The Second-last Woman in England

by Maggie Joel

  ‘Don’t fiddle with that, please, Anne.’

  She was next-door in her dressing room now, arranging her hair. He could tell by the way she spoke that she had a hairclip stuck in the corner of her mouth. And by the sound of it, Anne was assisting her.

  ‘Which ones will you wear tonight, Mummy?’ Anne could be heard inquiring in her mock-adult voice.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, just the pearls.’

  ‘Shall I help you put them on?’

  ‘No, dear. The catch is very easy. And I’d rather not have your sticky fingers all over them.’

  ‘I don’t think my fingers are sticky.’

  Perhaps the spell was broken? Perhaps whatever hold Freddie appeared to have over her was no longer there, she had cast it off? But if that were true, why had she failed to tell him that Freddie had returned?

  ‘This is from India, isn’t it?’ said Anne, and he knew she was opening her mother’s jewellery box.

  ‘Yes, I believe so, originally.’

  ‘Did grandfather bring it back from India with him?’

  ‘No, dear. Your father picked it up in a shop on the Fulham Road.’

  Cecil paused in his attempt to fix the cufflink and looked at his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. He had picked it up in the Fulham Road, years ago, one balmy July evening on his way home from the office. He had seen it in the window of the old antique shop that used to be on the corner—long gone now—and on the spur of the moment had walked in and purchased it. It had come from India, originally, and perhaps that was what had made him buy it for her.

  The catch on the cufflink refused to snap back into place no matter how hard he tried to force it and eventually it broke in two, and he stared down at it in disbelief. They had been his father’s cufflinks, a present from his mother to his father, and now they were broken.

  At a sound on the landing he looked up and saw Anne in the mirror, standing in his bedroom doorway, silently watching him. He turned around and smiled at her, though he could think of nothing to say.

  ‘What are you going to see, Daddy?’ she asked, though he knew she already knew.

  ‘Don Giovanni.’

  ‘What is Don Giovanni, Daddy?’

  ‘Not what, who. He was a Spanish nobleman who treated women badly and came to a very sticky end. Or that’s the myth anyway. And then he was made into an opera by Mozart.’

  She nodded thoughtfully, and encouraged by this, Cecil added:

  ‘We’ll take you, in a few years. You and Julius. Would you like that?’

  ‘I don’t think I shall like opera,’ she replied, and drifted off.

  Cecil turned back to the mirror and after a moment he undid the first cufflink and laid it and the two halves of the broken one side by side on his dressing-table.

  Less than a week after he had seen her in the tea room at Harrods, the meaning of his wife’s tears had become horribly apparent.

  The police had come to the house in March of ’44 and at first Cecil had assumed they had come to report that Freddie had been killed in action.

  They had all been sitting down to Sunday lunch, a rare enough event in those days, and exactly what this wartime Sunday lunch had consisted of it was hard now to imagine, though sometime around 1943 Mrs Thompson had begun producing pigeon pie, and by March ’44 it had felt as though they had been subsisting on pigeon and boiled turnips for some months, though it had probably only been a few weeks. The windows, he remembered, had had tape stuck diagonally across each pane in case of shrapnel, and during the week the black-out curtains were simply left in place and half rooms not used. But that day, it being a Sunday and Cecil being at home for once, Mrs Thompson had pulled back the curtains and lit a fire in the grate.

  The two men had rung the doorbell. Somehow one did not expect bad news when people rang the doorbell. It would be a sharp rap on the front door, not this dignified chime that ought to have heralded guests for lunch but instead brought two officers of the military police.

  Julius had jumped down from his chair, his spoon in his hand, and had run down the stairs shrieking excitedly. Harriet had got up, calling sharply after him, and Cecil had remained in his chair, wondering where Julius had picked up such atrocious table manners.

  ‘Soldiers!’ cried Julius, and he could be heard now pelting back up the stairs. ‘Mummy, it’s soldiers!’ and Cecil and Harriet had exchanged a look.

