I Capture the Castle (36 page)

I thought of refusing, but I did want to see her house and studio —and have another look at her and her husband; it sounded as if Topaz was very thick with him. So I thanked her and accepted.

After I stopped hearing her bleating voice, I told myself that it was really very kind of her to ask me and that I ought to get over my prejudice against her.

“That’ll be nice for you,” said the maid, “though Cook would have given you some lunch, of course. Let’s see, you’ve got an hour and a half to put in—I expect you’d like to look at some shops.”

But I didn’t fancy lugging Heloise round crowded streets, so I said I would just walk in Hyde Park.

“Your frock’s quite a bit creased, miss,” she told me.

“I could press it, if you like.”

I had a look at myself in Rose’s long glass.

It is strange what surroundings can do to clothes—I had washed and ironed my green dress the day before and thought it very nice, but in Rose’s room it seemed cheap and ordinary. And lying on the bed in it hadn’t helped matters. But I didn’t like to take it off to be pressed, because my underclothes were so old and darned, so I thanked the maid and told her I wouldn’t bother.

It was hot walking in the Park so I sat down on the grass under some trees. Heloise rolled and then enticed me with waving paws to tickle her; but I was too lazy to make a good job of it so she turned over and went to sleep. I leaned back against a tree-trunk and gazed around me.

It struck me that this was the first time I had ever been on my own in London. Normally, I should have enjoyed getting the “feel” of it—you never quite do until you have been alone in a place-and even in my anxious state of mind it was pleasant sitting there quietly, looking at the distant scarlet ‘buses, the old cream-painted houses in Park Lane and the great new blocks of flats with their striped sun-blinds. And the feel of the Park itself was most strange and interesting—what I noticed most was its separateness; it seemed to be smiling and amiable, but somehow aloof from the miles and miles of London all around. At first I thought this was because it belonged to an older London-Victorian, eighteenth century, earlier than that. And then, as I watched the sheep peacefully nibbling the grass, it came to me that Hyde Park has never belonged to any London-that it has always been, in spirit, a stretch of the countryside;

and that it thus links the Londons of all periods together most magically-by remaining forever unchanged at the heart of the ever-changing town.

After I heard a clock strike quarter-past one, I went out to Oxford Street and found a nice open taxi. It was Heloise’s first through London and she barked almost continuously-the driver said it saved blowing his horn. I had never been to St. John’s Wood before; it is a fascinating with quiet, tree-lined roads and secret-looking houses, most of them old—so that the Fox-Cottons” scarlet front door seemed startling.

Aubrey Fox-Cotton came out into the hall to meet me.

“Leda’s still busy,” he said, in his beautiful, affected voice. By daylight his narrow face looked even grayer than it did that night at Scoatney. He is a most shadowy person and yet there is something unforgettable about his dim elegance. Heloise took rather a fancy to him, but he just said, “Comic creature,” and waved a vague hand at her.

He gave me some sherry and talked politely, but without really noticing me, until it was well after two. At last he said we would “drift over” and rout the others out.

We went through the back garden to a building that looked if it had originally been a stable. Once inside, we were faced with a black velvet curtain stretching right across. There was a little spiral staircase in one corner.

“Go on up,” he whispered, “and keep quiet in case it’s a psychological moment.”

At the top of the staircase was a gallery from which we could look down into the studio. It was brilliantly lit, with all the lights focussed on a platform at the far end. Stephen was standing there, in a Greek tunic, against a painted background of a ruined temple.

He looked quite wonderful. I couldn’t see Leda Fox-Cotton anywhere but I could hear her.

“Your mouth’s too rigid,” she called out.

“Moisten your lips, then don’t quite close them. And look up a fraction.” Stephen did as she said, and then his head jerked and he went bright scarlet.

“What the hell was began Leda Fox-Cottonthen she realized he had seen someone in the gallery, and went and stood where she could see us herself.

“Well, that’s that,” she remarked.

“I shan’t get anything more out of him now. He’s been selfconscious all morning—I suppose it’s that tunic. Go and change, Stephen.”

