The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

  ‘Harry was right,’ she said, ‘you are so utterly English sometimes. Don’t change, will you?’

  The car rounded out of the drive, and we waved until they were out of sight, laughing when Luke honked the horn and scattered the rabbits into the hedge. The sight of them reminded me of Marina the guinea pig, and I shot upstairs to my room where Harry had installed her in a cardboard box lined with last week’s Telegraph. (Ironically. the gossip pages featured a big piece about the Hamilton party, and I had to lift Marina the rodent off a photograph of Marina the human being to read it. There was a good deal of guff about the daughter of an MP I’d never heard of vanishing with the piano player in the jazz band, which foxed me as I remembered the aforesaid musician being about ninety and toothless, but what did I know?) When I finally finished reading, I had a stiff neck and Marina the rodent had scuttled under my dressing table. It took me twenty minutes to get her out again. Perhaps when the weather improved I could set her free in the garden, I thought hopefully. Where on earth had she come from? Surely she hadn’t just appeared out of Harry’s hat? After he and Charlotte left, the house seemed deathly quiet. Even the hiss and crackle of Radio Luxembourg fading in and out on Inigo’s wireless could not dent the void of silence left by their departure. That night, I shoved a carrot into Marina’s box, pulled on a pair of thick socks and climbed into bed. Through the grey and pink curtains in my bedroom (I don’t think they had been washed since before the war and they would probably disintegrate on contact with soapy water anyway), I sensed a bright moon. I thought about Harry and Johnnie, about the flickering lights and the guinea pig, and about Luke and Loretta and Magna. I thought about 1955 and how I would be feeling at the end of the year. I thought about Mama and tried to imagine how it would have been had Papa not been killed.

  Chapter 10

  FIVE O’CLOCK AND LATER

  A week later, Charlotte and I were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park finishing cheese rolls. My lectures had finished early. and the afternoon stretched out before us, cold and blue in the winter sunlight. I had all but abandoned the friends I had made on my course, and I was starting to realise why Charlotte preferred loafing around with me to the girls that she had grown up with. We bumped into them very regularly — beautiful, perfumed girls with white smiles flashing — and afterwards Charlotte would always say how depressed they made her, how their engagement rings had made them shadows of what they were in the sixth form common room. Only last week she had pointed out the girl who had been head of the school in the year above her.

  ‘There goes Delilah Goring,’ she said sadly. as a girl in a fox fur stole and a cream hat crossed the road on the arm of a tall, red-headed man. ‘Or rather, what was Delilah Goring.’

  That afternoon in the park, Charlotte was quieter than usual, and I knew her well enough by now to understand the difference between Charlotte Dreaming and Charlotte Speculative.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ I asked. Charlotte threw her crust to a passing pigeon.

  ‘Why should there be?’ she demanded.

  I said no more. I knew that the best way to get Charlotte to talk was to feign lack of interest. Sure enough, she pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to me.

  ‘Read it,’ she instructed. ‘It arrived this morning.’

  The handwriting was terrible, the spelling atrocious, but the turn of phrase Byronic. I have to see you, it ended (and have was underlined). If we met one more time then I think I could get over you and lern to forget you and whot hapened betwene us. I will wait for you outside the caff on T. Court Road on Friday at 5p.m. Yours for allways faithfuly, Andy.

  ‘Funny thing is,’ said Charlotte, ‘I don’t want him to learn to forget me.’

  ‘Gosh, he’ll be there in an hour,’ I said, checking my watch.

  ‘I know.’ Charlotte bit her lip. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘Will you come too?’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte, I don’t think I’m invited.’

  ‘I’m inviting you. You can make sure that I leave after half an hour. If I go alone…’ She trailed off.

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said. ‘I’m longing to meet A the T.’

  So we tripped along Tottenham Court Road until we got to the caff. Mania would have died. I was nervous, because it was getting dark, we were somewhere way off my usual track and Charlotte’s demeanour had changed completely.

  ‘We’ll just wait here,’ she said. ‘He’s always a few minutes late. It preserves his dignity.’ It wasn’t especially cold, but her teeth were chattering. ‘Here he is,’ she muttered. ‘Oh help.’

