1.
Ottoline
Rottingdean, Sussex, Thursday, 13 June 1929
Lady Ottoline Morrell – ‘Call me Otto, darling’ – liked to dress for the occasion, even if that occasion was nothing more than a solitary walk on a clifftop at sunset. On this midsummer evening, her impressive six-foot frame was clad in voluminous pistachio green Turkish trousers with black piping and a white blouse embroidered with bright flowers in the Ottoman style. Her hat was the reverse of the trousers, wide and black with a pale green band into which she’d tucked a careless posy of wildflowers, picked from the wayside as she strode along. As she walked, she puffed on a dark cigarillo.
When the cheroot had burned down almost to her stubby fingernails, she tossed it into the undergrowth, not giving a thought to whether it might set the parched landscape on fire. It hadn’t rained in weeks, although, judging by the dark bruising behind the fiery sky, a storm was brewing.
The wind was picking up and she felt oddly adrift. A sense of rootlessness had been rising in her ever since she’d given up Garsington Manor, the Cotswold mansion where she’d once entertained a fascinating collection of guests. Now she lacked a rural idyll with which to draw in the beau monde, she wasn’t sure what to do with her spare time. London had grown dry and dusty, and she’d simply had to escape.
It was the reason why, with her penchant for bringing people together, she’d invited her old friends Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell to join her for dinner at Tudor Close, the hotel to stay at that summer. A clever hotelier had converted a collection of bucolic farm cottages in the downland village of Rottingdean into a place that, within weeks of opening, was being frequented by Hollywood royalty.
The opportunity had presented itself to her at one of her gatherings in town, a rather dismal evening unexpectedly brightened by the arrival of a publisher who moved with the Bright Young Things. Fabian Lloyd seemed to understand her. The young man listened to her woes and had come up with several good ideas for ways in which she could continue her artistic philanthropy. In return, she had offered to introduce him to her friends. He was a huge fan of Virginia’s writing and had explained to her his vision for a new illustrated series of her books.
‘But my dear boy, it’s already been done. Nessa already provides the illustrations for the covers of Ginny’s books,’ Otto pointed out.
‘Who buys those books? A small section of the intelligentsia. What I’m talking about is a new presentation of Mrs Woolf’s work that will bring it to a mass audience,’ Fabian declared with fire in his rather fine hazel eyes.
Otto remained unsure and her expression said as much. If there was one thing she knew for certain about Ginny, it was that she didn’t care a great deal for the masses.
‘Of course, there would be a generous sum of money involved,’ said Fabian, as if reading her mind.
That settled it. Unpleasant as it was to discuss finances, it wouldn’t do to deny one’s friends the opportunity to support their art.
‘Leave it with me and I’ll find an occasion to get the three of you together,’ she assured the young man.
Now it came to it, she couldn’t remember whether it was she or he who’d suggested meeting at Tudor Close. Either way, when she was involved in a happening, she wanted to make sure it came off swimmingly, so she’d come down to the Sussex coast a day early to inspect the hotel.
When she’d stepped out of her chauffeured car, she’d been immediately transported into a medieval fantasy. The sprawling hotel grew almost organically out of the floor of the valley. Its sloping timber beams, carved with animals, fruit and flowers, brought to mind Germanic fairy tales. She’d made her way by foot through
a grassy courtyard, where men in lightweight suits and women in ankle-skimming summer dresses and wide-brimmed hats, lounged in striped canvas deckchairs. A footman trailed behind her with her luggage on a trolley. She was greeted at the door by a capable young woman with platinum hair scraped back from her forehead, wearing an immaculately tailored but understated brown tweed suit, who introduced herself as the manageress, Eleanor Mills.
Having freshened up in her room and asked Miss Mills to pre-order the Dover sole for their dinner the following evening, Otto had found herself at a loose end and decided to wander down and get a glimpse of this famous sea. That was why people flocked to this part of the world, after all.
The village of Rottingdean was a charming place, with grizzled old fishermen unpacking limpet-clad lobster pots and rustic fishing nets in front of thatched dwellings. At least that’s what she thought they were doing. Her eyesight was getting a little fuzzy these days. How happy, how simple their lives must be. She’d nodded to them graciously as she passed by and was met with stares of wonderment. It seemed the fishermen were strangers to fashion, although they would have to get used to it given the glamorous reputation the new hotel was garnering.
