The Keeper of Stories, page 18
“Why, Mrs B, you’re getting quite lyrical,” Janice says, as she reaches for her wine.
“It comes from spending so much time in the company of Scheherazade.”
It’s Janice’s turn to suppress a smile.
“Becky is joined at the table by an old friend who wishes to introduce someone to her. As you know, there were certain rules in her world, and this was also true regarding the etiquette surrounding introductions. A new ‘suitor’, let us call it, required a third party to make the first advance. So Becky’s friend made the introduction; his companion was a young man in his very early twenties, although Becky may have been forgiven for thinking he was even younger. A good-looking boy, slim and diffident. The foreign prince.”
“Where was he from? Would I have heard of him?”
“We will come to that. He sat down beside her and they started to talk. French was not a language he ever particularly enjoyed but he spoke it reasonably well. His German was much better. After a light lunch, there then followed what the prince was to describe as, ‘three days of bliss’. They drove out in the afternoon into the sleepy, leafy countryside – far away from the fighting. They ate supper together in Montmartre, visited the cinema, and each morning would ride out on horses from Becky’s own stable through the Bois de Boulogne. When they found that the nightclubs in central Paris were closing early, owing to the war, they, along with others, flocked to parties in remote houses on the outskirts of Paris, where they could drink and dance the night away. And of course, we must not forget the cinq à sept.”
“So had the prince now taken over as a ‘significant man’?”
Mrs B nods. “And who can blame Becky? Not only was he young and attractive, he was a prince, and extremely rich. And here we come to another of the rules of la courtisane: a prince would not pay anything as sordid as cash for the services that Becky provided. However, there were other compensations. Prestige, of course, and a prince might give jewellery or clothes; he could order her flowers or send a bottle of expensive scent. And he might write to ‘Mon bébé,’ as this young prince did, declaring his love, scattering the pages with childish endearments. In return, Becky would send chocolates that she knew he liked and erotic literature, which he would come to like very much indeed. But I am jumping ahead of myself. We are still in Paris, the couple have had three blissful days together, and now it is time for the prince to return to his duties.”
“Where did he go? You said he spoke German well.”
“I see you are imagining a young relative of Kaiser Wilhelm’s, his black Germanic boots propped up on the sofa of the Hotel Crillon. You would be partly right – they were related. The prince’s father, the King, was the Kaiser’s cousin. The prince in our story is the Prince of Wales.”
“You mean Edward, as in Edward and Mrs Simpson?”
Mrs B nods, looking extremely pleased with herself.
“You’re kidding?”
Mrs B just smiles at her and Janice is reminded of Decius when he has brought her a particularly large stick.
“I guess I was thinking, when you said ‘foreign’, that he might be Egyptian, like her previous lover.”
“So an English man could not possibly be a foreigner? You do surprise me.” Mrs B raises a shaggy eyebrow at her.
“For goodness’ sake, you know I’m never going to feel like that. I may have left Tanzania when I was very little but I still remember the foreigners – the English visiting the dig with my father.”
“So you are originally from Tanzania and your father was an archaeologist. The Olduvai Gorge perhaps?”
Janice can’t believe she fell into Mrs B’s trap. Just further proof you should never underestimate an ex-spy with a first-class honours degree who once killed a man – however old they are.
She says it out loud. “You are tricky, Mrs B. I knew you were trouble from the first time I met you in that ridiculous purple kimono.”
Mrs B smiles at her as if she has just paid her the biggest compliment. “Well, would you like to know more about Edward and Becky?”
“You know I would,” Janice says, pouring out the last of the wine for them. “I didn’t even know he had other mistresses. Although I suppose he must have done, but you only ever hear about Mrs Simpson.”
“Edward was what you might call a late developer. A few years before he met Becky, he had been sent to spend some time with a family in France. I believe the idea was that they would introduce him to a more sophisticated world, if I may describe it as that. I fear they found Edward very dull company: he went to bed early and his only real interest was sport – tennis, polo, riding, sailing, and golf. Plans to entice him into a world of wine, women, and song failed miserably, as did the family’s attempts to introduce him to a more cultured society. Frankly, he found lunches with the great and the good exceptionally dull and he would far rather hit a ball around a court or course.
“However, along the road to his meeting Becky, he was brought together with an amenable woman who was encouraged to take the prince in hand. This she did and the result was quite remarkable. Edward decided that he liked women – even as much as sport – and he started making up for lost time. His enthusiasm for the opposite sex wasn’t always in the best taste; he had no interest in those he described as ‘ugly as sin’, and many of his comments about women were both demeaning and insulting. However, when he did meet a girl he found attractive he could be charming and attentive. Interestingly, many who met him said he had a way of giving you his attention that could be most flattering. Those who knew him better understood that, in reality, the prince rarely remembered much from these encounters.
“Nonetheless, there is no doubt that his lunch with Becky did make a huge impression on him. He was emotionally immature and, compared to Becky, of course, he was a sexual novice. So it is perhaps not surprising that he fell for her hook, line, and sinker. I think it is true to say she was his first real passion. It is interesting that later he gravitated to very dominant women, even asking them to give him ‘a good hiding’. Who knows, perhaps Becky, in her persona as dominatrix, got the ball rolling, so to speak?”
