War Damage (2 page)

‘You've so much energy, Freddie. Where do you get it from?' Vivienne spoke faintly as if exhausted by his enthusiasm. Charles stood up and the dancer glanced after her son as he moved through the room, lifting a glass from Phil's tray en route.

Regine hoped that was all right. ‘Is he allowed?'

Vivienne shrugged. ‘He's sixteen – nearly. And his father says he has to learn to hold his drink.'

‘He's very self-possessed, isn't he.'

‘Well, he was in America during the war. John insisted – you know, at the beginning, when we thought the Germans were going to invade. He seemed so much older when he got back. Well, of course he
was
older.' She smiled and Regine thought she looked sadder than ever.

‘Didn't you miss him terribly?'

‘Terribly.'

‘But you were dancing, weren't you, darling. You couldn't have done that if you'd had to look after the boy,' said Freddie.

‘He'd have been at school.'

‘You couldn't have done it. All that travelling. And you know he had a wonderful time in New York.'

‘Oh, he did. Thanks to those wonderful friends of yours, only …'

‘Exactly. The Denton-Bradshaws will be tremendously useful to him in the future. American connections are so important these days.' Airily Freddie swept Vivienne's maternal guilt away. ‘But I must tell you about my
other
plan. I am thinking of organising an exhibition on Diaghilev, and I need your help with that too, darling. If you'll give it your support – your name means so much.'

‘A Diaghilev exhibition!' Vivienne Hallam looked more doubtful than ever. ‘But how can I help? I didn't know Diaghilev.'

‘You can conjure the money out of the ground. All your connections with the ballet world – oh, I know I have connections too, but your name is so much more persuasive – do say you'll help, darling.'

Regine sprang to her feet. ‘You should talk to Alan Wentworth. He'd love to do something about Diaghilev on his arts programme.'

‘Not
yet
! Oh – I shouldn't have
mentioned
it. It's just a gleam in my eye at the moment. The ballet magazine's the priority, that's the first thing, of course, but then it will be a forum for the discussion of the exhibition, a platform to float it from, it'll be a way of raising more money.'

‘You always seem to be broke, Freddie,' said Vivienne plaintively.

‘Darling, you know me, I never have a bean – all the family money went on the stately pile and Daddy's gambling debts. And when I do have any it runs through my fingers like water. But this is different – it's not for me, it's for art, it's for the
dance
, darling.'

In search of Alan Wentworth, Regine paused to chat to Dorothy Redfern, who was discussing the previous evening's performance of
Rosenkavalier
at Covent Garden with one of Neville's colleagues. ‘Oh – I didn't know you were there, Dorothy,' cried Regine. ‘Didn't you think Elisabeth Schwarzkopf was
marvellous
?'

‘We were in the gods, you wouldn't have seen us, Reggie dear. And no – actually I didn't. The voice is wonderful, of course, but I thought her performance was so terribly
arch
.'

‘Oh …' Regine, who hadn't great confidence in her own artistic judgements, felt a little downcast.

‘And I'm not sure one shouldn't boycott her,' continued Dorothy. ‘They say she was a Nazi in the war.'

In so many ways Dorothy always held the high ground, moral as well as aesthetic. She added: ‘Of course, it's very hard to know what one would have done. Most people compromise, don't they, when you really come down to it. Except those of us who had no choice.'

Regine found Alan Wentworth in the library. He and Neville were talking to Noel Valentine. Vivienne's son was there too, leafing through a book on Chinese art.

Regine slid her arm through Alan's. ‘You're looking well.'

‘Not as well and gorgeous as you, Reggie, the Rita Hayworth of Hampstead.'

She laughed off his ponderous flirting. ‘Where's Dinah?'

‘She's gone to some meeting. The local Labour Party's trying to start a women's peace group, or something. You know – against the atom bomb.'

‘Tell her I'll call round one day next week.'

‘She's at the Courtauld most days. Come in the evening, when I'm home from work as well.'

He resumed his conversation with the other two. Regine sat on the arm of Charles's chair, looking at the prints with him. ‘They're exquisite, aren't they.' The boy nodded, lifting with long fingers the fragile tissue protecting the next plate. ‘Your mother tells me you were in New York during the war. That must have been exciting.'

