Simon shrugged. ‘Let’s not talk about him. Instead…’ He rose and held out his hand ‘C’mon, Celia. Let’s cut a rug.’
‘But I can’t—’
‘It’s easy.’ He pulled me up out of my chair and then on to the dance floor, and stood in front of me a little to the right. I stared up at his face and he winked. He put his right hand on my shoulder blade and laughed at my expression. ‘I promise you’ll survive the jitterbug.’
I surrendered my right hand to him. When I put my left hand on his shoulder I felt the fine wool of his tunic under my fingers and I watched his chest move in and out with his breath as the band gave a few exploratory bars and began to play.
Although the dance started slowly it soon heated up. He pushed me away and pulled me towards him and we stepped and shuffled and kicked and turned. As I started to move more easily in time with the music, my body loosened up. And I found myself smiling because it was fun to dance with Simon. I’m not a bad dancer if I am able to trust my partner and stop worrying about the steps. I could do that with Simon and it wasn’t long before we began to really let go. He dipped me, threw me out and pulled me in. We rocked our hips and kicked out and stepped back and turned again, and soon there was nothing beyond the music and following Simon’s lead.
I was almost bereft when the music faded and stopped. My heart was pumping and it felt as if something within me had been released. I realised that what I was feeling was happiness, simple, uncomplicated happiness, something I had not felt for a long time.
The band moved into a slow number. Simon pulled me close and I concentrated on getting my breathing back to normal.
‘See,’ whispered Simon, ‘told you you’d survive.’
I laughed into his chest. ‘What was that music? The beat is different to anything I’ve danced to before.’
‘Madam, that’s jazz, in quarter time with syncopated rhythm. May I say that you jitterbug with style.’
‘You may. And may I respond that you are a – what’s the term? – a hep cat?’
He gave a shout of laughter, and moved us into a space on the dance floor where we weren’t so crushed by the crowd.
‘I’ll take you to some of the clubs I know and you’ll see who the real hep cats are. But thank you for the compliment. It helps to have a good partner.’
I settled into the slower steps and we danced for a while without speaking. I breathed in the scent of his woollen uniform and a not unpleasant whiff of perspiration mingled with the general fug around us of oiled wood, alcohol, stale perfume, cigarette smoke and human bodies. The ropey muscles in Simon’s back moved under my hand and the space between our bodies was hot, but not uncomfortable. I was wrapped in his arms and I felt utterly safe, and so my thoughts drifted. When the music faded I realised, with some embarrassment, that my head had come to rest on his shoulder and his arms were tight around me, so that I was pressed against him. We had been dancing like lovers. I pushed away with as much grace as I could manage.
‘Forgive me. I’ve been woolgathering, as usual.’
‘You seemed relaxed. Always a good thing in these anxious times. They’re preparing for another swing number. You game?’ He gave me a searching look. ‘Or would you prefer to sit this one out with a drink?’
I laughed. ‘I’m game.’
‘Stout fella,’ he replied, smiling.
Simon swung me away with a flourish and pulled me back hard against his chest. I looked up into his face, laughing and breathless. I am happy, I thought. Right now, I am happy. Then he twirled me around and we lost ourselves in the steps and the rhythm of the music.
When we returned to the table we found that Maisie and Rupert Purvis had arrived and were sipping their drinks as they watched the dancing.
‘You’re a good dancer, Celia,’ said Maisie.
I was flattered. ‘High praise, coming from a professional,’ I said, and glanced at Simon. ‘You should try dancing with Maisie.’
‘She’s already taken,’ said Purvis. That earned him a cool look from Maisie, but she took his hand and he led her to the dance floor.
Simon looked at someone over to his right and laughed. ‘I’m being waved at. I think it’s Joan from the tea car.’
I looked where he indicated. Joan was smiling and waving at us. ‘England expects every man to do his duty by our tea-car girls,’ I said.
Simon stood and turned to me with a mock-heroic look. ‘I’m just going outside and may be some time.’
I rolled my eyes and made a shooing movement with my hand. ‘Off with you, Captain Oates. You know you’re looking forward to it, really.’
