‘I can still see her,’ he said, ‘one evening, with her face covered in powder, big tired eyes, standing there singing, “Alexander’s Ragtime Band”, and old Vincent Tubman played his piano louder when a bomb went off nearby. The place was crammed with young men and women in uniform, girls in evening dress. There was a hammering on the door and three soldiers with girls were revealed when Cora cautiously opened the door. “This is a private club,” she told them.
‘“Come on, Mother, let us in,” said one. “There’s an air-raid on.”
‘“You should take shelter in the tube, then,” Cora told him.
‘“We’re fighting for you,” he told her. She let them in, and Sally went on singing. Then we heard a bomb whistling through the air. Everyone threw themselves under the tables, Vincent and Sally were under the piano together. There was a deafening explosion. The walls – even the floor – shook. Dust came down all over them. Then came the sound of fire engines as they all got up and shook themselves off. Vincent Tubman started to play again vigorously. Everyone sat down and Cora went out with Pym and Sally and me to examine the damage. What a sight,’ Bruno said. ‘Searchlights lanced the sky and in and out of them you could see the black shapes of fighting planes. The firemen, tiny against the blaze, were spraying water on the house next door. A man in a tin hat marked ARP told Cora, “You should be inside, dear” He said to Sally, standing there in evening dress, “What do you mean, bringing your mother out into all this?”
‘“I’m the owner of the hotel there,” Cora said coldly, pointing. “Is it damaged?”
‘“Probably not too bad. If they can get this fire out. Anybody in there, do you know?”
‘“Only the housekeeper, Mrs Harding, over there with her dog. The owners are in the country.”
‘“Very nice for them,” he observed.
‘Cora called, “I’ll put you up, Mrs Harding, till you’re settled.” She turned to Sally. “I think you owe me another couple of numbers,” she said, “Sing something cheerful, for God’s sake.”’
Bruno looked round the busy pub. He greeted a woman in a shawl and dangling earrings with a nod. He turned back to Greg. ‘A different world,’ he said. ‘But I must get back to my shop, now. On Sunday,’ he said, ‘we shall meet again, but this time at Covent Garden. I haven’t been there for some time and it will be a chance to see what they have. I may buy something, who knows?’
Greg would have preferred to go to Bruno’s flat where he could be sure of the quality of his recordings, but noted that since their first meeting Bruno had never suggested this. His own room was, he felt, too dismal for this proud man, this man of good taste, to visit.
Outside the pub Bruno said to Greg, ‘Next time I’ll tell you about Sally’s engagement.’
Chapter 18
Wandering among the stalls at Covent Garden Bruno muttered, ‘Well, there’s nothing here. Everything – even the area – fake. It’s attractive, though, but of course it’s a film set. Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘Well, I do,’ said Greg. ‘But I’m an American. It looks real to me.’ He gazed at the arcades and across the piazza to an old building.
‘It’s thinking back, I suppose, to London as it was then, black, covered in soot and, of course, in nineteen forty full of bomb-sites covered in rubble and people walking to work through broken water mains and piles of bricks, carrying gas masks. Well, they took out the gas masks and used the boxes for carrying sandwiches and makeup most of the time. This area was no pretty sight then,’ he said, reminiscently. ‘Too close to the river, I think. And there was something a little raffish about it, perhaps.’
‘Strange at night, in the darkness,’ Greg said.
‘Yes,’ Bruno said, obviously remembering.
‘Sally’s marriage?’ prompted Greg.
They found a bench and sat down. ‘It wasn’t a marriage,’ Bruno said, ‘just an engagement that should not have happened, I suppose. Sally was rather lonely, in some ways. Theo Fitzpatrick having played his part, allegedly, in Norway was now said to be being a hero elsewhere – there were stories about that later, but never mind. So Sally began a whirlwind affair with the brave flier Ralph Hodd. He was brave, there was no doubt of that. He flew in Spitfires throughout the battle of Britain. He’d survived, but he’d seen two-thirds of his squadron killed. When Sally came into his life it was like a blessing – he fell head over heels in love.
‘It took three weeks in all, and then Sally and he left for Hodd Hall, the family home, in Northumberland. Cold as a tomb, Briggs said. He’d been there. But he was delighted to see her go. He gave a huge party the night she left.
