The Twilight Hour (23 page)

I still liked Stan – he'd been very good to me – but I began to nurture an irrational resentment towards him – for backing the film, for marrying Gwendolen, for not doing more to help, when really there was nothing he could do. My resentment should actually have been directed at Radu and Hugh, but they had deserted the sinking ship, so there was no one to be angry with but Stan.

.........

In his summing up the judge referred to me as ‘naïve' and ‘confused'. I suppose he was trying to be kind, and not to go too heavily for the idea that I'd deliberately lied. But of course he had to say it in the end – had to mention the prosecution's suggestion that I'd made the whole story up on purpose, in an effort to protect a friend.

The jury retired. At the end of the day there was no decision. They continued the next day, without a result.

On the third day they reached a verdict. Everyone hustled back into the court. Colin came out between two uniformed warders.

Alan and I sat at the front of the packed gallery. The atmosphere was thick with expectation and excitement. They were in at the kill. I hated them. They craned forward, their eyes gleaming with malice, licking their lips in anticipation. To them all this was just a gruesome thrill. One or two of them noticed me, nudged and stared. My face went hot, but I ignored them.

The jury filed in. The judge asked if they'd reached a verdict. A split second's silence: ‘Guilty.' The guillotine clanged down, hope decapitated.

A murmur rustled round the gallery. Alan gripped my hand.

Colin made a single, stifled movement. The warder held his arm. Colin stared straight ahead. The judge placed his black cap on his head and spoke the frightful words. Hanged: Colin would be hanged.

I looked and looked at Colin. He looked stunned. Then he looked up towards us in the gallery. I wasn't sure he saw us. He must have felt so alone.

The crowd bulged forward, eager to see. The smell of their bodies seemed like the miasma of their satisfaction. They'd been fed. They'd got what they'd come for.

I was numb as we pushed through the crowd of spectators and out into the London dusk. We made for the kerb, hoping for a taxi. A man stepped forward. It was Inspector Bannister.

‘You'll be hearing from me again, Mrs Wentworth. We'll be considering charges.'

I stared at him in bewilderment, but just then a taxi halted in response to Alan's gesture of command, and Bannister was swept aside as a few onlookers ran forward to see who we were. Alan and I clung together as the cab bore us away through the busy streets and back to anonymity.

.........

The days and weeks that followed were dreadful. The strain made me ill. Alan raged. There were more visits to Julius Abrahams and frantic phone calls as we tried to find character witnesses.

With Bannister's threat hanging over my head I went down to Alton in the hope of some help from my father. The reports of the trial and my part in it had enraged him. He shouted at me: what the hell had I been thinking of? ‘And now that dismal little policeman is going to have you up for perverting the course of justice or accessory after the fact. Serves you damn well right.' As he raged, my mother twisted her hankie and looked unhappy. Afterwards she tried to comfort me, but it was just fussing about my health.

That evening was the worst of all. When I told Alan what had happened – the row, the accusations – I started to cry again. Instead of being sympathetic, this seemed to enrage Alan and he started to shout at me too. ‘For God's sake, stop snivelling, you stupid little bitch,' he yelled.

I sobbed harder. Suddenly he sprang up, lunged across the table and slapped my face. There was a moment's silence. Shock – pain – disbelief. I stumbled backwards, making for the bedroom. I was shouting incoherently, shouting at him to leave me alone, shouting that it was all his fault.

I flung myself on the bed, still sobbing, great gasps, I couldn't catch my breath. The kitchen door banged. ‘Leave me alone,' I shouted, but he came after me, and now he was hitting and punching me as I lay defenceless on the bed, unable to get away. Until finally I started to scream and he reeled back, staggered away, stumbled out of the room, slammed the front door.

I don't know what time he came back. Next morning we stared at each other in white-faced horror across the breakfast table.

‘Dinah … please …'

I refused to speak to him. It was only later that day that I started to bleed. It was terrifying. Luckily the doctor agreed to pay a home visit. He told me I was having a miscarriage.

I hadn't even known I was pregnant. We'd never stopped taking precautions and one missed period when I was so worried meant nothing – or that's what I'd thought.

