The Choice Read online

  “That would really thrill my mother, wouldn’t it? Me in service and miles away from her? Oh, the humiliation! Oh, her despair!”

  The girls laugh.

  Eleanor squeezes Kathleen’s hand. “Thanks, Kath. What would I do without you?”

  At Reading, their carriage fills up and the girls fall silent.

  The train’s twenty minutes late arriving at Paddington. By the time it finally puffs to a standstill, Kathleen is fretting and anxious.

  “Maud will think I’ve missed the train. There’ll be thousands of people in Westminster… We might not be able to find each other.”

  She jumps onto the platform. Eleanor joins her. The girls hug briefly.

  “See you at Lyons Corner House in Oxford Street at two,” Eleanor says.

  Kathleen vanishes into the mass of coats, hats and belching smoke.

  A moment of terror grips Eleanor. She’s totally alone. Everyone else seems to be with friends. She has nothing and nobody: no darling Daddy, no College term to look forward to, no lectures to attend, no party invitations to accept. She has no career mapped out, no idea what will happen to her over the next few months.

  All she has is a strand of pearls and a nagging mother.

  She walks unsteadily down the platform. People jostle her shoulder, a dog leaps at her handbag. A man walks towards her, raising his hat. He leers at her with black teeth. Eleanor ignores him and the whiff of stale garlic on his breath.

  When was the last time she’d been to London? She tries to remember…

  A memory explodes in her head.

  Last summer, she and darling Daddy had taken the train from Oxford to go on a shopping expedition. Walter had needed a new suit. They’d just stepped off the train when a man clapped her father on the shoulder. The two men embraced. The other man looked at Eleanor, his eyes hard and black. “Well, I never, Drummond! She’s very young!”

  Daddy had said quickly, “May I introduce my daughter? This is Eleanor.”

  “Oh!… Sorry!” The man smirked at Walter and vanished into the crowd.

  Eleanor remembers that she’d thought it rather odd…

  Trying to shake off her loneliness, she decides to walk the rain-drenched streets from Paddington. She’s dreading the next few hours. Londoners seem to move more quickly than her neighbours in Woodstock. Nobody meets anyone’s eyes. Nobody says, “Good morning.”

  Eleanor scuttles up and down Bond Street several times, peering into jewellers’ windows, trying to decide which looks the most friendly, summoning the courage to step inside. When she finally chooses a shop and pushes at the door, its sumptuous purple-velvet, brightly-lit interior makes her feel shabby. During her walk, her boots have been spattered with mud and her coat is damp.

  She lays the box of pearls on the counter, pulls off her gloves, lifts out the necklace. Under the bright lights, it looks small and vulnerable, as if its marvellous lustre has been sucked away. In that single instant she loves it more than ever. She’d have given anything to be able to slip it back into her bag and rush out of the shop. But her legs refuse to move. She reminds herself that Anne and Vera need to eat. Only yesterday, the butcher had waylaid Vera in the street, reducing her to tears. Eleanor has to keep her small household’s head above water.

  She manages to say, “Good morning! I wonder whether I could sell you this?”

  The jeweller, a tall, thin man wearing a glossy silk jacket, pulls out his magnifying-glass with the faintest sneer. He prods at the necklace with immaculate fingernails, as if the pearls are lumps of meat on a butcher’s slab. His nostrils flare with distaste.

  “Hmm.” He lays the glass on the counter. “The pearls are rather small.”

  “It’s a very good piece,” Eleanor says, furious and defensive. “They’re natural pearls, not cultured. I saw some exactly the same in Regent Street.” The jeweller does not believe her. His eyes narrow with suspicion but she rushes on. “They were in the window for three hundred guineas.”

  The jeweller sucks at his teeth. “I can’t offer you anything like that amount.” He pushes the necklace back towards Eleanor. “Would you rather take them elsewhere?”

  Eleanor feels like a pauper. “How much could you—”

  “One hundred and fifty guineas. Not a penny more.”

  Reluctantly, Eleanor accepts the offer. The thought of putting herself through such humiliation again – perhaps for an even smaller amount – makes her feel faint.

