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rainbowfic2022-07-31 09:36 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2022-07-31 09:36 pm
Tourmaline #14 [Divide & Rule]
Name: Game Set and Match
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Tourmaline #14 (pen/blade)
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads
Word Count: 1555
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Notes: 1954; Jack Brayfield, Julia Graves. (Another in my random meetings set, this time how Jack Brayfield gets to be part of the Ivesons’ circle.)
Summary: Jack vs. Julia: the interview.
“My husband really isn’t here, you know,” said Mrs Iveson, greeting Jack in the hallway, a small child in her arms. “There’s a summit in Copenhagen – at least, I believe it was a summit and Copenhagen, but perhaps it was a conference in Stockholm.”
Jack only smiled. “And yet I’m not to be deterred – when I said I wanted to see you, Mrs Iveson, I meant it.”
“Good,” she said, putting a hand to the little girl’s head. “I wouldn’t want you disappointed before we’d even started. I haven’t seen you before, have I?”
Jack shook his head, and followed her into the lounge. Mrs Iveson gestured to him to sit on the sofa.
“Do excuse me,” she said. “Emily wanted to see the newspaper man, but now she’s turned shy. I knew she would, but she wouldn’t be told. I’ll take her upstairs for her nap, if you don’t mind. Wait here, and Mrs Crosbie will be in with a tea tray soon.”
Jack remained standing and turned around in the lounge, taking in its décor – mostly mid-blue, white and grey – and gazing idly at the photographs on the wall and then the delicate silver clock on the mantelpiece.
Mrs Iveson returned sooner than he had expected, and as he hastily sat on the sofa, she crossed to take the arm chair opposite, smoothing down the folds of a white dress embroidered with a pattern of green leaves. Fashion wasn’t precisely Jack’s thing, but he’d learned enough doing this series of pieces to mentally note that it was probably taffeta or chiffon.
“Mrs Crosbie will fetch us some tea,” Mrs Iveson informed him brightly. “Now, what is this all about, Mr –?”
He coughed and shifted forwards in his seat. “Jack Brayfield. My paper also publishes a magazine supplement. We’ve been doing a series on the wives of various ministers and suchlike. Husbands in one or two cases,” he added, with a well-rehearsed charming grin.
Mrs Iveson laughed. “I see. Behind every great man, and all that? I am afraid you will be disappointed, after all.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” returned Jack. He had to admit, he was curious about this one. He’d done some background work, of course, and while Julia Iveson had never hit the papers, there seemed to be all kinds of rumours flying around about her – something odd about the marriage, foreign origins, that sort of thing. She’d offered him nothing but a perfectly posed picture so far, but he wouldn’t mind having a proper story to come away with, and not just another anodyne human interest article.
Mrs Iveson raised an eyebrow, and then turned her head as her charlady entered with the tea tray.
“There you go, Mrs Iveson,” Mrs Crosbie said, and gave Jack a warning look that made him edge back against the cushions. “Will there be anything else?”
Mrs Iveson dismissed her, and Jack began his questions in earnest. She patiently fielded all his usual sort of enquiries about her clothes, the décor of her house, how she felt about Iveson’s career and so on, with impeccably bland responses.
“And before your marriage, you were –?”
“Oh,” she said, “I was in Paris. It wasn’t the best time to be there, of course – just after the War, but not as bad as it is now. I had a charming little apartment and often walked down by the Seine. I was also very fond of the Jardins du Luxembourg – did you ever get to go?”
Jack bit back a wry smile. “No. No, I never have. Maybe one day, when the current situation in France has improved.”
“Well, Edward is working on that.”
Jack considered whether to persist, since she’d neatly evaded the question of what she’d been doing there, but he tried another tack first: “Of course, your family is from the continent. I suppose you must have found your loyalties tested at times?”
“Goodness, of course not,” said Julia. “I am a Londoner, you know, Mr Brayfield. My maternal Grandfather was a scholar who came here from Germany at the turn of the century, but my father’s family are very English – very stuffy! Father ran a successful printing firm, and my Uncle Lionel is chairman of Graves, Anstey & Jones.”