‘It wasn’t to be, of course,’ Bruno said with a sardonic grin. ‘Could you imagine Sally as the lady of Hodd, presiding over a gloomy mansion in the far north – no, it was impossible.
‘I was sorry for Ralph Hodd during the time he spent with Sally at Pontifex Street. Although he was a well-born landowner they treated him as badly as me – because he was straightforward and the Pontifex Street residents were tricky. He was no more than intelligent – perhaps less – and they, in their way, were brilliant. He was a flier, they were desk-bound. He was open, they were like icebergs, nine-tenths below the surface.
‘Ralph Hodd was only twenty-four. When he finished university he took over at Hodd from his father, who had been a sick man since he had been gassed in the Great War. Then the second war started and Ralph joined the RAF as a pilot. Then came a year of constant demands on nerve and stamina. It didn’t show on the surface, except sometimes in his eyes. He was quite conventional and would say things like, “These working classes are the salt of the earth,” meaning his ground crew.
‘One evening he came downstairs into La Vie with Sally to find two young soldiers having an argument. Suddenly one picked up a bottle and hit the other over the head with it. He stood there with blood running down his face. Hodd said, “Crikey!” What sort of word is that? It goes with buns and ginger beer. I don’t know – and I don’t know what Sally saw in him. Of course, after that he dashed in and helped with the injuries, tried to sort out the quarrel.’
‘Perhaps that was what she liked,’ Greg suggested.
‘Well, he’d never have let her down,’ Bruno said. ‘How they mocked him. He’d come round to Pontifex Street in the early evening in a nice suit, well shaven, to pick her up and perhaps find Pym playing the piano and Briggs having a quiet drink after work. He and Sally would go off and when they returned the place would be like hell, the air thick with smoke, gramophone playing loud jazz, Pym on the sofa with his arm round a sailor, some kind of a row in a corner, a girl in tears, a political argument in the kitchen. When Ralph proposed to Sally he said, in the nicest politest possible way, that he’d take her away from all that, it was not the manner in which she should be living.
‘In the morning Sally said to me, waving a cigarette about in the kitchen, “Darling, what shall I do? It means leaving London, my career – and think of Theo, poor Theo.” I noticed she didn’t mention the baby.
‘After she’d accepted him Briggs wondered if she’d told Hodd, the Boy’s Own hero, of Gisela’s existence. “If she hasn’t,” he said, “I certainly won’t. All I yearn for is Sally’s marriage to good old true-as-steel Ralph Hodd. I wouldn’t do anything to prevent that.”
‘One morning at eight the doorbell rang and I let in a couple, a burly man in tweeds and a very soignée lady. Sally’s parents! We weren’t prepared for them – Pym was in the sitting room in an Arab robe, reading The Times, and there was a Dutch captain, still drunk, on the couch with bottles and glasses all over the place.
‘Briggs saved the day. He arrived downstairs, looking impeccable, and actually bowed over Geneviève Jackson-Bowles’s hand. He almost clicked his heels. She was charmed. All this gave me time to warn Sally, who was upstairs in bed with Hodd. They got up and started to blunder about giggling.
‘Ralph came downstairs, Pym made introductions – Geneviève was frosty towards Pym. I
made us all tea, of course.
‘Geneviève sat, straight-backed, in a chair and Harry looked about, trying to get the measure of the situation and his son-in-law-to-be. “It’s very sudden,” he said to Ralph Hodd. “It’s typical of war-time, I know. How do you see your future when this lot is over?”
‘“I suppose I’ll go back and take care of things at home,” Ralph Hodd told him. “Things” meant about half of Northumberland.
‘“Yes, well, jolly good,” replied Harold Jackson-Bowles. Then he seemed to remember what Ralph’s present life must be like. ‘”I expect you’re too concerned with the present – you’re hard-pressed, doing a wonderful job, you chaps. We all owe you a debt.” He coughed.
‘Geneviève said to her daughter, “When’s the wedding? What must we do? It’s so difficult, with all these shortages.” She smiled at Ralph.
‘“I’m going up to Hodd for a bit,” Sally told her. “There’s no hurry.”
