by Joanna Rees
Top Drawer
Vita still felt as if she were walking on a cloud – even the following day, when they all gathered at Percy’s studio for the girls’ fittings.
‘It sounds pretty much like the perfect first kiss,’ Jane said, munching on one of Percy’s biscuits. He slapped her hand.
‘We’ve got a presentation in a few weeks. You’re to look your best,’ he warned.
‘You liked Archie, didn’t you, Percy?’
‘He’s quite wonderful,’ Percy agreed. ‘You look good together.’
Vita smiled, delighted with how well their impromptu call had turned out last night. They hadn’t stayed for long, but she’d taken Archie out into the secret back alley to cut through to the Strand and he’d kissed her again.
Jane jumped off the bench as Vita called her over to the dressing curtain. Betsy admired her brassiere in Percy’s long mirror, turning one way and then the other.
‘Once you all have your brassieres, and hopefully they fit, I want your comments, so that Percy and I can make a prototype of the one that could potentially be manufactured.’
‘So what’s the plan exactly?’ Jane asked. ‘When we go to W&T?’
Vita looked at Nancy. ‘Ask her. It was her idea,’ Vita said.
‘I was thinking that we could do part of our routine, maybe?’ Nancy said.
‘What routine?’
‘What if we sang “Top Drawer” to the tune of that number we did the other day? You know the one, da da da daah.’
‘And maybe that dance to go with it?’ Jane added. ‘Or something more ballet-like?’
She mimed a few ballet moves and poses, making the others laugh.
Jane jumped up on Percy’s worktop and pulled Betsy up after her. Vita grabbed the brassiere off it as she did a shuffle ball change, as if in front of an audience. ‘Top Drawer, Top Drawer, you need look no further for . . .’ she sang.
Suddenly Jemima burst into harmony and Vita laughed as she climbed up next to Betsy and made up the song. Percy chucked Betsy his ivory-topped cane and she gestured for atop hat and then, with the cane and hat, she did the dance in her brassiere, standing in a row with Jane and Jemima, pointing their feet in unison.
Vita laughed, but with the made-up lyrics, they were certainly getting across the selling point of her bras.
‘That’s exactly what I had in mind,’ Nancy said, clapping.
‘But I have no idea how this man, Mr Kenton, does his orders,’ Vita said.
‘So what? It’s a start, isn’t it?’ Nancy said. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Yes, come on, Vita, be brave,’ Jemima chipped in. ‘It’ll be fun.’
There was a knock at the door and everyone froze. ‘Oh, goodness, who could that be,’ Betsy said, ‘catching us all out in our smalls?’
Percy went to the door to see who it was.
‘It’s Ida,’ he said, ‘from the Adelphi.’
The young woman had a curious look on her face as she saw all the girls from the Zip Club in various states of undress, up on Percy’s workbench, until Vita explained what they were doing.
‘You wait till the Adelphi girls hear about this,’ Ida said, admiring Nancy and Betsy in their brassieres. ‘Can I tell them?’
‘Sure,’ Nancy said. ‘But you’d better be quick. They’re going to sell like hot cakes.’
80
The Mysterious Studio
Clement looked across the street through the steamed-up window, as Rawlings finished his plate of liver and onions in the small café near Earls Court Tube station. For the last five minutes he had been describing how he’d followed a young woman that he was convinced was Anna, but Clement wasn’t so sure. He’d got the wrong girl once before, and with this girl he’d clearly been following a hunch.
‘She was with a man? What kind of man?’
‘A gentleman. Although they did kiss in the street, so maybe he has other intentions.’
Clement clenched his fist. The thought that Anna might have been cavorting around Covent Garden at the opera with some suitor made his blood boil. What kind of life was she living? Being photographed with the Prince of Wales and then being taken to the opera. Whoever she was with almost certainly didn’t know who his sister really was – or what she was capable of.
‘I followed her then, to a studio,’ Rawlings said.
‘A studio?’
