Dreams of another day, p.24
Dreams of Another Day, page 24
‘I think you’re probably right, Max,’ she said.
‘I’m sure it isn’t him,’ he said in a very quiet voice.
Ming put out both hands as though to try to silence him physically.
‘Most anonymous letter writers are women,’ he went on, knowing that she needed to hear what he had to say, even if she did not want to listen. ‘The one humane policeman I ever talked to told me that. It’s known to be a particularly female vice.’
Ming sighed.
‘I don’t actually believe it’s Mark. I simply can’t imagine him doing something underhand like that. Why should he, after all? And he is the straightest and most honest man I think I’ve ever met.’
‘Lucky man,’ said Max, ‘to have someone to say that of him.’
Ming hardly heard him and went straight on:
‘But whoever it is knows a terrible lot about me – and clearly about him too. For months the letters never mentioned him but now … He is leaving the Civil Service. Perhaps I have driven him to do that; perhaps I’ve … No. But I do know that I have made him very unhappy.’
‘Come on, Ming,’ said Max, allowing a little exasperation into his deep voice. ‘You love the man. You keep telling me that you don’t, but it’s always been perfectly obvious that you do, and I can’t believe that you knew him so little that you would have fallen for someone who could possibly write a letter like that.’
‘But does love depend on knowledge?’ Ming’s eyes looked very dark. ‘Couldn’t …’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Max firmly, not even allowing her to qualify her question. ‘You can lust after people you don’t know, and that can confuse you into thinking that you love them; but you’ve known this Mark for too long for that to be the case.‘
‘How do you know?’ She felt as though she kept asking people impossible questions and paying no attention to their answers.
‘Oh, Ming! Lust is a very simple thing; it can be combined with love and therefore last, in which case I suppose you should call it desire. Or it can be lust on its own, which is terrifically exciting for a short while; it is then either satisfied and ended or it is frustrated, in which case it reaches a peak and then quite quickly dies.’
‘But how do you know, Max?’ asked Ming again, putting the emphasis on the pronoun. She was too beaten to care about tact any longer. Max gave a short laugh, and Ming winced.
‘Even you can ask things like that,’ he said sadly. Then he remembered the corrosive misery and self-loathing that made it easy to forget everyone else’s sensibilities and added: ‘Because the emotional mechanics are just the same for me.’
Ming nodded. ‘I see. Sorry. Well, what do you think I ought to do?’
‘Only you can decide,’ said Max, getting up. ‘I’m going to make you some coffee. From my own experience, the only thing to do with anonymous letters is to refuse to read them and ignore their existence.’
‘That makes sense, and I’ve tried it. But I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather know what it is this person thinks of me. Besides,’ Ming added with a spark of resistance hardening her lips and bringing some colour back into her cheeks, ‘I keep hoping that he’ll slip into a real physical threat one day and then the police will do something about him.’
‘You have got guts,’ said Max with real admiration.
That compliment stayed with Ming through the next few days. It helped her to write to her father, setting out why she had taken the line she had over the Suez affair and asking whether she was still invited to Gloucestershire for Christmas. It also gave her the courage to write straightforwardly to Mark, telling him that she would very much like to see him when he next came to London.
She added:
I’ve never forgotten what you said to me about your work that evening when you came to the flat after I got back from Egypt. It would be good to know that you are doing something that means a great deal to you. I should love to know about the job and to hear that you are well – and happy.
Answers to both letters came a few days later. Her parents were, it seemed, still expecting her for Christmas and suggested that she should take a lift with Gerry and Mike, pooling her petrol ration with theirs. Mark wrote to say that his job was to be in Oxford and would be involved with the production of computer components, but that he did not want to bore her with details. He would be in London for the day on the second of January and suggested that they meet for tea at Searcy’s in Sloane Street at half-past four. His mother would forward any letters.
Remembering the white-clothed tables, silver tea pots and little rectangular iced cakes, Ming thought that Searcy’s seemed a surprising place for a man to choose to meet a woman with whom he had once made love, but she picked up her pen at once to accept. Before she could write any more than his name, Ming heard her door-bell ring. A tall, thickset policeman was standing there when she opened the door.
‘Miss Mary Inge Alderbrook?’ he said in a south London accent.
‘Yes,’ answered Ming, surprised but politely smiling. Her upbringing and inclinations had given her implicit trust in the police, and his dark blue uniform and silver buttons reminded her satisfyingly of her childhood.
He held out a stiff buff envelope embossed with the official stamp of all government communications. Ming looked down at it and then up at the impassive pink-and-white face of the policeman and fear poured into her mind.
‘Julia was wrong,’ she whispered and wished that her rage over Jack’s death had never made her write so violently against the government.
Her hands were sweating as she raised them to take the envelope from the policeman. Then her mother’s early training took over and she thanked him.
‘What do I have to do?’ she asked and was annoyed to hear the tremor in her voice. Forcefully reminding herself that even if she were to be prosecuted for contravening the Official Secrets Act, she was at least in no physical danger, Ming managed to collect enough courage to add in a firmer voice: ‘Do I have to sign something?’
