Sweet Sorrow (16 page)

She sat down as directed on one of the uncomfortable benches and waited for Frieda to come and collect her. As she looked about her, she was reminded of the building she had just left – Lord Weaver’s
New Gazette
in Fleet Street. The architects of both buildings had been influenced by the transatlantic liners which seemed to personify the modern age. Both the
New Gazette
and Broadcasting House set out to overwhelm the visitor and remind him of his insignificance. She tried to decipher the inscription over the lifts – it was in Latin but she recognized the date, 1931, and Sir John Reith’s name, and guessed at the rest. No journalist, she thought wryly, would ever have their name set in stone in the foyer of a great building.

Just as Verity was beginning to wish Edward was with her to translate the Latin, Frieda appeared and, rather to her surprise, kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Welcome to BH. We always call it that,’ she added proprietorially. ‘“Talks” are on the third floor.’ As they waited for the lift, Frieda told her that there used to be one lift for staff and one for ‘artists’. ‘But that soon went by the board. We’re all terribly democratic now.’

Once they were alone in the lift, she burst out. ‘It’s too horrible about Byron. I didn’t know what to do when I heard what had happened. I wanted to rush down to Sussex but, after what you said on the telephone about the publicity I would attract, I decided not to. I didn’t want to make it worse for the children and, anyway, what would I have said to them? Tell me I was right – or was I just a coward?’

Fortunately, at that moment, the lift arrived on the third floor and Verity was spared having to answer.

‘It’s only ten to three. We’ve got five minutes before we see Mr Barnes. Would you like me to show you round?’

Verity said she would and followed Frieda through some offices to the heart of the building.

‘The studios – “Talks” have three of them – are right at the centre so there’s no noise from outside.’

Verity was amused to find that several of the studios had been furnished and decorated to resemble a study or library. Studio 3D had bookcases filled with fake books and a fake mantelpiece with, she supposed, a fake eighteenth-century portrait of George Washington hanging over it. A miniature bust of Sir John Reith stood on a fake windowsill.

‘Do you see the chair?’ Frieda said. ‘It belonged to Arnold Bennett.’ Verity was suitably impressed. ‘And this is where Children’s Hour is produced.’

Verity peeped into a large, rather austere, studio – empty apart from a few utilitarian metal chairs.

‘It’s hard to imagine it seething with people,’ she commented. ‘What’s that big panel high up near the ceiling?’

‘It’s a window. Behind it is the Silence Room.’

‘The Silence Room?’

‘You can look down on the studios from it and see what’s happening but not be seen, and you can talk on the telephone or to someone in the room with you without being heard and told to shut up by the programme producer,’ Frieda explained.

‘It feels very fresh – not stuffy at all.’

‘Yes, the ventilation system is supposed to be the most modern in the world. Fresh refrigerated air is pumped up shafts right into the studios. Clever!’

‘Indeed. And this is . . .?’ She pushed at another door.

‘That’s 3E – the chapel – from which the Daily Service is broadcast.’

Again, Verity was amused by the effort which had been made to create an illusion. The studio was done up to resemble a church with tall windows – blank, of course, since they were deep inside the building – with flowers on the sills and a ceiling decorated with a huge cross surrounded by stars and clouds.

‘Oh gosh, look at the time!’ Frieda exclaimed, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘We mustn’t keep Mr Barnes waiting.’

Reg Barnes proved to be a genial, red-faced man in his late fifties and his relationship with Frieda, Verity soon realized, was that of father and daughter.

‘Miss Browne, or should I say Lady Corinth? – I’m not very good with titles – so pleased to meet you.’

‘Please, call me Miss Browne. If I’m worth interviewing at all it’s as a journalist and I write under my maiden name.’

‘Very good! Now, down to business. Frieda suggested – and I think it’s a good suggestion – that you might like to be interviewed on the significance of the final defeat of the Republicans in Spain.’

‘You don’t think it’s a bit too political?’

‘Not at all. It’s ten years since Sir John Reith decided that politicians and politics could enter the BBC’s hallowed portals. Since then, we have all shades of opinion in our studios. We are totally independent of government, remember. You know Guy Baron?’

Verity said she did.

