by John Masters
She felt an unaccountable need to talk to him about the conscientious objection and anti-conscription movements. She said, in a low voice, hoping her companion would not overhear, ‘Did you see those Conscientious Objector people outside the Shell Filling Factory just now?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m going to their meeting.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
He had a serious face, rather melancholy in repose, but becoming animated when he spoke. His accent was from the Midlands – Birmingham, or the Potteries – and his M.A. was almost certainly not from Oxford or Cambridge, but perhaps from Birmingham University … not a gentleman, though a scholar, and looking quite out of place in the din, the dense tobacco smoke, the clink of glass here. He said, ‘The war’s grown too big for anyone to control, apparently. Perhaps it must be stopped, before it destroys everything that makes life worth living. And if it is to be stopped, campaigns of this kind may be the only action that can do it.’
On an impulse she said, ‘May I come with you?’
Then he looked more closely into her eyes. His own were brown, and soft, and suddenly Alice felt a stirring in her body, and she remembered the Petty Officer the night of the dance last year. Her heart turned over, and she answered his look, her lips a little parted, waiting.
Rachel said, ‘That was a good crowd we got this evening, Bert.’
Bert limped over to the fireplace and put on another two lumps of coal. ‘Not bad. I got twelve names and addresses afterwards.’
‘That makes how many so far, in Hedlington?’
‘Thirty-nine, counting us. And do you know who was in the crowd? Miss Alice Rowland, old Harry’s daughter. She was with Cowell, the schoolmaster, he teaches chemistry at the Grammar School by the prison. I knew him before the war.’
‘What were they doing at the meeting?’
‘How the hell should I know? She’s an old maid and always will be. He’s married – two girls, I think.’
‘Don’t be too sure that Miss Alice will die an old maid … She told me that Naomi’s in London. There was a picture of her in the paper at her grandmother’s funeral. I cut it out.’
‘She was a great friend of yours, once, wasn’t she?’
Rachel did not speak for a time, then said, ‘We still could be, if we met. We were very close … But she’s an enemy of the working class, an enemy of socialism – she and all her family. We couldn’t spend five minutes together now – since I’ve been with you, since I’ve come back to my own class – without having a fight … We’ve got to get this group organized now, Bert. Call in all those people who’ve signed up, and work out what to do next.’
‘Work out what to do, then call them in and tell them,’ Bert said.
‘All right. But we need a place to meet, indoors. This’ll have to be our office –’ she swept her hand round the two-room flat above a stable in North Hedlington where she and Bert had lived together for the last six months – ‘but we must find a meeting place.’
Bert said, ‘Town Hall – they won’t let us use it. Odd-fellows – ditto … Big banquet room at the South Eastern, ditto.’
She said, ‘What about a school?’
Neither spoke for a minute, then they said simultaneously, ‘Cowell!’
After a time Rachel said, ‘He’s not a headmaster. So he doesn’t have the power. And he didn’t sign up. … And, Bert, before we decide on any course of action, we should get advice from others, who’ve been doing this longer. There’s a group called the No-Conscription Fellowship, in London. Let’s go up and talk to them – join them, perhaps.’
‘How are we going to get to London without any money?’ Bert asked angrily. ‘I can’t get a job ’cos I shot my bloody toe off. The landlady’s trying to throw us out of here ’cos she’s found out we’re not married.’
Rachel said hesitantly, ‘I have a little money saved up. And … why don’t we get married, Bert? It would solve that problem, at least.’
Bert said shortly, ‘Not on your bleeding life!’
‘But why not? Are you against marriage?’
Bert said, more quietly, ‘No, but there isn’t anyone who has the right to marry me. Why should I give the government the right, or the Church, when they’re both capitalist oppressors?’
She said, ‘I was only thinking of convenience. I don’t want to leave this place.’ She thought, what I do want are love, and peace, and an opportunity to make the working people’s lives better; and I’m longing for a sense of security with this man; every woman is, probably, but will any have it, as long as the war lasts?