When she had shut the front door behind the policeman, she took the envelope back to her desk, where she sat and looked at it for some time before she could bring herself to open it. When she did she had to read it twice before she understood it.
It proved to be a summons to appear before the magistrates to answer a charge of publishing an obscene libel in respect of the excerpt from Story of a Lost Love printed in the October issue of The World Beyond. Also named in the action was Constance Wroughton as joint-proprietor of the magazine.
Ming felt a disgusting tingling down the inside of her legs, combined with a terrible emptiness in her stomach. It was a sensation that she remembered with sudden, agonising vividness from her short mission in occupied France during the war and from a particular night of the London Blitz, when she had lain in the bombed basement of her godmother’s house and heard her twin sister die beside her. She knew that it was born of terror, shame at the terror, and an irrational idea that she would always bring trouble on herself and on all the people for whom she most cared.
If she had not been so silly about her discovery of Max’s homosexuality, Connie would never have had to lend her the novel. If she had not been so ignorant and prejudiced before she read it she would never have been so struck with it and would not have suggested to Connie that they print an extract from it in the magazine.
It was some time before Ming could make any rational assessment of her real responsibility for what had happened. As soon as she could exercise some control over her emotions and the physical sensations of shock, she forced herself to go into the kitchen to make some toast and tea. She knew from experience that the effect of eating something sweet and drinking tea would help control the panic.
Swallowing the hot buttered toast and honey proved difficult, but she managed to suppress her nausea, and the tea had an immediate effect. Before it wore off, she read the summons once more and noticed for the first time that the name of the person who had brought the complaint of obscenity to the magistrates was Roger Sillhorne.
Hot fury pushed the shock out of her mind. That Roger, who had known her for so long and had once professed to love her, could do such a thing seemed utterly monstrous. Her earlier decision to shut down all her feelings and all her hopes could not survive in the face of what had happened. She was going to need all the faculties Connie had once urged her to use.
When she was sure that she had controlled her fury enough to speak evenly, Ming went to the telephone and rang her up.
‘You’ve had one, too,’ said Connie as soon as Ming had announced herself. Connie’s voice was shaking. ‘I am so angry I could spit.’
Ming’s legs started to tingle again.
‘I am most dreadfully sorry,’ she said, separating each syllable of each word to get them out clearly.
‘Not with you.’ Connie’s voice sounded firmer and warmer. ‘Or even with that unspeakable Sillhorne. Ming, hold on. I’m furious with my lawyer. I asked him whether we would be safe to publish and he said all we risked was a magistrate’s destruction order, which would hardly have mattered at all. He never even warned me of this – and he sent me a swingeing account for his professional services.’
‘Adding insult to injury,’ said Ming breathlessly, She steadied her voice to say: ‘I think we ought to meet, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Connie. ‘And there’s no point in your coming down here, since all the professional advice we’re going to need is in London. I think Max and I had better come to your flat, if that’s all right?’
‘Yes, of course it is. We’re going to need a solicitor at once. Have you got a good one?’
‘No,’ said Connie with emphasis. ‘It was he who produced the useless advice. You?’
‘Mine’s marvellous at death duties and so on, but I can’t imagine he’d know much about obscene libels. Look, I think I’d better get on to Julia Wallington and ask her advice. Is that all right with you?’
‘Certainly. It’s a bit cockeyed going to a barrister for an introduction to a solicitor, but …’
‘But at least she’ll be knowledgeable,’ said Ming grimly, ‘and we know she’s trustworthy. I’ll see you and Max later. Unless you think we ought to keep him out of this. After all, he’s not named in the summons. Shouldn’t we let him off?’
‘Yes,’ said Connie slowly. ‘I think perhaps you’re right. I have told him what’s happened, but there’s no need for him to go through the whole business of lawyers’ conferences and appearances in court again.’
‘No,’ agreed Ming. ‘When do you suppose you’ll get here?’
There was a pause while Connie obviously looked at her watch and did some calculations.
‘Say, half-past twelve. Then we can talk as long as we need and if I have to stay in London for any reason, Flixe will give me a bed I’m sure.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she will,’ said Ming, adding a little dryly: ‘Both my sisters are wonderful in a crisis. I’ll ring Julia now.’
Julia’s clerk announced that she was in court and not expected back in chambers until late that afternoon. Ming, feeling desperate, put her question to him instead. There was a peculiar sound down the telephone, rather like a stifled snort.
‘I’m sure I couldn’t say, madam. I could not give advice of that kind,’ said Tomkins.
‘No indeed,’ said Ming, brushing her damp forehead with her free hand. ‘Will you ask Mrs Wallington to telephone me as soon as she has a moment?’
‘Certainly, madam.’
Ming put down her receiver and then picked it up again to dial Connie’s number. When they were connected, Ming explained what had happened.
‘I’m not sure it’s worth your coming up until we’ve heard what Julia has to say. All you and I could do would be talk about what’s happened and work ourselves into a worse panic’
‘That makes sense, Ming, although it’ll be damned frustrating to have to sit here and do nothing.’
That was the first time Ming had ever heard Connie swear.
