Goodbye Piccadilly Read online

  The audience loved it. Loved the way she used her hands, small gestures; used her eyes, raising her brows; sometimes putting her forefinger to her mouth in a manner of contemplation before making her point, a gesture Jack Moth recognized.

  Her speech lasted twenty minutes, although Jack Moth had no real idea of time whilst his eyes were fixed on Victoria. When the official expressions of thanks were being made, Nancy tapped his arm, saying, ‘I’ll have to go and pass my collecting bag around. What did you think, Master Jack? Wasn’t she splendid?’

  ‘Very.’

  Something in his tone made Nancy look twice at him. Well, she thought, our young Master Jack’s had his eyes opened tonight. ‘Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind, I should be obliged if you wasn’t to tell the mistress.’

  ‘I’m sure that my mother would not have the slightest objection.’

  ‘It’s not so much that, sir, it’s that, if you believe in something like this, there don’t hardly seem a word that passes between people, in the normal way of talk, without it don’t have some bearing on your beliefs. And there’s times when it can be real uncomfortable for both parties, if you see what I mean. I’ve always found it best to keep my work and my politics separate.’

  ‘I was hoping you would tell me the arguments. I really am an ignoramus on the subject.’

  ‘Well, Master Jack, there isn’t a single argument that’s worth hearing against women getting the vote, and Miss Bice has told you the reasons for.’ And off she went to pass her collecting bags out.

  Having hung about at the beginning of the evening like an errand boy waiting for a scullery maid, when Jack left the hall he allowed himself to be quickly carried away by the stream of people. He might easily have made his way to the back exit from which the speakers were bound to leave, but he felt odd, his thoughts at sixes and sevens, and certainly not adequate to come face to face with the woman who had swooped into Portsmouth Town Hall.

  The ten-minute walk to Garden Cottage, Southsea, took him half an hour. He did not know how to think of himself now. When he left the house he had been in love with an ideal woman. Now…? He supposed that he was still in love all right, but with whom… with what? He had guessed her to be – now he cringed at the very idea – he had guessed her to be a singer or perhaps an actress.

  What had she thought of him? His eagerness. The boyish way he had obeyed her rules about laundering the towel. His foolish banter. God, let the pavement swallow me up! She must have been quite amused. Whilst young Jack Moth had been making a fool of himself, Miss Victoria Ormorod had been in on her own secret that she was in reality Miss Blanche Ruby Bice who was – as was now plain to Jack Moth the ignoramus – a renowned and adored public speaker.

  ‘Did you enjoy Mr Pethick-Lawrence, Jack?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Oh… yes. He was very stimulating… very.’

  Anne Moth had not been a wife and mother for twenty-odd years not to know when a member of her family was put out. Wisely, she thought, say nothing, it will come out when it’s ready. ‘Why don’t you have a nice glass of port, Jack… and you can pour me one.’ He did not notice that his mother’s cheeks were already flushed and there were empty glasses on the tray. And he had entirely forgotten that Mr Martin Hewetson had paid her a visit that evening; about what, it never occurred to Jack to enquire.

  When Nancy returned she was not wearing her hat or armband and she looked at Mister Jack with nothing that suggested that they had seen one another since tea that afternoon.

  Grand Hotel,

  Southsea

  Messrs Hewetson, Hewetson, Batt & Hewetson, Solicitors High Holborn, London

  Dear Hew,

  I shall be back in the office on Monday, as arranged. Southsea is pleasant enough, but one longs for something to do, some purpose to the day.

  A small bit of good fortune, in that Mrs George Moth (before marriage the Hon. Anne Clermont –the Clermonts being, as you will surely know, Wessex’s foremost family) has asked H, H, B & H to handle a matter concerning her will which is (at present) in the hands of Asners of Mayfair.

  No purpose in writing this, except that I have too much time on my hands, and I thought that you might like to know that we have a Clermont as a client. I explained the complications, but Mrs Moth was adamant that she wished me to draw up a document on the spot.