Jack chalked up another point to Mrs Iveson. Before he could ask anything else, she forestalled him by pushing the plate of home made biscuits towards him, and demanded to know if he’d like another cup of tea.
“I used to do this all the time, of course,” she informed him, pouring him out a second cup.
Jack said, “Oh?” He shouldn’t let himself be manoeuvred, but he was rather enjoying seeing Mrs Iveson play this particular game.
“I worked in a British Restaurant for most of the War – right here in London, dodging the doodlebugs and pouring out endless cups of tea for everyone. After that, organising a party is a doddle!”
And game set and match to you, thought Jack, biting back amusement.
“That will go well in the article, won’t it?” she added, resting her chin on her hand. There was a distinct twinkle in her eye as she watched him. “I can tell you a lot more about it, if you like.”
“Spare me. I have to ask you how you met your husband – absolutely essential to our readers, you understand.”
Mrs Iveson drew back with a light laugh. “Of course. It’s not terribly exciting – our mothers were friends, and we moved in the same sort of circles all our lives. Ned was kind enough to help me out with some family business after the war – and then a year or so later, we ran into each other again in Paris, picked up where we’d left off – and that was that.”
“I’d heard it was rather a whirlwind affair.”
“Not really,” she said. “At that point, Ned was keen to get me out of Paris, I think – he always knows which way the wind is blowing. He has to, doesn’t he?”
Jack took a few more notes, and then lifted his head, determined to return to some of his other lines of questioning, but she stopped him again.
“It’s not cutting edge journalism, is it?” she said, with sympathy. “Still, you must have met quite a few politicians’ wives – and if you’ve made a good impression, that might well come in handy.”
Jack raised his head.
“You must have thought of it,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s not really –”
“Take me,” she said. “I’ve decided you could have a very bright future ahead of you, and we have occasional little soirees here. All sorts of people turn up – Cabinet Ministers, top civil servants – useful people, you know?”
He tightened his fingers on the pencil, pressing it hard against the pad. “I do.”
“I could invite you sometime,” she offered.
“And what do you want in return?”
“Only your undying gratitude and a few kind words,” said Mrs Iveson. She met his gaze, and said, with disarming honesty, “I think you know the answer to some of those questions already, and if you want to write hurtful things about my mother in a magazine, you wouldn’t be the first. I just hope you’d prefer to get the chance to meet some more interesting people than me instead.”
Jack pocketed his notebook. “It wouldn’t really fit the tone, it’s true.”
“Assuming you’re housetrained, of course,” added Mrs Iveson. She rose. “But in your favour, you never even tried to flirt with me, let alone worse, which is an improvement on some other newspaper men I’ve met. I’ll send you an invitation if you don’t turn out to be horrid in print after all. Oh, and if you have people you know you could bring, then do – I’m sure you’ll know plenty of literary and artistic types.” She pulled a face. “One needs to dilute all the politicians – they can get a bit much en masse.”
Jack relaxed. “I know a poet, if that’s any good? An artist or two, maybe, although they’re not always good company.”
“There you are! A real poet?”
He shrugged. “Published and everything – Afzal Syed.”
“How marvellous!” said Mrs Iveson. “I heard him on the BBC only the other day. Very good, I thought – and he sounded like exactly the sort of person Amyas would enjoy arguing with. Mr Harding, I mean.”
Jack said dryly, “I’m sure Afzal would get a kick out of it himself.” He gathered up his notebook and pencils, and held out his hand to her again, this time in farewell. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” said Mrs Iveson. She shook his hand.
Jack followed her back into the hallway, and retrieved his coat from the hook. “Making an investment, I suppose? Useful contacts for me, my gratitude and therefore better press for your husband?”
“You have a very suspicious mind. Do tell Edward when you meet him that you think I’m terribly clever and devious. He’ll be very amused!”
Jack took his hat from her. “Maybe he will, but certainly, I don’t imagine for one instant that you don’t know where he actually is.”