‘Better than sitting here doing nothing but make each other miserable,’ said Ming. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve any news.’
Later in the day Ming did manage to speak to Julia Wallington, who asked for time to consider which solicitor would be best. Ming, who was determined to have the most suitable, most knowledgeable, most skilful lawyer she could find, agreed at once. Julia rang back just before five o’clock to say that a man called Terence Ratterley was probably Ming’s ‘best bet’.
‘I’ve talked to several colleagues and he’s their unanimous choice. If you can get him you should be in good hands,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said Ming seriously, adding: ‘You can’t imagine how much I wish we had not relied on Connie Wroughton’s man and had come to you in the first place.’
‘Ming,’ said Julia and then stopped. After a long pause, Ming asked what she had wanted to say.
‘I am very sorry this has happened. But it’s not necessarily the catastrophe it must seem. Don’t give up hope. Opinion on these obscenity trials is changing. Even two years ago when there was a spate of trials, two of the four most important ones ended in acquittals.’
‘Julia, thank you. It’s comforting to know that. May I ring you again if we need you?’
‘Yes,’ said Julia firmly.
Mr Ratterley listened to Ming in such complete silence that she wondered from time to time whether he had simply put the telephone receiver on his blotter and gone away, but when she had finished her account, he said at once:
‘How horrible for you! But it’s not a disaster, and I shall certainly do my best to help. You say that your partner wants a meeting and I think that would be a good idea. Would you like to come here …’ he paused, ‘at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?’
‘Could it be a little later? Miss Wroughton is based in Sussex and will have to drive up. If we were to meet at eleven or even half-past, she’d have to make a less frenzied start.’
‘That’s more difficult. I shall be tied up all the rest of the morning. Would half-past three suit you? Splendid! I look forward to it, Miss Alderbrook.’
Ming felt considerably better for having taken some definite action. There was less panic in her mind and her physical symptoms had dwindled to a quite bearable ache in the pit of her stomach. But she was left with a passionate need to talk about what had happened to a disinterested audience. She was tempted to ring one of her sisters, but she knew that they would both be instantly partisan and she needed reasoned not instinctive sympathy. After a while she pulled forward her big address book, lifted the telephone receiver and asked the operator for the number of her old school.
When the secretary answered Ming asked to speak to the headmistress. A moment later an efficient voice that she would not have recognised said:
‘Janet Roseheath here.’
‘Hello, Miss Roseheath, this is Ming Alderbrook.’
‘No! What a lovely surprise. How are you?’ The crispness of the voice had softened.
‘Oh, I’m all right really. Is this an inconvenient time for you?’
‘Not at all; what can I do for you?’
Ming explained what had happened and then said: ‘In the circumstances I don’t think it would be terribly appropriate for me to come and address your girls. You might well get complaints from parents and I’d hate to do that to you.’
There was a pause, during which the pips went. Both women ignored them.
‘Normally I would say “stuff and nonsense”,’ said Miss Roseheath, ‘but as things are at the moment, you might be right. I myself thought that you were both brave and very sensible to print that excerpt, but I can imagine some of our less imaginative parents could take a different view.’
‘I am glad you approved. Ever since the summons came I’ve been thinking that it was the most idiotic thing I could possibly have suggested.’
‘You always did worry too much about what other people would think of you.’
There was great affection in the headmistress’s voice and Ming felt a tiny, much-needed surge of confidence.
‘Thank you for that,’ she said.
‘No need for gratitude. I meant it. You need to do what you think is right and hold on to it, whatever they tell you and whatever it does to you. It is better to make mistakes than never to do anything for fear of them. And I’ve always thought that you needed to stop yourself from feeling responsible for the whole world.’
At that wholly relevant admonition, Ming managed a small laugh.
‘You have done me good, Miss Roseheath. Perhaps we can reorganise the talk when all this is over.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, my dear. Goodbye.’
Chapter Eighteen
The following morning’s post brought Ming a letter from Jack Hazeldene. She stood beside her front door, staring down at his familiar writing with a mixture of horror and pity. After a while she pushed aside the superstitious fear, ripped open the envelope and took out the letter. He had written it ten days before he was killed:
My dear Ming,
Your letters have really kept me going here. It’s wonderful of you to have written so often and so well. Thank you.
At last I have decided what to do and I thought you should be the first to know. I will be leaving the army as soon as this shindig is over. All that’s left of Caroline is the children and it would be idiotic as well as cruel to leave them thinking that they’ve lost both parents instead of only her.
It’s funny (peculiar) how selfish misery makes you and how irrational. I seem to remember telling you that I wished I’d never even met Caroline and if I did, I hope you refused to believe it. There has never been anything in my life as important as she was and what I felt for her. We had it for only a few years, but we had it, and that’s more than most people could say. To have denied that would have been … criminal.
All this sounds pretty high-flown, I know, and there is still a lot of time when I feel ground-down by it all and terrified that my being with the children won’t help them a jot. But I must try. I’ve got a job with a stockbroker, which ought to leave me plenty of time for them, and I’ll have to find a good nanny.