‘“Oh, well,” Geneviève said. “I suppose in war-time everything’s different. At least you’ll be away from this terrible bombing.”
‘“You shouldn’t have come, Mummy,” Sally said. “There could be an enormous raid at any moment. It’s frightfully dangerous.”
‘Neither Geneviève nor Harold looked disconcerted when she said this. Harold Jackson-Bowles said, “We planned to catch an afternoon train. I’ve booked a table at Rules.”
‘“I’m most terribly sorry, sir,” said Ralph Hodd. “I’m due back on duty soon. I can make it in a couple of hours on my motorbike, but I ought to start more or less now in case of delays.”
‘“What a great pity,” Geneviève said.
‘Not long after, Ralph left and Pym and I were persuaded by Sally, who could not face Harold and Geneviève on her own, to make up the party at Rules. Here, in gloomy and smoke-laden atmosphere, aged, rude waiters staggered about under huge plates of pheasant and hare, seemingly unaffected by war-time shortages. Pym turned on the charm and Geneviève, though she did not like him, softened. Harold was polite but plainly did not trust him. Geneviève set about Sally. “Darling, you really should do something about your hair. Sally’s always been so very independent-minded, hasn’t she, Mr Pym? Too much, do you think?”
‘Well,’ said Bruno, ‘my enemy’s enemy is my friend, that’s how the saying goes, doesn’t it? Geneviève Jackson-Bowles couldn’t stand her daughter, nor could Pym. It was enough. I began to see why Sally rarely went home.
“Betty’s so very different, of course,” said Geneviève. “Quieter and less ambitious, somehow. And her little boys are so charming. Tell me,” she asked Pym, “what’s become of that delightful man, Theo Fitzpatrick? We all thought Sally was going to marry him – well, I think you did too, Sally, yes? And now look what’s happened.”
‘“Theo’s a slippery fish, Mrs Jackson-Bowles,” Pym said.
‘It was terrible, like when the picadors go in after the bull. I could do nothing. I was a stranger with doubtful credentials. Sally’s father either did not observe what was happening or thought nothing about it.’ Bruno gazed with a jaundiced air at a juggler in motley out on the piazza and remarked, ‘I’m an old queen and we’re supposed to understand women, but the reasons for women hating their daughters have always eluded me. What do you think?’
Greg shrugged, ‘I think it was more common years ago.’
‘It was almost a relief when the siren blew and we all had to go down into the cellars. There we sat amid the barrels and racks of wine – the waiters had carried in the chairs from the restaurant – and conversation became more general among the clientele. Geneviève was remarkably courageous, considering this was an experience she had not met before. Harry, who had been at the front during the Great War, sat there dourly and said to another man of his own age, “I wonder what we’d have thought, going through the last lot, if we’d known this was going to happen twenty odd years later?” The other just shook his head.
‘The All Clear sounded not long after. Geneviève stood up, dusted herself down and said to Sally, sincerely, “Thank goodness you’re going up to Northumberland, darling.”
‘I think it was expected that Sally would marry and spend the rest of the war there, but in the end there was no wedding and Sally was back three months later, just after Christmas.’
Greg and Bruno stood up to go. Bruno offered Greg a lift back to Bayswater. They found his car parked off the Strand on the large area in front of Somerset House. ‘I have friends,’ Bruno said mysteriously, when Greg exclaimed over his access to this exclusive parking space. On the drive Greg said, ‘If you’ve no idea where Sally Bowles is – or even if she’s alive – do you have any clue about her parents? Or where I could find her sister? I’d like to talk to her.’
‘The Jackson-Bowleses are dead,’ Bruno said. ‘And I know the sister and her husband emigrated to South Africa after the war.’
‘Do you know where?’
Bruno, driving slowly up the Mall, shook his head. ‘How could I know? As I’ve told you, the Pontifex group threw me out in ‘forty-six. I rented the shop and Pym, Briggs, all the rest of them, were leading their lives in embassies, or in Whitehall ministries, wearing good suits and going off for weekends in country houses. Julia Montrose managed to marry Sir Peveril. Still,’ he added, ‘without Briggs I would probably have died in the camps. He gave me the language, also,’ said Bruno, ‘and, of course, he trained my taste so that when I could afford to venture into the antiques trade I was able to do so. That’s not so bad, is it?’
