The Jewel Box Part 12

Nancy leaned over and whispered loudly to Cramer: "She threw some eggs and flour at a couple of Members of Parliament at a Liberal Party meeting."

"I landed one of the blighters right on his bald head!" She was positively triumphant now. "I'll have you know, young man, that I was a member of the WSPU. I was arrested with Emmeline Pankhurst."

"That's the Women's Social and Political Union," Grace explained. "Mummy, you're forgetting that John's American. He won't have the first clue about the Pankhursts or the WSPU."

Behind the merriment, Grace was studying Cramer. His winegla.s.s was filled with water and he hadn't had a single drop of the Hock. He'd been sober the other night, too-it had struck her at the time. Was he a teetotaller? A former drinker, perhaps?

"Did you refuse food, Mrs. Rutherford? Did they force-feed you?"

"Do call me Catherine." She was enjoying the male attention.

"Daddy got her out too quickly for all that," said Grace. "She didn't have time to refuse so much as one single meal."

"She was absolutely livid," added Nancy.

"They did put her in a cold bath, though," Grace added. "And they were jolly unpleasant." Again, the sisters looked at each other and giggled.

"You ungrateful wretches!" But Catherine appeared cheerful. Glad to have the conversation focused on her. Every minute or two, she glanced across at the flowers Cramer had brought, now in a vase on the mantelpiece. Cream roses and big daisies, cut from his garden.

"You know we're just teasing, don't you, Mummy?" Grace turned back to Cramer. "We can't quite help ourselves. Underneath it all we actually think she was frightfully heroic. They all were, those women."

"'Are,' not not 'were,' 'were,' if you please," said Catherine. "Anyway, enough of all this. Tell me some more about your work, John. What are you writing about at the moment?" if you please," said Catherine. "Anyway, enough of all this. Tell me some more about your work, John. What are you writing about at the moment?"

"Oh, you know. This and that."

Nancy leaned toward Grace conspiratorially. "There he goes again. All bashful. He won't say so but I think he's writing a novel."

Grace looked from one to the other. Nancy was at her most playful and attractive this evening-her eyes bright, her face aglow with something that might be happiness. Cramer was toying sheepishly with his cutlery.

"Are you, John?" you, John?"

"Frankly I wouldn't have the time. There's too much going on in the real world. Who has the time for making things up?" When he glanced up, specifically at Grace, his eyes had resentment in them. Only he, Only he, they seemed to say. they seemed to say. Only he has time for all that. Only he has time for all that. Then the moment was over, and he was moving on. "I'm working on a big article about transatlantic flight at the moment. You'll know about the Orteig Prize?" Noticing Catherine's blank look, he explained: "Raymond Orteig has offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize for the first nonstop flight from New York to Paris or vice versa." Then the moment was over, and he was moving on. "I'm working on a big article about transatlantic flight at the moment. You'll know about the Orteig Prize?" Noticing Catherine's blank look, he explained: "Raymond Orteig has offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize for the first nonstop flight from New York to Paris or vice versa."

"Is there any news on those Frenchmen? Nungesser or whatever his name is?" asked Nancy.

Cramer shook his head. "They were last heard of somewhere over Ireland. I'm afraid it's been too long now. They must have come down in the ocean."

"Those poor men." Catherine's hand was on her chest in a theatrical gesture. "Daredevil pioneers, the pair of them. What a terrible shame."

"There's another fellow about to try it though," said Cramer. "A mail pilot, would you believe? He plans to take off from Long Island on the twentieth. And he's going solo."

"You think he stands a chance?" asked Grace. "On his own, like that?"

"Well, they're calling him the Flying Fool back home. But I think they're wrong. He's going to be the first man to fly across the Atlantic, and I'm going to be the first man on the scene. I'm going over to Paris and taking a photographer with me. I'll write it up for the New York Times, New York Times, of course, but you just wait and see-it'll be of course, but you just wait and see-it'll be my my name you'll see in your newspapers, too. And his of course-his name is Lindbergh." He gave her a look. "Sometimes you're better off on your own." name you'll see in your newspapers, too. And his of course-his name is Lindbergh." He gave her a look. "Sometimes you're better off on your own."

Afterward, Catherine served up her bread pudding with custard.

"This is very much like something Mama used to make." Cramer was already through his and sc.r.a.ping every last morsel from the dish. "We'd have had it with a caramel sauce." And then, a hasty afterthought-"Yours is superior, though, Mrs. Rutherford."

"Do call me Catherine."

"How about your wife?" asked Grace.

"Eva didn't cook." He laid down his spoon.

"She was very beautiful." This came, surprisingly, from Nancy. "That is, if the photographs in your house are anything to go by."

"Photographs don't tell the whole truth." Cramer was snappish. "They can't capture a whole person."

