The Twilight Hour (19 page)

nineteen

COLIN'S TRIAL WAS SCHEDULED FOR THE AUTUMN
. Life went on from day to day, but there was always that Iron Curtain, as decisive as the political one, dividing our lives not geographically, but in time.

We dared not tell Colin about Johnny. It was another bridge we'd have to cross, but Alan kept putting it off: ‘He's bearing up at the moment, but it'd be such a terrible blow.'

‘Aren't we being cowards? We'll have to tell him in the end. And we need to know why Johnny got a visit from the policeman or whoever it was. Colin must know something about that.'

‘You're right. I'll tell him.'

But at each visit, he put it off again. The visits were so short; there was so little time; there was the case to discuss. Weeks later Colin still had no idea his lover had killed himself.

We went over and over our list of suspects. Fiona had drawn a blank with Marius Smith; he'd moved to Spain.

‘D'you think he's done a runner?'

‘Imagine – choosing to go and live in a fascist country!' That alone made the painter a suspect in Alan's eyes. But there was absolutely nothing we could do.

Because Titus had been murdered in such a calculated way, we'd discarded possibilities such as that some bohemian acquaintance to whom he owed money had gone round to the house and killed him in the course of a quarrel. Noel Valentine was still convinced it had something to do with the paintings he believed Titus owned. And there was also Stan's visit to France with Radu. But could Radu
really
have had something to do with it all, something to do with international art smuggling? We couldn't really believe it, but it made it very difficult for Alan to work with the director.

.........

The shooting of
Be Still My Heart
was in full swing at Shepperton. Because of this, and the visits to Colin, Alan had chucked in his script-reading job, and we were living on the rapidly diminishing money from the film script; and my salary from Stan, of course.

One chilly spring day we visited the set. It wasn't how I'd expected. They were shooting a countryside scene. The actors sat around for hours while cameramen and electricians, continuity girls and a whole army of technicians fussed over the lighting and arranged a stile in front of the crude backdrop of a painted landscape against which the scene was to take place. They fiddled about with the fake grass and with the branches of a fake tree to the side.

When Gwendolen was finally called, she had to stand for about half an hour while they posed her and moved the lighting again. The leading man (not James Mason) joined her and after more fuss, largely to do with which profile he wanted in view, the moment finally arrived for the actors to speak. Radu made them do it several times before he was satisfied. And it all took place in one cheaply lit corner of a dark, bare hangar. Film was supposed to be the most realistic kind of art there was, but it turned out to be the most artificial medium of all!

At lunchtime we drank stewed coffee from thermos flasks and ate some damp cheese sandwiches. It was hardly film star luxury! I didn't mind that, but the whole day was awkward. I kept glancing surreptitiously at Radu and wondering if he was mixed up in Titus's death – and hoping perhaps to find him glancing at me. He didn't. He barely spoke to me all day – and said nothing about my screen test.

Everyone behaved as if nothing was wrong. No one mentioned Colin, let alone Titus, yet the atmosphere was poisoned. Everything was horrible.

Alan and Hugh were barely speaking. Alan had told Hugh about Stan's visit to Paris with Radu, but Hugh had just laughed it all off. ‘Stan's a fantasist,' he said, ‘or paranoid. He's smitten with Gwen, so he's jealous of Radu. And I don't suppose he understood a word of what they were talking about in Paris. He learnt French at night school! For God's sake, get a grip. As if Radu could have had anything to do with it! He wanted Titus to do some sets for him! That was the basis on which he got some of the backing!'

Relations even with Stan were poisoned as we brooded on why he'd needed to pay Titus £150. All he would say when I asked him was that he'd owed him the money. We couldn't afford for me to stop working for him, but it was becoming uncomfortable. Not that Stan was less kind and friendly; and truthfully, I still liked him. But the murder tainted everything.

Alan had taken to drinking at the Stag's Head, near the BBC, with Noel and some of Noel's friends, who mostly worked in radio or ran obscure little art magazines. Noel was busy setting up his art gallery. Alan thought he might have a job for me when it opened.

Things slowed down in the summer. Gerry Blackstone lent us his mother's cottage in Cornwall for a week's holiday.

I was going through my winter clothes to be cleaned for the autumn when I found a letter in the pocket of my tweed jacket. I stared at it puzzled. Oh! – but it was the letter Gwendolen had given me to post months ago. I'd forgotten all about it. I stared at it in horror. How could I have forgotten? She'd never mentioned it again. What on earth should I do? Was it too late to post it now? Wouldn't that look odd? It was addressed to: Dr M Carstairs, Department of Psychiatry, West London Hospital.

I thought back to the night of the dinner dance – how long ago that was – and the genial man with Gwendolen at the bar. Had he been another lover from her mysterious past? Why had she seemed so secretive? Was she just naturally so, or did she have some real secret to hide? Was it something to do with the child she'd had by Titus? But why should that be?

I held the envelope in my hand, paralysed by the taunting enigma of her life. Perhaps this Dr Carstairs held the key to her reticence, her crippling inhibition. I toyed with the idea of delivering the letter in person. Then I could explain why it was so late – too late, months too late.

I was tempted to steam the letter open. I longed to know what secret it contained. That was the trouble with secretive people; they aroused the very curiosity they sought to deflect.

The sensible thing would be simply to post it. That's what I would do. I had to go to the post office anyway, I'd post it there.

Stanley had given me yet another day off. I set out with my bag of winter clothes, taking the letter with me. The cleaners dealt with, I moved on to the post office, where there was a long queue at every window. I waited for about ten minutes, but I'd chosen the wrong queue. The woman at the head of it seemed confused and was having an argument with the clerk. I was too impatient to wait any longer. I left without posting the letter. I stood outside and stared up Kensington Church Street. Should I walk up to Notting Hill Gate or wait for a bus?

