'Jim.' The voice of Mrs Blagge, coming from behind them, sounded very sharp indeed. She had joined them from somewhere in the direction of the cars. At the same time Julian Cartwright with equal authority and a good deal of anger, exclaimed: 'That's enough, Blagge. We must all be careful not to upset poor Miss Lennox's friends further.' He emphasized the word 'all'.
Gregory put a comforting arm round Christabel again. It wasn't clear from her expression whether Christabel had taken in the extent of Mr Blagge's venom: she merely looked rather dazed. Then the arrival of Major Cartwright, still immaculate in his white suit and straw hat, meant that the news of Filly Lennox's death had to be broken all over again. Afterwards he kept repeating angrily: 'But what was the girl doing in your bathing-suit, Christabel?', thus making it clear where he thought the responsibility for the tragedy lay.
By the time the ambulance arrived, bringing with it rapid professional - but equally unsuccessful - attempts at resuscitation, the picnic party had been transformed into a very different kind of gathering. The story of the last hour in Filumena Lennox's life had also been pieced together -more or less. Rather less than more, thought Jemima. But that thought she kept to herself for the time being, along with some other thoughts on the subject of the untimely death of a young woman, not totally unlike
Christabel Cartwright in type and colouring, wearing Christabel Cartwright's conspicuous turquoise bathing-costume and magpie hat.
Gregory Rowan was the last person who had actually spoken to Filly Lennox - on the shore among the trees - but he was by no means the last person to have seen her. Several people had caught sight of her in the sea or at any rate of the striking black and white hat bobbing about in the water; but of course everyone had assumed they were looking at Christabel.
After Gregory Rowan had left Filly, he had waded into the sea in his favourite place, under the western cliff, on the other side of the river which divided the shore in half; he had deliberately swum away from the merry gathering on the other side of the little bay. 'For peace,' he said. Jemima guessed that he had also privately decided to dispense with a bathing-costume, in his preferred fashion, and had not wished to advertise the fact. So that when Filly decided, literally, to take the plunge, she had gone to look for him in quite the wrong direction.
Ketty volunteered that a figure in a black and white cap had passed her, striking out rather slowly, in view of the waves, in the general direction of the point: 'I did think it was rather unwise.'
Ketty, in her tight-lipped way, was obviously very shaken by the incident, and evidently blamed herself for not warning the girl about the tide and the currents. 'Believing it however to be Mrs Cartwright and believing she would remember - she couldn't have forgotten that - she used to swim there all the time - once - believing it was my duty to look after the girls ... Besides, Jim Blagge was out there somewhere with the boat. He should have helped her.'
But Jim Blagge was one of the few people who had apparently not seen Filly in her magpie cap, Julian Cartwright being another.
Blanche confirmed that she had seen Filly swimming - 'But it was Mummy, I knew it was Mummy, that was the whole point.' Blanche was on the verge of howling again before Julian Cartwright curtly indicated to Ketty that she should put an end to these hysterics.
Regina's contribution was briefer: 'I swam alone and saw no one and nothing.' Then she added illogically: 'I thought it was Mummy anyway,' and burst into tears. But unlike her sister, she cried quietly.
All the actors had swum in the end, or at least paddled, with the exception of Old Nicola and Major Cartwright. After lunch, at which she had drunk at least her fair share of claret, Nicola had adjourned to the upper shore. Here she had plonked herself down on a comfortable chair unwillingly abstracted by Mrs Blagge from the Cartwright Land-Rover. Robbed of the company of the Major - who rapidly backed away from the prospect of a further tete-a-tete on the subject of the British Raj -Nicola settled down to a little post-prandial sport with the triumphant words: 'Time to watch you naughty boys and girls.' Out of a dark-grey plastic bag which had itself seen better days, she had produced a shapeless mass of knitting of roughly the same colour. (It was part of their power struggle that Nat Fitzwilliam was quite determined Old Nicola should not produce her own knitting on stage during Widow Capet but she had by no means conceded the point.) And then Old Nicola had noticed Filly Lennox staggering towards the sea.
