Sandy Beach and his Love Brothers, Bert and Buster, are all members of the world-famous Southern Syncopated Orchestra. Tonight, we welcome them in a rare arrangement as a trio to the White Oleander. So, for one night only, sit back, sup up, relax and let Sandy and his Love Brothers take you on to the dance floor for a night you’ll never forget!
‘Wow,’ she said softly.
‘Anything interesting?’ asked Liz, snapping Betty back into real life.
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Can I take these? Take them away and look at them at home?’
‘Oh God, yes, absolutely. Please. I just wish everyone would come and take their files. I hate having them here. All those unfinished stories, all those incomplete lives.’
The baby began to grumble and Liz got to her knees to pick him up from his play mat and brought him to the sofa.
‘So,’ she said, ‘your grandmother. Any idea who she was trying to find?’
Betty glanced down at the programme on her lap, at that luscious suggestion of post-war decadence, of mink stoles and hackney carriages, of cigarettes in holders and feathered headdresses. She sighed. ‘Someone called Clara Pickle,’ she said. ‘That’s all we know. Clara Pickle. Used to live in Soho. A total mystery. Arlette never even came to London.’
‘Oh,’ said Liz, kissing the top of her grandson’s head and smiling drily, ‘you never really know a person until after they’re dead. That’s when it all comes out. All the stuff they locked up in boxes. All the secrets, all the lies. That’s when you really know the truth.’
Betty smiled and gripped the folder to her chest. She wondered how true that might be.
24
1920
ARLETTE COULD NOT
entirely tell if she was drunk or not. The night had been so extraordinary, the atmosphere so other, the company so eclectic and the music so stimulating, so unlike anything she’d ever heard before, that she could barely remember what her life had felt like before she’d walked into the White Oleander three hours earlier. She had been drinking Americanos, slowly, sip by sip, not downing them like some of Gideon’s friends, but still, she’d had at least three, maybe even four.
‘Come on,’ said Gideon after the band had finished their musical set. ‘Let us go and congratulate the musicians. Come with me!’
‘We can’t do that!’ cried Arlette.
‘Whyever not?’
‘Well, because they must be so tired after their performance. Surely.’
‘No! Of course they won’t be! They’ll be full of energy long into the night, I’m sure. Come along!’
She picked up her glass and followed him from their booth and towards a curtained area to the side of the stage. Gideon
peered
through and then beckoned Arlette. She ran her hand down her hair and paused for a moment. It had been remarkable to her to see these men, even from a distance, with their skin as dark as the night and their teeth as large and as white as sugar lumps. She had never before, beyond the occasional fleeting glimpse of a brown-skinned sailor, by the light of a gas lamp in a St Peter Port alleyway, been at such close quarters to a negro. And not just a negro, but three negros, all from the Caribbean. She felt breathless with nerves as she followed Gideon behind the curtain and into a small lounge where the three musicians sat with their ties loosened and cold beers in their hands.
‘Gentlemen,’ Gideon began, ‘congratulations. Really, that was quite, quite tremendous.’
‘Why, thank you, sir, we’re glad you enjoyed it.’
The accent! Arlette could barely breathe. It was an accent laced with palm trees and calm blue seas; it was the most exotic thing ever to have passed through her ears.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gideon Worsley, an artist. And this is my very good friend, and my current
muse
, Miss Arlette De La Mare.’
‘Good evening. My name, as you probably know, is Sandy Beach,’ the singer said, getting to his feet and shaking Gideon’s hand. ‘This here is Bert, and this here is his brother, Buster. It is nice to make your acquaintance. And yours, Miss De La Mare.’ He bowed slightly and Arlette blushed violently. She had no idea how to respond. She was overwhelmed by this man and his skin and his accent, and the smell in this room of freshly boiled sweat and sickly pomade. She had been left mute with exhilaration. She wanted to touch him, see what his skin felt like against hers. She wanted to say something impressive and unforgettable. She wanted him to talk for ever, in that soft voice, tell them things about coconuts and flying fish, coral reefs and hummingbirds. Instead she stood and stared, not at him, but at some indistinct point behind him, looking, she was sure, as if he was of no
interest
to her whatsoever. She felt the atmosphere turn and knew immediately it was because of her, but still she could find no words inside her head or persuade her eyes to look upon his. Instead it was left to Gideon to fill the air.
