Chapter Eight #2
There’s another room beyond the dining room with double doors leading out onto a terrace and the garden.
It’s a light and airy sitting room with wicker armchairs and a sofa arranged around a fireplace.
It’s decorated in greens and yellows with big potted ferns.
But I must not get distracted by the allure of the house. I have a job to do.
I use the silver knife lying beside the tray to slice open one of the envelopes and pull out the letter within.
5 Chelsea Square
London SW3
My dear Eddie. I cannot thank you enough for the wonderful week you gave me in Seacombe.
You were so right, the sea air and brisk walks have done me the world of good and I feel much restored.
Ready to fight again! Your advice was most welcome, and I will take it all on board, every word.
What a wise owl you are! With everything that is going on in your life, I am astonished that you have so much time for other people and their woes.
But what would we do without you? I will keep you abreast of every stage of this miserable divorce, and perhaps return in the summer for more beach and theatre, an unbeatable combination.
Speaking of which, The Aphrodite was at its best. The company is second to none – all thanks to your dear husband, of course, for having championed amateur drama with such passion, and to you, for having kept it going during those dark years of war.
In spite of your misgivings, I think Mr Bentley is what the place needs.
A firm and steady hand, and handsome too!
I am sure Macbeth will be a great success with the inimitable Gilda Garrett stealing every show! Those Americans have a certain glamour, don’t they? Do let me know. How I wish I could be there for the opening night.
Hey-ho!
I hope you will give me the opportunity to return your hospitality with a visit to London. My little Chelsea home is very quiet now that I am a woman on her own. Your presence here would be most cheery!
With much affection,
Rose
Macbeth! This is no coincidence, of course.
Nessa Blunt’s spirit began to make mischief at the theatre during the opening night of Macbeth.
I sense immediately that this is significant.
And Gilda Garrett, the leading lady, is American, like Isadora Nash.
That isn’t a coincidence, either. I feel invigorated, suddenly.
Like fog slowly clearing to reveal the outline of a landscape, I’m beginning to see a vague pattern emerging in this drama.
From Rose’s letter I deduce that my husband has something to do with the theatre.
I imagine Mr Bentley must be the manager, or director?
I swiftly read the other letters. There are bills to be paid and a postcard from the South of France from someone called, simply, Lady B.
Nothing particularly illuminating. I replace them on the silver tray.
I wonder then whether Eddie Skipton writes a diary.
Many did in those days – Constance Fleet, the woman I took over in my last slide, wrote an excellent journal that told me a great deal about her life.
Ignoring the guilty feeling of snooping about in someone else’s house, I make my way upstairs.
I reach the first-floor landing and the now familiar drawing room on the left.
There’s a big sash window right ahead of me which looks out onto the cherry tree and the street.
There are various paintings hanging on walls papered in an indigo and white floral design, polished pieces of antique wooden furniture and two big white panelled doors to my right, separated by a half-moon table bearing an extravagant hydrangea in a blue and white china pot.
I hear a creak and wince. I remind myself that I’m not Pixie Tate.
That this is my house now, and I must play the part.
Still, I can’t help feeling like a thief, prowling around someone else’s property.
I turn the brass knob of the door nearest the flight of stairs.
As soon as it opens, I know that it’s Eddie’s bedroom.
It’s feminine, decorated in dusty pinks and apple greens with two windows opening onto the garden.
The sweet scent of wisteria wafts in on a warm breeze, carrying with it the salty smell of the sea.
There’s a big bed covered in a pale green quilt and tasselled scatter cushions; tall green lamps on bedside tables; charming seats tucked into window recesses and floor-length satin curtains in a sumptuous pink.
There’s an elegant dressing table upon which sits a triple-folding mirror, lotions and potions in fancy cut glass bottles with elaborate silver lids, and a spherical vase of pink roses. There’s no trace of a man in here.
I look closely at the books piled neatly on one of the bedside tables beside a green water glass and matching jug: Oscar Wilde’s plays, Night and Day by Virginia Woolf, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton, and Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles.
Mrs Skipton is obviously an avid reader. There is no sign of a journal, however.
I notice a tapestry handbag thrown over the green chaise longue at the end of the bed and open it.
I find a lipstick in a gold case, a green satin purse, reading glasses in an embroidered sleeve, keys on a silver ring and a small vial of perfume.
I put the vial to my nose. It smells strongly of carnations.
I rummage about for anything else, but besides a small pink notebook and miniature gold pencil, there’s nothing in the handbag that helps me work out where the ‘usual place’ might be, or the identity of the person who is expecting Eddie to be there.
I enter a bathroom, decorated in the same pretty colours as the bedroom.
I notice the claw-footed cast iron bath and stunning brass taps.
How Ulysses would love those. At the other end of the bathroom is a white panelled door leading into what appears to be a man’s dressing room: a high bed with a dark mahogany frame, simple beige walls adorned with framed cartoons, a built-in wardrobe and a sturdy chest of drawers.
There’s a collection of silver-backed brushes arranged neatly on the chest of drawers and an oval mirror, slightly tarnished, on a pole.
The window behind it opens onto an ornamental courtyard and beyond it, through an iron gate, is the street.
I peer down. The street is paved rather than tarmacked and there are no markings at all.
It’s also quiet. Only an elderly woman in a brown coat walks slowly along, carrying a shopping bag.
I wish I had access to the internet, then I could find out where the theatre is in relation to this house.