Rawlings looked down at his notepad. ‘It belongs to a Percival Blake. He’s something to do with the theatre. A costumier, I believe.’
‘And you think it was her?’ Clement leant back in the chair and made a spire out of his fingers. It didn’t sound like his sister, but then again, she had always had her own fashion sense. He could imagine how Anna would be drawn to such a person.
‘I can’t be certain, but it certainly resembled her. As I said, I was only in the area by happenchance. I went because the opera was on that evening. I thought it was as good a place as any to start.’
Clement nodded at the man’s diligence. It seemed to have become a point of personal pride for Rawlings to find Anna.
‘And where did she go, after she’d visited this Percival Blake?’
‘Well, that was the strange thing, sir. I waited across the road in the public house . . .’
Clement noticed his cheeks flushing.
‘You didn’t see her leave the workshop?’
‘No, sir. And I stayed until closing time.’
‘So you must have missed her?’
Rawlings looked bashful. It was on the tip of Clement’s tongue to remind him that he’d boasted about being one hundred per cent successful.
Clement nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with this Percival Blake.’
81
The American Bar
Vita knew the miners’ strike was really happening when she saw a scuffle on the street outside the Zip Club on Saturday night. A couple of men – miners, by the looks of them – were shouting, and two burly policemen were trying to move them on.
‘What on earth is that all about?’ Jane asked, as they made their way up the street towards the Savoy Hotel, where they were meeting Archie at the American Bar.
‘Haven’t you been reading the papers?’ Emma said. ‘They’ve been locked out of their mines, apparently. They’ve been told to work longer hours for less pay.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Jane said with a frown.
‘They say everyone will come out in solidarity, but we’ll see,’ Betsy added. ‘What will we do if everyone goes on strike?’
‘Oh, do your miner’s accent,’ Nancy said to Vita, and then added to the others, ‘It’s so funny. Did you know she can do a brilliant Yorkshire accent? She’s such a good mimic.’
Vita frowned. It didn’t seem appropriate to do her impression now. She’d been so happily living in her bubble of the theatre and Percy’s studio that she had hardly thought about the miners since she’d seen the protest in Hyde Park. But now that she glanced behind her at the desperate-looking men, she sympathized with them.
She knew their conditions were worse than those at the mill – and they were pretty appalling. She knew how dangerous and unhealthy the mills were, and how her father demanded long hours for the pitiful pay he gave his workers. But Darius Darton had always ignored anyone who spoke out, and few of them dared. He made no secret of the fact that he thought the strikers were nothing but communist agitators. He called them ‘traitorous scum’ who should be imprisoned and shot.
She thought now of the rows of workers’ cottages that raked across the hillside, and remembered her mother’s disdain as they drove along those streets on Boxing Day, handing out parcels of food. How Theresa Darton had always considered the workers to be so far beneath her. How she’d never thought them grateful enough.
She remembered a child – one of the mill workers’ children – turning up at the back door of the Hall in December. She’d held out her hand for food, barely able to talk, and when Martha had asked wha
t she should do, Vita’s father had been outraged, setting the dogs on the little girl. Vita had run out of the back door of the kitchen to look for her, hiding a hot loaf of bread in her coat, but she hadn’t been able to find her.
How far away her family’s nasty, selfish, enclosed world had felt until now, but seeing the miners reminded her of home.
She remembered Harrison now, the kind foreman, and Meg and Ruth, the ladies on the cutting-room floor. She wondered what her parents had told them about her disappearance. It pained her to think they must feel so disappointed in her.
She told herself not to be sentimental. That was her old life, and here was her new life – with a handsome man waiting to buy her cocktails. But still her conscience niggled.
‘No, come on. I don’t want to be late for Archie,’ she said.
The girls often talked about the American Bar at the Savoy Hotel, but this was the first time Vita had been there. The bar was crowded, noisy with the chime of cocktail glasses and the tinkle of conversation. The flamboyant pianist, resplendent in tails and with a carnation in his lapel, sat at a large, shiny grand piano, singing over all the noise. Vita heard a flurry of laughter from the bar as they walked down the stairs.
