The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

  ‘I’ve been playing the guitar,’ he announced, pushing back his black hair. He seemed to have grown up a great deal since the beginning of the year, or perhaps since he had last seen Rocky. He looked taller, more like a man and less like the little boy I had always known.

  ‘Let’s hear you,’ said Rocky.

  Inigo looked hesitant and I knew he was worrying about Mama.

  ‘She won’t be down for twenty minutes,’ I reassured him, knowing that Mama was currently soaking in the bath, waiting for the moment to make her entrance.

  ‘You don’t want your mother to hear you play?’ Rocky asked Inigo.

  Inigo looked uncomfortable. ‘She doesn’t like me playing the guitar. She thinks it’s never going to get me anywhere.’

  Rocky shook his head.

  ‘I’ve chosen the ballroom,’ went on Inigo, ‘because the echo sounds nice in here. Kind of like a record.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Rocky seriously. ‘If you’re any good, you’ll sound good anywhere. Why not play to us in the library?’

  Inigo looked a bit taken aback, but agreed straight away, so we all trooped into the library and took our places. Charlotte and I sat on the day bed, she in her painted shoes. Inigo pulled his guitar out of its case.

  ‘I thought I’d play you an Elvis Presley song to start with, just to get you feeling good,’ he said, as if we were an audience of five hundred rather than three. Rocky laughed.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Inigo cleared his throat and looked down at his feet and I sensed him charging himself full of confidence and I felt terrified for him, yet absolutely convinced that if anyone could pull off the feat of playing to a man like Rocky in a room like the library at Magna, then he could. His fingers struck hard at the guitar and he started to sing, really sing, and his voice was like a record, perfect and dangerous and shot through with conviction. He chose a song that Luke had sent to him only a couple of weeks before, called ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, and it had an incredible range — one minute high and raw, the next low and tender. When he sang, Inigo’s eyes never left our faces. He was unafraid of challenging us to look away, which of course none of us did. He was better than I had ever heard him, spine-tinglingly magical, and I felt a flutter of sorrow as I realised that this was the start of the end — that Inigo’s life ‘was going to change for ever if he carried on performing like this. As he came to the end of the song, I couldn’t resist looking at Rocky for his reaction. His face looked unchanged, unmoved, and for a second I felt alarmed. Surely he couldn’t expect anything more than that?

  ‘You got another one, kid?’ Rocky asked him simply.

  ‘Um, yes. Of course.’ Inigo grinned and broke into ‘Mystery Train’, which was if anything even better than the previous song.

  ‘OK, play me that one again,’ ordered Rocky, lighting a cigarette, certainly more animated this time. Inigo grinned, pulled out his handkerchief to mop his brow, then tossed it at Charlotte who caught it and pretended to swoon. This time when he played, Charlotte and I sang too, at the tops of our voices, thumping our legs with our hands, clapping and whooping. We did not notice Mama until the end of the song when we heard the sound of clapping, and we all turned round to see her standing in the doorway of the library, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Mama!’ cried Inigo, putting down his guitar at once and stumbling towards her. But before he could get to her, she had run from the room with a stifled sob. Moments later, I heard the sound of her footsteps in the hall, then the dull thuds as she raced upstairs.

  ‘May I go after her?’ asked Rocky at once.

  ‘Let me,’ I said, ‘Charlotte, pour Rocky a drink, will you?’

  Charlotte, who was used to dramatics, nodded. ‘You were that good,’ she said to Inigo. ‘I would cry, if I was your mother.’

  But Inigo didn’t smile. ‘She makes it so hard,’ he said, full of frustration and really shouting the word ‘hard’ through clenched teeth. ‘I feel awful now.

  ‘No one should feel awful after a performance like that,’ said Rocky. He spoke evenly. without much emotion, but I sensed that what he was saying was a big deal.

  I found Mama upstairs at her dressing table, removing her makeup with cold cream and a tissue.

  ‘What are you doing, Mama?’ I asked her, aghast.

