Dreams of another day, p.30
Dreams of Another Day, page 30
‘I know, but she’s one of those women who finds it difficult to believe in her own attractions,’ said Flixe, leaning forward to put her empty cup down on the tray. ‘And what about you, Mingie? Are you all right? I thought you seemed rather under the weather before Christmas.’
Ming abruptly pushed her swivel chair nearer to her desk and stared down at the muddle of papers on it. The cup she was holding rattled slightly in its saucer and she put them down on the desk.
‘I’m quite functional,’ she said firmly. ‘Various things have gone wrong recently, but there’s nothing I can’t survive. The flat is turning out just as I want it, I’m exceedingly busy, and I enjoy my work – and that’s the most important thing.’
There was a clatter in the hall and the fluttering sound of envelopes falling. Ming winced involuntarily.
‘What is it?’ Flixe’s voice was very kind. ‘I’m not trying to prise secrets out of you, I just want to help.’
Ming sighed. She had always found it difficult to share her deepest feelings, but Flixe was offering the kind of maternal support neither of them had ever had from their mother and for once she needed it too badly to resist.
‘If my correspondent is as punctual as usual, one of those letters will be an anonymous one, telling me how frightful I am. That’s one of the things that’s been going wrong.’
Flixe got up to go and stand beside her sister.
‘How beastly! Why haven’t you said anything?’
Ming just shook her head.
‘And what about the other things that have been going wrong? What are they?’
‘Oh, my upsetting poor Gerry with the idea that she should adopt Jack’s children; this business of Roger trying to get Connie and me into court; the parents being so angry about what I wrote about Suez; having messed things up so badly with Mark Sudley; being … wishing … That’s really it.’ She faltered in her stoicism. ‘Oh, Flixe, I have messed things up.’
‘I doubt it. You’re going through a bad patch, that’s all. It happens to us all. And if you look back, isn’t even this better than life before you were freed by Anna’s money?’
Ming smiled and she laid her head briefly on Flixe’s shoulder.
‘You’re right, of course. And while I keep working I’m perfectly all right. It’s, only thinking about it all that makes me quaggly. I’d better go and see the post.’
‘Who’s writing the letters?’ Flixe asked with little enough surprise in her voice to suggest that she already knew about the first one. It seemed as though Gerry, too, had been indiscreet. Ming shrugged.
‘I’ve no idea. There are times when I’ve passionately wanted to know and others when the thought of identifying him makes me ill.’
‘What do they look like?’
Ming shrugged. ‘The paper is perfectly ordinary, the sort anyone could buy at Smith’s. The typing is efficient, but the typewriter an ordinary one. The only way presumably of identifying the writer would be fingerprints and that’s hardly practical.’
‘What do they smell of?’ asked Flixe. Ming halted on her way to the door and looked back.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘Nothing really. I’ve never even thought about it.’
‘Most letters smell at the instant when you open them: smoke, scent, petrol, curry sometimes. Haven’t you noticed? I always do.’
Ming shook her head, watching her sister in amazement.
‘How practical you are, Flixe!’ she said. ‘I never notice anything like that and I don’t think I could distinguish it if I did. No, that’s not actually true. I could identify the mixture of flowers and woodsmoke and beeswax polish in your house, but that’s peculiarly strong – and delectable. I don’t think I could identify any particular smell in Gerry’s flat or here.’
Flixe laughed.
‘What about the paper at Gerry’s? Piles of dusty paper smell very characteristic. And then there’s usually something foody, because of the dining room being part of the drawing room. And Gerry’s bath salts they’ve a powdery kind of eau-de-Cologne smell. And there’s the polish: it’s that faintly cherry-smelling one. They use it on the parquet floor.’
‘You amaze me,’ said Ming in genuine admiration. ‘Look here, if there is an anonymous letter, will you sniff it for me? I’d never pick any of that out.’
Flixe agreed with enthusiasm. In a moment Ming was back, holding out a white envelope with a typewritten address.
