. ‘You never know
with Harry.’

‘Oh, he’ll
be quite at home in accountancy. He’s always loved figures,’ said Aunt Clare vaguely.
Charlotte raised her eyebrows at me and I stifled a giggle.

Unfortunately.
I didn’t get a chance that afternoon to talk to Charlotte about Harry and his
outrageous suggestion. Tea finished at five as usual, but Charlotte had to
leave ten minutes early for her mother’s birthday drinks.

‘The
conductor’s throwing her a party,’ she said gloomily. ‘I’m quite sure he’d be
out of the door faster than you can say Nabucco if he knew that she’s fifty-three,
not forty-three, today.’

I
rather hoped that Charlotte would invite me to accompany her. She didn’t, of
course.

Because she left earlier,
I took the earlier train home and decided to treat myself to a seat in
first-class. This is something I never would have done before meeting Charlotte
and it was one of those momentous decisions made without the slightest
realisation of its momentousness. It had been tipping down with rain for most
of the afternoon, and the carriage smelt sweetly of damp clothes and wet
newspapers, of tobacco and British Railways tea. I listened to the comforting
rattle of the wheels on the tracks, and watched through the window as we
slipped out of London and towards the soft, friendly stations that marked the
journey back to Magna. The rain stopped after a while and the evening looked beautiful
in a nearly spring sort of way. For the first time, I felt aware of lengthening
light, the elbowing out of the winter.

As we
pulled out of Reading, the man opposite me looked up from the
Financial
Times
for the first time since leaving London and smiled at me and I caught
my breath because he had the most amazing face I had ever seen. It wasn’t just
his beauty, which was obvious in an older movie-star way (I put him at about
forty-five), but his eyes — huge, soft brown and full of kindness — that took
me by surprise. I had never thought that glamour and kindness could be happy
bedfellows, yet this man’s features were doing their best to prove me wrong. He
didn’t even have to shift in his seat for me to notice that he oozed self-confidence
in a distinctly un-English way.

‘Strange
weather,’ he said, and joy of joys! there was the unmistakable American accent.

‘Isn’t
it?’ I agreed.

He
grinned again and went back to his paper, and I noticed how beautiful his hands
looked.
Manicured!
I thought in amazement. I wanted to hear him talk
again.

‘But
then we’re used to that in this country.

He
laughed. ‘Sure we are,’ he said and, smiling, turned back to his paper.

‘Do you
— do you live in England?’ I asked falteringly. ‘Some of the time,’ he said. ‘Most
of the time, in fact.’ ‘Gosh,’ I said, ‘you’re American, aren’t you?’

‘Damn,
I thought I’d shaken the accent off at London airport,’ he said mockingly. but
there was amusement in his eyes. Not that haughty, isn’t-this-all-a-bit-of-a-jolly-jape
look of amusement that Harry wore. This felt
real
to me. He was back at
his business again, so I wrenched my questions back and stared out of the
window and thought about Harry’s request. Johnnie, and a night out at the Ritz,
seemed too good a chance to pass up. And yet…

‘You
look like there’s something on your mind,’ said the stranger. I gave him a
quizzical look.

‘What
would you do,’ I asked him quickly. ‘if somebody wanted you to do something for
them that you weren’t sure you really wanted to do?’

‘What
is this very terrible thing?’

‘A
smart dinner party,’ I mumbled.

‘All
good dinner parties should make you feel odd and out of place to start with,’
said the stranger briskly. ‘The combination of good wine and good-looking
people throws most folk completely. The question is, can you rise to the
occasion? Can you turn it around and make the night work for you?’

I
stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘I don’t know,’ I answered truthfully. I thought
of our triumph at Dorset House, and Marina’s irritation at my presence. ‘I
suppose I could have a go, I said.

He
laughed out loud at me. ‘What would you rather be doing,’ he asked, ‘if there
was some place else you could be rather than at this dinner party? Dancing to
poor old Johnnie Ray. I suppose?’

My eyes
widened, and, as usual, my heartbeat skipped at the mere sound of Johnnie’s
name. Spoken by an American, it sounded even more delicious. ‘How on earth did
you know about Johnnie?’ I cried. ‘That’s psychic!’

‘Not
really.’ said the stranger, pointing at the magazine Charlotte had given me. I
always carried it with me for the train. ‘There’s no hope, I’m afraid. I’ve
heard he hypnotises young girls like you. God knows, one can hardly blame the
man.’

I felt
myself flushing scarlet. ‘I do like the new sounds,’ I admitted. ‘My brother’s
addicted to them.’

