‘Telephone for Miss Penelope.’
Mama’s eyes flashed. ‘Was it a gentleman, Mary?’
‘It’s Miss Charlotte, madam.’
Mama sighed with relief. ‘Run along then, darling.’
Charlotte could hardly get the words out fast enough. ‘It’s Marina!’ she gasped.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s called off the wedding! She turned up on the doorstep about an hour after breakfast, still wearing last night’s dress, and smoking like mad. Well, luckily for her, the aged aunt was out at the races, so I bundled her into the house and gave her tea and crumpets — she ate the lot, the greedy pig; can’t have been that distressed, I’d say — and she talked all about how silly she’d been and how she realised last night after seeing you and Harry together that she was making a terrible mistake and she didn’t really love George, and all she wanted was to be with Harry for ever.
‘I don’t believe you!’ I gasped, my heart hammering.
‘It’s all true, honestly. And wait for the rest! An hour later, George arrived—’
‘He didn’t!’
‘He did! He was terribly controlled and beautifully dressed I might add, saying he just wanted to talk to Marina and make her see sense. He was so jolly nice and polite, I was quite ready to let him in, though Marina had eaten just about everything so there wasn’t much to offer him anyway — but she’d made us promise that if he appeared we were to pretend that we didn’t know where she was.
‘No!’
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte impatiently. ‘He left ten minutes later. I hid Marina, just in case he decided to burst through the door like something out of the films. Harry’s absolutely bewildered beyond belief,’ she went on. ‘He turned up half an hour after she’d gone, heard the news and went into a sort of daze and says that he won’t speak to Anyone At All about the situation, and if any of the gossip columns call, we’re to say that he’s flown to Spain for a month.’
There was a pause. My hands were shaking, I noticed. Actually, properly shaking.
‘Goodness,’ I said slowly. ‘So the plan actually worked? She really was jealous of me?’
‘You looked sensational last night,’ said Charlotte matter-of-factly. ‘It would have been virtually impossible for her not to be jealous. Marina was raving on about your “bewitching smile” and how she nearly fell to the floor with rage when Harry kissed you. I must say, I nearly fell to the floor after that. It was so utterly Vanity Fair.’
I giggled, feeling rather better all of a sudden. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course.
There was another pause.
‘Isn’t Rocky Dakota wonderful?’ I said.
‘Dreamy. But far too old for us, despite his beautiful suit. Still, we should be able to sting him for a couple of decent dinners.’
I laughed. ‘Didn’t you like the way he talked?’
‘He’s very charming. But underneath all that chat, he thinks we’re little girls, Penelope. Heavens, get him out of your head, for goodness’ sake.’
‘He’s about the only man I’ve ever met who hasn’t treated me like a little girl,’ I said huffily.
‘Ah, that’s his great talent. Making girls like us feel old and sophisticated is a very clever thing.’
‘Why should he want to bother doing that, anyway?’
‘Because we’re his target market, of course!’ said Charlotte instantly. She sounded so close, it was as if she were in the next room. ‘We’re the ones watching the films he produces and buying the records he makes. I don’t blame him for his interest in our lives — in fact I think it’s jolly flattering. But really, Penelope, you mustn’t get any other ideas about him. That would be too silly for words.’
There wasn’t much I could think of to say to this.
‘When shall we meet?’ demanded Charlotte. ‘I’m suffering Magna withdrawal symptoms of the most violent nature.
‘Come down on Saturday. Mama’s going off to stay with my godmother Belinda again.’
I could hear Mama shuffling around loudly in the drawing room. This was a tactic that she frequently used when I was on the telephone — make me think that she was settling down in front of the fire, when she was actually stealing into the hall to eavesdrop.
‘I have to go,’ I hissed.
Replacing the receiver, I wished that Inigo was with us and not at dreary school. He was much better at diffusing Mama’s moods than I was. One of his most successful diffusion tactics was simply to turn on the wireless, because Mama, quite out of character, was utterly seduced by the BBC. No sooner had I sat down with my book (no chance of anything of any importance sinking in of course), than the telephone bell rang again. Mama looked up, eyes sharp.