He looked up at her and she saw what Freddie had meant about Caravaggio: the pale skin, so utterly unblemished by adolescent spots; the heavy-lidded glance; the sinuous lips. With a startling throb of desire she imagined those long hands on her body. Senseless French words came into her head:
elle se penchait sur ce corps … le visage exquis d'un éphèbe
…

‘I stayed with a rather nice family. They had an apartment on the Upper East Side,
Eleven Hundred Park Avenue, East Eightyninth and Park
.' He chanted the address like a spell. ‘In the summer we went to their house on Long Island,' he added.

The mysterious names reinforced Regine's vision of an imaginary New York, where all the women looked like the Duchess of Windsor and all the men like Humphrey Bogart. In the American films she'd seen, brash, noisy streets, wise-cracking trilby-hatted men and long-legged showgirls defined the city, but Charles's careless allusions suggested a different Manhattan, of martinis and stilted elegance. ‘You are so lucky. I've always wanted to go to New York.'

‘It was swell,' he said with an exaggerated American accent. Then in his normal voice: ‘It was great fun and rather grand; the house had its own lift and three bathrooms.'

‘
Three bathrooms
?'

‘They had a daughter my age, Lally. We became great friends. I miss her rather. It was coming home that was the hard part. It's been frightfully difficult getting used to the food.'

What a blasé little tike he was! Speaking of a house with
three bathrooms
as though it were the most normal thing in the world! At the same time his blasé air shaded towards a melancholy that was like his mother's. ‘And I suppose there was lashings of food – no rationing. And New York itself? Do tell me about it.'

‘I was only eight when I arrived, you know.' He was still turning the pages of the print book. Silence; he wasn't going to say any more.

‘I've lived abroad too, in Shanghai, but that was before the war.'

Now he looked interested. ‘Shanghai? Freddie was there. Did you know him then? I'm madly interested in China. They're having a revolution.'

‘Yes, that's where I first met Freddie – in Shanghai. The thing is – I must go and look after my other guests, but – why don't you come round for tea one afternoon? You could come over after school? I could show you my souvenirs.'

‘I'd like that.' He smiled faintly, as if the invitation concealed a vaguely indecent meaning, to which only he had access. Then he began to turn the pages again. She'd been dismissed.

She stood up. ‘Alan – go and talk to Freddie. He wants to organise a Diaghilev exhibition.'

The boy joined in again. ‘Freddie's potty about Diaghilev. Isn't he the one who was in love with Nijinsky, the famous dancer, who went mad? Freddie told me a fortune teller predicted Diaghilev would die on water, so he never went anywhere by boat. But then eventually he died in Venice, which
is
built on water. And when they lowered the coffin into the grave on the cemetery island there, his two lovers jumped in after it and started to fight each other. Freddie said he'd visited it at the end of the war – I forget the name of the island, but anyway, he said there were flowers by the grave and even a pair of ballet slippers.'

‘That's just Freddie's sort of thing,' said Regine, and to Alan: ‘You could do a wonderful programme on Diaghilev.'

‘That's a good idea.' Noel pricked up his ears. His art gallery specialised in modern and contemporary art, but everything to do with the arts fascinated him.

‘Is it?' said Alan.

‘Yes,' said Noel. ‘Go on. I'll join you in a minute.' He turned back to Neville, with whom he was discussing a forthcoming auction.

‘Ian Roxburgh will probably be along later,' said Neville. ‘Did you meet him here before? I'd like to know what you think of him. He's been in the Far East, knows a lot about China. Seems to think he could get hold of some vases for me …'

Noel raised his eyebrows.

‘Freddie brought him along originally,' said Regine. ‘Earlier this year.' She tried to remember exactly when it had been. These days the two seemed thick as thieves. Of course she wasn't jealous, that would have been absurd, but … she wasn't crazy about Ian Roxburgh.

Phil came into the library with his drinks tray. ‘Cynthia's here,' he murmured to Regine, raised his eyebrows and jerked his head in the direction of the garden.

