by Nicola Upson
Even so, the sort of undemanding companionship offered by an afternoon of dedicated shopping was a relief after the solitary morning she had spent in her room—just her and a typewriter and a series of shadowy figures from a past which felt utterly alien to her. She was still not sure about the novel she was working on, and wondered if her desire to write something other than a detective story had been wise after all. When her editor suggested a book with a historical slant, a fictionalised account of a true crime seemed a good idea, particularly one with which she had a personal connection, but the claustrophobic horror of Holloway Gaol was starting to depress her and she had only just begun. Summer—both the real summer she had spent in Cornwall and the imaginary version which she had recently delivered to her publisher—seemed a long way away, and she found herself craving the warmth of the sun on her back and the comforting presence of Detective Inspector Alan Grant, hero of her first two mysteries. These early stages of a book, when all the characters were unfamiliar, were always the hardest to write. Getting to know them felt like walking into a room full of strangers, something from which her shyness made her recoil in horror; she would be pleased to get further on with the story, even if the world she was creating was unlikely to get any cheerier.
Across the street, the Times Book Club was still open and she was amused to see that books never failed to bring out the dormant shopper in a man. A lamp under the blind threw a welcoming yellow glow on to the shelves, where faded covers of popular novels and obscure political pamphlets were brought together as randomly as the people who browsed them. She considered going in, but decided that she was too laden with shopping to manage the sort of rummaging that books required, and pressed on instead to Cavendish Square. Here, the streetlamps were more forgiving, their pools of light interspersed with longer stretches of darkness, and there was a restful elegance about the area. The Square had been more fortunate than many of its London counterparts, where residential buildings were asked to rub along with modern offices, and it still consisted principally of beautifully proportioned old houses. It was home time and, as she made her way round to number 20, Josephine watched the lights coming on in the upper stories, imagining doors opening and voices calling up the stairs while life moved from the office to the sitting room.
The Cowdray Club occupied a particularly handsome eighteenth-century town house on the corner of Cavendish Square and Henrietta Street, at the heart of what was once the most fashionable area of Georgian England. The house had been bought from Lord Asquith—the latest in a line of distinguished owners—and, in 1922, established as a social club for nurses and professional women by Annie, Viscountess Cowdray. Lady Cowdray—whom Josephine had never met but who had been, by all accounts, a formidable fundraiser and loyal supporter—had also paid for a new College of Nursing headquarters to be built in Asquith’s old garden; thanks to some ingenious architectural thinking, the two buildings now functioned happily together, one providing for a nurse’s working needs and the other for her rest and relaxation. Just over half of the Cowdray Club’s membership came from the nursing profession. The rest were from all walks of life—lawyers, journalists, actresses and shop-girls, attracted by stimulating conversation, comfortable surroundings and the cheapest lunches in town—and Josephine was pleased to call it home whenever she wanted her time in London to be private and free from obligations to friends. Since Lady Cowdray’s death a little over three years ago, the members had not lived together quite as harmoniously as the buildings: nursing was a political profession, and those left to run the club in its founder’s absence had different views on its priorities and future. It was the same when any natural leader died or moved on, she supposed, but things were bound to settle eventually; in the meantime, she kept her head down and tried to avoid the bickering.
Outside the main entrance, she balanced her parcels precariously on one arm but the door flew open before she could reach it, and a young woman—one of the club’s servants—rushed out, nearly knocking her to the ground.
‘Am I missing the fire?’ Josephine asked, a little more sarcastically than she meant to.
‘Crikey, Miss—I’m so sorry,’ the girl said, bending down to pick up the boxes that had skidded across the pavement and into the street. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘Obviously,’ Josephine said, but softened as she noticed how upset the girl seemed. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm done. None of this is breakable.’ She held out her hand to take the last of the parcels. ‘What’s the rush, though? Is everything all right?’
‘Oh yes, Miss. It’s just that I’m on my break and I don’t get long. I’m already late to meet someone.’