Still, it had been something of a relief when she’d come to the edge of town. She’d been hit by an expanse of dazzling blue and found herself at the start of a narrow chalk path leading along the top of the cliffs. Miss Mills had warned her not to stray too close to the edge, as every year fresh chunks of the cliff toppled into the churning waves below.
‘You should be all right on a quiet evening like this, though, Lady Ottoline. It’s only in a storm you need worry,’ Miss Mills had added. But for good measure Otto stuck to the path, glad she’d changed out of her calfskin slippers and donned her walking shoes, enabling her to trot along the lumpy chalk with ease. She walked east, away from the setting sun, so it didn’t blind her, and soon she realised she’d left the village far behind and had reached a point where the chalk cliffs plummeted straight into the sea.
She breathed in the salty air and closed her eyes, believing herself to be entirely alone in the world. But when she opened them again, she saw this wasn’t the case. A little further along the path was a figure cast in shadow. She couldn’t make out whether they were male or female. Her failing eyesight didn’t help. But she could see enough to tell that, whoever it was, they were straying dangerously close to the edge. What’s more, they were carrying a large object, which looked heavy from the way in which they were dragging it along the turf.
The person stopped and,
as Otto wasn’t in the mood for conversation, she stopped too so as not to catch up with them. She sat down on the grass next to the path and looked out to sea. Absent-mindedly, she picked a blade of grass, already turning from green to gold, its top heavy with seed, and began to chew on it. A white sailboat crossed the horizon, leaving the faintest of wakes on the silvery surface. Gulls circled overhead, preparing to make their beds for the night. All was calm and still.
That’s when she heard the cry. Turning her head so fast her hat almost flew off, she saw the figure was dragging the enormous bundle to the very brink of the cliff. Beyond was nothing but sky, and a sheer drop down to the English Channel. The air up here did funny things to sound. Was it the person who’d yelled, or one of the seagulls circling in the sky above? Like her sight, her hearing was not what it once had been.
The bundle was now teetering precariously on the edge. The person still had one hand on it and, if they weren’t careful, they would be taken down with it too. It was clear there was no saving the object. For a moment, it sat suspended, half on land, half in the clear atmosphere, and then it was gone. A fraction of a second passed and then she heard an almighty splash.
She sat there paralysed. What had she just witnessed? Someone getting rid of something they no longer wanted or needed? It seemed a strange thing to be doing at this hour on a June evening. Her heart started beating double time. What if they walked back this way and saw her? Was she in danger? She didn’t want to get to her feet in case that drew attention. Trying to calm her breathing, she sat and watched for their next move. To her intense relief, they carried on along the path in the opposite direction.
After they’d disappeared, she waited a few minutes before hauling herself up, brushing bits of dried grass off her trousers with her long, thin fingers.
Heart still pounding in her chest, she approached the edge of the cliff, as close as she dared, and peered over. Far below, she saw a swell of white surf. But no sign of the package. It must be well below the waves by now, sinking through the brine to the seabed.
Retreating to the safety of the path, Otto wondered what she should do, whom she should tell? Only now the mysterious figure was completely out of sight did she admit to herself what had shaken her so badly about the whole scene.
There was something about the ungainly parcel she’d seen cast into the waves that reminded her of a human body.
2.
Virginia
Friday, 14 June 1929
‘The bungalow, removed from its native India and thrust down in the English countryside, is the purest expression of a complete absence of taste,’ Ginny declared as Nessa drove them at breakneck speed through an infestation of single-storied dwellings sprouting up like toadstools on the South Downs. Where once there had been farmers’ fields, now there would be a multitude of meanly dimensioned homes.
‘Living all on one level seems eminently sensible to me,’ said Nessa, taking her eyes off the road for a moment and veering dangerously, causing her sister to close her eyes and mutter prayers to a god in which she didn’t believe.
When she opened them again, it was to a colossal posterboard by the side of the road announcing ‘Salthaven Sands: your dream home by the sea!’ These words were splashed across a picture of a pneumatic blonde and a moustachioed man wearing a straw boater, posing in front of rows of gleaming white bungalows. In smaller lettering underneath were the words: ‘Brought to you by Verdigris Estates’.
