‘And you’ve been snooping around, asking questions about this?’ I cried, suddenly furious at him. ‘What if they find out?’
‘Shh!’ he said, glancing about.
‘Why are you even telling me this?’ I hissed.
‘I told you, I need your help!’ he said. ‘I hoped that maybe . . . that you could ask the Colonel to investigate.’
‘But –’
‘Sophie, this is important! Pilots’ lives depend on those parachutes working! It can’t wait seven months! What if it’s Toby next time?’
I was silenced.
‘I thought the Colonel would be the one person who could get to the bottom of it,’ Simon went on, more calmly. ‘But then I remembered he’s Julia’s uncle, and I thought that if he discovered anything unpleasant, it could be awkward for him. You know Julia better than I do, though. Do you think she’d want to know the truth? Or would it be kinder to . . . let sleeping dogs lie?’
I frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘She’s having a very hard time right now. I know what you think of her, Simon, but she really did love Anthony.’
I recalled that conversation I’d had with her, months ago, about her resolution to become the perfect wife. Perhaps she’d thought that if she devoted herself to making Anthony happy, she’d be rewarded. Anthony would surely be kept safe, when she was making such an effort to be good. If she’d believed that, even subconsciously, then how angry and bitter and betrayed she must have felt afterwards. No wonder she’d ended up . . . doing what she’d done.
‘I can’t say how Julia might react,’ I told Simon, ‘but I don’t think it would help her at all to know that Anthony died because of the incompetence of someone on his own side. Especially if she found out that he’d . . . suffered.’
‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘I see what you mean. Well then, she mustn’t find out.’
‘The Colonel’s very good at keeping secrets,’ I said. ‘But Simon, I haven’t seen him for ages. I’m not even sure where he is.’
I’d had only brief, irregular visits from the Colonel since the Tyler Kent affair had been uncovered, although I’d continued my cloak-and-dagger activities for a while. For example, I’d get a telephone call asking if I could go for a walk in Kensington Gardens at a specific time, and have a short rest upon a certain bench, whereupon a lady in a green hat would offer me her magazine when she’d finished with it – and could I then make some pretence of reading a few pages, place the magazine carefully in my bag and stroll home? Then the Colonel would pop around a few evenings later to collect it. I never asked whether I was delivering vital photographs, or encoded letters, or microfilmed maps – I didn’t want to know. But the Blitz had put an end to my secret assignments, anyway. People didn’t take casual strolls or loiter in parks in the middle of an air raid, and there was no guarantee that any particular bench or statue or fountain selected as a rendezvous point would still be standing a few hours later. It must have been at least three months since I’d seen the Colonel.
‘I might be able to track him down,’ I said, wondering if our telephone code still functioned, and suspecting it didn’t. He was connected to the Foreign Office, though, so perhaps Veronica’s boss might have some idea of how to find him . . .
‘Please try,’ said Simon. ‘Just be careful.’
‘You’re telling me to be careful?’ I said incredulously.
He sent me a rueful, pleading look that melted all my reservations. Although I was careful to conceal this from him, with an enormous scowl. After all, I don’t want him taking me for granted.
19th January, 1941
DAPHNE TELEPHONED YESTERDAY TO ASK me to go out dancing with her and Julia.
‘Come on, Sophie,’ she urged. ‘Julia says she’ll go if you do, and she’s only saying that because she thinks you’ll say no. But she absolutely needs to get out, relax, enjoy herself a little. She hardly leaves the house now except to go to work, and that job’s not exactly fun, is it?’
‘Oh, Daphne,’ I said, ‘she just needs some time to herself.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Daphne. ‘I’ve known her forever, and believe me, Sophie, she needs people around her, to help her get over things. Well, not get over it, exactly, but all this hiding away and moping, it simply isn’t her. Now, be a darling and say you’ll come out with us tonight.’
‘I’m too tired,’ I said, which was quite true. ‘I was on fire-watching duty twice this week.’