She was all in black—black trousers, black shirt-and very hot and greasy, but there was a hard-working look about her which made the greasiness less unpleasant than it had seemed at Scoatney.

While we were waiting for Stephen, I asked if I could see some of her work and she took me through into what must have been the stable of the next-door house. It was furnished as a sitting-room, with great divans piled with cushions. Everything was black or white. On the walls were enlargements of photographs she had taken, including one of a magnificent, quite naked Negro, much larger than life. It reached from the floor up to the high ceiling and was terrifying.

There was a huge framed head of Stephen waiting to be put up.

I admired it and said how beautifully he photographed.

“He’s the only boy I ever had the chance to do who was beautiful without looking effeminate,” she said.

“And his physique’s as good as his head. I wish the silly child would strip for meI’d like to put him up beside my Negro.”

Then she handed me a whole sheaf of Stephen’s photographs, all wonderful. The queer thing was that they were exactly like him and yet he seemed quite a different person in them—much more definite, forceful, intelligent. Not one of them had that look of his that I used to call “daft.” While we were lunching (on a mirror-topped table) I wondered if it hadn’t perhaps gone in real life. He was certainly much more grownup, and surprisingly at ease with the Fox-Cottons.

But he still wasn’t—well, so much of a person as in the photographs.

The food was lovely—so was everything in the place, for that matter, in an ultra-modern way.

“All wrong for this old house,” said Aubrey (they told me to call them by their Christian names), after I had been admiring the furniture.

“But I prefer modern furniture in London and Leda won’t leave her studios and take a flat. Modernity in London, antiquity in the country-that’s what I like. How I wish Simon would let me rent Scoatney!”

“Perhaps Rose will fall in love with New York when they go there for their honeymoon,” said Leda.

“Are they going?” I asked, as casually as I could.

“Oh, Rose was talking about it,” said Leda, vaguely.

“It would be a nice time to go, if they get married in September. New York’s lovely in the autumn.”

The most awful wave of depression hit me. I suddenly knew that nothing would stop the wedding, that I had come up to London on a wild-goose chase; I think I had begun to know it when I saw Simon’s roses in the flat. I longed to be back at the castle so that I could crawl into the four-poster and cry.

Leda was talking to Stephen about posing for her again the next morning.

“But we’ve got to go home today” I said quickly.

““Oh, nonsense-you can sleep at the flat,” said Leda.

“There isn’t room,” I said.

“And, anyway, I must get back.”

“But Stephen needn’t surely? You can go by yourself.”

“No, she can’t—not late at night,” said Stephen.

“Of course I’ll take you if you want to go, Cassandra.” His Leda gave him the swiftest, shrewdest look-it was as if she had suddenly sized up how he felt about me, wasn’t pleased about it, but wasn’t going to argue with him.

“Well, that’s a bore,” she said, then turned to me again.

“I’m sure they can fix you up at the flat somehow or other. Why can’t you stay?”

I longed to tell her to mind her own business. But as she was my hostess, I just said politely that Father and Thomas needed me.

“But, good lord,” she began-then took in my determined expression, shrugged her shoulders and said: “Well, if you change your mind, ring up.”

Luncheon was over then. As we walked across the hall, Heloise was lying on the black marble floor, very full of food. Leda stopped and looked at her.

“Nice—her reflection in the marble,” she said.

“I

wonder if I’ll photograph her? No—there isn’t time to rig up the lights in here,” She didn’t give a flicker of a smile when Heloise thumped her tail. It struck me that I never had seen her smile.

While she was dressing to take Stephen to the film studios, I felt it would be polite to talk to Aubrey about his work and ask to see pictures of it. Of course I don’t know anything about modern architecture, but it looked very good to me. It is odd that such a desiccated man should be so clever—and odd that anyone who sounds as silly as Leda does can take such magnificent photographs. When she came downstairs she was wearing a beautiful black dress and hat, with dark red gloves and an antique ruby necklace; but she still looked quite a bit greasy.

I had decided to go back to the flat in case Rose came home earlier than the maid expected, so Leda dropped me there on their way to the film studios. Stephen arranged to call for me at half-past eight.

