Transcription

by Kate Atkinson

  Perry had bought Juliet a new frock for the party. It was a bias-cut satin affair that was rather revealing, a purchase he had encouraged. Indeed, he had accompanied her to Selfridges and the saleswoman had whispered to her in the changing room, ‘What a generous chap. You are a lucky girl,’ and Juliet had said, ‘Well, perhaps he’s the lucky one.’ I am a gift. An apple waiting to be plucked. A rose. A pearl.

  ‘And I thought this would help,’ Perry said, producing a little green leather box. When she opened it there was a pair of diamond earrings nestling inside the white satin interior.

  ‘Oh,’ Juliet said.

  ‘Diamonds,’ he said, as if she might not know what they were. ‘Rather good – or so I’m told. Insured, but try not to lose them. They’re to be returned tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’ Not a gift then. Why not just give me a pumpkin and six white mice and be done with it, Juliet thought.

  ‘A twenty-first-birthday present from your father, if you’re asked.’

  ‘I’m only eighteen.’

  ‘Yes, but you seem older.’ (Did that make her more or less attractive to him, she wondered?)

  ‘And you said my father was dead,’ she reminded him.

  ‘So he is.’ She was surprised – Perry never forgot anything. This morning, during elevenses, a cup had slipped out of his hands in the tiny kitchen of Dolphin Square and he had stood for quite some time simply staring at the scattered shards on the kitchen floor. ‘I’m not myself,’ he had said eventually. He is himself, she thought, it’s just that he has two selves, like revolving doors. Dr Jekyll, may I introduce you to Mr Hyde? A dualist.

  He had walked away and left her to pick up the pieces.

  Now he sighed and visibly gathered himself. ‘The earrings are a family heirloom then – your mother’s.’

  Sitting beneath the fearsomely hot dryer in a hairdresser’s in Knightsbridge while a girl gave her a manicure, Juliet felt not so much like Cinderella as a victim being prepared for sacrifice.

  ‘Ah, Iris, dear,’ Mrs Scaife said, tacking a course towards her, lace billowing in her wake. ‘I’m so glad you could come. What pretty earrings.’

  ‘My mother left them to me when she died.’

  Mrs Scaife put her arm around Juliet’s shoulders and gave her an encouraging squeeze. ‘Poor, dear Iris.’

  Mrs Scaife herself was wearing pearls, a three-strand choker in the style of Queen Mary. She always wore something around her neck – a silk scarf or a tippet of some kind. Juliet thought she must be hiding a scar but Mrs Ambrose said flatly, ‘Just wrinkles.’

  At the far end of the room a professional bar had been set up, incongruously modern in gleaming chrome and glass amongst all the marble, but Mrs Scaife seized a glass of sherry from the tray of a passing waitress. (‘Stand up straight, this isn’t a Lyons.’) She handed the sherry to Juliet. ‘Here, dear. Now, there are so many people I want you to meet.’ Oh, Lord, Juliet thought. Here we go.

  Mrs Scaife pushed the rounded prow of her bountiful bosom through the crowd, clearing a channel, Juliet trailing obediently behind. She was introduced several times as ‘our new little storm trooper’, and people laughed as if that were a charming description. Perry had told her that she must try to remember the names of everyone she encountered, but there were so many people and their names tumbled over one another, a Lord here, an Honourable there, a judge, member of parliament, a bishop, and … Clarissa?

  ‘Lady Clarissa Marchmont. Clarissa, dear, may I introduce you to Iris Carter-Jenkins.’

  Clarissa said, ‘How d’you do, Iris. Nice to have another young face here, isn’t it, Mrs Scaife?’ She was wearing a gorgeous dress. (‘Schiaparelli. Ancient, of course. I’ve had nothing new since war was declared. I’ll be in rags soon.’) ‘Tell you what, Iris, why don’t you ditch that sherry and we’ll see if the barman can make us a couple of cocktails. Can I tempt you?’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ Juliet murmured as they sipped decorously on something indescribably sweet and alcoholic and surveyed the room.

  ‘I didn’t know! It was a last-minute thing. Don’t worry, I’m not one of your precious Perry’s girls,’ Clarissa said, laughing.

  ‘He’s not mine.’ (If only.)

  ‘He thought I’d come in handy, because of Daddy.’

  ‘Daddy? The Duke?’

