by Kelly Doust
‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently, brushing her hand over his. The gesture seemed to surprise them both.
‘So, tell me – what does a Dearlove do in London?’ Emil asked softly, his eyes deep, dark pools in the golden candlelight.
Victoria smiled at his turn of phrase. ‘For now, I work. For the government.’
‘Me also,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘But I must not say.’
‘Loose lips sink ships . . .’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m not from London. I’m just staying here during the war, actually. My family has a house down in Somerset. In the West Country. It’s my sister Elizabeth’s and mine now, except it’s being . . . It’s not ours, precisely, at the moment. I shouldn’t really say more.’
‘It’s very boring this secrecy, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Victoria gave a small, relieved laugh. ‘It is.’
‘What can you tell me about yourself, Miss Dearlove?’
‘Victoria – please. Well I . . . I don’t know, exactly. I’m seventeen. My parents are dead. I like to sew.’
‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes dancing. ‘My mother was a seamstress. I spent my childhood like this, sitting here,’ he said, indicating his lap. ‘She pricked me sometimes, when I am on her knees. It hurt.’
Victoria laughed. What she wouldn’t give to have learned at her own mother’s knee. Rose had loved to sew. Victoria felt the old pull of sadness, a tightening and a dragging in her gut, at everything that had been lost. A seamstress mother – that would have been nice. But wasted on a boy child, surely?
‘She taught me to sew,’ he said, laughing at her surprise.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m very good. I fix this,’ he said, indicating his sleeve cuff, which was, when Victoria looked closely, carefully hemmed to mend the fraying fabric at his wrists.
Victoria was impressed. Everyone looked so rough around the edges these days, with the rationing and the fear, which was never far away. ‘That’s very good, you know. Fine work. I wouldn’t have noticed it unless you pointed it out. My sister always says— Oh!’
‘What is it?’ Emil leaned forward, alarmed at Victoria’s sudden change of tone.
‘I must— My sister, Lizzie – I forgot. I was meant to be meeting her!’
Standing up abruptly, Victoria upset her spoon, which fell to the ground with a clatter. Nobody turned around in the noisy din of the small café, but Emil half-rose from his seat.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Lizzie – we were meant to be meeting then heading off to Morton’s.’ She shrugged off Emil’s jacket and handed it back to him.
‘The jazz bar?’ he asked, unable to hide his surprise.
‘A friend of ours, well, a cousin, is meant to be playing there tonight. Lizzie will be worried if I don’t turn up.’
A sudden wave of nausea overtook her, and she swayed on her feet. She put out a hand to steady herself against the table, but stumbled forward. Emil held out his arm to right her.
‘Shall we go and find her, then?’ he asked, studying her face.
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes – why not see if she’s made it there already?’
‘I— But don’t you need to get home, Emil? To your people . . .?’ She trailed off, wondering if he had a wife and children in London, or if they had stayed behind in Warsaw.
‘No,’ Emil said, gently but definitively shaking his head. ‘It’s fine. I can take you. Come,’ he said. ‘We go and we will find her.’
‘Wait – she might be in Belgravia already, waiting for me there,’ Victoria fretted.
‘Morton’s is closer,’ Emil said. ‘My thinking is, she would go there to find you, yes?’
‘Maybe.’
‘All right. Let’s try.’ Gripping her hand in his own, Emil led the way through deserted streets, pulling Victoria along firmly but gently beside him.
As they turned down an alleyway towards Morton’s, the sound of a party well underway filled the air. Growing ever louder as they approached, it increased dramatically as a heavy steel door at basement level swung open, discharging a young couple who raced up the set of metal steps in front of them, laughing. Swatting the pretty girl on the behind with a large hand, the man chased her as she clattered up in her heels. Victoria turned to watch them with amazement, as they clutched at each other in the street and kissed, completely oblivious to their audience, their hands roaming over each other hungrily.
A shadow of a smile passed across Emil’s face. He gently tugged on Victoria’s arm, leading her down the narrow steps.
As they ducked their heads to enter, Victoria could see the band at the far end, and the bar off to their right; the place was packed to the rafters with a writhing mass of people. Men and women alike were knocking back drinks with abandon, as though the world had already ended and nobody much cared.
