The story continues from Tranche Ten
Marcus has travelled from Nice on The Blue Train, crossed the channel and is continuing to London…
29 August - August Bank Holiday Monday
Marcus felt his resolve leaking away the moment his feet touched the concrete of the quay. Dover’s chalk cliffs loomed grey in the rain. He walked quickly into the shelter of Dover Marine station and bought a ticket to London. The train was grubby, the paintwork stained and the windows unwashed. He looked for a non-smoking carriage and found one scattered with litter left by previous passengers. It wasn’t just the rain and the litter. English people were rude about France, and it was true that the Vieille Ville had sometimes smelled of drains, but the Riviera light, the jostling shuttered houses of fading ochre stucco, the bustling market stacked with every kind of vegetable, cheese, wine and fish would be missed as would sad-eyed Madaleno in the Boulangerie, the joyous friendship of the girls and, especially, the life-affirming hospitality of Mathilde, Clareto and their friends.
Why had he returned? Could he not have stayed in Nice at least another week? Of course not! The train began to move. The year before he had arrived in London knowing he had brought expulsion upon himself and resenting the actions he then chose to take. Running away to France had been a desperate attempt to avoid looking into the mirror. Why did he not jump that morning at the Pont du Gard? Was it simple cowardice? What would have happened if he had not met Marthe and her charges in the cemetery? He would have found somewhere to sleep and he would have bought (or begged his father to pay for) a ticket back to England. Therefore, whether he had met Marthe or not, he would have returned. The difference was the help he had been given in Nice. Mathilde and Marthe and Lizzy had trusted him while Armand had held up the mirror and invited him to look. What happened now was up to him. He would find Mrs Bettevant, contact Armand’s friend and stop running.
The Underground was as hot and crowded as ever. He found Fitzroy Square after a few detours. It was much grander than he had expected. Imposing terraces of Georgian houses around a railinged grove of leafy London plane trees. The address he had been given belonged to a stucco-fronted house three windows wide and three floors above a basement. Although on the least architecturally impressive side of the square, the blue plaque under the middle first floor window stated ‘Gilbert Waterlow, 1873 -1944; Novelist and playwright; lived here 1898 – 1944’. It seemed far too grand for a lodging house. He checked the address and walked around the square again - but it was Fitzroy Square and that was Number Thirty.
Sturdy black railings guarded the area crossed by a bridge to a shiny black door. Marcus stood in front of it, intimidated by gleaming brass. He checked the number and then rang the bell. It rang somewhere in the house. He waited. Just as he was about to ring again, a voice called from below him in the basement area. He peered over the railings.
A woman, wearing a faded khaki storeman’s overall coat and a bright yellow, pink and green headscarf was looking up at him. “Hello, may I help you?”
“I was looking for Mrs Bettevant…”
“That’s me. You the boy Dr Callendar told me about? Marcus?” She beckoned him commandingly with her duster. “Come down and we can talk terms.”
He went around to the gate in the area railings and descended the steep steps to where she was waiting by an open door. She must have been a beauty when she was his age, he thought, his heart inexplicably racing, remembering Marie-Christine. He followed her along a stone floored passage into a brightly lit basement kitchen with a large gas range, a scrubbed-deal table and plain wooden chairs. It had it an almost farmhouse feel. Marcus noticed washed-out black lettering on her khaki overalls as she lit the gas under a kettle. “What is ‘AUWRE’?”
“Admiralty Underwater Weapons Research Establishment” she replied. “I bought it in a surplus shop. I’d look like Ena Sharples in a rayon housecoat. It’s much better for housework. Have a seat, you’re making me nervous standing there watching.
Marcus put down his knapsack and rolled sleeping bag and looked around. It was a big basement kitchen with stone floor, bright cream walls and white woodwork shelves and cupboards. At the far end of the kitchen, through a wide opening, was another room with a big table and chairs – some sort of dining area, he supposed. That room had French windows that opened into some sort of yard beyond. He had expected basements to be dark, damp and dingy - having worked in one for two days sorting scrap plastic for a spectacle frame maker.
“Moira tells me you need somewhere to live. Tell me about yourself.”
Marcus chose a chair and sat down. He felt as if his mind was in two places, each hidden from the other. She was watching him; her eyes crinkled with... amusement? interest? Where to begin? Deep breath. Speak!
“I was living in West Ken. Things had been difficult – for me, I mean. I always feel like I’m on the wrong side of the looking glass.... I was restless, uncomfortable, so I ran away to France.”
“Moira said you met an old friend of hers and then decided to come back?”