Bert said, ‘Well, if we get married, it’ll be by standing in the field somewhere, or in a factory, with a hammer and sickle in our hands, and declaring that we’re married. I’m against the Church and the State.’
Rachel said sharply, ‘You’re against everything, Bert Gorse. What are you for? Try to find out, and tell me, and we’ll get on better.’
Betty Merritt waltzed carefully in Ginger Keble-Palmer’s arms. They were in the Cat & Mouse, a cellar under a house in Albemarle Street, and now full of officers in uniform and many women, mostly with men, but some unattached. She said to Ginger, ‘I’m surprised the police don’t raid this place. They must know that they serve drinks after hours, and harbour prostitutes.’
Ginger started, ‘What? Good heavens, do you think those girls are, what you said?’
Her expression changed and she muttered in Ginger’s ear, ‘Not all. The woman dancing with a naval officer, just behind you, is the Marchioness of Jarrow – Florinda Gorse that was.’ The band changed to a foxtrot and Ginger wailed, ‘I don’t know how …’
‘Take it easy,’ she said. ‘I’ll teach you. Go soft … follow me … one two … left right, chasse … change step … back, turn, change step … good.’ After a few minutes, she said, ‘Let’s sit down for a bit. I’m thirsty.’
They sat at a little table at the back of the room, under a small, lighted sign reading GENTS. Betty eyed Florinda while Ginger ordered drinks – a small brandy and soda for himself and a glass of white wine for her. She must make an opportunity to speak to her. Florinda would know about Fletcher.
Meantime, she needed desperately to talk to someone about Stella and Johnny – but not to Ginger. He was one of the nicest young men she had ever met – brilliant at his work, unassuming, thoughtful, and shy – especially with women. She’d have to find a girl for him, the right sort of girl … but he wasn’t sophisticated enough to be able to give her advice in this matter of Stella. Stella, Betty was sure, was drinking secretly … and visiting Hedlington more often than necessary. Why? She certainly wasn’t shopping, for she had not bought any new clothes since the wedding. So what was it? Stella needed a baby; that would give her something to do about the house, apart from all the other things a baby meant, or should mean, to a couple in love with each other. Johnny was certainly in love with her, that was for sure.
The band blared a chord and everyone in the room fell silent. The M.C. stood at the edge of the band’s little stage and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and now – the Most Noble, the Marchioness of Jarrow, better known to one and all as … Florinda!’
Florinda walked out of the dark beside the band and stepped up onto the stage. The bandleader looked at her, gave a beat and the band began to play softly a sentimental ballad from The Merry Widow:
There once was a Vilia, A witch of the wood,
A hunter beheld her alone as she stood,
The spell of her beauty upon him was laid;
He’d look’d for the magical maid!
Gradually the clink of glasses died, the rustling increased and then faded as men and women sat down on the dance floor, holding hands, and were still.
She sings well, Betty thought; and she’s beautiful, breathtakingly lovely, the lights glowing in the auburn hair piled on her head, and held by a diamond tiara … the dress black silk, very plain, no ornament but a diamond brooch at the neck of the dress, black silk stockings, diam
anté shoes with high heels, ‘princess’ heels they called them … every inch a marchioness: Fletcher’s sister.
The song ended and Florinda curtsied slowly to waves of applause. She sang Four Indian Love Lyrics then, and finally, Keep the home fires burning. Then curtsying again, she walked back into the darkness. Betty jumped to her feet, muttered, ‘Wait here, Ginger,’ and followed. She found Florinda leaning against the wall in the farthest dark corner, and said, ‘Lady Jarrow … I’m Betty Merritt.’
‘I know.’ She seemed tired.
Betty said, ‘Can you tell me where Fletcher is?’
Florinda’s voice was suddenly hard – ‘No.’
Betty said, ‘I … I just hope he’s all right. I can’t bear to think of him lying out in the woods in the rain and cold, especially now that winter’s coming.’
The Marchioness leaned forward, and said, ‘Oh! So that’s it!’
Betty said, ‘We spent a lot of time together, when he was in the barracks. Then he deserted and I haven’t heard a word.’
