The Twilight Hour (13 page)

twelve

FOR THE DINNER DANCE AT ORMISTON COURT I
wore my black parachute silk evening dress. My mother had got hold of the stuff from some surplus store and dyed it. Her little local dressmaker ran it up. Alan loved me in black. When I was all made up and ready to go I did a twirl in the bedroom for him to admire me and he caught me by the waist and began to fumble with the buttons at the back. The frustration made him even more excited. I was afraid he'd tear the delicate fabric as he pulled at the bodice, feeling for my breasts, his fingers on my nipples. They hardened and of course I felt excited as he pushed me back on the bed. He plunged his hands under the skirts, finding my thighs and the suspenders he liked so much, and somehow his being so rough and laughing so aggressively made me half not want it. I began to tighten up, I was afraid my dress would be ruined, but he was determined, his erection would brook no refusal and he pushed hard into me, again and again, and his eyes were blind with something fiercer than pleasure.

I had to do my hair and my make-up all over again, and that made us late.

.........

The dance was in full swing. I looked about the ballroom as the swing band played a mechanical version of
Blue Moon
and saw Gwendolen and Radu at a table at the far end of the dance floor. We threaded our way through the tables to the lazy crooning brass and the brush-brush of the percussion.

It was the opposite of the Chelsea Arts Ball, my first ball ever with Alan. That had been chaotic, spontaneous and hilarious; the atmosphere at Ormiston Court was stilted. The faces of men and women alike looked bored and blasé or strained with desperate smiles designed to show the guests' determination to enjoy themselves in spite of the post-war blues. Some of the dinner jackets and the svelte dresses, narrow columns in sombre colours, looked jaded too, as if they'd spent the war in mothballs. I could almost smell the camphor.

Radu bent his lustrous head over my hand and as he pulled out my chair his hand rested on my waist for a moment. ‘So lovely to see you,' he murmured. Ever optimistic, I'd hoped the other members of their party might be exciting individuals from the film world. There was a stick-thin blonde in red who was trying to look like Veronica Lake with a waterfall of hair over one eye, but I didn't think she was even a J Arthur Rank starlet, and if they'd invited her for Stanley I could have told them she wasn't, would never be, his type. But perhaps he'd brought her along himself, to put Gwen's nose out of joint – or to cut off his own nose to spite his face, as it were. The only other guests were Daphne and Reggie Constable, acquaintances of Gwen's from Ormiston Court, a hard-faced couple who drank whisky and reminisced about their gay life before the war, along the Riviera and in Nice and ‘Monte', varying the theme with grumbles about the government. ‘It's worse this year than last,' said Daphne. ‘Everyone's spent their war gratuities and there's more rationing now than there was in the war. You could understand it then, but now it's just an insult. Nothing nice in the shops. And the crime wave!'

‘It's not just the black market and men from the forces going AWOL. Crimes of violence are on the up,' said Reggie grimly, as we ate our roast chicken (to be followed by trifle or scotch woodcock).

‘You live near where Neville Heath murdered that poor woman? I'd be terrified to leave the house!' cried Veronica Lake.

‘And now those tarts –' said Reggie.

I didn't want to think about Neville Heath. I'd tried not to read about it in the papers at the time, tried not to think about the gruesome details of stabbed women and the rituals of capital punishment. An unwholesome atmosphere had surrounded the trial, the public drinking in the shocking facts and taking a macabre interest in the dapper murderer's final hours; and all those black banner headlines about the hanging, and the crowd waiting outside the prison. Sleazy crimes in seedy hotels; it seemed to fit with the post-war mood. Still less did I want to think about the murdered prostitutes.

Alan looked fed up and I knew he too wanted to get away from all this talk of crime, because at any moment someone was going to mention Titus Mavor. And sure enough: ‘Have you heard? That artist chap – said in the papers the police are close to making an arrest.' Reggie looked round at us all. Did he know we were all involved?

Radu stood up and took my hand. ‘Let's dance.'

He danced well – much better than Alan. When Alan danced he clasped me to his chest and jogged from foot to foot, more or less on the spot. It was by far the least amorous feature of our marriage and I never felt swoony at all when I was dancing with my husband; it felt manly and comforting and comfortable. On the dance floor we were just good pals.