She could see the girls scanning the assembled guests in the bar, waiting for them to be noticed, and Vita felt as if all eyes were on them, especially now, as the music suddenly changed and the pianist broke into the tune of the last number they’d all danced to in the club. She could tell, however, from the smiles of the well-dressed women, that the Zip Club girls were something of a novelty. Vita couldn’t blame them. Their club was so much more seedy than this bar.
Archie applauded and beckoned them over to the booth he’d reserved. Vita grinned, accepting his kiss on the cheek, then tucking her arm into his as she introduced the girls. But when she caught Nancy’s eye, Nancy looked unimpressed and bored.
After Archie had ordered champagne, they all settled down in the booth and Jane started talking about how they’d started planning for the presentation, and what they were going to do, and how word had already spread to the girls at the Adelphi about Vita’s clever design. They all talked excitedly until the band started playing the Al Jolson song they loved, and then they started singing in unison, ‘When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’ along’. Vita could tell that Archie was embarrassed by them singing, but she didn’t mind. This was how she was in their group, but even so she stayed with him in the booth when the others got up to dance.
She watched them as she snuggled closer to him, but then became aware of someone leaning over the top of their booth.
‘Oh, hello, Vita,’ she heard someone say. It was Annabelle Morton, the hostess from the birthday party. Vita felt herself blushing as she leant in to kiss her. Annabelle smelt of exotic perfume and was wearing a very chic black silk dress. ‘I thought it was you.’
Vita smiled, flattered that Annabelle had recognized her, but her stomach clenched in sudden anxiety. Nancy had absolutely promised not to say anything, but what if Annabelle knew that it had been Vita and Nancy who had caused the flood? And – God forbid – if she did know, she wasn’t going to mention it, was she?
Vita introduced Archie, aware that her cheeks were throbbing.
‘Well, aren’t you quite love’s young dream,’ Annabelle said, an amused look in her eye. ‘She’s quite the talk of the town, you know, Mr Fenwick.’
Vita frowned slightly, her heart beating frantically. Oh no, oh no . . .
‘Lulu Clifford-Meade was telling me all about a fantastic young woman from the Zip Club, and I knew she must mean you,’ Annabelle continued.
Archie looked surprised, but in a good way, and Vita felt relief flood through her. Annabelle didn’t suspect a thing about the bath, after all. And now, as she carried on, she wanted to kiss Annabelle, each word of praise making her feel more and more puffed up and proud. Then when the music slowed and Annabelle flitted away to someone else she recognized, she waved her hand at Archie and Vita. ‘You must come for dinner,’ she called over.
Vita snuck a look at Archie. Would he ever consider going to dinner with her at Annabelle’s? Somehow she felt as if, with such an invitation, her status had changed entirely. But Archie didn’t comment. Instead he pulled her to her feet and they took to the floor for a slow dance.
‘Oh, Archie, this is so much fun,’ she said. ‘Being out like this.’
‘I like your friends.’
‘And they think you’re the cat’s pyjamas,’ she said.
‘Is that so?’
She grinned at him.
‘Darling Vita. Would you consider . . .?’
‘What?’
‘We can only see each other for such a short amount of time. I have to drive out to Hartwell next weekend. It’s the annual cricket match, and it would be marvellous if you’d come. What do you say?’
She’d love nothing more than to see Hartwell, too, but with the schedule of the shows at the club, it was impossible.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can’t or you won’t?’
‘I would . . . maybe . . . but there’s no way Connelly would let any of us have a weekend off. I’m afraid it’s quite out of the question. Anyway, I need to prepare now for the presentation.’
‘But if you could, you would?’ Archie clarified.
‘Yes,’ she laughed.
‘Oh, Vita. Darling, darling Vita, I want to be with you so much.’
‘And I do, too.’