Leda had one last nag at me: “You are a trying child, making him take you home tonight. He’ll have to come straight back to London if he lands this job.”

“He doesn’t have to go with me unless he wants to.” I don’t think I said it rudely.

“Anyway, good luck with the job, Stephen.”

As they drove off I started to walk Heloise round the block of flats, but I hadn’t got far before the car stopped and Stephen came running back to me.

“Are you sure you want me to take this job if I can get it?” he asked.

I said of course I was, and that we should all be very proud of him.

“All right-if you’re sure his As I watched him racing back to the car I had a wrongful feeling of pride—not so much because he was devoted to me as at the thought of Leda having to realize it.

I spent the afternoon in the drawing-room of the flat. I read a little—there were some very serious American magazines, not bit like the ones Miss Marcy had. But most of the time, I thought. And what I thought about most was luxury. I had realized before that it is more than just having things; it makes very air feel different. And I felt different, breathing that air: relaxed lazy, still sad but with the edge taken off the sadness.

Perhaps the effect wears off in time, or perhaps you don’t notice you are born to it, but it does seem to me that the climate of riches must always be a little dulling to the senses.

Perhaps it takes the edge off joy as well as off sorrow. And though I cannot honestly say I would ever turn my back on any luxury I could come by, I do feel there is something a bit in it. Perhaps that makes it all the more enjoyable.

At five o’clock the kind maid brought iced tea and sandwiches—and biscuits for Heloise, but she much preferred sandwiches. After that, I fell asleep on the sofa.

And suddenly they were all back—the room was full of laughing and talking. All three of them were in black-apparently most smart London women wear black in hot weather; it seemed unsuitable, but they looked very nice in it.

And they so pleased to see me—Rose simply hugged me.

Everyone was determined that I should stay for the weekend.

Rose insisted her bed was big enough for two and when I said we should kick each other she said:

“All right—I’ll sleep on the floor but stay you must.”

“Yes, do, dear,” said Mrs. Cotton.

“And then we can see about your bridesmaid’s dress on Monday morning.”

“If only I’d known you were here, I’d have rushed home,” cried Rose.

“We’ve been to the dullest matinee.

She was fanning herself with the program. Three months ago no matinee in the world would have been dull to her.

Topaz urged me to stay, but in the same breath asked if Father would be all right without me. I told her exactly what food I had left for him and Thomas.

“We’ll call up Scoatney and have a cold roast of beef sent over,”” said Mrs. Cotton.

“They can eat their way through that.”

Then Simon came in and just to see him again was so wonderful that I suddenly felt quite happy.

“Yes, of course she must stay,” he said, “and come out with us tonight.”

Rose said she could lend me a dress. “And you telephone Neil, Simon, and say he’s to come and dance with her. You shall have a bath in my bathroom, Cassandra.”

She put her arm round me and walked me along to her bedroom.

The quiet flat had come to life. Doors and windows were open, the maid was drawing up the sunbils, a cool breeze was blowing in from the Park, smelling of dry grass and petrol— a most exciting, Londony smell-which mixed with a glorious smell of the dinner cooking.

“The kitchen door must have been left open,” said Mrs. Cotton to the maid, quite crossly. As if anyone could mind the smell of a really good dinner!

While I was in the bath, Rose telephoned the Fox-Cottons” house for me—I was afraid Leda would answer and I didn’t fancy telling her myself that I had changed my mind. Then I felt it would be most unkind not to ask Stephen how his interview had gone, so I yelled to Rose that I would like to talk to him.

“He’s in the studio with Leda,” Rose called back.

“Aubrey says he’ll ask him to telephone you later.”

After she had hung up she told me that Stephen had got the film job.

“Aubrey says Leda’s terribly excited about it-Stephen’s to have ten pounds a day for at least five days. He doesn’t have to say anything—just keep wandering about with some goats. It’s symbolic or something.”

“Gracious, fancy Stephen earning fifty pounds!”

“He’ll earn more than that before Leda’s finished with him,” said.

Rose.

“She’s crazy about him.”

When I came back from the bath there was an evening dress: