The Silent Tide (17 page)

‘How about we pull clear of politics?’ Victor broke in, going to stand behind his fiancée on the sofa. ‘The ladies find it tedious.’ He placed a hand on Constance’s shoulder and she covered it with her own, looking up at him adoringly.

Isabel stared at him, wondering which of the many phrases forming themselves in her head actually to say and failing to say any of them. Meanwhile, she was dismayed to notice Vivienne was starting to shake. It was a moment before she realised the cause was silent laughter, not weeping.

Fortunately, just at that moment Jacqueline arrived in their midst holding a plate in an oven-gloved hand. ‘Sardines on toast anyone?’ she said gaily. ‘Girls, would you mind passing them round for me?’

Afterwards, Isabel took the empty plate into the kitchen to find Jacqueline in an apron, arranging flakes of cheese on dry biscuits.

‘Oh, thank you,’ Jacqueline said, sounding a little flustered. ‘Just put it down anywhere really.’

‘Can I do anything else?’ Isabel asked, eyeing the piles of dirty crockery with apprehension.

‘No, no, really, there’s just these. We’ll leave the clearing up for Hugh’s daily woman tomorrow.’

‘Oh goodness, yes,’ Hugh said as he sauntered into the kitchen. ‘It’s very good of you, Jacks, to do all this.’ He smiled at Isabel. ‘She didn’t have to, you know. We bachelors are not completely incompetent.’

‘Your job’s the drinks, Hugh,’ Jacqueline said briskly, planting a stray cheese flake on the final biscuit. She looked tired suddenly, tired and sad. ‘And of course I couldn’t leave you in the lurch. It had to be a proper party,’ she said to Isabel. ‘He really has something to celebrate, doesn’t he? His book and moving in here.’

‘He certainly does,’ Isabel replied. She was still gauging the relationship between these two. If Jacqueline’s husband was here, then she’d have been introduced to him by now, surely.

‘Jacks is always a good sport, aren’t you?’ Hugh said. ‘We’ve known each other since I was knee high to a grasshopper,’ he told Isabel.

Jacqueline brightened. ‘Our families live near each other in Suffolk,’ she added.

Hugh said, ‘I came in for a cloth, actually. Someone’s knocked over their glass.’ He snatched up a tea towel and hurried back into the living room. Jacqueline turned towards the sink, but Isabel had already seen her expression and was horrified. The woman was trying not to cry.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Isabel asked again, twisting her hands together.

Jacqueline shook her head as she rinsed a dishcloth and wrung it out. ‘Hugh will need this,’ was all she said.

‘Shall I take it to him?’ Isabel said, reaching for the cloth from Jacqueline, but the look of resentment directed at her made her feel as though she’d been slapped.

At that moment Hugh reappeared and swapped the tea towel for the damp cloth. ‘Isabel, come along, I must introduce you to a new arrival. He’s finished writing something rather good, but his publisher’s gone broke and can’t print it. I was wondering whether Stephen might take a look.’

Isabel went with him gladly. She couldn’t think what she’d done to earn Jacqueline’s dislike.

Shortly after that, she asked to find the bathroom. When she returned to the drawing room, Vivienne was waiting for her. ‘Would you mind if we went soon?’ she whispered. ‘It’s quite late. We might get locked out.’

‘Heavens, is that the time?’ Isabel said, then seeing Vivienne’s glum face said, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m a little tired, that’s all.’

Hugh was most attentive, fetching their coats for them, offering to come out and hail a taxi, but Isabel was firm that they’d find a bus. They said goodbye to everyone.

Jacqueline was nowhere to be seen. ‘Will you say goodbye to her and thank you from us?’ Isabel asked Hugh.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I expect she’s powdering her nose somewhere.’

Going down the stairs and out into the night air was a blissful escape. They hurried off towards the main road, where they hoped there’d be a bus.

‘Oh, those people,’ Isabel said to Vivienne beside her. ‘The Steerforths and their ghastly friends. Didn’t you think . . . ?’ She looked more closely at Vivienne, who’d put up a hand to cover her face, and saw that this time she wasn’t laughing, but crying.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Oh Viv, what’s happened?’ She put her arm round her friend. This was too much for Vivienne, who began to sob. They were standing in the middle of an empty street, so Isabel took her hand and led her over to a dark building where there was a set of steps. And there they sat until Vivienne recovered herself.