‘You’ll be home by midnight, I promise! Or one o’clock at the very, very latest! We’ll have a nice early dinner at the Savoy and then go somewhere to dance for an hour or so, and you can toddle off after that. I’ve asked some friends to meet us – lovely Polish pilots, you’ll adore them. Oh, and bring Veronica.’
‘She’s not even here,’ I said. ‘She’s terribly busy at work, I’ve scarcely seen her all week – oh, wait, here she comes now.’
Veronica trudged into our sitting room, dumped her bag on the floor and sagged onto the sofa.
‘Do you want to go out tonight?’ I asked her.
She flung an arm across her eyes.
‘She doesn’t want to,’ I told Daphne.
‘Oh, what a pity! But never mind – we’ll collect you at eight, darling, all right?’ Then she rang off before I could protest.
I sighed, and wondered whether I had enough time to wash my hair. ‘How was work?’ I asked Veronica.
‘The usual,’ she said. ‘Translating hours of news broadcasts into Spanish, with a very unsubtle emphasis on how much economic aid we’re giving to Spain, meanwhile inserting a lot of sycophantic commentary about how wonderful Franco is. I can’t understand why we bother – everyone knows the Falangists are jamming the BBC’s signal into Spain and confiscating any private wireless set they can find.’
‘Well – I suppose if any of it gets through, it’ll help keep the Spaniards on our side.’
‘Yes, if that’s worth compromising our integrity,’ she said. ‘I need a bath. I don’t suppose the gas is back on yet?’
‘No. But it’s good the telephone’s working again, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, the bliss of living in a modern, civilised city,’ said Veronica, subsiding further into the cushions.
I really wasn’t looking forward to an evening out, but Daphne was determined we should have a good time, and she generally gets her way. She made me put on a brighter shade of lipstick, and she’d forced Julia into a clinging satin evening dress, which was slit up one side to the thigh. Julia was still protesting as we climbed out of the taxi.
‘Really, Daphne, I’m supposed to be in mourning.’
‘Well, it’s not my fault if that’s the only black evening gown of yours that still fits. You shouldn’t have lost so much weight. Anyway, that pearl choker lends a nice elegant touch, doesn’t it, Sophie?’
‘I’m not drinking, you know,’ said Julia. ‘And I have to be home early. I’m on duty tomorrow.’
‘Whatever you say, darling,’ said Daphne, herding us into the lobby of the Savoy. ‘Oh, look! There they are!’
In much the same way that other women collect shoes or china figurines, Daphne collects extremely handsome men. These came in a set, in matching RAF uniforms. There was a tall, slim, fair one; a strapping one with reddish-gold curls and a puckish grin; and a dark-haired one with the chiselled features of a matinee idol. They had lovely manners, too, rushing to pull out our chairs and light Daphne’s cigarette and retrieve my wrap when it slipped off my shoulders. They were all from the same squadron – an entirely Polish squadron, the dark-haired one explained to me. He said to call him Peter, ‘although it is not my real name, you understand.’
‘Because no one here can pronounce your real name?’
‘Yes, and because I have family in Poland. So if I get shot down over France and the Nazis catch me, they will not know my real name, and they cannot cause trouble for my family.’
He told me he’d escaped from his homeland in 1939 after the Nazis invaded, and had ev
entually made his way to France, and then England. His two brothers, both Polish army officers, had disappeared, but his sister had written to him a year ago to say that she and their mother were safe at their country estate. He hadn’t heard anything since. At this, his eyes darkened from blue to slate. So I told him a bit about Montmaray, and the two of us proceeded to spend a pleasant half hour roundly abusing the Nazis.
After dinner, we all piled into a taxi and drove off to the Four Hundred. The sirens started wailing as Peter was paying the taxi driver, and someone suggested taking shelter in the Leicester Square underground station. But the nightclub entrance was only a couple of yards away, so we dived down the stairs. It turned out to be not much of a raid, anyway – not compared to those awful ones after Christmas when the whole of the City caught fire and everyone thought St Paul’s Cathedral was gone (although, of course, it was saved).
