Miss Carter's War (31 page)

He looked at her anxiously.

‘It’s perfect. It’s all falling into place. Look at them.’

As she busied around cleaning up after Tony while he cooked, they watched Jimmy and Donald talking animatedly to one another. She took some home-made bread in to the table and listened as Donald said, ‘I spend all my hard-earned cash on pictures. It’s almost worth my poor deformed feet. Most of them are worth nothing but let me show you my prize possession.’

He went into the bedroom and came back with a small painting of a cornfield lit by moonlight.

‘My God,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s a Samuel Palmer.’

‘It is. Here, hold it and look closely.’

Jimmy held it delicately and stared in wonder.

‘He’s used pen and ink as well as paint. Genius. Look at the light. It’s real but somehow magical.’

‘I know – brilliant, isn’t it?’

‘It’s Shoreham. The work he did there is the best, I think.’

Marguerite was transfixed as Jimmy went on, almost to himself, ‘You won’t believe this. But when I was twelve I went camping in Shoreham with the Scouts. We visited his house and gallery. It blew my mind. I asked if I could buy one out of my pocket money, I had no idea what they were worth. I’d never seen anything so lovely. It changed my life in a way. Isn’t that an extraordinary coincidence? Thank you for letting me hold it.’

Donald received it carefully.

‘I love it too. It took a tour of America and Russia to buy that and it was worth every lousy hotel and splintering stage.’

Jimmy was communicating with Donald in a way that surprised her. She didn’t know he was so affected by art. They had never gone to galleries together, yet she had seldom seen him discuss anything with such intensity.

Tony and Donald were entranced by Jimmy. The conversation flowed easily. Jimmy was witty and knowledgeable about wine and fashion, and Marguerite was amazed to hear him putting forward vigorous views on education that he had obviously heard from her, though she thought that he had never listened to her rants. Even when the subject turned to ballet Jimmy seemed well informed, questioning Donald on what effect Nureyev had had on the company when he arrived after his defection from Russia. It helped, thought Marguerite, for two men not unaware of male beauty, that in the candlelight Jimmy looked devastatingly handsome.

The evening was a triumph.

As they were leaving Tony said, ‘We are so glad to have met you at last. In future when Marguerite comes to see us, or we go out together, you must come too. Don’t be a stranger.’

Jimmy gave his irresistible grin to seal the bond.

‘I didn’t know you were an art connoisseur,’ said Marguerite, taking his arm as they walked to his car.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

Jimmy seemed suddenly drained of the energy he had had during the evening.

Marguerite laughed.

‘Like what? Tell me.’

He stopped walking and turned to look searchingly at her. He hesitated for a moment. Then his head fell back and his eyes closed and he gave an agonised groan.

‘Some other time.’

Marguerite did not pursue it. She was used to his dramatic scenes when he was drunk.

‘Oh shut up, Jimmy. Get in the car and I’ll show you my knickers.’

He didn’t respond. He drove the short distance to the pub and pulled up outside. He turned off the engine and, looking straight ahead, he said quietly, ‘You’re a fine person, Marguerite. And so are your friends.’

‘Glad you like them. Are you coming in?’

He still did not look at her.

‘No, I have to drive down to Brighton. Get the house ready for Madam. She’s arriving tomorrow.’

Then he turned his head and looked at her intensely.

‘I’m so sorry.’

He leant across to open the car door.

‘Goodnight.’ He kissed her gently. ‘My Skylark.’

And he drove off.

Chapter 31

Marguerite was used to Jimmy disappearing for long periods on various jobs. He still had no place of his own and such was the peripatetic nature of his work there was no way of contacting him. She did not have the telephone number of the Brighton or Eaton Square house as, although Jimmy assured her that the owner would not mind him using the phone, it was not deemed tactful for him to receive calls from friends. All this she accepted and waited for him as she always did to contact her when he was back in circulation. This time, the days of absence became weeks, and because of his strange behaviour when she had last left him, Marguerite became increasingly anxious.