  What look, then, had they exchanged? Cecil had thought, well, that’s it, it’s Freddie, wounded or worse … Harriet’s look, he remembered clearly, was one of sheer panic.

  Mrs Thompson had appeared in the doorway, wheezing and holding onto the doorframe.

  ‘Two young men for you,’ she had announced and it seemed now, in hindsight, that her words had been spoken portentously. But perhaps she had merely been trying to catch her breath.

  ‘What young men, Mrs Thompson?’ Cecil had enquired calmly.

  ‘Military police! Or so they claim.’

  And that was the point at which he had assumed Freddie had been killed in action. A gasp from Harriet had seemed to confirm that this was what she, too, believed.

  ‘What do they want?’ Harriet had demanded, and he had looked at her in time to see the blood draining from her face.

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ Mrs Thompson had replied, and it had been a measure of everyone’s growing alarm that no one had chastised her.

  ‘We had better go and find out,’ Cecil had said and, grimly, he and Harriet had gone downstairs.

  The two MPs had been standing in the hallway, men in their late thirties, both over six foot in winter great-coats and holding their hats at their sides. They had looked somehow indecent in the hallway beside the tubular steel Le Corbusier telephone table and the Ivon Hitchens abstract on the wall that Harriet had picked up in a small gallery in Mayfair before the war. Julius had been standing on the stairs, half hiding behind the banisters and staring wide-eyed at the two men, who had studiously ignored him.

  ‘Julius, go back to your lunch,’ Cecil had ordered. ‘And kindly do not leave the table again until I give you permission to do so, do you understand?’

  Julius had glared mutinously and turned and stomped back up the stairs, and Cecil had experienced a moment of irritation. But there were two military policemen standing in the hallway.

  ‘How do you do? I am Mr Cecil Wallis. This is my wife, Harriet. How may we assist you?’ he had said, because it was important to remain calm and in control. And because Harriet had been holding onto the banister with fingers that looked as though they were going to cut right through the wood.

  ‘Captains Milton and Peters. May we find somewhere private to talk?’

  No one had said, sorry to trouble you on a Sunday, sir. Please excuse this intrusion. Cecil had felt a little sick.

  ‘Of course,’ and he had led them into the ground floor reception room. They had all sat down, the two officers on the settee, himself and Harriet in the armchairs. It had been noticeable that no one had leaned back in their chair; they had all placed themselves right on the very edges. One of the officers had been carrying a small leather attaché case, which he had placed on his lap. Cecil had hitched up his trousers at the knee and stared at the small case.

  ‘Are you the sister of Second-Lieutenant Frederick Paget of the 1st Royal Tank Regiment, Mrs Wallis?’ the officer who had spoken earlier—Peters or Milton?—had said to Harriet, and Cecil, convinced now that they would all be attending Freddie’s memorial service before the week was up, had reached across and touched her hand. She had pulled her hand away at once and laid it on her lap, flat, pressing down hard the same way she had on the table at Harrods a few days earlier.

  ‘Yes,’ she had replied.

  ‘And have you seen or heard from Lieutenant Paget in the last few weeks?’

  ‘No.’

  No. She had answered, no. It was an unequivocal ‘no’ and Cecil had looked sharply at her and remembered the tears in the tea room five days ago. He had felt a rising sense of
panic. What was going on here? And what was he going to do if the officer now turned to him and asked the same question?

  But he hadn’t. Instead the man had opened his case and pulled out a sheet of typed paper.

  ‘Lieutenant Paget failed to report for duty on the twenty-ninth of last month. His division is presently stationed in Southern Italy—we are not at liberty to say exactly where. We have reason to believe that he is now back in this country. There is a warrant out for his arrest on a charge of desertion. May I remind you that harbouring or assisting a deserter during wartime is a very serious offence?’