“Are you sure this is all true, Mrs B? I can’t quite believe it.”
“This is a story that has been recorded by many historians; I am merely presenting it to you in its best clothes.”
Janice nods. She understands this; she herself is becoming a storyteller as well as a collector.
“Do you get an idea from all this what Edward was actually like?” Janice finds she is fascinated by the new character in the story.
“At this stage, he was probably at his most appealing: a young boy – for all his twenty-three years – shy and rather gentle. As he developed into Edward the man, I think you would have found enough in him to make him the villain of any story. He was self-centred, vain, and greedy. Later, during the abdication, he was to lie about his wealth in an attempt to get the country to finance his new life. He could be petulant and form grudges against people he had taken against. He was also exceptionally stubborn; it was said of him that although he resembled a gazelle he was remarkably like a pig. Not even his best friends would have called him an intelligent man and, as I am sure you know, he later showed a rather unhealthy interest in the fascism developing in Germany and Italy. Racism and sexism became his old friends. Both his most experienced courtier and his prime minister would say they thought he would be a disaster as a king – and so it was proved. But like any character, any villain, there is always another side.”
“So what was the other side?”
“I think the best thing is to tell you a story. During the First World War, Edward’s role was primarily administrative and morale boosting. Most of this work he found extremely tedious, and as we shall see, he took every opportunity to escape to Paris or to wherever Becky was staying. However, on the morning of this particular story, he was due to visit soldiers who had been wounded in the fighting. Within the hospital were men who had received appalling injuries, some losing limbs, their sight, and others who had experienced the most horrific facial injuries. As Edward was walking through the wards, a throwaway comment by one of the doctors revealed that Edward was only being shown some of the patients. Those with the most horrendous facial wounds were being kept out of sight. Edward insisted on visiting these men and when he came upon a man who would barely look at him – a man almost unrecognisable as a human being – he leant forward and kissed the man on what was left of his cheek.”
Janice suddenly has to blink away tears. Mrs B is watching her closely. “Exactly,” is all she says. After a pause she adds, “I know you like stories that reveal how, within the ordinary, there is often great talent, goodness, and courage. You have to allow me a few stories that give us hope that our villains are redeemable. I do like to hold on to that thought.”
Janice wonders if she is thinking of her son. As she watches her friend’s face – and it suddenly strikes her that Mrs B is her friend – she can see the sadness etched into the lines there.
“As long as you don’t expect me to go back to my husband and redeem him. That ain’t ever going to happen.” She says this to make Mrs B smile – which it does – and because it is true.
Mrs B pulls herself up straighter in her chair. “So, back to Becky and her new ‘significant man’. What time they could they spent together and it was generally acknowledged that Becky was the Prince of Wales’s ‘keep’ – what we would call his mistress. When he was forced to spend time with the King and Queen during their visit to France, he still found time to motor over to where Becky was now staying in Deauville, returning at dawn. If he was living further afield, he wrote to her, letters crawling with baby-talk and endearments and littered with indiscretions – criticisms of the King and information regarding the state of the war.”
Mrs B shakes her head. “As I said, Edward was never the brightest of men.”
“For all his redeeming features.”
“Quite. And so it went on until Edward, who was really only on the cusp of exploring his sexuality, discovered another woman. This time it was an English woman he met in London who was married to a British MP. The badly written, self-absorbed, indiscreet letters now flowed in her direction and Becky was, in his mind, to be a thing of the past. He travelled to Paris after peace had been declared, and this time did not visit Becky, who was back living there. He made no attempt to contact her, did not conclude their business as a gentleman should. He did not treat her according to the rules of la courtisane.”
“He treated her like a cleaner.”
“Precisely. And this was a mistake, for as you and I know, Becky was a woman with a formidable temper.” Mrs B stifles a yawn. “And there we must leave Becky for the time being, rampaging through her apartment, throwing her Sèvres china at the walls, and tearing up a silk chemise that Edward gave her.”
“But not ripping up Edward’s letters?”
Mrs B gives a small snort. “Of course not, for Becky was as astute as Edward was foolish.”
Later, as Janice walks to check on her car before getting the bus, she thinks about Mrs B’s need for redeemable villains. She hates to acknowledge it but she is a very old woman. Does she really want to end her days at loggerheads with her son? Janice can believe Mrs B would forgive Tiberius for lying and scheming to get his hands on the money, but taking her precious wine, representing her as a drunk, and doing all of this because, he says, it is for his father, the man she adored? Janice finds it hard to get past that. She cannot imagine Tiberius kissing a man who has had half his face blown away. But Mrs B clearly wants the hope of redemption for her villains.
And what does she herself want? She has no idea. Mrs B’s talk of foreigners reminds her of times she has felt like an alien in England – some memories more painful than others. But today? She has lived in and around Cambridge for nearly thirty years, and though she does not feel out of place because of her location, sometimes it feels like she is a foreigner in her own life.
