Rose in Darkness (4 page)

Bathed, extravagantly scented, in tight black velvet jeans with a black sequin monkey swarming up one leg with little clutching hands, in a vast black woolly sweater, hair standing up in its thick close fur on top of her head like a glowing, golden-y moss, by midday she was finally restored to life. She came into the bedroom where Rufie was curled up, paint pots a-wobble, sketching away like mad. He said, continuing to scribble, the act of creation apparently quite undisturbed by conversation: ‘Sunday! Nan’s coming over. Where could we go, what could we do?’ The storm had passed away leaving a beautiful sunshiny autumn day.

‘I’ll have to wait in, till this man comes and picks up his car.’ ‘Oh yes, of course, the man and the car,’ said Rufie. Assured by Etho that it would all turn out to be a bit of private nonsense on Sari’s part, he had given it little further thought; only how was she going to get out of all this stage-set, poor love? He suggested craftily: ‘You said he’d given you his number. Why don’t you ring and hurry him up?’

‘I tried but I keep getting the wrong people. The number’s all blurred with the rain.’

‘Oh, what a bore!’ He tried to make things easy. ‘You’re sure this wasn’t all a nightmare, love? I mean, a sort of dream—’

‘But it happened when I wasn’t asleep,’ said Sari.

‘Yes, but... Well that does look very much like your Halcyon in the car park,’ said Rufie. ‘I saw from the sitting-room, its nose sticking out from the shed.’

‘Well, of course it looks like my Halcyon. His was a Halcyon too. I told you.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, he’ll turn up some time. Meanwhile—what?’

‘If you can’t go out, we’d better ring round some of the chums to come and have lunch. Except of course, we haven’t got anything to eat. I’d go down to the delicatessen,’ said Rufie, using another of his words, ‘but I’m flat broke, myself.’

‘I’ve got a bit stashed away in my wiggy-bank but I simply must hoard it.’ The marmalade hair-do was a source of enormous expense since nobody could achieve its incandescent effect but a terribly special man who most unfortunately lived and worked in Rome. ‘A couple more weeks and I’ll simply
have
to go to Luigi. Would Nan bring some vittles?’ The heavenly part about Nan was that she seemed to be always in funds.

‘One rather tickly doesn’t want to ask Nan again.’ Particularly was yet another of the words. ‘I mean, she brought it last time
and
the time before, and she always contributes.’ All those lovely chicking sangwidges, he recollected.

‘She runs them up herself in the kitching,’ said Sari. But the chicking sangwidges were a joke against himself.

Sofy would be no good. She was currently resting and even flatter broke than usual. ‘I do think it’s hard on her, poor old Sofa. She’s got to stay fat because nowadays she only gets fat-girl parts, but there aren’t all that many fat-girl parts going; and she has to spend a fortune stuffing herself with food she can’t afford, to keep herself in work she doesn’t get.’

‘What about Charley?’

‘Virryvirry good oideah,’ said Sari in a stage Indian accent subtly tinged with Scouse. Charley, she remembered, had sworn to himself to spend today swotting up for his medical exams, but she knew how all too easy it would be to tempt him from this path. ‘And Pony?’

So Rufie rang up Nan again and Pony, and settled back with Sari over more black coffees on the immense long studio couch. ‘The minute I get paid for my sketches, we’ll stand Nan a terrific meal at the Cellier du Thing, to make up for all this scrounging.’

‘Or a presie. What could we sell,’ said Sari, looking round the room, ‘that would buy Nan a really gorgeous presie?’ She knew a girl who was madly covetous of the sequin monkey pants....

They fell to planning the presie. Rufie might design a simply outrageous hat, what about that?—something that would really do something for Nan’s image which, let’s face it, was just a shade, well a deep dark shadow in fact, too twin-set-and-pearls. They could make it together. Sari had one of those rather smelly Japanese parasols which would do splendidly (without the handle of course) for the brim, and then with holes cut out between the struts. And into the holes, one could push plastic chrysanthemums, masses of bronzey and yellow chrysanths, just right for the Japanese theme, or was that China?—and make a sort of crown of them too; and in fact in summer Nan could use real fresh ones, dashing off to the loo now and then if it was a hot restaurant or anything like that, to renew them. (Sari herself was a great dasher off to loos. ‘I
must
go for a quick wee,’ she would say, emerging half an hour later with a brand new face-do and general air of radiance that halted reproaches on masculine lips.)