I hadn’t ever been to the Four Hundred, and thought it very glamorous, once my eyes adjusted to the gloom. I sank into the burgundy velvet cushions of our banquette and gazed around at the silk-panelled walls, the heavy drapes, the thick carpet, all in rich shades of red and very dimly illuminated by candlelight.
‘Like going back to the womb,’ remarked one of the pilots, and Julia blanched, so Daphne quickly shouted across the table at me, ‘Oh, and Sophie darling, I forgot to tell you I ran into Simon Chester in here last week! Looking his usual gorgeous self, of course, girls fluttering about him.’ She turned to her companion, the gregarious red-head, and explained, ‘Simon’s in the RAF, too, in Fighter Command. Anyway, he was dancing with someone, and guess who it was?’
‘One of the Churchill girls,’ said Julia. ‘Sarah.’
Daphne pouted at her. ‘Oh, she told you! I keep forgetting they’re your cousins.’
‘You are related to Winston Churchill?’ the blond pilot said to Julia, looking impressed.
‘Second cousin, once removed, or something. Believe me, we’re the poor, insignificant relations. I’ve met him twice in my entire life.’
‘Still,’ said Daphne, ‘I bet someone’s been gossiping about it to you.’
‘No, it’s just simple deduction,’ said Julia. ‘Why would you bother telling us unless she was the daughter of someone important? And Diana’s not Simon’s type, too nervy – and Mary’s too young.’
‘Well, she was draped all over him, not that I blame her. I’d do the same, if I ever got the chance, except he always pretends not to see me. I’m sure he thinks I’m a terrible influence on you, Sophie.’
‘Who is this man?’ Peter asked me.
‘Oh, a sort of . . . cousin of mine,’ I said. I was absolutely fuming. Simon had had an evening off and come into town and hadn’t so much as bothered to telephone me! When I’d been turning myself inside-out to track down the Colonel for him! As for the flirting, well, that was only to be expected – but really, the Prime Minister’s daughter! Who also happened to be married. Did Simon’s ambition know no bounds?
The band struck up again, and I raised my chin and turned to Peter. ‘Would you like to dance?’ I asked him.
‘I would be delighted to dance with you,’ he said, and he stood, bowed and held out a long, elegant hand. They were playing a slow song, and after a couple of fumbling beats, Peter and I fell into a comfortable rhythm. He was a competent dancer, but not a showy one, so I felt no anxiety about having to keep up with any fancy steps. Not that there was room for anything complicated on that dance floor. The crush of bodies was curiously liberating, though – I began to feel as though I were quite alone with him, entirely unobserved. My irritation at Simon drained away, and the fatigue that had been assailing me all day settled into a pleasant drowsiness. By the second song, I had relaxed completely into Peter’s arms, allowing him to tug me closer; by the time the band stopped for their break, it seemed inevitable that I would lift up my face to smile at him, and he would stoop to kiss me.
It was lovely. His mouth was smooth and warm and firm, and tasted of champagne. The kiss lasted exactly the right length of time, long enough for me to get over the tiny shock of his lips meeting mine, to feel the gentle pressure begin to slide into a delicious melting sensation . . . but not so long that I started to worry about how to breathe or where I ought to put my hands. Quite apart from how delightful it felt, I was relieved to discover that kissing was, in fact, just as nice as novels make it out to be (I’d had a vague fear that they might all be lying, or that I might turn out to be terrible at it).
The other good thing was that, as it happened on a crowded dance floor, I didn’t have to concern myself with thoughts of how far I should go, or how to tell him to stop (he seemed an utter gentleman, but Aunt Charlotte’s dire warnings about men’s ‘uncontrollable urges’ had sunk in). As it was, he broke it off himself, pulling away just far enough to give me a searching look. I must have assumed the right (or the wrong) expression, because he nodded, gave a tiny smile, then led me back to our table. And his behaviour was entirely correct for the rest of the evening, if one doesn’t count his leg brushing against mine several times under the table, which was probably accidental. We were rather squashed together on that seat, after all.
