That was what Isabella had said to him that night at Rules when things had become so heated between them. The thought that he could ever be as abhorrent as Arthur Devereux filled him with disgust.It’s not too late, he found himself thinking. Not too late to change, to be a better man. Because God forbid he would end up a carbon copy of the man sitting opposite him.
Very slowly, Ralph put down his knife and fork, then just as slowly, he rose to his feet.
‘Sit down, Ralph,’ warned Arthur. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’
It was all he could do not to grab hold of his father by the lapels of his jacket and shake him hard. But with the greatest of restraint, he said, ‘I’m about to prove to you that not only do I have some strength of character, but I still have a modicum ofself-respect. I’ll bid you goodnight.’
He collected his coat together with his scarf and gloves from the cloakroom and seconds later he was back on the street in the dark, groping his way through the choking smog.
Yet however bad it was, it was better than staying a moment longer in his father’s poisonous presence.
ChapterForty-Nine
Charing Cross Mansions, London
December 1962
Isabella
Isabella was feeling immensely sorry for herself.
She had never missed a performance or rehearsal before. Nor had she ever turned up late for filming. She counted herself as a pro. But there was no way she could work, not unless the role called for a lingering death scene. That she could manage with considerable ease, and a great deal of conviction.
Never before had she felt so ill. She had started coughing a few days before the smog had descended, but once London was fully enveloped in the freezing cold fog that was a dirtygrey-brown colour, she had succumbed to a debilitating chest infection. She shouldn’t have gone out in the smog, the doctor had scolded her when she’d queued for more than an hour at the surgery yesterday morning. The cramped waiting room had been full of people coughing, their chests heaving, just like hers, with the effort to breathe.
The girl with whom she shared her flat had packed a case yesterday afternoon and fled to the country. Why hadn’t Isabella thought to do the same and escape to Suffolk? Especially as Romily had telephoned to suggest the very same thing. But no, she had made light of how ill she was and cast herself in the role of trooper – the show must go on!
Her throat as parched as the Sahara, she ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried to swallow. Drink plenty of fluids, the doctor had told her, and seeing that the water jug by the side of her bed was empty, she tried to summon the energy to go and fill it. She had one foot on the floor when she was seized by a violent coughing fit. Reaching for a handkerchief, she covered her mouth in an attempt to contain the worst of the cough that racked through her body. When it eventually subsided, and she removed the hanky, she saw it was spotted with blood. Not good, she thought. Not good at all.
Drained of all energy, her body bathed in a disgustingly feverish sweat, she sank back against the pillows and headboard. She closed her eyes and a soothing image of Island House washed over her; it was of the garden in late spring when the lilac trees were in full bloom and the cherry blossom was at its best. It was an image that inevitably led her to think of her father, Elijah, who, as Romily’s gardener, had worked so tirelessly to make the garden one of the finest in the area.
Some of Isabella’s fondest memories were of the simple garden at the cottage where she lived with Elijah. He had given her an area in which she could grow whatever she wanted. She had been so proud of herself when she’d dug up her first potato. She had cradled it in her grubby hands as though it were the most precious of jewels. She had run to the back door to show her father. But in her excitement, she had tripped over a watering can and hurt her knees on the brick path.
She hadn’t cried though. She had wanted to be strong for Elijah. He had suffered enough as it was, what with losing the woman he loved as well as what he’d experienced in the war. On seeing her bloody knees, Elijah had held her to him, then lifting her up, he’d carried her through to the small kitchen and sat her on the wooden draining board. With tender hands, he’d cleaned her grazed knees with TCP, found a plaster, and then wrapped her in his arms to give her another hug.
‘What a brave girl you are,’ he’d said. ‘Just like your mother.’
It wasn’t often he spoke of Allegra, but when he did, it was with loving admiration. She was a woman of great spirit, he would say, wild at times, fickle too, as difficult to pin down as quicksilver. It was her courage that Elijah often referred to, particularly her courage as an unmarried young woman to keep the baby she was expecting.
Isabella wished she had more of her mother’s spirit right now and that she didn’t feel so hopelessly feeble. Or so maudlin, fearing that she might die here all alone, her emaciated corpse undiscovered for days on end.
With these thoughts of death spinning around inside her head, Isabella suddenly remembered poor Hope. The last she’d heard from Romily was that Hope still hadn’t regained consciousness. Her delirious mind as clouded as the smog outside, Isabella tried to remember when that last update was. It seemed an age away. Was it before London became shrouded in smog? No, it was after and when she’d received that unexpected letter of apology from Ralph. She couldn’t believe how contrite he’d sounded as he asked for her forgiveness. She wanted to believe it was genuine. But with Ralph you never could tell.
Another painful coughing fit took hold of her, and when she’d recovered from the convulsion that tore at her chest, she closed her eyes and immediately fell into a deep sleep. But not for long. She was woken by the sound of knocking.
Knocking at Death’s door, she thought woozily as the noise continued, growing in volume and persistence. She opened her eyes and realised that the knocking was at the door of her flat. Still half asleep, she dragged herself from her bed and went to see who it was, grabbing her dressing gown as she went. Perhaps it was a fellow member of the cast, or even the director, bringing her grapes and sympathy.
She placed her eye against the peephole of the door and jumped away in shock.
‘Isabella, it’s me: Max. Are you all right?’
‘I’m really not fit company,’ she croaked, her voice strained and hoarse.
‘I’ve come bearing gifts to make you feel better,’ he said.
‘How did you know I was ill?’
‘How about we have this conversation on your side of the door?’