Tony suggested they all have an outing to an exhibition of watercolours to follow up the success of their first meeting. He was surprised when Marguerite told him that she hadn’t heard from Jimmy for nearly a month.

‘Bloody hell, we must have scared him to death.’

Marguerite was disconsolate the next day so Tony came up with his usual remedy of a treat.

He said, ‘When we first came to the big city we were going to get “with-it”. Well, you’ve been so busy changing the world that, if you don’t mind me saying, you’ve become a bit without-it.’

‘What are you talking about? I go to Donald’s parties. They’re with-it.’

‘I mean the look. There’s a fashion revolution going on out there.’

‘Aren’t I a bit old hat for all that? Old and jaded.’

‘Well, maybe you are, but there’s no need to look it. You can be a glamorous pussy when you try, you’ve just become a bit passé, darling.’

‘Oh thank you very much. I’ve had other things on my mind.’

‘Your English part seems to have taken over, with your Gor-Ray skirts and nice blouses. We need to get back a bit of that French chic.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start. All this new stuff. I’m happy with Jaeger.’

‘Well, fortunately I have cradle-snatched Donald and he knows all about these things. He buys all my clothes which is why I am such a sartorial vision. So he has planned a day out for us. He’s got a matinée but he’ll join us in the evening and he’s given me my orders.’

The outing started with a lunch at the Casserole on Chelsea’s King’s Road. It was packed with overexcited young people, the girls in minuscule skirts, exposing variously shaped bare legs or white fitted boots, and young men in jeans and T-shirts or shirts open to the waist so as to exhibit the medallions round their necks. Music was blaring out from loudspeakers that made it difficult for her to hear what Tony was saying. Marguerite cowered in the booth that Donald had booked for them, feeling old and frumpy.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Tony. ‘We’re going to fix that.’

A walk down the King’s Road, where Vespas whizzed up and down amongst the open-topped cars, everyone shouting to one another, seemed like being at a glamorous club to which Marguerite didn’t belong. Halfway down was Bazaar, the shop she had read about opened by Mary Quant. One frock stood on display in the window. It was starkly simple. Sleeveless, in salmon pink with a beige panel in the front either side of a visible zip. It looked quite demure with its straight, unwaisted line. Tony coaxed Marguerite inside, despite her protests that nowadays she would be happier up the road in Peter Jones.

‘This is my revenge for when you made me buy that awful suit in Dartford.’

Looking at the scraps of cloth displayed on hangers, calling themselves skirts, Marguerite protested that it was a shop for young girls not middle-aged teachers. She was about to drag him outside when a pretty girl asked in an upper-class voice,

‘Hi. there. Need help?’

Gripping Marguerite’s arm firmly, Tony said, ‘We’re interested in the dress in the window. That is, she is, not me. It’s not for me.’

‘Oh, goodie. The colour will be better on her,’ drawled the girl. She turned to look at Marguerite. ‘It’d look super with your hair.’

‘But the length. It’s too—’

‘How are your knees?’ The girl asked.

‘All right thank you, how are yours?’

The girl ignored this and lifted Marguerite’s skirt.

‘Oh, they’re super. I suggest you wear it just above. We have it in several lengths.’

Tony grabbed the dress the girl brought, and bundled Marguerite behind a flimsy curtain to try it on. When she came out, vigorously tugging the hem down, the girl said, ‘Super.’

‘It’s too short.’ Marguerite protested.

Tony took her by the hand and twirled her round.

‘Truly, Mags, you look – super.’

It had reached a point where it was impossible to say no. When she went to get her handbag Tony said, ‘It’s a present from Donald and me. Keep it on.’

So they wrapped up her skirt, cream blouse and nylons and she launched her knees into Swinging London. A gnarled builder working in the forecourt of the shop gave her a wolf whistle, which – grasping at straws – gave her some confidence. When she got used to it – her bare legs striding free – it felt good.