  The jeweller, smirking triumphantly, slides the pearls under the counter with a practised swish of his lily-white hands.

  At The Topaz Gallery

  London, That Same Day

  In Bond Street, Eleanor hails a cab.

  “Could you take me to The Topaz Gallery, please? It’s in St John’s Wood.”

  She stares out at the gloomy crowds as the driver crosses Oxford Street and heads north. Every flag is flying at half-mast. Everyone wears mourning for King George.

  Eleanor opens her bag and counts the crisp notes. She has never had anything like this amount of money before – and certainly not to carry around a big city in broad daylight. She feels as if she has robbed a bank.

  She takes a five-pound note from the pile and puts it in her wallet. She seals the other notes in their envelope. She has made an appointment to see Robin Parker on Wednesday afternoon to open her own bank account… Start as she means to go on.

  The Topaz Gallery is an elegant Regency terrace house: well-kept, with cream-painted walls and a small front garden paved in grey stone. Eleanor climbs the flight of steps and rings the bell. When there’s no answer, her heart sinks. She should have made an appointment, but when she tried to do so yesterday, she found herself in tears, full of self-pity. Valiantly, she rings the bell again.

  A voice calls, “Hang on there. I’ll be with you in a half a sec.”

  The door opens. In front of her stands a portly man with dark, greasy hair and a handlebar moustache. He wears a green smoking-jacket and smells strongly of cigars.

  “Good morning, Miss… Can I help?”

  “I wonder if…” Eleanor takes a deep breath. This is the first time she has spoken about her father to a stranger. Her voice shakes. “My name’s Eleanor Drummond. My father, Walter… Do you remember him?”

  “Sure.” The man’s eyes register recognition. “Course I do… Poor old Walter. Gather he’s kicked the bucket… Only fifty… Tragic accident.” He flings wide the door, holding out a podgy hand. “Name’s Daniel Rogers. How d’you do, Miss Drummond. Please come in.”

  Daniel ushers Eleanor into a long, narrow hall with whitewashed walls and gleaming wooden floors.

  “My gallery’s through there.” Eleanor glimpses an enormous room hung with paintings, its central table gleaming with bronze sculptures. “But you won’t want to see any of that… Come into my office.”

  The back room, lit by a grimy window, is crammed with files and papers. Canvases and framed paintings huddle on the floor. Piles of invoices droop across a large desk, along with dirty cups. A half-smoked cigar smoulders in its ashtray.

  “Sorry about the mess. I have a clear-out once a year. Within days, it looks like this again.” Daniel clumps into a battered leather chair behind his desk, waves Eleanor into another one. “Make yourself comfortable… So, how can I help?”

  Eleanor swallows. “My mother and I…” She clutches her handbag for comfort. “We’ve been sorting out my father’s studio. There are six or seven paintings good enough to sell. I remembered your name and I wondered—”

  “Did you now!… Well, I’m sorry to say I haven’t bought anything from Walter for at least three years.” Daniel picks up the cigar, taps the ash away, pouts his mouth around it.

  Eleanor stares at him, mesmerised by the redness of his lips. “But why?”

  “His pai
ntings weren’t shifting… I came to the reluctant conclusion I couldn’t sell ’em any more.”

  Eleanor feels as if Daniel has kicked her in the stomach. “But Daddy came to see you last December. I was at College, but Mummy told me he was away in London on business for more than a week. She says he left with six paintings and brought none of them back.”

  Daniel shakes his head. Flakes of dandruff settle on his shoulders like the first delicate drift of snow. “Sorry, Miss Drummond, but I wasn’t the one who bought ’em. I’d have made an entry in my black book.” He points to a bulging tome sprawling on a shelf. “I keep spit-spot accurate records, in spite of the chaos.”

  “I see.” Eleanor’s heart seems to have contracted to a painful pinpoint in her chest. “Can you tell me why his paintings stopped selling?”