Grace glanced from one to the other. Nancy's eyes were cast down. Cramer looked as if he wished he hadn't been so abrupt.

Catherine got up and began to pile up the dishes.

"I have lots of photographs of George." Nancy's voice was calm, measured. "Sometimes they comfort me. I look at him-at the way he was-and I remember how happy we were together. But sometimes it rips me apart to see him in his uniform with that stupid, unknowing smile on his face. It makes me so angry with him. How unreasonable is that, eh? Poor George is the one who's dead, after all. And there's something even worse. It's becoming more and more difficult to really see see George-you know, in my mind. Increasingly, I have to look at the photographs to remember his face properly. I suppose it's inevitable that this should happen. But it makes me so very sad to realize that he's disappearing even from my memory. Really, there's no way of keeping him alive." George-you know, in my mind. Increasingly, I have to look at the photographs to remember his face properly. I suppose it's inevitable that this should happen. But it makes me so very sad to realize that he's disappearing even from my memory. Really, there's no way of keeping him alive."

Looking at Cramer-at a new darkness in his face-Grace suspected this was the very last thing he'd wanted to hear. Cramer and his secret, incommunicable world of grief that lay behind and beneath and beyond everything in his life. When he spoke, it was directed more to Grace than to Nancy.

"Eva disappeared a long time ago. She was disappearing years before she died. Right from when O'Connell published that book. It was as if he'd used her up to create Veronique. Robbed her of her energy, her character, so that there was nothing left of her. Do you understand what I'm saying? For a long time she was ill and in the hospital, refusing to see anyone, hardly talking. Just scribbling letters and reading books day after day. Dreaming about how it would all be when she got better. Every now and then I'd get a glimpse of the old Eva-and then it would be gone again. I can't describe to you how awful it was to watch her disappear."

Later-much later-when Cramer had left, Grace attacked the washing up and Nancy grabbed a tea towel while they chewed over the evening.

"All that stuff about his wife," Grace said. "You don't lose your personality because someone's put you in a book. That's like the American Indians thinking that you could steal someone's soul by taking a photograph. What it comes down to is that Eva lost her marbles, and Cramer's decided to put the blame on O'Connell and his book."

"You seem to know a lot about it all." Nancy rubbed at a plate. "Or, at least, you think you do."

"Am I wrong?" Grace eyed her. "What's he said to you?"

"Bits and pieces." Nancy put the plate away and took up another. "Enough for me to know there are two sides to the story. Three, actually. I don't think you realize how biased you are."

Grace looked up at the kitchen window, at their two reflections. The gla.s.s was misted over, and their faces were blurred and vague. "What do you mean?"

"You're in love with Dexter O'Connell so you simply take on face value everything he tells you."

"I am not!" She clattered a plate in the sink.

"Are you quite sure? You were ridiculously happy, then h.e.l.lishly miserable and then this last week or two you've barely been here at all. What's more, you have that look on your face."

"What look?"

"Your secretive look. You can't honestly have thought I wouldn't notice?"

"You don't always notice things. Not all the time."

"I've noticed."

"I'm not in love with him." She thumped the plate into the drying rack.

"Well, whether you're in love with him or not, you're obviously having a pretty torrid affair with him."

"Is that so wrong?" She drew a soapy hand across her brow. "I can look after myself perfectly well."

"But can can you, Grace? After everything John's told me-" you, Grace? After everything John's told me-"

"There you go again. What has has he told you?" he told you?"

"Oh, not much." She busied herself with the tea towel. "But you know as well as I do that O'Connell's as famous for being a cad as he is for writing novels."

"But he's fun. And clever. And And good-looking. good-looking. And And rich. rich. And And exciting. exciting. And And he likes me. Who else is around and available that would tick all those boxes, eh?" he likes me. Who else is around and available that would tick all those boxes, eh?"

"Well..." She seemed as if she was about to say something, but then changed her mind.

She's thinking of d.i.c.kie again, thought Grace. Will she ever ever get the message about me and d.i.c.kie? get the message about me and d.i.c.kie?

"Look, just promise me you'll be careful. You have good instincts and I hope you'll listen to them. I love you so much, Grace. I can't bear the thought of that man hurting you."

"Oh, darling!" Grace put her arms around Nancy and for a time they simply stood there, holding each other, each sister aware of the other's gentle breathing, the other's heartbeat. "Of course I'll be careful." She could see their reflections in the window, merged into one.

When they'd released each other and returned to the washing up, there was an awkwardness to their silence.

"I read in your column that you've been to Sheridan's new nightclub," Nancy said eventually, perhaps just to break that silence.

"That's right."

"I didn't know you saw much of him these days. I've barely seen him since we were children. Since that nasty business with our parents. How old would we have been?"

"Not sure. Thirteen or fourteen. Let's not talk about all that."