‘Your nightmare home by the sea, more like,’ said Ginny.
Nessa tutted and kept her eyes on the road. ‘It can’t be far now. I don’t see why we must stay over. We could be back at Charleston in less than an hour after dinner. I would far rather stay in my own bed than catch bedbugs in a hotel,’ she said.
‘It’s not that sort of hotel. It’s terribly upmarket, apparently, and we need to humour Otto. She’s still sore about losing Garsington. And she’s paying, after all – “her treat”, she said. She’s very keen for us to meet this Lloyd fellow, although I can’t see what he will have to offer that we can’t do ourselves,’ replied Ginny.
‘You know very well we’re both here because we could do with the extra cash. Maintaining a London flat, a house in the country and a bolthole in the south of France doesn’t come cheap, and the children soak up money like sponges. They’re always growing out of their clothes – or in need of rent, in Julian’s case,’ said Nessa.
Ginny knew her sister couldn’t deny her offspring anything. But, for her own part, she was dreaming of a room of her own at Monk’s House, a place where she could be quite by herself with her books, looking out at the garden.
‘I’ll listen to what he has to offer, but I refuse to cheapen my work. I’m here to cheer up Otto and that’s what I intend to do,’ said Ginny. ‘Oh, look, there’s a signpost for Rottingdean. Don’t miss the turning!’
Nessa barely slowed down as she took the bend, forcing Ginny to cling on to the side of her seat. Thankfully, once they were on the narrow high street, Nessa was forced to put the brakes on so as not to crash into a horse and cart delivering fruit and vegetables to the local grocery store. Nessa thrummed her fingers on the dashboard.
The driver of the cart appeared not to notice them. Ginny was about to wind down the window and call out to him, but Nessa put a hand on her arm.
‘It will only make him dig his heels in. Otto and her publisher will just have to wait a while,’ she said.
‘Aren’t you planning to change for dinner?’ asked Ginny.
‘No. Won’t this do? I thought I’d go as I am.’
Ginny considered her sister’s outfit. It was floral, which she supposed was in its favour, but it was also shapeless. On the back seat of the car was a battered straw hat, and on Nessa’s feet the dreadful red espadrilles that, for some unknown reason, she loved so much. Diplomatically, Ginny didn’t reply. She’d brought a cotton sprig dress to change into – if there was time when they eventually reached the hotel.
At last, the cart was unloaded and, in an unhurried fashion, ignoring the hooting of horns from the
line of traffic that had formed behind them, the driver climbed back up to his seat and spurred the horse on down the street. They were back on the move.
‘See, we’re nearly there,’ said Ginny, pointing to their right where a smart black-and-white painted sign announced Tudor Close Hotel. Nessa took the turning, past a large village fishpond and a squat grey church with an old wooden lychgate, then a sharp right where they found themselves in front of the hotel.
Nessa stopped the automobile outside, and a footman in black-and-white livery hurried over to help with their bags. He clicked his finger and a man in a grey peaked driving cap appeared.
‘Take the motor round to the parking lot. Would you be so kind as to give him the keys, madam?’ he said, managing the whole operation smoothly. A smiling Nessa hunted around in her pockets before realising she’d left the key in the ignition. ‘Silly me,’ she said, but the man had already slid into the driver’s seat and, before they realised what was happening, the vehicle was gone.
The sisters turned to take in the hotel, a giant horseshoe of half-timbered buildings with crooked chimney stacks. The façade was a tapestry of flint, herringbone brick and carved wooden beams over every available door and window.
‘Crikey, it’s like something out of the Brothers Grimm,’ said Ginny.
‘A real-life gingerbread house,’ agreed Nessa. ‘No wonder it’s so popular with actors. It’s like stepping on to a film set.’
They made their way along a gravel path leading towards an old oak-framed door, topped with panels of stained glass and a wooden eagle. They ascended stone steps, flanked by urns filled with scarlet geraniums, and entered through the open door, a heavy wooden affair, like the bow of a great ship.
Although the ceilings were low, the hotel foyer was on a scale designed for comfort, with polished herringbone parquet flooring and a large Persian carpet to catch any debris brought in by visitors’ shoes. Enormous gilt-framed mirrors adorned both walls, making the room seem even bigger, and reflecting twin black marble console tables adorned with matching Chinese vases filled with roses and lilies. The mantlepiece of an enormous oak fireplace was intricately carved with scenes from pastoral life: horses pulling a cart and cattle grazing in a field in between barns.
