The Twilight Hour (20 page)

He looked completely baffled. ‘You came here just for that?' He was observing me closely. I felt uncomfortable. I was very thirsty. The glass of water hadn't materialised. He said quietly: ‘Perhaps you'd like to give me the letter?'

I took it from my bag and handed it to him. He looked at it, turned it over. ‘Would you excuse me while I open it?' He took a paper knife from his drawer and slit the envelope, drew out the single sheet of paper and glanced over what was written in Gwendolen's rather common handwriting, then refolded it and replaced it in its envelope.

‘Did you know her well?' I asked. Again he looked at me. He seemed to weigh everything I said in terms of hidden meanings. Did he really think I was mad? Suppose he got in touch with my GP. That would be dreadfully awkward.

‘Why do you ask?'

‘I don't know.' I thought of Colin, of Stan's suspicion of Radu, but I couldn't possibly go into all that. ‘My husband has been working on a film with her … fiancé, he co-wrote the screenplay so we've seen quite a bit of her, but …' I ground feebly to a halt, then began again. ‘I just feel … so much has happened, and you seem to have known her before she went into films, so …'

He kept on looking at me in that thoughtful way of his. ‘I'm afraid I don't understand. Can you tell me a little more?' His expression was so kindly, so concerned, that unexpectedly I began to cry, great awful sobs shuddering through my body. It all came out then: Colin, Johnny's suicide, the looming trial, my evidence, Alan's career, Radu and Hugh and the film. Dr Carstairs handed me a clean white hankie from his own pocket and I mopped up my face.

‘You're under a lot of strain, aren't you. And it's easier to wonder about your mysterious film star acquaintance than all your other worries. Is that it?' He paused.

He was patronising me, but perhaps there was some truth in what he said. The trouble was, I couldn't understand myself just why I'd come to see him. It was all so mixed up with the trial. There was so much unexplained. Gwendolen was a mystery too. Perhaps if I understood her – her past life with Titus, I could begin to unravel it all.

‘I can understand your curiosity. But there's not much I can tell you about Gwendolen Grey – or could tell you even if I did know. We had a mutual acquaintance in the past. A rather sad story, as a matter of fact, but she was able to tell me – she was able to tie up one or two loose ends.' He was silent, looking at me still with that kind but somehow worrying look, as if he was sure I was unhinged. At length he said: ‘Look – it's more important to face up to your real worries, isn't it? I'm sure you'll come through with flying colours, but you're in for a difficult time. For one thing, you are going to have to tell your friend about this suicide. He'll find out sooner or later, but the longer you leave it the worse it will be. The trial will be hard for you too; there'll be a lot of publicity. And perhaps your husband – I'm sure he's devoted to a lovely girl like you – but perhaps he doesn't quite understand how all this worry is affecting you. You should try to explain to him just how you're feeling. Don't you think so? And I also advise you to go to your doctor. He'll see you're run down and he'll give you a tonic. You're probably a bit anaemic. And now – my clinic's beginning in a few minutes. So if you're sure you're all right–'

As I left I heard him say to the receptionist: ‘You did the right thing, Miss Fanshawe.'

I waited by the bus stop in a daze. I felt as if I'd woken up to find I'd been sleep walking and was in a strange and alien place. I couldn't imagine what had made me walk all the way from Kensington to Hammersmith to see the psychiatrist. I had been crazy after all.

Much later – months later – it seemed like a kind of intuition. But by that time it was too late, at least to save Gwendolen.

‘Have you gone completely mad!' exploded Alan, when I told him. Then, seeing that wasn't very tactful, he grinned and hugged me. ‘Sorry, old girl, I didn't mean it, but – you're a mystery to me sometimes. It's your Unconscious playing up again; you must have been feeling guilty, or something, about the letter, or – no – more like an unconscious search for help. God, I'm sorry, I'm useless, the head shrinker was right, I haven't looked after you as well as I should.' He hugged me tightly, poured me a glass of wine and insisted that he would do the cooking. Later, when he was peeling the potatoes, he said: ‘But why the hell did she give you the letter in the first place?'

twenty

THERE WAS A BRIEF HEATWAVE IN JULY
. Gwendolen came to the office. She was closeted with Stanley for some time (with me desperately trying and failing to catch even a snatch of their conversation). When they emerged Stan said: ‘I'm taking Gwen for lunch, if anyone rings I'll be back by three.'

