The Silent Tide (16 page)

‘No, of course not. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.’

‘I don’t mind. But it’s thrilling that you’ve an idea for another book. What’s it to be about?’

‘Ah, it’s at far too delicate a stage to speak about,’ he told her. ‘Bad luck. It might vanish like the mist.’

There was an undercurrent of seriousness to his words. She studied him thoughtfully, something of what he meant dawning on her. On occasion she would overhear a few words from a conversation, or be fascinated by a news item and think there was a story in it. It was annoying when a little while later she couldn’t recall what exactly it was that had suggested itself. ‘Sometimes it’s just a feeling, isn’t it?’ she said to Hugh. ‘A sense of something important and truthful.’

‘Like a flash of the kingfisher,’ he said. ‘I will reveal that this one is not unconnected with someone I know.’ He watched the effect of his words, smiling as she caught his meaning.

She was astonished. ‘Someone?’ He smiled more broadly, waiting for her to understand. ‘Do you mean me? How could I possibly be involved?’

He laughed and finished his wine. ‘I’ll tell you sometime, but not yet.’

‘Tell me now.’ She had a sudden feeling of power over him.

‘No.’

‘Hugh Morton!’ He threw back his head and laughed.

‘You’re maddening, absolutely maddening!’ She rapped his hand with the dessert menu. This merely resulted in the hovering waiter gliding forward to take their orders. She caught Hugh’s eye. He winked and she managed to stop herself laughing.

‘Anything for madam?’ the waiter was asking.

‘Oh no, I couldn’t manage another bite.’

Hugh ordered brandy, and when it came, selected a cigar from a box the waiter proffered.

‘Where do you think of as home?’ she asked, thinking the rings of smoke gave him a glamorous, man-of-the-world air. ‘I know you set part of
Coming Home
in Suffolk.’

‘Yes, it’s the place I love best, where I belong. It’s by a wild part of the coast, on a river estuary. It can be very bleak in winter but I think it’s beautiful.’

He talked of the family house, which dated back to the early 1800s. Hugh’s grandfather, a successful banker, had inherited the house from a cousin before the First War and retired there. It was Hugh’s now, his father having died suddenly several years ago, but his mother still lived there with a daily housekeeper. There had been a house in London, too, but that had been sold to cover the death duties.

She listened carefully when he spoke of his mother. ‘She’s a survivor – she’s had to be. I’m afraid I disappointed her. I didn’t go into a profession like my father did; he read Law and ended up a judge. I would have followed him if I hadn’t been called up, but I was – and afterwards, well, I was twenty-six when I was demobbed. I found my interests had changed. I didn’t want to continue my studies. I’d started to write when I was at university – short stories, that sort of thing – but when I left the RAF the idea for
Coming Home
possessed me. Once I’d worked it all out, it proved very easy to write.’

‘And now it’s going to be published, surely your mother is pleased?’

‘Yes, she is. Now it feels as though life is finally beginning for me . In fact, I’m having a small gathering next Saturday to celebrate. Nothing very grand, a few friends, that’s all. It would be marvellous if you could come.’

‘Oh, what a pity.’ She’d promised to go to the cinema with Vivienne on Saturday.

‘You’re doing something already?’

‘A girl I share digs with. We often go out together.’

‘Why don’t you bring her if you think she’d like it?’

‘I’ll ask her. Thank you.’

Twenty-two Corton Street was a handsome, white-stucco terraced house in a quiet mews amongst the maze of streets behind the Albert Hall. Isabel and Vivienne hesitated beneath the flickering light of an ancient lamp post, arguing about whether it was indeed the right place. It seemed much grander than Isabel had ever imagined. Finally Vivienne, in her matter-of-fact way, took the risk of pushing the upper of the two electric doorbells.

‘I’m going, Hugh, don’t worry,’ trilled a female voice from within. There followed a tripping of high heels down steps and finally the front door flew open. The woman who stood there was tallish and poised. She had a square face framed by neat, wavy fair hair, with wide-spaced blue eyes. She stared, and something about the two girls seemed to surprise her. ‘Hello,’ she said finally. ‘I suppose one of you is Miss Barber?’

‘I am,’ Isabel said, relieved that they’d got the right place after all. ‘This is my friend Vivienne Stern. Mr Morton mentioned that I might bring her.’

