It Ends with Revelations (21 page)

‘They spoil me,’ said Mary.

It was the first statement not elicited by a question Jill had heard her make.

When they had mounted the narrow stairs from the basement Robin said, ‘Do you find her very depressing?’

‘No,’ said Jill, wondering why she didn’t. ‘Perhaps she’s not definite enough to be depressing. She’s like a whisper.’

‘We think she’s fairly happy,’ said Kit. ‘She enjoys quite a lot of things, particularly children’s television. I used to feel I ought to watch it with her but we’ve discovered she likes to spend a lot of time alone. It’s tricksy, making sure she isn’t lonely and yet not making demands on her by being there.’

‘And it’s tricksy about work,’ said Robin. ‘One has to let her do enough to feel valuable but not enough to tire her. She’d be at it from morning till night if we didn’t stop her. By the way, she’s a very good cook, provided one writes everything down for her. Oh, there’s a lot to be said for Mary.’

It dawned on Jill that Robin was trying to sell her Mary, was nervous for Mary’s future. This brought home to her, as nothing else quite had, that she would eventually be living in this narrow, intimate old house. She said reassuringly, ‘I can imagine getting very fond of her.’

‘Oh,
can
you?’ Robin positively sighed with relief. ‘Kit and I have had to work hard at it, because we somehow linked her with Mother. But the poor dear had nothing to live for when Mother died, so we just had to have her here. At first we only pretended to like her, but now we really do.’

‘And so shall I,’ said Jill, knowing she meant it. There was so much love in her heart, for the girls as well as for their father, that there’d be some overflow for Mary.

She found the exhibition at the Tate Gallery immensely stimulating, partly because the girls were stimulating
companions
but also because she was in the mood to be stimulated. Indeed, her enjoyment was so intense that she became a little exhausted and the girls, instantly motherly, decided that a concert that evening might be too much for her. ‘Father said we weren’t to overdo it,’ said Robin. ‘Besides, there’s so much to talk about.’

They had a good, rather feminine dinner, in the dining room, minus Mary. ‘Mary,’ Kit explained, ‘does not dine. She sups, on a tray. Incidentally, she would be shocked at the idea of sitting down to a meal with Father. She accepts us – just – because she knew us as children; but she considers Father should be served, not hobnobbed with. She’ll probably feel the same about you, once you’re married to him. At present she thinks you’re
our
friend.’

‘The classless society will never get any kind of boost from Mary,’ said Robin. ‘And yet she’s never obsequious. She has a sort of dignity which belongs to the country, not to towns.’

At ten o’clock Jill considered going home and found she disliked the idea. She had a mental picture of the flat waiting for her, empty, aloof, a home that had never been a home. And when she reached it – not much before midnight, as the girls’ unwillingness to let her go equalled her dislike of going – it was even worse than she expected. All day she had kept thoughts of Miles at bay, but now they rushed at her. How was she going to tell him? Should she receive him back as if all was well and then, gradually … She imagined it as a scene in a play and thought, ‘But it’s unwriteable, unplayable.’ Then she wrapped herself in the day’s happiness and the prospect of the next day’s. Whatever happened, she was going to enjoy her holiday – and, damn it, presumably Miles was enjoying his. For the first time, she encouraged a resentment she had never fully admitted to feeling.

She had invited Robin and Kit to lunch with her and suggested they might bring Mary but they assured her Mary would die with embarrassment if she had to lunch in a restaurant. The girls arrived at twelve o’clock and were greatly impressed by the flat in daylight.

‘I suppose you’ll go on living here,’ said Kit, ‘and Mr Quentin will go somewhere else. You can’t stay here together or you’d never get a divorce.’

‘It would be nice if you could move in with us,’ said Robin, ‘but I suppose you’ll have to wait till the divorce goes through.’

This conversation raised problems which were even more to the forefront of Jill’s mind during the dress show the girls took her to after lunch. She saw several dresses
she would have liked to buy – but what with? She and Miles had a joint bank account and, within reason, she bought anything she wanted. She could not go on using Miles’s money but she had no access to Geoffrey’s. Robin chose that moment to say, ‘That dress would be splendid on you, Jill – just right for your trousseau.’ Who was going to pay for that trousseau? It might be distinctly inconvenient to be between husbands. She was thankful that at least she had no shortage of ready money, having recently cashed quite a large cheque. Of course the money in her handbag was just as much Miles’s as the money in the bank but it somehow helped that, when she cashed the cheque, she hadn’t decided to leave him.

