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Occasionally it was a neighbour, wondering if they might do anything to help. A perceptible curiosity unpleasantly mixed with relish was channelled like a bad smell through the slot between us. We had never been popular locally. I think people were torn between pride in having a famous actor living in their neighbourhood and umbrage that my parents had nothing to do with them. No slight was intended. It simply never occurred to my parents that the residents of The Avenue might be in any way interesting. According to Bron, who fraternised down at The Green Dragon, they were enthralled if my mother appeared in a different hat, but she never noticed if they were sporting a new pram complete with twins. I expect it seemed that ours was a gay and privileged life. Faces familiar from the stage and screen came constantly to our house. Parties went on until the early hours of the morning and there was much laughter to be heard over the garden wall.
Now our neighbours had some kind of reparation for the years of neglect. I thanked everyone and said I would be certain to call upon them if there was anything they could do. After a while I got thoroughly sick of this so I fetched a stepladder, put a wedge of paper between the bell and the clapper and tried to ignore the urgent knockings and flappings of the letter box. In the drawing room Bron was reading Ophelia’s copy of Harpers and Queen and playing The Rite of Spring at full volume, which made my head, already pounding, want to burst. I turned it down a little.
‘What? Sorry?’ Bron looked up at me enquiringly. ‘Couldn’t stand that bloody row going on.’
‘I wish I knew where Portia was. If she’s seen the newspapers or television she must be frantic with worry.’ I dithered. ‘Perhaps I ought to plug one of the telephones back in.’
My mother thought television sets too hideous to be seen so ours was shut away in the small room where the fuel for the boiler was stored. Cordelia, who spent much of her time sitting in the coal-hole, greatly to the detriment of her clothes, had come running upstairs the minute the reporters had been got rid of, to say that Sir Basil’s death was on the nine o’clock news. Bron and I had gone down to watch. I did not want to, in the least, but a confused sense of loyalty seemed to require that I should know what was being said about Pa behind his back.
As we crowded in, slithering about on pieces of nutty slack, there was an interview with someone who had seen Pa being driven away from the Phoebus Theatre in handcuffs. The newsreader said, in what sounded to me like a sneer, that the police were refusing to confirm that Waldo Byng had been arrested on a charge of murder. A résumé of Basil’s career, with accompanying stills, had lasted nearly ten minutes. There followed fulsome tributes to Basil from people with tremulous voices and tear-filled eyes and an interview with the producer of King Lear, saying what an absolute disaster his sudden departure would be for theatre in this country.
Anyone who didn’t know would have thought from all this that Basil was dearly loved, but actually he was a cold, proud man with a sharp tongue and generally unpopular. He never went to theatrical parties and rumours abounded that his only hobby outside the theatre was an unhealthy interest in little boys. But he had died a violent death and I had a sick, sad feeling, watching him in a clip from an ancient film, playing Henry V. After that they had shown a recent press release photograph of Pa and Basil together as Gloucester and Lear.
‘It’s not a very good one of Pa,’ Cordelia said critically. ‘His teeth look enormous. He’s baring them as though he’s going to bite Basil’s neck.’
‘I expect that’s why they chose it,’ said Bron. ‘The bags under Basil’s eyes are shocking! I wonder why he didn’t get them fixed? Still, it’s too late now.’
I looked at my watch. I continued to worry about Portia, in the brief intervals when I wasn’t worrying about Pa. ‘Ten o’clock. I suppose she’s gone out to dinner with this new man. But usually she lets me know if she’s staying out all night.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Bron fished about in the pockets of his jacket. ‘I found this letter on your bedside table earlier.’ The envelope was addressed to me, in Portia’s writing. ‘I thought you’d probably be keen to read it straightaway so I brought it downstairs. Then I went to The Green Dragon and forgot about it. Sorry.’
‘What were you doing in my room?’
Bron looked guilty. ‘I needed a few quid for the pub. I haven’t bought a round for ages.’