Marcus laughed. She made it seem so logical. “A lot of people helped me, but, yes, Armand helped me see running away wasn’t solving anything.”
“Never does, darling.” The kettle began to sing. Mrs Bettevant, pulled the kerchief off her head and shook out a thick, silvery plait.
Why was she looking at him? He probably looked like a tramp. “I don’t use drugs, or alcohol: they just send me to sleep. And I haven’t smoked since – oh, about ten days now.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen and a bit...”
“And what are your plans?”
“Plans…?” He was remembering his expulsion. He thought he’d hit bottom then, but the slide had gone on, and on. Maybe his time in Nice, and Armand especially, provided an opportunity for change, but he didn’t feel confident enough to share his thoughts, far less his fears, with someone he did not yet know.
Providentially, a thin youngish man wearing a linen jacket, thirties perhaps, clattered into the kitchen, stopped, struck a pose and half turned to leave again. “Sorry! Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You didn’t, m’dear,” Mrs Bettevant responded as if this were an exchange of ritual greetings. “I know your rent is due and you’re likely somewhat fiscally challenged: don’t worry, I’ll chalk it up. Now! Meet Marcus, who may be our newest tenant. Marcus, meet Ambrose Darling, second floor rear.”
Marcus half stood and held out his hand.
Mr Darling had a surprisingly firm grip for a skeleton. “What do you do?” he asked, giving Marcus the disconcerting impression of having both eyes watching him while facing away: it made Marcus think of Picasso.
“Nothing, just now. I’m going to have to re-sit my A-Levels. What about you?”
“I design scenery and stage sets. I was one of Sean Kenny’s assistants for Oliver.”
“I saw that.” Marcus was impressed. “Amazing.”
“Thank you.”
There being nothing more to be said they all exchanged polite glances until Ambrose coughed and slipped out of the room. Mrs Bettevant stirred the pot and poured. “He’s a sweet boy,” she said, handing Marcus a white china mug. “Moira told me you were in France – Nice she said - beautiful city – and you’ll be needing a room.”
Unsure whether she had made a statement or asked a question he added two spoons of sugar and, when a sharp look made him resist adding a third, replied: “Yes…”
“Good. Number six, up in the gods is free: would you like to see it? It’s a small room, so it’s three pounds fifteen per week, breakfast included, or five guineas if you would want an evening meal as well.”
Marcus was surprised. That meant an evening meal for less than five shillings a day, which he reckoned a bargain compared to eating out... and he’d have to eat... “Could I take the evening meal option?”
“I thought you might, m’dear: you look like you need feeding up! Breakfast is served at seven and supper at six thirty. If you’re peckish other times, just raid the pantry, everyone does. If you want to keep your own stuff special, stick a label on it. And if you’re always midnight snacking, on cornflakes for instance, just buy a packet occasionally. We’re a friendly community here. I’m sure you’ll be happy. And if you need anything, I’m on the ground floor and my office is the door next to the public telephone in the alcove at the head of the basement stairs. And if I’m not there, I’ll be here. Shall I show you the room?”
Marcus followed her up the basement stairs and into a hallway of gleaming geometric tiles. She led him towards the front door and the foot of the main staircase. Its elaborate newel post bore a bronze maiden holding a lamp and the stairs to the first floor were wide and stately, the carpet held in place by brass rods. Close to the door was an elephant’s-foot umbrella and coat stand combined. Against the wall opposite, a marble-topped console table bore an arrangement of silk flowers in a four-footed square bronze object that looked vaguely Chinese. On the wall above it was an Arts and Crafty thing: a mirror framed by pigeon holes for correspondence, each with a residents’ name written on ivory card in numbered brass holders. Above his head hung an octagonal lantern, the glass panels engraved with a fleur-de-lis. Doors, high and wide, mahogany he thought, were set in ornamented casings. This was far too grand a house for him!
“Doctor Holbeek has number one,” Mrs Bettevant announced as they passed along the first-floor landing and turned to climb the stairs to the next floor. “She is an Anthropologist at University College.”
Paintings in dark frames lined the walls of the landings. He wanted to examine them but Mrs Bettevant led him on and up stairs that were narrower than those to the first floor, but still carpeted.
“Freddy’s in number two,” Mrs Bettevant explained, reaching the second floor, “but he’s in Paris discussing the translation of his latest book. Ambrose, who you met, is number three at the rear.”
“There are five rooms up here,” she explained, continuing to the third floor, which Marcus guessed must have been attics or servants’ quarters. The stairs and landing were carpeted in a grey corded material. “It used to be linoleum, but carpeting means less noise.”