‘Perhaps he wants to get rid of you,’ Florinda said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Betty said unhappily, ‘but I wish he would write.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t have any paper or a pencil,’ Florinda said. ‘Listen, Miss Merritt, I don’t know where he is at all, but I think Grandpa could find him, if he wanted to. Go and see him.’
‘Thank you,’ Betty said, and turned away. She rejoined Ginger and said, ‘Let’s go home now. The smoke’s suffocating me in here.’ They went out. Thank God, it wasn’t raining. Ginger’s car was parked in Piccadilly and soon they were crossing the river and heading out through darkened streets towards Hedlington. After a long silence Ginger burst out, stammering – ‘I love you, B-B-Betty. I-I-I’ve been wanting to tell you for m-m-months.’
Oh dear, she thought. She put out a hand, resting it lightly on his arm. She said, ‘You are very, very sweet to say so, Ginger. I think you’re the nicest man alive, and …’
‘W-w-will you …’
She interrupted, ‘Don’t say anything more. Please.’
They crept on through the blackout, their car lights no more than dim blue ghosts in the black, damp night. At last he dropped her in front of No. 104 Station Road, where she had the ground floor flat of three rooms, including a large kitchen. Before getting out of the car she turned to Ginger and said, ‘Thanks – for everything. See you at the factory. Go on now … please!’
She jumped down and watched as the tail light faded. Then she hurried up the steps to her front door and fumbled in her bag for her key. A figure stepped out of the dark to her right, came up the steps, and muttered – ‘Betty.’
She gasped, ‘Oh! … Fletcher! What are you doing here? Are you all right? The police are after you. There was a notice in the papers the other day.’ She stared, and saw that he had a beard.
‘I’m all right. Lend me five pounds.’
‘Of course.’ She searched hurriedly in her bag, took out all the notes and silver, not counting, and pressed them into his hands. He said, ‘Thanks, Betty. I’ll pay you back some day.’
She peered at him, trying to see his face. Did he have lice, or fleas? He did not smell dirty or feral, not at all like an unwashed male … only a little earthy, but that was right, for him.
She said, ‘What are you going to do? You can’t spend the rest of your life in the woods.’
‘I’m thinking,’ he said, ‘about me, and the poetry, and the war. And about you.’
She waited for him to say something more, but he did not, so at last she said, ‘Well … I miss you. Always will … Come back soon … and good luck.’
She felt him take her hand, raise it, and kiss the palm. Then he said, ‘I’ll tell you soon’s I’ve made up my mind.’
Then he slipped down the steps, and vanished into the dark of the town.
Florinda Foudray, Marchioness of Jarrow, sang once more, at about two o’clock, at the Cat & Mouse. The house applauded, but she returned in a strange mood to the table where her escort, Billy Bidford, waited for her.
He said, ‘You were marvellous, Florinda!’
‘I wasn’t,’ she said curtly. ‘Not even as good as the first show – they’re drunker, that’s all.’ She emptied her glass and the waiter stationed behind their table came forward at once, bottle swathed, uncorked, and ready. Billy Bidford was a millionaire motor car racer, polo player, and flyer when not serving his country as a lieutenant in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve; and the Marchioness, though usually very pleasant to the staff where she sang, could lose her temper without apparent cause.
She said, ‘I’m sick of this place. Let’s get something to eat.’
Billy stood up at once, after leaving some Treasury notes on the table, and gave her his arm. At once half a dozen other young men round the room rose to their feet. A young captain of Seaforth Highlanders said, ‘Excuse me, your Ladyship … I was hoping to have the honour of a dance with you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Florinda said briefly. ‘I’m tired.’ She looked again at the Highlander’s face, and put her hand on his sleeve. ‘Tomorrow night, but earlier.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the Highlander said. ‘I will be on my way back to France by then.’
Poor devils. She was too tired to give any of them anything of what they needed, not even vivacity, a woman’s pertness. She put up her arms, placed them round the Highlander’s neck and kissed him with open mouth on his lips. She whispered, ‘Good luck … and thank you.’