  ‘Taking off this filthy stuff,’ she said, scraping away at her beautiful cheekbones. ‘I can’t think why I was wearing it in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, but I think I did. Her bedroom, usually so tidy. was littered with clothes; stockings and dresses, shoes and blouses lay scattered all over the carpet and bed. It looked like my bedroom before I went out to meet someone exciting, and I realised that Mama had been agonising over what to wear for Rocky. For the first time since Papa had been killed, it had actually mattered to her that she should wear something to please someone else, rather than herself. I moved a Dior skirt off the bed and sat down.

  ‘Did you — did you think Inigo played well?’ I asked her falteringly.

  ‘Of course he played well. He plays better than all the records he feeds himself with,’ said Mama, ladling more cream onto a fresh tissue.

  ‘Aren’t you — aren’t you a little proud of him?’

  ‘Of course I’m proud! How could I not be proud? I’m the boy’s own mother, for goodness’ sake, Penelope!’

  ‘Why don’t you show it then, Mama?’

  ‘What? And encourage him to leave us? To go to America like Loretta?’ She wiped even harder at her eyelashes.

  ‘But he’s so good, Mama. You’re not being fair on him. He could have a real chance, and I know Rocky thinks so too. He could make proper money.

  ‘Why can’t he stay here and do it?’ Mama rubbed at her mouth and the tissue was stained blood red with her lipstick. Now clean-faced, she stared at herself in the mirror. A huge tear plopped onto the glass top of her dressing table.

  ‘He might only have to go for a short time,’ I said, ‘Then he would be back to see us, back to Magna, and perhaps he’ll make enough money to keep the place going. Can’t you ever think of the good side of things, Mama?’

  ‘I don’t want this place,’ said Mama. There was a silence while both of us took in what she had just said. ‘I don’t want to live here any more.

  I felt a wave of sickness pass over me. ‘Mama, don’t say that! You don’t mean it! Magna’s our home, It’s everything—’

  ‘It was everything,’ said Mama. ‘It was everything when your father was here too.’

  ‘Oh, Mama! Don’t start—”

  But she wasn’t listening. She stood up and started pacing in front of me, but I don’t believe that she was aware of moving at all. Irrationally. I noticed how loudly the floorboards were creaking.

  ‘I loved the place,’ Mama hissed. ‘I loved it because he loved it. I could have lived happily ever after at Magna if Archie had stayed with me.’ She was talking faster and faster — it was as if the truth was dawning on her and she needed to speak it before it crept away again. ‘But what do I want with the place now? We rattle around the house like three little skittles waiting to be knocked down, every corner I turn I’m reminded of him, everywhere I look I see his face. I’m thirty-five—’

  ‘That’s right! You’re thirty-five!’ I interrupted. ‘Do you realise how young you are, Mama? How young!’

  Mama’s face crumpled at these words, and she slumped back onto the chair in front of her dressing table again. Without her make-up, she looked like a little girl of twelve. I have never seen anyone look so lost and I had never loved her as much as I did in that moment. She looked down at her hands and twisted her wedding ring round her finger.

  ‘Thirty-five years old and what am I to do for the rest of my life?’ she whispered. ‘Sit here and watch the house die because I can’t ever sell it or leave it? Because when I gave my heart to Archie, I gave it to this great mass of stone too?’ She spat out the word ‘stone’, and it fell heavily between us. ‘S
ometimes I —sometimes I think he shouldn’t have married-me at all. Maybe he would have been better off with someone else, someone older, someone with more confidence—’

  I was crying now, quietly. because I hated scenes and the last thing I wanted was for anyone to hear what was going on.

  ‘I remember when we were first married, Archie warned me that it wasn’t all going to be parties and long baths. I didn’t really hear him — I thought I’d arrived in Paradise. I’d never seen such an unbelievable building. I thought he was quite mad. Now I know exactly what he meant. Once the gold starts to fade you’re left with nothing but steel bars.’

  ‘But Rocky, he’s rich—”

  ‘You think he might marry me and take on this place,’ said Mama with a sad smile.

  ‘Well, it’s not such a silly thought—’

  Mama shook her head. ‘It’s out of the question, Penelope. Not just because I could never live at Magna with another — a man who wasn’t your father, but because I could never marry again. Never. I hate myself for thinking, even for one second, about Rocky Dakota. An American too!’ She gave another sob. ‘Thank goodness Inigo played the guitar tonight. It made everything clear again. I want that man out of my house before he whisks Inigo off to Hollywood.’