“Number six is free” she said, opening a door opposite the head of the stairs.
Marcus went into a plain room with a window at the far end. The room contained a single unmade, iron-framed bed, a light oak Utility wardrobe and matching chest of drawers, a sturdy table, a chair that might also have been Utility pattern, and a rather unusual leather and chrome armchair.
“Is there central heating?” Marcus asked pointing at the cast iron radiator under the window.
“Yes,” she replied, as if central heating was a perfectly normal feature of English domestic comfort. “It was installed in ought six: the furnace room is in the basement. It used to be coal fired but I had gas put in after the war. There’s a washbasin behind the door and bathrooms and lavatories are on the first and second floors and shared. All I ask is you keep them clean and tidy.”
“So no meters or anything?” Marcus asked.
Mrs Bettevant laughed. “No need. It works out cheaper for everyone.”
Marcus liked the room. It was clean, plain, functional. It would be the first time having a room of his own since his brother was born, with the exception of the six weeks in Queensborough Terrace. “I’d like to take the room.”
“Good,” she said in a tone that suggested it was what she had expected. “It’s free now, if you want to move in. The other people on this floor are Elaine, number seven, next to you. Joshua is number eight next to her, but he’s only here during the week. At the back is Libby in four, she’s away doing fieldwork. Tancred is in five but I haven’t seen him since Friday, but that’s not unusual. Let’s go down, I’ll make another pot and we can sort out the details.”
An hour later he put his knapsack, sleeping bag, sheets, pillowcase and towel on the bed and went to the window. Beyond the parapet were the tops of plane trees in the gardens, the grand terrace of houses beyond and above it all the sky. He opened the window to air the room. He had fled London with almost no money and absolutely no plan. Now, thanks to help freely given, he was back. The only plan he had, however, was to stop running and for that he knew he would have to accept help and take responsibility for his future actions.
As he made the bed he was thinking that he had a roof over his head, and Mrs Bettevant’s breakfasts and suppers would mean he would not go hungry, but a proper plan had to be more than just surviving. Eighteen months previously he had told his image in the shaving mirror that if he achieved nothing else it would be to resolve the disjunction between who he felt himself to be and the person he wanted to become. He would follow up Armand’s recommendation to see Dr Callendar, and his father’s support would help with the cost of that, but helpful chats with people he respected were not enough. He must take action, risking failure, try again and learn - or the necessary changes could never happen.
Having made the bed and put away his few belongings he opened the notebook and read over the journal entries. Just record your feelings, Armand had advised, the only person you are talking to is yourself. The words on the page encouraged him. He began a new entry:
29 August. First Day back in London. I am living in a grand town-house in Fitzroy Square. Mrs Bettevant is my landlady. She must be as old as grandad’s friend Mrs Callen and yet she’s nothing like her. She’s like a mysterious character in a thirties’ film that might equally be an aristocrat or a can-can dancer. The only person in the house I’ve met is Ambrose, who is a set designer and looks as if he’s made out of wire coat-hangers. The others are an Anthropologist, a writer, someone called Elaine in the room next to me, then somebody else next to her. The other two people are called Libby and Tancred. The rent here is five guineas a week and I get breakfast and supper as well. I have some money still and Armand recommended I see a Dr Callendar. She’s a psychologist or psycho-therapist and her time won’t be cheap. Let’s hope I can afford maybe five to ten sessions. If she’s as good as Armand I know that will help. Mrs B asked me what my plan is, so here goes:
1. Get my trunk and tuck-box from West Ken
2. Get a job. Ten pounds a week and I can afford this place. More is a bonus.
3. Make an appointment with Dr Callendar
4. Find out where I can re-sit Chem & Phys As
5. Get my books and notes from home
6. friends are important - contact Brian (+ Sophie? Sandy?) and be honest
Marcus re-read his words. Tasks 1 to 4 were unarguably necessary; Task 5 also - the books and notes would be useful - and he hadn’t seen his brothers for at least ten months so it would be good to see them. And he would like to see his parents’ new house, but doubted his mother would be keen to see him. Nevertheless, she would be going overseas once his brothers went back to school, so this would be the only opportunity to achieve task 5.
Task 6 was most problematic and yet, emotionally, the most important. Friendship was an area he and Armand had circled but never faced. He always ran away from people: in France it had been desperation that overcame that reaction. At least he now accepted that something was not quite right with him. He hoped Dr Callendar would be able to help, but he had to take the first step himself by reaching out. And Brian had been with him through the worst bits – he had, at least, to thank him.