  Andrew appeared very suddenly. a cigarette between his teeth, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He had beautiful hair —black, thick and shiny and quiffed in a perfect DA, its glossy perfection emphasising the chiselled frailty of his face. He wasn’t especially good-looking, but he was fearfully attractive and, much to my satisfaction, he disproved Mama’s theories about all Teds having bad skin: his face was as white as porcelain and utterly blemish free. He flicked wary, grey-green eyes at Charlotte. She was taller than him, but so intense were her nerves that she looked small and uncharacteristically shy.

  ‘You all right?’ he said.

  ‘Fine. This is my friend Penelope.’

  Andrew nodded at me.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Tea?’ said Andrew lightly.

  Charlotte shook her head briefly. ‘I’d like a cigarette and something stronger than tea,’ she said. Andrew grinned.

  ‘I hear Babycham’s all the rage with the ladies these days.’ He pushed open the door of the caff.

  A number of Teds were sitting inside, smoking and laughing. One of them nodded at Andrew when we walked in; a couple of them stared at Charlotte and me.

  ‘Ignore ‘em,’ advised Andrew.

  The air was heavy with smoke, and the tables were greasy. Someone put a record on — it was a dance hall song that I hadn’t heard before.

  ‘H-how have you been, Andrew?’ asked Charlotte, her legs jittering under the table. ‘Everything all right at home?’

  Andrew lit a cigarette and passed it to her. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Still drinking. Still shouting. He stamped on two of my new records last week for no reason at all. Broke my arm last month when I tried to stop him hitting Sam.’

  I gasped in horror. Andrew gave me a mocking smile. ‘Bastard. It was the new Bill Haley and his Comets disc. Just got hold of it, too,’ he added resentfully. His eyes lit up for a moment. ‘You should hear it, Charlie.’

  Charlotte kicked me under the table, which I presumed meant I was to ignore the nickname. She started to shred her napkin. ‘And work?’ she asked him. ‘Still working hard?’

  ‘Sacked last week. Got into a fight.’

  ‘Oh, Andrew,’ wailed Charlotte.

  ‘Wasn’t my fault,’ he said moodily. ‘Bloody nothin’s ever my fault. I’m just good at takin’ the blame.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Charlotte. ‘You’re right there.’

  Andrew leaned forward and took her hand in his. At first Charlotte looked as though she might pull away. but she couldn’t.

  ‘You look more beautiful than words can say.’ he said. It was as though I wasn’t there at all. Charlotte’s eyes welled up.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said weakly.

  Help, I thought, and busied myself studying the menu. ‘Ah, but it’s the truth, girl. The truth, for once.’ He pulled his hand away again and got his comb out from his pocket. ‘So how’s that auntie of yours?’ he asked her. ‘Still grooming you for Prince bloody Charles, is she?’ But there was no bitterness in his voice now. Charlotte grinned, at once more like her usual self.

  ‘Oh my good gosh no,’ she said. ‘He’s not nearly rich and sophisticated enough.’

  We sat with Andrew for well over an hour. He was funny and charming, considerate and sweet, and if he minded that Charlotte had brought me along too, he never once showed it. The place filled up around u
s, all these velvet-collared boys, deep in their own world, talking records and clothes and riots in the streets. What struck me most of all was how young they all were. I mean, where were their mothers? People walked past the caff and peered in at us, which made me feel dangerous and safe at the same time. It was a nice feeling, an exciting feeling, a sensation that I had never got with any of the dull boys I was used to. I wanted everyone to see me — I wanted Hope Allen to think that I too could talk to the Teds. This is living! I thought proudly.

  Soon after our arrival, two of Andrew’s friends came and squashed up on our table.

  ‘We heard he was meetin’ you, Charlie,’ said the first, a good-looking boy with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Had to come and say hello,’ said the other.

  ‘Digby. Ian — how are you both?’ asked Charlotte delightedly. ‘This is my friend Penelope.’

  They gave me a thorough looking over. The one called Ian spotted my lecture notes bulging out of my bag.

  ‘I prefer the flicks to reading books,’ he said sagely.

  ‘Have — have you seen anything good lately?’ I stammered.

  ‘This an’ that.’ He shrugged. ‘Brando. I like Brando.’