“I am very possessive,” agreed Julia Iveson meekly. “It’s a great fault – and one you can print if you like. It’s better not to look too perfect, isn't it?”
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Tourmaline #14 (pen/blade)
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads
Word Count: 1555
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Notes: 1954; Jack Brayfield, Julia Graves. (Another in my random meetings set, this time how Jack Brayfield gets to be part of the Ivesons’ circle.)
Summary: Jack vs. Julia: the interview.
“My husband really isn’t here, you know,” said Mrs Iveson, greeting Jack in the hallway, a small child in her arms. “There’s a summit in Copenhagen – at least, I believe it was a summit and Copenhagen, but perhaps it was a conference in Stockholm.”
Jack only smiled. “And yet I’m not to be deterred – when I said I wanted to see you, Mrs Iveson, I meant it.”
“Good,” she said, putting a hand to the little girl’s head. “I wouldn’t want you disappointed before we’d even started. I haven’t seen you before, have I?”
Jack shook his head, and followed her into the lounge. Mrs Iveson gestured to him to sit on the sofa.
“Do excuse me,” she said. “Emily wanted to see the newspaper man, but now she’s turned shy. I knew she would, but she wouldn’t be told. I’ll take her upstairs for her nap, if you don’t mind. Wait here, and Mrs Crosbie will be in with a tea tray soon.”
Jack remained standing and turned around in the lounge, taking in its décor – mostly mid-blue, white and grey – and gazing idly at the photographs on the wall and then the delicate silver clock on the mantelpiece.
Mrs Iveson returned sooner than he had expected, and as he hastily sat on the sofa, she crossed to take the arm chair opposite, smoothing down the folds of a white dress embroidered with a pattern of green leaves. Fashion wasn’t precisely Jack’s thing, but he’d learned enough doing this series of pieces to mentally note that it was probably taffeta or chiffon.
“Mrs Crosbie will fetch us some tea,” Mrs Iveson informed him brightly. “Now, what is this all about, Mr –?”
He coughed and shifted forwards in his seat. “Jack Brayfield. My paper also publishes a magazine supplement. We’ve been doing a series on the wives of various ministers and suchlike. Husbands in one or two cases,” he added, with a well-rehearsed charming grin.
Mrs Iveson laughed. “I see. Behind every great man, and all that? I am afraid you will be disappointed, after all.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” returned Jack. He had to admit, he was curious about this one. He’d done some background work, of course, and while Julia Iveson had never hit the papers, there seemed to be all kinds of rumours flying around about her – something odd about the marriage, foreign origins, that sort of thing. She’d offered him nothing but a perfectly posed picture so far, but he wouldn’t mind having a proper story to come away with, and not just another anodyne human interest article.
Mrs Iveson raised an eyebrow, and then turned her head as her charlady entered with the tea tray.
“There you go, Mrs Iveson,” Mrs Crosbie said, and gave Jack a warning look that made him edge back against the cushions. “Will there be anything else?”
Mrs Iveson dismissed her, and Jack began his questions in earnest. She patiently fielded all his usual sort of enquiries about her clothes, the décor of her house, how she felt about Iveson’s career and so on, with impeccably bland responses.
“And before your marriage, you were –?”
“Oh,” she said, “I was in Paris. It wasn’t the best time to be there, of course – just after the War, but not as bad as it is now. I had a charming little apartment and often walked down by the Seine. I was also very fond of the Jardins du Luxembourg – did you ever get to go?”
Jack bit back a wry smile. “No. No, I never have. Maybe one day, when the current situation in France has improved.”
“Well, Edward is working on that.”
Jack considered whether to persist, since she’d neatly evaded the question of what she’d been doing there, but he tried another tack first: “Of course, your family is from the continent. I suppose you must have found your loyalties tested at times?”
“Goodness, of course not,” said Julia. “I am a Londoner, you know, Mr Brayfield. My maternal Grandfather was a scholar who came here from Germany at the turn of the century, but my father’s family are very English – very stuffy! Father ran a successful printing firm, and my Uncle Lionel is chairman of Graves, Anstey & Jones.”