‘Perhaps it isn’t.’
They pulled up outside Greg’s building. ‘I won’t ask you in,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty depressing. But will you tell me what went wrong at Hodd?’
‘Soon,’ Bruno said. ‘I’m going away next week to attend some sales. What will you do?’
Greg concealed his disappointment. ‘Research,’ he said stoutly. ‘Go to libraries, read old magazines and newspapers.’
‘Good,’ Bruno said. ‘That’s good. Then we will go on with our story.’
Chapter 19
For two months Sally had been at Hodd Hall near Jedburgh, some twenty miles from the Scottish border. The house, not far from the east coast, was cold and getting colder. One morning she was standing in the drawing room, which was long and heavily panelled, full of rather gloomy pictures and mounted antlers, staring glumly at the rain beating against the window-panes, when her future mother-in-law opened the door. Sally froze.
‘Dear Sally,’ said Lady Hodd, in an affectionate tone. ‘Now – what shall we do with you today?’ She wore a very good tweed suit. Sally was in brown corduroy slacks and a thick blue jersey.
‘I think I’ll go to the dairy. I promised Jessie I’d help her move the cheeses into the store,’ Sally said.
Lady Hodd could shift Sally from the house and towards some form of useful work as if by magic. ‘Oh, yes, of course. What a good idea,’ she said.
In the icy yard a tall girl in clogs was sweeping manure into a pile.
‘Time for a cuppa,’ Sally called.
‘All right,’ she agreed.
Soon they were ensconced in the warm kitchen, drinking tea with the estate manager, Tim Ferris, who had been invalided out of the Army after Dunkirk. Sally asked, ‘Have you ever wondered why the Hodds have all this and you haven’t?’
His answer was cautious, since he knew that Sally would one day become the next Lady Hodd. ‘It’s because of the way things are,’ he told her, a humorous glint in his eye.
‘Do you think it’s fair?’
‘Fair? What’s fair got to do with it? It’s like the weather, isn’t it? You can’t alter it.’
The cook, who was stirring a large pot of soup on the stove, pursed her lips, and Sally squeezed Tim’s knee under the table. That was the moment at which Lady Hodd came in, observed the under-the-table movement and decided not to believe her own eyes. ‘Another tea break! Heavens! No one would ever believe there was a war on.’
When th
ey were out in the yard again, in the wind, moving cheeses the size of bicycle wheels from the shelves in the dairy down to the cellar, through a trap-door in a wall, Jessie asked, ‘Is there any news from Mr Ralph, Sally?’
‘Very bad,’ said Sally. ‘The squadron’s been in the air twenty nights out of the last thirty.’
‘That’s awful,’ Jessie said.
‘I’m going to London to meet him this weekend,’ Sally said. ‘He only has a weekend pass, so it’s too far to come here. Oh, God!’ she wailed, looking down. ‘My hands! My nails!’
‘Dip ’em in whey – that’s what we do round here,’ Jessie advised her.
They went into the dairy and hauled another cheese from a shelf. They contemplated each other from either end of it. ‘Whey?’ said Sally. ‘I’ll try it.’ As they trudged to the trap-door Sally asked, ‘You don’t think I’ll last here, do you?’
Jessie did not reply.
Lady Hodd was screaming, ‘My God! With Ralph’s father ill in bed again with his wound and Ralph fighting for his country, you – you – disgrace!’
The dining room at Hodd was even gloomier than the drawing room. More stags’ heads lowered down on them through the misty light of a December afternoon.
Sally, who was wearing dungarees and Wellington boots, said, ‘I don’t know what you expected. I know I’ve been working hard here for two months in the national interest, or so you say, but I think it’s in yours, really. I think you’re hoarding food.’
‘What the hell—’ exclaimed Lady Hodd, almost speechless. ‘What the hell has that got to do with what we’re talking about? You’ve been sleeping with my bailiff – my bailiff – my son’s fiancée and Tim Ferris from the village. What decent girl could do that, with her fiancé at war? How could you? And now I’ll have to discharge him.’
After the Cabaret Page 7