  ‘If you like. He’s over there,’ Clarissa said, nodding in the direction of a knot of men in earnest conversation. ‘They look like a group of penguins in their evening dress, don’t they? A – what’s the collective noun?’

  ‘Huddle, I believe.’ Penguins were comic creatures, Juliet thought. These men weren’t funny. They were in charge of the country, one way or another. Were they even now discussing how they would carve up power if Hitler marched along Whitehall?

  ‘Daddy’s ferociously right-wing, completely pro-German,’ Clarissa said. ‘We met Hitler, you know. In ’36, at the Games.’ (We?) ‘So, obviously, I fit the part. You’re doing a good job of not looking shocked. Have a fag, why don’t you?’

  Juliet took a cigarette from the familiar gold-crested packet. ‘But you’re not … you know, are you?’

  ‘One of them? Dear God, no. Of course not. Don’t be silly. My sisters are, mind you. And Mummy. And poor Pammy, of course – she worships old Adolf, dreams about having his baby. Oh, look out, here comes Monty Rankin, I have to say hello to him. Nice earrings, by the way, I hope you get to keep them.’

  Clarissa moved away and Juliet was left feeling rather exposed, and not just because of the flimsy nature of her dress. She threaded her way through the throng, catching snippets of conversation as she went. ‘Germans are at the Meuse … the French are trying to blow up the bridgeheads … their troops are colonials … no loyalty … Dutch are finished … Wilhelmina in a boat on her way over here as we speak.’ They knew so much, it was frightening. Perhaps they knew everything.

  Juliet found herself in an anteroom, where there was more drink and also food laid out. The food looked delicious – no sign of rationing here.

  Beyond the anteroom was another kind of antechamber – hordes of refugees and evacuees could be housed here without anyone even noticing them. Beyond this room was a staircase, not the grandiose marble affair that climbed its way ostentatiously from the entrance hall, but a more everyday one, still richly carpeted, so not intended for servants. Juliet walked boldly up it (‘Always behave as if you belong,’ Perry advised) and found herself in what seemed like the true heart of the house. A drawing room, a dining room and a study that was lavish with cupboards and drawers and shelves. Perry had told her to bring the camera that was hidden in the lighter and it was currently lying heavily in her small evening bag. (‘See if you can find anything, documents and so on. A copy of the Red Book, perhaps. Who knows.’)

  She entered a library – wall-to-wall leather-bound volumes and a massive refectory-style table that ran almost the length of the room. It was covered in documents and papers, quite a few of which were in German (there was a good deal of talk about das Reich and der Führer). Here we go, Juliet thought, taking out the camera, but she hadn’t even managed to take one snap when she heard a deep, mellow voice behind her saying, ‘Do you need a cigarette to go with that?’

  Her heart dropped several floors – was the game up? Was she going to end up floating down the Thames like a log? Or delivered down a coal hole into the everlasting dark?

  Courage, she thought, and turned to face the tall, strikingly ugly man who was standing behind her. There was something familiar about him and it took her a few seconds to place him. He was the man in the astrakhan-collared coat! No astrakhan collar tonight as of course he was in white tie, but even so he was recognizable. Juliet could feel her blood draining away. Was this what swooning felt like? Not something transcendent and romantic, but one’s heart about to give out from fear.

  ‘Oh, that would be wonderful, I seem to have left mine somewhere,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Are you all right?’

&
nbsp; ‘Quite, thank you.’

  He produced an enamelled cigarette case. It seemed he really was just offering her a cigarette.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He took the lighter off her and sparked it up. To her relief, a steady flame appeared.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he said.

  ‘Iris Carter-Jenkins,’ she said, but he didn’t reciprocate the introduction and instead he said, ‘May I escort you downstairs? You seem to be lost.’

  ‘I do rather, don’t I?’ she laughed breezily. Her heart still hadn’t quietened down and she felt rather sick.

  He shepherded her back down the same carpeted staircase and said, ‘I shall leave you here, I’m afraid, I have an appointment elsewhere,’ and then in a voice so low that she had to lean close to hear him, he said, ‘Do be careful, Miss Armstrong.’

  ‘Great God, what is that you’re drinking? It’s purple.’ A man. One of the penguins from the huddle.

  ‘I believe it’s called an “Aviation”,’ Juliet said.

  ‘Can I tempt you to another?’

