The Jewel Box Part 23

The Past November 5, 1925. Grace and d.i.c.kie stood with two-year-old Tilly on the Heath, watching some men build a bonfire, heaping up a great stack of branches, bits of old furniture and broken-up crates. It was a clear, fine day, but the air had a touch of winter in it. A touch of death. 5, 1925. Grace and d.i.c.kie stood with two-year-old Tilly on the Heath, watching some men build a bonfire, heaping up a great stack of branches, bits of old furniture and broken-up crates. It was a clear, fine day, but the air had a touch of winter in it. A touch of death.

"Where's the fire?" asked Tilly.

"They light the fire tonight, darling." Grace's voice was weary. She'd already explained this a number of times. "And there'll be a firework display and baked potatoes and-"

"I want the fire now!" Tilly folded her arms and put out her sulky lip.

"Don't worry, sweetie." d.i.c.kie patted her on the shoulder. "We'll all come up here tonight to join in and watch them burn Guy Fawkes." When Tilly abruptly burst into tears and ran away across the gra.s.s, he appeared stunned. "What did I say? Should I run after her?"

"Don't worry." Grace put her arm through his. "She won't go far. Thing is, I'm not sure she's properly understood the Guy Fawkes story. She might have thought you were saying they were going to burn a real person."

"Sorry, Gracie. I suppose I'm just not used to children. What a clot."

"Rubbish. You're lovely with her. Poor little thing's not herself at the moment."

Tilly had darted closer to the men now, drawn to the great pile of wood. She'd stopped crying, had picked up a small branch and was trailing it along the ground behind her.

The wood stack was already nine feet high. Tonight's fire would be a huge, roaring, leaping one. The thought of it-the very notion of something that was all energy, all hunger, all heat-made Grace shudder and cling closer to d.i.c.kie. Thank G.o.d she had d.i.c.kie. Her rock.

"When the time comes, George wants to be cremated," she said quietly.

"Really? How peculiar. I thought you said there was a family mausoleum in Highgate Cemetery?"

"Yes." She was still staring at that huge wood stack and at the child who was now circling it. Running round and round with her arms outstretched, pretending to be an airplane. "But he doesn't want to be put in it. He has nightmares about being shut inside coffins and trapped under cold stone. He's asked me to help Nancy explain it all to his parents."

"Poor chap. Poor parents, come to that."

"d.i.c.kie." Grace was fighting tears. "Could we go away somewhere? Afterward, I mean? I couldn't leave Nancy for longer than a few days. But I do think I'm going to want a few days away from it all. I'd like some breathing s.p.a.ce so that I can rally myself a bit. Come back stronger and be more of a help to her. Would that be all right?"

"Of course, my darling. Whatever you want." He took her in his arms and she let her head rest against his shoulder.

"The doctor says it might only be a matter of days." The wind sent the dead leaves scattering all around and about them. And then, "Nancy's pregnant again. Almost three months. She's sick as a dog."

"I know," he said quietly. "You've already told me."

"What will we do without him?" She stood there in d.i.c.kie's arms, knowing that he was holding her together. Holding her up. If he let go of her right now, she might just fall.

Later that afternoon, Grace took a seat beside George's bed as she always did at this time. Nancy was downstairs with Tilly. The day nurse had gone home and the night nurse hadn't yet arrived.

George, rake-thin and hollow in the face, was propped up on his pillows. He couldn't get out of bed on his own now.

"Mind if I open a window?" Grace got up without waiting for a reply and fumbled with the catch. The room smelled very bad. As if the cancer was rotting him from the inside. Perhaps it was.

The doctors didn't seem to know where the cancer had started or when. It had crept its way through him, spreading fast while he remained oblivious. He likened it to a silent, stealthy and utterly deadly army. By the time he'd been diagnosed, it had conquered his lymphatic system and invaded his lungs.

Inevitably, George blamed the war. Claimed he'd been poisoned by gas in the trenches. They'd been sent gas mask after gas mask, all different designs, but none of them had proved effective against the foul stuff the Germans wafted at them. They'd even succeeded in ga.s.sing themselves a few times, when the wind happened to be blowing the wrong way.

"You look awful." George's voice was thin and breathless, transparent in quality. "When did you last see your hairdresser?"

"Cheeky!" She came back over and patted his knees through the blankets. He looked so small. As if he'd shrunk in length as well as breadth. "Haven't exactly had a lot of time for that kind of thing lately."