‘It’s the first time I’ve ever been remotely pleased to see one of these,’ she said, handing it to Flixe.
‘May I open it?’
When Ming nodded, Flixe put a finger under the flap of the envelope, ripped it open and held it up under her nose.
‘There’s a faint violet scent,’ she said at once. ‘Artificial, I mean, not the flowers, and something else, faintly chemical … sharp, no …’
Ming waited.
‘Acetone: nail-varnish remover, of course!’ said Flixe. ‘But that’s all I can recognise, and even that’s fading,’ she added, taking one last deep sniff. ‘No; gone now. But I’d say these are written, or at any rate stuck up, by a female who wears violet scent, or violet-scented cosmetics, and had just done her nails. A bit low, probably, which would be likely, wouldn’t it? I’m afraid it doesn’t get you much further, though.’
There was a smile on Ming’s face that reminded Flixe of the way she had sometimes looked in childhood when some particular terror had been removed.
‘A bit, though,’ she said. ‘What a Sherlock you are, Flixe! Thank you.’
‘I haven’t done much. Aren’t you going to read it?’
Ming took the envelope, pulled out the letter, read the five lines, frowned and then handed it to her sister.
‘It’s much like all the others. Nothing new.’
Flixe read it with a grimace of disgust.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said, adding more gently: ‘But I can understand why they’ve been getting you down. Try not to worry about them.’
‘Quite frankly, I don’t think I will now. What bothered me so much was that it must be someone I knew. It was impossible not to try to think who. But I can’t think of a single soul who wears violet scent. I wish I’d told you sooner.’
‘That ghastly governess Annie and you had the year Gerry was presented wore violet scent, but that was ages ago.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought she knew anything about me now, but if it is her, I really don’t care. She can be as malicious as she likes. Flixe, goodness how you’ve helped!’
‘Good. Well, I suppose I ought to go on to Peter Jones in case they’ve got anything Fiona might be prepared to wear. I hadn’t really noticed how big she’s getting, but she actually split her cherry-coloured velvet the other day, playing “sardines”. It’s been lovely to see you, Ming. And I think you’re making the flat quite gorgeous.’
Ming escorted her sister to the front door of the flat and was about to open it when Flixe stopped.
‘What did you mean when you said you’d mucked it up with that nice Mark?’ she asked, unable to suppress her curiosity any longer.
‘It’s not something I want discussed round and round the family,’ Ming said with a small sigh as she thought of everything that did get passed from one of her relations to the others.
‘Would I?’
‘Yes, Flixe. Be realistic, you know you would.’
‘Not if you specially asked me not to,’ said Flixe with her head on one side.
‘Even Gerry?’ Ming was amused by her sister’s wheedling, but it was the seductive and almost unknown pleasure of confiding that was making her want to talk.
‘If you say so. I won’t tell even Gerry.’
Not really believing her, Ming smiled and gave her sister a brief account of the last unhappy time she had seen Mark and his cancellation of their tea at Searcy’s.
‘Well, for heaven’s sake! Why haven’t you protested and written to him again?’
‘It’s not so easy, Flixe. I have made one overture, which he turned down. I can’t go nagging him to see me if he doesn’t want to.’
‘Haven’t lots of men nagged you?’ Flixe’s deep blue eyes, so like Ming’s own, were amused as well as sympathetic and forced Ming to tell her the truth.
‘That’s really why,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t bear Mark to think of me as I have thought of … well, of any of them.’
Flixe kissed her then, wished her good luck at Bow Street the next day and left. Ming shut the door behind her and returned to smell the box of anonymous letters, wondering why she had never noticed the violet scent before. But the more she sniffed, the less she could smell. Even so, Flixe’s diagnosis had taken much of the sting out of the letters, and Ming went back to her typewriter feeling happier.
The idea of writing to Mark again kept presenting itself to her as she battled with her work, but each time she pushed it back. He had avoided meeting her and that was that. It might be consoling to daydream about his changing his mind, but she knew that if she were ever to achieve serenity she would have to learn to live in reality, however lonely it might be.