‘Well, he calls himself a Communist though I don’t think he really is one. Anyway, in his
The Week in Westminster
he makes a point of having guests from every part of the House and the DG welcomes it. He is insistent – as was Sir John – that we must be balanced. We must be fair to all parties and represent all views.’

‘Except the most extreme. I imagine you would draw the line at having a Nazi telling the country we’d be better off without the Jews.’

Barnes was shocked. ‘That goes without saying. We do not allow anything to be broadcast which might incite hatred of any race or section of the community.’

‘Then I’d be happy to be interviewed on the Spanish Civil War.’ Verity wanted to ask if Frieda knew enough about it to ask her the right questions but Barnes pre-empted her.

‘The idea is that Frieda represents the ordinary listener who may not know a lot about the war but wants to learn a bit about it without being drowned in detail, if you understand me. I suggest you send Frieda the questions you want her to ask. By the way, what will be the main thrust of your argument?’

‘It would be that the Spanish Civil War was the first battle in the great European war which will shortly be upon us. Democracy lost that battle but it must win the war.’

‘You won’t be too depressing, will you?’ Frieda put in.

‘Don’t worry! I’ll end on a positive note. It may not be true but I’ll argue that right wins out over wrong and dictators are, in the last resort, weaker than democracies. Will that do?’

‘Perfectly!’ Barnes exclaimed. ‘And don’t forget to include stories of courage and heroism and one or two humorous incidents . . .’

They went on to discuss details and it was agreed that the interview would be recorded on a Marconi-Stille direct disc machine on Wednesday week and broadcast a week or two later.

When they had finished, Frieda asked Verity if she had time for a cup of tea. The canteen was in the basement and, as they entered, Verity couldn’t prevent herself looking round to see if there were any ‘personalities’. She was rewarded by the sight of Henry Hall and most of his band tucking into Fullers cake and biscuits but, to her slight disappointment, there was no sign of the
Bandwaggon
stars, Arthur Askey and Richard Murdoch. She was about to mention her favourite show when Frieda once again raised the subject which was uppermost in her mind.

‘It’s just so awful . . . I can’t imagine how Byron must have suffered waiting to be killed. And the children . . . Are they all right?’

‘As I told you on the telephone, they’re very shocked, and so Edward and I have arranged for them to stay with us until Jean’s mother comes to claim them.’

‘Oh dear, you are a true Samaritan. I feel so guilty, though I don’t really know why. I was right not to come down, wasn’t I, Verity? I wake up in the middle of the night and worry about it.’

‘It would only have made things worse, especially as the press are hanging around Rodmell like wasps round a rotten apple. I say, Frieda, can I ask you something personal – something I have no right to ask you?’

‘Are you going to ask me if Byron and I were in love?’

Verity was surprised at her acuity. ‘Yes, I was. You told me on the telephone that you had been in love with
him
.’

‘I thought I was, at least at the beginning. Byron didn’t love me though and I had to accept that. In fact, I’m not sure if he even knew what the word meant. I quickly realized that to him I was just a “bit on the side”. To be fair, he never pretended I was anything else. I think the only person he really loved was himself, but I suppose I ought not to speak ill of the dead.’

‘What made you fall for him?’

‘I like famous people. Isn’t that an awful thing to say? And I was down in the dumps. My career was going nowhere. I had gone for so many auditions and been rejected. I was flattered when he made a pass at me and I suppose being with him was some kind of substitute for having failed as an actress. I was always performing when we were together. You must have noticed when we met at that evening at the Embassy that I was playing a part – trying to give him what he needed. In a funny sort of way, he was very insecure. In return, he took me to nice places like the Embassy and Ciro’s – he was a very good dancer – and introduced me to interesting and famous people. I suppose my dancing days are over,’ she added sadly.

‘That was it? Nothing else?’ Verity wasn’t normally judgemental – she’d lived too rackety a life to take the moral high ground – but Frieda’s explanation sounded superficial to the point of triviality.

