Enduring Passions (13 page)

‘Thank you.’

Lord Rossiter opened the door and entered the drawing-room, holding out his arms. ‘Fay, darling, congratulations.’

‘Daddy.’

He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a bear hug.

‘I’ve been thinking of you all day. Sorry I couldn’t be with you
yesterday
, but it was a very late meeting, so I had to stay at the club.’

Her mother came forward and joined them.

‘I’ve been trying to cheer her up. She’s not happy with the idea of being away for six months.’

Her father held her at arm’s length and studied her face. ‘Is this true, Fay?’

She shrugged.

‘I don’t know, Daddy – honest. It’s a long time to be away from you all.’

‘Nonsense, my dear.’ Her father enthused on and on until Wilson entered with the Pol Roger in an ice bucket and proceeded to open the bottle with practised efficiency.

Her father handed the first two glasses to her mother and Fay, then took his own.

‘To our daughter – every success in her chosen career.’

They clinked their glasses in turn.

‘Now, tell me about the tour, Fay, when does it start, and where are all the places you visit? Don’t forget we have relatives and good friends all over the world.’

She sipped her champagne, feeling the bubbles go up her nose.

‘Not exactly sure of all the details yet, Daddy. Anyway, I’m to play for him at a concert before we go and there will have to be rehearsals of course.’

‘Good, that will give me plenty of time to write to people, make sure you always have somebody to turn to if needs be.’

‘You’re not doing anything tomorrow evening are you, darling?’ said her mother. ‘We could all go out for a celebration dinner at the Royal.’

Relieved that she didn’t have to make up an excuse, Fay said quickly, ‘Nothing at all. That would be fun.’

‘I’ll get Wilson to make a reservation.’

Whilst her mother busied herself her father, one hand in his pocket, asked. ‘Have you got the letter, Fay. Could I see it?’

‘Yes, of course.’

She went to the mantelpiece where they had left it earlier and held it out.

Her father pulled his hand from his pocket, took it and started
reading
.

He looked up proudly. ‘Hmm, it says, “your expansive and lyrical playing helps to balance his tendency to excitement and narrative”. Is that true?’

Fay smiled and shrugged. ‘He kept trying to get away from me. We were going a couple of beats faster at the end, but I kept dragging him back.’

He tapped the letter. ‘Well, he’s very complimentary about your timing.’

Wilson appeared in the doorway. Lady Rossiter explained what was wanted. He turned to go, but her father suddenly said, ‘Oh Wilson,’ he glanced at his wife, ‘we will need four reservations for dinner.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Puzzled, Fay said, ‘who is the surprise guest?’

Lord Rossiter looked a little sly. ‘Jeremy called me at the House today. Wants to see me about something. I suggested he came late Saturday afternoon – so he might as well come with us to dinner – should be fun for you, Fay.’

She pretended to shrug as if she didn’t mind either way. ‘Fine.’

‘Nice lad. He was out with the hunt wasn’t he, on Wednesday?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘He’s got a good seat and he’s a fine shot.’

Fay didn’t feel she had to say anything. It was just infuriating that, whatever Jeremy wanted with her father, the latter should inflict him on them at supper. Hadn’t he got the message yet that she wasn’t that close to Jeremy?

In the morning Fay decided not to go out again with the Saturday hunt. Instead she took all three dogs for a walk, the two Welsh Springers and her own Jack Russell, Alfie. She climbed up the steep hill in front of the house and stood looking over the valley. Smoke rose in straight columns from the chimneys of the Cotswold stone cottages. Crows wheeled and cawed above the trees near the church. It was so still that she could clearly hear the bleating of sheep a mile away.

She climbed over a style, Alfie squeezing underneath while the two Springers, barking excitedly, scrambled up on to the dry-stone wall; they jumped on to the wooden step crashing off into the undergrowth.

Fay was in a turmoil. A short while ago the news she had received yesterday would have sent her over the moon but, because of Tom,
everything
had changed.

She needed to talk to him, see what he thought. Six months apart – it would be unbearable.