"No." She polished busily at a plate. "No, of course not. But what's he like these days? Sheridan?"

"Quite like he was when he was a child. Odd. Delicate. Lovable, in my opinion, though not in everyone's. Inheriting all that money has made him more sure of himself. And being more sure of himself has made him more and more eccentric. It's as if he's consciously decided to heighten every aspect of his personality. Even his speech impediment."

"Crikey." Nancy raised her eyebrows. "I'd like to see him some time."

"John's an old friend of his," said Grace. "Perhaps you should get him to take you along to the Tutankhamun one evening?"

A frown. "I don't go about with John in that sort of way."

"Don't you?" Grace eyed her as she took up a cast-iron frying pan and began scrubbing. "You know, Nancy, you look happy this evening. Properly happy. I've not seen you this way since before George died."

Nancy shrugged. "Perhaps I am. It's been a lovely evening, after all."

"But?"

"But nothing. It's been a lovely evening. There's nothing more to it than that, Grace. So you may as well stop your prying."

"If you say so." Grace sighed and set the frying pan down on the draining rack. But she wasn't yet finished with the subject of Cramer. "You mentioned over dinner that you think John's writing a novel. What gave you that idea?"

"Oh, just something he said the other day. I can't even remember quite what it was now. And it seems I was wrong anyway. But there's something else, too..."

"What?"

"Well, I've been rereading The Vision. The Vision. I was rather interested to look back at it given the current circ.u.mstances. I finished it last night in bed." I was rather interested to look back at it given the current circ.u.mstances. I finished it last night in bed."

"And?"

"It's very strange reading a book once you know a little of the real-life people and events that lay behind it."

Grace waited for her to say something further. Grabbed a blackened saucepan and went at it with the brush.

"Now that I know John...Well, I have to say that I could hear his voice in it."

"What do you mean, hear his voice hear his voice?"

"I'm not entirely sure. It was rather odd. It made me think about ghosts. Haunted houses, all that. Invisible presences. Not that I believe in any of that."

"What on earth are you on about?"

"Just that John was so patently present, in that book. It was as if he'd had a hand in writing it or something. I do know that sounds bonkers."

"Yes, it does." Grace laid down the saucepan. "Particularly having heard his opinion of it." She was quiet for a moment, mulling this over. "They were very close when O'Connell was writing it. Perhaps that closeness has somehow made its way into the novel."

"Perhaps so."

The window was entirely misted over now. The girls' reflections had vanished in the condensation.

Seven.

The Past On the afternoon of October 17, 1922, the Rutherford sisters, laden down with splendid purchases, stopped off for tea and cake at the Lyons Corner House on Piccadilly. Nancy, on the eve of her twenty-fourth birthday, was positively oozing happiness and vivacity. Grace was quietly cheerful and much occupied in ensuring Nancy had the delightful shopping day she truly deserved. the afternoon of October 17, 1922, the Rutherford sisters, laden down with splendid purchases, stopped off for tea and cake at the Lyons Corner House on Piccadilly. Nancy, on the eve of her twenty-fourth birthday, was positively oozing happiness and vivacity. Grace was quietly cheerful and much occupied in ensuring Nancy had the delightful shopping day she truly deserved.

"I can hardly believe how lucky I am." Nancy's mouth was full of cream cake, and crumbs shot across the table. "Oops, sorry." She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. "Everything was so horrible for so long. Do you remember my hideous twenty-first?"

"Of course." Grace sipped her tea and turned to look at the string quartet playing bravely on behind the hubbub of conversation, the clattering of teacups, the rumbling of cake trolleys pushed back and forth. "How could I forget? But that's all in the past now."

"You were such a trouper." Nancy took another big mouthful of cake. "Smoothing everything over with the guests and holding the fort. Helping me put George to bed when he finally came staggering back from the pub. Cleaning up the sick."

Grace rolled her eyes. "Please, Nancy, must you mention that? Anyway, birthday girl, it's about time you put all that nastiness behind you. George is fine now." Nancy, must you mention that? Anyway, birthday girl, it's about time you put all that nastiness behind you. George is fine now."

"Yes." Nancy's eyes were bright. "Thank goodness. You know, Grace, I really believed he was doing it to spite me. That he hated me, and I couldn't work out why. You remember how he used to speak to me, don't you? I couldn't look Mummy in the eye. Couldn't bear the fact that she witnessed so much. I mean, you did too, of course, but that's different."

"Let's have some wine," said Grace, brightly. "We should drink a birthday toast."

Oh, rather." Nancy bent to delve in one of the bags at their feet. "I do do love the blue dress love the blue dress so so much. You're a peach. I'm going to wear it for the party tomorrow night. Do you think George will like it?" much. You're a peach. I'm going to wear it for the party tomorrow night. Do you think George will like it?"