Running to Paradise (13 page)

Then
something made me go on. I had to see them and see what they were doing. There’s a rickety old wooden lattice screen, with a white flowering summer jasmine entwined in it, bordering the garden at the rear of the studio, and by standing on tiptoe I could just see through the trellis. The scent of jasmine will always remind me of tonight. What I saw was quite horrible. How could they — two men? They were both naked: even in my misery I thought how beautiful Piers’ body was; Duncan’s was beastly, all fat, white and hairy. Duncan was sitting in a basket chair with his legs apart and Piers, my Piers, was kneeling in front of him licking him, as a dog does a bitch, while Duncan ruffled his hair. Then Duncan picked up his glass of wine from the table beside him and very slowly poured the contents over Piers. They began to laugh again. Piers pulled Duncan down on to the ground and they started to fight, laughing all the time, whilst the red wine trickled over their naked bodies. I turned and ran; I’m sure they must have heard me, but I didn’t care who heard me: I ran all the way home and locked myself in my room. Ma called out as I passed the parlour door, but I didn’t answer, and I’ve been here ever since.

I
think it may have helped a little writing down what I saw tonight, but I shall tear these pages out of my journal in the morning.

*

She didn’t, but the entry for 26th August is the last in the notebook.

I
remembered Char telling me how in her teens a young artist had fallen in love with her and wanted to paint her in the nude. Had the artist been Piers Gurney? If so, she’d left out the important part, but then that was typical of Char: that Gurney had been a practising homosexual and let her down pretty badly would have been erased from her conscious memory with the efficiency of a Communist propaganda machine.

Paradoxically,
though, like the perfect murderer who always manages to leave behind him a clue as to his real identity, she, after giving you her version of an event, would somehow leave you with the impression she wanted you to know it had not been quite as she’d claimed, but it was up to you to test the veracity of her statement. It was as though she played a game with you, points being awarded, or taken away as the case may be, according to your capacity for belief. Perhaps the contents of the green trunk too were part of the game: the final clue, the absolute denouement. Or was I imbuing Char with complicated motives and feelings she simply didn’t possess? Sophia and Aunty Phyll certainly thought so; I just didn’t know, but I couldn’t help wondering, and it was an interesting speculation.

To
return to the record itself. There is little to show for Char’s time at the finishing school in Paris which must have begun in the summer of 1919. Apart, that is, from a couple of very small, very blurred snaps of a group of girls in broad-brimmed hats and buttoned boots, standing in front of a fountain — a trip to Versailles perhaps? Sophia said all her mother had told her about that time was that they had cream cakes every morning at Rumplemayers and endlessly went to the opera. Did she dream, I wondered, of Piers and the infamous Duncan, as in the company of twenty young ladies from respectable middle-class English homes she trailed in and out of art galleries and learned how to arrange a menu, interview a cook and choose what wine to drink with what? Sadly, I shall never know.

The
next hard news I had of her comes from Algy Charterhouse’s diaries loaned to me by Sophia. Cheating in a way, I suppose — they didn’t actually come from the green trunk but legitimate under the circumstances. Sophia, the only one of her family to show interest in such things, inherited them together with a number of letters at her father’s death. With the help of these and assorted memorabilia from the same period, plus yet another of Char’s diaries — this time covering the year 1933 — I was able to get at least some idea of the couple’s courtship and subsequent marriage.

Algy
Charterhouse, according to Sophia, was twenty-three years old at the time of his first meeting with Char in 1923. He had served in the army for the last few months of the War and then gone into the family merchant bank in the City. Before his marriage to Char, he lodged with an elderly Charterhouse aunt in Bryanston Square, preferring the comparative freedom this gave him to living with his family who resided in somewhat gloomy state, in Surrey.

9

Bryanston Square, London WC — 20th January 1923

Dined
with the Cartwrights — some amusing people there, but somehow felt depressed and unable to join in. Maggy Cartwright is enchanting, I’ll allow, but everyone shouted and laughed too much. That frightful ass Tommy Maddox comes up: ‘What ho, Algy, old fruit — sickening for something, are we?’ I told him to shut up and go away, but perhaps he’s right, perhaps I am sickening for something.

1923
already seems an anticlimax. Is the brave new world fading so fast?

Bryanston
Square, London WC — 30th January 1923

Home
for the weekend. Father never spoke at all; except once at dinner on Saturday.

We
were sitting together over the port; me absolutely racking my brains for something to say, but as usual, not being able to come up with a damned thing. Then, like a fool, I managed to get a piece of walnut stuck in my throat and started choking. This, at least, provoked some response. ‘You eat too fast, my boy,’ Father announced, as purple in the face, tears pouring down my cheeks, I groped for my glass, ‘bad for the digestion.’ Through paroxysms of coughing I waved my thanks for this helpful advice and that was the end of our conversation. It’s really time Father snapped out of it. Of course, we were all beastly cut up about Ted being killed, but it was five years ago and you can’t mourn for ever.

Frightfully
busy at the office. Smith and old Pultney down with flu. Dine with Podge and Bunny Anstey on Wed and then to Dorset for the weekend. The Bradleys have asked me for the hunting. Hope the good weather holds.

