The Jewel Box Part 20

"I see." She got up. Moved to the mantelpiece, ostensibly to put her gla.s.ses away in their case. "How..."

"We've known for a long time, Nancy and me. We saw you together up on Parliament Hill. You were kissing. We weren't so very young. I was thirteen. We'd guessed already. It was just a confirmation of what we both knew, each of us privately. It went on for years, didn't it?"

It was out there now, taking shape between them. There was no going back.

"Oh, gosh." Catherine was leaning heavily on the mantelpiece, her back turned to Grace. "I don't know what to say to you."

"It must have been very hard for you." Grace wanted to go over and put a hand on her shoulder, but somehow she couldn't. "I do understand, Mummy."

"Don't be ridiculous!" The pa.s.sion flared up in Catherine's eyes as she looked around. "How could you possibly understand?"

The temptation to tell her mother about George was strong. But no. No. "Mummy, you wandered off the path, but you did the right thing in the end. You both did. You ended the affair and you stood by your families."

"Yes. We did." She drew the back of her hand across her wet eyes. "And it was the hardest thing I've ever done. You know, I did love your father very much. You do realize that, don't you, Grace?"

"Of course you did."

"But Edward...Edward Shapcott was the love of my life and I had to give him up." Catherine was a st.u.r.dy woman, but in that moment she looked so frail, so fragile.

Grace swallowed. "Did Daddy ever know?"

The tiniest of nods. "I don't want to speak about this again. Not ever. I don't want Nancy to know about this conversation." And then, after a moment, "Or Sheridan. Sheridan doesn't know about any of this, Grace."

"Whatever you want, Mummy."

A cavernous silence opened up between the two women. Catherine returned the cups to the tray, rattling about. Grace simply watched her, feeling a sadness, a sense that she had irrevocably lost something. There are times when the sharing of a secret brings people closer. The secret strengthens the invisible bonds of time, experience, friendship. It tightens those bonds. Not so here.

"Where's Nancy?" Grace asked, at length, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"She's gone to Paris with John."

"What?"

"She telephoned yesterday, full of news about Lindbergh's landing. They had seats with the American amba.s.sador. She's been having the time of her life, meeting all sorts of people."

"I see. Yes, I expect she has." Nausea soured her insides. Everything was dark clouds. The distant buzz of a plane.

Mummy's voice had lightened. Her relief at the change of subject was audible. "Edna's taken the children out. They'll be back in an hour or so."

"Right. I think I'll go and unpack my case." Grace got shakily to her feet.

"Grace." Catherine put a hand on Grace's arm. "John is your sister's beau."

"Of course he is." Grace tried to toss the words out casually. "And a jolly nice pair they make."

"My dear." That hand was still on her arm. "She's too young to stay alone forever."

"Has he proposed to her, then?" She shouldn't have asked it. Should just have headed straight up with the case. But she had to know.

"I rather think he might, if you let them alone."

"If I...What are you saying?"

"You chose the other chap. That was the right thing to do."

"No, it wasn't. I don't want O'Connell."

The grip on her arm tightened. "She's too young to spend the rest of her life alone. And she has those children to bring up. It's your turn to do the right thing, Grace. Your turn to stand by the family."

"All I ever do do is stand by the family! It's always about Nancy, isn't it? is stand by the family! It's always about Nancy, isn't it? I'm I'm your daughter as well. your daughter as well. I'm I'm too young to stay alone forever!" too young to stay alone forever!"

"It's different for you." Catherine relinquished Grace's arm. "My dear, you're just like your mother. You'll always be the one to look after others. That's just how it is with us."

Something was stirring in Grace. Something dark. It was like staring down into the Thames at the objects that lay on the riverbed among all the mud and silt. The things that lay buried, and had done for a very long time. Mysterious shapes. Shadows.

"You needn't worry. John Cramer's the last man on earth I'd want to be with. Nancy's welcome to him."

Two overlarge slices of cake untouched on their plates.

Piccadilly Herald The West-Ender May 30, 1927 Summer's arrived to send us all gaga. That old card, that party jester. At the first glimmer of even the tiniest ray of sun, we all go running about the West End in our sandals, exposing our unpalatable toes, displaying our lily-white legs and our flabby arms. My, what an unwieldy sack of potatoes we Londoners are. All through the winter we are so chic in our silver-fox coats and our plumed hats and our nicely cut tweeds. It's as though we've all signed a pact, agreeing not to look or not to care for the next three months.