They had done all the pre-flight checks and after the shout of ‘contact’ the engine burst into life. The chocks had been cleared and now he was lined up on the grass runway, looking at the back of Trubshaw’s leather helmeted head, the latter’s voice crackled in his earphones.

‘Right – in your own time.’

Tom’s hands went to his goggles, brought them down over his eyes. He gritted his teeth, determined to do better.

Keeping his eyes on the Ts and Ps he advanced the throttle, holding the quivering machine on the brakes as he did a last magneto check. When he judged the time was right, he released them and they started bowling down the runway. Very swiftly the tail plane lifted and he could see beyond Trubshaw’s head at the grass rushing under the plane and the trees in the distance, and one in particular.

The nose of the Tiger varied only slightly from one side of it to the other – he was keeping a better line. Then all of a sudden it was
academic
as the vibration ceased and the machine took wing. They soared into the morning sky.

He found himself looking into the eyes of Trubshaw in the latter’s rear view mirror. The head nodded as the crackling voice said, ‘There you are – you’re relaxing again. These things iron themselves out. Now, let’s do some circuits and bumps.’

For the next hour Tom did take offs and landings until Trubshaw was satisfied, then they climbed higher and started on stalls and spins. When Trubshaw went off to lunch at home, he stayed in the office eating bread and dripping sandwiches, washed down with a cup of tea made in a small pot that detached into two parts, the lower half being the actual cup and saucer. The sugar was in a battered 1934 Jacob’s Assorted biscuit tin, the tea straight out of an opened Typhoo packet. A smooth-voiced crooner
was singing on the Vidor radio.

The song ending abruptly with a few rising chords from the saxes. It was Jack Payne and his BBC orchestra and singers.

That reminded him about that night, he was getting a lift in a new Austin Ruby.

On a small side-table were a stack of flying magazines. He rifled through
Popular Flying
and
New Air Weekly
. There was also a guide to the Airport of London at Croydon. He took one and propped his boots up on the edge of the desk and began reading. The next thing he
remembered
was being rudely awakened by Trubshaw who swept his feet off the desk as he said, ‘Oy – when the cat’s away….’

‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.’

His instructor grinned, ‘You are in luck. The lady wife was in a good mood so, so am I. Now then, wake up and let’s go flying.’

The sun was low in the sky when Tom brought her in to land for the last time, bumping just the once before the plane settled back on to the grass. He taxied in and cut the engine, feeling utterly exhausted. They went through the post flight checks, then he unstrapped and climbed out, going around the Tiger Moth for a last inspection.

Trubshaw stood watching him, then they walked back to the office together. He ran a hand through his hair as he chucked his helmet on to the magazines.

‘That was a damn good day, Tom. Let’s see, you’re up to how many hours?’

Tom was filling in his log book and ran the nib of his fountain pen down the column.

‘I make it eight and a half hours.’

Trubshaw found his briar pipe and was busy stuffing tobacco from Player’s White label Navy Mixture into the bowl.

‘You seem to be over that period of stiffness. Today you were smoother, co-ordinated, had a good feel for the controls.’

Tom was delighted. ‘Thank you for finding the time. Please send my apologies to Mrs Trubshaw.’

With the tobacco packed down with his thumb, his instructor started to apply the flame from a Swan Vesta, sucking on the stem. The flame was drawn down into the glowing mixture. Clouds of smoke rose up. When he was satisfied that he was well alight, he took the pipe from his mouth, waved out the charred remains of the bent up match and flicked
it into an ashtray.

Eyes screwed up, he looked back at Tom through the rising blue cloud.

‘You’ll need to start doing more ground work.’ He nodded at the small shelf of books above the magazines.

‘Take the end two. Keep them at home. I’ve got other copies. You will be examined on theory as well as practical tests for your licence.’

Tom’s heart leapt.
His licence
.

‘Thanks.’ He went across and pulled them down, glancing at the first of the titles,
Principles of Airmanship
.

Leaning back in his chair Trubshaw breathed out smoke, savouring the taste. ‘When can you come again?’