‘He was a very good lover – sensitive and caring. I hate men my own age. My first experience of men was more like rape – he was a friend of my brother’s and probably more frightened than I was. The more I said no, the more determined he became – I imagine so that he could brag to his friends he was no longer a virgin. I suppose it was all about his self-respect but it did nothing for mine. Anyway, to find that Byron knew what to do and how to do it was rather a relief. I discovered sex could be deeply satisfying. I expect you think I’m just a tart.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Verity said, although she did think Frieda was naive and foolish. ‘But, before Byron, they weren’t all boys, were they?’

‘What do you mean?’ Frieda asked sharply.

It flashed through Verity’s mind that Frieda thought she was accusing her of being a lesbian. She hurriedly made it clear that all she meant was that Frieda’s previous lovers had been men rather than boys.

‘Well, you know how people talk . . . Forgive me if I am being impertinent but I heard that you were with Lewis Cathcart before . . .’

‘Who told you that?’ Frieda sounded annoyed but also relieved. ‘Do you know him?’

‘No, but I thought I might see if he’ll talk to me. He might have some idea about who hated Byron enough to kill him.’

‘Well, I happen to know that you won’t find him here today. He’s gone off to make a programme in Wales with a poet friend of his, Dylan Thomas. Have you head of him?’

‘Yes, I have. He’s also a friend of the painter, Mark Redel. I gather you used to model for him in Highgate.’

‘For Mark? Yes, I did. But that was all. We weren’t lovers or anything.’ Frieda was silent for a moment while she considered what Verity was implying. ‘But surely you don’t think that Lewis might have . . .? I mean, he had no reason to . . . Our affair had finished before I met Byron.’

‘You were finished with him or did he finish with you?’

‘I told him I had found someone else. He was very upset when we broke up,’ she confessed, sounding very slightly smug. ‘But he was getting on my wick. He patronized and stifled me. He didn’t want me to get this job and, when I did, he tried to persuade Mr Barnes to sack me. I couldn’t forgive him for that. Thank God, Reg – Mr Barnes – told him to go to hell. You don’t really think Lewis could have killed Byron, do you?’

‘I don’t know. Do you?’

‘No, I can’t believe that.’

But Verity saw that Frieda did believe that Lewis was, at least, capable of it. She thought she would try one last question. ‘By the way, Frieda, when we got back to Edward’s rooms in Albany after our evening at the Embassy, the porter gave him an envelope which I opened. It was a horrible anonymous letter saying disgusting things about us . . . and about you and Byron. Did he get one too?’

‘Not that he ever told me. What sort of things did it say?’

‘Stupid, beastly things about us being immoral and . . . and worse.’

‘Gosh! Do you think it was from the murderer?’

‘It could have been.’

Frieda was rather less effusive when she said goodbye to Verity than when she had greeted her. There were no kisses – just a perfunctory handshake – and she seemed glad to see the back of her. Maybe, Verity thought, she felt she had revealed too much about herself. As a commissionaire opened the swing doors for her, a man wearing a clerical collar stepped back to let her pass. It was Paul Fisher, Rodmell’s vicar – the last person she expected to see at the BBC. For a second or two she couldn’t think who he was.

‘Mr Fisher! What are you doing here?’ she asked in surprise.

‘Hello, Lady Edward. I might ask the same of you.’ He seemed embarrassed and she was sure he would have pretended not to notice her had it been possible.

‘What a coincidence!’ she exclaimed. ‘We were talking about you at breakfast. After he dropped me at the station, Edward was going to meet the girl you very kindly suggested might be able to help with Ada and Jean.’

‘That was a very Christian act – taking in the Gates children.’

‘Not Christian,’ Verity could not resist correcting him. ‘It was what anyone would do in the circumstances – even a Communist.’

Fisher looked as though he was about to start an argument but seemed to think better of it.

‘So what are you doing at the BBC?’ he asked.

‘I’m being interviewed next week about the Spanish Civil War and I was talking through the arrangements. And you?’

‘I’m taking the Daily Service tomorrow and some next week as well. My friend Pat M’Cormick, the vicar at St Martin-in-the-Fields, put my name forward. He took the very first service here.’

‘Goodness. I’m impressed. I shall certainly listen even though I’m not one of the faithful.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Lady Edward.’ He sounded so disapproving that Verity recoiled as though he had hit her. She recovered herself and tried to be friendly. He was Edward’s friend, she reminded herself, and she had no wish to quarrel with him.