All this gay abandon simply doesn't bring out the best in me. I am not of the type that is all ruddy complexion and flaxen hair and overflowing wholesomeness. My red-lipped, jethaired white-skinned visage is offset nicely by ice and darkness and the contrasting roaring fires. Today, while dashing about d.i.c.kens & Jones (there are pleasing summer dresses about that place in pastel colors for those who are the pastel type), I beheld my reflection in a long changing room mirror and was, frankly, aghast at my own ghoulishness. I resembled nothing so much as a vampire caught out in the daylight, and don't know what I can do about this beyond a fastidious avoidance of mirrors for the rest of the season.

The hideous truth is that no matter how well dressed one might be or how sharp the angles of one's bob, one can't forever escape the ravages of the years. Summer is kinder to the young, with their golden flesh and their pure souls, than to the likes of me. I suppose I still think of myself as a flapper; indeed, as one of the original flappers: the pioneers who first danced the dances now performed so lithely and casually by the two-a-penny whippersnappers clogging up the floors at Ciro's and Kit-Cat and Salamander. But it's time to face facts: I'm a was-flapper, a former-flapper, a flapper-grown-up or even grown-old. When young gentlemen in tall hats and tails glance in my direction, they're not, as I'd thought, admiring my decolletage or my shapely calves. They're wondering why I'm not at home in a housecoat with the children and the knitting, or tucked up in a twin-bedded room with hubby. I should say, dear readers, that this is not an attempt to garner sympathy. I'm simply stating the facts of this week's shock realization.

But surely it isn't just the unflattering mirror in d.i.c.kens & Jones that has brought this home to me? No, girls. I have been in Dorset, parading about in my swimming costume with a collection of people even older than my good self, who really Should Know Better. Fashionable dissolute types who look terrible in their swimwear; who like to indulge in children's party games and who run about their gardens naked, play panpipes and jump off cliffs. These are people who are becoming increasingly desperate in their refusal to grow old. I suppose what I'm saying is that I don't wish to become one of those those people any more than I wish to join the children-having, churchgoing, flower-arranging set. There must be another way, mustn't there? Please tell me I'm not the only modern girl in this predicament? people any more than I wish to join the children-having, churchgoing, flower-arranging set. There must be another way, mustn't there? Please tell me I'm not the only modern girl in this predicament?

And so it is good to cheer oneself up with ice cream! What a heavenly substance this is. The Yanks have been on to it for years, of course, and sell it by the quart in every corner store. Now it is finally here, too. I suggest you go this very day to your nearest Lyons Corner House (it's certainly being served in their larger establishments, at any rate); crossing town by bus, tram or train if necessary (it's worth it, I promise), and order yourself a dish of their wondrously refreshing and luxurious vanilla, chocolate, strawberry or lemon flavors. (It can't really really be fattening, can it? This meltingly unreal dessert of the G.o.ds?). Around and about the West End today, I noticed that plenty of cafes are putting their tables and chairs out on the pavements, French-style; so where possible, eat your ice cream outside in the sunshine. be fattening, can it? This meltingly unreal dessert of the G.o.ds?). Around and about the West End today, I noticed that plenty of cafes are putting their tables and chairs out on the pavements, French-style; so where possible, eat your ice cream outside in the sunshine.

As I was pa.s.sing through Trafalgar Square yesterday, a man stopped me and tried to sell me some half crowns at a shilling each. Being the suspicious sort, I gave him a skewiff smile and shook my head, whereupon the chap leaped in the air, whooping with glee, and then ran off to try someone else. Too late did I realize that rather than evading his trap, I had stepped neatly into it! Now, it irks me to think that this fellow may win his bet or prove his theory so easily. So, if you come across him, readers, you know what to do, and together we'll have the last laugh.

Only in London...

Diamond Sharp

Six.

"Tell the driver to get a move on, will you?" Grace was resting her head against the leather upholstery, her eyes closed. "I'm absolutely parched." the driver to get a move on, will you?" Grace was resting her head against the leather upholstery, her eyes closed. "I'm absolutely parched."

d.i.c.kie, sitting beside her in the back of the taxi, patted her hand. "Settle back, old girl. There's some sort of holdup. An accident or something. We'll just have to wait."

Opening her eyes, Grace gazed out on Oxford Street, all shuttered shops and stragglers. Selfridges had a melancholy quality about it when closed, like a beautiful girl dolled up for a dance but left a wallflower. "Oh, d.i.c.kie, this is no good. I happen to know there's a nice little place tucked around that corner. Why don't we stop off for a c.o.c.ktail and stroll over to the party in half an hour or so?"

"Won't work. I need to be there to greet the guests." He was twitching at his tuxedo, smoothing his hair again and again, though it was uncharacteristically well oiled, not a strand out of place.

"Darling, you're a bag of nerves. Trust me, a nice c.o.c.ktail would steady you up. That place I mentioned-"

"No." d.i.c.kie's voice was sharp enough to attract the driver's attention. He continued more quietly, "You needn't worry, Grace. There'll be plenty to drink at the party-sufficient even for your needs, I should think."