A bell clonged in the corridor outside Marcus’ room. He looked at his watch: 6:30pm. Since breakfast on the train, all he had eaten that day was a sandwich on the ferry. He abandoned his planning and went immediately down to the basement. He was ready for supper.
“Didn’t waste your time,” Mrs Bettevant greeted him. “Residents eat in the dining room. Seating tends to be by room number and Doctor Holbeek always has the head. May seem silly, but it works. You get your own cutlery and crockery. Soup is always brought to the table but serve yourself for the rest. Also, clear away to the scullery, there’s a bin for left-overs and put the rest ready for the dish-washer. Only three of you tonight and menu is pea soup, hotpot and apple pie.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Since you ask… you could put that basket of bread on the table. I already put out butter and condiments – oh – and if you fill that water jug and put it on the table.”
Marcus allowed himself to be directed. He put condiments and a jug of water on the table as a woman, who could have been Katherine Hepburn’s twin, appeared.
“You must be the young man Mrs B has told us about. I am Eleonora Holbeek.” She held out her hand.
“Marcus,” he replied quickly, seizing her hand and then let go. “I just came today…”
“From France?” She sat at the head of the table and indicated the seat to her left. “What were you doing there?”
Marcus had learned at school that the easiest way to fit in was follow the lead of those already there. Her indication of the seat to her left confirmed his guess that this would be the lowest status position if three were present. Mrs B had made it clear that seating was hierarchical. Marcus sat down.
“Running away,” he replied, reaching for the bread and wondering how she would respond.
“Hmmmm,” she mused. “Then why return?”
He was not surprised by the blunt question, his conversations on the train with Marie-Christine had challenged him on the same ground, but Doctor Holbeek, whom he could not think of as ‘Eleonora’, seemed to be expecting him to justify his presence at her table. Be honest, he demanded of himself, he was going to have to sit at this table every night for the foreseeable future.
“Because I was lucky enough to meet some people who convinced me I was worth more than my own valuation.”
Ambrose took his seat as Mrs B brought the soup in a tureen with a ladle. Dr Holbeek served Ambrose first, then Marcus and finally herself.
“Then you were very lucky, Marcus,” she replied, buttering a piece of bread. “We shall all welcome you here – we are a small and friendly community. Have you met Ambrose?”
“Yes, briefly, earlier.”
“Ambrose is working on a very hush-hush project at Elstree studios.”
“Is that for a film?” Marcus asked, sensing that Dr Holbrook wanted him to engage.
“Oh I shouldn’t have told you anything, Dr H! But she is right, Marcus. It’s a big night-club scene that they’re shooting week after next. I can’t say any more than that.”
Marcus didn’t want to press Ambrose so turned to Doctor Holbrook. “Mrs Bettevant said you’re an Anthropologist – at university?”
“University College,” she replied. “Know anything about anthropology?”
“Not really. When I was supposed to be revising in the library I got sidetracked by some old books. One I remember was about Basques and Magyars and all sorts of different Slavs and Lapps and Finns. Fascinating but Victorian. There was another one about Pacific Islanders – Margaret Meade I think…”
“Coming of Age in Samoa! What did you think of it?”
“Fascinated me. Very different from my own experience growing up yet there was a lot I recognised too – especially the influence of missionaries and mission schools.”
“We must talk – but now we clear away and serve ourselves with the main course…”
Marcus followed her and Ambrose into the kitchen where Mrs Bettevant heaped their plates. He went back to his place feeling more comfortable. He was reminded of how quickly he had got used to the organisation and rituals of boarding school and this house would be much simpler. Established people like Dr Holbeek and Ambrose would explain their rules and customs and he would accept them. He now knew two of the other residents. There were five more still to meet. One was a writer and probably like Dr Holbrook and, he guessed, he would be younger than the rest of them by a few years. Relax! It will all work out.
After they had eaten they took crockery and cutlery to a trolley, scraping leftovers into a bin, and served themselves with apple pie and custard. After that he was invited to join them for coffee in the ‘snug’ next to the dining room.
“I’m sorry. I’ll go to my room. I’m tired. I’ve been travelling since yesterday afternoon. See you at breakfast.”
They didn’t press him to stay. He went up to his room. He thought about writing more in the journal but decided to have a bath instead and was asleep by nine.
Marcus has made it back to London with the help of others, which he acknowledges willingly but does not yet understand. Twelve months previously the shame of his failures had been larded with caustic resentment affecting everything and everyone he touched. He is beginning to recognise this and the next few days and weeks will challenge him to act on what he is learning.
The story continues with Tranche Twelve…