Or even sprinkle them with water, agreed Rufie, it being after all, an umbrella. But the parasols did smell terribly oily. What about a pet?—poor Nan, so lonely without her husband. A hamster?—in a very special cage to make it more expensive because hamsters were probably quite cheap and one did want to make it a really handsome present. Sari, however, was not too sure that a hamster would sufficiently compensate for the departed husband—Bertrand his name had been, wouldn’t you know?—and there’d be all that cleaning out to do. They decided at last to ring up Etho. Etho was terribly good on presents and might even come in with them, so they could do something really stupendous.

Etho rose to the occasion in his usual delighted fashion and suggested a pot of orchids, frightfully expensive and apparently they took the most ghastly amount of care and attention, quite as much as Nan could possibly have lavished on Bertrand, so would occupy her in that way, and no problem about cleaning out. He readily agreed to come in on it, and by the way he would collect her and bring her over to the lunch and a couple of bottles too. Etho was one of the Eight, really the first and to Sari most important of the Eight, but he played life very cool, keeping himself to himself, amused by them all, entertained, fond, indeed devoted—but uninvolved. He had known Sari from the days of
The Spanish Steps,
which had been made by the company he worked for; indeed had probably been the archway through whom she had made most of her friends in this country. She had lived largely abroad until she had come here to make the picture, and had no other ties in England. He explained it all to Nan, driving her up to the Hampstead flat for lunch. ‘Oh, and I warn you that a presie may be on the way.’ He loyally suppressed any mention of the orchids but described the proposal for a Japanese-sunshade hat.

Nan was much alarmed. ‘But they wouldn’t really have done it?’

‘Don’t you believe it! They get caught up with these ideas—of course they’re hopped-up half the time....’

‘You don’t mean—on drugs?’ said Nan, shocked.

‘Well, it’s only a bit of pot. And not Sari, she never touches the stuff. But Rufie gets lit and then he incites her to further mad ideas, which after all are very ingenious—and nothing will stop them. We had a friend once, well not too unlike yourself, as a matter of fact, and they broke into her flat while she was away and painted it throughout in a lovely Van Gogh yellow. Like walking into sunshine, they said, and so warm and cheering for her after all those dismal greys and greens she’d had before. They were genuinely miserable when she said it was more like walking into a tub of butter and brought in the decorators, with more nice muted greens and greys.’

‘Of course Sari
could
live in a Van Gogh yellow flat—
and
wear a chrysanthemum hat,’ said Nan, a tiny bit jealous of the friend not too much unlike herself. She was consumed with interest in them all and especially in Sari, but hitherto had not quite liked to ask too many questions. ‘That’s not her real name, I suppose? I mean, no one could really be called Sari Morne?’

‘No, no, Norma Jean Baker I dare say. She says it was Maria Bloggs and no one can shake her, but that’s only Sari-nonsense. Solon asked her when he first met her and she simply said, “Sari Morne.” Of course he knew it wasn’t true but what did that matter? It was a great name for cinema.’

‘I don’t even know who Solon is.’

‘Well, he’s was, because he’s dead now. He was my boss and it was he who found Sari and as it were created her.’

‘As a film star?’

Etho liked Nan very much. It was he who had introduced her into the circle. He had picked her up at a very dull party where there had been a great deal to drink but nothing to eat. ‘A super party?’ he had suggested politely, upon introduction.

‘It might be if there’d been another “p” in super,’ she had replied and on the strength of this joke he had invited her next day to one of the lunches at the Hampstead flat. It had in fact turned out to be the only such joke Nan had ever made or ever did make; but she had nevertheless infiltrated into their ranks. Why, they could never quite make out; it was her innocence, perhaps, which was really rather sweet, about all that to them was just everyday life—and indeed there was something refreshing about her, like a clear stream winding its way through all the spume and spray of their own turbulent waters. Her naive curiosity amused Etho, nor did the twinge of jealousy escape him. Lounging back in the driving seat, long legs stretched to the pedals, thin hand casual on the driving wheel, he settled down to explain what he could of Sari....