The following day, feeling sick with nerves, she went with Connie and Mr Ratterley to the Bow Street Magistrates’Court. Mr Ratterley tried to comfort her by saying that the whole thing would be a formality.
So it was, but not quite the kind he meant. As soon as the charge was read out the magistrate announced that the case was too complicated for his court and sent it for trial to the Old Bailey.
There was a part of Ming that responded almost jubilantly to the news, but once they were out in the street again anxiety began to bite.
‘Did you see how sick Mr Sillhorne looked?’ Connie asked.
‘Yes,’ said the solicitor. ‘If you and Miss Alder-brook were not facing huge costs and a possibly enormous fine, I’d say that today had provided an excellent lesson for him and that he was well served.’
‘But surely he won’t have to pay the costs of an Old Bailey prosecution,’ said Ming.
‘It all depends. There’s no certainty that they’ll be paid out of official funds. He might find that as well as trying to ruin you, he’s ruining himself.’
The word ‘ruin’quelled Ming’s rebellious pleasure at once. She looked around the bustling street, thought of the small writing room she had made, and tried to imagine losing it. Anna Kingsley’s legacy had set her on the road to freedom and she hated the thought of turning back.
Ming had a sudden vision of what her life might be like if she and Connie lost their case. She could never live on what her articles earned; she would probably have to go back to being a secretary. Already thirty-two, she might never have another chance to break out of that depressing, menial state. Prison would be almost preferable.
‘Miss Alderbrook?’
‘Sorry, Mr Ratterley,’ she said, quickly jerked out of her miserable introspection. ‘What now?’
‘The case is unlikely to reach the top of the lists for another two months, but we’ll have to brief Counsel as soon as possible. Do I take it that you would still like Mrs Wallington?’
‘Definitely, I’d say. Connie?’
‘Yes. If she’ll do it. I have a lot of faith in her.’
‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ said Ratterley, ‘and then it’s really all up to her and me. There’ll be lots of questions for you to answer, but there won’t be anything for you to initiate.’
‘I see. Well, I suppose it may give me the material for an article on the workings of the law.’ Ming was determined not to be beaten into surrender by the case.
Connie said nothing.
When Ming reached the cottage at Etchingham for the next weekly meeting, she found both her colleagues in a state of acute depression, discussing whether or not to shut the magazine down at once. Despite having been woken by her own terrors in the small hours of each morning since their visit to the court, Ming did her best to rouse them.
‘You mustn’t even think about doing that. Now’s the time to pull out all the stops,’ she said, surprising herself almost as much as the others. ‘The case is going to cost us a fortune: well, we must just make a fortune between now and when it comes to court.’
‘What a lovely fantasy!’ Max’s exclamation had enough of a bite in it to bring a rueful smile to Ming’s lips.
‘I know, I know. But this is definitely not the moment to be defeatist. We’ve a chance now to become far more widely known and read. We ought to write to all the people who have ever given evidence or been prepared to give evidence for the defence in this sort of trial.’
‘Why?’ asked Connie.
‘Most of them will be writers; we can get them to produce stuff for us. So far we’ve either written it ourselves or got it from friends, relations, inexpensive unknown journalists and so on. We ought to cash in on this to get some people with famous names. That would make it even harder for a court to convict us.’
‘We won’t be able to pay them anything like the going rate.’
‘Constance Wroughton, where are your …’ Ming broke off and recast her sentence: ‘Where is your fighting spirit? If ever there was a time to dig it up, this is it. Grit your teeth. It’s time we raised the advertising rates, in any case.’
‘That really will ruin us. We’ve lost so many advertisers over the Suez article.’
Ming turned away from Connie’s stubborn face at the sound of Max’s laughter. His eyebrows were arched higher than ever above his eyes and his whole face was suffused with amusement.
‘Fragile, little Ming,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought it? In a way she’s right, though, Connie. We’ll never make a fortune, but at least we’ll go down fighting.’