  ‘No,’ Juliet said. ‘I don’t believe I will, thank you.’

  As instructed, the morning after Mrs Scaife’s soirée, Juliet went to return the diamond earrings to the jewellers. As fate would have it, when she entered the shop she encountered, of all people, Mrs Scaife herself. It seemed an odd coincidence, but then that was the nature of coincidence, Juliet supposed – it always seemed odd.

  Through the window she could see one of Mrs Scaife’s personal thugs standing guard outside the shop. Juliet was pretty sure they followed her whenever she left Mrs Scaife’s house so, as instructed by Perry, she had got into the habit of taking a meandering route away from Pelham Place. Sometimes she would step on a bus on the Fulham Road and step off again after one stop, or take the Tube at South Kensington station. And, of course, following Perry’s instructions, when she was in a taxi she was supposed to get out at Victoria and walk the rest of the way to Dolphin Square. It was rather exciting, as if she were in a Buchan novel or something by Erskine Childers.

  Now she wondered if they had followed her here from Dolphin Square this morning. They couldn’t know what she did there though. Could they? It would explain why Mrs Scaife happened to be in exactly the same place at the same time. The thought made her feel rather panicky. (‘It’s important not to fall prey to delusions and neuroses,’ Perry said. But then he also said, ‘Never trust a coincidence.’)

  Juliet was also finding herself unnerved by Mrs Scaife’s fur tippet – a stoat or a weasel – that was wound so tightly round her neck that it appeared to be trying to strangle her. The sharp little face of the animal was frozen in a snarl, fixing Juliet with its beady black glass eyes as if willing her to confess her true self.

  ‘Oh, Iris, dearest, fancy seeing you here! Are you all right? You look quite pale. Have you come to browse? I’m just bringing in some pieces for cleaning.’ Juliet had been feeling very much like Juliet, a Juliet who was rather the worse for wear after all the alcohol she had consumed the previous evening at Mrs Scaife’s soirée. It took considerable effort to transform herself so abruptly into Iris.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Actually I’m looking for a christening bracelet. My sister’s baby. I’m to be godmother.’ How nice it felt to say ‘my sister’. The dearest wish of an only child. I could be a godmother, she thought. I’d be a good one.

  ‘Oh, how charming. You never mentioned you had a sister.’ Mrs Scaife turned to address a man behind the counter. ‘Can you find a nice selection of christening bracelets for Miss Carter-Jenkins?’

  Once the velvet tray of little silver bracelets was arranged to Mrs Scaife’s satisfaction she said, ‘Well, I would love to stay and help you choose, but I have lunch at the Ritz with Bunny Hepburn beckoning. Cook has taken a week’s holiday. Can you believe? I must go. Lovely to see you again so soon, dear. Why don’t you come and have coffee with me tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Madam?’ the man behind the counter prompted when Mrs Scaife had steered her way out of the shop. ‘Can I tempt you with any of these bracelets?’

  ‘No,’ Juliet said. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m terribly sorry but I have to go, I’m in a bit of a rush.’ She was. She hotfooted it round to Pelham Place. Mrs Scaife would be hours at lunch and this was the perfect opportunity to look for the Red Book. All she needed was for poor little Dodds to let her in.

  ‘Hello, Dodds.’

  ‘Hello, miss,’ Dodds said shyly. The maid peered timidly round the imposing door at her, guarding the threshold. The black paint on the door was so glossy that Juliet could see her face reflected in it. ‘Mrs Scaife isn’t here, miss.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. I’m afraid I left something when I was here the other day.’

  ‘I didn’t find anything, miss.’

  ‘It was something very small. A ring. I think it must have got lost in the sofa. Can I come in and look for it, Dodds?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to let anyone in when Mrs Scaife isn’t here, miss.’

  ‘My mother gave it to me before she died,’ Juliet said softly. I could have been a great tragedienne, she thought. Although the mention of her mother caused genuine sorrow. If her mother had given her a ring, she would never take it off.

  Dodds hesitated, no doubt thinking of her own dead mother. They were comrades in grief. Orphaned girls making their way through the perils of the dark forest. ‘Please, Dodds?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Please?’ It was like trying to coax a hesitant woodland creature to eat out of one’s hand. Not that Juliet had ever done that. She expected Perry had. ‘I’ll be in and out in a shake of the lamb’s proverbial tail. Honestly.’

