Josephine said nothing, wondering if she should warn Marta that another blow was coming Lydia’s way if Aubrey’s film ever got off the ground. She decided against it. There was enough unrest for everyone at the moment and it might never happen but, if it did, the more time they had to cement their relationship against outside anxieties the better. ‘Of course, Lydia’s never had anything meaningful outside the theatre until now,’ she said instead. ‘Having a life with you must count as something to look forward to, surely?’
‘Oh come off it,’ Marta said scornfully. ‘Women need both –
love and work – and these days they can have it. Lydia’s got a right to
in love?’ Josephine was silent, taken aback by the question. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude and I shouldn’t be speaking like this to someone I don’t know,’ Marta continued, ‘but I can see so much sorrow ahead for Lydia and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. You won’t tell her I’m worried, will you? I’ve spent all this time being so bloody reassuring.’
‘No, I won’t say anything. But in answer to your question: yes, I think there are times when I would give all this up for a different life. Or, at least, there are times when having someone in particular would make this life a little less lonely, so don’t underestimate what you mean to her.’
Marta was silent, seeming to consider how much of what Josephine said was sincere and how much was designed to make her feel better. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said eventually. ‘Thank you.’
‘And perhaps
‘It’s funny how our ideas of people change. I was telling Lydia earlier today – the people I valued when I was younger and the stories I wrote about them bear no resemblance to what I feel now.’
‘Have you always written, then?’
‘On and off. Actually, more off than on until a year or so ago. I started during the war when my husband was away. My mother-in-law was a friend of May Gaskell – have you heard of her?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, she started a war library for soldiers abroad. Her son-in-law was wounded in the South African War and she sent him books and magazines in hospital to distract him from the misery of it all. Apparently, it’s what got him through, so May decided on 129
the first day of war that British soldiers in France would never be without stories to take their minds off the suffering. She was in her sixties by then, but she was a remarkable woman and well connected enough to make it happen. She persuaded somebody to lend her a house in Marble Arch and turned it into a book ware-house. People sent things in from all over the country. One day we’d get dirty packets of rubbish from Finchley; the next, thirty thousand volumes from a country estate would turn up.’
‘How extraordinary! And you worked there?’
‘Yes, for a couple of years before the Red Cross took it over. The response was better than May could have hoped for, so she needed volunteers. People were donating entire libraries. On a good day, the vans bringing in the books blocked the traffic all around Marble Arch. We sent them to hospitals all over the world, not just France, but whenever I knew there was a consignment going to my husband’s regiment, I’d send stories of my own to make it more personal. You couldn’t always rely on their getting to the right person, but it was a way of keeping some sort of connection alive.’
‘And your husband?’
‘He died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It wasn’t the happiest of marriages and it seems a lifetime away now.’ The sound of applause drifted down from the stage and Marta stood up to look for a corkscrew. ‘Talking of dying, it sounds like she’s gone again. That’s our cue for a drink.’
By now, Josephine had revised her earlier opinion of Lydia’s lover, not dropping the ‘nice’ which had so disappointed Ronnie but adding some more interesting qualities, passionate and engag-ing being top of the list. Instead of trying to avoid the subject of Marta’s own book, she found herself rather intrigued at the prospect of reading it.
‘Lydia says you’ve finished the first draft of your novel, and she asked me to look at it,’ she said, accepting the glass that Marta held out to her. ‘There’s nothing worse than someone chipping in with helpful advice you don’t need, but I’d be happy to read it if you want an outside opinion.’
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‘That’s very sweet of you both but you really don’t have to, you know. You must get hundreds of people asking for your time and it’s hideous to have to be tactful to someone you know.’
‘I wouldn’t be. If I didn’t like it I’d say so, but even then it would just be the comments of a friend. It’s your novel.’
‘Yes, it is. For better or worse, it’s certainly that.’
There was a rustle of satin from the corridor. ‘You know, one night I think I might shock them all and simply refuse to die,’ said Lydia as she came into the room and collapsed onto the sofa in a heap of pale pink. ‘Can you imagine the look on Johnny’s face if I suddenly rallied and stole his best scene? It’s almost worth it.’ She took an appreciative sip of her wine. ‘How is everyone?’
‘Fine,’ said Marta, laughing as she removed Lydia’s flowered head-dress and ran her fingers affectionately through her hair.
‘Yes, your plan for us to get to know each other better has worked beautifully,’ said Josephine drily. ‘In fact, I was just trying to get my hands on this manuscript that I’ve heard so much and so little about.’
Lydia raised an eyebrow questioningly at Marta, who held up her hands in defeat. ‘All right, all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll hand it over.
But be gentle – that’s all I ask.’
As the final scene got underway, Esme McCracken placed four chairs around a small table which stood in the