  It was difficult to remember with any certainty how they had both reacted. Cecil had somehow found himself standing by the window gazing out over the street. A young nurse had walked past, pushing a bicycle in the direction of the Brompton Hospital. He could remember her clearly, remember the click her shoes made on the pavement below the window.

  Harriet, he had presumed, was still seated. He had not been able to turn around to look at her. It was impossible. Those tears in the tea room at Harrods.

  Who had spoken next? He couldn’t remember. There had been no further details forthcoming from the two officers. They had ‘not been at liberty’ to say more. So he himself must have said something, mumbled some reply, expressed his shock—though that must have been patently evident—had probably thanked them for coming! At any rate, they had gone and he and Harriet had waited in the room as the men’s footsteps had receded down the front steps and the little gate had creaked open and snapped shut and two car doors had opened and closed, and a moment later an engine had started up. He had been standing by the window and yet he could not recall seeing them depart. Had no recollection of seeing their vehicle, some military staff car, presumably.

  And after they had gone—

  Yes, there was a period of time, a long, long time, it had seemed, when neither of them had spoken. He had left the window, finally, with a sense of dread at the words that must be spoken, had to, simply could not be avoided.

  ‘You knew, of course,’ he had said and it had seemed as though these words must break something, something that might never be repaired.

  ‘Yes.’

  Still he not been able to look at her.

  ‘You knew last week when you saw Freddie. He told you then. He came to you to tell you. Didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He had nodded and had felt himself beginning to lose control, had felt his breath coming faster and faster while not quite catching enough of it to be able to breathe.

  ‘And you lied to the military police.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ He had nodded a second time. ‘And you mentioned nothing to me—’

  She had abruptly got up and they had stood facing each other.

  ‘How could I “mention” it to you? That would have implicated you.’

  ‘You lied! To the MPs. Do you have any idea—’

  ‘I did not assist him. I am not harbouring him.’

  ‘But they asked if you had seen him! My God, what if they had asked me?’ He had gaped at her as the implications of this had washed over him. ‘Do you suppose I would have lied too? Is that what you expected me to do? And if I had told the truth, what then? They would have known you had lied. You could have been arrested! Dear God, you still could be. We both could be!’

  He had reached blindly behind him for the chair and sunk down into it, feeling nauseous. In a second he had got up again, finding it impossible to remain still, and had begun to pace the room.

  ‘Are you expecting me to help you? To help him? Because I won’t! I will not—do you understand? How dare you put me in this position? How dare Freddie put you in this position!’

  Harriet had gone back to her chair and slowly and calmly sat down.

  ‘All that matters is Freddie’s safety,’ she said in a low tone. ‘He has made plans to leave the country; indeed, he may already have done so. You do not need to concern yourself with him or this matter any longer.’

  Cecil had stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘How can you be so naïve? This isn’t simply going to go away. What you have done is reprehensible! You have put yourself, me, our children, at risk!’

  She had appeared to be listening, though there had been no expression on her face, and it had been this that made him stop. She had turned and looked him, the same way she might have looked at him were she offering him a second cup of tea.

  ‘Cecil, if you think I am concerned about you or about me then you are mistaken. I am not.’

  Cecil lifted his gaze from the broken cufflink that lay on the dressing-table before him and looked at his own face in the mirror.

  He had never been back to the tea room at Harrods, he realised. That had been the end of that particular ritual. And he had somehow avoided setting foot in Harrods for the last eight years.

  So, Freddie had returned. But what difference did it make, really? Freddie, he realised, had been with them all along.

  Chapter Twelve

  NOVEMBER 1952

  On the stage the unscrupulous Don Giovanni attempted to woo the recently betrothed Zerlina away from her fiancé and in the second row of the circle Harriet thought: maybe it will all be all right. Freddie had come home, there would be an amnesty and maybe everything would be fine.

  She leaned back in her seat. Her shoulders felt stiff and she realised they had been hunched up beneath her ears since the opera had begun—and perhaps for much longer.

  Zerlina, now offstage, let out a terrified scream as Don Giovannni’s seduction turned violent.