‘Gilly’s is gone,’ she heard someone say. ‘I saw it hit . . . Dear God, I hope the poor chap made it out alive.’ A man with a leather patch over one eye skolled a shot of whiskey. Victoria saw the deep, angry welt running down the length of his face as his neck flexed, swallowing down the liquid.
‘Bad luck,’ said his companion, another man in a flannel suit, with cut-glass vowels. Victoria wondered if she knew his family. ‘Still – rather him than us, eh?’
The injured fellow roared out loud, glass ringing against the bar as he slammed it down. ‘Two more!’ he shouted to the bartender.
Emil turned around, watching her. ‘Is she here?’ he asked, craning his neck over the crowd. ‘What does she look like?’
‘Tall, with short dark hair, curled . . . No, I can’t . . .’ she said, swivelling around to check. ‘Maybe she is here.’ Pressing through the crowd, Victoria made her way towards the corner. Halfway across the room she looked around, stricken.
‘Oh God, she’s not here,’ Victoria shouted. ‘I have to go and find her!’
‘Wait!’ Emil cried over the din, gripping her wrist. ‘Miss Dearlove. Maybe your sister is still on her way? Like us . . . hiding out somewhere, waiting for safety. Perhaps we should stay? Wait for a little while? Just in case?’
Victoria was torn – there was logic to what Emil said. Something in his steady brown eyes made her feel safe. Just like they had in the Tube station.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right. Just in case.’
Victoria suddenly turned as someone called out her name. ‘Tori, it is you!’
Victoria threw her arms around a stocky moustachioed man wearing a loud checked suit.
‘Lionel, thank God you’re here! Have you seen Lizzie?’
‘No – I think she’s coming, though, she mentioned it to Caspian earlier. Of course, tonight may have put a spanner in her plans . . . Where have you been, my dear – is she not with you?’
‘No, we came straight from . . . This is – um, Mr Bruckner,’ Victoria said, introducing the two men. Emil, so thin, tall and dark, and Lionel, so short and fair. ‘This is Lionel Pennington, a cousin of mine. Have you been out, up there?’ she asked, hoping for more news.
‘Nope. I’ve been down here the whole time. The roof is reinforced, you see – it’s the best place to be during the air raids. The beer’s on tap and we’ve been here all along, playing music. If I go out like that, it won’t be half bad.’
‘Stop it,’ Victoria said, horrified. ‘Don’t even joke!’
‘Oh, come on. I know it’s macabre, but one must keep their sense of humour about them through all this, otherwise what’s the point?’
Victoria shrugged, not sure what to say. Emil coughed politely beside her, and Lionel turned his attention to him.
‘Bruckner, eh? You from Europe?’
‘Yes. I want to go back, fight the Germans, but I’m not allowed.’
‘Jolly good,’ Lionel said, smoothing down the edges of his flamboyant moustache. ‘Not in the forces myself. Never made the cut – dodgy ticker, unfortunately. Ah, I should get back, Tori dear,�
� he said, flashing them a smile. ‘Show must go on and all that. Give my love to Lizzie when you see her, won’t you? You should stay on yourself – old Morton’s just told us we’ll be open until this lot clear out. Who knows how long that will be. Let’s see if we can’t chase those nightmares away, shall we?’
Lionel made a beeline towards the corner, where a small stage was set with a three-piece band comprised of a piano, microphone and double bass. A petite dark-haired woman with screen-goddess curves stepped up onto the stage and raised the mike to her mouth, her lips sticky and deep red in the bright glare of the spotlights.
‘The very thought of you,’ she sang, eyeing the audience with a sultry smile as Lionel took up his place beside her, arranging himself behind the large unwieldy instrument. ‘And I forget to do . . . the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do.’
Victoria closed her eyes for a moment, letting the honeyed voice soothe her jangled nerves.
‘Would you like a brandy?’ Emil asked, pulling out his wallet. Victoria couldn’t help but notice how pitifully thin it was, and she turned her head away so that he wouldn’t see her staring at it. ‘I think it would be good – for the shock.’
‘Yes please,’ said Victoria. ‘That would be lovely.’