Alan didn't realise, but the tears I wept were of relief. I couldn't have coped with a baby. My mother would have been thrilled, but that would only have made things worse. The last thing I wanted was to be pulled back into her orbit – good God, I was barely twenty-one! My life would be over if I had a child now. Alan couldn't have coped either. It would have been the last straw for him.

We didn't discuss it, but I knew he felt dreadfully guilty; guilty because his violence had probably brought on the miscarriage; guiltier still because he hadn't wanted a child, and was thankful to have been let off the hook; guiltiest of all because he assumed I
did
want the baby. Women naturally wanted babies, of course!

I was glad, so glad I wasn't pregnant. Such mixed emotions – the relief – the dread for Colin – the fear at the back of my mind that Alan would hit me again, the dark cloud of fear.

twenty-three

‘WE'VE BEEN GIVEN LEAVE TO APPEAL.'

I stared numbly at Julius. A faint smile flickered across the lawyer's narrow features. ‘It's good news! But we haven't got long.'

Not long – not long: how long? I burst into tears. I couldn't help it. I sobbed and sobbed. After a while Julius passed me a big, white, clean handkerchief. ‘Sorry … sorry,' I blubbed.

‘One of the few times tears haven't been called for lately,' he commented drily. He gave me time to recover and then said quietly, ‘There's some other good news. Nothing official, but I've heard on the grapevine that they're not going to charge you. Bannister's been knocked back there. Looks as if your father may have had a word in high places.'

That made me feel tearful again. My father had been so angry – he'd certainly not even hinted to me that he was going to do anything to help. He disapproved of pulling strings to get what he wanted.

‘You don't seem very pleased.'

‘It's an enormous relief, of course it is,' I said miserably, ‘but I didn't want to be treated differently because of who my father is.'

‘There will have been other reasons,' said Abrahams soothingly. ‘No one really believes you lied deliberately.'

The door opened violently. ‘Look at this.' Naomi Abrahams was holding the
Evening News
. ‘The Party's taken power in Prague.' She passed the paper to her brother.

‘They've ousted the reactionaries,' he read out. ‘“Pledged to defend republican democratic regime against the forces of international reaction.” That's excellent news.'

From where I was seated I could see that the headlines announced it as a disaster – but as I'd discovered from knowing Colin, the Communists always saw things like a photographic negative: the opposite way from everyone else.

Naomi Abrahams looked at her brother. ‘It says there it's a coup.'

‘Well, they're bound to take that line.'

‘It hasn't exactly happened the way we'd have wanted it, though.'

‘There was a democratic election. Now the so-called People's Party has walked out of the government. That's their affair. What did they represent, anyway, Naomi? They were the party of right-wing peasants, rural fascists.'

There was a silence, but the silence was still full of an unspoken argument they probably didn't want to have in front of me. ‘Colin will be pleased at the news,' I said.

Julius looked amused. ‘I should think the appeal will be uppermost in his mind, won't it?'

Just then there was a knock and the door opened again. ‘Sorry I'm late,' said Alan.

When he heard the good news about the appeal he seemed stunned rather than glad – just as I'd been. He sat looking at the floor for a bit. Then he looked up. ‘Couldn't they have told us that before Christmas?'

Christmas had certainly been miserable, locked in hostile imprisonment in Hampshire with my parents and thinking all the time of Colin in the death cell.

Abrahams ignored this. ‘The appeal has been granted on the basis of new evidence,' he said, ‘but it's going to be tricky. Anyway, let me explain.'

The conference over, we walked towards Holborn.

‘Let's just take a look at the house,' said Alan suddenly.

I followed him reluctantly up the side street that led to Mecklenburgh Square. I'd walked through the darkness and the snow along this street as through a photographic negative, after I found the painter's body. Now it was freezing again and there were fears of another winter like the last one. And I was back in that dark, arctic winter and the ghostly house in the Square. As we passed the boarded-up house I had a strange feeling, as if Titus Mavor must still be lying there in the moonlight.

There was a dim light in the house next door. We walked quickly, almost furtively, past and then retraced our steps to the Lamb and Flag, where we'd arranged to meet Noel Valentine.

