Chapter Ten
We cannot remain long on that secluded beach, for Cavill must return to his wife and I, Eddie, must return home too, to prepare myself for the party I know nothing about.
As I climb back into the car, I feel as if I’m waking from a dazzling dream and returning to the dull complexities of real life.
I need to find Nessa Blunt and focus my attention on my mission, but my whole being rejects it.
I feel as if I’m having to turn my face from the sun and step into darkness.
I crave the bright light of Cavill’s presence. I don’t know how I can do without it.
I watch him as he backs the car and then swivels the steering wheel to drive out into the lane again, and I wonder whether I will be able to finish it – I don’t have a clue how it can be done. Must I tell him the truth? Does he have to know who I really am in order for him to let me go, too?
I started this, but truly, I have no idea how to end it without breaking my heart.
The sun shines with all the vigour and enthusiasm of spring.
It is pleasantly warm, and in that warmth nature basks.
The ferns unfurl, the flowers open, the leaves unfold in all their glorious splendour, and among them dragonflies dart, songbirds frolic and bees buzz.
It reminds me of St Sidwell. The English countryside at its most extravagant, at its most lavish.
We reach town and he pulls up outside Eddie’s Queen Anne house.
I wonder why Cavill is so relaxed about being seen with her in his car.
He’s certainly not concealing their friendship.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I say as he climbs out and comes round to open the door for me once again.
I’d like to find a man in my own time who is chivalrous like this, but I fear feminism and the woke ideology have all but erased it.
We stand a moment facing each other, and I feel the unbearable urge to kiss him.
He smiles and his eyes linger a moment on my lips.
I know he feels it too. ‘Until later,’ he says, and I’m left no alternative than to return through the iron gate and up the stone path to the front door.
I turn and watch him start the engine. He doesn’t look at me again but drives off.
I wonder where he lives and what his wife is like.
I delve inside Eddie’s handbag for the keys, but the door opens and Mrs Crocker is standing there with a face full of complaint.
‘Miss Blunt is in the morning room, ma’am.
In distress.’ She arches her eyebrows which add a silent ‘again’ to the sentence.
By Mrs Crocker’s expression I gather that Miss Blunt is often in distress.
My encounter with Cavill is swept aside as my energies come together in a single beam of intention, which I train resolutely on my mission. I’m going to meet Nessa Blunt.
And so it begins.
I have no idea where the morning room might be.
Mrs Crocker puts out her hand and I realise that she’s expecting me to give her my hat.
I take it off. ‘Thank you, Mrs Crocker,’ I say.
She frowns at me, and I wonder suddenly if I’ve misnamed her.
I swiftly think back to my conversation with the scissor-cutter. I’m sure he said Crocker.
‘I don’t think you’ve put Mrs in front of my name for ten years!’ she exclaims.
‘So I haven’t,’ I reply swiftly, feigning nonchalance. ‘My mind is doing funny things today, Crocker. You’ll have to bear with me.’ I shrug apologetically, hoping she will excuse any other blunders I’m sure to make.
‘Let’s go and see what Miss Blunt is weeping about today,’ she says, and I’m grateful to her for inadvertently showing me the way.
The morning room is situated up the stairs and leads off, by way of big double doors, from the drawing room in which I first found myself when I slid.
It’s a light, airy room decorated in vivacious greens and purples, with sash windows giving out onto the garden below and a big fireplace with a green marble mantelpiece and a purple and green patterned club fender.
I’m getting the measure now of Eddie’s style and her love of colour.
In front of the fireplace, curled into a velvet armchair like a miserable dog, is Nessa Blunt.
I recognise her at once. She looks up at me with big, shiny grey eyes, her lips trembling.
Even with her pale, tear-stained face I can see that she’s pretty and full of character.
‘Nessa,’ I say, leaving Mrs Crocker in the doorway and stepping into the room.
‘Skippy,’ says Nessa, and I’m surprised at the nickname; we obviously know each other well.
‘It’s just too horrendous!’ she exclaims, holding up a letter.
‘Papa is coming to the opening night of Macbeth and I’m Lady Macbeth’s understudy and an apparition.
The first time he sees me on stage, I’ll be an apparition.
Barely a part at all! My lifelong dream has led me to this!
I might as well give up now and do as he demands. ’
‘That’s defeatist, Nessa,’ I reply. ‘You’re not one to give up so easily.’