'Staggering, my dears. I'm afraid there's no other word for it. The poor girl was quite - well, you know. She was laughing too, and singing. That Iron Boy song you wouldn't let her sing before, "Cool Repentance". Not that she had anything much to repent about, the poor little duck. And some of the other Iron Boy songs. She looked very happy. I dare say it was a very happy death. We should all try to look at it like that.'
This picture of Filly Lennox, weaving and laughing her way towards the sea, Ophelia-like, singing snatches of songs - worst of all the banned songs of Iron Boy - upset everyone anew. Jemima saw that Tobs's eyes were wet.
'Of course I knew it wasn't Christabel!' continued Nicola. 'I wasn't fooled for a moment. Much smaller bottom. We all spread out as the years pass, don't we my dear?' The old woman turned to Christabel with a well-delivered conspiratorial look. 'And you really have lived well over the past few years, haven't you? Which is funny, because my friend Susan Merlin told me you were absolutely starving in a garret—'
Some of the members of the company remembered amid the general embarrassment that Christabel for one had been strongly opposed to the introduction of Old Nicola into the Larminster Festival. 'She's a positive croaking raven; give me Susan Merlin any time even if she can't remember more than one line in three ... at least that line comes from the right play...' Old Nicola had evidently nosed out Christabel's hostility.
Now feeling that she had created enough trouble for one day, Nicola finished her account of Filly's passage to the sea by timing it precisely, 'Four o'clock. On the dot. I looked at my watch. No, I never make that kind of mistake.' In a lower voice, she added: 'And wasn't one of you naughty boys giving her a bit of a cuddle in the sea? Or was it just a girl giving her a helping hand? I've got eyes in my head, you know. At least it wasn't you, Major, do you remember, you went for a walk onto the cliffs, spying on all the pretty girls where they were changing, I saw you, you old rascal.'
Major Cartwright, curtly denying the motive, did admit the walk. And since Old Nicola did not name the cuddler - or the helper — and nobody had mentioned encountering her in the sea, that parting shot was not thought to be particularly important by the company in general: merely part of Old Nicola's general propensity towards malice. Jemima Shore, who did note it vaguely, pushed the remark to the back of her mind for the time being.
After Nicola lost sight of Filly Lennox, the girl had been alone.
Alone with no one to warn or help her, she had taken the treacherous route to exactly where the currents made by the river debouching its subterranean waters were most dangerous. Somewhere out there a sudden freak wave breaking - not an uncommon occurrence - must have taken her by surprise, filled her mouth with water, then her lungs ... No one of course had seen her getting into difficulty or waving for help or heard her shouting - if she had been able to shout. No one said it aloud but everyone remembered how much Filly had drunk in the course of the picnic. Perhaps she never knew quite what was happening to her. Or perhaps Filly Lennox had waved, waved and struggled desperately for survival, and everyone near her had merely interpreted it as a cheerful salutation from Christabel Cartwright.
That had been Victor Marcovich's experience: and he, like Ketty, blamed himself passionately for the mistake, convinced that he might have done something to save Filly had he known.
'The trouble was I was pissed,' he groaned.
'We were all pissed,' Ollie corrected him. 'I lost the little girl altogether, she vanished. Which one was it? Blanche, the fat one—' He seemed unaware of Blanche's continued presence, standing beside Ketty. 'I dived
off in search of you—' He looked towards Cherry, standing in her once-gay purple poncho, which now had the air of a funeral garment.
'It's all rocks out there, and little bays and inlets at low tide. You do lose sight of people.'
'Yes, I lost sight of you altogether', put in Cherry rather plaintively. 'Where were you? Where did you go?'
Julian ignored her. Then his calm air of authority suddenly broke and he too groaned: 'Oh my God, the poor girl, why did we swim at all? Why didn't I stop you?'
It was Tobs who was in the worst state of all: for it was Tobs who had found Filly's body floating on the surface of the sea, the face half-covered with water; the waves were propelling it inexorably towards the shore.
One of the ambulance men said, before Filly's body was rushed away to hospital, still in the vain hope of resuscitating it: 'It is very dangerous swimming out at the point at low tide. Someone was drowned here I believe a couple of years ago. Also from London.' There was a very faint note of reproach in his voice.