With Radu there was instant fluid harmony, our limbs in unison, and as he swung me round he pressed me close with his palm in the small of my back. It was a slow foxtrot, my favourite, and I rocked to and fro in his arms in a dream.

When he whispered in my ear, I almost lost my footing. I thought my heart would jump out of my parachute silk bodice. I swallowed. He held me a little closer. ‘You are not scared.' It hovered between a question and a statement.

Scared of what? Of the erotic feeling that was melting me away? Or of the rumour of an imminent arrest?

I pulled myself together and chose the second. ‘He's talking rubbish. There's been nothing in the papers. I haven't heard anything, have you?' But I couldn't help remembering how worried Colin had been just a few evenings ago. Alan had dismissed those fears as paranoia, but I wasn't so sure.

‘No …' But he didn't sound too certain. His little half smile disturbed me and when he muttered: ‘But I wasn't talking about that. I meant you are not scared of me.' Just then the foxtrot ended with a plangent wail from the saxophone. I started to walk back to our table, but his hand was round my waist. ‘No, no, I can't let you go yet.' And as if at his will the first chord of a tango drew a long breath, paused, then marched out its strutting syncopations.

‘I can't dance the tango.'

‘With me you can dance anything.' He pressed his body against me and bent me backwards and I felt his erection. It was excruciating – too much – unnerving – what would the other couples think to see us locked together so tightly – and yet I'd inwardly wholly surrendered. Towards the end he gradually relaxed his hold, but I only came to my senses when the music finally stopped. Thankfully there was an intermission and we returned to the table. Radu pulled my chair back for me, but said not another word.

Alan could be jealous and possessive, but he hadn't noticed anything – he seemed to be deep in conversation with Stanley. Gwendolen was looking away, across to the other side of the restaurant. She stood up: ‘I need the powder room, what about you?'

As she walked away a man approached her. He was tallish and untidy-looking in spite of his dinner jacket, one of those men who would always look crumpled, his black tie askew, his grey hair rough, hardly brushed, let alone Brylcreemed, his glasses not quite straight. He stood in Gwendolen's path and I heard him say: ‘Excuse me, but is it – are you …?' And there was a look on his face I couldn't pin down, but it must just be that he'd recognised her from the film. I thought it was rather bad form of him to accost her like that, but Gwendolen stopped on the edge of the dance floor, and now they seemed to be having a conversation. As I watched them they made for the bar. No one else had noticed. Alan, Radu and Stan were in a little huddle and the Monte Carlo couple and Veronica Lake were having another moan about rationing. I stood up and strolled over to the bar myself and stood near Gwen and the stranger. I was trying to overhear them – I don't know why, but I felt very curious – and if they noticed me I'd be able simply to join them, but in the meantime I preferred to eavesdrop. Perhaps the tall stranger was an old flame of Gwendolen's. That would be interesting; her life before Radu was so mysterious.

‘You look just the same, but …' The band struck up again and I lost the next bit. Then I caught another fragment of the conversation. ‘… you see we heard – or thought, anyway, it must have …' Gwendolen was nodding, her expression was still, serious, sad perhaps and yet blank in a way. I heard her say something about the Blitz, but then the barman asked for my order, and at the same moment Stanley appeared at my side: ‘Who's the geezer with Gwenny?'

So he had noticed after all. I shrugged. ‘No idea.'

‘Let's join them,' he said.

Gwendolen must have become aware of us because, rather abruptly it seemed, she held out her hand to the stranger and turned away from him. ‘Stanley, angel,' she said, ‘I'm feeling a little unwell, I think I should probably go upstairs to the flat for a while.' They walked off and I was left on my own with the stranger.

‘You're a friend of hers?'

‘Yes. Well, sort of.'

‘She's Gwendolen Grey, a film actress, she said?'

‘That's right. You haven't seen
House of Shadows
?'

He shook his head. ‘Incredible. I'd never have thought it. You know, when I saw her …' He shook his head, bewildered. ‘Well, a lot of things happened in the war, I suppose. I'm glad she's doing so well. Have you known her long?' He fumbled in an inside pocket and drew out a cigarette case, took out a cigarette and tapped it on the lid. He forgot to offer me one. He seemed quite distracted.

‘No, not long.'

‘You see …' I could tell he wanted to ask more, but as he drew in a lungful of smoke he shook his head. ‘I'm sorry – never mind – best to let sleeping dogs lie.'