"Now, now." He wagged a finger. "Don't you let yourself go, young lady. You'll never catch a husband that way." As he said this, he reached for her hand. His hand was surprisingly warm and firm.

"Who says I want one?" She wanted to sit there forever, her hand in his. They hadn't held hands like this in more than three years. "There's only one man I've ever wanted to marry. I was waiting for him to ask me but he went and married someone else."

"Rubbish. You'd never have said yes. You're one of those infuriating women who's only interested in the things they can't have."

"Think that if you like. You didn't ask so you'll never know."

His eyes seemed to roam across her face. "I know all there is to know about you, Grace."

For three years they'd been courteous and considerate to each other. She had stuck to her decision that their relationship had to end, and he had respected that. Neither had made any reference to their affair in all that time. But just lately, this last week or so, they'd become playful and sentimental around each other. Now that he'd been robbed of a future, George was choosing to live in the past. And Grace was allowing herself to go there with him, just a little.

"What about d.i.c.kie?" His words broke the magic.

"I don't want to talk about d.i.c.kie."

"Has he proposed to you?"

She pulled her hand from his.

"He has, has, hasn't he? What was your answer?" hasn't he? What was your answer?"

"George, please. I said I don't want to talk about him."

"Ha!" His eyes glittered. "I knew it! Same old Grace. Like I said, you're only interested in what you can't have."

"If you must know, I told him it was the wrong time to ask me. I can't think about getting married at the moment. Surely you of all people should understand that. I don't think I'll ever get married, actually."

"I see," he said, flatly. "Perhaps that's just as well."

"What exactly do you mean by that?" She was looking at his hair. Still thick and coppery, streaked through with gold. She was looking at his sad, hazel eyes.

"I'm going to ask something of you, Grace."

"No." She knew what was coming. "Don't say it. Please. The answer is yes, but please don't speak it. I can't bear to hear it."

"You irritating baggage! How could you possibly know what I'm going to say?"

"I know all there is to know about you too, George." The smallest of smiles which slipped quickly away. A sigh. "Of course I'll look after Nancy and Tilly. And the baby when it comes. You know I will."

His face became serious. "Promise me they'll always come first, Grace. You're the only person who can do that for me. You're the only one I can ask. I want you there with her when she has the baby. I want you always to be there because I can't be."

"Oh George, please please stop." Tears clouded her eyes. stop." Tears clouded her eyes.

"It's been the three of us for a long time, hasn't it? Since Steven died. I wonder what would have happened if he'd lived?"

"Everything would have been different. Four is such a different number."

"So is two," he said. "Two is what you'll be soon, you and Nancy. Two is a good number."

"There's Mummy too, don't forget."

He waved a dismissive hand. Catherine didn't count. Not in this calculation. And nor did d.i.c.kie, apparently.

"Promise me, Grace."

"Yes, yes. I've already said it, haven't I?" She batted his hand away. Her best impression of bright and breezy. "Now do shut up about it. How about I give you a shave? Get you all smartened up for Nancy when she comes up to see you. Would you like that?"

"Oh, not now." He sank back against his pillows. "I'm too tired." His face, with the eyes shut, was barely more than a skull.

She took his hand again and held it and they sat silently for a while. Eventually, he seemed to have fallen asleep and she laid his hand gently down and got up to leave.

"What a lovely dream." His eyes were still closed but a smile played around the corners of his mouth.

She patted his knee. "See you later, petal."

It would be the last time they'd speak to each other.

Piccadilly Herald The West-Ender June 20, 1927 Dexter O'Connell Heads for Home The following is a farewell message from a toiling scribe to his Muse, a message which the scribe has, for reasons unknown to himself (but perhaps to do with his ingrained tendency to live his private life in public), decided to put in a newspaper. Indulge me if you will. My darling lady, on our first encounter I thought you couldn't be more exhilarating, varied, elegant or unpredictable. I was wrong. With each day that pa.s.ses you become more exciting. I see you before me all decked out in vivid red. Red, the color of blood and of danger, is your true color. It becomes you. You're so changeable. I have only to blink, and everything is different. You're more hectic than you used to be, my love. You pulse with a nervous, restless energy that approaches madness. Indeed, you're famous for it. Yet there is an order underlying your chaotic surface. And your best features have about them a permanence and grandeur. You will endure, my love. You will live forever.

In the mornings you're fresh and sparkling. Enlivened by the new day. In the ripe golden afternoons you're languid and relaxed. You're at your most exotic at night, glittering through those long summer evenings, dazzling in the dark. Your music is stirring, your dance divine. It has to be said, though: you can be a little dirty.

