It’s a question that has been secretly nagging at Martin ever since Hitler invaded the Sudetenland, like toothache. But, until now, he has not shared his fears with Nancy. ‘I hope not.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘We have so much ahead of us.’
‘But I am not sure appeasement will work.’ Nancy frowns. ‘Not with Herr Hitler. He’ll just take it as a sign of weakness.’
‘I agree.’ Martin leans forward, intently. ‘What we need is tough, military sanctions. But through the League of Nations.’
‘Has the League of Nations actually achieved anything?’ Nancy regrets saying it as soon as the words leave her mouth.
‘I know that’s what people say.’ Martin’s eyes blaze. ‘But if you look at their track record, they’ve actually done a lot for peace. And, I mean, what else is going to stop barbarism from occurring?’
Nancy twizzles some pasta onto her spoon. ‘You know, when I was studying in Munich in 1935, we saw Hitler at the opera.’
‘Really?’ Martin is bug-eyed.
‘Mummy watched him through her opera glasses.’ Nancy grimaces. ‘Said he had beautiful hands. Pianist’s hands.’
The idea that Hitler has beautiful hands seems incongruous and repellent for a man who was currently tearing up the peace in Europe. But Martin says nothing.
‘You remember that little painting that hangs over the fireplace at Blythe Cottage?’ Nancy lays down her fork and spoon.
‘The seascape?’ Martin pours them both a glass of wine.
‘It’s by an Italian painter I got to know when I was living in Munich.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Jewish Italian. Paul Brachetti.’
‘Rhymes with spaghetti.’ Martin reddens with embarrassment at his lame joke.
‘He was almost twenty years older than me.’ She takes up her spoon and fork and digs at her pasta.
‘In love with you, no doubt.’ Martin squeezes her knee.
Nancy ignores him by twizzling her fork and spoon. ‘He used to call me his little English rose,’ she says. ‘We would meet for coffee in the English Gardens. Talk about El Greco, his hero. God’s light, he called it.’ She smiles at the memory, then her face darkens, as though a shadow has passed across it. ‘One day, he arrived in a terrible state. They’d broken into his studio, smashed his paintings, daubed swastikas on the walls.’ She reloads her fork with spaghetti. ‘His paintings were what they called entartet. Decadent.’ Her laugh is a staccato howl. ‘Seascapes!’ She takes another sip of wine. ‘Three days later, we met again. A café near the station.’ Nancy lays her napkin on the table, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘He was carrying a battered suitcase and some parcels, wrapped in newspaper. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot.’ Her pupils darken. ‘He’d come to say goodbye.’ Nancy’s voice quivers.
‘Where did he go?’
‘He said he would try and get to Spain, first.’ She smiles. ‘He wanted to seeToledo, where El Greco learned about light. Then Lisbon. Maybe a ship to America.’ She looks across at Martin, tears in her eyes. ‘I tried to give him some money. But he wouldn’t hear of it.’
Martin reaches across the table and takes her hand. Suddenly, he feels much younger than the two-year age gap between them, less experienced. The only time he has been to Europe was when he was a schoolboy and he stayed in Zermatt at a posh hotel with his parents. She has seen swastikas daubed on the walls and helped rescue a Jewish painter.
‘I wish I could have met him,’ he says.
She opens her bag and takes out a handkerchief, blows her nose, then brightens.
‘We’re going to miss the curtain if I carry on like this any longer.’
‘Come then, my love.’ Martin kisses her hand and waves for the bill.
There is a play to be seen, friends to meet, songs to be sung. The crisis in Europe can wait.
‘Nancy, darling!’ a voice calls out across the packed room.
Martin watches as a tall, dashingly handsome man advances towards them. Something about his face seems familiar but Martin can’t place him. The only thing that is clear is that he is no stranger to Nancy.
‘Michael!’ Nancy holds her cheek out to be kissed.
Instead, he gives her a boozy kiss on the lips. ‘You look gorgeous as ever.’
Martin scowls. Nancy blushes. ‘Michael, this is Martin Preston. Martin, meet the incorrigible Michael Redgrave.’
Martin’s eyes widen. The famous actor! He stares at Nancy, impressed by this new side of her he has not seen before.
‘So, you’re taken already?’ Redgrave gives a crestfallen look. ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to find myself another redhead.’
He is about to turn away, when a bosomy woman swathed in what looks like a Turkish robe sashays across the floor towards Redgrave, like a Spanish galleon.
‘Dorothy!’ Redgrave hugs her. ‘Murdered anyone recently?’
‘Scores, darling.’ The woman pulls a wry grin, tips back a G and T.
‘Nancy, allow me to introduce you to the doyenne of crime fiction.’ Redgrave’s baritone booms across the room. ‘Dorothy Sayers. Nancy Whelan. Martin Preston.’
Martin bows slightly and holds out his hand. His uncle, Robert, has spoken warmly of the great detective writer and Martin has read all the Lord Peter Wimsey books. ‘I’m a huge fan!’
Sayers sizes him up. ‘Steady on, you’re sounding like an American.’
Martin feels embarrassed for a moment. Then laughs. Nancy joins in as Miss Sayers tips back the rest of her G and T, kisses Redgrave on the cheek, then heads for her seat.
It’s a tiny space for a theatre: just one half of a pub. The audience sit at tables, so close they almost touch the stage. Others stand at the back. Blue smoke hangs in the air. Waitresses weave in and out of the chairs. There is laughter; conversation; the camaraderie of the boards.
The programme is titled Ridegway’s Late Joys, after the theatre’s founder, Peter Ridgeway, and consists of various song and dance acts introduced by the ‘Chairman’, a plump, rosy-cheeked man with a huge handlebar moustache. An all-male chorus in black tie and tails sing a song called ‘Strawberry’. It’s all very camp, and British. Next, a curvaceous blonde in a sparkly leotard, boots and feathers on her head, croons a song called ‘La Di Da’.
‘Isn’t that Peggy Rutherford?’ Martin whispers to Nancy, pointing at a woman two tables along.
Nancy raises a finger to her lips, as the highlight of the show begins: ‘Tell Your Father’, a Cockney ballad about the perils of alcohol, performed by the well-known singer, Meg Jenkins, who appears on stage wrapped in a black shawl, looking lugubrious.
By the end, the whole audience is singing along with the chorus. Clouds are gathering over Europe, but London is determined to enjoy herself.
They only just make the last train home. Martin pays for seats in first class and, as it’s so late, they are the only passengers. They are both a bit the worse for wear and almost immediately fall into each other’s arms, kissing until their lips are red and swollen, as empty stations slip by under a gibbous moon. By the time they reach Beaconsfield it’s past midnight. Luckily, Martin has left the Bomb there and in a few moments they are racing through the moonlit lanes.
‘Fancy a