Virtue (35 page)

Tonight’s dream is a doozy, though. When I put my head on the pillow, I have a couple of those vertical-fall slumps into sleep where I wake clutching the edge of the bed and puffing with alarm, then everything goes black and, when I see light again, I’m standing in a courtroom, and my mother is the judge. And the jury and the witnesses and the counsel for the prosecution, and the stenographer and the usher and shuffling, tutting public. And I seem to be attempting to conduct my own defence; the table behind which I’m sitting is bare of papers and the chair next to me is empty. And I don’t know what the charges are, but I know that this is deadly serious.

My mother, grim beneath her wig, glares at me through wire-rimmed specs. Twelve mothers stare damningly at me as my mother strides up and down and enumerates my faults. ‘… was seen wearing shiny knee-boots in a public place … Has an established history of sexual dalliances with under-qualified men … known associates are dilettantes and frequenters of places of rowdy public entertainment … can no longer recite the periodic table without prompting … rarely gets up before eleven in the morning … eats kebabs despite early training … dyes hair … shows no remorse …’

I want to stand up, say, ‘Hey, hang on, none of these things are actually illegal, you know, what am I doing here?’ and it’s then that I discover that not only am I glued to the chair, my tongue seems to be glued to the roof of my mouth and the only noises I can make are muffled urks. I can only lift my hand with the greatest of efforts.

My mother turns and points accusingly in my direction, and says, with great force, ‘Ladies of the jury. I put it to you that the accused deserves none of our sympathy. It was given the best of everything, provided with all the accoutrements necessary for a constructive life and DELIBERATELY chose to eschew these advantages for a life of which none of us here can approve. I put it to you that it is GUILTY.’

The jury bursts into spontaneous applause and I realise that I’m condemned before I’ve even been heard. But I make a superhuman effort and rip my thighs from the chair, lumber to my feet, peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth and shout, ‘No! I am not an IT! I am a human being!’

The court erupts. At first, I think they’re laughing, but then I realise that they’re making ape noises. Forty Grace Waterses jumping onto their chair seats, hooting and scratching at their armpits, picking at each other’s scalps, thumping their fists in the air and going, ‘Oooh! Oooh! OAAAH! OAAAH!’ And I realise that they’re imitating me, that nothing that comes out of my mouth makes any sense to them, that I’m a lower form of animal, one they would gladly use for experimentation, whose screams they would ignore for the greater glory.

In my dream, I start to cry, which only brings on another wave of hoots and hollers. And then they start to laugh, to point at me and laugh, and as quickly as the laughter dies it is replaced by boos and catcalls. ‘Get rid of it!’ they shout. ‘Guilty!’ ‘Send it down!’ I fall to my knees and grab the hem of my mother’s gown, but she whisks it from my hand, retreats as though I am contagious.

Judge-mother bangs her gavel, and her face is twisted into an expression of hatred. Indifferent justice this ain’t. ‘Order! Order!’ she shouts. Then, ‘Order is all! Without order there is no science! Can I take your order! I order you to desist! I order you to obey! You will obey! Those who disobey will be condemned!’

‘Condemned!’ repeat the crowd. ‘Condemned!’ repeats the jury. I hang my head, try to mumble but no sound comes. ‘Condemned!’ says prosecutor-mother, and I wriggle with misery, cringe with shame, and all the time try to shout, ‘No! It’s not fair!’ while nothing comes from my mouth.

Judge-mother bangs once more with the gavel and the court falls quiet. ‘Anna Waters,’ she says, ‘you have been found guilty on all counts, namely failure to do your duty, failure to thrive, disruption of the order, lack of gratitude. You are condemned. You are cast out.’

She casts a gimlet glare round the waiting courtroom, then shouts for all to enjoy. ‘We will have no more! We will excise it! Take it away!’

An arm clamps round my stomach, another over my mouth. Hands pin my arms to my sides. Oh, God, not again, I think, as I find myself hauled backwards, ribcage caving in beneath rough hands. I drag my feet on the floor, struggle, try to cry out for help, but nothing gets past the hand clamped over my mouth, my nose. I throw pleading looks from side to side as we proceed up the aisle, and all I see is row upon row of Graces, arms folded, gazing at me with the silent contempt of a pest exterminator gazing at a cockroach.