I decided to let this pass. Considering the state of things we couldn’t afford to fall out over trivial matters. I tore open the envelope.
Darling Hat, Have come back for some clothes. Dimitri’s asked me to spend a few days at his country house at Oxshott. I think it’s in Devon. It sounds terribly grand. Fifteen bedrooms and simply acres of land. I’ve borrowed your old yellow silk. I hope you don’t mind.
I had bought that particular dress just before meeting Dodge and had worn it only once so it hardly qualified as ‘old’. But it was certainly too frivolous for a dedicated revolutionary, so it would have been niggardly to mind.
Dimitri is incredibly sexy. He practically made love to me in the lift though there was an attendant. He has lots of men working for him – three bodyguards, no less! – and they all seem devoted, which must be a good sign. He only has to raise a finger and they leap to attention. We went to Gerardi’s for lunch and had oysters and champagne in a private room! It made me think of Edward VII and chorus girls. Dimitri says he’s been having an affair with a member of the royal family. He wouldn’t tell me who but apparently she chain-smoked all the time they were between the sheets. Also he had to call her ma’am even in bed. He said this put him off. As an anarchist you will understand this. Tell Ma and Pa that I’m spending a few days with a friend from school. Make up someone suitably respectable, bye for now, Portia.
‘Is Oxshott in Devon?’ I asked Bron, my anxiety increased rather than allayed by this letter.
‘Haven’t the foggiest. Did you say ten o’clock? Long past my din-dins. Do you think Maria-Alba’s recovered enough to cook some grub?’
‘Oh, damn! How awful, I’d forgotten about her.’
I ran downstairs to see if she was all right. She was lying on her bed beneath an eiderdown, reading a cookery book.
‘Così, così,’ she replied in answer to my enquiry. She shut the book and slowly swung her huge legs over the side of the bed. Her lids were swollen and dark, like two black eyes. ‘You need to eat, tesora mia. No, no,’ she went on as I protested that she should rest. ‘Mi farà bene.’
I peeled potatoes and made a salad while Maria-Alba put on partridges to roast. Cordelia came out from the coal-hole and sat at the table doing her French knitting. This is done by winding wool round a cotton reel with four little nails in the top. You hook the wool over the nails and from the hole at the other end of the reel emerges a knitted tail. So far all my efforts to think of something she could make from this had been fruitless. The tail was now four feet long and distinctly grubby from falling into Mark Antony’s bowl and being trodden on, but Cordelia kept doggedly on. She was unusually silent. Maria-Alba made a sauce for the partridges and heaved long, sad sighs. I knew I must pull myself together. I tried to find things to talk about that had nothing to do with murder or prisons but ideas slipped like bars of wet soap from my deliberative grasp before I could put them into words.
‘I’m starving.’ Bron came into the kitchen just as we were loading hot dishes into the dumb waiter. He peered into the lift shaft. ‘It’s a very good sauce.’ He withdrew his head, licking his fingers.
‘Oh, Bron, you pig!’ protested Cordelia.
Bron patted her cheek with his just-licked finger.
‘A lady there was in Antigua
Who said to her spouse, “What a pig you are!”
He answered “My queen!
Is it my manner you mean,
Or do you refer to my figua?”’
Cordelia giggled. Sometimes I got the impression that other people found Bron’s ebullience a little trying, but often, as on this occasion, I was glad of it.