Hailing the bartender, Emil ordered her the brandy, plus a Scotch for himself. Drinks in hand, they pressed through the crowd to a recently vacated table in the corner.
‘So, you like to sew. What do you make?’
‘Oh, dresses, clothes, mainly. Womanly fripperies.’ She laughed, conscious of how silly she sounded.
‘There is something special about making things by hand. Myself, I like wood. Furniture. I have always made it. Very simple pieces, but it is my passion.’
‘That’s so lovely.’ Victoria looked instinctively at his hands. Long and thin, with elegant fingers, they were covered in small scars – the hands of someone used to manual work.
He saw her gazing at them and turned them over, smiling up at her.
‘Miss Dearlove, will you— Will you dance with me?’ he asked, his head to one side, as though expecting a refusal.
Victoria hesitated for a moment, visions of Lizzie, and Oswald, flitting through her mind. Curious, she now realised, that she hadn’t mentioned her engagement. Of course, she could tell herself that it hadn’t come up, but she could have found a way to work it into the conversation. If she’d wanted to. Or she could tell him now . . .
‘Yes. I’d love to,’ she said, smiling as Emil took her hand and led her towards the dancers.
Who knew what lay in store for them tomorrow, or tonight even? They could all be dead within hours or days. No, she decided. There was only tonight, and the sweet burn of brandy spreading through her, giving everything a delicious glow.
Emil swung her towards him, spinning her around with his long arms, and she let him draw her close. Victoria’s cheek brushed his and she thrilled to his touch.
Tonight, she told herself. It was all they had.
23
Sylvie and Wendy were in Frome visiting the jewellers, having made a surprising find.
I should have met with the Bath Museum first, Sylvie told herself after returning from London. Her friends had cheered her up after the disappointing V&A meeting and given her new energy to persevere with the collection. Sylvie now wondered if the local fashion museum wasn’t better suited to housing the pieces anyway – the family’s legacy was more likely to be appreciated closer to home. Surely it couldn’t hurt to have some pieces to show the museum’s curators. She was feeling more positive and hopeful than she had in ages, ready to work on her presentation to make it even more alluring and persuasive.
That’s when she’d hit upon the idea of taking a photo of the Sargent painting and had gone searching for the dress Rose was wearing in the portrait. Finally tracking it down, cossetted in layers of tissue paper, deep in one of the last unexplored trunks, she’d made a surprise find.
She’d felt a hard lump inside the dress as she carefully peeled away the tissue and ran her palm over its heavy beading. Her heart had leapt for joy as she’d examined the sparkling jewel, having carefully unfastened it from the glittering sheath. It had been clumsily pinned inside the bodice for some reason – there was staining where the metal had discoloured the fabric – but the brooch lay solidly in her hands, winking up at her in the dim light of the attic.
What enormous sapphires! This brooch must be worth thousands! Sylvie thought, her imagination soaring at what they could do with all that cash. Sylvie marvelled that it was still there, after all these years. It was a miracle, really.
She rushed down to the kitchen to show her mother and the two of them jumped up and down with delight, squealing hysterically. ‘Good God!’ Gigi cried, sitting up in her chair. ‘It’s not worth bursting my eardrums over. You’re like girls at a bloody Beatles concert.’ But mother and daughter ignored her, rushing through to the front hall to compare it with the Sargent.
‘It’s definitely the same one!’ Wendy cried, inspecting the painting, and then looking down at the jewel again, clutched in her palm. ‘Rose’s brooch! Oh, well done, Sylvie. It must be worth a fortune, my darling. Shall we go and have it valued right now? Let me call up the jewellers in Frome – they should be open.’ Her face flared with the wild hope Sylvie shared inside her chest.
And here they were, waiting on the jeweller, an elderly bald man with a thick Slavic accent, to put down his black magnifying glass and deliver them a verdict.
‘Glass,’ he said, placing the brooch back on the velvet fabric in front of him.
Wendy laughed loudly. ‘Very funny, Mr Brodvig! I can assure you it’s original – it’s been in my husband’s family for generations. We found it again, thinking it was lost . . .’ The smile faded from her lips.