In a few days I am due to return to my wife. Yes, it's true. I belong somewhere else. My wife is more straitlaced than you, more bogged down in rules and regulations, more religious. Perhaps that's why I stay away from her for long stretches of time. She's younger than you, yet she's obsessed with history and traditions and is all caught up in the most sn.o.bbish of social codes. Maybe that's because because she's young. Still, there's more fun to be had behind her closed doors than is at first apparent. And after all, she belongs to me and I to her. I'll always return. she's young. Still, there's more fun to be had behind her closed doors than is at first apparent. And after all, she belongs to me and I to her. I'll always return.

I have other lovers dotted around the globe. This won't make anyone like me better, but I'm just not the kind to hang around too long. At least I'm honest about it. People may tut and wag their fingers, but would they be able to resist the lure of that little French thing any better than I? She's so chic, bohemian, artistic and-well-frisky. Yes, all right, she's snotty too, but n.o.body's perfect.

But forget Paris. Forget my own New York. You, lovely London, are the biggest and the best city in the world. This has been my first visit in seven years, and boy, did you have some surprises up your sleeve. The shock of Piccadilly Circus without Eros, a face without a nose, while somewhere under the ground, an enormous subterranean station is being birthed from rock. Perhaps it will be the biggest in the bewildering network that is tunneling its way beneath you. Up above there's so much more traffic than there used to be, but you're taming it with all your rules and regulations, your spangly new traffic lights. This is what characterizes London, to me: the conflict between crackling craziness and tightly ordered control. The buildings have been growing year on year, like children. Look at all those big department stores and banks that have sprung up with their Greco-Egyptian pillars and cla.s.sical Italianate statues; their modern black granite, geometrical lines and smooth curves. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to thumb your noses at us upstart Yanks. Well, we'll see who laughs last.

What a pleasure it's been to relax in your pubs with a pint of beer or sip champagne in your sw.a.n.ky nightspots. "Greetings, Constable. Fancy a tipple?" No padlocks here, no drinking dens, no flask in the jacket pocket, no climbing out the back window when the cops come in through the front door. Other things make less sense, such as your worship of the game of "football" (though, yes, the new Wembley Stadium is something to behold). Also cricket, clearly an ancient forebear of baseball struggling against the imperative of Darwinian evolution. Do yourselves a favor and give it up. Then there's the way you cook a steak-is this in fact a side product of your leather-tanning process? Then there's the rain...

Enough quibbling. One can always find fault if that's the lens through which one chooses to view the world. This is my leave-taking declaration. My darling, you have been my inspiration. You're a wonderfully crazy set of contradictions. You took a cold, dead heart and made it beat again. Perhaps I have been afraid of my own throbbing heart. Perhaps I am simply not a good man. Whatever the reason, I have wronged you and I apologize. You're not the only one I've wronged, but you're the only one I love. There's another good heart out there, and it's beating the same natty jazz rhythm as yours. I hope you'll find each other. And now, with the blood running hot through his arteries, this Devil is heading home to write his Great Novel. I'm ready to do it, at long last. It will be dedicated to you.

(Diamond Sharp returns next week.)

Two.

Grace had been staying at Sheridan's for almost a week when her mother turned up. It was a hot morning, and she was alone in the pocket-handkerchief back garden, sipping lemonade under a parasol. She heard Catherine before she saw her. A scuffling of shoes on the tiled floor inside and sounds of m.u.f.fled protest, before the French windows were flung open, revealing Mother, flushed in the face, a carpet bag over one arm and the latest issue of had been staying at Sheridan's for almost a week when her mother turned up. It was a hot morning, and she was alone in the pocket-handkerchief back garden, sipping lemonade under a parasol. She heard Catherine before she saw her. A scuffling of shoes on the tiled floor inside and sounds of m.u.f.fled protest, before the French windows were flung open, revealing Mother, flushed in the face, a carpet bag over one arm and the latest issue of Time and Tide Time and Tide under the other-with a tight-mouthed Jenkins following. under the other-with a tight-mouthed Jenkins following.

"Ah, there you are, Grace. This fellow is determined to take my things!"

"I beg your pardon, madam, I was only-"

Catherine dropped the carpet bag. "I know what you were doing. Indeed, I'm well aware of what you're for for. But it doesn't interest me and I'm quite capable of carrying my own bag. Let me make the most of my remaining years as an able-bodied woman, if you please."