‘Yes, of course,’ the woman said, standing back to admit them. Once inside they shook hands. ‘I’m Jacqueline Wood,’ she told them. ‘An old friend of Hugh’s.’

‘I’m so sorry we’re late,’ Isabel rushed. ‘It wasn’t easy . . .’

‘It’s a nightmare to find, the first time,’ Jacqueline said. She was older than Isabel, in her late twenties, perhaps. It was difficult to tell. The curves of her full figure were accentuated by the cinched-in waistline of her two-piece costume, which was made of a stiff silk that rustled when she moved. ‘Do come on up,’ she told them. ‘Hugh’s tied up with gin and its, poor old thing, or he’d have come down himself.’

She led Isabel and Vivienne upstairs. Isabel, close behind her, thought every movement spoke of calmness, competence and femininity down to her shapely nyloned calves and classic court shoes. Perhaps her own choice of a dress of bright green would be out of place here? Well, it was too late, there was nothing to be done.

‘Do you really work at Hugh’s publisher?’ Jacqueline said, glancing back as they reached the landing. ‘I hope you won’t be offended, but I expected someone a bit, well, older.’ She gave a well-bred little laugh.

‘That’s Mrs Symmonds you’re thinking of,’ Isabel said, intelligence dawning. ‘She’s the other editor, but it’s me who works with Hugh.’

‘Please don’t think I was implying you weren’t up to the job,’ Jacqueline said coolly. She raised her hand to push open the door of the apartment and Isabel noticed the glint of a wedding ring. Perhaps Jacqueline really was who she said she was – an old friend.

In the tiny entrance hall of the flat, Jacqueline took their coats before showing them into a charming drawing room, which was sparsely furnished and smelled of fresh paint. A cheerful fire crackled in the grate. Half a dozen people were seated or standing about the room, talking quietly. Heads turned and one or two of the men got up politely. Hugh put down the tray he was holding and hurried over.

‘Isabel, how wonderful that you came,’ he said, taking her hand in both of his. He swung round and announced. ‘Everybody, this is Isabel Barber, my editor. Hell, I love the sound of that word,’ he added in a fake American accent. ‘And this is Vivienne . . . I’m sorry?’

‘Stern,’ Vivienne said, ‘I’m Vivienne Stern.’

Isabel felt increasingly selfconscious and wrongly dressed as Hugh steered her and Vivienne towards two conservatively suited young men. One was introduced as James Steerforth and the other Victor something she didn’t quite catch. They were schoolfriends of Hugh’s, it turned out. The girls also shook hands with the wife of one of them and the fiancée of the other. The women both shifted enough for Vivienne to sit between them on the sofa. This group, who occupied the only comfortable seating, sat slightly apart from the other two people in the room, both men, who were standing to one side, more casually dressed. Hugh drew Isabel across to meet them.

One turned out to be the editor of a small literary magazine Hugh wrote for, and the other, whom she guessed to be in his forties, a scruffy-looking individual, was already a little loose with drink. Hugh referred to him as a writer of short stories, immensely talented. The man looked even unhappier at this introduction and took a great gulp of his whisky.

‘Everything’s still chaotic here, as you can see,’ Hugh told her. ‘I’m afraid we’re short of chairs.’

‘Oh, but it all looks lovely’ Isabel said, glancing about. The alcoves either side of the fireplace were lined with bookshelves, as yet half-empty. The sad-happy sound of a jazz trumpet drifted from a gramophone next to the writing desk in the window, across which thick curtains were drawn. In the flattering low light from twin table lamps, Jacqueline looked softer and more graceful as she came up behind Hugh and touched him on the shoulder. He turned.

‘Are there more glasses?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘Oh lord,’ he replied. ‘In one of the kitchen cupboards, I think.’

‘Don’t move, I’ll look for them,’ she said, patting his arm and gliding away.

Isabel wondered again about Jacqueline. She was sure Hugh had never mentioned her as one of his friends, which considering how easy they were with one another, was odd. Or perhaps it wasn’t; she had no idea what was normal in these circles.

Hugh was asking the magazine editor whether he knew Stephen McKinnon. The man certainly did, and after lighting a cigarette began to question Isabel about forthcoming books. The doorbell sounded, and Hugh disappeared to answer it.