‘Even so, surely you’ve got time to go back for your coat?’ She looked at the thin cotton dress and pinafore which all the club’s housemaids wore. ‘It’s November—you’ll catch your death going out like that.’
‘I’m all right, Miss, and I’d rather get off. To tell the truth, I’m not supposed to use this entrance but it’s so much quicker than going out the side door and all the way round. That’s why I was in such a hurry—Miss Timpson on reception was showing someone through to the bar, so I nipped out the front while she wasn’t looking.’ She glanced across to the Square, then turned back to Josephine. ‘I’d be ever so grateful if you didn’t say anything, Miss, and I’m fine—honestly. I won’t be out here long.’
‘All right, then …?’
‘Lucy, Miss.’
‘All right, Lucy—I won’t hold you up any longer. But be more careful next time.’
‘Yes, Miss—thank you.’
Josephine watched as Lucy hurried off towards the middle of Cavendish Square, then turned and went inside, glad to be out of the cold. The club’s entrance hall was spacious and uncluttered, the focal point being a long reception desk made of diligently polished mahogany. A modest bronze tablet hung to the right of the desk, set in an oak frame which contained the Cowdray coat of arms and recorded the gratitude of the first two thousand members to their founder; other than that, the walls were free of decoration, and the eye of any visitor was drawn instead to a number of beautifully furnished rooms which opened straight off the foyer. Miss Timpson was back at her post, and Josephine was treated to the full Cowdray Club welcome.
‘Ah, Miss Tey,’ she beamed from behind her desk. ‘You’ve had a successful afternoon, I see. Can I get you your key?’
‘That would be lovely,’ Josephine said, matching the sincerity of the receptionist’s smile and trying to think who the woman reminded her of. ‘And there are some more parcels on their way, I’m afraid.’
‘They’re already here—Robert has just taken the last of them up to your room.’ She cast a judgemental eye over the parcels, lingering on the scuff-marks where the boxes had hit the ground. ‘Would you like him to give you a hand with those? I’m afraid the lift’s out of order again.’
‘No, no—I’ll manage,’ Josephine said, knowing that she had—in Miss Timpson’s eyes at least—wasted quite enough of Robert’s time already that day. ‘They’re not heavy.’
‘If you’re sure.’ She reached up to take the key off its hook, and Josephine realised instantly that the resemblance she had been racking her brains to place was with the mannequin in the shop window: Miss Timpson shared that untouched-by-the-cares-of-the-world quality, an air of casual perfection which most women found insufferable, if only because they aspired to it themselves and always fell so short of the mark. ‘Just say if there’s anything else you require.’
‘You’ll be the first to know.’ She took her key and headed for the stairs, but hadn’t got far before a familiar voice called her back.
‘Josephine! Just the person I was looking for.’
She turned to greet Celia Bannerman and was struck—as always—by how little she had changed in twenty years. Her long dark hair, which Josephine had never seen worn any other way than scraped back from her face into a bun, was streaked with grey at the temples, and her glass
es were needed too frequently now to be worn on a chain around her neck, but no one would have guessed that she was nearly sixty. They had first met during the war at Anstey, a Physical Training College in Birmingham where Josephine was a student and Miss Bannerman one of the senior teachers; by the time their paths crossed again at the Cowdray Club, Miss Bannerman—or Celia, as she had tried to get used to calling her—had become one of the most respected figures in nursing administration and was heavily involved in the management of the club. She had certainly come a long way since her earlier job as a warder at Holloway, but it was those years that interested Josephine now.
‘I was just going to leave a message for you at reception,’ Celia said, ‘but you’ve saved me the trouble. Your note said that you’ve got something for me to read?’
‘Yes, the first draft of what we discussed the other day. I wondered if you’d have a look at it, just to make sure it’s reasonably accurate—and I have a few more questions, if you’ve time.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m free now for a while, if that suits you? Shall we say in fifteen minutes’ time, just to give you a chance to catch your breath? I’ll see you in the drawing room.’