  Perhaps he admired Brando’s ‘good arms’ like Mary. I thought.

  ‘I like your jacket,’ I said admiringly.

  ‘I only wear the best.’

  ‘My brother would love it.’

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Your brother could prob’ly afford it. Hang on.’ He rummaged in his front pockets, and pooled the contents in front of him on the table; a rusty razor blade, a bag of tobacco, two combs and a tub of grease, a bicycle chain and three chocolate wrappers appeared before the stub of a pencil. ‘Got anything to write on?’

  I pulled the Italian dictionary that Hope Allen had wrecked out of my bag. ‘Use the back page of this.’

  ‘Italian?’ asked Ian incredulously. ‘Now you’re jus’ showing off, girl.’

  I laughed, light-headed with the attention he was paying me.

  ‘Here,’ he said, scribbling fast. ‘This is the address of the bird who knocks up zoot suits for all us lot. Genuis, she is. Used to work on Savile Row. Charges us a quarter of what she used to charge the toffs. Tell your brother to tell Cathy that Ian Sommersby sent ‘im. Cathy’ll give ‘im the best deal in London. All right? Ian Sommersby. Don’t forget the name.’ He ran his fingers through his DA and looked so serious, I nearly giggled.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, pocketing the address.

  ‘What’s he called, your brother?’ asked Digby.

  ‘Um — Inigo.’

  ‘Indigo?’ Digby cracked up, his whole face creased with the amusement of it all.

  ‘Bloody queer name, that,’ observed Ian.

  ‘I suppose so.

  Andrew nodded at me. ‘Charlie knows how to dress,’ he said. ‘For a toff, she knows her threads.’

  ‘And for someone with no class, no job and no money you brush up very well indeed,’ said Charlotte drily.

  Andrew laughed loudly. ‘Sod off,’ he said good-naturedly.

  I blanched a little. I had never been told to sod off by anyone, least of all a boy in jest. Charlotte just smiled.

  Half an hour later, she reluctantly decided that we should leave. Andrew grabbed her and pulled her into a kiss and a few boys wolf-whistled.

  ‘You want one?’ Ian grinned.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, thanks,’ I muttered.

  ‘Not posh enough for you, is he?’ Digby laughed.

  ‘No. I mean, yes. I mean—’ I felt hot and silly. ‘Aw, leave her alone,’ ordered Andrew idly.

  It was dark by the time we left the place. Andrew vanished with Ian and Digby and Charlotte and I decided to walk home. Charlotte didn’t talk and I didn’t think to make her. I was quite happy; I wanted time to think myself. Then, just as we got to Marble Arch, a face appeared out of the window of a Jaguar, waving at us and ordering the driver to pull over, which he did, to the consternation of the bus driver behind him. It was Kate and Helena Wentworth. Charlotte was forced out of her silence as they spilled onto the pavement.’

  ‘We thought it was you! No one else in London has legs that long and hair that thick!’ exclaimed Helena. ‘We’ve just got into the car after lunch, would you believe it? We’ve been at Claridge’s since midday. Sophia G-D’s birthday do. Possibly the most mind-numbingly dull experience of my life thus far.’

  ‘Sophia with the rubies,’ I remembered. ‘We saw her at the Hamiltons’ party, Charlotte. Marina was terribly rude to her.’ And hark at me! I thought, giggling inside.

  ‘Oh, we’ve only met her a couple of times ourselves,’ said Kate quickly. ‘She seems a sweet thing. Such an unfortunate face, poor lamb. She was embarrassingly pleased we had turned up at all, actually. Marina was there, under sufferance and drinking like a fish, and George too, looking larger than life. But it was your cousin Harry who made the whole ordeal bearable,’ she went on, blushing slightly.

  ‘Really?’ asked Charlotte grimly.

  ‘He was our after-dinner entertainment. Such tricks! Gosh, he’s improved since I first saw him at Clara Sanderson’s coming out ball last year. I was longing to find out how he does that marvellous one with the cigarette and the ten shilling note, but as soon as lunch was over, he vamoosed. Said something about getting back to some cove called Julian Mac Something.’

  Charlotte snorted.