Julia announced at midnight that she had to leave, so I said I’d go with her. Her companion looked crestfallen, but he and Peter dutifully walked us up to the street and found us a taxi (Daphne was still dancing with the red-head, if one could call what they were doing ‘dancing’). Peter lifted my hand and pressed his lips to the back of it.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, with his matinee-idol smile. ‘I had such a pleasant evening. Perhaps we shall see each other again, some other time.’
But he said it in such a way that I knew it would only be by purest chance if we did. He no doubt went dancing with girls all the time, girls much prettier and more experienced than I, and he probably kissed most of them, and possibly did much more. And why shouldn’t he? He was a fighter pilot. He might be dead tomorrow.
‘Goodbye,’ I said, smiling back at him, ‘and good luck.’
Those words never meant so much before the war. He handed me into the back of the taxi, closed the door and raised a palm in farewell. Then we drove off.
‘He was nice,’ said Julia sleepily. Then she blinked. ‘Oh! Should we stop and help?’
We’d turned the corner into what looked like a winter wonderland, except the glistening snow was actually crushed glass, and the red glow wasn’t a brazier for roasting chestnuts and warming the hands of skaters, but a fire in the window of the nearest shop, which, according to the charred sign, specialised in ladies’ undergarments. The taxi driver stuck his head out and made enquiries of the ARP warden, but it was all right. No one had been killed, the two gentlemen who’d been injured had gone off in the ambulance, and the firemen had the flaming corsets under control.
‘Oh, I am glad to hear that,’ said Julia, settling back into her seat, and I was pleased, too. (Extinguishing fires is a messy business, in my limited experience – and I was wearing my favourite evening dress.) That this air raid had caused only minor damage added to my general feeling of satisfaction with the world. I had been kissed properly for the first time, and enjoyed it, and not embarrassed myself or hurt anyone’s feelings. Overall, then, it had been a surprisingly successful evening.
And I feel just as positive about it this morning, which is even better. It’s so nice when things go well for a change.
12th March, 1941
I’D TRACKED DOWN THE COLONEL at the end of January and he’d agreed to investigate Simon’s allegations. Then . . . nothing. Six whole weeks of nothing, which is a very long time to be constantly dashing out to the letter box to see if the post has arrived, and leaping for the telephone at the first peal of the bell. I’d decided not to burden Veronica with it until I knew more, so I had the additional anxiety of wondering what to say if she asked what was wrong. I didn’t want to lie to Veronica. Perhaps I could imply I was broken-hearted over that Polish pilot and desperate to hear from him? But I
would only resort to this story if it became absolutely necessary. This made me determined to stop it becoming necessary, so I renewed my attempts to contact the Colonel, leaving him half a dozen messages. At long last, he telephoned me at work, and we arranged to meet in Hyde Park during my luncheon break today.
‘It’s heartening, really, isn’t it?’ he said, as we walked past the muddy patches where the lawn had been ripped up to plant vegetables. ‘I mean, everyone, everywhere, digging for victory! And doesn’t the park look better now they’ve taken away the iron railings? There’s a flock of sheep grazing around here, too – I spotted them the other evening. We could almost be taking a stroll in the country.’
That was only because we weren’t in the section of Hyde Park that’s been turned into a wreckage dump. All those depressing piles of broken brick and charred timber; those stacks of rusting girders and twisted sheets of iron roofing; those salvaged bathtubs propped up on their ends, looking like a row of gravestones. But the Colonel was intent on being cheerful, for some reason.
‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he chirped, ‘and it’s an ill wind that blows no good –’
Well, I could see how that had sprung to mind. A cruel sleet was stinging our faces.
‘– because these days, nothing’s absolutely bad or absolutely good, is it? But what do you think, Sophie?’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that you’re prevaricating. Why won’t you tell me what you’ve found out about Anthony?’
The Colonel stopped, took off his hat and smoothed back his hair. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, replacing his hat. The angle at which it was tilted hid his eyes. ‘Yes, you’re quite right. The fact is, I haven’t decided whether I am going to tell you.’
The FitzOsbornes at War Page 19