‘I’m all right,’ she sniffed. ‘Shall we go on?’

‘If you think you can, yes.’

They walked on in silence for a while, then Vivienne spoke, her voice at first a harsh bark. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, then continued more normally. ‘It’s what those people said. So many of them think it, don’t they? That I’m a freak doing what I do. No one will let me be.’

‘This isn’t to do with your mother again, is it?’ Isabel said, feeling her way.

‘No, I can manage her now. It’s other people. And there’s something else. Isabel, I haven’t told you this. I thought it was something to do with me – that I wasn’t handling the situation properly, that maybe it would go away of its own accord.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Isabel said.

‘I told you about that man on my research team. Well, that’s silly, they’re nearly all men, aren’t they? I mean Frank Williams.’

‘I do remember,’ Isabel said. This Frank had done something unpleasant. ‘Was he the one who didn’t invite you to something?’

‘Yes, though I suppose I shouldn’t have expected otherwise. The men go off to the canteen together every day, and of course they don’t let women in there. No, it’s worse than that. It’s the comments he makes – horrible things, dirty, vile. And a couple of the others are copying him. Anyway, my research supervisor is leaving, and Frank’s been given a promotion. He’ll be my new supervisor and I don’t think I can cope with it.’

‘Isn’t there anyone you can speak to? Surely if you explained . . .’

‘There are one or two who are sympathetic, but I can tell they don’t like to interfere. Oh Isabel, this doesn’t seem to happen to the other girl in the lab, so I must be doing something wrong.’ Her voice turned to a squeak.

‘I bet you’re not,’ Isabel said . They’d reached the main road now. ‘Look, there’s a bus!’ An icy wind was blowing across the park and they wrapped their coats tighter as they ran to reach the bus stop just in time.

Isabel took a while to fall asleep that night. The alcohol rushed in her blood, and the strange conversations she’d had jangled in her head. She worried about Vivienne, but had no idea what to advise. She had no experience of the kind of environment her friend worked in; it was a world away from her own. The situation was difficult given that she was one of only a few women at the university working in her precise specialism. Vivienne told her she would have to endure it until she’d gained her research qualification in two years’ time, then look for another job.

Despite the oddness of everything, Isabel had enjoyed the party. It had been interesting, glimpsing Hugh Morton’s world. She wasn’t sure she liked Jacqueline, who wore a wedding ring yet was clearly very fond of Hugh. She wondered whether it was this that made the woman so unhappy. Then again, perhaps she was a widow, and Hugh wasn’t as oblivious to Jacqueline’s feelings as he appeared. In which case, what did he think about
her
– Isabel? Oh, it was all such a muddle. And yet she was becoming aware that the answers to these questions were of the gravest importance.

She’d read the new draft of Hugh’s novel, read it and loved it. He’d understood completely what she’d explained and had introduced delicate changes to the book that made the characters more vivid, touching and believable. She’d write to him at once. How should she address him, now that they were becoming friends? Not ‘Dear Mr Morton’ any more, surely. ‘Dear Hugh.’

‘Dear Hugh,’ she whispered to herself as she slid into sleep.
‘My very dear Hugh . . .’

Emily

Dear Hugh
,
began a letter in the old file.

Thank you again for lunch last week, and for the most enjoyable party on Saturday. What fascinating people you know. Vivienne enjoyed herself splendidly too.

I have now read
Coming Home
in its final form, and it strikes me that you’ve achieved everything you set out to do. Every note of this book now rings true. Your portrayal of Diana is masterly; she is such a tender, delicate creature, but following your adjustments I exactly appreciate how her claustrophobic upbringing must have damaged her, how frightened she must have been of making any significant decision. I hope you don’t mind if I list a few small queries that I made during my reading of the book. You might like to address these before I begin the final mark-up for the typesetter . . .’

What followed were several pages of detailed commentary, none of it very interesting, so Emily passed on to the next document and struck gold. It was a letter to Isabel signed in thick black ink,
As ever, Hugh.

