Eva Rice - The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

EVA RICE

ForDonald Capability Rice,

whohelped me invent Milton Magna

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Lost Art of KeepingSecrets would have floundered at the starting postif not for the following, so grovelling thanks to:

ClairePaterson, Eric Simonoff, Molly Beckett, Christelle Chamouton and all at Janklowand Nesbit, Harriet Evans (editor extraordinaire), Catherine Cobain, GeorginaMoore and the brilliant team at Hodder Headline, Paul Gambaccinni, Ray Flight(who knows his Teds), Joanna Weinberg, Ed Sackville, Tim Rice, my grandmother,Joan Rice, who helped enormously, my mum, Jane Rice (who is nothing at all likeTalitha), Donald Rice, whose knowledge of the great country houses in thiscountry is unrivalled, Petrus, Martha and Swift. Bouquets to Sue Paterson forhaving the foresight never to throw away her brilliant 50s magazines,and to Ann Lawlor who actually saw Johnnie Ray at the Palladium. I would alsolike to acknowledge Ruby Ferguson as a great inspiration.

She said that we must dosomething about the rooms. The walls were all damp and fur had settled on someparts of the wallpaper. But we just closed the doors and hurried down to thekitchen where it was warm.

Edna OBrien, The Lonely Girl

Chapter1

THEGIRL IN THE GREEN COAT

I met Charlotte in Londonone afternoon while waiting for a bus. Just look at that sentence! That initself is the first extraordinary thing, as I took the bus as rarely as once ortwice a year, and even then it was only for the novelty value of not travellingin a car or train. It was mid-November 1954, and as cold as I had ever knownLondon. Too cold to snow, my brother used to say on such days, something that Ihad never understood. I was wearing my beautiful old fur-lined coat fromWhiteleys and a pair of Fair Isle gloves that one of Inigos friends had leftat Magna the weekend before, so was feeling quite well disposed towards thearctic conditions. There I was, thinking about Johnnie Ray and waitingpatiently with two old ladies, one boy of about fourteen and a young mother andher baby, when my thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a stick-thin girlwearing a long, sea-green coat. She was almost as tall as me, which caught myattention straight away as I am just about six foot with my shoes on. She stoodin front of all of us, and cleared her throat.

Anyonewant to share a taxi? she demanded. I cant sit around here all day waiting.She spoke loudly and quickly and without a hint of self-consciousness and itwas instantly clear to me that although the girl was addressing us all, it wasme she wanted to accept her offer. The fourteen-year-old boy opened his mouthand closed it again, then blushed and dug his hands into his pockets. One ofthe elderly ladies muttered, No, thank you, and the other I think must havebeen deaf, because her expression remained unaltered by the proposal. The youngmother shook her head with a smile of infinite regret that stayed in my mindseye long after the day had ended. I shrugged.

Whereare you going? I asked pointlessly.

Oh,you darling! Come on. The girl darted into the middle of the road andstuck out a hand to hail a cab. Within seconds one had pulled up beside her.

Come on!she cried.

Hangon a second! Where are you going? I demanded for the second time,thoroughly flustered and wishing that I had never opened my mouth in the firstplace.

Oh,for goodness sake just jump in! she ordered, opening the door of the taxi.For a few seconds in time the whole world seemed to hesitate under startersorders. Somewhere in a parallel universe, I heard myself shout out that I hadchanged my mind and that she must go on alone. Of course, in reality, I leaptforward and into the cab beside her just as the lights changed and we were off.

Yikes!she exclaimed. I thought youd never move!

Shedidnt turn to speak to me, but faced straight ahead, staring out in thedirection that we were going. I didnt reply at once, but took in the glory ofher profile the smooth milky pale skin, the long curling eyelashes and thethick, thick, straight heavy dark blond hair that fell well below hershoulders. She looked a little older than me, but I sensed from the way thatshe talked that she was probably about a year younger. She sat very still, herbig mouth set in a small smile.

Whereare you going? I asked again.

Isthat all you can say?

Illstop asking it when you give me an answer.

Imgoing to Kensington. Im having tea with Aunt Clare and Harry, which is just tooimpossible for words, so I should like you to come with me, and well havea lovely afternoon. Oh, and my names Charlotte by the way.

Thatwas how she said it. Straight Alice in Wonderland. Of course, me being me, Iwas flattered by her absurd presumption, first, that I would be happy toaccompany her, and second, that it would be a lovely afternoon if I did.

I haveto read through Act Four of Antony and Cleopatra by five oclock, Isaid, hoping to appear slightly aloof.

Oh, itsan absolute cinch, she said. He dies, she kills herself with an asp. Bringme my robe and my crown, I have immortal longings in me, she quotedsoftly. You have to admire a woman who chooses to end her life with asnakebite, dont you? Attention seeking, Aunt Clare would call it. I think itsthe most glamorous way to go.

Hardto do in England, I said reasonably. Not many serpents hanging about in westLondon.

Thereare plenty in west London, said Charlotte briskly. I had dinner withone last night.

Ilaughed. Who was that?

Mymothers latest conquest. He insisted on feeding her forkfuls of shepherds pieas though she were three years old. She wouldnt stop giggling as though itwere quite the most hilarious thing that had ever happened. I must remembernot to dine with her again this year, she mused, taking out a notebook andpencil. Whats more, her new beau was nothing at all like he is in theorchestra pit.

Orchestrapit?

Hes aconductor called Michael Hollowman. I suppose youre going to go allsophisticated and tell me you know exactly who he is and wasnt hisinterpretation of Rigoletto remarkable?

Itwas, if a little hurried and lacking in emotion, I said.

Charlottestared at me and I grinned.

Imjoking, I admitted.

Thankgoodness for that. I think I would have had to withdraw my invitation rightaway if you hadnt been, said Charlotte.

It hadstarted to rain and the traffic was worsening.

Who areAunt Clare and Harry? I asked, curiosity winning hands down overpracticalities like the fact that we were travelling in quite the oppositedirection to Paddington. Charlotte sighed.

AuntClare is really my mother. I mean, shes not my mother, shes my motherssister, but my mother has given up on everything in life except for men withbatons who she believes will help further her career. Shes got it into herhead that shes a great, untrained singer, she said grimly.

And isshe?

Shescertainly got the untrained bit right. Shes very neurotic about everythingexcept for what happens to me, which is rather convenient as we have nothing incommon at all except for our delusions of grandeur so I spend most of mytime at Aunt Clares and as little time as possible at home.

Andwhere is home? I asked, sounding just like my grandmother.

Clapham,said Charlotte.

Oh.

She mightas well have said Venus. I had heard of it, but had no idea where Clapham was.

Anyway,Aunt Clare is writing her memoirs at the moment, she went on. Im helping her.By that I mean that Im just listening to her talk and typing what she says.Shes paying me a pittance because she thinks I should be honoured to have thejob. She says plenty of people would give their eye teeth to hear stories likehers from the horses mouth, so to speak.