Regine found Cynthia in a cluster of people, including the Jordans. At her side, shorter than she, stood a sleek, besuited figure.

So Cynthia had finally brought him. Together in public … that must mean … was it going to be official? Was he actually going to …?

She approached them, Cynthia made the introductions and Regine shook hands with Ernie Appleton, as though it were the most usual thing in the world to find a government minister standing on her lawn. Cynthia said: ‘We've just dropped in for a moment, we can't stay long.'

But Muriel Jordan began to talk about the Berlin airlift, transparently trying to draw the politician out. He merely smiled enigmatically as she gave him the benefit of her views on the current crisis, but when she moved seamlessly on to the rumours about the Board of Trade Cynthia and her companion moved indoors, and Muriel turned to Regine. ‘How extraordinary! You don't mean to tell me—'

Regine looked blankly at the older woman. ‘Cynthia works at the Board of Trade too, you know,' she said repressively. ‘But what were you saying about the Berlin airlift, Muriel?'

Ignoring the question, Muriel contorted her face into a knowing grimace, literally eagle-eyed. ‘Oh,
really
!' she said with laboured theatrical sarcasm. ‘Is that what it's called! As if he isn't in enough trouble already.'

Regine had no idea what the last comment meant. ‘How long do you think the Berlin airlift can go on?' she persisted rather desperately, longing to be talking to Cynthia. She hated Muriel's endless tedious complaints about everything and her manner of casting blame on all and sundry – and all the time she pretended to be so holy.

In any case, being against the bad news that surged across the papers every day was about as much good as railing against bad weather. The atom bomb was terrifying, but Regine hadn't spent nearly two years in Shanghai for nothing. She knew that with war raging nearby, it was perfectly possible for life to continue in a normal, indeed thrilling way and that if you were dancing on the edge of a volcano it was better not to look down into its fiery heart. ‘No one will want to go to war over Berlin,' she said. ‘Things are bound to get better soon.'

‘You're unbelievably frivolous, Reggie. Talk about
après moi le déluge
!'

Happily Cynthia and her escort re-emerged, accompanied now by Freddie. Regine wondered what on earth Cynthia saw in this paunchy, balding politician. And yet the very fact he was a member of the government lent him an aura … of sorts. ‘We must be off, I'm afraid,' said Cynthia, ‘but I'll ring you soon, Reggie.' Ernie Appleton shook hands again. He smiled in a way that made you think he had to smile too often when he didn't feel like it. Freddie walked them to the gate, where they stayed chatting for a moment, and then went back into the house.

Hilary watched Freddie. ‘Don't know why you give him house room.'

Regine was used to Hilary's extraordinary rudeness.
That
hadn't changed. He never stinted what he called his honest, forthright and unvarnished views.

‘You know perfectly well Freddie is my oldest friend. I've known him since Shanghai. Please don't talk like that about him. He's the kindest person in the world.'

Hilary probably didn't realise how rude he was. Unusually he even apologised. ‘Sorry, old girl, didn't mean to offend, but there's no getting away from the fact that moral degeneracy is on the rise. During the war things got completely out of hand – I mean, look at the illegitimacy rates –'

Regine laughed. ‘You can hardly blame the Freddies of this world for that!'

‘It's no laughing matter, Regine.'

‘No.' A different topic was needed. Fortunately Muriel embarked on a new grumble.

‘The state of the Heath! That army camp opposite us in East Heath Road – it's an absolute disgrace; the Nissen huts, great slabs of concrete, barbed wire, old tins, broken glass – weeds all over it now, of course, but you can still see it all poking through—'

‘And all those new asphalt paths all over the Heath and so much of it still fenced off,' added Hilary. ‘Still, at least they didn't put prefabs up all over Parliament Hill Fields. We must be grateful for small mercies, I suppose.'

‘They wanted to build permanent housing,' snapped Muriel. ‘They've still got their eye on it probably.'

The war was over, yet its effects lingered on, like a hangover, or, no, a debilitating infection, a sort of malaria of the mind that, once contracted, continued to lurk within the system, never finally cured. But grumbling didn't help and Regine was all for getting completely away from the war. The best medicine, she was sure, was simply to enjoy life as much as one possibly could.