‘But I am serious, Mrs Dearlove,’ said Mr Brodvig gravely, the deep-set lines in his face all pointing downwards. ‘It looks like a gold setting, but it’s mixed in with cheaper metals – nickel, brass. See here, when I scratch it?’ A small metal flake came away under his ridged fingernail. ‘That was common.’
Sylvie’s heart sank.
‘Yes. Definitely a copy,’ confirmed Mr Brodvig, looking into their white faces. ‘That’s what a lot of rich families did with their most valuable pieces. They made copies so they could be worn, but kept the real stuff in a safe or a bank vault to protect it from thieves. Clever!’
Wendy had gone quite pale under the fluorescent lights, and Sylvie felt as though she suddenly needed air.
‘Ah— Thank you. Sorry to have wasted your time.’ Sylvie took the worthless brooch in her hand and steered her mother out of the shop by her elbow. They stood for a moment on the pavement outside, Wendy wringing her hands in anguish.
‘Why on earth would it be glass?’ Wendy cried, tears glittering in her eyes. ‘I mean, Archie gave it to her when they got married! She wore it all the time! That’s what Lizzie said . . . And we never found any copies of her other pieces . . . We used all of those, in the past, to buy us time, and they were real.’
Sylvie was surprised to see her mother in such a state – she was usually the sanguine one, practical and calm, while everyone was falling apart around her.
‘Was there a lot of other jewellery?’ Sylvie asked, not having thought of it before.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Wendy. ‘But we sold most of that off years ago, darling. We kept a long string of unfarmed pearls for you, but that’s all that’s bloody well left!’
‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ Sylvie said. She knew Wendy had pinned her hopes on paying off some of their debts, or even all of them – they’d both thought the stones were huge sapphires worth a mint. ‘I’m so sorry to have got your hopes up. I’ve really let you down. Again,’ she said, tears pricking her own eyes.
‘Oh, darling, what do you mean? Don’t be silly,’ Wendy said, wiping at her cheeks and hugging Sylvie fiercely. ‘Don’t let me hear you say such a thing ever again, my brilliant girl!’
Tears rolled down Sylvie’s face as she pulled away, but Wendy clutched Sylvie’s hands in her own. ‘Listen to me: you’ve done anything but let me down, my lovely. It’s the truth. I’m so proud of you. You’re my greatest achievement.’ Wendy cupped Sylvie’s face with her hands and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Do you understand me?’
‘Oh, Mum,’ said Sylvie, squirming. She felt appalled with herself.
‘It’s the truth. Oh, goodness me . . . Right. I think we need a cup of tea after that little misadventure, don’t you?’ Wendy rubbed Sylvie’s shoulders. ‘Let’s go find a place to sit down, shall we?’
‘All right,’ said Sylvie weakly, wondering how many people had witnessed their tearful scene in the busy street. Putting on her sunglasses, she followed her mother down the hill, staring resolutely ahead to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
God, would she ever stop being such a total embarrassment?
It was when they were sitting in the bustling local café, sharing a pot of tea and a piece of caramel slice, that Sylvie remembered what she wanted to ask Wendy about.
‘Hey, Mum, I’ve been meaning to check with you: that guy who got in touch with you about the documentary on Rose – Rufus Davies – what did you think of him?’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘You told me, remember?’
‘Oh, that’s right . . . Well, he seemed nice. I quite liked him, and he was very keen. But in the end it all felt a bit tricky. Lizzie would never agree to have someone snooping into our affairs, and I felt that if we encouraged him, he might go too far. It didn’t seem worth the headache. Although I must say it seemed like a good idea when we first spoke. Your father and I thought it could have helped with the sale.’
Sylvie was surprised. That’s exactly what she’d been thinking, but she’d never thought her mother would feel the same way. ‘I met him – Rufus, I mean – when I was in London.’
Wendy looked up sharply. ‘Did you? Well, that’s cheeky,’ she said crossly, ‘because I told him—’
‘It doesn’t matter, Mum. I thought he was nice too. And, just like you, I thought a documentary could be a good thing. Of course, it might not happen in time for the sale, but we could find out a lot about the family . . . It might provide some answers, don’t you think?’