‘Oh, sweetie, can't she come too? Don't let's leave her here on her own.'

Stan was obviously put out and I wondered why she wanted me along, but I gladly accepted. Instead of some grand restaurant, we ate at a little place in Wigmore Street. Perhaps Stan chose it because they'd put chairs and tables out on the pavement, with coloured sun umbrellas. I happened to be wearing my favourite frock; it was made of artificial silk and patterned with red, blue and purple pansies against a black background, and I had grey sheer silk stockings I'd had invisibly mended, but as usual I was completely outclassed by Gwendolen. She bloomed theatrically in one of her Paris dresses, made from magnificently bold black and white cotton satin with a hugely full skirt. Passers-by turned to look at her; some even recognised her, I'm sure. But she seemed oblivious to the attention. She wore sunglasses, very Hollywood, so perhaps she didn't notice.

Stan coaxed a little animation from her by telling us about a house he'd seen in Suffolk.

‘I didn't know you'd been to Suffolk, Stan,' I cried.

He winked at me. ‘Property, Dinah! It opens so many doors. Friend of mine, interested in old houses. Goes about the countryside looking for them. He says, what with the Depression and the war, they're being allowed to decay and crumble into ruin. Criminal – now the war's over, someone needs to do something about it.'

Perhaps that someone was going to be Stan.

‘I'd like to see this house of yours, Stan,' said Gwen. ‘Why don't we drive out tomorrow – all three of us?'

‘What, with petrol rationing the way it is?' said Stanley. And then, ‘Well – maybe I can wangle some. This weather won't last long.'

.........

Stan's great grey cat of a Bentley purred along the empty roads through the endless edges of London and unfamiliar suburbs and out towards Colchester. It almost rocked me to sleep as I lolled in the back of the car, but the further we went the more uneasy Gwendolen seemed to become. She fidgeted with her hair and her dress, started up stilted conversations that quickly lapsed, and after a while suggested we stop for coffee at a roadhouse.

Stanley shook his head. ‘We'd better get on, it's quite a long way, beyond Lavenham.'

Lavenham looked incredibly ancient as it slumbered in the sun. I felt we'd travelled back in time to the eighteenth century, at least. Certainly, in the pub where we stopped in the hope of getting something to eat, the few locals propping up the bar looked at us as if we'd just stepped out of a time machine. And there was nothing to eat but some dried-up pork pies.

Stanley consulted a map, and then we drove on until the road opened out to skirt the edge of a field. At the far end we turned left and were now driving alongside a broken-down grey stone wall. We saw a lodge on the right, standing sentinel by two stone pillars, surmounted by stone urns. The pillars must once have supported iron gates, for you could still see the sockets from which they'd been removed.

‘This is it,' said Stanley, drove between the gateless pillars and brought the Bentley to a halt. ‘I think we'll walk,' he said, and got out of the car. I thought Gwen was about to protest, but after a moment's hesitation she got out too. I followed.

A vast park stretched away into the distance. The parched lawns had changed to meadow and the horizon wavered in the intense heat. Elm trees stood motionless. The place seemed not so much neglected as bewitched.

The three of us walked into this silent territory, unsuitably dressed urban aliens in the sleeping landscape. Stanley took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Gwendolen almost turned her ankle. Rabbits skittered away as we approached. We walked on and on in the unnerving emptiness, the overgrown drive leading us forward with no end in sight through the bleached heat.

At last the drive curved, then opened out and a house rose silently before us. The windows stared out blankly. Grass and weeds covered the shallow steps up to the astonishing portico with its Doric columns and triangular pediment. I was reminded of the house in
House of Shadows
, although this was so different in style.

Even Gwendolen seemed impressed. ‘Who owns it?' she murmured.

‘I do.' Stanley, suddenly confident again, strode forward, his energy miraculously renewed. The front door was wide open. We stepped inside, blinded by the sudden shade and then as we became accustomed to the dim light, we found ourselves in a circular hall, the marble floor of which was covered with sacks and sacks of potatoes.