Hesitantly, Tom said, ‘Well I’m free all day tomorrow, but of course I understand….’

Trubshaw stopped him with a wave of the hand.

‘After church for a couple of hours – say twelve o’clock? Got to be home by two or thereabouts – the rest of the family is coming for lunch.’

‘Oh.’ Tom was surprised. ‘Yes – that would be great.’

‘Sure you haven’t had enough after today?’

‘No – not at all.’

Trubshaw nodded, teeth clenched around the stem.

‘See you tomorrow then – twelve o’clock sharp. Weather forecast is the same as today.’

Tom took his leave. He put on clips, got on his bike and cycled past Trubshaw’s new Riley Four Door Saloon in British Racing Green. As he left the owner was thinking about his progress. It had been a very
rewarding
afternoon. He enjoyed another draw on his pipe. The decision would be his tomorrow, of course, but if today was anything to go by it could well happen.

Tom took the smaller round galvanized tub, not the full-length one, from the outside wall and into the scullery. He ladled hot water from the boiler into it and added some cold from the tap.

‘Right, Mum, I’m getting undressed.’

He heard his mother’s voice from somewhere upstairs and his Gran next door, saying, ‘We’ve seen it all before, boy.’

Nevertheless he pushed the door nearly shut before he stripped off and stood in the tub. He used the bar of lifebuoy soap and a flannel to give himself a wash under his arms, around his body, and then one foot at a time. It took less than five minutes and he was out and towelling
himself vigorously in the cold air. With his dressing-gown on, he baled out his water until he could pick up the tub and empty out the rest.

He quickly nipped outside and hung it back up. He’d missed bath night, not getting home until gone nine o’clock from his stint on the London to Fishguard express. He’d been briefed to sit in the same coach as three Irishmen bound for the ferry to Rosslare. He’d got on at Swindon and off at Cardiff. They were suspected Irish Republican terrorist; Tom wasn’t sure whether they were just being shadowed to make sure they were leaving or what. All Special Branch had asked for was a lot of manpower so that they could cover every possibility.

Upstairs he changed quickly into his dark trousers, white shirt and black tie. His dinner jacket had been taken by his gran who had pressed it for him.

He’d barely got it on and put his saxophone case on the table, sorting through his music when there was a knock at the door.

He kissed his mother and gran and with a cheery wave at his father he was gone.

The little Maroon Austin Ruby saloon went down to a crawl up the steep part of Cleave Hill. Tom asked his friend how much he’d paid – if he didn’t mind his asking?

‘A hundred and thirty-one pounds,’ was the answer.

He shook his head in awe. ‘How did you manage that?’

They reached the brow of the hill and the little car slowly began to pick up speed again.

‘The Kathleen Mavoureen system.’

Puzzled, Tom said, ‘What on earth is that?’

His friend, Paddy Redmarsh, cast a guilty smile at him.

‘I borrowed the money. You put down a deposit and pay the rest off in monthly instalments over three years.’

He began to sing in his Irish tenor voice:

Tom was aghast that anyone could think of buying something so expensive on credit. He shook his head in disbelief.

‘Aren’t you frightened you might not be able to make the payments?’

The Irishman laughed. ‘Jeez, Tom, the whole fuckin’ world’s going crazy. Everybody’s having fun – I want some too, before it’s too late.’

Shaking his head, Tom looked at the road ahead caught in the
headlights
of the car. The new cat’s eyes reflected back at them. He didn’t like swearing much, but it seemed natural to Paddy, part of the musical way he spoke. ‘Where exactly is the venue tonight, Pad?’

‘Some bloody place called Sudely Castle. It’s an engagement party.’

Tom swallowed. Poor Fay, she would be denied a lot because of his background.

Fay was at her dressing-table, fixing an ear-ring. With a last touch of the powder puff on her neck and shoulders she stood up, smoothing the dress over her waist and hips. It fell to her shoes with their cuban heels and straps with pearl buttons over the arch of her foot.

She picked up the evening bag she had selected and checked that she had her cigarettes.

Fay had heard the door chime earlier and the voice of Wilson as he had let Jeremy in, then her father’s, before the study door had closed.