‘You’ve had quite a year, by all accounts,’ he opened. ‘The Royal Albert Hall and the King himself, no less. How I wish I had been invited to attend that performance. A friend of my parents was there and said it was quite the most exciting thing they had ever seen. Unforgettable.’
‘Yes, I must say, London has taken us to its heart. I’m not sure any of us anticipated such a warm reception.’
‘Well, it’s a tonic, isn’t it? Just what we all need after these long dark years of war. And your sound is really quite remarkable. So new. So fresh. So … so …
thrilling
.’
‘That’s so very nice to hear,’ said Sandy Beach. ‘We do aim to please.’ Sandy Beach smiled and there were those teeth again, teeth that bore little resemblance to the mean off-white pegs that sat unhappily inside the mouths of English people. His teeth looked happy. His whole demeanour spoke of contentment and good health.
‘Mr Beach, you’ll have to excuse my candour, I have had more than one or two gin-and-its tonight, and am probably speaking more freely than I would do under normal circumstances, but my eye has been taken irresistibly by your bone structure. So strong, so fierce. I paint faces. I have, I am proud to say, painted the exquisite face of Miss De La Mare amongst many, many others, and I wonder – and of course I presume the answer to be no – but I wonder if you would consider sitting for me, some time, at my studio in Chelsea?’
Sandy Beach smiled and laughed. ‘Oh, Mr Worsley, it embarrasses me somewhat to say, but you are not the first painter to ask me to sit for him. I have been asked, what, brothers …?’ He laughed and turned to Bert and Buster, who laughed in response.
Bert sighed and said, ‘Oh, this must be the twelfth time that Sandy has been asked to sit. But why not? I mean,
look at him
. He is such a very, very beautiful man.’
All three musicians broke into a laughter then that sounded to Arlette’s unaccustomed ears like music rolling across warm white sands.
Gideon laughed too, but Arlette could tell he had been thrown off course by the unoriginality of his request.
‘Listen, though,’ said Sandy Beach, ‘I will make you a deal, young man, because I can see that you are a good soul and I like your hair. And also, I have the next three days off and nothing else to do. So I will come and sit for you, if I can ask for the privilege of sitting with this beautiful young lady at the same time.’
Arlette gasped and finally managed to pull her gaze from the wall behind Sandy Beach and directly into his eyes. They were dark, dark brown with a faint phosphoric wash of yellow, framed with lashes like chenille, and bulging slightly from his skull as though, independently of his body, wanting to suck in the world. She looked away again and he laughed.
‘Miss De La Mare, I am sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you. It’s just, you are a rare beauty, that is plain to the eye, and if I am to give up one of my only three free days this month then I need something more inspiring to look at than your good-natured friend here. And can’t you just see it?’ He made a frame from his hands. ‘Black and white, ebony and ivory, my full features against your fine bones. What a joyous, miraculous contrast that would be. What do you think, Mr Worsley. Am I right? Or am I right?’ He laughed again and Gideon laughed, but Arlette saw his uncertainty.
Suddenly she felt overcome with a strong sense of conviction. As she had imagined herself when Gideon had asked her to model for him, in his garret with the wilted wild flowers and the emaciated cat, she could see herself once more, entwined with
this
man, this famous musician, his black skin against hers, the sound of barges passing down the Thames, the scratch of Gideon mixing his watercolours, the exotic smell of Sandy Beach in her nostrils, the thrill of doing something so far from anything she’d imagined she might once do when she was just a young girl on an island she thought she’d never leave.
‘Oh, no, Mr Beach, I’m not embarrassed,’ she said as lightly as her excitement would allow. ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea. And it would be an honour to pose with you. Truly.’
Gideon looked at Arlette, surprise playing along his full lips, and then immediately he turned back to Sandy Beach and clapped his hands together. ‘Wonderful!’ he cried. ‘That really is quite wonderful. Miss De La Mare, when would you be free to come to my studio?’
‘Saturday,’ she replied breathlessly. ‘I have no commitments on Saturday.’