Bryanston
Square, London WC — 31st January 1923

Aunt
Min insists I drink a glass of hot milk each night before I turn in. It’s quite revolting, but I can’t persuade her I don’t want the stuff. When I told Hilda to take the nauseous liquid back to where it came from, last night, she begged me with tears in her eyes not to make her. ‘Oh please, sir, don’t make me. Her Ladyship will never forgive me.’

‘
Alright,’ I said. ‘We can’t have that happening,’ and I took the damned glass and hurled the contents out of the window. Perhaps I should get rooms of my own; Aunt Min’s a dear, but life at Bryanston Square too closely resembles a comfortable straitjacket (if there is such a thing) for my liking.

Bryanston
Square, London WC — Monday late, 23rd February 1923

I
’ve met such a funny, quirky, rumbustious,
adorable
girl: by chance too, not at all official-like. The absurd thing is I simply cannot get her out of my mind. All the way back in the train from Sherborne I could think of nothing else, and yet I don’t even know her full name: all I know is, her first name is Charlotte. It happened like this, Me Lud...

My
weekend hosts, the Bradleys, run a pleasant enough ménage, but on the dull side. Caroline, daughter, fat, fair and flapperish, full of gush but not much else: in twenty years’ time she’ll be a replica of Mrs B. Father B a decent enough chap — served with Ted in the War — dabbles in farming.

Left
the office early on Friday afternoon and caught the 4.30 train to Sherborne, accompanied by Major B. That evening after dinner, we played a rousing game of whist until ten thirty, then Major B, reaching for his candle, announced in tones that brooked no argument from other ranks: ‘Bed, everybody, I think. Hunting tomorrow,’ and up we all trooped, one behind the other like geese to market. God, how I’m waffling on — is it because I don’t know how to describe my meeting with that funny girl? Oh, I’ve just remembered, she has the most enchanting turned-up nose; if it pointed to the sky one whit further it would be a caricature of a nose, but as it is it’s simply the prettiest nose I’ve ever seen.

Well
...next day Caroline, Major B and myself hacked to the meet in a tiny village — I’ve already forgotten its name — consisting of a small pub, an even smaller church and half a dozen cottages. My mount wasn’t half bad; a big-boned bay with a passing hard mouth, but he could go like billy-o once his enthusiasm was roused. We found almost immediately, and though the going was hard, hounds ran like hell for about four miles. Well, somehow or other dauntless Algy C, always keen to be in the forefront of things, managed to mislay his two companions along the way (he didn’t look back actually) and found himself, to his surprise, so far out in front that not only had he lost the Bs, but hounds, huntsman and the rest of the field as well.

Not
as put out by this state of affairs as some might be, I decided to take a breather, find a gate, smoke a cigarette and generally drink in the ambience. Did I say the weather was perfect? It was. After proceeding gently across a couple of fields in a somewhat aimless fashion, I came to a gate that led into a narrow lane, with wide turf verges on either side. This seemed to me a likely spot for taking my breather in and I’d just dismounted and was loosening the bay’s girths, when I espied a few yards up the lane, a small figure, bowler on the back of its head, legs outstretched, seated on a gravel heap. It appeared to be in hunting kit, but there was no sign of a horse. At first I thought the figure was a boy, but on closer inspection it turned out to be a girl. Naturally, I hurried to the rescue.

‘
Can I be of any assistance?’ I asked, politely touching my hat.

‘
Not unless you know of a quick cure for indigestion,’ replied the figure surprisingly.

‘
Only bicarbonate of soda,’ I said. ‘Not having any handy, would a cigarette do?’

‘
It might,’ she said, ‘and if you’re wondering where my horse is, he’s tied up just inside that gate. I get these pains, you see, and when I do, I find it helps to sit on a gravel heap.’ It was then I noticed the figure’s eyes — enormous, green, deep set, with long, dark curling lashes under arched brows.

‘
May I join you?’ I said. ‘Perhaps the company of a passing stranger might be beneficial, for want, that is, of any bicarb.’

‘
You never know,’ she said and patted the heap beside her. Then she smiled — oh Lord! I was lost then and have been ever since. I don’t know what on earth we talked about, because by that time I’d entered a sort of trance-like state. I do remember she said she lived with her mother at a place called Cuckoo Farm a mile or two from where we were sitting, and that her mother did a bit of horse breaking and dealing, and that her name was Charlotte, but she was always known as ‘Char’ . What else was said I simply can’t remember, but we finished our cigarettes and realised the time (or she realised the time).

‘
I believe it’s better,’ she announced. ‘What a funny thing.’

We
remounted. ‘Can I ride you home?’ I offered hopefully.

‘
There isn’t any need,’ she said. ‘I turn off here and it’s only a mile. If you go straight on, you’ll soon come to the village and someone will point you in the direction of the hunt.’

Helpless,
I searched my pockets for one of my cards; she couldn’t just ride away out of my life like that. She turned her horse and trotted away up the lane.