After that no one had much to say. Breaking the news to the world in general and Filly's family in particular was obviously the next painful task to be faced. And breaking the news to the world at any rate - wasn't that at least in part the concern of Nat Fitzwilliam as Festival Director? It was also the concern of the Festival Chairman. Major Cartwright departed in his Bentley to inform such bodies as his Festival Board, with a view to preparing a statement on the whole distressing episode.
'As Chairman, it was my duty to come to this festivity,' he commented gruffly to no one in particular. His gruffness appeared to hide some strong emotion, presumably disapproval of the whole Bacchanalian nature of the picnic. In the meantime, what of the Festival Director?
Nat Fitzwilliam - oddly enough, no one had thought of him in the course of the crisis. He had last been seen, still in his scarf and anorak, heading for the Watchtower Theatre where he had intended to view the shore from on high and seek further inspiration ... first of all, someone had to tell him.
Guthrie Carlyle, as representative of Megalith, volunteered for this disagreeable duty. Jemima Shore, in exchange, agreed to shoulder the burden of breaking to Cy Fredericks, head of Megalith Television, the news of the tragedy which had just struck at his Larminster Festival programme. Cy Fredericks was certainly the right person to handle the whole public mourning which would follow the lamentable decease not only of Filumena Lennox, but of 'Country Kate'.
But it rapidly transpired that Guthrie Carlyle had the best of the bargain. There was the noise of another motor-bike arriving, and Nat Fitzwilliam appeared in person at the head of the beach.
'I passed an ambulance,' he began. 'And then you were all standing there on the beach for so long after the swimming stopped. I saw you. I was watching you all the time. From the top of the theatre.' Jemima suddenly noticed the large pair of binoculars slung round his neck, half-hidden by his scarf.
The person who hated Christabel also noticed the binoculars. The person thought it would be a pity if it turned out that Nat Fitzwilliam had witnessed certain things through those binoculars. The person was really very sorry indeed about the death of Filumena Lennox, which had been a stupid mistake, and just showed the foolishness of giving way to impulse after so long. The person thought: you could certainly lay that death at the door of Christabel; if she had not come back to Larminster in the first place, none of this would have happened.
8
Late at Night
'What are you doing, flapping round here?' The question was directed at Nicola Wain - with no pretence of grace - by Christabel Cartwright. Indeed, the old woman did have something of the air of a bird, if not a vulture or a raven, still something vaguely ominous, a rook perhaps; with her bright little black eyes, and her long nose which gave the effect of a beak.
It was very hot in the conservatory at Lark Manor, although the glass windows were all flung open. Nicola was wearing no stockings. Her legs, beneath her dark print dress, looked aggressively white and at the same time gnarled, patched with veins and other bumps. Christabel’s beautiful shapely legs were also bare but beneath her pristine pleated white cotton skirt, worn with a pale-blue silk shirt, they looked smooth, tanned, expensive - legs which were caressed daily by lotions and creams, things which, even in her hey-day, would never have come within reach of the old actress's purse.
The emphasis on Old Nicola's legs was due to the fact that she had stretched them out on one of the comfortable chaise-longues in the conservatory. The rich foxy scent of the regale lilies, standing everywhere in pots, filled the air. The summer cushions had lilies printed on them: just as in winter the cushions had a pattern of ferns.
'It was your sweet little girl invited me up,' confided Nicola. Christabel's eyes fell on a silver tray, placed on a low stool beside the chaise-longue; plates still bore the remnants of a delicate yet tasty meal. 'She knows I'm not very comfortable in my room at the Spring Guest House. Old Nicola does like to be comfortable at her age, well youd understand that, and the little duck suggested Mr Blagge should collect me in Larminster along with the shopping and just give Old Nicola a little, just a little taste of honey. Then she's talked to Mrs Tennant the
manageress at the Royal Stag. Tonight that nice Mrs Tennant is going to squeeze me into a room, just a wee room, at a price an old lady can afford—'
'Then where is Blanche, since she has so kindly made herself your hostess?' Christabel had recovered her composure, but it was noticeable she still made no pretence of welcoming Nicola. For that matter the old woman remained stretched out on the liliaceous cushions without any attempt at moving.