"d.i.c.kie!" She'd been glad when he'd asked her to partner him to the Herald Herald's party. They threw a party every summer, but this year was also the paper's fifteenth anniversary. The Herald Herald's circulation had soared since d.i.c.kie had taken over as editor in 1925, and it was very much his night. She was touched that he wanted her center stage with him. It suited her, just at present, to be on the arm of someone so absolutely safe as him. Now though, with d.i.c.kie so unpleasant, she wondered if she'd made a mistake.

"Sorry." He patted her leg, his hand lingering for a moment on the red velvet of her dress. "Thing is, Nancy came to see me today..."

"I should have guessed you'd be ganging up with her."

"Don't be so daft. n.o.body's ganging up. Nancy's concerned about you. She says you haven't been in to work at Pearson's for over a week."

"That's none of her business. Or yours."

"She says you're out every night with Dodo and her cronies. And then you hide in your room all day."

"A girl has to get her beauty sleep some some time." time."

"She says you're barely speaking to her. She's blaming herself, thinks she must have done something wrong. What could Nancy have done to warrant that kind of treatment, Grace? Nancy? Nancy? I mean, she's just the loveliest-" I mean, she's just the loveliest-"

"Oh, do shut up about Nancy." Grace fixed her gaze on the pillars of Selfridges. "When is this d.a.m.n taxi going to move move?"

"She says you've gone through pretty much every bottle in the drinks cabinet."

"I'm having a little off patch, d.i.c.kie. That's all. You surely have off patches? Nancy certainly does, though she's conveniently forgotten, it seems. I'd be fine if everyone would just leave me to get on with it and get over it."

d.i.c.kie. That oh-so-familiar face of his-pale and lively and edgy. He wasn't handsome, neither in the cla.s.sical sense nor unconventionally. But he exuded intelligence and wit-practically sweated it out of every pore. And women adored him for it. This would never have been true in reverse, of course. The bright-but-plain sort of girl stood no chance with a high-caliber gentleman. Not unless she was also filthy rich. Perhaps, Grace realized, somewhat randomly, it was the very fear of finding that she herself was the bright-but-plain type that had always driven her to shun that kind of girl and to strive so hard with her appearance, her persona...

"Grace, this is more than an off patch. What's going on? This can't all be about Dexter O'Connell. Can it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Jealousy is not attractive, d.i.c.kie. Not in the least."

A sound that was almost a scoff. "Heavens, you think I'm still in love with you!"

Well, aren't you? The words were almost out. She had to fight them back. Then the embarra.s.sment came flaring up in her face, hot in her cheeks. And the big yawning s.p.a.ce that had been opening up inside her over the last week or so seemed to widen just that little bit further. The words were almost out. She had to fight them back. Then the embarra.s.sment came flaring up in her face, hot in her cheeks. And the big yawning s.p.a.ce that had been opening up inside her over the last week or so seemed to widen just that little bit further.

"I think I should go home." But as she said it, the traffic began to move and the taxi jolted into motion.

"Dead horse in the road," the driver called back over his shoulder. "Can you believe it, in this day and age?"

Grace peered out as they drove past. Three policemen and a couple of workmen were trying to move it out of the road, watched by a bunch of bystanders. Five men struggling to shift one dead horse.

"Come to the party with me, Grace." d.i.c.kie felt for her hand. "I'll stop prying, I promise. You're my best chum, in spite of everything-perhaps because because of everything-and I want you there with me." of everything-and I want you there with me."

The cabaret was already in full swing up on top of the Tivoli Club, in the roof garden. The Chaz Rowney band were playing loud, while a bunch of black dancers from Harlem, in glittery costumes, danced something entirely new. It started out as a Charleston, but as Rowney launched into one of his crazy trombone solos, the dancers broke away from their partners to improvise elaborate solo moves. All around the dance floor, the bright young things were watching closely while the sun went slowly down beyond Trafalgar Square. Some of them were tapping out the steps, determined to be among the first to bring them to London's nightclubs.

"It's the Breakaway." Dodo was wearing a golden dress with a single gold-painted rose threaded into her hair. "Quite something, isn't it?" She was flanked on either side by Topping and Humphries. They'd become, so Grace had thought of late, her guard dogs. They were always with her, but you didn't have to bother speaking to them anymore. You might toss them a biscuit quite legitimately.

"Looks like a Charleston with a bit of extra showing off," said Grace. "Perhaps dances will always be variations on the Charleston from now on. It's the definitive dance, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, there's another column," said Dodo. "I wish my my job was so easy." job was so easy."