Seeing his opportunity, Jenkins swooped on the carpet bag. Catherine's hands were on her hips. "Well, of all the-"

"Mummy, do leave off." Grace grabbed her mother by the shoulders and planted a kiss on a cheek. "It's so so good to see you. Such a lovely surprise. Come and sit down in the shade. Jenkins, could you bring us a jug of the lemonade, please? You must try this lemonade, Mummy. It's really good to see you. Such a lovely surprise. Come and sit down in the shade. Jenkins, could you bring us a jug of the lemonade, please? You must try this lemonade, Mummy. It's really too too delicious. I'm simply fanatical about it." delicious. I'm simply fanatical about it."

"Yes. Well..." Catherine sat down stiffly, looking distracted. "The bag has some clothes in it. Yours. You'd barely brought a thing with you, so far as I could see. I thought to myself, she must be rinsing her smalls out each day by hand or making the maid do it, and neither seemed to me to be appropriate."

"Thank you." Grace reached over and squeezed her hand. "That was very thoughtful. If you'd only telephoned, I'd have-"

"You'd have what? Made some sort of excuse to stop me coming?" She dashed her hand quickly across her face, but wasn't quite fast enough.

"Oh, Mummy. Don't get upset."

"Well." Her face grew redder. "What am I supposed to think? We've heard nothing from you since that first abrupt telephone call. We've no idea when you're coming home. Tilly keeps asking, and I keep worrying, and Nancy's convinced she's offended you horribly in some way she can't understand, poor girl."

"I'm sorry, Mummy."

"So you should be. What is going on, on, young lady?" A large bee buzzed close to Catherine's face, marvelously oblivious to her frenzy. young lady?" A large bee buzzed close to Catherine's face, marvelously oblivious to her frenzy.

"Look, I don't want anyone to worry about me. That's the last last thing I want. I simply need some time to myself. Time to think. That's not exactly easy at home." thing I want. I simply need some time to myself. Time to think. That's not exactly easy at home."

"It's not easy for any of us. Life is very rarely easy." Catherine crossed her arms and stuck her chin out. "We just have to get on with it. But you-running away, losing your job..." She looked about her at the Egyptian statuary and the tiny model pyramids positioned here and there in the flower beds: "And Grace, why did you come here here?"

Jenkins appeared with a tray. The lemonade was a cloudy yellow. Ice cubes jangling bell-like against the gla.s.s jug. They appeared to have a hypnotic effect on Catherine, who sat gazing at them.

Grace waited for Jenkins to go back into the house. "We've always been close, Sheridan and I. He said I could stay for a while."

"Close?" This was delivered with an expression of extreme discomfort. It was rather as if the bee had crawled inside Catherine's clothing, and she knew that at any moment it could be about to sting her.

"He's been the kindest of friends. He's looked after me. He's like a brother, actually..." Her eyes met her mother's-and yes, there it was: a sort of panicked recognition. She poured the lemonade, the ice cubes jostling and splashing their way into the gla.s.ses. She waited.

"So he told you." Catherine's voice was quieter now. "He promised me he wouldn't. You You promised-" promised-"

"Oh, Mummy. It's out of the box now. There's nothing to be done about that."

"No. I suppose not."

"He didn't want to break your confidence. I knew something was going on and I made him tell me. But why didn't you you tell me, the other day? Why did you let me go on believing all the wrong was yours?" tell me, the other day? Why did you let me go on believing all the wrong was yours?"

"Not my secret to tell." A sniff that was somehow dignified. "Your father isn't here to speak for himself. What business would I have blackening his name with his daughter? What good would that have done? Anyway, his bad behavior doesn't excuse mine."

"It sheds an entirely different light on the situation, can't you see that? All four of you were caught up in an utter mess. They had a baby, baby, for goodness' sakes!" for goodness' sakes!"

Catherine stared at the honeysuckle. "Look at those bees. All so busy doing what they're supposed to do. What they were born to do. Where is Sheridan this morning?"

"Over at the Tutankhamun with his bookkeeper. Mummy, you should tell Nancy, too. Now that I know, she's going to have to know, too. It would be so much better coming from you."

"I suppose you're right. Oh dear." She sucked the air in sharply through her teeth and made a visible effort to rally herself. "He's a nice boy, isn't he? Odd, of course, but bright and entertaining. I'd say he's really quite a dear chap." And now a frown. "Frittering his life away though. Rather like someone else I could mention...He really ought to go back to university. Perhaps I should speak to him about it. After all, if I don't, who will?"