'Little Blanche? Oh, I imagine she's still at the audition.' At which point Old Nicola helped herself to the remaining sandwich, popping it neatly into her mouth like a seal swallowing a fish. 'Nat is reading for the new Nina this morning. Poor little Filumena. But still, the show must go on, mustn't it? And so say all of us.' Old Nicola polished off the last macaroon with equal delicacy and even greater relish. 'As you know, my dear, I'm not in The Seagull, but I should have thought you at least might have wanted to be there. To see how the little duck makes out. And she is a little duck, too, I think it's a lovely idea to have your own real-life daughter playing Nina, even if she has absolutely no experience.
'I said so to Vic Marcovich only this morning, who didn't quite see it that way, I must admit, but then he wouldn't, would he?' Old Nicola somehow managed to munch and speak at the same time. 'Bloody unprofessional were the words he used - if you'll pardon the expression. Shall we say he's been just a wee bit disappointed all along that our dear Anna Maria never got to play Madame Arkadina after all? You came along at such very short notice, and you were such a big star. So we needn't pay any attention to that naughty old Vic, need we, after all he and Anna Maria are just like two kittens in a basket—'
Then Nicola went on to demolish the last two tiny creamy eclairs.
'What are you saying?' Blanche as Nina? It was at that moment exactly, almost as though Christabel's anguished cry had given him his cue, that Julian Cartwright strode into the conservatory. He was accompanied by Ketty and Mr Blagge.
'Blanche as Nina!’ He hurled the words at his wife. Ketty looked extremely nervous, Mr Blagge wore a slightly sardonic expression, and Julian Cartwright looked plainly furious. 'Is this your doing?' he added.
'Over my dead body!' Christabel answered, in a voice approaching a scream. 'She can't act. At school Blanche couldn't even play the Gentlewoman in the Lady Macbeth sleep-walking scene, and God knows that's no test of ability. Never ever have I been so embarrassed in the whole of my life sitting there. She even got her lines wrong: "It is an accustomed action with her to seem thus washing her hair ..." and then the whole school burst into roars of laughter. And then she went and gave her name on the programme as Blanche Herrick Cartwright, when her middle name is actually May after your ghastly mother.' In her hysteria, Christabel did not seem to have grasped that she and her husband were actually on the same
side.
Only Old Nicola, finding a sponge finger she had previously overlooked, continued to bear an expression of placid happiness.
About the same time, telephoning from a rather less elegantly furnished room in a Larminster hotel, Jemima Shore was trying to explain to Cy Fredericks just why the casting of Blanche Cartwright as Nina in The Seagull would be a total disaster. From the point of view of Megalith Television, that is. It would also, in Jemima's opinion, be a disaster from the point of view of the Larminster Festival, the King Charles Theatre Company, the present production of The Seagull, and last and possibly least, the future of Miss Blanche Herrick Cartwright on the stage. But since Cy Fredericks notoriously did not recognize any point of view other than that of Megalith, it was hardly worth mentioning these further considerations.
'As it happens, Blanche Cartwright is not a dish and she's not a doll either,' Jemima was explaining as patiently as possible. She kept her voice down. Cy Fredericks, like Julian Cartwright, had a tendency to shout when aroused and she did not wish to encourage him: the conversation had already lasted twenty minutes. 'But that's nothing to do with the case. You see, Cy, while you don't have to be a dish or a doll or a fruit or a chick to play Nina, you do have to be able to—'
But the word 'act' was quite drowned by Cy Frederick's amiable roar down the line:
'It helps, my dear Jem, it helps,' he boomed. 'Think of us old men leaning forward glassy-eyed in front of our sets, all passion spent, and then suddenly - what do we see? We see a lovely young woman, daughter of our greatest British actress - yes, yes, I know, she's been retired for ages, but we are old, don't forget, we remember her - and this lovely young woman is making her debut. And where is she making her debut, I am asking you? Why, on Megalith Television! Jem, already, I tell you already, I am reaching for my handkerchief.'