Park Lane (21 page)

‘… with our mother, in our childhood home …’

‘Edward, you are beginning to annoy your mother, too.’

‘How did they find out he was a fraud?’ asks Bea.

‘What fraud?’

‘The man at the Devonports’.’

‘Ah,’ says Edward. ‘Everyone is always found out. There’s no escaping the eye of society. In this case, however, the dowager was so entranced that she asked him to dine the following evening. She’d had a spread set up in the small dining room with so much shiny stuff on the table you needed to squint. As he sat down he asked if he could take off his “jacket”, and she was so bemused both by the word and the taking off that she nodded. So he took off his coat and hung it over the back of one of those famous dining chairs that somebody had brought back from Italy a few generations ago. But it was the sleeve garters that gave him away. She says she hadn’t spotted an accent, but she is as deaf as a post. When I asked her how she was the other day she replied, ‘Princess Dorrie. A certainty for the Oaks.’

‘Anyhow, once she’d realised her mistake she felt dreadfully sorry for the chap, says she copied all his interesting table manners to make him feel at home. Then she decided it was a jolly good excuse to behave as though the house was a museum and, would you believe it, gave him a tour. He gave her his arm quite charmingly. Apparently it was the Rodin he liked best.’

‘You’ve made that up, Edward.’

‘No, I have not.’

‘All of it. In any case’ – for why should she hide her views? – ‘he sounds a perfectly good chap.’

‘At your peril, my dear Bea. Beware of handsome strangers with feet of clay. Or perhaps I mean, tonight, feet of a dancer. I’d have to disown you for mixing with the wrong type.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with knowing the wrong type, children. In case it has escaped your notice, I have been seeking to help the wrong type for some years. They are poorly paid, disenfranchised, and have little choice in any matter of their lives.’

‘I hope you have invited at least half a dozen, Mother.’

‘I certainly should have.’

By eleven there is a swarm, and younger faces are beginning to appear. Edie, in tea-rose chiffon, loyally leads in an early bunch of their crowd.

‘You look radiant, darling,’ Edie declares as she reaches Bea in the line.

‘Edie, you’re making me sound like a bride.’

‘Well, I gather it is strictly
verboten
to mention your birthday.’

‘Then don’t mention anything.’

‘Bea! Be a little softer.’

But Bea doesn’t want to be a little softer. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not until the day after that. Still, she replies, ‘Sorry, darling. It’s just not—’

‘Don’t worry. I know it’s a nightmare.’

‘What’s a nightmare?’ My God, she’s not talking about John now, is she?

‘Hosting a dance, Bea. Chin up.’ And Edie blows a kiss at Bea as she leads her merry band into the thickening throng.

At half past eleven, Mother dismisses the line. ‘To work, children,’ she declares. ‘No hanging about with just one small group when you’ve so many guests here. Except if there is a special reason,’ and as she says this she looks at Edward. Edward! thinks Bea, and not me. Has Mother utterly given up on my ever finding
a husband? No, Beatrice, she tells herself, you have far greater fish to fry now.

Most of the guests seem as interested in the house as in each other and, as at least in your own house you’re allowed to make your way around the rooms alone without being accused of ‘hunting’, Beatrice starts to slip between the groups, skimming past conversations that dry up when she joins them.

‘… and the American money.’

‘My grandfather used to come here for the railway share tips. Only ones that weren’t rotten, he used to say.’

‘Quick. Talk about the
Rokeby Venus
, for God’s sake.’

‘Hullo, Beatrice, glad to see you haven’t been wielding a machete in the National Gallery like that suffragette woman.’

‘Oh, darling, she’s hardly likely to.’

‘Well, Eleanor must be one hell of an influence.’

‘He doesn’t mean it about your mother.’

‘Mother might not need the machete,’ replies Bea.

‘Cut to ribbons, the painting was. A protest, apparently, about how women are regarded.’

‘How they think they’re going to get the vote that way.’

‘Women might be banned, they’re saying today.’

‘Altogether?’

‘From the galleries. Can’t have the nation’s works of art being destroyed over some fashionable enthusiasm.’

‘Darling! You’ll have me throwing firebombs if you go on like that. Anybody would think you were stuck in the last century, or the one before. Now, Beatrice, introduce me to some of your friends. I do so love the young.’