Geoffrey got home shortly before dinner, when she and the girls were together in the doll’s size drawing room. He kissed her, but in much the same way that he kissed his daughters. And even when she was alone with him, after dinner, he did not so much as hold her hand. No doubt he was digging himself in for a long, respectable engagement. And sitting there in the little panelled room, occasionally hearing the girls’ voices from below, she felt she could happily accept the respectability.

When he saw her home, he excused himself from coming up to the flat. She said, ‘You’d be safe enough. I’ve given up hope of seducing you.’

He smiled and said, ‘Thank God for that. If I gave in I still might not get you away from Miles.’

‘Yes, you would. Truly. I’ll promise you now, if you like.’

‘I do indeed like. Still, I shan’t feel quite safe until you’ve told him. Good night, my love.’

The next morning, she woke later than usual and found herself likely to be late for an early appointment at the hairdresser’s. There were, she noted, a fairly large number of letters, all for Miles and most of them forwarded from the theatre. She glanced at the envelopes while she was hurriedly drinking some coffee. No handwriting was familiar. Probably they would all be fan letters. Anyway, they could wait until after lunch, when she would have time to cope with them. She was not due at the Westminster house until late afternoon as Geoffrey would be tied up till then and the girls, they had regretfully admitted, were booked to meet some ex-school friends.

She got back to the flat soon after three o’clock and settled down at her desk. Miles liked his fan mail to be answered without delay; and as she had no idea when he could deal with this batch it seemed best to send short notes saying he was on holiday.

She had finished the job and was about to put her typewriter away when she saw one last letter, which had fallen to the floor. It was addressed to the flat, not the theatre, but judging from the handwriting it, too, was from a fan and a very young one. And the writing was so illegible that she doubted if she could read it. She turned to the signature, which was ‘Cyril’. Oh, dear! Well, she would just have to wrestle with the writing. What she eventually made out was:

Even when she understood the sense of the letter, it took her a moment to realize its full meaning. Master
Cyril-Doug
Digby was implying that he had been assaulted, and he was attempting blackmail.

14

Tom Has Been There Before

Of course the letter was a vicious invention. Unless … she vividly remembered coming into the flat that afternoon when Miles had been rehearsing with Cyril. The boy had been in tears. Miles had put his arm round him to escort him to the hall. Could that – or some other gesture of comforting kindness, occurring before she came in – have been misconstrued, and its significance further exaggerated by the brother, that black streak she had seen at the stage door?

She read the letter again. It didn’t read like an invention. Perhaps the little idiot
had
misunderstood, really felt justified … No. Nothing justified blackmail. And if the Digby brothers could blackmail, they could invent the reason.

What the hell was she to do? Ironically, had Cyril merely written a begging letter she would have sent him,
well, say twenty pounds, knowing that Miles would wish her to. He rarely refused a loan (which almost always proved to be a gift) to a fellow professional; and he had, of course, shown Cyril special kindness. But she couldn’t send money now. One couldn’t be blackmailed. Perhaps she ought to go straight to the police. No, not while Miles was away – and she didn’t even know in which country.

Could she get advice? Suppose she told Geoffrey? It would be a relief but somehow a betrayal of Miles – though would it, when Miles was utterly innocent? Perhaps she feared Geoffrey would not believe that.

Suppose she told no one – and did nothing? It was now Wednesday. Someone would go to the pub on Friday evening to meet Miles and Miles would not be there. But surely Cyril and his brother would not then rush to the police, thus losing their chance of ever getting any money? Unless – There was a sentence in the letter … she found it. ‘And he thinks I should go to the police and you would have to pay me damages.’ Nonsense, surely, but the Digby brothers might believe it. And if they did go to the police, if they accused Miles … Even if he cleared himself – and how
could
he clear himself? It would simply be his word against Cyril’s.

Should she go to the pub herself and hope whoever came might know her by sight and make contact with her? She could explain that Miles was away, offer to tide Cyril over with a little money. No. It would be tantamount to admitting …

Get advice from someone she simply must. And it now
struck her that Tom Albion was the obvious person. As Miles’s agent he would be vitally concerned in protecting Miles’s reputation, and he was, too, their very good friend. Also it was just conceivable that Miles might have left, say, some poste restante address with him in case of some business emergency. Yes, of course she must talk to Tom – and please God he was in London.

She rang the agency and was put through to him. Cutting through his pleasant greeting she said she needed to see him urgently. ‘Can I come at once?’

He said, ‘Of course,’ without an instant’s hesitation. She was grateful for that.