‘Lascia solo.’ Maria-Alba looked up from unmoulding the blackberry bavarois she had made that morning, when the serene skies over Blackheath were untroubled by so much as a single cloud. ‘It is well for you to make joke. When the things go wrong you abandon the boat. When Harriet want you to visit il povero Waldo you are rotten drunk! She have to look only to me for help!’ Bron’s full soft mouth drooped and he looked perfectly angelic. ‘Senta, io sono debole. She need a strong man. You do not think of other than yourself.’ With hands that trembled, Maria-Alba arranged a few whole blackberries round the pale-violet, speckled pudding. ‘You are egoista – selfish like a peeg –’
‘That will do, Maria-Alba!’ My mother had broken her general rule of pretending the kitchen did not exist and that food in our house was provided by unseen spirit Shapes, as on Prospero’s island. She descended the last few steps into the basement, her progress impeded by her long black evening dress and a tiara of jet and feathers like the crest of a giant bird, which collided with the plastic shade of the overhead light. Her High Renaissance features manifested pain. ‘I hardly think abusing poor Bron will help in this predicament. You know how loud, discordant voices upset me. Use your chest tones. Fingers here –’ she tapped her own impressively small waist – ‘and breathe from the stomach.’ She bent her plumed head to examine the bavarois as though she was going to peck it. ‘Darling,’ she patted Bron’s cheek, ‘don’t look so woebegone. Let’s have a cosy supper together on trays in the drawing room and leave these nasty, cross people to get on by themselves. Afterwards you shall turn the pages for me while I play.’
Bron considered the proposed plan. Staying at home rated low in his estimation of an amusing evening. Various expressions flitted across his face before it assumed something like compliance. ‘That would be fun. I may have to pop out later on, though.’ As they went upstairs I heard him say, ‘Mama dearest, could you possibly let me have a bob or two? I find I’ve run rather short –’
Maria-Alba slammed two trays on to the dumb waiter. I took up a tray to Ophelia.
‘You can come in,’ she said in answer to my knock. She lay on her back across the bed, her head hanging over the side as though she had been strangled, her long hair running over the carpet like liquid gold. ‘Oh, food,’ she went on in tones of disgust. ‘I shan’t be able to eat a thing. Has Crispin telephoned?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You realise what a disaster Pa’s going to prison is for me?’ She blinked rapidly several times. People’s faces, and their eyes particularly, look strange and rather unpleasant, upside down. I felt a return of the disturbing, hallucinatory sensations that had affected me on and off throughout the day. ‘Crispin’s mother is a complete bitch. She’s crazily jealous and she’ll use this to turn Crispin against me.’
‘But if he loves you …?’ The Honourable Crispin Mallilieu had never struck me as the passionate type. He was small and rather weedy, with pale crinkly hair and rabbit teeth. To be fair I did not think Ophelia was much in love with him. She had told me that his elder brother’s liver was marinating in alcohol, his skin was perforated with needle marks and that he resorted to public lavatories for passages of love, so Crispin stood an odds-on chance of inheriting the title and the estate.
‘That cow –’ I understood her to be referring to Lady Mallilieu – ‘wants him to marry Henrietta Slotts. Her father wallows in filthy lucre like a hog in muck.’
‘Does Crispin like her?’
‘He says she reminds him of a dog he was very fond of as a boy. Certainly she has a long snout-like nose and a great deal of facial hair.’
‘Poor girl. In that case she doesn’t stands a chance against you.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Crispin’s mental development received a severe check at prep school. If la Slotts looked like a one-eared teddy bear with a darn on its stomach I wouldn’t have a prayer.’
‘I expect he hasn’t rung because he hasn’t heard yet. Why don’t you have something to eat and then telephone him?’
‘My dear, sweet sister, you know nothing about men. I’ve never rung one up in my life. It’s quite fatal to show the least interest. I never accept two invitations in a row and I make a point of being frosty and difficult at least once a week. On Saturday Crispin threatened to throw himself off the battlements of Mallilieu Towers because I said his pathetic attempts to kiss me made me think of a monitor lizard. It’s true. He’s got a very reptilian tongue, long and thin and flickering.’
I thought of Dodge’s face after we’d made love. Happy, peaceful and momentarily reconciled to an unjust world. ‘I don’t think I’d be very good at that kind of thing.’
‘No, I dare say not. That’s why I have hundreds of eligible men after me and you’ve got one spotty crackpot beatnik.’
This wounded, though I tried not to show it. ‘It’s because you’re beautiful, Ophelia. If other girls behaved like you they wouldn’t get asked out again.’