What on earth did he want? The best she could come up with was a shooting arrangement on the estate, or some other form of business. A sudden idea struck her. Jeremy might be considering going into politics – her father could help a lot there.

She closed the bedroom door behind her and tripped down the wide curving staircase.

Her mother wasn’t there, so she opened her bag, and fished out the silver cigarette case and pearl handled lighter. The spark from the flint didn’t ignite the petrol fumes until the third go. She applied the flame to the end of her Marcovitch Black & White. When it was alight she snapped the cover back over the flame and put everything back in her bag.

She was holding her right elbow with her cupped left hand against her waist, cigarette between her first and second fingers, the smoke trailing lazily up in the high ceilinged room. Her father’s study door opened and he emerged, already dressed in his dinner jacket, laughing, with one hand clapping the shoulder of a similarly attired Jeremy.

‘Well, my boy, I’m doubly glad you are joining us tonight and look, here’s the talented girl herself and doesn’t she look beautiful?’

Frowning, Fay turned, as Jeremy agreed, his eyes intently on her.

‘Indeed she does, sir – you must be very proud.’

Indignantly, Fay waved the cigarette from side to side.

‘What’s all this? Here’s the girl herself. What have you two been
talking
about?’

Lord Rossiter made for the decanters and gestured with the cut glass to Jeremy.

‘A little snifter to settle our talk.’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

Her father poured out two generous measures of the single malt, replacing the glass stopper.

‘And you Fay. Would you like a sherry?’

‘Yes please, Father.’

He dispensed her drink from another bell-bottomed decanter and handed out the glasses to them both.

‘Cheers.’

They both responded and took sips.

‘Mm – very good, sir.’

Her father nodded. ‘It’s the nectar of the gods. You can keep
champagne
and brandy. A single malt is the most superb drink – always have one in my flask on the shoot.’

Fay tapped some ash into an ornate silver tray made in the shape of a scallop.

‘Really, Father, I’ve heard the same thing said by you about Port.’

Just then her mother appeared and, taking in their drinks, said, ‘What’s all this?’

Fay put the cigarette to her dark red lips, screwing up one eye as the smoke drifted up. ‘They won’t tell me, Mother, perhaps you can find out?’

Her mother looked at them both, directing her remark to her husband. ‘You do look a little smug, darling. Anyway I’ll have a sherry please since you all seem to have started without me.’

The talk turned to the political scene at Whitehall, and Fay, taking a last draw on her cigarette before stubbing it out, thought, ‘Ah ha, that’s what it was all about.’

Just then Simpson, the chauffeur appeared in the doorway.

‘Excuse me, sir, will the Lagonda be all right tonight? The Bentley’s got a flat tyre and it will take at least twenty minutes to change.’

‘Of course, Simpson.’ Lord Rossiter looked at his watch.

‘As it is we’re a bit late. Ready in five minutes.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Outside they all got into the car. Fay in the back seat was squeezed between her mother and Jeremy, who was very conscious of her lightly clad thigh pressed hard against his own. So was Fay of his. It was going to be a long evening.

The dining-room of the Royal was packed. As they followed the Head Waiter to their table, heads turned and some nodded. Her father was something of a figure in the district. He stopped by a table to have a word with the occupants, leaving the others to continue to their table.

When he rejoined them they were already being handed the
leather-bound
menus.

‘Would you like the sommelier to bring the wine list now, sir?’

‘Yes, of course, but we’ll have a bottle of your best vintage champagne to start with – we are having a little celebration.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The man bustled away.

Lord Rossiter beamed around at them all.

‘I must say, this is marvellous, having you with us, Jeremy, as we
celebrate
Fay’s start to her career – at least, until she gets married.’

‘Married,’ hung in the air.

Fay smiled, knowing that she would be seeing her fiancé on Monday, and lied.

‘I may never get married father. Haven’t thought about it much.’

Her father winced. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear just at that moment.

The sommelier arrived to present the chosen bottle of champagne for Lord Rossiter’s approval, his chain clanking against the glass.