.........

There was an odd follow-up to this encounter. We visited Ormiston Court again the following weekend. Gwendolen again led me away to her bedroom: ‘Let's leave the men to do their talking.'

It was so warm and rosy and soft in there with the wall lighting and the satin. I sat on a tapestry boudoir sofa. She smiled nervously. ‘Well – so – I met someone I used to know at that dinner dance. You saw him, didn't you?'

I nodded.

‘The thing is, he'd like to see me again, but I really don't want to, well, now that Radu and I … I mean, it's quite impossible.'

I wasn't sure I wanted to be in her confidence. These woman-to-woman conversations were very sophisticated and grown up, but Gwen always made me feel just a little uneasy.

‘I've written him a letter.' And she drew it from under the cushion. ‘I wonder – would you mind posting it on your way home? I – I think I may be coming down with flu or something. I don't want to venture out into the cold. And the sooner he gets it, the better.'

I wondered why I was everyone's little postman, but I meekly took the envelope and put it in the pocket of my tweed jacket. ‘Was that what you wanted to show me?'

She smiled. ‘Radu got me some lovely boxes of soap when he was in New York. I thought you might like one.'

This time I accepted without a protest. I didn't want to upset her, didn't want her to lose her temper again. And soap was different from lingerie, anyway.

thirteen

ALAN KNEW HE HAD TO TELL COLIN
he'd finally teamed up with Hugh and Radu: ‘No getting round it. Got to bite the bullet. I'll go round first thing Monday before going in to work. It's out of my way, but he's sure to still be at home if I get there early enough. No point in putting it off.'

He telephoned almost as soon as I got to the office. ‘Dinah.' His voice sounded odd.

‘What is it?' He never rang me at the office.

‘Colin's been arrested.'

I stared at Stanley across the room. I must have looked strange, for he half rose. ‘Something up, Di?'

Alan was barking hoarsely down the wires. ‘His landlady answered the door and said he'd been “taken away by the police”. On
Saturday
,' he shouted. ‘The stupid woman has no idea where he is.'

‘Can they arrest you for being a Communist?' I said stupidly.

‘
No
!' Alan shouted down the phone. ‘It's to do with Titus, must be.'

‘How do you know?' I was too shocked to react, mentally or emotionally, but Stan was there, looking alarmed. I knew he'd help. ‘I'll talk to Stan. He'll know what to do.'

It took all day to find out what had happened. Stan's lawyer sorted it out, tracked Colin down to the police station where he was being held and telephoned Stan quite late in the afternoon with the news. Stan was looking at me grimly as he listened. The call ended, he said: ‘They've charged him with Mavor's murder.'

The next day Colin was moved to prison on remand and the day after that Alan visited him. Later, Hugh came round to the flat. He'd brought some corned beef as a twisted sort of guilt offering. It was obvious they both felt so guilty about Colin. In theory, of course, cutting him out of the deal with Radu had nothing to do with the arrest, but I could see why they felt guilty. They'd cheated him. I felt guilty too. Somehow it seemed to me that if we'd all been nicer to Colin, he might not have got so angry and bitter. The row in the Café Royal might never have happened –

I made corned beef fritters, but they tasted horrible.

‘Colin's bearing up fine,' said Alan, ‘as we knew he would. He says he can't see what evidence they could possibly have – they asked him about the row at the Café Royal … that seemed to be about it, they were playing it close to the chest. Asked him where he was on the evening in question.'

‘There isn't
any
evidence, how can there be?' said Hugh, furious. ‘Bannister's heard all about how Titus and Colin couldn't stand each other, how Titus accused Colin of being a spy. No doubt all those spiteful little Soho tittle-tattlers told him about their row – and there was another quarrel, you know, we didn't know about, almost a fight, in Tommy's one evening. Gerry Blackstone told me. But all the same – I don't see how they can hold on to him. They haven't got a leg to stand on. Just because they quarrelled doesn't mean Colin
murdered
him!'

Alan said slowly: ‘I suppose the spy stuff is a motive … of sorts. It blackens his character, anyway. He's a Communist, therefore he must be a devious person, he must be some kind of … well, he must be
twisted
in some way. Communism's become a kind of moral defect. A perversion.'