He was away some time. I saw him dancing with Joan. I wasn’t spying on him, it’s just that he caught my eye as I danced with Rupert Purvis. And I saw him again when I danced with Gerald, and this time he was dancing with Kitty, who was looking very pretty in a cream-and-pink frock with embroidery on the skirt. I think he danced with Kitty again, and perhaps a third time. I wasn’t checking, but her dress was easily identifiable.
He rejoined us after an hour or so, just as we were talking of leaving.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ I asked him.
‘Had a marvellous time. They’re very lively girls. Great fun.’
‘Kitty looked very pretty tonight,’ I said, as Simon drove slowly along Tottenham Court Road. The darkness seemed to press in on us, outside the narrow headlight beam. We were alone in the car, as Pam and Gerald had decided to go on to another club.
Simon laughed. ‘She did, didn’t she. I like Kitty a lot. And Joan. They’re bomb girls, you know. They work together in a munitions factory on the outskirts of London, and they volunteer on the tea car on their nights off.’
‘So Miriam didn’t mind you going out dancing tonight without her?’
He smiled. ‘Of course not. She says I need to relax more. Says I work too hard and worry too much.’
It was just after midnight when he parked outside St Andrew’s and I was yawning and longing for my bed. I had to be at the station at seven-thirty that morning, and I suspected that Pam was right, and we’d have another day raid to deal with.
‘I’m not used to the social whirl any more,’ I said, as he saw me to the door. ‘Or to dancing so much. I’ll be stiff tomorrow. Let’s hope there are no air raids, as I won’t be at my nippiest.’ A thought hit me and I groaned. ‘Oh, God.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Simon.
‘I’m lunching with Cedric on Saturday. Which is now officially tomorrow.’
He frowned. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘Oh, I can deal with Cedric,’ I said airily.
I really should have known better than to tempt fate with such a stupid remark.
‘Thanks for inviting me last night,’ said Maisie, when I met her in the kitchen the following morning. ‘I really enjoyed it.’
‘Simon pushed me into it,’ I said. ‘You should thank him.’
‘He’s lovely. Has a girlfriend, you said?’
‘Yes. Her name is Miriam Rosenfeld. I know her mother, but I’ve never met Miriam.’
She laughed. ‘Can’t be too serious if she lets him go out dancing with you. You looked gorgeous last night. I saw you getting admiring looks from all over. Including Simon Levy, I might add.’
I decided to change the subject. ‘I’d have thought you’d prefer to keep away from dance halls in your spare time. Sort of a busman’s holiday for you.’
‘Lord, no. I’ll dance anywhere, any time. I love to dance. Can’t not dance, really.’
‘Have you always danced?’
‘Professionally, since I was nine years old.’
‘Nine years old!’
Maisie laughed. ‘In local pantomimes. My family needed the money.’ She must have seen something in my face, for she laughed again. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t pity me. I may have done it for money, but dancing’s always been my delight. Apparently, from the time I could walk, I danced.’
She took a sip of tea and her eye
s became dreamy. ‘When I dance it’s as if the rest of the world is halted and I’m in my own world of music and rhythm. My concentration on the steps distracts me from all my worries, and my delight in the movement of my body means that I enjoy the moment completely.’ She made a face. ‘You did ask.’
‘I envy you your passion for it,’ I said.
‘I started learning ballet when I was four.’ There was real pride in her eyes now. ‘When I was dancing in pantomime I was seen by Italia Conti. She allowed me to train at her Academy in Lamb’s Conduit Street at a discounted rate, and then I danced all over England in her productions of The Rainbow’s End.’ Her smile became mischievous. ‘Bet you can’t work out where I’m from originally. Elocution lessons were part of Miss Conti’s curriculum.’
‘Where are you from originally?’ She was absolutely right. I had no idea.
Maisie smiled and shook her head. ‘One day I’ll tell you. Anyway, I joined the Tiller Girls when I was seventeen and danced with them here in England and in the Paris Folies Bergère for a year. When that fell through I stayed in France and ended up exhibition dancing at smart hotels on the French Riviera.’