  ‘But Mama, he’s been so wonderful to us!’ I cried. ‘We can’t throw him out now, not before supper!’

  ‘We certainly can.’

  ‘But don’t you like him? Don’t you like talking to him?’ For a second Mama’s eyes filled with pain. ‘I’m sorry, Penelope. Would you go downstairs and tell him that I feel it would be inappropriate for him to remain here?’

  Charlotte and Inigo were loitering in the hall, pretending to play backgammon. ‘Is Mama OK?’ asked Inigo.

  ‘Of course not,’ I snapped. ‘You shouldn’t play the guitar in the house at all, Inigo. You know she can’t stand it. Go up to her and say you’re sorry.’

  Charlotte stood up. ‘Should I be here at all?’ she asked me under her breath.

  ‘Oh, please stay.’ I begged her. ‘Where’s Rocky?’

  ‘In the library.’

  He was standing by the fireplace with a glass of whisky in his hand.

  ‘What’s going on, kid?’ he asked me, his voice full of concern. Lovely Rocky, with his soft voice and his kind eyes. Rocky who could have made Mama happy.

  ‘She thinks it would be inappropriate for you to stay for dinner,’ I said bitterly. ‘She thinks it would be best if you left.’

  He drained his whisky. ‘Tell her she looked beautiful tonight,’ he said. He crossed the room to where I was standing, trembling with the strain of the last few minutes. ‘She needs you,’ he said simply. ‘Look after her.’

  Five minutes later, we heard the scrunch of the Chevrolet taking off down the drive.

  We had duck for supper, and none of us mentioned Rocky’s name. Mama talked of the garden. We were back at the beginning again, I thought in despair. No pain, not even the pain of realising that Rocky had fallen for Mama, could compete with the agony of realising that she was incapable of returning that love.

  Chapter 21

  THE LOST ART OF KEEPING SECRETS

  Inigo returned to school the next afternoon without a word to me about the night before. Like Mama, he was quite capable of closing himself up when he wanted to, and I feared he had been more affected by the events of Saturday than I could ever know. There was a great weariness at Magna, as though something had altered that could never change back again. Mama, determined not to mention our conversation of the previous evening, spent the day outside in the garden with Johns. Mary arrived at lunchtime with a terrible cold. I wanted, more than anything, to get out of the house.

  ‘Come to London tomorrow,’ begged Charlotte. ‘We’re celebrating the end of Aunt Clare’s book. She’s holding a small gathering at tea time for the chosen few. Champagne and cakes. Naturally. she’s hoping you’ll be here.’

  ‘Does Harry know about it?’ I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I imagine that even if he did know about it, he’d run a mile.’

  I smiled. ‘I’ll come,’ I said, ‘if only for the tea.’

  ‘I — I took the liberty of inviting Christopher.’

  ‘You did? Was that at Aunt Clare’s request or have you been missing the old dandy?’

  ‘Oh, shut up. And anyway. he’s not as old as Rocky,’ said Charlotte after a pause.

  Yet for the first time ever, I set off for Aunt Clare’s without a hunger for cakes and scones. I wore my smartest tea dress — Aunt Clare would expect nothing less — and carried a bunch of early bluebells from the Fairy Wood, and even though I knew that Harry was not going to be home, I felt more nervous than I had ever felt in my life. I bought a paper on the train and tried to concentrate on pompous articles about flying saucer sightings —of all things — but found myself incapable of taking anything in. I had a dim sense that if only I could see Harry, this great feeling for him would be cured once and for all. He was too short, too weird-looking, too in love with Marina — and I felt certain that if I could only see him, the ache for him would vanish. He would be just my friend again, the only boy with whom I would happily spend half an hour in the ladies’ bathroom in the Ritz, or having a picnic in the Long Gallery. For the tenth time since boarding the train, I checked my reflection. I looked paler than ever, but what else could I expect after nights on end with so little sleep? Rubbing rouge into my cheekbones, I wondered where Rocky was and if he had forgotten all about Mama already. He might even be back in America, maybe enjoying breakfast with Marina and George. laughing over the English and their funny ways. Yet somehow that scene didn’t ring quite true. Wherever he is, I prayed, make him happy.