‘You publish Alexander Berec, don’t you?’ the magazine editor said. ‘Now there’s a poet with a distinctive voice. I’ve met him once or twice. What’s his background? No idea? Nor have I. Nor has anyone. A man of mystery, Berec’

‘Do you think so? I just find him to be himself,’ Isabel said. She always thought of Berec with warm affection, how everybody in the office loved him with his gossip and his little gifts. He was one of the nicest and friendliest people she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, and she didn’t like this man with his vague insinuations. ‘He’s a good friend of mine,’ she said, pressing her lips together.

‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend,’ said the man, flicking ash in the direction of an ashtray on the side table so that flakes of it drifted to the carpet. ‘Merely to point out that he keeps a great deal to himself. What do you actually know about him?’

‘Not very much,’ she said. She thought about Myra, Berec’s wife, whom she’d never met; no one knew if he was actually married. Then there were Gregor and Karin, and she knew Berec was Czech like them. She had never dared to ask about his war experiences. Berec didn’t tend to talk about himself.

‘My aunt might know, I suppose,’ she wondered aloud. If Penelope gave Berec money, which Isabel believed she did, she might know something about him.

‘Your aunt? And who, may I ask, is your aunt?’ The magazine editor looked intrigued, and Isabel lost courage, not wanting to tell him about the money.

Instead she leaned across and addressed the miserable-looking writer, who was pulling books off the shelves to examine before slotting them back in the wrong places. He ignored her, but just then Hugh reappeared, ushering another couple into the room, a woman with bright red cheeks and sparkling eyes, who clung onto the younger man she was with, chattering about another party they’d just visited where there had been a dancing monkey that had bitten someone.

What a bizarre lot of people Hugh knows, Isabel thought, accepting another drink from Jacqueline. Apart from the old schoolfriends and Jacqueline, who was acting as hostess for the evening, none of them appeared to be friends of his exactly. They were business contacts, vague acquaintances. Isabel didn’t take to any of them particularly, so she eventually sought out Vivienne.

Vivienne, wearing an expression of bored politeness, threw her a thankful glance. One of the men – Isabel remembered he was James Steerforth – was holding court about the difficulty in getting petrol. There was some assertion that the Labour government was to blame, though Victor seemed convinced that the value of the dollar had something to do with it.

‘Anyway,’ Steerforth’s wife, Joan, said, ‘it’s all most inconvenient. When will things ever get back to normal?’

‘I can’t even remember what normal is!’ put in Victor’s fiancée, Constance. She had a high sweet voice like a child’s and a nervous way of laughing at the end of every sentence.

There was a silence after this, then Constance politely asked Vivienne, ‘Do you work with Miss Barber, dear?’

‘No,’ Vivienne said soberly. ‘I’m a scientist at London University. I’m researching the structures of coal and working for my PhD.’ This seemed to cause far more consternation amongst the little group than Isabel being in publishing.

‘That seems a funny sort of job for a girl,’ Joan Steerforth said. She had an odd way of pronouncing job – ‘jorb’ – as though it was not a word she came across very often. ‘I can’t think that we did any science at school, did you, Constance?’

‘Not much,’ Constance said and smiled. She was by far the nicer of the two, Isabel thought. ‘I was a terrible dunce at school, I’m afraid.’

Victor smiled indulgently at her. ‘I’ll have to be clever enough for both of us,’ he said fondly.

‘My elder brother’s girl is at Oxford,’ Steerforth said, looking at the ceiling. ‘He thinks it’s a waste of his money, but there’s no telling her that.’

‘She’s very clever, mind you, James,’ his wife put in.

‘No disputing that, old thing. Very pretty girl, too. Makes me wonder how much studying is going on.’ He was rocking back and forth now, like some giant-sized toy, a roguish leer on his face.

‘James is being naughty,’ his wife said to Vivienne. ‘He does like a little joke.’

Isabel watched Vivienne trying to smile.

‘Coal does sound a dirty thing to work with,’ Constance said to Vivienne. ‘Why did you choose that?’

‘It has an interesting crystalline molecular structure,’ Vivienne said, looking more animated. ‘It might be eventually that we find there are useful implications for how we use fuel.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Constance nodded, a serious expression on her face.

‘When you look at it under a—’

But Mrs Steerforth’s mind had jumped back to domesticity.

The coalman sent his bill in yesterday, she interrupted. ‘Eye-watering, it was.’

‘After all the nationalisation fuss you’d have thought the customer should be better off,’ her husband added. Isabel could see he liked to be at the centre of any conversation.