‘The French Riviera? How glamorous.’
‘It was fun. Those Frenchmen are slippery beggars, though. You can’t trust them an inch.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh, I did meet a dreamy Frenchman on the Riviera, but I don’t speak much French and he didn’t speak much English, so that led nowhere. I didn’t really care. He was nice, but awfully intense. Any man I end up with must to be able to make me laugh. Then again, I’m not interested in romance.’
I was sceptical. ‘Really?’
‘Not at all interested. All the girls in the troupe did was complain about their blokes and how awfully they were treated by them. First thing we had to learn as Tiller Girls was how to deal with unwanted advances. Some of the men backstage behave disgracefully. Comedians and comperes are the worst, and the married ones worst of all. It really puts you off men. Don’t get me wrong. I like to have a good time, but nothing serious for me.’
‘So you don’t have a boyfriend?’ It seemed amazing to me that a girl as sweet, pretty and capable as Maisie didn’t have a man in her life.
‘Nope. Pure as driven snow, that’s me. Never had a real boyfriend.’ She gave me a straight look. ‘My father died when I was a tiny tot, so I didn’t have a father in my life. My mother and I lived with my grandparents for a few years and not once did I see Nan and Pop be affectionate to each other.’ She sighed and her eyes became suspiciously bright. ‘I suppose I don’t know much about affection, plain and simple affection, between a man and woman.’
‘It’s different when you fall in love,’ I said. Then I wanted to laugh at myself, because my own experience in that department was not the best.
Maisie gave a shrug. ‘Trouble is, I’d really like to have kids one day and you need a man for that. But he’d have to make me laugh, and let me keep dancing.’ She raised the cup to her lips and took another sip, then smiled. ‘Anyway, to finish the story, I came back here at the start of the war. There’s not much call for dancing girls at present and I wanted to stay in London. So I joined the Ambulance Service.’
‘And you’re nineteen?’
‘Almost twenty.’
She turned as the door opened to reveal Jack Moray, and began to chat to him.
I thought that Maisie’s little speech – the most she’d ever spoken about herself to me – told more in what had been left out than what had been said. Where had she been born? Her accent gave nothing away. I’d assumed she was middle class and from London. Earning money at nine years old and needing discounted rates at the Academy. That indicated she came from straightened circumstances. I mentally shrugged. Halliday’s secrets remained her own.
As did mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Most Londoners have heard of Quaglino’s, the icon of style and gourmandry in Bury Street, Mayfair, and much-loved haunt of the smart set before the war. The Duke and Duchess of Kent, and Earl and Lady Mountbatten were regulars at Quag’s, as were the Prince of Wales and his American divorcee in the thirties.
Cedric and I had gone there often after our marriage. That was before the war, when he was still accepted in the best drawing rooms in London. Since his arrest I had not dined out very much, and I had not set foot in Quag’s for over a year. Even so, when I arrived that Saturday afternoon to meet Cedric, I was personally greeted by the maître d’, Signor Quaglino. His bald head gleamed dully as he leaned down to kiss my hand. When he smiled at me from behind his black-framed spectacles his accent and manner were as resolutely Italian as they had been before we had declared war on Italy.
‘Signora Ashwin, it is so good to see you again. And as beautiful as ever. Please allow me…’
He led me down the stairs to what he told me was now known as the Meurice Restaurant, but had been formerly Quaglino’s downstairs grill room. Much like Signor Quaglino’s head, the famous copper dance floor shone dully under its chandeliers.
He told me that Cedric had not yet arrived. This was surprising, as I was on time and Cedric was well aware how rude it was to keep your guest waiting. Upon consideration, I suspected that his late entry was for tactical reasons. It would mean he was spared the embarrassment of being snubbed by the ‘smart set’ while sitting alone at his table waiting for me. And it would show me, his recalcitrant wife, that he did not feel bound by manners when dealing with me.