  Was it possible? Could things simply slip back to how they had once been, before the war? Freddie living his rakish bachelor existence in Maida Vale, a string of vapid girls following him about and Simon coming over every so often and shaking his head and making those irritating tutting noises, as though all that mattered was that Freddie hadn’t got married yet and settled down?

  On the stage a grand ball was in full swing at Don Giovanni’s castle but, unfortunately for the host, his guests had turned on him and he was obliged to fight his way through a crowd and flee. There was much clashing of swords and flashing of lights and rolling of drums.

  Harriet narrowed her eyes and lifted a discreet hand to shield her eyes from the worst of it. Beside her Cecil sat perfectly still and in the darkness she could sense rather than see his utter absorption in the production. How would he react if he knew Freddie was back?

  She resolved to tell him. And once Cecil had got over his initial outrage, and there had been an amnesty, everything would be all right.

  Around them the audience burst into applause and the lights came up to indicate the end of the first act. Cecil started slightly and began belatedly to applaud and it occurred to Harriet that he had not been absorbed in the production at all; indeed, he appeared to have seen as little of it as she had. They got to their feet and in the confusion of retrieving gloves and bags and programs Harriet found it easy enough to avoid catching his eye. As they filed out, Cecil was waylaid by a merchant banker and his wife and Harriet slipped out alone, anxious suddenly to be outside in the light and air.

  In the auditorium David and Valerie Swanbridge were at the bar already, collecting their interval champagne. Valerie waved and she and David fought their way through the crowd towards her.

  ‘Darling, how are you?’ said Valerie, kissing her. ‘It’s been ages. You look wan. She looks wan, doesn’t she, David? Cecil, what have you been doing to her?’

  Cecil, who had just that moment appeared at her elbow, met this accusation with a look of consternation and Harriet turned quickly away.

  ‘You’re looking well, Cecil. All going well in the shipping industry?’ asked David, who didn’t give two hoots about the shipping industry. Of course, Cecil couldn’t see it. As far as he was concerned the whole world was as much in thrall to big ships as he was.

  ‘Oh well, it has its ups and downs. We—’

 
‘Excellent. Harriet, you’re looking ravishing as ever. Have some champagne.’

  ‘I think she’s looking wan.’ Valerie had stepped back from kissing Harriet and now passed an eye over her dress. ‘Dior?’

  Harriet nodded and took a sip of the champagne as Valerie cast a critical eye over her shoes.

  ‘Jordan?’ and Harriet nodded again.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed David, ‘You ladies talk in some form of secret code half the time.’

  ‘It’s merely to hide the fact that our entire existence is taken up with the latest fashion, being seen at the right places and our husbands’ careers,’ replied Harriet and, as no one seemed willing to offer a reply to this observation, she took another sip of her champagne.

  ‘Are you enjoying the production, Valerie?’ enquired Cecil, after a moment of silence.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think anyone ever enjoys opera,’ replied Valerie, surprised. ‘Enjoy it ending, quite probably. Surely we are all here simply to get dressed up? To go out? For the occasion of it? Seeing people. Being somewhere—isn’t that right, Harri?’

  Valerie placed her lips on a just-lit Gauloises and removed them with a sound like a kiss. A perfect red imprint of her lips stained the cigarette.

  ‘I married my wife for her shallowness, you know,’ said David, leaning over and kissing her cheek.

  ‘And he’s rarely disappointed, are you, my love?’ replied his wife.

  ‘Practically never. Cecil, what do you make of this Eisenhower fellow?’

  Cecil took a mouthful of champagne and seemed to give David’s question a great deal of consideration.

  ‘We-ell. He was a formidable general, no question that he’s proved himself capable in war. But peacetime politics is a whole other kettle of fish.’

  ‘Certainly a very convincing victory,’ David mused. ‘Perhaps it means this war in Korea might end soon and everyone might stop testing these ghastly atomic bombs.’