This evening he wore an ancient Harris tweed coat over his crumpled suit. He'd always pass unnoticed in a crowd, but there was nothing anonymous or indecisive about him. Although, for example, Alan and I would have been glad to stay in the warmth of the saloon bar, no sooner had we arrived than Noel proposed a meal in Soho; and what Noel proposed happened.

‘I actually booked at L'Escargot – it's not as noisy as somewhere like Fava's.'

So he'd planned it in advance. I was glad I was wearing my new New Look suit. I was so sick of my old grey flannel that I'd splashed out in the sales at Marshall and Snelgrove, spending almost all my coupons on it. Dark red barathea with a full, pleated skirt; tight jacket with nipped-in waist, and curving lapels edged with black velvet to match the collar: it gave me a lovely figure. Out of doors in this cold weather my old coat concealed it. I'd had the coat altered with three bands of tweed from another, even older coat inserted in the skirt to lengthen it, but the effect was lumpy, and with its big shoulders and tie waist, it didn't have that New Look look at all. But when I removed it, the suit was revealed in all its glory and I caught admiring looks from nearby tables.

Noel was a notorious gossip, which was partly why Alan put up with him, ever hopeful of some piece of information that might help with Colin's trial – or now, with the appeal. Of course, with Noel it was two-way traffic; he expected juicy titbits in return for those he offered. He unfurled his napkin with a snap and wasted no time. ‘Any idea why Enescu shot off to Hollywood like that? I know it was before Christmas, but lately all these rumours have started flying around again. I thought your friend Hugh Palmer-Green might have given you the lowdown. He sailed off into the sunset too, didn't he?'

‘What rumours?' Alan was bristling at the implication that Hugh was somehow involved in whatever the rumours were.

I said: ‘We didn't see so much of Hugh in the autumn – with the trial and everything.'

‘Any news on that front?'

‘He's been given leave to appeal.'

‘Oh, that's very good news.' Noel's eyes gleamed behind his glasses. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Titus Mavor as a matter of fact. I've made absolutely no headway in tracking down his collection of Surrealists. Possibly it doesn't exist. But his ex-cronies think it does.'

I stared at the menu and thought about Stanley's trip to Paris – it seemed such a long time ago now.

‘Enescu was cultivating Mavor like mad, wasn't he, until he got bumped off. And now, well, people are putting two and two together. Admittedly it adds up to considerably more than five. They say that property dealer friend of yours was backing his film – but maybe the money came from somewhere else. Didn't they go off to Paris together on several occasions?'

I remembered all Stan's suspicions of Radu and his Paris friends. ‘Once,' I said firmly. ‘I'm quite sure Stan wasn't involved in whatever it is you're suggesting. And I should know. I work for him after all.' I wasn't quite sure why I was defending him so valiantly.

‘I know that.' Noel Valentine was looking me over. ‘That's why I thought you might have picked up a few hints.'

‘But he wasn't the only backer.' I recalled the meeting at Ormiston Court, when Radu had been so pleased with himself. Something he'd said … ‘I can't remember, exactly, but I'm sure there was money from somewhere else as well. Anyway, Stanley regretted financing the film,' I said.

‘That's nonsense, Di.' Alan was frowning. ‘He's a shrewd businessman. Even if he had mixed feelings about Enescu, he knew it was a winner commercially.'

‘And he'll be laughing if it does well in America,' added Noel. ‘But that's something else I wanted to talk to
you
about, Dinah. Why are you working for a spiv like that? You're too good for him, my dear. Men like him, making a fortune out of post-war misery, you don't want anything to do with it. And as for marrying Enescu's discarded mistress – well, really!'

I couldn't see what was so terrible about that, except that it made Stan look slightly pathetic, Gwendolen's adoring spaniel. ‘I don't think she's in love with him,' I said, ‘so it's rather sad for him.'

‘Di! That's so sentimental,' cried Alan, ‘it's a business proposition, surely you can see that.'

‘Well, I've got another business proposition,' said Noel briskly, ‘I want you to come and work for me, Dinah. My gallery will be opening soon. Come and see it next Wednesday. Lunchtime – you can get away then, can't you, Wentworth?'

.........

