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‘You’re getting your historical dramas a bit muddled, darling,’
said Lettice. ‘But it sounds like Josephine’s in for a ghastly afternoon. All those boys do when they get together is bitch and squab-ble and talk about money.’
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‘Trust me – I’m more than a match for them with the bitching and squabbling as long as we get to the money eventually,’
Josephine laughed. ‘By the way, what did you mean about my bringing a mystery with me?’
‘Oh, there was some nasty business at the railway station last night,’ said Lettice, whose grasp of real-life tragedy was never quite as acute as her ability to bring it to the fore on stage. ‘The papers are beautifully melodramatic about it this morning, but we don’t want that to ruin our breakfast. What I’m dying to know,’ she continued, casting a sly glance at Ro
Josephine agreed. ‘I wasn’t with them for very long, but Lydia didseem happy. And it wasn’t that sickly new-love happiness, either. I have to admit, coming down on the train I was dreading that – it’s always so embarrassing when you’re stuck in the middle of it. It was contentment as much as happiness and I’ve never seen that in Lydia before – she’s always been too restless.’
‘And Marta?’ Lettice asked again, determined to have her verdict.
‘Well, she’s another beauty, certainly. And she seems very nice,’
she finished, conscious of delivering the sort of anti-climax which would never stand up to the Motleys’ relentless gaze.
‘Nice? What sort of word is that for a writer?’ demanded Ro
‘That she’s got big dark eyes,’ Josephine said, with a native 37
matter-of-factness that even the Motleys could not penetrate.
‘You surely don’t believe all that nonsense about reading character in the face, do you? I only ever use that when I’ve got myself into a bit of a hole with the plot and need to move things along.
To be honest, she really didn’t say very much at all and that in itself is a good thing, if you want my opinion. But what she did say seemed awfully – well, nice.’
‘Talking of the strong but silent type, our dear cousin telephoned at the crack of dawn to make sure you were all right and to say he was coming over this morning,’ said Ro
In perfectly timed acknowledgement of Ro
When the housekeeper returned, the man who followed her did seem distinctly at odds with merriment. Certainly, he bore scant resemblance to the Archie Penrose who, in spite of his cousin’s unjust reproach, usually left his job firmly behind when he came to call on the Motleys and blended beautifully into the chic eccentric-ity of their studio.
‘Good God, Archie, you look absolutely awful,’ said Ro
Josephine shared the Motleys’ concern at Archie’s mood, but not their surprise. During a friendship that had spa
instantly comfortable in his company and who was genuinely interested in everyone he met; and the detached, serious observer, whose liking for his fellow man did not blind him to the baser motivations of the human mind or to the pain which underpi
Penrose waved away all offers of food but gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. ‘I need to talk to Josephine,’ he said, looking at her for the first time. ‘In private, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about us – we only live here,’ muttered Ro
‘Just ignore her, darling, we’ve got to go out anyway. Lydia needs a few alterations done in time for this afternoon. In spite of the plague, it would appear that A
Some people just have no self-discipline when it comes to food.’
Right on cue, Mrs Snipe reappeared and, ignoring Archie’s protestations, placed in front of him a plateful of perfectly cooked kidneys and something that looked suspiciously like a kipper. As the Motleys bustled round, fetching coats and scarves and the various bits of costume that they needed for the afternoon, Josephine looked questioningly at Archie. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quietly.
‘In a minute,’ he said, waiting for the sisters to leave. She carried on opening her mail, glad to have something to do, but her attention kept straying back to Archie. She watched as he ran his fingers idly up and down the handle of his coffee cup, lost in his own thoughts and, for a moment, the gesture took her back to the summer of 1919, when they had met for the first time after the war and his face had expressed the same concentrated sadness as it did now. By that time, the initial bond between them – her lover and Archie’s closest friend – had been dead for almost three years, 39
killed helping another officer at the Somme, and Archie had finally come to see her in Scotland. She would never forget the pain in his voice as he described to her how, in the midst of that senseless slaughter, all for the sake of a few yards of mud, Jack Mackenzie, a young private from the 2nd Gordon Highlanders, had responded to a cry from no man’s land. There, another soldier, who had lain motionless near the German wire for nigh on two days and was believed by the British troops to be beyond all aid, had, in defiance of nature, regained consciousness and called for help. Following all the instincts of his training – which was medical, not military –
Jack had left his trench and walked the short distance to where the man lay. Armed only with a handkerchief, which he waved in the direction of the higher ground held by the enemy, he arrived unscathed and was allowed to dress the wounds as best he could, giving the soldier a drink and reassurance that a stretcher party would be sent to gather him safely in under the cover of darkness.