‘Oh Harriet!’ Ophelia’s voice sharpened with annoyance. ‘Don’t fish. It’s so boring. You’re as good-looking as any of us. Different maybe, but there are plenty of men who’d prefer your style of beauty. I do hate it when you get humble and saintly.’
‘Sorry. Well, anyway, eat before it gets cold.’ I put the tray on her bedside table. ‘I’m worried about Portia. Do read this.’
I handed her the letter. Ophelia ran her eyes quickly over it and then threw it down. ‘Oxshott’s in Surrey. Rather parvenu.’
‘I don’t like the sound of Dimitri.’
‘Obviously he’s a gangster who breaks people’s legs if they displease him. Portia’s an idiot.’
I ought to have known there was no point in asking Ophelia for comfort. It seems to me that family life consists of endless repetition of the same misunderstandings and stalemates like a sort of round game. Because I was insecure I was always seeking reassurance and because Ophelia was easily bored she always wanted to shock.
‘Will you come with me tomorrow to see Pa?’
‘Whatever for? I should think he’d hate to be gawped at behind bars like a chimpanzee in the zoo.’
I decided not to press the point. Ophelia usually said no to everything at first but she could sometimes be persuaded to change her mind. I left her to pick at the partridge and went downstairs slowly, wondering if she could be right about me being sanctimonious. I could be as mean as anyone when angry. Was I lacking the necessary art of dalliance, as she seemed to suggest? It was true that Dodge had been my first real boyfriend but he was not my first lover.
At the age of sixteen Portia had decided that she wanted to get rid of her virginity. She had put the names of all the men she knew between the ages of twenty and sixty into a hat and asked me to pick one. The name on the scrap of paper I had pulled out was Roger Arquiss. This made us giggle, not just because Roger was gay but because the idea of anything remotely passionate in connection with him seemed ridiculous. Sadly, the best-looking of my father’s friends were all homosexual, but Roger was not in the former category. He was in his mid-fifties, had a large Roman nose, a fleshy upper lip above crooked teeth and resembled a friendly old horse. When young he had had great success on the stage playing decent self-sacrificing Englishman who never got the girl, but later on he was reduced to playing idiot clergymen in popular farces.
‘Why on earth did you put the buggers in?’ I asked. ‘Let’s take them out and do it again.’
‘Without them there’d be precious few names. Besides, I was hoping to get Hugo Dance. I’m sure he stroked my bottom last Christmas when he was helping me into my coat. He pretended it was accidental but I saw something like a glint in his eye. I think he just needs the right woman. Still, it’s too late now. Roger it will have to be.’
‘But, Portia, you’re not serious! He’s so horrible, the poor old thing. I mean, sweet but!’
‘It’s no good picking names out of hats if you aren’t going to stick to it.’
Portia was nothing if not stubborn. We took the tube to Albany, Piccadilly, where Roger had a set of rooms decorated in a cosy English style with mahogany furniture, green leather chairs, elegant bibelots and masses of books. Roger was very well connected, and judging from the portraits on the walls all his family would have looked at home nodding over a stable door. As luck would have it Hugo Dance was there. They were enjoying tea and crumpets and gallantly pressed us to join them, though it was obvious they were surprised to see us. It was not a little embarrassing. I wondered if poor old Roger had been trying to get Hugo into his bed. Hugo was certainly a dish. He had black hair, long curly eyelashes and a dark red mouth. I saw Portia giving him longing looks as she smothered her crumpet with quince jelly.
Roger, whom we had known for years, brought out all his tame, child-friendly jokes for our benefit. Portia, instead of laughing politely, slid down her chair so that her skirt rode up over her knees, breathing deeply to make her bosom conspicuous – already it was much bigger than mine – and smouldered. Roger looked more and more surprised. Hugo stared at her a lot, I noticed. Time wore on. It was quite dark outside and soon we’d have to be thinking about going home. Roger got out a bottle of whisky. I stuck with tea because I hate whisky but the other three had plenty. Roger’s jokes began to get more daring and then Hugo told some really filthy stories. I laughed, though they did not seem particularly amusing.