She walked back into the lounge without waiting for an answer, and Josephine recognised the same confidence in her own authority that had earned Miss Bannerman the respect of all her students—respect tinged with just the right amount of fear. She had seen that authority falter only once, and then just briefly and under exceptional circumstances, and it never failed to bring out the schoolgirl in her. She headed for the stairs again like a straggler late for lessons, but was stopped once more in her tracks, this time by Miss Timpson. ‘Oh Miss Tey, I nearly forgot—don’t go upstairs without this,’ she called, and at the higher volume her East End vowels were satisfyingly evident. ‘It arrived for you earlier this afternoon.’ She bent down to pick something up from the floor behind the desk and presented Josephine with an expensive-looking ornamental gardenia. Josephine held out her hand for the card.
‘Sorry—that’s it. There’s no note.’
‘Are you sure it’s for me?’
‘Oh yes. The boy from the shop was very particular. I had to sign for it.’
‘But no one knows I’m here.’
‘Then perhaps you have an admirer on the inside, darling.’ There was no need to turn round to see where the suggestion came from: the voice—warm, attractive and full of innuendo—was an established feature of the Cowdray Club, as familiar to its members as the decor and just as expensive. The Honourable Geraldine Ashby fell into an unusual category of membership: neither nurse nor professional, she was one of a handful of women who were elected to the club at the discretion of the council and whose purpose was purely social. Geraldine’s mother was more than happy to secure the position each year with a generous cheque to the College of Nursing—after all, the association was the most respectable thing about her daughter—and Geraldine took her social responsibilities as seriously as the other members took their work. No one could deny that she livened things up considerably, and not just because she mixed the finest cocktails outside the Savoy: everything about her was daring, and that made a refreshing change from the cloud of earnestness that hung over so much of the club. It was impossible not to be drawn to her charm and good humour, and her beauty—a chic, adventurous beauty—sparkled as effortlessly in a tailored suit as it did in the latest Chanel. Forgetting for a moment the young girl on her arm—a pretty if rather dull-looking blonde—Geraldine smiled wickedly at Josephine. ‘Just think—it could be any one of us. Who would you like it to be from?’
Experience had taught Josephine that a suitable response—flirtatious, with just the right amount of disdain—would only come to her later that evening, so she didn’t bother to reply but picked up the flower with what she hoped was an enigmatic smile and strode determinedly up the stairs. She realised from the smirk on Miss Timpson’s face that her admirer had been a matter of speculation from the moment the flower crossed the threshold, and tried to work out who could have sent it. Archie? It seemed unlikely—gardenias weren’t his style; if he knew she was already in London, he would have chosen something far less showy and he would have brought them himself. It certainly couldn’t be the Motley sisters—she doubted that Ronnie had ever done an anonymous thing in her life, and a flower from Lettice was always accompanied by a dinner invitation. Lydia, perhaps—it was a luxury beyond the budget of a struggling actress, but her friend was notoriously bad with money and such an extravagance would be typical of her. Or perhaps Geraldine was right after all, and another member of the club had sent it. Just what she needed—awkwardness creeping into the only safe haven left to her. She shut her door with a sigh of relief, stuck the flower unceremoniously in the sink, and tried to forget about it.
The room was small but comfortable, and charmingly furnished with everything she needed and nothing more: a single bed, a solid writing table, a large wardrobe and plenty of cupboard space, and—her favourite feature—a tall window which took up most of one wall and looked out over Cavendish Square. She tidied the parcels away, freshened her make-up and found her glasses, then went over to the desk and picked up the sheaf of papers which she had been working on that morning. Scanning them quickly, she made a note of the questions which she hoped Celia might be able to answer and went downstairs, keen to find out as much as she could about the Finchley Baby Farmers.