Jack chalked up another point to Mrs Iveson. Before he could ask anything else, she forestalled him by pushing the plate of home made biscuits towards him, and demanded to know if he’d like another cup of tea.
“I used to do this all the time, of course,” she informed him, pouring him out a second cup.
Jack said, “Oh?” He shouldn’t let himself be manoeuvred, but he was rather enjoying seeing Mrs Iveson play this particular game.
“I worked in a British Restaurant for most of the War – right here in London, dodging the doodlebugs and pouring out endless cups of tea for everyone. After that, organising a party is a doddle!”
And game set and match to you, thought Jack, biting back amusement.
“That will go well in the article, won’t it?” she added, resting her chin on her hand. There was a distinct twinkle in her eye as she watched him. “I can tell you a lot more about it, if you like.”
“Spare me. I have to ask you how you met your husband – absolutely essential to our readers, you understand.”
Mrs Iveson drew back with a light laugh. “Of course. It’s not terribly exciting – our mothers were friends, and we moved in the same sort of circles all our lives. Ned was kind enough to help me out with some family business after the war – and then a year or so later, we ran into each other again in Paris, picked up where we’d left off – and that was that.”
“I’d heard it was rather a whirlwind affair.”
“Not really,” she said. “At that point, Ned was keen to get me out of Paris, I think – he always knows which way the wind is blowing. He has to, doesn’t he?”
Jack took a few more notes, and then lifted his head, determined to return to some of his other lines of questioning, but she stopped him again.
“It’s not cutting edge journalism, is it?” she said, with sympathy. “Still, you must have met quite a few politicians’ wives – and if you’ve made a good impression, that might well come in handy.”
Jack raised his head.
“You must have thought of it,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s not really –”
“Take me,” she said. “I’ve decided you could have a very bright future ahead of you, and we have occasional little soirees here. All sorts of people turn up – Cabinet Ministers, top civil servants – useful people, you know?”
He tightened his fingers on the pencil, pressing it hard against the pad. “I do.”
“I could invite you sometime,” she offered.
“And what do you want in return?”
“Only your undying gratitude and a few kind words,” said Mrs Iveson. She met his gaze, and said, with disarming honesty, “I think you know the answer to some of those questions already, and if you want to write hurtful things about my mother in a magazine, you wouldn’t be the first. I just hope you’d prefer to get the chance to meet some more interesting people than me instead.”
Jack pocketed his notebook. “It wouldn’t really fit the tone, it’s true.”
“Assuming you’re housetrained, of course,” added Mrs Iveson. She rose. “But in your favour, you never even tried to flirt with me, let alone worse, which is an improvement on some other newspaper men I’ve met. I’ll send you an invitation if you don’t turn out to be horrid in print after all. Oh, and if you have people you know you could bring, then do – I’m sure you’ll know plenty of literary and artistic types.” She pulled a face. “One needs to dilute all the politicians – they can get a bit much en masse.”
Jack relaxed. “I know a poet, if that’s any good? An artist or two, maybe, although they’re not always good company.”
“There you are! A real poet?”
He shrugged. “Published and everything – Afzal Syed.”
“How marvellous!” said Mrs Iveson. “I heard him on the BBC only the other day. Very good, I thought – and he sounded like exactly the sort of person Amyas would enjoy arguing with. Mr Harding, I mean.”
Jack said dryly, “I’m sure Afzal would get a kick out of it himself.” He gathered up his notebook and pencils, and held out his hand to her again, this time in farewell. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” said Mrs Iveson. She shook his hand.
Jack followed her back into the hallway, and retrieved his coat from the hook. “Making an investment, I suppose? Useful contacts for me, my gratitude and therefore better press for your husband?”
“You have a very suspicious mind. Do tell Edward when you meet him that you think I’m terribly clever and devious. He’ll be very amused!”
Jack took his hat from her. “Maybe he will, but certainly, I don’t imagine for one instant that you don’t know where he actually is.”
“I am very possessive,” agreed Julia Iveson meekly. “It’s a great fault – and one you can print if you like. It’s better not to look too perfect, isn't it?”
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