Then she walked quickly out of the club, Billy following, neither speaking, down Albemarle Street, across Piccadilly and into the Ritz. Half an hour later they were sharing a supper of devilled bones and Black Velvet. Billy was her beau of the moment – one of them – but not possessive. She wasn’t ready to accept that from any man yet – certainly not from the sodden, old fumbler who was her husband. She had given him every opportunity to consummate the marriage – helped him as much as any woman could; nothing happened. The peer’s penis remained despondently limp. Poor old bugger.
When they had eaten, it was three o’clock. Bidford kept a room in the Ritz, year in and year out, and had done since he was at Eton. He said, ‘Shall we retire, madam?’
She looked across the table at him – curly dark hair, amused blue eyes, the pea jacket with the wavy gold stripes fitting him like a glove. She considered his suggestion. She was a great lover. She knew that, and it irked her, because she wanted to be a great artiste, and after all the acting and singing lessons she was what she had been in the beginning – a talented amateur. So what was her role in life to be? A cunt for hungry, fearful men facing death, for old men trying to re-create the amorous fury of their youth, a lovely female object for the taste of such as Billy and Cantley?
‘All right,’ she said.
But a waiter came to them, bent over the table and whispered, ‘M’lady, telephone, for you … in the night porter’s office.’
She said, ‘I’ll be back in a mo’,’ and followed the waiter out and down the marble halls.
The night porter handed her the telephone and left the little cubbyhole. She put the earpiece to her ear and spoke into the mouthpiece – ‘The Marchioness of Jarrow speaking.’
‘M’lady …’ she recognized the butler’s voice. ‘M’lady …’ the old voice cracked – ‘His Lordship is dead … I was taking him up another bottle of whisky an hour ago and found him … sprawled across the floor. Doctor Pickett came at once, but he was dead … They told me at the Cat & Mouse you’d probably be at the Ritz …’
‘Thank you, Medley,’ she said. ‘I’ll come at once.’
She must get her jewels and bank books out of the Berkeley Square house before the new Marquess could come up to London. They were hers, freely given by her husband; but his son – a haughty man of forty or so, devoted to fox hunting in Leicestershire, hated and despised her as a whore after the old man’s money. Well, she thought, as she walked back to the supper room, I’m not a who
re, and I wasn’t after his money, only trying to get to where I think I belong in this world.
At the table she said briefly, ‘He’s dead, Billy. Get me a taxi, please.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Why be?’ They were walking back down the hall. ‘He’s given me over a million, and a lot of jewels – about another half million … I’ve had my eye on a nice flat in Half Moon Street for some time. I’ll call you at the Admiralty as soon as I get settled in. Or will you be back at Dover with your M.T.B.s?’
He said, ‘I wish it was so – but I have several more months to do in that damned rabbit warren.’
Then they were at the door, and the night porter had hailed a taxicab. Florinda climbed in, waving goodbye to Billy Bidford. Alexander William Templeton Eastman Foudray, 4th Marquess of Jarrow, was dead; so she was no longer the Marchioness, but the Dowager Marchioness, or, in the more common modern usage, Florinda, Marchioness of Jarrow.
Susan Rowland sat at the table in the nursery – it had been a spare bedroom until they had adopted Sally and Tim – one of the children on each side of her. Sally held the book and read slowly.
‘He was different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already betrayed … what’s that, Mummy?’
‘Betray …’ Susan searched for the right words. ‘Here it means, “show” … He might have written, Their hair already showed the reddish hue … Go on.’
‘Reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf … that means their dad was a dog and fucked a wolf?’
‘Sally! I’ve told you over and over you must not use that word … or the others. Yes, her father married a she-wolf. You remember that … Go on.’
‘While he alone, in this particular, took after his father. He was the one little grey cub of the litter.’
Susan suspected that neither Sally nor Tim knew what a litter was, but their attention was wandering. They didn’t like to have to work at things. Sally read on, stumbling – ‘He had bred true to the straight wolf-stock – in fact, he had bred true, physically, to old One Eye himself, with but a single exception and that was that he had two eyes to his father’s one.