He looked at his old friend and his face sobered as he saw the doubt in hers.
‘I know that I’m in no position to say it, because I’ve no money to lose, but …’
‘Nonsense, Max. That’s not the point,’ said Connie, adding in a sarcastic voice: ‘I thrill to your battle cry, Ming, but there are complications. How many booksellers do you suppose will stock the magazine now? How many of them are going to risk being prosecuted for being in possession of obscene literature? Remember what Julia Wallington said: there are booksellers in prison at this moment for doing that.’
‘There won’t be anything obscene.’
‘Don’t be naïve, Ming; they’re not to know that. And certain police forces will undoubtedly scrutinise each issue as they’ve never done before.’
‘Coffee,’ said Max, getting up. ‘I was too low to make any before, but I think we need it now. Give me a hand, Ming?’
She nodded and went with him to the neat kitchen, where he put a kettle to boil on the ancient solid-fuel range. Ming collected cups and saucers, found a tray and a milk jug and set them out on the kitchen table.
‘Give Connie a minute or two to herself. She hates publicly changing her mind,’ said Max, warming his back against the range.
‘You’re very fond of her, aren’t you, Max?’
He looked at Ming as she stood in front of the sink and thought of the mess he had made of his life, of Connie’s unstintingly generous rescue, of what might have happened if he had understood what she was really like at the beginning instead of marrying her pretty, selfish best friend. Then he shrugged. It would not have made a material difference.
‘Yes, I am. Very fond. It took me a long time to discover what she’s really like: that commanding manner used to be very offputting when she was a girl. But she’s grown into it.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘And into her face. It used to look very odd above the frills her mother thought suitable for her. And Diana was so pretty always. It’s no wonder they disliked each other then.’
Ming was a little chilled by his analysis and was about to protest just as the kettle lid started to bounce up and down on the rising steam. Max turned and made the coffee.
‘It’s only since my disaster that I’ve discovered how much genuine concern there is at the bottom of her manipulations,’ he said as he was stirring the grounds. ‘She wants us all to do as she has planned because she really thinks we’ll be better off.’
‘She’s done a lot for both of us, Max,’ said Ming.
‘And we for her.’ Max read Ming’s obstinate expression with ease and half-smiled again. ‘It’s silly not to recognise that. She put so much of herself into caring for Diana that when she died there was a big hole in Connie’s life. She was lonely, living out here on her own. She’s got plenty of friends, but they’re all busy with their own affairs. We’ve allowed her to organise us into becoming her family.’
‘Max, you are beginning to sound horribly cruel. This isn’t the moment to start digging holes in each other.’
At that protest his eyebrows arched and the eyes themselves looked very cold.
‘Cruel? Surely not. It’s important to be realistic about one’s friends. Otherwise you risk awful disillusionment. We’d better go back; she’s had time to cope with having her opinion overturned.’
Chilled but willing, Ming picked up the coffee tray. When they walked into the sitting room. Connie was lying back along one of the sofas, peacefully smoking, Ming put the tray down in front of the fire and brought Connie a cup of coffee.
‘All right,’ she said, accepting it and stirring in a spoonful of brown sugar. ‘I’ll go this far: if each issue continues to make enough money to cover its costs, we’ll go on; but if one – just one – fails, then I’ll pull the plug.’
‘That seems fair.’ Ming took a deep swallow of coffee and savoured the rich bitterness of it. The taste seemed highly appropriate. She watched Max’s face over the rim of her cup.
‘Up to standard?’ he asked in a derisive voice as he noticed her looking at him.
‘As always.’
He inclined his grey head in gracious thanks, fetched a notebook and said:
‘I think we ought to draft a letter to possible supporters. Ming, can you find out who did speak at the four big obscenity trials in 1954 or who wrote about them?’
‘I expect so.’
‘And I suppose,’ said Connie, ‘that we ought to mobilise all our friends and acquaintances and get opinion moving our way as fast as possible.’