  “Terribly hard to say.” Daniel shifts his weight in his chair, which grumbles beneath the strain. “Tastes change all the time… I can only listen to the marketplace. I can’t dictate what my clients like, I can only try to keep up with ’em.” He chews at his bottom lip, which flushes an even darker crimson. “And to be perfectly frank…” His eyes meet hers. “Can I, Miss Drummond?”

  “Please do.” Eleanor clenches her fists. “I need to know.”

  “Walter’s work began to lack energy. It’s hard to say exactly when the rot set in – I’m sorry, that’s unkind, rot’s too strong a word, I take it back – but a certain zest, passion, it went missing. I suggested he took a holiday, looked at new landscapes, found something fresh to paint.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was none too pleased. I had to return three of his landscapes. That had never happened before and he left in a bit of a strop. Understandable, I suppose. Sadly, I never saw him again.” Daniel leans forward. “I do mean sadly, Miss Drummond. I liked your father. We were friends. But first and foremost, I’m a businessman. I never accept work if I don’t think I can sell it.”

  Eleanor takes another deep breath. “When did you first meet him?”

  Daniel frowns. “Dashed if I can remember… Wait a minute. Of course, that’s it! Lillian brought him to one of my previews.”

  “Lillian?” The name sticks in Eleanor’s throat like a piece of apple core.

  “Walter’s first wife, Lillian Holmes. The sculptor. You must have heard of her.”

  Eleanor feels cold and dizzy. “Daddy’s wife?”

  The cigar hovers in mid-air. “Good Lord! I hope I’m not speaking out of turn… Don’t tell me you didn’t know about her?”

  “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “Lillian Holmes… Lovely woman. Handsome, vivacious, older than your father, very talented. She sculpted a marvellous bronze head and shoulders of Walter. I adored the piece. I displayed it in my hall for more than a year. Then I got an offer from a West End dealer. He gave me so much money for it I couldn’t refuse.”

  Eleanor clutches the arms of her chair. Her handbag slithers to the floor. “My father and this Lillian…” Blood pumps into her cheeks. “How long were they married?… And where is she now?”

  Daniel stubs out his cigar with pudgy fingers. “They were only hitched for a year. During the war, it was. Ghastly time, specially in London. Never knew where those blasted bombs would drop… I always thought your father produced his best work while he was with Lillian. His nudes were voluptuous without being pornographic, curvaceous and tasteful… It’s not an easy line to draw or paint!” Daniel chuckles at his own joke, flicking a greasy strand of hair into position. “Sadly, Lillian died. She caught influenza, must have been the winter of 1916. Turned into pneumonia. All very nasty and sudden – and absolutely tragic for Walter. Don’t think he ever got over it. That’s when he turned to landscape painting. Said he couldn’t bear to look at women’s flesh any longer… I say, Miss Drummond!” Daniel gets to his feet. “Are you feeling quite well?”

  Eleanor pulls out her handkerchief, wipes her forehead. “I’m fine.” Her fingers feel numb, her thighs are damp. She makes herself ask, “Did Walter and Lillian have children?”

  “Good Lord, no! Lillian wasn’t the maternal type. Her bronzes were her babies. And Walter needed a lot of mothering. Look here, Miss Drummond, you do look awfully pale… I have some excellent malt whisky if you’d—”

  “No, thank you.” A whiff of cigar smoke seems trapped in Eleanor’s mouth. She’s desperate to escape the dank room and its portly owner. “I should be—”

  “Well, if you’re sure… I hate to send you away looking so peaky.” Daniel scrapes back his chair. “Come and take a quick look at my gallery. It’ll give you a good idea what my clients are buying.”

  The Woman in Blue

  London, That Same Day

  Ten minutes later, Eleanor stands on the pavement outside The Topaz Gallery, her head reeling, her heart thrumming.

  Daniel’s walls glitter with offerings. Large abstract paintings sizzle with colour: confident, seductive, modern. Sensitive, beautifully painted portraits look out at her with eyes that dance with life. Her father’s recent work couldn’t hold a candle in comparison. Eleanor doesn’t need to be told. She’s amazed she had the audacity to visit the gallery at all.

  As for her father being married before, and being a painter of voluptuous naked women, Eleanor has to pinch herself to make sure she’s awake.