Tony hailed a taxi, which sped to Bond Street. Alighting and seeing the name over the glass-fronted building, she quailed. Vidal Sassoon was the toast of the town with his new geometric bobbed hairstyles.

‘He’s much too groovy for me. I keep trying to tell you, I’m just a frowsy teacher.’

‘May I remind you,’ said Tony, pulling her into the salon, ‘you told me that you were the girl that turned up for her graduation in the New Look.’

‘Yes, but that was to make a point. I’ve never really cared all that much about my appearance.’

‘No. You’ve had it easy. You are a natural beauty, but, sweetie, we have to make a bit of an effort as the bloom fades.’

‘Charming.’

As she stood at the reception desk, she looked at the willowy models and other women that she seemed to recognise milling around.

‘I think you may be Marguerite, yes? Auburn, curly, unmistakable. Wow, can’t wait to get my scissors on that mane.’

Coming towards her, hand outstretched, was a small dapper man in black trousers, tight-fitting white shirt and grey kipper tie.

‘Hello. I’m Vidal. Donald’s told me all about you,’ and he took hold of her chin, rotating her head with one hand and tousling her hair with the other. Then he shouted, ‘Trevor, shampoo this lady.’

Marguerite stuttered, ‘Wait a minute, I—’ but Vidal had already gone.

Tony waved goodbye as she was whisked into the bustling mayhem of the salon. Confused by being told to lie full-length on her back on a black leather contraption with her head backwards over a basin, she was stiff with fear. Gradually the deep massaging of her scalp by the young boy with blond hair sticking up in spikes soothed her and she could see the reason for the bed. She was nearly asleep when he sat her up, wrapped her head in a towel and told her to wait for ‘the master’.

He and his trainees approached like a flight of chattering starlings, settling at Marguerite’s chair, where the young acolytes gathered round in sudden silence as Vidal whipped the towel off her head, like a conjuror revealing a rabbit. He walked up and down looking first at her, then at her reflection in the mirror. Marguerite felt as Marie-Antoinette must have, as they cut her hair before the guillotine.

‘It’s beautiful hair,’ he addressed his apprentices, ‘but it’s doing nothing for her face. We need to balance the chin, emphasise the cheekbones, and take the weight out to give it lift.’

For the next hour he crouched, he jumped, he danced, he pushed her head into different angles and snipped and tugged at her hair, which gradually formed a heap by her chair. Marguerite had given up any hope of protest. So intent was he on his creation that she honestly believed he would have held her there by force if she had attempted to leave. Gradually the shape he was aiming for emerged.

‘Spray,’ he demanded of a minion, who doused her hair with water. He put some lotion on his hands, ran it through her hair. Then another passed him a hand-dryer. He ordered Marguerite to stand and put her head down. Then he blow-dried her hair upside down. Marguerite thought longingly of restful times spent under an old-fashioned hairdryer reading an out-of-date magazine. Abruptly he pushed her to sit again and went hither and thither with his free hand flicking and pinching the curls into shape.

When he eventually stepped back, breathing heavily from the exertion, and said, with a flourish, ‘There you are. The new you,’ everyone applauded.

She was transformed. Shaped into a V at the nape of her neck, her hair was a mass of short tousled curls that shook as she moved. The auburn colour was enhanced by the shine and different angles. She looked ten years younger and ten times more stylish.

‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’

Vidal gave it another pat.

‘Not bad for an East End Jewish crimper, eh?’

Tony was waiting for her at the door.

‘Here I am,’ she said. She felt rather marvellous.

‘Who is this woman accosting me?’ he asked. ‘Surely not that teacher from King’s Cross.’

‘Bien sûr, c’est moi.’

Tony said, ‘Well, look at you. When that bastard gets back he won’t believe his eyes. You’re going to stun them tonight.’