‘Very wonderful of you, my dear,’ said Lady Beech gloomily. ‘Tell me, now, had it occurred to you what a very much more interesting gift to the Nation Vocal Lodge would be if somebody lived in it – I mean somebody rather cultivated, with rather exquisite taste? She could preserve the spirit of the place, don’t you see? Like those châteaux on the Loire which have their original families living in them.’
Sophia said she had just the very person in mind, an old governess of her own, who was extremely cultivated and had perfectly exquisite taste. Lady Beech sighed deeply.
When they arrived at Vocal Lodge, Sophia was closeted for some time, first with the solicitor and then with Sir Ivor’s servants, whom she begged to stay on there for the rest of their lives if it suited them. Larch took her upstairs and showed her all Sir Ivor’s wigs laid out on his bed, rather as it might have been a pilgrimage to view the body. He was evidently, like Sophia, divided between genuine sorrow and a feeling of self-importance.
‘The Press, m’lady,’ he said with relish, ‘awful they’ve been. Nosing round everywhere and taking photos. And the lies they tell, I don’t know if you saw, m’lady, they said cook had been with Sir Ivor ten years. It’s not a day more than seven.’
‘I know,’ said Sophia. ‘I can’t go outside the house for them. Why, look at all the cars which have followed us down here.’ And indeed there had been a perfect fleet, greatly incommoded, Sophia was glad to think, by the roundabout and, to them, surely rather baffling journey via Heal’s.
Lady Beech meanwhile had not been idle. It was quite uncanny what a lot of Sir Ivor’s furniture, books, knick-knacks and even cooking utensils had been lent him by Lady Beech. The house was really nothing but a loan collection. She had, with great forethought, provided herself with two packets of labels, stick-on and tie-on, and by the time Sophia had finished her business, these appeared like a sort of snow-storm, scattered throughout all the rooms.
‘Darling, I have just labelled a few little things of my own which dear Ivor had borrowed from me from time to time,’ she said, putting a sticky one firmly on to the giant radiogram as she spoke.
‘Very sensible, darling.’ Sophia secured the jet tiara, an object which she had coveted from childhood. ‘Good-bye, then, Larch,’ she said. ‘Keep the wigs, won’t you, and we’ll send them to the Ivor King Home of Rest. The aged singers are sure to need them, and I feel it’s just what he would have liked.’ Larch evidently thought that this idea was full of good feeling, and held open the door of the car with an approving look.
They motored back to London in silence. Sophia loved Lady Beech and would have done almost anything for her, but she knew that it would be useless to present Vocal Lodge to the Nation if Lady Beech was always to be there, sighing at whatever visitors might venture in.
ST ANNE’S HOSPITAL FIRST AID POST
Darling Rudolph darling,
Well, the Memorial Service, I mean Requiem Mass. Did you see the photograph of Luke and me with the glamorous Mgr? I thought it was quite pretty. The object behind us in silver foxes was Florence in my ex-ones. You never saw anything like the crowds outside the Oratory, and inside there were people all over the statues. When we arrived at the front pew reserved for us, who do you think was in it dressed as what? Of course Olga as a Fr. widow. You should have just seen the looks darling Lady Beech gave her. She would keep singing just like one doesn’t in Papist churches, and Serge was crying out loud into a huge black-edged handkerchief, fancy at eleven in the morning, but I believe it’s really because of his Blossom they say he can’t stop.
As we all came down the aisle Olga threw back her veil, and, supported by Fred, gave plucky little smiles to right and left. I forgot to say poor Fred turned up late, looking too guilty and hoping nobody would recognize him, and of course Hamish insisted on bringing him all the way up to our pew where there wasn’t room, and after fearful whisperings Luke had to give up his place to the Minister. Then on the way out Olga felt faint so that she could cling to him as you will note if you see the Tatler.
The whole of the stage world was there, of course, as well as all of us. Just think how old Ivor would have enjoyed it. What waste we couldn’t have had it while he was alive, can’t you see him choosing which wig he would wear? But you know, funny as it was in many ways I couldn’t help feeling awfully sad, especially when we got outside again and saw those huge silent mournful crowds. There’s no doubt the dear old creature was a sort of figurehead, and I suppose there can hardly be a soul in England who hasn’t heard that – let’s face it – slightly cracking voice. I thought The Times put it very nicely when it said that the more that golden voice was tinged with silver, the more we loved it. I hope those fiends of parachutists killed him quickly before he knew anything about it – they think so at Scotland Yard because of