The weather was beautiful. I started walking, but not up the hill. At first I think I thought I was walking to Ormiston Court. The best thing was to give the letter back to Gwendolen. To confess. But I didn't turn off Kensington High Street, I walked west past all the department stores: Barkers, Derry and Toms, Pontings and Pettits, with Daniel Neal, which sold school uniforms, on the opposite side. I walked past the Odeon and past the pretty rows of old houses, past the bomb-site, past Olympia and the Lyons grocery store, past the bombed church, past the red gothic pile that was St Paul's Boys' School, past the huge Guinness poster with its toucan and comic fat zoo keepers in green uniforms (‘just think what toucan do') and past the modern flats. Everything seemed very clear and glittery in the sunlight, and yet slightly unreal as I walked mechanically on. I was as if in a trance. I didn't really know what I was doing. I just felt like walking on forever, walking away from it all.

Yet I must have known where I was going, for there, suddenly, was the West London Hospital on the right-hand side of the road. I never liked hospitals. I stood and stared at it.

A man walking past looked at me. ‘Are you all right?'

I stared at him.

‘Know where you're going? Needing directions?'

I stared at him blankly and crossed the road, unmindful of the traffic. I stood irresolute in the entrance hall and looked round at the vaulted ceiling, the mosaic floor and the infinite regress of corridors vanishing in different directions. What on earth was I doing here? This was stupid – crazy. I turned to leave, but the porter in his lodge was idling by the door; he was watching me.

‘Can I help you, miss?'

‘I'm looking for Dr Carstairs.'

‘Come for an appointment, have you?'

‘Not exactly …'

‘Along that corridor. Psychiatric outpatients, first floor, turn left, second on the right. Stairs at the end of the corridor.'

‘I'm not a patient. I just–'

‘If you're a relative, you can talk to Sister. She'll sort something out for you.'

I marched forward. I couldn't believe I was doing this.

The stairs wound round a lift encased in wrought iron. Men and women passed up and down. It was like a dream.

On the first floor I followed the signs to a waiting area where about a dozen people were seated. ‘Psychiatry' to me meant loonies, mad people talking to themselves, dangerous perhaps; but these looked just like any normal people waiting to see a doctor.

A woman in a white coat sat at a reception desk behind a wooden counter. By now my mission had its own momentum. I walked boldly across to her.

‘Yes? Name? You've come for the two o'clock clinic?'

‘I haven't got an appointment. I wondered if I could just see Dr Carstairs for a moment.'

‘You have to have an appointment, dear.'

‘I've a message – a letter for the doctor.'

‘That'll be the referral letter – they should have sent it to us, not given it to you.'

‘No, it's not. It's a personal letter. I'd just like to give it to the doctor.'

The woman looked at me more thoughtfully. Her expression, kindly enough, was somehow at odds with her hard, Hollywood style of make-up; a slash of scarlet lipstick, thick panstick foundation, bleached blonde hair, hard, pencilled eyebrows and heavy mascara, far too much powder and paint for a hospital employee, quite lurid in fact. I could hear my mother saying, ‘She wouldn't have got away with that before the war.'

‘Are you feeling all right, dear?'

What an odd question! I couldn't help laughing. ‘I'm perfectly all right,' I said.

‘You're looking rather flushed. Why don't you sit down and I'll get you a glass of water.'

‘No, really. I'll just wait here for Dr Carstairs.'

‘No – I'm afraid you have to have an appointment. If you give me the letter, we'll get in touch with you.' She held out her hand.

I backed away. ‘No, I'd rather give it to him in person.'

She looked at me, an odd look. Then she stood up. ‘Just wait here – I'll see if he's back from lunch yet. Or perhaps Sister can help you.'

I stayed where I was, standing by her counter. To sit down would have confused me with the patients. Standing up wasn't good either, for it made me self-conscious, I'd drawn attention to myself, I'd aroused a listless interest in the waiting throng on the benches. The old woman nearest me smiled and patted the seat next to her. ‘You come and sit down here, dear, you'll feel better then.' My face went hot. I pretended I hadn't heard. ‘Don't be nervous. He's ever so good, is Dr Carstairs. Helped me with my nerves. They was all shot to pieces after I was bombed out.'

To my relief, the receptionist reappeared. Behind her came the tall untidy man from the Ormiston Court dance, struggling into his white coat.

‘This is the young lady.'

‘I've seen you before somewhere,' he said, uncertainly. His face cleared as he remembered. ‘It was a social occasion, wasn't it, that dance … look, come into my consulting room for a moment.'

It was a bare room, not much better, although cleaner, than Inspector Bannister's interviewing room, with a linoleum floor, metal filing cabinets, a desk scored and stained with ink circles. He gestured towards a battered upright chair. The whole place seemed to have had a bad war.

‘What's this all about?' he enquired, briskly, but kindly. ‘You seem a bit distressed. My secretary thought you –' he broke off, then continued, ‘We don't normally see anyone who just comes in off the street.' He paused again. ‘I'm sorry, that's not the right way of putting it. Look – I can only give you a few minutes. Then if you need to see me on a proper professional basis, we'll fix things up with your own doctor.'

I laughed merrily. ‘Oh, that's not it at all. I'm perfectly well. The reason I came was – it's a bit silly, really. Actually it is about the dance where we met. Gwendolen Grey – you know, she was there, you recognised her – well, she gave me a letter to post to you, but I forgot all about it. It's months ago, I know, but today I found it again. I was going to post it, only then I thought – I'd have to write a covering letter explaining the delay and it seemed easier just to come and see you. To explain.'