‘Well, then,’ said Gideon, his hands still clasped together, ‘Saturday it is. Here is my card, Mr Beach. Come at twelve.’
‘Two,’ said Sandy Beach, ‘I’ll come at two.’
‘Yes,’ said Gideon, ‘of course.’
They left then, back through the velvet curtain and into the last red-hot embers of the nightclub.
25
1995
WHO WAS THIS
woman, thought Betty, peeling through the black-and-white photographs on her lap? It was Arlette, of that she was sure. But which unknown, unfamiliar version was this? In all the photos she’d pored over in Arlette’s boudoir – of sailing regattas and picnics on clifftops, of terriers in open-topped cars and building sandcastles with the infant Jolyon – Arlette had always been immaculate in tailored dresses and court shoes, always a hint of a smile through painted lips, always cool, always covered, always slightly removed from the centre of the photograph. And now here she was in these new photos, a slight gleam of sweat on her forehead, feathers in her hair, smoking! Smoking a cigarette, through a holder! Laughing, showing her teeth, leaning into the embrace of a variety of young men, in nightclubs, in lounges, one showed her
sitting on the floor
. Sitting on the floor. With her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. On the settee behind her were the disembodied legs of men, one of them dangling a cigar casually between ringed fingers on a black-skinned hand. And then there was one that was so extraordinary that every time Betty looked at it her head swam. It showed Arlette standing, one slim leg pointed ahead of her, in a sequined
flapper
dress, her arms around the waists of two black guys in dinner jackets and waistcoats. She blinked. She stared again. The black guys were still there. Handsome black guys. With their arms around Arlette.
Betty grabbed some coins from her purse and ran down to the payphone in the hallway.
‘Mum! It’s me! Is Jolyon there?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I need to talk to him! Now!’
She heard her mother pass the phone across to Jolyon and she heard Jolyon clear his throat; she pictured him straightening his tie or his collar or his cuffs.
‘Good evening, Lizzy. What can I do for you?’
‘Arlette,’ she began abruptly. ‘Did she ever say anything to you about being in London?’
‘No. She never went to London. She always said she hated the place.’
‘Listen. She’d hired a private detective. To find this Clara woman. He’s dead now, but his ex-wife gave me all his files on her and there are these photos, Jolyon, of Arlette, in London.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm what? I’ve got them in my hands. Evidence. Actual photos. She was here. And not just here but, like, partying. Big time.’
The line fell silent and Betty could hear Jolyon’s big, soft brain trying to rearrange the facts he’d just been presented with into something he could agree with.
‘It sounds a bit … well, unlikely.’
‘Well, of course it does. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’
The line fell silent again and then Jolyon sighed and said, ‘What else was there? What else did he have, this private dick?’
‘Nothing really: the photos, a programme for a jazz concert at a nightclub, some sketches on paper of Arlette, unsigned, matchbooks from lounges and bars, and some printed notepaper
with
a London address on it, no writing. And some photocopied correspondence with that address on St Anne’s Court – you know, the one where Clara Pickle was supposed to have been living. Nothing new there, just saying sorry, we’re non-residential. And another one from the landlord of the house on the headed paper, saying it was split up into flats in 1961. And that’s it.’
‘What was the London address?’
‘Erm, hold on, let me see …’ She pulled the paper from the green folder. ‘It’s twenty-one Abingdon Villas, W.’
‘The Millers,’ said Jolyon. ‘Of course.’
‘Who are the Millers?’
‘They were this crazy family. My mother was always talking about them, Leticia was the mother. She was an old school friend of my grandmother’s and she had these four wild children. Mummy would get letters from the daughter sometimes – Lilian, I think she was called. Drank herself to death in the end, I think. Or killed herself. Either way, very young. Very sad.’
Lilian
, thought Betty.
Leticia
. Arlette had called her those names sometimes, in the night, when she didn’t know who Betty was. She’d read nothing into it at the time. Arlette had been so full of strange words and confused memories. She bit her lip, wondering now about all those hours Arlette had talked and talked of things that made no sense, all those hours that Betty had tuned out of, comments she had responded to with half-hearted, distracted
oh reallys
and
gosh, is that trues
. But maybe within all that flabby blabber there was some reality, some proper memories. And she hadn’t even been listening.