There was no sign of Celia in the drawing room, so Josephine chose one of the blue horsehair chairs by the windows overlooking Henrietta Street and settled down to wait. It was the largest room in the house, extending the full width of the building on the first floor, and one of the most beautiful, with nicely proportioned panelled walls—painted in ivory-white enamel to maximise the reflection of light during the day—and a parquet floor. Fine rococo mirrors hung over original fireplaces—one at either end, suggesting that the space had once been two rooms—and there were other splashes of opulence in a gilt Louis XV couch with sapphire-coloured cushions and three enormous chandeliers, but most of the furnishings were quietly tasteful: simple mahogany bookcases housing an eclectic selection of fiction and non-fiction; plain velvet curtains; and comfortable Sheraton armchairs, alternately upholstered in blue and fawn and free of the tassels and loose covers that would have made the room look untidy. A number of women sat around in small groups or on their own, playing cards and reading newspapers, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the room, punctuated every now and then by laughter or the chink of cup against saucer. It spoke of privilege but most of the women had worked hard to get here, and Josephine could still remember how proud she had felt when she was first elected. For her, as for many women of her generation, the membership of a private club represented a new and cherished independence; ten years later, although her life had taken a different path from the one she had expected, her achievements as a novelist and a playwright more than justified her place here, but success had not dulled that early excitement. It was partly to do with the possibilities which the future now held for women—for the lucky ones, at least—but there was something more to it: in the Cowdray Club she had rediscovered the sense of female solidarity which she had known in her teenage years and early twenties, and she was honest enough to recognise in herself a need to belong which she resented but could not seem to outgrow.
‘Josephine—sorry to keep you waiting but something came up unexpectedly.’ Celia hurried over to the window, looking apologetic, and Josephine stood to greet her.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Please don’t worry. We can do this another time if you’re too busy.’
‘No, no—it’s nice to see you. And quite frankly I’m desperate to snatch half an hour away from committees and fund-raising and politics, so you’re actually doing me a favour.’ She gestured to Josephine to sit down, and took the chair opposite. ‘You know about the charity gala next week? Of course you do—you’re friends with Ronnie and Lettice Motley,
aren’t you? They’re making such a lovely job of the clothes. But Amy Coward seems to think I’ve got nothing else to do except plan for it and, as she’s the only reason we’re getting Noël for the evening, I have to be so careful not to disillusion her.’
Josephine laughed. ‘You must have inherited a lot of that sort of work after Lady Cowdray’s death. I can’t imagine that this is an easy place to run—not smoothly, anyway.’
Celia gave her a wry smile. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Not at all. But with so many successful women in one place, it stands to reason that egos will clash sooner or later.’
‘If it were just about personality, that would be fine, but it’s a little more serious than that—it goes back to the very principles that the club and the college were founded on. Have you seen today’s Times?’ Josephine shook her head. ‘The letters page is full of complaints from nurses about money being raised in their name and used to fund facilities for people who have never been near the sick in their lives. None of them mentions the club by name, but we all know what they mean.’
‘Surely it works both ways—don’t the subscription fees help to support the College of Nursing?’
‘Of course they do, but the purists choose to forget that. If we’re not careful, we’ll find ourselves split right down the middle—and I don’t know how the club or the college will survive if that happens.’
Having joined with a foot in the nursing camp but since abandoned that for another career, Josephine found it all too easy to see both sides of the argument. ‘Where do you stand?’ she asked, nodding to Geraldine as she sat down at the next table and trying to ignore her grin.
Celia sighed. ‘Oh, I’m all for mixing things up a bit. Lady Cowdray always said that women get far too narrow-minded if they don’t spend at least some of their leisure hours with people from other professions, and I’m inclined to agree with her. Anyway, I feel obliged to fight for her original vision, but I fear that it’s not going to be easy. And to cap it all—this is just between you and me, you understand—we’ve got an outbreak of petty theft on our hands. A couple of members have reported things going missing. Nothing very valuable—a scarf here, a bit of loose change there—but distressing, nonetheless, and I’ve had to involve the police. Discreetly, of course. Ah—here’s Tilly with our drinks.’ Josephine looked round and saw a young waitress carrying two large gins over on a tray. ‘I took the liberty of having these brought up for us. If you want me to relive the story of the Finchley Baby Farmers, I’ll need some Dutch courage, and I refuse to drink on my own.’ She glanced at the papers on the card table. ‘Is that what you’d like me to look at?’