A capable-looking woman appeared before them. She had a hint of understated elegance: a neat suit and white-gold hair scraped back into a bun, pleasant features, but an air of sadness. Ginny had a sudden feeling of recognition. This was a woman who’d experienced great loss. Having lost her own mother and brother at a young age, she could sense grief in others.
‘Mrs Woolf, Mrs Bell,
welcome to Tudor Close. I’m Eleanor Mills, the manageress,’ she said, extending a hand in a pure white glove.
‘How does she know our names?’ Nessa whispered in Ginny’s ear.
‘Lady Morrell is expecting you in the cocktail lounge,’ the woman said, answering Nessa’s question without appearing to have overheard it. ‘But I expect you would like to be shown to your rooms to freshen up first,’ she added. A statement rather than a question.
‘Arthur, would you be so good as to show these ladies up to their apartment?’
Another footman stepped out of the shadows.
‘Follow me, please,’ he said, with a mild Sussex burr. Ginny looked around for their luggage, but it had already disappeared.
The sisters padded obediently behind Arthur as he ascended the curving staircase with its polished wood banister, up to a landing and along a thickly carpeted corridor, past identical oak doors, until they reached one bearing a plaque that read ‘Rodmell’.
‘All our rooms are named after Sussex villages. Miss Mills thought this one would be suitable for you, Mrs Woolf,’ Arthur explained. Rodmell was the village where Ginny and her husband Leonard lived in their white weatherboard cottage.
‘Such attention to detail,’ replied Ginny, not sure whether to be flattered or a little concerned.
He opened the door wide, then stood aside to let them go ahead. They were struck straight away by the view of the Downs opposite, topped by a large black windmill, like a giant pepper pot with sails.
Arthur saw them both looking at it. ‘Hasn’t worked for many a year, but she still watches over the village,’ he said.
Despite the heat of the day, Ginny shivered. Quickly, she turned round to inspect the room and found two twin beds with pink velvet headboards in the shape of shells. An unnecessarily fussy touch. Her cotton sprig frock had been laid out on one of the beds and, through the open wardrobe door, she saw the rest of the contents of her small overnight bag had already been unpacked, alongside Nessa’s. How on earth had anyone had the time to do that?
A dark blue dress was neatly deposited on the other bed. Nessa picked it up.
‘I don’t remember bringing this,’ she said.
‘Look, there’s a note next to it,’ said Ginny, swooping in to read the missive before her sister could snatch it up. ‘It’s from Otto, it says: “For Nessa, who never dresses for dinner.”’
Nessa picked up the dress and held it up to the light from the window. It was a dark navy organdie, with a flower of the same fabric bunched to one side of the waist.
Arthur cleared his throat. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in,’ he said, but didn’t immediately leave.
Ginny reached inside her handbag, extracted a pound note from her purse and handed it to him.
‘Thank you for your assistance,’ she said.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ said Nessa once he’d closed the door behind him.
‘It’s what’s expected, dear,’ replied Ginny, shaking her head at her sister’s unworldliness.
On the other side of the room from the beds was a gilded vanity table and mirror, on which sat a mother-of-pearl brush set. Ginny sat down and studied her reflection in the mirror, which was made to look antique but was clearly new. A thin, tired face framed by nutbrown hair turning to pastry grey looked back at her. Sighing, she
undid the loose arrangement in which she’d pinned it up that morning, picked up one of the brushes, and ran it vigorously through her fine locks.
Nessa kicked off her espadrilles and flung herself on to the bed next to the blue dress.
‘It’s awfully comfortable. Perhaps I’ll just stay here and not bother with dinner,’ she said, lying back on the plump pillow and closing her eyes.
‘Not an option,’ said Ginny smartly. From down the corridor came the faint tinkle of jazz and she knew Otto would be waiting for them impatiently.
She looked around to see whether Otto had provided shoes for Nessa as well. The red espadrilles would ruin the look of that exquisite dress. At the end of one of the beds was a little footstool bearing two blue satin slippers with a slender strap and a flower-shaped button.
Ottoline always thought of everything. ...
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