The gallery was located in the hushed precincts of St James's. The discreet wealth of the district offered an oasis from austerity and the menacing world situation. The people, mostly men, who passed along the pavement, had a well-dressed sleekness about them, wearing bowler hats and carrying umbrellas as narrow as sword sticks. I was glad I was wearing my dark red costume.

Noel Valentine met us outside Fortnum and Mason and led us down a side passage off Jermyn Street. The gallery stood between the bomb crater of a completely destroyed building and a boarded-up house. Unlike the galleries we'd passed, with their old-master displays of eighteenth-century paintings in elaborate gilt frames, it was modern.

A glamorous young woman in a black dress – more like a fashion model than a shop assistant – was seated behind a shiny black desk. She brought us coffee and we sat with Noel on a black sofa next to a tall plant with fleshy leaves sticking out from its single central stem. There was a white carpet on the black stained floor and an orange vase on the reception desk. It was all light years away from the Persian rugs and Louis Quinze gilt I'd expected. It was like something out of the ‘Britain Can Make It' exhibition!

He showed us the little rooms upstairs, all offices, and even led us out onto the roof with its giddy-making fire escape. ‘So – why don't you come and work for me? Art is more interesting than property. My gallery exists to encourage and market new art. I'm not interested in second-rate old masters – Salvator Rosa and all that rubbish, eighteenth-century genre scenes –
Christ
no. I'm here to promote the new stuff. Surrealism, for example. It's not fashionable in the way it was before the war, but I'm going to change all that. If things go well, the secretarial job would expand – advertising, publicity, that sort of thing.'

‘It sounds interesting,' I said. I still clung to my dream of acting, but – especially with Radu in Hollywood – I'd almost –
almost
– accepted that that was off the agenda now.

‘And Alan, I
seriously
want to interest you in a programme about the British Surrealist group.' There was no end to Noel's energy; he outlined his idea in impassioned tones. I couldn't decide if it was pure love of the art, or an eye to the main chance of commercial opportunity.

‘I think you should take up his offer,' said Alan as we walked together back towards Piccadilly. ‘He's right about Stan Colman. And if he can dig up some stuff about Mavor's paintings–'

‘That's why you want me to take up the offer, isn't it? Because it might help Colin.'

‘Not just that. It also helps you. You were keen on having a proper job. Now you've got one.'

He was right. ‘And what about the programme he wants you to do?'

Alan shrugged. ‘It's another good idea. But the appeal's the thing at present, isn't it.' He stomped along looking particularly thundery. ‘I can't forgive myself, I simply can't. So keen to get involved in that ghastly film, I didn't see what was going on.'

‘You couldn't have known.'

‘Of course I could have known. Stan's trip to Paris – we knew all about it. We just shut our eyes to it, we were blind, we didn't want to know.'

‘We did talk it over with Julius Abrahams. He didn't want it brought up.'

‘He's a lawyer, Di. They're always too cautious by half.'

.........

I was sorry to say goodbye to Stan, and I think he was sorry to lose me too, but we both knew the time had come. He was talking of basing his operations in Brighton. He could see I needed to move on. A new phase in my life was about to begin.

I did indeed now have a real job, but it was very different from my work in the War Office, where we'd all been working together for victory. Evidently a good secretary was loyal not to a common purpose, but to her boss. With Stan it had all been relaxed and casual, but with Noel, in spite of our social relationship outside the office, I was expected to work hard. Sometimes I stayed late at the gallery. Sometimes, I accompanied Noel to private views and cocktail parties. Alan had taken to drinking in the BBC pubs with his new friends after work and didn't mind, or even notice if I was late, because he was so often out in the evenings himself.

At first I'd thought Kay, the receptionist, might be Noel's girlfriend, but I soon discovered she was just another decorative item in the gallery, sitting around looking glamorous, while I did the work. Then I began to wonder if he was – well, like Colin, but by the third week I'd decided he was simply what he'd always seemed, a self-sufficient, self-absorbed bachelor, blithely unaware of how other people felt and indifferent to the crises that raged outside in the world, exclusively dedicated to his great passion, modern art. I was learning a lot from him, and I began to think of doing an art history course myself, but what really brought us together was our common purpose (though for very different reasons) in unearthing the truth about Mecklenburgh Square. There wasn't much time. The date for Colin's appeal had been set.