‘
My name’s Algy, Algy Charterhouse,’ I shouted after her, feeling a perfect ass. ‘May I see you again?’ She turned round and waved her whip: I thought I caught the words, ‘if you like,’ but I wasn’t sure, then she was gone, round a bend in the lane and all I could hear was the diminishing sound of her horse’s hooves.

*

2 Bryanston Square, London WC

14th February 1923

Dear Miss Osborn,

I do hope you won
’t think me a frightful cad writing to you out of the blue like this, but I remember you telling me your mother sometimes placed horses, and as my father happens to be looking for one, I wondered if she might know of something suitable. What he wants is a plodder: he hunts occasionally with the Surrey Union, but prefers it to be an ‘armchair’ ride. ‘Must be at least 16.2 and nothing flashy,’ (his words). I should be most awfully grateful if you could possibly let me know whether your mother knows of such a paragon and if she does, perhaps I could come down and look at it for him.

I trust you reached home safely on Saturday and there
’s been no recurrence of the indigestion. By the by, I seem to have stolen your box of matches! I am most frightfully sorry. I found them in my pocket on my return to the Bradleys. Major Bradley (my weekend host) knows your mother slightly: they apparently serve on the same committee, and he was able to give me your address.

I do hope you don
’t think it awfully presumptuous of me to write.

Yours sincerely,

A. G. Charterhouse

PS
. The above address will always find me. I live with my aunt, Lady Rowland, during the week.

2 Bryanston Square, London WC

20th February 1923

Dear Miss Osborn,

It was most frightfully decent of you to reply so promptly to my letter. How splendid that your mother thinks she might have a suitable horse.

About arrangements for viewing the animal: as luck would have it, I’m staying next weekend with a cousin at Dorchester, and nothing could be easier than to arrange for him to drive me over to Cuckoo Farm on either the Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Would you mind awfully dropping me a line to let me know what time your mother would like us and we’ll be there.

Yours sincerely,

A. G. Charterhouse

PS
. I shall be able to return your matches in person!

Cuckoo Farm, Upper Blatchford, Sherborne, Dorset

22nd February 1923

Dear Mr Charterhouse,

Thank you for your letter. My mother now says Starlight
might not be up to your father’s weight and therefore not suitable, but by all means come and have a look at him. Can you manage three o’clock on Saturday and stay to tea? Bring boots — it’s beastly wet.

Yours sincerely,

C. Osborn

Red Lion Yard, London EC

27th February 1923

Dear Miss Osborn,

I have given my father full particulars of Starlight, but he now tells me he has a horse on trial and agrees with your mother that Starlight would probably not be up to his weight, so it now looks as if a deal is rather unlikely. I am most frightfully sorry to have put you to so much trouble. On the other hand, I wouldn
’t have missed that perfectly splendid tea for anything, or the chance to return your box of matches!

Are you really coming to town to stay with your aunt? If so, perhaps we could dine? Do write and let me know if and when and I
’ll arrange a party.

Please thank your mother for all her help and kindness. Yours very sincerely,

Algy Charterhouse

*

And so it went on, all through the spring of 1923; by midsummer Char and Algy were engaged.

Char
appeared to have kept most of Algy’s letters for the period, and even a brief perusal of them shows how quite preposterously in love with her he was. From such dizzy emotional heights there was only one way out, surely, and that was down. He appears to have been totally blind to the ‘dark side’ of Char: to him then she was ‘adorable’, ‘funny’, ‘absurd’ and above all, wildly physically attractive. Of her own, possibly distorted view of sex, influenced as it was by the behaviour of her parents and by her experience of Hubert Stokes and Piers Gurney, he was presumably ignorant. It seems that at the time Char turned away from all that was difficult, unaccountable or uncertain in life — for her twenty-one years she appears to have experienced her fair share of this — and embraced wholeheartedly all that was safe, conventional and familiar. Algy Charterhouse in her eyes must have epitomised these virtues and was good-looking, rich and adored her to boot. To him she must have seemed a simple, country, middle-class girl of her period: fond of all the right things, knowing the right sort of people, a little daring perhaps superficially, but at heart a dear, sweet creature, who would make a perfect wife, hostess, mother and, in some undefined way, a perfect bedmate. Poor old Algy, he was, of course, entirely unaware that, as with the moon, this was but a temporary phase and could not possibly last.

It
’s difficult to assess Char’s feelings towards Algy. There can be no doubt he influenced her, simply by being a man two years her senior and in love, whose inalienable right it was to take charge of her, both in mind and in body. Theoretically at least, she always claimed she preferred masterful men, though I had my doubts on that score. But even years later when I came to know her, and she’d long since forsaken the way of life that Algy represented — gentle affluence, City dinners, the Old School Tie, the correct regiment, the ‘right’ ideas — she would still produce anachronisms such as: ‘But darling, he was wearing a Leander tie, he simply must be OK.’ That she was in love with Algy is certain, but because of his later defection, she would never admit how much he had really meant to her. She would dwell at length and, it must be admitted, with relish, on his physical violence towards her, but dismiss their love as being something akin to an attack of the measles. His letters, however, passionate, silly and oddly moving, remain.