‘I am when everyone is against me! Bentley promised me Lady Macbeth, but once again Gilda has stolen the limelight. Will I never be the lead? Am I destined to always shadow other actresses who are more beautiful than me? Because that’s what it’s all about, you know, Skippy.
Beauty. I’m far more accomplished than Gilda.
Everyone agrees she’s a rotten actress. If she wasn’t married to the man who owns the theatre, she’d never get further than the chorus. It’s so unfair.’
I perch on the armchair opposite her then turn to dismiss Mrs Crocker, but she has already slipped away. ‘It is unfair,’ I agree, then wait for her to give me more information.
‘She’s not even that beautiful,’ she continues bitterly, twisting a white handkerchief in her hands.
‘She’s artificial. It’s all make-up and glamorous clothes.
If she were English I don’t think people would consider her special.
Besides, they’re all fawning over her because her husband owns the theatre. ’
I realise I need to know more about Nessa Blunt, and I’m inspired suddenly with a cunning idea.
‘This is all very distressing, darling,’ I begin, hoping Eddie is the sort of woman who would use that term of endearment.
Nessa doesn’t flinch so I take it that I’m on the right track.
‘I think you need to let it all out. All of it. There’s an interesting new therapy I read about recently that encourages people to heal from trauma by talking it out. ’
She looks at me askew. ‘You mean Carl Jung, Skippy.’
‘Maybe. I can’t recall. But I think it would help if you had a good rant.’ She’s doubtful, but not opposed. I sense that, with my encouragement, she’ll go along with it. ‘Tell me about Gilda, from the first moment you met her. Pretend I know nothing.’
She inhales through her nose and gives a little shake of her head. ‘Very well, but Carl Jung is not new, Skippy.’
‘I don’t think it was Carl Jung, I simply can’t recall. But let’s give it a go all the same, shall we? It might help to get it off your chest.’
‘I’d like to get her off my chest.’ She sighs dramatically and drops her hands into her lap.
‘Very well. The first time I met her, I was dazzled by her like everyone else. It was my first day at the Aphrodite and I was nervous. As you know, Papa was against me going on the stage. To him it’s akin to prostitution.
’ She chuckles joylessly and rolls her eyes.
‘Mamma secretly supported me, but she would, wouldn’t she, being your sister. ’
So, Eddie Skipton is Nessa Blunt’s aunt. The fog is clearing some more.
‘I was fortunate that you and Uncle Tom were so passionate about amateur dramatics. If it wasn’t for you keeping the theatre going during the war, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to act.
’ Her eyes shine as new tears glisten. ‘I know how fortunate I am.’ Her lips curl at a recollection.
‘I remember when we were little, you’d help us put on plays at The Hallows for Mamma and Papa and their friends.
We all enjoyed rehearsing and dressing up, but none of my siblings loved it as much as I did.
I adored performing and was good at it too.
The seed was sown, and Papa curses you now.
It’s not ladylike to be an actress and goodness, how he minds about that!
But as you’re always telling us, times are changing.
Women’s role in the world is changing rapidly.
The war gave us independence and social freedom, and things that were deemed unseemly are now accepted as normal.
But Papa is a stuffy old sofa. There’s no moving him.
He doesn’t mind other women enjoying their newfound independences, but he won’t tolerate his daughter.
It doesn’t help that Flossy and Clemmie have toed the line.
They’ve both made good marriages and are still stuck in the Edwardian age, which pleases Papa enormously.
One would have thought that, as the youngest child, he wouldn’t give a toss what I do.
But he’s terribly concerned about appearances, and I’m letting the family down.
As if the Blunts are anything special. But that’s the heart of the problem, isn’t it?
The Blunts aren’t special. He’s trying so terribly hard to keep up.
Now he’s been persuaded to come …’ she glances at me slyly.
‘I don’t know whether you’re behind it, or Mamma, but he’s been persuaded to come and see me perform and I’m an apparition. It’s too horrendous for words!’
I give her a knowing smile, although I have no idea what Skippy knows! ‘But it’s wonderful that your dear Papa is coming at all, isn’t it?’
She frowns, and then a light dances in her eyes and she grins mischievously. ‘What did you have for lunch, Skippy? Dear Papa, indeed! You’ve never made a secret of disliking him. It’s usually Horrible Humphrey or “that man”.’