An orphan. There’d been a ‘plane crash apparently, when she was about three or four or something and she’d been snatched from the jaws of death, but her parents had perished, complete with grandparents and uncles and aunts, the lot. Well, not all in the ‘plane, perhaps (Nan was so literal!), but anyway there was not a soul left except one simply fearful aunt, apparently strictly not designed by nature for the comfort of bereft kiddywinx. ‘Very rich and smart, trailed the poor child round Europe, never any proper schooling, and then ended up by falling ill rather suddenly in some inconvenient spot, Como or somewhere, but anyway in that part of Switzerland if Como is in Switzerland which I never quite know....’

‘Italian Switzerland,’ said Nan in her confident way—as though it really mattered, Etho thought. One part of Switzerland was very much like another, if not worse.

‘Well, anyway, she was brought to Rome, to this convent hospital which is outside Rome, towards Tarquinia, and there she died. The girl was left absolutely friendless and the nuns kept her there at any rate till the funeral, and they would have done afterwards, I suppose, till something was arranged. But anyway, Solon was out there looking for locations for
The Spanish Steps—
we had a frightful job with the box-office, I may say, because naturally the customers thought it was a Spanish film and stayed away in droves in case they should be subjected to a bullfight—’

‘And quite right, too.’

‘—and it was only Sari being such a hit that brought them all in, after all, and saved it. Well, as I was saying, Solon was mooching around and he happened on this funeral in progress and thought that here was a nice bit of local colour so he shuffled along with the mourners—a riot, he said it was, black horses and plumes, the lot—I think he made most of it up, actually, it simply couldn’t have been true. But anyway,’ said Etho, coming up for breath, ‘there at the graveside he saw this kneeling figure. Kneeling there weeping, she was, and he said he’d never seen anything so woe-begone—or so beautiful—in his life. The place was packed with nuns and priests and what have you, all in pitch black and absolutely hideous, with little rimless glasses every last one of them—and there in the middle of them this absolutely golden goddess, crouching there crying. And then when they threw the earth in on the grave, she seemed not to be able to stand it one second longer and she got up and slipped away through the gravestones—the like of which, I may add, he said had to be seen to be believed. So a covey of the nuns ran after her and there was a great clucking and calling but she just scudded on, screaming at them to leave her alone, leave her alone. Well, she wasn’t alone for long because as soon as the nuns had been well and truly left behind, he caught up with her and he took her by the arm and turned her towards him—he said he simply had to look once more into that marvellous face. And she turned to him—and he suddenly realised that it was woebegone no longer, but radiant: absolutely radiant with happiness....’

‘With her aunt just dead?’ said Nan, rather shocked.

‘Well, that was it, wasn’t it? Solon said, sort of stupefied: “You weren’t really grieved at all!” and Sari said, “No, she was beastly to me and I hated her.” So of course Solon said, “But then—why?” and Sari answered with, I suppose, the first Sari-ism of them all: it would have been so awful for the aunt, she said, if all those people had realised that no one was sorry she was dead. They were all just strangers, people from the hospital and doctors and so forth, none of them could really care; and here she was, the aunt she meant, at her own funeral and not a single person being sorry. So she’d felt that for
her
sake she ought to put on an act so that they wouldn’t realise. She went on explaining earnestly, you know how Sari does; but by that time Solon was interested in only one word. He said: “An act! My dear girl, if that was an act it was the most marvellous performance I’ve ever seen,” and in two seconds flat Sari was out of the graveyard and into his car to be auditioned for
The Spanish Steps.
’

‘And he was so right. She was marvellous in the film.’

‘Yes, well—she was naughty,’ said Etho, explaining as usual. ‘She got tied up with this wretched young princeling—an enormous and splendid young man I must say he was, and heir to the dukedom of San Juan el Pirata—’

‘Where on earth is that?’

‘Well, it’s not on earth, it’s in the sea, actually. An island; off the Italian coast somewhere, founded by some old Spanish pirate hundreds of years ago; they speak something called Juanese, a fine old mixture of Spanish and Italian....’

‘I’ve never even heard of it.’

‘Nobody ever did, but it’s there; like Andorra and Monaco and all those. Ruled over by this Hereditary Grand Duke, a huge and terrifying gentleman, making up his own rules as he goes along, and fantastically rich. But anyway, Sari gets tangled up with the heir, there’s a semi-secret marriage and she’s forever playing hookey and she finally disappeared altogether, leaving God knows what retakes and what-nots to be done. And good she may have been, but after all she was brand new, an amateur, the company hadn’t spent a lot of money on her yet and if she wasn’t going to behave, she wasn’t going to be worth exploiting. And then Solon died and that was the end of it.’