  She’d never heard her father even mention Lillian Holmes.

  It would seem, she thinks bitterly, that Daniel Rogers had known her father better than she did herself. She wonders what else – and who else – lie in wait for her reluctant discovery.

  Eleanor turns left and walks rapidly down the street, away from The Topaz Gallery, but she hardly knows where. Cabs trundle past, driving towards London. She hails none of them. The rain has eased. She has an hour before luncheon with Kathleen and Maud. She needs to get some air, clear her head. She’ll sit over a cup of coffee and gather her thoughts.

  ***

  St John’s Wood High Street looms elegantly into view: snooty dress shops whose exorbitant prices make her gasp; furriers too posh for labels; high-class grocers whose doorways breathe the heady scent of spices, olives and cheese. They all announce they will close tomorrow for His Late Majesty’s funeral.

  Eleanor finds a coffee shop, filled with groups of friends. They chatter to each other in French and German as well as English, turning to look at her as she grabs a seat by the window and sinks into a chair.

  As she sits over her coffee, trying to come to terms with what Daniel had told her, some newcomers order soup. The scent of the steaming liquid rises into the air. Eleanor remembers an incident, here in London, that she has long since pushed from her mind, but which now surfaces like a swimmer coming up for air, flinging aside the weeds that clog her down.

  It must have been five years ago, one Saturday in summer. She and Walter had been to an exhibition of paintings by an up-and-coming artist in Camden Town. Afterwards they found a small French restaurant in Regent’s Park Road. They sat by the window, eating a fragrant bouillabaisse.

  Then suddenly her father gasped, clattering his spoon into its bowl. “I’ve just seen someone I know.” He leaped to his feet. “Don’t worry, Ellie. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Eleanor stared as her father shot out of the restaurant like a bullet from a gun. A tall woman wearing a long silver-blue cloak stood outside an antiques shop on the opposite side of the road. Walter tapped her shoulder. The woman turned to look at him, her profile sharp and beautiful. Walter shrank with disappointment. He stepped back, bowed stiffly, muttered an apology. The woman smiled, shrugged and turned away. Walter mopped at his forehead, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

  Eleanor remembers his face as he slumped back at the table. He looked haggard, as if someone had sucked the wind out of his sails and forgotten to pump it back.

  “Got it wron
g, I’m afraid… Wasn’t who I thought.”

  “Who did you think it was, Daddy?”

  But her father evaded the question. He picked up his spoon, toyed with the soup, crumbling his bread into inedible damp pieces. “Only a friend of mine.” Briefly, he met her eyes. His were clouded and overcast, as if they’d absorbed the shadows of a thundery day. “Before I met your mother, I had many London friends. Lost contact with them when I left the city…You know how it is.”

  He spoke little on the journey home. Eleanor felt as if her father were sitting behind a glass wall, sheltering for protection.

  When they reached Woodstock, he parked the Morris and turned towards her.

  “That woman I thought I knew,” he muttered. “No need to mention it to your mother. Trivial incident, nothing happened, eh?” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Keep it just between ourselves, Ellie… Agreed?”

  “Of course, Daddy.” Eleanor blushed, feeling like a conspirator in an affair she did not understand. “Just between ourselves.”

  Now she stirs her coffee as if she might find answers in the bottom of the cup. Had her father been looking for Moira? That woman in blue, hovering in Regent’s Park Road like an exquisite dragonfly swooping over water. Had she reminded him of the woman he had somehow, somewhere, lost?

  Lyons Corner House

  London, That Same Afternoon

  Back in Oxford Street, Eleanor pushes into Lyons Corner House. She spots Kathleen and Maud sitting at the back. Kathleen waves.

  Maud stands to greet her. “I were that sorry to hear your news, Ellie. How are you keepin’?”

  They shake hands. Maud looks polished by London life. Her job as a lady’s maid in Mayfair suits her. She wears a thin film of makeup, skilfully applied, cherry-red lipstick, a fashionable coat that shows off her curves, and a daringly perched hat. Beside her, Kathleen looks like a country bumpkin and Eleanor feels like one.