‘The whole room has been strengthened, you understand,’ said Signor Quaglino, throwing his arm up in an expansive gesture, ‘and it now serves as an air-raid shelter for my diners.’ His face showed his delight. ‘There are special shelves in the cloakrooms for everybody’s gas masks.’
He settled me into a chair at a table near the back of the room, quite a distance from the dance floor. Signor Quaglino was no fool. It would not be to his advantage to exhibit Cedric Ashwin to the other diners, almost all of whom – men and women – were in uniform.
‘We have always been full, you understand,’ he confided, smiling with quiet confidence, ‘even throughout this Blitz. But luncheon is our busiest time now, because of the air raids.’ He frowned. ‘They should come in the evening. Even if a raid lasts until morning, my guests are safe and comfortable. They stay here in my Meurice, entertained at an all-night cabaret. When the All Clear sounds, it is time for breakfast.’ He leant in and whispered, ‘On the house, you understand?’
I smiled. ‘However do you manage, with the rationing?’
He spoke to me in confidential tones. ‘We, the Quaglino’s, are rationed, yet unrationed. We have a thousand people here each day. Yes?’
I felt myself unable to contradict, although the figure sounded astronomical, considering the astronomical charges he levied.
‘And so we want two hundred pounds of butter a week,’ he continued. He peered at me through his thick spectacles. ‘Do we get it?’
Apparently a response was expected. ‘Yes?’ I ventured.
He nodded vigorously, and said with a note of triumph, ‘Quaglino’s gets its butter.’
Although I strongly suspected that it was butter mixed with margarine, I smiled and radiated my admiration at his resourcefulness. Actually, I was wondering about the source of the meat served at the Meurice, and thinking that Signor Quaglino and Sam Sadler from the ambulance station had more in common than either might realise.
‘Isn’t Lord Woolton bringing in new restrictions very soon, to regulate what food restaurants may offer their patrons?’ I asked, with a disingenuous smile. ‘And then both restaurants and diners alike will be liable to fines for excess food consumption.’
Signor Quaglino stiffened and his smile became fixed. ‘Quaglino’s will still offer its diners the best. Now, if I might leave you…’
Personally, I thought that the proposed new rationing regulations were fair. The Royal Navy and the Merchant Marine faced terrible danger to bring much-needed food from the Dominions to England through the Germa
n blockade, and everyone knew it was not being fairly distributed. The ordinary people were having a hard struggle to get bare necessities, or were going without, as they were forced to rely on their ration tickets to obtain meat, while those rich enough to dine in the smart restaurants still lived luxuriously. The News of the World had reported the previous week: ‘Never in the history of a nation faced with famine could so much be eaten by so few’. I smiled to myself. Cedric would no doubt consider my views to be scandalously close to communism.
He arrived a few minutes later and so began one of the strangest and most disturbing experiences of my life. The two hours I spent in Cedric’s company that afternoon are seared into my memory. Even now I can still vividly recall the slight scent of the red rose in the little vase on our table, the fleur de lys pattern in the damask of the tablecloth, the Viennese waltz played by the small orchestra as Cedric arrived.
My husband was full of apologies for his tardiness, and he had just sat down when a waiter hovered at his elbow.
‘If I may suggest,’ said the waiter delicately. He paused, then continued at Cedric’s nod. ‘For luncheon today, grapefruit, then grilled lemon sole followed by Kebab d’Agneau Orientale with aubergines frites and pommes macaire. And to finish, Zabaglione au Marsala.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘You can offer all that? Even with the rationing?’
‘Madam,’ the waiter seemed affronted, ‘the Duchess of Kent is dining here this afternoon. Quaglino’s can offer anything when Caldaroni is head chef.’
‘That will be fine,’ said Cedric.
I gave a laugh once the waiter had left. ‘I wonder if the kebab will be agneau or cheval?’
Cedric frowned. ‘If Quag’s says it is lamb, it will not be horse meat.’
I shrugged. ‘I’ll reserve judgement until it arrives. And all those eggs in the Zabaglione? Not even Quag’s can provide that many eggs for this many diners. Must be dried eggs.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Celia. This is Quaglino’s.’
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