  Of this more when I return.

  Yours, Martin

  Martin Hewetson had been surprised at the change in Mrs Moth that had taken place since he had seen her last. At Bognor Regis they had been only nodding acquaintances but he remembered clearly that she had been a petite, energetic and vivacious woman appearing to be much too young to have a grown son.

  On the evening of his visit, as he had sat across from her in Garden Cottage, he was shocked at the change. Quite apart from the usual changes brought about by her condition, she was swollen and heavy-looking, with deep indentations on her fingers where rings had had to be removed, a moon face and puffy eyes. He had asked after her health and she replied that she was her usual fit self. He saw her reply for what it was. She did not wish to discuss her health.

  He had often thought that it was a bit unfair that women had to undergo these discomforts and ravages to their lovely bodies in order to perform a natural function like reproducing. He would like to have a son, but he did understand Em’s lack of enthusiasm for the act from which they both gained such enjoyment when it occurred. Prevention was hardly mentioned even in the privacy of one’s bedroom, but Martin had firm opinions on the subject, even though he had not aired them since he was engaged in a debate at university: the sooner the adult population is able to view the sexual act openly and discuss it frankly without whispers and blushes, the sooner research into the regulation of pregnancies will come about, and we shall see an end to barefoot and unwanted urchins in the mean streets, and to couples performing unnatural forms of copulation for the sake of limiting the size of family. He had sounded pompous, but had been sincere. He supposed that Em knew what was what, but she was as loath to speak of it as of any other bodily function.

  He had never known how, at the age of twenty, he had gained such knowledge or had formed these views, but he had done so and he had never altered, even though he had married a lovely and desirable woman. Thus, on Em’s say-so, they were to remain without any son to whom he could hand on Hewetson’s. If Otis had been a boy, what a thriving practice they would have.

  The daughter Esther had come in and had, he had been glad to observe, been polite and concerned for their comfort. ‘May I get you something?’

  ‘Mr Hewetson looks like a port man – am I right, Mr Hewetson? I’m afraid that it is our servant’s evening off, and the place is too small for more than one.’

  ‘Nevertheless, ma’am, it is charming.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Bring a tray and glasses, Esther, and then either go into the garden or read in your room. I have a little private business to which Mr Hewetson has kindly agreed to attend.’

  The girl had brought the tray, plumped her mother’s cushions, kissed her spontaneously and left the room. Either she had grown up, or it was as he supposed – that the episode at Bognor had been a storm in a teacup. She did not look at all the kind of girl who would get up to any nonsense.

  ‘I compliment you upon your daughter, Mrs Moth, she would seem to have a very sweet nature.’

  ‘It is about Esther that I wish to speak to you.’

  She had paused for long seconds before she went on. ‘I’m sorry… I was trying to find the best words… I have a small property which was part of my inheritance from my mother. Putting it simply, I wish to make this over to Esther. I dare say that people who know that I am a Clermont will always suppose that I brought wealth to my marriage; but that is not the case – a certain amount of good solid stock and a little property, that is all. In my family, everything seems to end up in the hands of the males. I have always been somewhat rebellious – I suspect that part of George’s attraction for me was th
at my father forbade me to marry him.’ She smiled briefly, a smile that Martin Hewetson did not understand. ‘I trust that such confidences are not embarrassing to you?’

  ‘Madam, I should be a poor lawyer if I could not listen to my clients with understanding.’

  ‘I read you correctly then, at Bognor.’

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised that she had even remembered him.

  ‘Well then, about Esther. I have one or two properties which my mother bequeathed to me – she had three daughters, she provided a little for each of us. And so I wish to provide for Esther. My will has been settled for years – my husband of course inherits. The Clermonts have provided for Jack, as they provided for his education at Winchester College. Jack, with all his advantages, has not the faintest idea of what he will do when he eventually comes down. Esther, however, has known for years what she wishes to do. She will teach.’

  ‘Ah…’

  With a look, Anne Moth invited him to explain that ‘Ah’.