‘Roger.’ Portia stood up, cutting Hugo short. ‘I’ve never seen your bedroom. I bet it’s pretty.’
Roger liked to be complimented on his taste. He followed her meekly from the room.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Hugo, chummily.
I couldn’t think of a convincing lie so I told him the truth. Hugo thought it was very funny. We giggled together and I thought how attractive he was and what a shame he didn’t like girls. He walked up and down before the fire, grinning.
‘I wonder if Roger will be able to – what a hoot! Your sister’s a little devil, isn’t she? I could see she wasn’t wearing any pants. Christ! How old is she?’ I stopped wanting to laugh. For some reason the fact that Portia wasn’t wearing knickers, which I hadn’t known before, made it seem real. Despite the brightness of the fire, the elegance of the furnishings and the smartness of the address, everything seemed suddenly tawdry and sad. I heartily wished we weren’t there. Hugo came over and put his hand on my breast. His cologne smelled of lemons and pencil boxes. ‘Are you wearing pants, Harriet?’ I was horrified and became rigid and tongue-tied with embarrassment. I could not look at him. ‘Mm-m-m. You’re as flat as a boy. I like that. I think it would be only friendly to follow suit, don’t you?’
He shoved me down on to Roger’s chesterfield and began to kiss me. His tongue was in my mouth and it seemed enormous. I couldn’t think what I ought to do. I wanted him to stop but I was afraid of making him angry. Perhaps it was better to go on. Portia and I could laugh about it afterwards. What was virginity but a nuisance, a badge of immaturity? This was my chance to get rid of it. If only it weren’t all so horrible. When he put his hand between my legs I don’t think I could have stopped myself from screaming if my mouth had not been full of his tongue. I closed my eyes, terrified I was going to be sick. Amid waves of heat and sweat and pain and drowning in aftershave, Hugo rid me of my virginity before it had begun to be troublesome. Afterwards, as he lay panting on top of me, a hateful stranger, my throat ached from trying not to cry.
‘You lucky swine!’ shouted Portia as we ran down the escalator at the underground station. ‘God! Roger was the last word in utter wetness. When he couldn’t manage to have an orgasm he cried, the silly old Dobbin, and I had to tell him it was all right. I think he managed to penetrate all right, though. There was blood. That counts, doesn’t it?’
My own thighs were sticky and I had a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. Hugo and I had been sitting silent in our chairs when Portia had come back, alone, into the drawing room, tugging a comb through her hair. Hugo was smoking a cigarette. We did not look at each other. He saw us to the door and patted my arm, before turning quickly away and shutting us out. Though the thing had not been of my doing I felt deeply ashamed.
‘You are lucky!’ said Portia again as we rattled through dark tunnels on the way home. ‘Fancy! The divine Hugo! There can’t be many girls who’ve had the pleasure.’ Then she peered at me. ‘You’ve got lipstick all over your cheeks.’
Even now, years later, when I remember Hugo I want to groan aloud. For a long time afterwards, when anyone kissed me, I wanted to retch. Portia had described in intimate detail what it had been like making love with Roger. She was a good mimic and conjured up a vivid picture of his fumbling awkwardness and her attempts to be nice about his incompetence. The incident did not appear to trouble her in the least. In some ways I envied her profoundly.
Maria-Alba, Cordelia and I ate the partridge in silence. I could think of nothing to say.
When we were halfway through the bavarois Cordelia suddenly said, ‘Are you going to see Pa tomorrow? Because I want to come too.’
I looked at Maria-Alba. She shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Perché no?’ she said, wiping blackberry-stained lips with her napkin. ‘The mistake has been too little of the reality.’
I wondered which particular mistake she meant. At that moment the opening chords of Chopin’s Funeral March, played with the sustaining pedal held firmly down and the occasional wrong note, came floating through from the drawing room. I rested my aching head on my hand. Oh, Pa, I thought, I do love you.
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