‘Mary won’t want to trail back from the kitchen again,’ I said. ‘You’d better get it, Mama.’ I felt certain that if it was Rocky, he would know how to charm her.
She threw me a suspicious glance, and I watched her flounce out of the room and heard the delicate clatter of her little shoes on the hall floor.
‘Hello, Milton Magna… Oh, darling! What on earth are you doing on the telephone? … Suspended! … What does that mean?… What were you doing?.. Oh, Inigo… I’ll have to send Johns and you know how difficult he’s being at the moment … It’s just too careless, it really is … How long will you be at home for? … Ooh, but that means you could come with me to the theatre tomorrow night, darling. Every cloud …’
She replaced, the receiver without saying goodbye and I heard her hurrying back into the drawing room. Her face was flushed and animated, her eyes full of fire.
‘Well?’ I demanded.
‘Inigo’s been suspended from school. He’s going to explain everything when he gets here. I imagine he’s been answering back Mr Edwards again.’
And I imagine he’s been caught listening to the radio again, I thought.
‘He’s on his way home now,’ said Mama.
‘Are you happy?’ I asked her, straight out. She bit her bottom lip in an attempt to halt the broad grin that was spreading across her face and answering my question more effectively than any words.
‘He’s a very irresponsible little boy,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Go and tell Mary that it’ll be a family supper tonight. Goodness knows how long he’ll be here for,’ she went on. ‘I suppose we should wait and see what the inevitable letter from the headmaster says. I thought we could all go to the theatre tomorrow night? Tickets for Salad Days are on offer this week. We’re looking for a P-I-A-N-O!‘ she sang loudly.
‘Shouldn’t Inigo be made to stay at home and think about the error of his ways?’ I asked slyly. I felt certain that had I been suspended from school, Mama’s reaction would have been quite different.
‘I think he knows he’s gone too far,’ said Mama, assuming a serious expression. ‘But if the school is silly enough to think that sending him home is some sort of punishment—’’
‘You’re supposed to feed him bread and water and make him deliver food packages to the aged poor or something,’ I said, slightly irritated.
‘Aged poor my foot,’ scoffed Mama. ‘I’m the aged poor. She honestly believed that, too.
Inigo arrived home just before supper looking sheepish, hair combed forward like Elvis Presley. Mama tried to be stand-offish, but of course it was Inigo so this lasted for about twenty seconds.
‘I’m to stay home for a week,’ he announced, trying desperately to keep from sounding too gleeful.
‘Are you sure they’re going to let you back in at all?’ I asked. I couldn’t imagine for one moment that Inigo contributed anything positive to academic life.
‘Course they will. They need me for the First Eleven.’ He ran a few paces into the hall and bowled an imaginary ball at the portrait of Great-Uncle John. I giggled. ‘What’s for supper, Mama?’ he demanded.
‘Fish pie.’
‘Grim. I should have stayed at school.’
‘Well, how about toast and anchovy paste and
cocoa?’ ventured Mama.
‘And the wireless!’ I added. ‘Hancock’s on at seven!’
‘Go and tell Mary she can leave early then.’
Inigo and I raced off together, and for that moment all thoughts of Rocky and Harry and kissing at the Ritz felt a million miles away. I felt small again.