  ‘He is just so talented!’ Kate went on gushingly. ‘I could watch him performing for hours on end. He did the sweetest thing with his napkin, folded it into a mouse shape and made it run up everyone’s arms, it was killing!’

  Methinks Kate has a thing for Harry, I thought in astonishment. What on earth was it about him?

  ‘So what have you two been doing this afternoon?’ asked Helena, smiling at me in a very friendly way (being seen with Charlotte not just once, but twice, clearly merited acceptance).

  ‘Are you out to dinner? We were thinking of heading straight to Sheekey’s for an early dinner,’ said Kate.

  Sheekey’s! Charlotte was in love with the place, I knew, because she talked about it whenever she was hungry. I could sense her considering the downside of Kate’s suggestion — spending another couple of hours with the Wentworth girls — against the upside — a plate of Dover sole that she probably wouldn’t have to pay for. She didn’t take long about making her decision.

  ‘Yum,’ she said decisively. ‘We’d love to join you.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Helena delightedly. ‘Do jump in!’

  ‘To Sheekey’s, Bernard!’ ordered Kate.

  So off we went to St Martin’s Lane, Kate and Helena talking nineteen to the dozen, Charlotte moving smoothly into the gossipy, flighty mode that I had seen her in during the Hamilton party. She didn’t mention that half an hour earlier we had been sitting in the caff on Tottenham Court Road with A the T and company; in fact, I began to wonder whether it had happened at all. Sitting in Sheekey’s, gulping down Pol Roger and listening, wide-eyed, to the twins’ chatter made me feel quite dizzy. Was this the same city, I wondered. Was I the same person with these girls? Was Charlotte? People looked over at our table and nudged each other; they recognised Kate and Helena, and fell quiet from time to time to try to hear what they were saying, which wasn’t difficult, as neither girl thought to keep the volume of her voice within the confines of our table. Charlotte asked a lot of questions, many of which she already knew the answers to, so she didn’t have to talk much and could focus her attention on what she was ordering and eating. She was clever, though, throwing in the odd scandalous snippet of gossip just to keep our end up and make the twins feel they were getting their money’s worth out of their evening, then it was back to the fish and the sautéed potatoes. We left just before midnight. The girls were very friendly with me, especially after Betty Harwood, who wrote Jennifer’s Diary for the Tatler, came up to say hello and asked to be remembered to Mama. I could have hugged her.

  Back at Kensing
ton Court, Charlotte peeled off her coat and her shoes and flopped onto the sofa. Aunt Clare had gone to bed and Harry was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Probably still bringing people back from the dead at Sophia Garrison-Denbigh’s,’ said Charlotte. ‘Gosh, Sheekey’s is good. I could have eaten those pancakes three times over.

  ‘Was it strange?’ I blurted. ‘Seeing Andrew again.’

  I thought she wouldn’t answer, but eventually she did. ‘It’s silly, isn’t it? Andrew’s no good for me because he’s too common and too poor. Marina’s no good for Harry because she’s too rich and too vulgar. Was there ever a condition so idiotically pathetic as that of the penniless toff?’

  ‘Worst of all worlds,’ I said dully. ‘Losers, all of us.’

  ‘At least you have Magna to give you some semblance of wealth.’

  ‘Not much good when there’s a high possibility of the ceiling collapsing on all potential suitors.’

  Charlotte gave me the ghost of a smile. ‘What are we going to do?’ She buried her face in her hands.

  I was part horrified, having never ~seen Charlotte with her guard down like this before. ‘A the T — he was nice. You were quite right to say that about him,’ I said quickly. ‘And so pretty. I can’t think why Aunt Clare objects so much. Surely—’

  ‘Did you hear what he said about his parents?’ she asked heavily.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It’s not fair on Aunt Clare,’ said Charlotte dully. ‘She’s waited all her life for me to marry the right man. And she’s right about one thing. It would never last. A the T — he’s the boy you fall for before your real hero comes along. He’s too young for me, too. I realised that today. I need someone older, someone to keep me in line.’

  ‘Is that what you think, or Aunt Clare?’

  ‘What does it matter? He’ll do his National Service next year. That sort of thing changes a boy like Andrew. I’m not sure I’d want him after that.’