‘We’ll find a way. After all, a lot can happen in a week.’
82
The Lipstick Mark
Clement had spent an enlightening few hours in the small public house opposite the studio that he was watching. He observed the locals, amazed at the different nationalities in the pub – the Irish, and the Italians in particular.
He had been planning on going back to Darton and leaving Rawlings in charge, but the railway workers had come out in support of the miners and in the past couple of days the whole country had come to a grinding halt. He’d had a cable from his father saying that the Darton workers were out, too. He knew how furious his father was, but what could Clement do when he was stuck at the other end of the country? And it was all his sister’s fault that he was here.
There was much talk of the strike in the pub, and there had already been a fight between two workers, one of whom the landlord had dragged out onto the street. Clement, head down in the corner, was keeping his opinions to himself.
As the evening wore on, the workers left and the theatre folk came in and now there was music – a man with a flat cap playing popular tunes on the piano. Two bawdy girls joined him by the piano, while the barman polished a silver tankard, a wry smile on his face.
Was this the kind of crowd that his sister had been mixing with? Clement flinched as one of the girls stepped her foot up onto the velvet stool next to him. He could see the dimpled pink flesh at the top of her stocking and felt something stirring within him. Then – still singing – she parked her bottom on his knee. The other men in the bar laughed and clapped, but Clement was not amused. Her eyes, heavily made-up with kohl, flashed at him and she kissed his cheek.
He stood up and the crowd jeered, as he took out his handkerchief and wiped the lipstick mark away. He made for the door on his cane, just in time to see the man – the one that Rawlings had mentioned, Percival Blake – approach his studio door opposite.
Clement hurried as fast as his limp would carry him across the cobbles. He almost didn’t make it, but just as Blake was unlocking the small wooden doorway, Clement grabbed him from behind, pressing the blade from his pocket-knife to his kidneys.
‘Where’s Anna? Where is she?’
‘Don’t hurt me.’ The man’s voice was high, his eyes bulging behind his tortoiseshell glasses. He dropped his keys on the cobbled road.
Clement twisted Blake’s collar from behind, causing him to choke.
‘I said, where is she?’
‘Who?�
��
‘Anna. Anna Darton.’
‘I don’t know anyone by . . . that name – I swear it,’ he choked.
‘She comes in here. A girl. You know her.’
‘There are lots of girls: actresses . . . dancers. I don’t know. I don’t.’
‘Oi!’
Clement heard a shout and looked round. The girl from the tavern had come outside. ‘Don’t leave me, handsome,’ she called.
He growled in frustration. Could Rawlings have got this wrong? He’d been most insistent that Anna had been in and out of the workshop.
Clement held Blake by the scruff of the neck for a second more, wondering what to do. Then his instinct kicked in and he pushed the man hard, so that his face hit the doorframe. It felt good to hear his skull connect with the wood. To hear his glasses smash.
Blake cried out, and Clement kicked him as he went down. Then he bent and picked up the cane that had clattered to the pavement. Yes, this would do. He liked the ivory top. It would look just the part at the gentlemen’s club tonight.
83
The Coat
Vita, Jane and Emma crowded around Mrs Bell’s wireless in the front room, listening to Stanley Baldwin appealing for calm. As of this morning, more than one million workers had come out on strike, and traffic was at a standstill.
Mrs Bell was full of doom and gloom about how she wouldn’t be able to get milk, but Vita was happy to carry on with her sewing. It was annoying that she couldn’t get to Percy’s studio, but she managed to get Jane, Betsy and Emma’s brassieres finished for the presentation, and a few more ready for the consignment for Mrs Clifford-Meade.
On Wednesday she walked with the girls to the Zip, her head full of how much she still had to do.
She was discussing it all with Nancy, and how and when she was next going to get the brassieres to Lulu, when Jerome came to their dressing room carrying a mysterious cardboard package with a decadent white silk bow.
‘What’s this, then?’ Nancy asked as he set it down on the leather chair.