We picked our way between the lumpy sacks towards a crumbling vast reception room, its parquet battered and scored, probably by the agricultural machinery left in one corner. Further on we found the kitchen and pantries, still with the old range and terracotta tiles, and a wheelbarrow propped in one corner. We returned to the circular hall and Stanley climbed the staircase, which curved upwards. The banisters had gone, but the delicate stucco panels on the pale blue walls were intact.

‘Is it safe?' I cried. It looked as if it might collapse, but I followed him anyway. Gwendolen was looking out of the window at the empty park.

Upstairs, ancient wallpaper peeled away from the walls. There were stucco chimneypieces and even some oddments of broken furniture.

Stanley was beaming now, no longer broody and discouraged. He poked around, looked out of the windows, opened cupboard doors.

‘Are you … can you …?' I didn't know how to put it. Had he seen some new investment scheme? I somehow didn't think ruined country houses offered quite the same opportunities as all his London properties.

‘I'm buying it. I'm going to live here one day.'

The idea of Stanley the country squire startled me. ‘It will need a lot of work,' I said.

‘You can see from the outside the roof's gone in places. Requisitioned in the war, that's the problem, probably used by the army and now some local farmer's decided he can use it as an outhouse. A wonderful Palladian house – and now it's a storage dump.'

We emerged into the blinding glare of heat and silence. It hit you with such force, yet I felt it as a surge of energy, an electric charge of ecstasy. You could feel the panic of the midday silence, the presence of the god Pan.

Gwendolen and Stanley walked on, oblivious to my euphoria. She stumbled; he took her arm, then released it. It was a long walk back to the Bentley. I turned for a last glance back at the house, but it was hidden now by the bend in the drive and the cluster of trees. You could imagine Sleeping Beauty locked in that house. And I knew that the sleeping beauty Stan had in mind was Gwendolen.

As we drove back towards Lavenham, Stan said: ‘You know the Mavor family's place is quite near here. I thought we might look in on them.'

‘Are you mad?' hissed Gwendolen.

‘It makes sense, Gwenny. Titus is dead, you're going to have to do something.'

We rounded a bend and Gwendolen was suddenly shouting and grabbing at Stanley, trying to shift the wheel in a different direction. It was terrifying.

Stanley managed to bring the car to a halt at the edge of a field. He pushed Gwendolen away. ‘You mustn't do that, Gwendolen, that's dangerous,' he said with astonishing calm, as though speaking to a child.

She responded by slapping him about the head. She was shouting and swearing incoherently – using the most terrible language. I'd never heard a woman talk like that before.

Stanley managed to grab her wrists. ‘Calm down, Gwendolen, calm down. It's all right.' She subsided, started to sob, and very gently Stanley patted and soothed her. Eventually she muttered an apology.

I thought they'd forgotten about me, transfixed in the back of the car, but when Gwendolen had quietened Stan looked round. ‘Gwenny's had a bit of a hard time, you know. You mustn't mind her.'

Gwendolen, slumped in the front seat, said nothing. Stanley got out of the car and brought out some bottles of lemonade from the boot. He leaned against the bonnet and drank. What
sangfroid
! I'd have been shaking if someone had attacked me like that. I drank too. I'd have preferred beer, the lemonade was too sweet to quench my thirst properly and it was warm from being in the car, but it was better than nothing. I walked up and down the road, smoking a cigarette to calm my nerves. I was more shaken than Stan! It hadn't occurred to me before, but now I saw it: Titus's death had upset Gwendolen too. She must have loved him once …

At last Gwen climbed out of the car, looking as pale and cool as ever. She lit up and walked towards me. ‘I'm sorry, Dinah.' She frowned, as if puzzled. ‘I – I don't know what got into me.' She spoke very softly, in her usual blank way.

I knew it must be about the child – her child by Titus. But I was too afraid of starting another scene to ask her directly.

‘I'm so sorry,' I said feebly.

That shocking volley of swear words! The words seemed to have come from some other woman – as if a stranger had spoken through her, some fishwife, a woman from the slums.

For the rest of the journey I sat very still in the back of the Bentley. Stanley and Gwendolen were silent too in the front.