Grace was looking about for d.i.c.kie, but he was still over by the top of the stairs, shaking hands. "I need a drink." As she said it, a waiter placed a gla.s.s of champagne in her hand.

"I bet you do." Dodo took one for herself. "That's him him, isn't it?" She gestured across the roof.

Grace hadn't seen O'Connell since the morning she'd run from Sam Woolton's house. He looked unworldly tonight in a suit of purest white with a single red rose, the same red as her dress, in the b.u.t.tonhole. The only man not to be wearing a black dinner jacket. He was standing talking to a girl in front of a white-painted fence entwined with plastic vines and lilies and fairy lights. As Grace looked over, he caught her eye and smiled distantly-the kind of smile you'd give to an acquaintance. His raven-haired companion, in a blue satin dress that glowed green under the lights, was familiar.

"Yes it's him all right. And that's not all. I know the girl, too."

It was Margaret the typist, her face all over an ecstatic kind of happiness until she belatedly spotted Grace and adjusted her expression. Her hair was newly bobbed, her gla.s.ses abandoned. Poor cow was wandering blindly about the place so as not to be seen in those thick-lensed specs of hers. The transformation was remarkable, though. The bob had the look of Marcus Rino about it. The dress showed a figure far better than Grace would have suspected. Margaret didn't look like Margaret, and in a good way. But how did she come to be here?

"Gwace!" Sheridan, appearing suddenly at her side, was all painted up in thick Egyptian makeup, prompting many a stare. "I'm not sure whether to thank you or curse you for that column of yours the other week. You have such a sweet-and-sour tongue that I simply can't tell if you're fwiend or foe."

"Barbed, that's what her tongue is," said Dodo, helpfully. "Barbed like the wire."

Grace was still glancing across at O'Connell and Margaret, and experiencing the oddest sensation-a kind of slow fall. Was she falling or was the roof garden around her rising? It was impossible to tell.

"Did you like the club?" There was a touch of anxiety in Sheridan's voice. "I have to know what you weally think, darling, just between ourselves." you like the club?" There was a touch of anxiety in Sheridan's voice. "I have to know what you weally think, darling, just between ourselves."

It took an effort to focus her attention on him, what with those two standing just over there...

"It's as I said. Yours is the most remarkable club in London."

"Gwace, you're incowwigible." He looked, as he spoke, like the little boy he once was. She could see him in their garden, squealing in alarm while she and Nancy tortured worms in front of him. And the memory brought with it other memories...a veritable cascade of them.

"What were you up to, calling in on my mother the other day? It wasn't just about the photographs, was it? If I was paranoid, I'd say you waited for a time when Nancy and I were away so you could get her on her own..."

"Not at all. Don't be daft." He appeared to be waiting for Dodo to wander off before continuing. "I wanted to talk to Cathewine about my mother. That's all. I miss her so so much and yet I feel I've never understood her. There weren't many people who were close to Amelia-she didn't let people in." While he spoke, he kept fiddling with his signet ring. much and yet I feel I've never understood her. There weren't many people who were close to Amelia-she didn't let people in." While he spoke, he kept fiddling with his signet ring.

"But our mothers hadn't seen each other for years, you know that. I can't imagine Catherine would have had anything very enlightening to say?"

"Well..." Still he twisted at that ring. His face looked just the way it did when he fibbed as a small boy.

"What's really really going on, Sheridan?" A memory flickered up. "Last time I saw you, you wanted to talk to me confidentially about something. What was it?" going on, Sheridan?" A memory flickered up. "Last time I saw you, you wanted to talk to me confidentially about something. What was it?"

His kohl-rimmed gaze darted about, landing anywhere but on her. "It's not the time or the place, darling."

"Then I'll come to see you tomorrow. I could drop by your house."

"All wight."

Grace watched him slip off through the throng. Perhaps Catherine had been wrong when she said he didn't know what had happened all those years ago...

The glittering dancers sashayed off, to be replaced by a bunch of stilt-walkers dressed as c.o.c.ktails. Then came a magician who did tricks with newspaper: pouring water into a copy of the Herald Herald and shaking it out dry; ripping it into tiny pieces and transforming the shreds into paper dolls; placing the dolls in a dish, setting fire to them, quenching the flames and pulling forth a gigantic, intact copy of the and shaking it out dry; ripping it into tiny pieces and transforming the shreds into paper dolls; placing the dolls in a dish, setting fire to them, quenching the flames and pulling forth a gigantic, intact copy of the Herald Herald with a photograph of d.i.c.kie's face on its front page. with a photograph of d.i.c.kie's face on its front page.

At this point the music stopped and the spotlight skidded across the crowd to fix on a jubilant d.i.c.kie.