Hugh smiled, but he was sceptical. ‘The love that dare not speak its name, eh?' They exchanged looks. Something was left unsaid. Did they really think he might be a spy, after all? ‘You're being a bit paranoid, aren't you?'

‘Hugh – that's how it's getting to be these days.'

‘Britain isn't a totalitarian state, you know.'

‘He must have been framed,' I said.

Alan looked at me pityingly. ‘Don't be absurd. Who would do that?'

But there seemed to be hardly any evidence, and what real motive could there possibly be? We talked and talked late into the night, but got absolutely nowhere. By three in the morning we'd reached a state of exhaustion. Hugh dossed down on the sitting-room sofa.

.........

‘Colin gave me the name of some CP contact he wants me to get hold of; the secretary of his cell, or whatever they call it. He's hoping the Party will find him a lawyer, he hasn't got one.'

‘What about Stan's lawyer?'

‘He's a property lawyer. He just helped out in an emergency, as a favour to Stan, I imagine. We need someone who does crime.'

‘Wouldn't it be more sensible to ask Daddy?' But then I pictured my father's reaction. He'd have a fit. So Alan phoned the man whose name Colin had given him: Jock Bunnage, who was what Colin called a branch secretary. Apparently he was a foreman at an engineering works in North London.

The next evening we trudged up Liverpool Road past the terraces of battered old houses until we came to River Buildings, which reared up like a prison from the joyless street. I still couldn't understand why Colin had chosen to live in this dismal district.

By contrast the flat itself was warm and cosy. Upright chairs were set at a round, modern table. A utility sofa with wooden arms, upholstered in sage green, and a matching chair were arranged behind it, so that the room was crowded with furniture. A framed picture of a man in a cap hung on the wall. Alan later told me it was Lenin.

Jock Bunnage was about forty-five. He resembled his own living room: neat, contained, buttoned up. He was spick and span in a pullover and flannels, no jacket, but a tie. His swept-back hair had been savagely Brylcreemed, his red face had a bare, almost raw look, as if it had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, his blue eyes in startling contrast, his movements slightly military, his handshake crushing.

‘This is a grim business,' he said as he handed us cups of tea. ‘Comrade Harris has been framed, in my opinion. There's those in power want rid of people like him, plus it brings the Party into disrepute.'

I glanced at Alan, who nodded sagely. Jock Bunnage looked at us with undisguised appraisal. ‘I don't know if you're sympathisers, although as you're friends of Comrade Harris …' He paused for confirmation. Alan nodded emphatically. ‘Now, how do you think the Party can assist in the present circumstances?'

‘Colin needs a lawyer. He thought you – the Party – could help. In the sense of recommending one, that is.'

Jock Bunnage nodded. ‘We had thought of that. And from our point of view … well, anyway, I expect that can be arranged. At the same time I can't believe it'll ever get to court.' The doorbell rang. ‘Excuse me.'

Bunnage returned with a woman who was vaguely familiar. As she looked us over, I remembered we'd seen her outside the CP headquarters in Covent Garden, the evening I'd quarrelled with Alan.

To begin with she addressed the branch secretary as if we weren't present, or were children, or deaf: ‘Are these Comrade Harris's friends?'

‘Yes, that's right.' Bunnage looked uncomfortable. ‘Alan and Dinah Wentworth. This is Comrade Doris Tarr.'

‘Good evening,' she said. She neither smiled nor shook hands, just a frosty nod, that was all.

‘Comrade Tarr has recently been to the Soviet Union with the Women's International League for Peace and Freedom.'

The older woman removed her woolly beret and her belted tweed coat and finally granted us a wintry smile. ‘But you're here about Comrade Harris. Jock asked me to meet you, because of course in this very unfortunate situation the Party also has an interest.'

‘Colin needs a lawyer,' said Alan. He was impatient already. I hoped he wouldn't antagonise her.

Doris Tarr sat down at the table. ‘We've thought of that. From our point of view, it's better to have someone who'll understand the politics of the situation. I recommend Julius Abrahams. I'll give you his address and phone number.' And she took a small notebook from her bag. ‘It's very disturbing. Sinister, don't you think? To have picked on a progressive activist?' she went on, leafing through the pages. ‘Ah, here it is.' She watched as Alan wrote. ‘I'd be obliged if you'd convey to Comrade Harris – I assume you'll be visiting him – that the situation creates difficulties for the Party. I'm sure he'll understand. Julius Abrahams will, of course, do all he can to help. With any luck the case won't come to court. In the meantime there's no sense in making a big issue of it, that will only make matters worse. So I hope Comrade Colin will understand if the
Daily Worker
doesn't make a song and dance about the allegations. These are very difficult times for the progressive movement. We're putting all our energy into pulling together to make a success of the export drive. We're a parliamentary party, we must act responsibly. And in any case with the paper shortage we have to prioritise. You understand what I'm saying.'