  It was one of those London afternoons that makes one feel like dancing as if in a musical film — the cherry blossom was at its sugary peak all the way down Kensington Church Street, and the blue sky was merry with puffball white clouds. I thought how odd it was that Charlotte and I had only really known each other in the cold, and I wondered if the heat suited her personality as much as the winter months. I felt at once comforted by the noise and bustle of London — Magna had felt quieter than ever since Rocky had left before dinner on Saturday — and because I had arrived early. I stopped into Barkers to look at the new season’s hats. In the record department I could see Bill Haley and his Comets’ new record, ‘Rock Around the Clock’, and in a fit of generosity, and because I felt he had been given a raw deal of late, I bought it for Inigo. There was just time to pop to the post office and send it off to him at school before tea. This simple act combined with the bliss of the sunshine should have soothed my nerves, but alas, as I stood on the steps of Kensington Court, I felt my legs trembling. There was nothing for it but to ring the bell and go in. He’s not even there, I told myself again. In my head I heard Johnnie singing ‘Whisky and Gin’. Help me, Johnnie, I thought. Phoebe answered the door.

  ‘They’re upstairs,’ she said, taking my coat. She looked even more miserable than usual, her skin greasy. her blouse practically hanging off her. Miserable without Harry, I thought, with a pang of empathy. She took the bluebells from me and I fancied I saw them sigh and hunch in her fist. Never was there a girl so suited to unhappiness. I made my way up to Aunt Clare’s study and, raking a deep breath, opened the door. The quiet emptiness that had filled the room when I was last there had utterly vanished, replaced by a carnival atmosphere. The room was packed. I was thankful that no one took the slightest bit of notice when I walked in. Charlotte extracted herself from the crowd.

  ‘Do come and meet Patrick Reece, the great theatre critic,’ she said to me with a wink. ‘He hasn’t seen Aunt Clare in years but he couldn’t resist turning up this afternoon.’

  ‘Terrified he’s going to appear in the book, I imagine. ‘With good reason,’ whispered Charlotte. ‘He makes up most of Chapter Twelve.’

  ‘How do you do?’ interrupted Patrick, flashing me a beaming
smile. ‘So nice to see some young people here.’

  ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I kept thinking of Hope Allen and cocaine and the engagement party at Dorset House and Harry and me playing Dead Ringers.’

  ‘I suppose you know Harry too?’ asked Patrick. Was he a mind-reader, I wondered in alarm.

  ‘Yes, I know Harry,’ I said with a forced smile.

  ‘You’re in love with him, I presume?’

  I felt the heat rise. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Those wonderful two-tone eyes he has. Devilishly attractive to the ladies, I gather.’

  I was saved from a response to this by Aunt Clare who bustled up in a magnificent red and black striped dress with matching shoes. There was none of the weariness of my last visit. She sparkled.

  ‘You mustn’t monopolise this dear girl, Patrick,’ she scolded. ‘Penelope, dear, go and get yourself a glass of champagne, won’t you?’

  Gratefully. I slipped off to find myself a drink, but not before overhearing Aunt Clare’s next comment.

  ‘Delightful child, so intelligent! Archie and Talitha Wallace’s eldest, you know,’ she murmured.

  ‘Talitha Orr that was?’ demanded Patrick throatily.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Gracious, she looks nothing at all like the dam and everything like the sire. How jolly interesting. Is she engaged, Clare?’

  ‘Not at all, more’s the pity. I longed for my Harry to fall for her, but it seems he was too smitten by the ghastly American girl.’

  ‘Ah.’

  I missed Aunt Clare’s next comment and nearly sent Phoebe and the drinks tray flying in my rush to get to Charlotte. She was taking a break from the throng just outside the study and stuffing her face with a currant bun.

  ‘Sorry to dump you with him,’ she apologised. ‘I’d had him for nearly an hour. Goodness, right now Aunt Clare’s study has to be the bad breath capital of the world. Men over sixty simply should not be allowed to drink champagne, it’s just too hideous.’