And still the rooms fill. The little groupings are pushed closer and closer to each other. Silk crushes against silk, puddle trains are stepped on, bare arms scratch against black wool evening coats. Those on the edges find themselves pushed against the walls. And the noise, even in these high-ceilinged rooms, is beginning to blur
the conversations. Soon it will be a real crush and therefore a roaring success of a party. It will be hard to squeeze through the doorways, even to make it to the ballroom which is, Edward comes to whisper to her, still empty, much to Clemmie’s intense frustration.

‘Clemmie wants us to move people through.’

‘With a loudspeaker? Good God, how embarrassing.’

‘Better than starting the dancing.’

‘Who?’

‘You and me, sweet sister.’

‘Why can’t she do it herself?’

Bea is saved by Mother, mauve apparition that she is, descending upon her.

‘Beatrice.’

‘Yes.’

‘Come with me. As you seem to be the only child of mine that agrees with me on this issue, you might learn something. We’re going to have a word with the Prime Minister before he’s squeezed out of the house. This way. Ah, Mr Asquith. What a treat to find my most distinguished guest.’

Standing in front of Bea and Mother is a man with a high forehead and a softening square jaw. He doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself and is looking at Mother with a pair of deep-set and severe eyes. Nonetheless he takes Mother’s hand and kisses it, bowing as he does so.

‘You flatter me, Lady Masters.’

‘I flatter everyone.’

Mother drops her chin, glancing up at him as she waves her fan in a short flutter. ‘It’s what my mother brought me up to do. You know my youngest daughter Beatrice?’

‘Even more dazzling than the last time I laid eyes upon her.’ Bea finds herself flushing. She has been preening to praise all evening but somehow such a compliment from the Prime Minister is a little different. Maybe he is not such an ogre after all.

‘It’s a little crowded in here, Mr Asquith, don’t you think?’

‘On the contrary, Lady Masters, your drawing room suits a crowd.’

‘What I meant, Mr Asquith, is that I should very much like it if you would take a walk with us.’

‘Lady Masters, I fully understand.’

Mother turns towards a pair of open double doors and the crowd in front of her rustles back to create a pathway. Bea smiles to herself at the thought that this may be more in fear of Mother than the Prime Minister. The gallery outside is crowded, every foot of the balustrade has a figure leaning against it, but eventually they reach the ballroom at the back. When they walk in they find the band valiantly playing to at most half a dozen, including Clemmie and Tom. Clemmie, to Bea’s amusement, looks as if she is leading.

It is noisy in here, and the few couples dancing are nonetheless taking up the entire room, making standing anywhere in it hazardous. Mother leads the Prime Minister and Bea briskly across it, and through the doors to the museum on the far side, Mother closing them behind her. Candles flicker on almost every surface and a handful of empty champagne glasses are scattered about. The room feels halfway between a Greek temple and a saint’s shrine, the portrait of Great-grandfather hanging in pride of place.

‘Have you seen our Durbar Hall before, Mr Asquith?’

‘Not looking like this, Lady Masters.’

‘It’s the candles, I tried ecclesiastical ones.’ She walks him over to admire a pair. ‘Bought without so much as a raised eyebrow. I must appear the very image of a verger.’

Mother keeps walking, giving him no chance to break away, and gets straight to the point.

‘This Cat and Mouse of an Act to discharge the hunger-strikers until they are fit enough to take back is a mistake.’

‘It will save lives, Lady Masters. How can you declare that a mistake?’

‘Balderdash. Mr Asquith, for a man of your perception your vision appears worryingly short. The prisoner released may escape
death in jail, but to keep on taking her back as she starts to recover will surely destroy her health and, in the end, take her life, even if she does not pass into the next world while actually in the government’s capable hands.’

Mr Asquith stops and turns to face Mother. He is angry now, thinks Bea. His eyes are as hard as nails and his throat is flushed.

‘Lady Masters, are you suggesting we give in to the militants and their violence?’

Mother remains wholly unruffled. ‘No, I am trying to point out that if the violence grows you will appear to give in to them. And peaceful means must win, Mr Asquith.’ She pauses in the centre of the room. ‘Have you seen this map? The first Sir William Masters united the world. I wonder what he would think of it now. I fear for this world once violence is seen to work – this century already feels heavy with physical anger. We are not so far from the barbarians ourselves, I think. And, in our case, barbarians wielding machines.’

‘Is there a trace of the Luddite in you, Lady Masters?’