Alan frowned. ‘But supposing Colin isn't released. Supposing it does come to trial?'

She stared at him. ‘We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But you know, Communists always think positively. Optimism. That's the key to the advance of the socialist movement.'

Alan got to his feet. That meant we were leaving. I felt we'd only just begun, there was so much unspoken in the air, and I liked her idea of optimism; but I stood up obediently too.

Bunnage saw us out. ‘Colin has been engaged in some sharp debates with the London District Committee, but of course we'll all stand by him. I hope you'll convey our good wishes.'

As if Colin were ill; I expected the words ‘for a speedy recovery' any minute.

Alan paused in the doorway. ‘Will you be visiting him? You know remand prisoners get visits every day.'

Bunnage looked uncomfortable. ‘That might be difficult. Don't see how I could get time off work. Perhaps one or two of the women comrades … but most of them are working too, or else they have small children; campaigning too – we're very active in the community.' But in the passage he shook hands. ‘We are behind him, you know.'

‘What was all that about difficulties?' I asked as we walked back to the Angel. ‘I don't understand the Communist Party at all.'

Alan was scowling. ‘They're embarrassed; all they care about is how the blasted Party looks. They see everything entirely from the perspective of the Party. Nothing else matters to them. It's bad enough to have a party member up on a murder charge. That's disgraceful and humiliating in itself. But I bet the real problem is they've heard something about the spy stuff – rumours fly around, you know, Gerry's got a mate at the
Daily Worker
– whispers about spying is the last thing they want. You can understand that, really. Respectability. That's what it's about. And now we're all supposed to hate the Russians again, they don't want a whiff of treason, do they. As if going around preaching about the glories of the Soviet Union doesn't give precisely that idea, not to mention
completely
putting every potential voter off before they've even started.' He sighed. ‘You can understand it in a way,' he repeated wearily, ‘but they could be a bit braver about Colin. It wouldn't hurt them to run something in the
Daily Worker
about a frame-up.'

‘You don't think he's been framed, do you?'

‘There must be some reason he's been charged.'

.........

We met Julius Abrahams in his dim, shabby, comfortable rooms off Chancery Lane. Abrahams wasn't how I'd expected a Communist to be. He was more like us than like Doris Tarr or Jock Bunnage, only older, with a sardonic manner and an urbane smile. He wore a dark three-piece suit and what I guessed was actually a regimental tie. His dark hair was cut rather long, and as he wrote the light from the desk lamp caught his signet ring.

‘Colin didn't do it.' Alan leaned forward and spoke the words with intensity. I knew Alan would stand by Colin to the bitter end, and all the more so because of the betrayal over Radu.

The lawyer's narrow lips twitched in a little smile. ‘Naturally I'm operating on that assumption,' he said. ‘Were you to suggest otherwise it would put a very different complexion on things.' His air of detached irony shocked me. He seemed so blasé, as though nothing would surprise him. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what you know – I take it you've visited him?'

Alan wriggled around in his chair. ‘They haven't told him a lot, but he did say they claim he was seen at the Mecklenburgh Square house, or leaving it, on the Friday evening, which is when they believe Titus Mavor was murdered. Colin told me he has an alibi – but that's a bit of a problem too.' He hesitated. ‘It was – he met someone. Well, it was an – assignation.'

Abrahams watched us, still ironic, almost mocking: worldly, that was it. ‘An
assignation
?' You could hear the invisible quotation marks round the pompous word.

‘Of a particular kind.'

It must be a prostitute then. I flinched away from the thought of Colin with one of those raddled-looking women who stood on the corner of the Bayswater Road, or even with a sluttish girl like Fiona. And to think I'd secretly been hoping – without fully confronting it, but ever since that afternoon when we'd had our heart-to-heart – that he was secretly nurturing a
tendresse
for me. Nothing too tragic, of course …