‘There’s
big money to be made in it all,’ said the stranger. ‘Big money indeed.’

Then
the ticket collector came through, and an awful thing happened — I couldn’t for
the life of me find my ticket.

‘I know
it’s here somewhere!’ I fretted, turning my coat pockets inside out to reveal a
half-eaten ginger scone that I had wrapped in a bit of paper to eat on the
journey home. Why couldn’t I be like Charlotte who always kept her cool in
situations like this? The ticket collector, who was a sour-faced man with a
hacking cough, looked ready for the kill.

‘I don’t
have enough money for another ticket,’ I muttered.

‘You’ll
have to alight at the next station,’ he said smugly.

‘Oh,
but I’ll come back with the money tomorrow!’ I begged. We were still a good half
an hour from Westbury and the rain had started again. My American hero reached
into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a leather wallet.

‘Now
look here, my man,’ he said, just as they do in the films, ‘I’ll pay her fare.’

‘You
travelling with this young lady?’

‘I am
now. How much does she owe?’

‘Two
shillings and eightpence,’ said the ticket collector sulkily.

‘Here
you go. If my companion finds her ticket before she reaches her destination, we
shall expect our money back.’

‘Certainly.
sir,’ said the ticket man, shuffling off with a spluttering cough.

‘Thanks
most awfully.’ I gasped. ‘I must take your address so I can send you the money
as soon as I get home. I
did
buy a ticket, you know. I’m generally an
honest sort of person who doesn’t normally get into these sorts of scrapes.’

‘How
disappointing,’ said my new friend with a wicked smile. ‘And of course you must
not
send me the money. I would take that as a terrific insult.’

‘Oh
please, I’ll feel sick if you don’t let me pay you back. At least let me have
your address, just to write and thank you.’

He
relented at this and a shiny black ink pen appeared from nowhere and he
scribbled something on the back of a ticket stub. I wanted to see where he
lived, but thought it was rude to look with him watching, so I shoved the
ticket straight into my pocket with the unfortunate ginger scone.

‘My
mother would be horrified if she knew I had accepted a ticket from a stranger,’
I said.

‘She
need never know,’ he said with a wink.

I
thought he had probably had enough of me causing trouble so I thanked him again
and buried my head in my magazine while he studied a number of typewritten
pages, tutting and swiping his pen through bits he probably didn’t agree with.
At the next stop (which was Didcot of all the unexciting places), he packed his
papers away and stood up. He was taller than I had imagined he would be, which
only enhanced his fearful glamour.

‘Well,
I’m off here,’ he announced. ‘Nice to meet you, mysterious lady with no ticket.
I hope Mr Ray appreciates you. I have a funny feeling you may be wasted on him.’

I
thanked him yet again, and said good evening and watched him leave the train.
He was met by a man in gloves and uniform who relieved him of his suitcase. A
minute later I thought I was seeing things as I watched him climb into the
passenger seat of the most beautiful silver car with black piping down the
sides.

‘Blow
me! It’s a blinking Chevrolet!’ exclaimed a boy of about thirteen, a couple of
seats behind me, his glasses falling off his nose in excitement, and at once
all faces that could were pressed to the window to have a look.

‘I knew
‘e was American,’ said the boy smugly. ‘Could tell from the way ‘e was talkin’.’

‘Rich
American,’ said the man next to him.

The car
was quite the most exotic thing I’d ever seen, especially in a place like
Didcot. Several little boys gathered around it, flummoxed with admiration,
waiting for it to start off, which it did with a great roar and a cheer from
the crowd. My friend even stuck his hand out and waved at them. They loved it.

Mama met me at Westbury,
which was unusual.

‘Johns
wanted the afternoon off,’ she said, cranking the car into gear (Mama was a
good driver, which always struck me as being somewhat out of character). ‘If
only you could find a rich man to marry you, Penelope! All our troubles would
be over,’ she sighed.

‘Don’t
be silly. Mama,’ I said automatically. But I reached into my pocket and felt my
stranger’s address and as soon as we arrived home I rushed upstairs to my room
and pulled it out of my pocket to study. It was a ticket from last week’s
performance of
La Traviata
at Covent Garden. Royal Box, I noted in awe
and nearly fainted when I read the price in the corner. I turned it over to
find out where he lived. This is what he had written.

I must
not lose my head over pop singers. I must be myself at smart dinners, love
Rocky.

I gave
a half-cry and clutched the ticket to my chest. I must not lose my head over
strangers on the 5.35 from Paddington, I whispered. I went to bed that night
with my fingers still covered in black ink.

Chapter
12

INIGO
VERSUS THE WORLD