In the taxi she had qualms. Ought she to show the letter even to Tom? Suppose he believed Cyril’s accusation? But he wouldn’t – no one who knew Miles would. He’d probably laugh at her fears, say the whole thing was impertinent bluff. She felt a warmth of reassurance even as she climbed the once beautiful old staircase that led to his ramshackle premises. He was always saying he must move out of Soho but she doubted if he ever would unless the house fell down on him – and it rather looked as if it might. Entering the agency she had affectionate memories of conferences punctuated by the entrances of secretaries bearing strong cups of tea, with slices of heavy fruit cake which acquired added heaviness from slopped saucers.

One such cup of tea, with its attendant cake,
accompanied
her into Tom’s office today. Settling her into an armchair facing his desk, he asked if she’d rather have a drink.

‘No, thanks. Your office tea’s practically as good as a drink.’ She smiled at the departing secretary, then thanked Tom for seeing her at once.

‘In all the years we’ve known each other you’ve never before asked to see me urgently. And you sounded worried. What is it, love?’

She noticed that his Lancashire accent was well to the fore, as it usually was when he wanted to be particularly kind. He was the son of a once-famous music hall comedian and his personality, like his office, retained the aura of a long-vanished theatrical world – which did not prevent him from being a shrewd, and even hard, businessman.

‘Oh, it’s probably a lot of nonsense,’ she said. ‘Just me staging a panic. But first, have you any way of getting in touch with Miles?’

‘I only know he’s gone abroad. He rang me up to say so, on Sunday. For once, I made a point of asking where he’d be – because of the film – but he said he didn’t know. He finally said he’d try to ring me, next Sunday.’

‘We’ll have to decide something before then – by Friday night, actually. But you’ll probably say, do nothing at all.’ She took the letter from her bag and handed it over, determinedly smiling. ‘You’ll see what rubbish it is. It’s just that – with Miles away –’

‘Drink your tea, love,’ said Tom.

‘You’ll find it difficult to read.’

She watched him while he read. His pudgy features were not expressive but it was only a few seconds before he
said, ‘Oh, my God,’ in a tone which left her in no doubt that he was taking the letter seriously. He then read on in silence and it seemed to her that he took an interminable time. Even when he raised his eyes to hers, he did not at once speak. But the pudgy features were now expressive enough. It was as if the mask of comedy was attempting to be the mask of tragedy. At last he said, ‘Miles, of all people.’

‘But it’s not true. Surely you don’t believe –’

He said hastily, ‘I only meant that it’s fantastically awful that this should happen to Miles. God blast the lousy child.’

‘
I
s
he a child? What does he mean when he says that Miles knew how young he is? Miles told me he was eighteen.’

‘I’ll tell you all I know about that – and I think I got the truth out of the little bastard when he came here last week. He started rehearsals saying he was fifteen, and therefore didn’t need a licence. Peter Hesper began to think he was younger and told him to bring a birth certificate – which he did, and it said he was
eighteen
, but it was his brother’s birth certificate. The name on it was Douglas Digby, not Cyril Digby, but he bluffed Peter into believing that Douglas was really his name. Then the boy got frightened and told Miles the truth – I gather that was just before the show opened in London. He said he was going to be fifteen in a week’s time, and then everything would be all right. And if a licence had to be got at the last minute, the show might have to be postponed. So in the end, Miles said he’d keep the secret.’

‘Did the boy tell you this, or did Miles?’

‘I got it out of the boy first and then Miles confirmed it. I told him he was a fool to have involved himself in a conspiracy with the ghastly kid, but he said Cyril was in tears and in a state of nerves because Peter had been bullying him, and if there’d been any more trouble the boy wouldn’t have been able to open at all. And what did it matter if he played for just one week without a licence? Anyway, there was no point in fussing about it as the damn play was now off. So that was that.’

‘Then Cyril’s really fifteen?’

‘Search me. He may still be lying. He could pass for ten or eleven. And one thing’s ominous. I told him I wouldn’t even have his name on my books unless he brought me his own, genuine birth certificate. That was ten days ago and he still hasn’t brought it. So he’s probably younger than fifteen.’

‘I wonder if Cyril confessed about the birth certificate that day they rehearsed at the flat. Afterwards, when I told Miles to get his mind off Cyril’s troubles, he said, “You don’t know the half of them.”’

Tom looked suddenly relieved. ‘Then you were in the flat?’

‘Only as Cyril was leaving – in tears, incidentally, which would fit with his just having confessed to Miles.’

‘Try to remember anything either of them said.’