My dear Isabel,

Further to your letter of 9 June, I enclose my response to your comments and emendations, together with some replacement pages. I’m sorry that it has taken so long but there were a number of details I needed to check, not least the matter of the dates you raised, which required some delicate tinkering. I think I’ve solved it now, but am sure you’ll advise me if you judge otherwise. I am indebted to you for identifying this problem, which might have caused me significant embarrassment.

You’ll see from the postmark that I have returned to Suffolk for the time being. Mother suffers from attacks of asthma and I was briefly worried about her. The doctor assures me that she’s well now, but I will be staying on here to enjoy this period of wonderful weather. Please would you let Mr McKinnon know that I look forward to seeing the jacket of
Coming Home,
which he mentioned recently was underway

On 25 June, Isabel wrote in reply:

My dear Hugh,

I’m relieved to say that
Coming Home
is now with the typesetter and that we expect proofs in a few weeks’ time. I’m so very glad that you like the picture on the jacket, which I agree is imaginative and well executed, and conveys the tone of the book most effectively. All is well here in the office. Audrey Foster has announced the date of her wedding, so the gossip is all of dresses and guest lists, and it’s a miracle that any of us are getting any work done. I am so sorry to hear that your mother has been unwell and hope that the sunnier weather will see her improve . . .

This letter marked a change . Isabel’s voice, previously deferential, was growing more confident. She made wry little jokes. Hugh, on the other hand, took himself a little too seriously, Emily thought, and she loved the way Isabel sometimes dug gently at him for this – only very gently, though. Letters and memos told the rest of the book’s progress. Coming Home was published in October 1949. Hugh wrote to Stephen McKinnon to ask about the placing of advertisements. McKinnon’s letter in return was evasive. Then, as now, Emily noted ruefully , there was little money for publicity. She read two admiring newspaper reviews . The man in the Telegraph called it ‘an unusually engaging story about the yearnings of youth’ and the Mail reviewer looked forward to seeing something else from Morton’s pen. The remaining documents in the file were boringly administrative: a reprint had been considered but rejected, a letter from an Army officer pointed out some error concerning buttons on military uniform.
Isabel’s voice, however, fell silent.
Emily, disappointed, tidied up the file. It occurred to her to ring Joel , to tell him about this latest find, but it was late , after seven now, and she thought better of it. She rang Matthew instead, but his phone was turned off so she texted: Heading home. Speak later? Em xxx

After supper, she tried to read , but it was difficult to concentrate on anything. She rang Matthew, but once again there was no answer. It was the first day for ages, she thought, that they hadn’t spoken. She texted quickly. Hello? Worried about you. Is all OK? Em xxx and waited, staring at the screen, willing a reply, but there was none. She went to bed, but lay awake for some time, haunted by the thought that something was wrong.

Isabel

The first signs of trouble came one lunchtime in November 1949 when Isabel was alone in the office, snatching bites from a sandwich and catching up on the filing. The door opened and a smartly dressed blonde walked in. Grace McKinnon was pretty in a pale, demure sort of way, as in the photograph on Stephen’s windowsill, but seemed a little agitated. There was something about her, the conventional appearance, the timid way she glanced round the office, that recalled Berec’s description. Isabel had never met Stephen’s wife before.

‘Sorry, I’m looking for Mr McKinnon. Is he to meet you here?’ she asked Isabel, making no effort to look friendly. ‘It’s rather important, I’m afraid.’

‘He might be in the Fitzroy,’ Isabel replied, pointing to the pub beyond the window. ‘With William Ford.’

‘William Ford?’ Stephen’s wife asked, looking blank.

‘Yes, there’s been that awful review in
The Times.
Mr McKinnon thought he needed consoling.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. I never read the papers,’ Mrs McKinnon said, taking off her gloves. ‘There’s never anything cheerful in them. Do you mind if I wait?’

‘Not at all. Jimmy’s about somewhere. I’ll send him across with a message. Would you like some tea or something? It wouldn’t be any trouble.’

‘Oh no,really,’ Mrs McKinnon said.

Isabel dispatched Jimmy, and when she returned to the office it was to find Grace McKinnon examining a wall poster advertising an exhibition of abstract painting as though it were something entirely foreign to her.