  ‘Otis too. For the last couple of years, she has been a perfect bore on the subject of Teacher Training College.’

  ‘I am glad: there is such a lack of opportunity for intelligent women in the professions generally, that good women teachers are vital. My impression of Otis is that she is a very bright girl who would never be content to have her hair dressed and wait for a prospective husband.’

  Smiling wryly. ‘Mrs Hewetson would not care to hear that.’

  ‘Children seldom fulfil our ambitions for them. Now, the property. At the moment it is let off in rented rooms. It is nothing grand, but it has income. Esther will need assistance during the years of her training, and if something should happen so that I am not able to provide for her, then I do not want her to be at a financial disadvantage; neither should I wish the Clermonts to feel that they are obliged to support her. If she owns this little property, then she will be totally independent and able to withstand pressure.’

  She had handed him three letters already prepared prior to his visit. One was for himself, one for Esther Moth, the third for a Ninian Moth.

  ‘I am not morbid, nor am I proposing to leave the world yet, Mr Hewetson, but one must always be prepared for our Maker playing tricks on us and calling us in at a moment’s notice.’ She had smiled.

  ‘God forbid that He should call you, ma’am, when you have this new child to live for.’

  ‘I intend doing my best to give my baby son a fond mother.’

  ‘A son?’

  ‘Oh yes, I am as certain of that as I was that Jack would be a boy and Esther a girl.’

  ‘Three children, ma’am. They are most fortunate. I have never wanted Otis to be an only child.’

  Again she smiled her enigmatic smile. ‘There is time yet, Mr Hewetson, is there not?’

  The turn of their conversation made him hot. He would have loved to have poured out to her and confessed to the passion, the plugs of sponge, the self-abuse and longings for another child, the frantic moods of Em when she believed herself to be pregnant again. But such an open confession to another human being – particularly one of the other gender – was impossible and he felt not one bit hopeful that things would be different in his own, nor yet even Otis’s lifetime. What fools we are, he thought.

  Instead, he had asked, looking at one of the letters, ‘Ninian Moth?’

  She had delicately patted her mound. ‘This is he. In the event of my death, that letter is for my son as yet unborn. George and I have already agreed on names. Instructions in the unlikely event of this being a girl are contained in my letter to you.’

  As he took his leave of her, he said, ‘Now that you have dealt with the necessity, ma’am, all talk of death can cease. I shall draw up the papers and bring them down here to you within the week. You will have your child, provide for your daughter and live to be a hundred.’

  On returning to The Grand, he would have liked to relate to Em the gist of their tantalizing conversation, but its frank trend, no less than professional ethics, forbade it.

  BOATING. KENSINGTON GARDENS, LONDON.

  I thought you’d like this card for your collection. Howevr it is also to say Happy Birthday to my one and only. A niece of seventeen, Lord, how I shall have to watch my· Ps and Qs now. I shall be joining you at the weekend, when we shall have a party (on me). Why not ask your Mothy friends. Fond love, Uncle Hew

  VICTORIA PARK. SOUTHSEA.

  Uncle Hewey, Many thanks for the birthday ‘sponduliks’ and the pretty painted card. (Please save this one too.) I bought a crab-net, use of which young ladies shld no doubt eschew. But for a B’day treat Jack took Esther and me a few miles out of town, where we caught many crabs. Threw back as too small. This is my best ever hol. A dance at Assembly Rms on Sat. Just rt for your vst. You wd hv liked crabbing. Love, Otis

  Maximilian Hewetson – known almost universally as Hew – was, at twenty-five, a junior partner, the last of the names in the Hewetson, Hewetson, Batt and Hewetson partnership – and Martin’s half-brother. He was a very good-looking man with a fashionable narrow face, dark eyes and hair. He was clean-shaven, except for a beautifully-sculpted moustache that flicked up at the ends – as did both his mouth and his eyebrows, all of which gave his face a look of permanent good-humour. And this is what he was: a good-humoured, good-looking man. He was also good fun, which is exactly what a niece wants in an uncle. He was, too, a bachelor. A bachelor in a good London law practice, with a decent income and very nice rooms in which he entertained very well.