The doors swing open at the back of the court and I see the pavement in Trafalgar Square. Parked beside it, doors ajar, is the white van. Three skinheads lean against the sides, smiling a smile of triumph. And inside the van, crouched down like a spider, is my mother, dressed in floral prints and running her finger over the sharpened edge of an axe.

Search:

Duke of Belhaven

Sources:

All

From:

1971–5

Publication:

Daily Monograph

Byline:

Diary

Date:

06 28 71

Headline:

none

What’s going on at Belhaven Great House, stately seat of the Duke of Belhaven? Rumour has it that, since the fifty-two-year-old Duke’s return from a lengthy trip to Los Angeles, the corridors have been ringing to the sound of prolonged shouting. The aristocratic pair, it seems, have forgotten the ancient maxim, not in front of the servants, and below-stairs gossip suggests that all is not well on the upper floors. The reason? Certain ‘friendships’ struck up by the Duke on his ‘working’ vacation seem to have displeased the Duchess, and she is making her displeasure known. Suffice it to say that the Cadogan Gardens mansion flat is currently considerably more in use than it has been in recent years. The couple have a son, Gerald, who celebrated his thirteenth birthday at Eton last week.

Search:

Godiva Fawcett

Sources:

All

From:

1969–75

Publication:

News of the Nation

Byline:

Diary

Date:

08 19 71

Headline:

Godiva in Toffs’ love-triangle

The love-rat Duke of Belhaven finally got his divorce application from the Duchess yesterday – citing his adultery with none other than twenty-one-year-old actress Godiva Fawcett. And it doesn’t seem like she’s going to have to work too hard to prove her case – insiders on the recent Bangladesh Famine telethon, where the
Beach Bunny Massacre
star did a stint as a guest presenter, reckon that she’s got more than a couple of biscuits in the oven. ‘Every time the camera was off her, she’d make a beeline for the toilet,’ says a cameraman on the show, ‘and come back looking so green the make-up people had trouble covering it up.’ Let’s just hope the House of Lords can rush the divorce through in time for the new arrival.

Search:

Duke of Belhaven

Sources:

All

From:

1969–72

Publication:

Times

Byline:

Court and Social

Date:

03 31 72

Headline:

Marriages: His Grace the Duke of Belhaven and Miss Godiva Fawcett

The marriage took place, quietly at Belhaven Great House, on 29 March 1972, of His Grace the Duke of Belhaven to Miss Godiva Fawcett. The honeymoon will be spent at home.

Search:

Duke of Belhaven

Sources:

All

From:

1969–72

Publication:

Times

Byline:

Court and Social

Date:

04 04 72

Headline:

Births: Moresby

On 31st March, at St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, Lady Harriet, daughter to Gerald Moresby, Duke of Belhaven and Godiva (née Fawcett) Duchess of Belhaven, a sister for Gerald. Mother and child are doing well.

Search:

Godiva Fawcett

Sources:

All

From:

1969–72

Publication:

Chat Magazine

Byline:

Georgina Ponsonby

Date:

16 06 73

Headline:

Taking on a new role

Godiva, Duchess of Belhaven, throws open the doors of Belhaven Great House herself. ‘Welcome, Georgina!’ she cries. ‘Please! Come in!’

I am surprised to be greeted by the Duchess in person; I had expected a housekeeper or a butler, or a personal assistant at the very least. I tell her so as I follow her through the grand entrance hall, and she laughs merrily. ‘Oh, no, Georgina. I never bother with formalities like that. You’ve got to remember, until recently I was a simple working girl, shopping in the local grocery and making my own little bachelorette suppers in the evenings.’

Typical modesty from a twenty-three-year-old best known to the world as Godiva Fawcett, the actress who gave up stardom, critical acclaim and the Hollywood social whirl for love and motherhood last year when she married Gerald, Duke of Belhaven following his divorce from his wife of twenty years, the former Candida Revere, and gave him a daughter, Harriet, now a year old.