‘Perhaps. The children I see across the street in the park remind me of men and their motors and
mitrailleuses
. Have you travelled, Mr Asquith?’

‘A little.’

‘Have you seen one of these before?’ Mother has stopped in front of a glass display case of feathered instruments. She opens the case and draws one out. It is about a foot long, one end looking like a razor-edged spoon ending in a point, the handle covered in red, green and yellow feathers.

‘No, I have not, Lady Masters.’

‘It is a tool used to gouge a man’s eyes out. It would be interesting in the National Gallery, don’t you think? Ah, not a flicker. Don’t worry, Mr Asquith, I am not about to take the eyes out of the nation’s statesmen. Neither in flesh nor portraiture.

‘Now hopefully there are a few more in the ballroom. Shall we return? For the tango? Ah, you have heard of that one. Mr Asquith, don’t look so horrified. I am teasing you. Now, look, you have a
close colleague come to your rescue. The politician who turns down all honours offered.’

As they enter the ballroom a slender, mild-mannered-looking man is fast approaching. His face is oval rather than long, soft around the jawline and cheeks. Above them glow the reddish hints of his remaining, greying hair.

‘Just the fellow,’ Mother says to him as he joins them, ‘though I sense your leader thinks he has well exercised the conversation. What a pleasure it is to see you. Mr McKenna, do you know my youngest daughter, Beatrice?’

‘I haven’t had the pleasure, Miss Masters.’ He bows to her.

‘Nor I.’ The words patter out as they have innumerable times before, without any connection to Bea’s brain, which feels as if a minor explosion has been set off in it. Where are this man’s horns, his claws? Where are Mother and the Prime Minister to save her? They have both dissolved into the crowd.

‘Is this not a terrific evening?’

‘Yes.’ Where is she to look? She can’t meet his gaze, she can’t stare at the floor. Avert your eyes shyly, girl, it comes to her. Slightly down and to the side.

‘Or do these social fripperies bore you? You have the air of a woman with more depth than that, Miss Masters.’ He knows, thinks Bea, he knows. He must have a list of everyone at Lauderdale Mansions. He must have a note of everything said there yesterday afternoon. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Beatrice, she tells herself, but ridiculous is what this situation surely is. How can he not see it in her?

‘Are you,’ he continues, ‘a supporter of your mother’s cause? A good deal better than the other crew, don’t you think? But none of it, I must say, is much of a pleasure from my end of things.’

Bea holds her breath as he speaks. Is this some subtle challenge, a way of warning her off what she is about to do? She composes herself, ready to deny even her name, and looks straight at him to find him smiling at her with such genuine kindness that she almost
flushes again. It dawns on her both that he cannot possibly know, and that, for the first time this evening, she is being asked what interests her. Bea’s mouth opens but no words come out. Please, she thinks, go on talking, or something, anything. But thank God the orchestra strikes up a new tune. Surely he will go to dance with his wife. But he cannot, of course, leave Bea unless she is talking to somebody else.

‘Ah, a waltz,’ he says. ‘Now that I can do. I risk a loss of dignity were I to have a go at one of those new-fangled things. And Mrs McKenna appears otherwise engaged.’ He turns to his right and a young woman barely more than Clemmie’s age is fully engaged in steering what must be a delicate line in conversation between a society portraitist with a certain reputation and the Bishop of London.

‘May I have the pleasure, Miss Masters?’ Bea’s attention swings back to Mr McKenna. ‘I have heard that you dance beautifully.’

Right now, Bea feels as if she must have at least two, if not three, left feet, but there is nothing she can do except nod and smile.

He escorts her on to the dance floor. Why the waltz? She would rather have a dance where you don’t spend the entire time so clutched in the other’s arms that it used to be banned. But the waltz it is, and up against McKenna she is, in a mix of chiffon and wool and starch crushed between them. She wants to pull in every muscle of her body, make herself as taut as a fishing line, but the pair of them would be over like skittles if she did and, well, she doesn’t want ever to be seen dancing like a poker.

He dances well, too. She didn’t expect that. But then, he’s been dancing for a long time. He spins her around gently. Not so as she gets that rush into her head when a cavalry officer is taking it fast. Still, her head fizzes. There’s only so many times you can be turned around before your balance threatens to leave you, that’s what she’s telling herself. Not that her head is spinning because she’s dancing with a gentleman whose home will tomorrow be burnt with her help.