  Emily Hewetson’s afternoon-tea friends said that it was time that he settled down. They probably did not know why they thought this, except that they did not like decent bachelors to go to waste. Much safer to have the junior partner out of ‘rooms’, married, respectably housed. A young man skating around London single was not the thing in a lawyer.

  Otis, naturally, thought marriage would be the worst possible fate for her dear Uncle Hewey. Competition in the form of his wife would not exactly be Otis’s choice for herself either.

  When he stepped off the train at Portsmouth Station, Otis was glad that she had asked Esther and Jack to come with her to welcome her Uncle Hew. He leapt lightly down and, whilst resting a sociable hand on a porter’s shoulder and giving instructions as to his bag, waved his curly-brimmed bowler at Otis.

  She was wearing her new womanly clothes of broderie anglaise petticoats under a plain-fronted celandine-coloured skirt with folds at the back that swayed and swished as she walked; from its wide waistband burst a frosty white, high-collared blouse whose dozens of narrow vertical tucks gave it the shape of the body within. Her shiny hair swooped upwards and backwards to be caught and pinned in a bunch of curls. The flattering style, given her by her mother’s Southsea man, was topped by a flat hat with yellow ribbons. Boaters were de rigueur for all seaside promenaders.

  When she had first appeared in her new role as young woman, she had obviously created an effect on Jack, for his gaze had followed her every move, which made her feel extraordinarily powerful. She did not exactly want him to fall down on bended knee and swear everlasting love for her, but she did like it that she had captured his attention. She had flirted with him; he had responded.

  If Esther is right and he is in love, then he isn’t exactly faithful.

  Now Max Hewetson was feeding her new-found delight in capturing his adult interest. Holding her at arm’s length, whilst she mocked herself with a twist of her parasol, he said, ‘Just look at you. One thing’s for sure, I shall no longer call you “Dumpling”. You are a lady… nay, a woman.’

  ‘Uncle Hew! Not in company.’

  As Maximilian Hewetson’s eyes said when they lingered upon Esther: And what company! What absolutely splendid, ravishing company.

  Esther Moth, dressed in similar style to Otis but with a blue and white striped skirt, her fair curls bunched high under the brim of her boater, looked back into Max Hewetson’s eyes as though she was quite a woman of the world.

  His voice sa
id, ‘Well, how delightful… the famous Moths. We meet at last. I have heard so much about you from Otis.’

  Jack Moth was gentlemanly, as befitted a Cambridge man who had been abroad. But he was not effete like many of his colleagues: Inspector Moth had seen to that. Jack was to Max Hewetson as he was to very many people, an intriguing mixture of the two social cultures of his parents. Not that anyone could have put a finger on that being the reason for his likeableness: it was that he had the best of both worlds but was unaware of it.

  Otis said, ‘Ma says I may take you off to the seafront at once. Pa says that he will talk shop with you later.’

  ‘Splendid! What is the plan? Nothing too strenuous: I mean to keep you two dancing till dawn.’

  Esther Moth laughed. ‘Mr Hewetson, you do not know Southsea. The Assembly Rooms do not stay open so late.’

  ‘Well then, we must start early and dance every dance. Now then, whither do we wander?’

  Esther and Otis exchanged glances, leaving Jack to speak up as they moved out into the busy road. ‘If it is not too much of a bore, we thought we would take some refreshment on the leisure pier at Southsea.’

  ‘The sea, mademoiselles, yes, the sea. I had wondered whether you might want to show me something fearful such as the very house where Charles Dickens was born, or the house where the Earl of Leicester fell to his death, or poor old Conan the Doyle’s surgery in which he was forced to give birth to Holmes and Watson in order to pay the rent… mind you, I should not mind looking at the latter, but this is a morning to breathe the ozone.’