Only odd snatches of conversation came back to her. ‘Miles said Cyril had had a difficult morning, but
everything
would be all right – something like that. And Cyril
said, when they were out in the hall, “1 swear I won’t let you down.” Incidentally, Miles’s manner was fairly brusque. I was a bit surprised because you know how
kind-hearted
Miles is. But no doubt he was trying to buck Cyril up – he said afterwards, “The boy’s a mass of self-pity.” And he had, of course, been wonderfully kind to him up till then.’

‘Quite abnormally kind.’

She looked at him indignantly. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I simply meant especially kind.’

But she didn’t believe him. Nothing he had said, since his utter dismay on reading the letter, had made her feel he had complete faith in Miles. She said now, ‘I’d like the truth, Tom. If you’ve any doubts at all …’

He was silent too long for her liking. Then he said:

‘Jill, if anyone told me that Miles had done something dishonest, mean, or even been spiteful, I’d stake my reputation it wasn’t true. But as regards this accusation – oh, for God’s sake don’t think I believe Miles is guilty but we can help him best by facing the fact that he
conceivably
is.’

‘I shan’t,’ said Jill. ‘But I’ve already faced the fact that Cyril might have, well, misconstrued something.’

‘I doubt that. Cyril’s no innocent. Either the accusation’s true, or the letter’s such a clever fraud that I can’t believe the boys capable of having invented it. Perhaps the brother is, but even that’s not easy to accept.’

‘You find it easier to accept Miles’s guilt,’ said Jill,
coldly. ‘How strange. I felt so sure you’d be a tower of strength.’

‘Well, damn it, so I will – anyway, I’ll do my best to be, and whether Miles is guilty or innocent. And I swear I’m not taking it for granted he’s guilty. It’s just that … Listen, love. Even my perfectly normal clients are pretty unpredictable as regards anything to do with sex, but when it comes to my homosexuals –! About a fifth of my male clients are homosexual, including my four most important ones, of whom Miles is the most important. The general average of decency – in matters that affect me – is just about the same as with my normal clients. Of my four stars, two are pleasant, reasonable chaps, one’s a right bastard, and Miles is just about the kindest, most likeable man I’ve ever met. But I don’t know what makes
any
of them tick. I just don’t understand homosexuality. I don’t condemn it. I merely find it beyond my comprehension, and simply accept the fact that a fifth of the men who enable me to earn a living have feelings utterly alien to my own. And I also accept that I never know what they’ll be up to next. That’s why, with all my respect, admiration and affection for Miles, I can’t feel one hundred percent certain he’s innocent. Incidentally, this is not the first blackmailing letter I’ve read sitting at this desk. And, in every case but one, my client was guilty of what he was accused.’

‘Were you able to help them?’

‘Only to the extent of getting them the best legal advice – which was to pay up. Even the man who was innocent.’

‘But that’s fantastic. Surely if an innocent man goes to the police –’

‘He was innocent of what his blackmailer accused him, but he was a homosexual. If he’d gone to the police, too much would have come out. There are limits to what the police will turn a blind eye on.’

‘But surely the law’s going to be changed –’

‘It’ll be more severe, not less, as regards what Miles is accused of,’ said Tom grimly. ‘I don’t think you’ve quite taken it in, Jill. He could possibly survive an ordinary homosexual scandal, but not this, not an offence against a child. Anyway, he might get a heavy jail sentence.’

‘But he’s
innocent
, Tom.’

‘You go on believing that, love – and I’ll do my level best to. And I do find it hard to think that he could have been attracted by that horrid lad. Hardly Miles’s type, would you say?’

‘I don’t know much about that, Tom.’ She felt vaguely ashamed to admit it. ‘Miles has become more and more reticent.’

‘Do you know who’s with him now? I take it
someone
is?’

‘I imagine so. But he didn’t give me the slightest hint – just told me, late on Saturday night, that he was going, and went on Sunday.’

Tom was looking at her closely. ‘You’re an odd couple. I know half a dozen married homosexuals – though a couple of them are bisexual; their wives just wait their turn, more or less philosophically. The other wives are motherly,
or plain cynical and having a good time on their own. But you and Miles … I’ve always felt you’re merely devoted friends. Not that there’s anything mere about devoted friendship.’

‘It’s been more than that, Tom. It’s been love. There can be love without any sexual feeling.’

‘Between a man and a woman? Well, different people mean different things by love. Anyway, I can take it you’ll stand by him now, whatever happens?’

She hesitated only a couple of seconds before saying, ‘Of course.’ But in those seconds she knew how fully she had accepted that her life with Miles was over.
Could
she stand by him now?