Like the rest of the country, we were brought up listening to the wireless, and I know now, as I did then, that wartime existence without the crackly familiarity of Listen With Mother would have been unbearable. When the television first opened its doors, most people were unconvinced. Mama, for example, was reluctant to embrace it, and deeply admired people like Winston Churchill who claimed that it was a ‘peep show’ that would destroy proper family time and the art of conversation. As our family had already been destroyed by the war and the three of us rarely talked about anything that extended outside the parameters of Magna, I was hard pushed to agree with this philosophy. Inigo, hot off the mark a ever, was determined that we should watch the Coronation, and succeeded in persuading Mama that we were doing our duty to Queen and Country by flocking to Mrs Daunton’s niece in the next village to watch our new queen being crowned, and by the time everyone had finished wiping their eyes and saying, ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Oh, it can’t have been better from inside the Abbey itself,’ Mama had been quite converted. But still she refused to let us have a television set, sticking resolutely with the wireless — her first love, and ours too. We were gripped weekly by Hancock’s Half Hour (Mama in particular) and nothing could have been more blissful, nor more of a comfort, than toast and the wireless. Sometimes we wouldn’t talk for hours on end, all three of us riveted by a play. and yet we would say goodnight feeling far closer than we would on an ordinary evening. The wireless was part of the family. as comforting as an old friend. That night we didn’t talk much, but we listened, and crunched our toast, and outside the night sky darkened and I heard an owl hooting, and I felt that warmth that comes from being inside and safe with one’s family. When we finally switched the radio off, Mama forced Inigo to confess why he had been suspended, saying that if he didn’t tell her then she would only find out from the headmaster.
‘I was listening to Radio Luxembourg when I should have been in prep,’ he said. ‘I’ve been caught three times now. They don’t understand—”
But Mama’s mood had changed. Now that Inigo’s suspension was to do with pop music, a different light had been cast on the situation. She shook her head.
‘I don’t need school,’ he said quietly. ‘I want to leave now, and get myself to Memphis—’
‘No. I won’t hear this again, Inigo.’
‘I feel so trapped, Mama. Can’t you see that? There’s so much music inside me, I feel as if I could explode with it all. But it’s no good, is it?’
‘Nobody’s trapped,’ said Mama. ‘Stop being so dramatic!’ Oh! I had to stop myself from shouting out things about pots and kettles when she said that.
‘But there could be a way. Mama,’ persisted Inigo. ‘There could be a way that I could save Magna—”
‘Singing? You could save Magna by singing? Inigo, I won’t listen to this any more, do you understand? I won’t hear it any more!’ She stood up and actually loomed over him, something that I had never seen her do before. ‘The best thing you could do is try to finish school without being expelled. Try not to be sent home for doing silly things. Try to pass your exams and get a good report at the end of term. Give me something to feel proud of, for God’s sake.’
She delivered this little speech in a most un-Talitha way. She spoke through gritted teeth, voice steady, eyes steely hard. Inigo and I, who had heard it before through tears and hysteria, felt uncomfortable. It was the first time that we felt she really meant it. She crossed the room to the drinks tray, poured herself an enormous brandy and left the room.
‘I could do it, you know,’ said Inigo quietly. His dark hair fell forward over his pretty eyes and he pulled out his comb and swept it back again. He had got so good at these self-conscious gestures that I had almost ceased to notice them; they had become part of his make-up.
‘You can understand why Mama worries,’ I said.
‘But what choice have we? I can’t see you marrying a rich man in the next two years. The house is crumbling, Penelope. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do!’ I cried, close to tears. ‘You think I don’t notice? Sometimes when I’m lying in bed at night I imagine I can hear the place groaning, like a dying patient.’
Inigo winced. ‘So no rich husbands emerging?’
‘No, of course not. Although I did have a lovely chat last night with an American called Rocky Dakota. He’s—’
Inigo’s eyes widened. ‘Rocky Dakota? The film producer? You met Rocky Dakota?’
‘Well, yes. And why do you have to sound so surprised?’
‘I need to meet him.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s rich and he knows people. Why else?’ Inigo stood up. ‘He could help me. He could help us. Don’t tell me that the thought hasn’t entered you mind, Penelope.’
‘Well, I suppose it did, briefly. I told him about you. I said you played the guitar and sang—
‘You get me to meet Rocky Dakota, Penelope. Get me to him and I’ll make enough money for us to save Magna fifty times over.
He was so certain. I don’t think it mattered to me terribly whether he was right or wrong. All that made sense was that he believed it. It was good enough for me.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said.
For the next three days, Ingio, Mama and I lived in comparative peace. We avoided certain topics of conversation — school, Elvis Presley, the state of the ceilings at Magna, Americans and film producers — and concentrated instead on the garden and the wireless. We went to church, we picked flowers, we read the papers and I ploughed through an essay on Tennyson with Charlotte’s help. Over the telephone she told me that Marina was being hounded by the press, and that George was telling everyone that he would fight to win her back, come hell or high water. Harry, on the other hand, had temporarily vanished.
‘I think he’s a bit shocked by what he’s started,’ said Charlotte.
‘Aunt Clare keeps on saying how infra dig it is to be the third party in a break-up like this. She’s convinced you’re dying of a broken heart.’
‘I am,’ I said sadly. ‘Rocky hasn’t called.’
I thought of him every night before I went to sleep, and he filled my head from the moment I awoke. The telephone tortured me — sometimes with its silence, other times with the thudding disappointment that accompanied the ringing that was never him.
On Friday night, Mama set off for the weekend. ‘Look after the place, won’t you, darlings?’ she asked us, immaculate in her green wool suit.
‘Yes, Mama,’ we chorused.
But as it happened, it wasn’t Magna that needed looking after. It was the person who turned up who did.
Chapter16
THE INTRUDER
I couldn’t sleep that night. I would like to be able to say that it was because I was too worried about Inigo and Magna and Mama, but realty it was because I couldn’t stop thinking about Rocky, Johnnie and Harry. Johnnie and Harry and Rocky.
‘Rocky’s not right for you, kid,’ said Johnnie, coming to me in my half-wakened state, eyes full of concern but smiling all the same. ‘I’m the only man for you.’
‘Why do I loathe Harry for what he did to me at the party? It was all part of the plan, after all. I just feel so — so used, Johnnie. And what is it about Rocky Dakota? I know he’s too old for me, but thinking of his face just turns me to jelly.’
‘Hell, kid, haven’t I been doing that for years?’
‘But he’s real, Johnnie. I’ve had real conversations with him, not make-believe like we do.’
‘Make-believe?’
And so it went on. I glanced at my clock at three in the morning and decided that as Johnnie was only confusing me,
I should try to immerse myself in Shakespeare. Of course, what I actually did was pull Good Housewife out from under my bed (not a great magazine for a girl like me but I liked their short stories and they talked more about sex than the others) and settled back to read for ten minutes. I was so captivated by the final instalment of a Joan Bawden domestic drama that I didn’t hear the knocking until it was accompanied by the sound of the door opening and Inigo’s skinny frame appeared in my room, pyjamas buttoned up to his neck and glasses on, making him more John from Peter Pan than Elvis Presley.
‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.
‘Reading a magazine,’ I answered in surprise. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Can’t you hear it?’
‘What?’
‘The noise downstairs!’
‘What noise?’
‘Shhhh!’
‘I can’t hear anything,’ I complained, but my heart began to hammer. Ghosts were one thing, but intruders were quite another.
‘I think it might be a burglar,’ said Inigo, confirming my fears. ‘I think I heard footsteps in the hall.’
‘Footsteps!’ I bleated.
‘I’ll have to go and find out.’ He pulled his cricket bat out from behind his back. ‘Lucky I brought this home with me. I thought you could bowl to me tomorrow. I need to get in some practice before the start of the season.’
‘How can you think about cricket at a time like this!’ I demanded. Inigo was unbelievable sometimes.
‘I was just pointing out that it was lucky I had—”
‘Oh, shut up! What happens if they’re armed?’ I jibbered.
‘Then they will have to contend with my off drive,’ he said, swiping the air with his bat.
‘Shall I come too?’
‘You stay back here. You’d probably get in my way.’
‘We should have a code,’ I said quickly. ‘In case you get into real trouble.’
‘The code will consist of me shouting “Help!” at the top of my voice. Then you can call the police.’