Harriet plays around our feet as we talk in the white drawing room. She is the image of her mother, with the same white-blonde locks, retroussé nose and rosebud lips – not to mention those famous emerald cat’s eyes – and mother and daughter display an enviable degree of devotion. ‘Of course she has nannies,’ says the Duchess, ‘but I like to spend as much time with her as I can. Who wouldn’t? Just look at her. She’s a peach, isn’t she?’

She certainly is. Has motherhood changed Godiva at all? ‘Why, of course!’ she beams. ‘It’s my greatest role yet! I had no idea it was possible to love anyone so much. I love Gerald, desperately, madly, but nothing will ever compare to my feelings for my daughter.’

It would be hypocritical at this juncture not to pursue the subject of her love for the Duke. Their meeting, and the Duke’s subsequent divorce, was, after all, subject of the greatest society scandal of the last two years. Godiva’s usually sunny face clouds over as I ask her. ‘Oh, Georgina,’ she says, ‘I wish it could have happened some other way. Neither of us meant it to happen, we fought it for as long as we could, but we couldn’t help ourselves. We just fell in love, it’s as simple as that. But don’t think we weren’t guilty about it. We were. Both of us, completely. I can’t tell you the nights we both lay awake, crying in each other’s arms. And especially about how awful I felt about the effect that all this would have on Gerald’s son, Harriet’s half-brother.’

But things are settled now, aren’t they? Godiva attempts a brave smile. ‘Of course. It will take time, but I’m confident that young Gerald
(Gerald, Viscount Ditchworth, heir to the Belhaven estates)
and I will eventually become great friends. But there are forces trying to poison him against us, and there’s very little I can do but put up with it and try to keep smiling.’

What sort of forces? ‘I don’t want to talk about it too much,’ she says. ‘There’s been too much mud-slinging in the past eighteen months as it is, but I do think it was vindictive of Candida to name me in the divorce petition. I know that she holds me personally to blame, but the marriage had been over in all but name for years. It was only a matter of time before he went looking for love if he couldn’t get it at home. A man needs – I don’t know – to be cherished, to be appreciated, to be admired. But now young Gerald has something concrete to cling to when he sees me, and I think it will be hard for him ever to give me a fair hearing.’

So how does she feel towards her husband’s first wife now, I ask, but her natural discretion blocks the question. ‘No, Georgina, I said I didn’t want to talk about it, and you can’t draw me out. I’m sure Candida is a thoroughly decent person. It’s just a shame that she doesn’t seem to be able to get over her bitterness.’

Does she miss the glamour of her old life? Godiva laughs that tinkling, infectious laugh that came from the screen and caught audiences up in its magic. ‘Not at all! No, really! Of course I enjoyed every minute that I was an actress, but in the end it’s a shallow life, and Hollywood is a shallow place. I have always had more to me than just being a pretty face prancing across a screen, and the time has come for me to show the world that this is true.’

And how is she planning to go about showing this side of herself to the world? ‘Well, obviously, my first duty is to my husband and daughter, and to his son, who badly needs some love and attention,’ she says. ‘But after that, I am planning to throw myself into my charitable works. As you know, I have long been interested in helping those less fortunate than myself, all the little people who need a spokesperson, someone who will stand up for them when they can’t stand up for themselves. I have always felt that this was my destiny, and now I find myself in a unique position to help. After all, who better to speak for these people than someone who is already a household name, someone whom audiences recognise immediately? I’m saddled with my fame, after all, so I might as well put it to good use.’

And how is she going to go about this? ‘Well, I’m open to offers!’ she jokes. ‘I’ve been working quietly in the background for various organisations, but now I think it’s time to come out into the open, to stick my head above the parapet, as it were. So now I’m looking to do more, similar work, really get out there in the field, get my hands dirty. I plan to become a spokesperson for the front-line organisations, show the world that things can be done. It really is very, very important to me. I don’t think people realise how much it matters to me that I be seen to be concerned. I know lots of cynics will probably pooh-pooh what I’m doing, but I know that I can make an important contribution.’