  Dodds sighed. ‘Promise, miss?’ The imposing door opened reluctantly.

  Juliet rummaged amongst the salmon damask cushions, overseen by a nervous Dodds. It was very off-putting. ‘Do you know, Dodds,’ Juliet said, ‘I am absolutely parched. Do you think you could make me a cup of tea?’

  ‘I shouldn’t leave you alone in here, miss. Mrs Scaife would kill me if she knew.’

  Poor girl, she had no free will, always having to do as she was told. It was one step above servitude really, wasn’t it? She must have another name, surely, Juliet thought. ‘What’s your name, Dodds?’

  ‘Dodds, miss.’

  ‘No, I mean your first name.’

  ‘Beatrice, miss.’

  They were all equals, weren’t they? It was just luck that separated them. Juliet’s own mother had been in service before she became a dressmaker. Juliet could easily have become ‘Armstrong’, waiting hand and foot on some pampered poodle of a woman like Mrs Scaife. ‘Beatrice?’

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  Juliet took her purse out of her bag. It contained five new one-pound notes, collected from the bank that morning for Perry. She held them out to the girl, who stared at them in a kind of fascinated horror. ‘Take them,’ Juliet urged.

  Dodds looked at her askance. ‘What for, miss?’

  ‘For nothing.’

  ‘Nothing, miss?’

  ‘Very well, then, how about for taking an inordinately long time to make a pot of tea?’

  ‘I can’t, miss.’ (Honourable and upright, Juliet thought. Miles Merton would have recruited Beatrice Dodds.)

  They said that truth could set you free, but Juliet had never set much store by that idea. But now she thought it might be worth a try and so she said, ‘Beatrice, my name isn’t Iris Carter-Jenkins. It’s Juliet. Juliet Armstrong. I work for the government,’ she added solemnly. It was true and yet it felt oddly like a lie, as if she were acting the part of being herself. ‘You’ll be doing your country an enormous service if you help me.’ A small pause for effect. ‘I believe Mrs Scaife is a traitor.’

  Dodds needed no other explanation. Ignoring the money, she said, ‘I’ll make you some tea, miss.’ She bobbed a little curtsey, directed more towards her King and country than Juliet. With a little smile of proud heroism, she said, �
�It may take some time, I’m afraid, miss.’

  As soon as Dodds – Beatrice, Juliet reminded herself – had scurried out of the room, Juliet abandoned all pretence of searching the salmon damask and turned her attention to the rest of the room. She began with the most promising – the escritoire – pulling out one drawer after another and combing through the contents of each. She had no idea of the size of the Red Book – it might be as big as a family Bible or as small as a policeman’s notebook – but there was no sign of it amongst Mrs Scaife’s bountiful stationery, her invitations or her pile of bills and receipts. It appeared Mrs Scaife was a very tardy payer of tradesmen.

  An exploration of the drawing room – behind the pictures, beneath the corners of the rugs, even a careful investigation of the cabinet of Sèvres – revealed nothing. In the hallway she found Beatrice still hovering nervously. To Juliet’s chagrin, she didn’t seem to have made any actual tea. ‘Did you find what you were looking for, miss?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately.’

  ‘What are you looking for, miss?’

  ‘A book, it’s red.’

  ‘The Red Book?’

  ‘Yes!’ Why hadn’t she thought to ask the girl in the first place? ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘I think so, miss. Mrs Scaife keeps it in the—’

  She was interrupted by the unmistakeable sound of the front door opening and Mrs Scaife’s voice calling, ‘Dodds? Dodds, where are you?’ as if history was doomed to repeat itself endlessly (but then it was, wasn’t it?).

  Juliet and Beatrice stared at each other in horror as Mrs Scaife sailed into the hall downstairs on a raft of complaints. ‘The Ritz got my reservation wrong, they claimed that there were no tables free. Well, that was nonsense. Bunny Hepburn was useless, of course …’ and so on. Oh, Lord, they were in for it now, Juliet thought.

  Beatrice was the first to come to her senses. ‘Upstairs,’ she whispered urgently, indicating the staircase to the second floor. ‘Go up. Hide.’

  ‘And I said to the maître d’, “My husband is a Rear Admiral, you know.”’ Mrs Scaife’s words floated up the stairs, slightly ahead of her own less buoyant ascent.