She is trying to untangle this thought as she reaches the street where her car is parked. She needs to check if she should buy an additional parking ticket. She looks around to where her car was parked, but there is only a gap – her car is missing. Then she spots it. It is at the end of the street being driven away, and there is no mistaking the back of the driver’s head: Mike.
Twenty-Seven
A drink precedes a story
Janice is late to meet Euan, and not her five-minute, ‘I’m-not-being-too-eager late’, but a full half an hour late. The type of late that shouts, “I expect she’s stood me up. What was I thinking?” Without the car, she has had to rely on the bus and she misread the timetable.
He is waiting for her at a table by the fire, but stands up quickly when he sees her. Once apologies are made (her) – “don’t worry, blame the bus driver” (him) – and drinks are ordered (him), they sit down. The fire feels hot after running from the bus stop and Janice can once again feel her inner teenager groaning and starting to wake up. “Oh God … SO embarrassing.” This time she has a weapon. She pulls a book from her handbag (slapping her teenage self around the side of the head as she does so) and she hands it to Euan. “You mentioned you hadn’t read this so I got you a copy when I was at the library.”
“Thanks, that’s brilliant.”
She thinks this is a bold move on her part and hopes it makes up for being late. The inescapable conclusion is: yes, I was thinking about you; I went to some trouble to get you something I thought you might like; and, it is a library book so we will have to meet again so you can return it to me. She hopes it is not too much but Euan seems delighted. As they talk about books based on the Second World War – which is when this novel is set – she notices he strokes and pats the cover. She can’t help wondering what it would feel like to be that book.
As they order more drinks, they decide to share a platter of meats and cheeses. So, not a vegetarian. You never know with these outdoor types that climb up mountains.
“Have you ever been a geography teacher?”
She thinks she may have drunk the first glass of wine too quickly.
He laughs. “Didn’t see that one coming.” He is smiling as he says, “Now, do I need to be a geography teacher, or do I remind you of a teacher you’ve always hated?”
Janice takes a big slug of wine; there is no way out now. “It’s just, when I first saw you on the bus I thought you looked like a geography teacher.”
He is now laughing and shaking his head.
“I like geography teachers,” she offers.
This makes him laugh even more. “What, all of them?” He looks at her and seems to come to a decision. “You said you collect people’s stories. Would you like to hear one of mine?”
“How many have you got?” She is back in story-collector mode. One person, one story.
“I’d say about … four. But I’d quite like to make it five.”
What does he mean? He can’t have that many; that’s breaking the rules. Then two thoughts tumble in on her: why does she need these rules in the first place? And, story number five, could that possibly have anything to do with her?
“So, go on, how many am I allowed? Doesn’t everyone have more than one story?”
She can’t think straight. One person, one story – that is the rule. But why? Is it so she can organise the stories in her head? Is it to keep the panic at bay? But now she has left Mike, is the panic still there? The answer is yes, sometimes, but not all the time. Yes, when she thinks about Geordie coming back before long. Yes, when Mrs B pokes a bony finger into a particularly sensitive spot. Yes, when she thinks of her sister. But here, in this pub, with this man?
“You can have as many stories as you like.” As she voices this rebellious new thought, she hears Sister Bernadette is back – she hasn’t heard her whispering for a while. “Since you’ve been good, you help yourself to another, Janice.” Another what? Drink? Surely not; Sister Bernadette was very clear about the evils of drink. Another story? And this is a truly revolutionary thought – rather than being the woman with no story (or the story she doesn’t want to tell), maybe she could write herself a new story?
She looks at Euan, who is waiting expectantly. He has no idea what he has started.
“Ah, I can see what you’re up to. You think if you keep quiet for long enough, I will tell you them all. Nice try. You don’t get them all at once. You can have the one that is closest to me being a geography teacher, since you seem to have a soft spot for them. It’s a good one, I think, in a small way. No sad ending.”
“Do you have some with sad endings, then?” She knows she shouldn’t ask, but she can’t help herself.
“One,” he says briefly, then he takes a pull from his pint. It is as if he is waiting, thinking. It seems he has come to a decision. Still looking into his drink, he says, “I do have one story that is sad. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about it. I keep it as one of my four”—he glances up at her—“or possibly five, because it’s an important part of me. But I’ve had other things in my life, stuff that’s happened…” He stops and holds his glass in his hand, swilling the drink around slowly. He draws a deep breath and looks at her. “I used to be a coxswain on a lifeboat, working out of Ireland. Our family had always been in fishing, until Dad, well, he needed a change, so we moved. But after I left school I ended up living in Ireland and I got back into boats. First I was a volunteer with the RNLI and then I got a job as coxswain on one of the bigger lifeboats. Loved it. So much about it: the light, the sea, the sheer scale of the waves and the horizons. And I had some great mates. But this day a storm came in, literally out of nowhere. Of course we’d been tracking it, but it spun and changed direction. We were out looking for a yacht that had got into trouble. Well, eventually we found it and—” He stops mid-sentence. “The thing is, we got the parents off and the little girl, but we lost the boy, their son. And something changed in me. I knew all of us had done our best. I guess it was just one death too many. When we landed, I walked away. That was eighteen years ago. I’ve never been to sea since.”
