Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie

by Nancy Mitford

  12

  Luke wrote an extremely entertaining letter from America. The change of scene had evidently done him good; he appeared to be in high spirits, and to have cast off the gloom in which he had been enveloped before leaving England.

  He said that, having always heard from Mary Pencill that America was the one truly democratic country in the world, quite free from class distinction of any kind, it had seemed to him rather odd that the talk should run almost entirely on such subjects as how charming the late Lady Fort William used to be. ‘Another topic which is nearly always introduced, sooner or later, is what do the English think of America? When I reply that, although most Englishmen have heard of America, not one in ten actually believes in it, they seem almost incredulous.’ He also said that they were quite indignant at what seemed to them to be the boring progress of the war, and that on the whole, he thought, they hoped that Germany would win. They hoped this, of course, in the kind of irresponsible, guilty way a child hopes the house will catch fire. ‘They have a juvenile point of view and in particular an extreme love of sensation.’ He had nearly finished his work, he said, and would soon be home. Had had an interesting time, but was looking forward to being back in England again; he would be flying home by clipper. No mention of Florence, Herr Hitler, or the Brotherhood, and in fact Luke’s journey to the New World would seem to have readjusted his perspective as regards the Old.

  The news that her husband’s return was imminent put an altered complexion on things for Sophia, who realised that she must hurry up with her unmasking activities. Luke was already much disliked owing to his well-known sympathies of the last few years, and it would be extremely awkward for him if a nest of spies were to be found lodged in his house while he himself was there. If, on the other hand, they were tracked down and handed over to justice, by means of the great brilliance and deep cunning of his wife while he was engaged in work of national importance abroad, it would be quite a different affair, and could reflect only to his credit.

  Sophia decided that she must immediately find out where the King of Song was hiding, or being hidden, and get into communication with that treacherous and venal (or, alternatively, loyal and disinterested) old body. She felt that even if the former adjectives proved to be correct, he would not have lost all his affection for his godchild; she could not somehow imagine him handing her over to Heatherley, the drain and thumbscrew. If really on the side of England all along, he would be only too glad to be assisted from the clutches of his captors. She hoped he would not prove to be drugged, like Van der Lubbe, but supposed that he would hardly be in such good voice if so. The more she thought of it, the more she felt certain that he must be underneath the First Aid Post, and that one clue to his whereabouts lay in the snacks which Florence and Heatherley carried from the canteen in such quantities. Their appetites had become quite a joke with the nurses. The maternity ward was too small to hide a mouse, but next door to that was the hospital museum, a huge, half dark vault, of a most sinister shape and size. The manhole which led to the main drain was in Mr Stone’s little office, so they would not be able to use that; investigation, she felt, should be made in the museum.

  She also decided that it was no longer possible for her to blaze a lone trail through the jungle of spies and counter-spies that her life had now become. After all, she had a lot of valuable counter-espionage work to her credit; the brilliant piece of feminine intuition which had prevented her from leaving the house on Heatherley’s bogus errand, as many a lesser woman might have done, having led to the sensational discoveries that the King of Song was still in this country, that Heatherley Egg, far from being a counter-spy, was a counter-counter-spy, and that Winthrop, if not Heatherley himself, was a German. In The Thirty-Nine Steps, even Scudder, who, like her, preferred to work on his own, had finally bequeathed his little black notebook to an accomplice; Sophia had no black notebook: all the more necessary that she should have an accomplice. At any moment she might be drained, and then nobody would ever know that she had been a beautiful female spy all along. It was a dreadful prospect.

  The choice of an accomplice lay between Fred and Rudolph, and while Rudolph probably had more initiative and more spare time at present, she really favoured Fred on account of his being so much more under her thumb. There was quite good reason, knowing what she did of Fred’s character, to hope that in his eyes she would be the Chief; Fred was used to Chiefs, and in fact had never yet been without one during the whole of his life. Rudolph, as she very well knew, would order her about or ignore her, just as it suited him; besides, it would give her the most intense pleasure, as well as serving him right for flirting with Olga, to leave Rudolph out of all this until she could point to the fruits of her activities in the shape of at least three prisoners in the Tower. Having therefore, quite decided upon Fred, to the point of lifting the receiver of her telephone to ring him up, she suddenly remembered the main drain and the possible fate of inept counter-spies. Fred had a young and lovely wife who seemed to be devoted to the idea of him; he also had two fat babies. Rudolph had nothing but a perfectly horrible sister who had often been very rude to Sophia. She rang up Rudolph.

  Rudolph was by now bored to death with Olga and her long stories about a job and a Chief that too palpably did not exist. On the other hand, she having been the cause of his break with Sophia, he had felt himself obliged to haunt her company. When he realised that he was being summoned back into the fold he made no secret of his delight.

  ‘Serge came round this morning to horse-whip me,’ he said; ‘wasn’t it fascinating? It seems that he bought a horsewhip at Fortnum’s on Olga’s account, and he turned up here with it very early, about nine. He hadn’t been to bed at all (there’s a new place called The Nuthouse, we’ll go tonight). The porter telephoned up to my room and said, “There’s a gentleman in sporting kit, wants to see you most particular,” so I had him sent up with my breakfast, and in comes old Voroshilov, furling and unfurling a great whip; I felt quite giddy. So I ordered some drinks and he sat on my bed and told me that Olga bumps up his allowance every time he horse-whips anybody for making a pass at her, because she read somewhere that this was the form in Imperial Russia. Then he told me all about his Blossom. He simply loved his Blossom, apparently he never loved any other creature so much in his life. He says it was grossly unfair, the way they dismissed him; he only passed out because she passed out first and he couldn’t think of anything else to do, with her lying there so flat and dead looking, and the idea of her being in the charge of poor Fred makes him quite sick. I should think he feels quite sick, quite often actually, because he is busy drinking himself to death – he was, anyway, of course, so it doesn’t make all that difference. Still, it’s rather dreadful to see the poor old tartar so sad and low; he used to be such a jolly old drunk, but he was crying like anything; he has only just gone. When do I see you, shall I come round now or meet you at the Post?’

  ‘No, neither. I don’t want to be seen seeing you, you see.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Well, I can’t explain for the present.’

  ‘Good heavens, Sophia, is Luke cutting up rough?’

  ‘Luke’s not back yet, and you know quite well he never cuts up rough. I will meet you at the Ritz in half an hour.’

  ‘You’ll be seen seeing me there all right. However,’ said Rudolph quickly, not wishing her, as in her present eccentric mood she easily might, to change her mind, ‘meet you there, darling; goodbye.’

  Sophia smiled to herself. That evening spent with Heatherley instead of with Rudolph had been wonderfully productive of results, one way and another.

  When she arrived at the Ritz, Rudolph was already there reading an early edition of an evening paper. He stood up to greet her, hardly raising his eyes from the paper. Sophia sat down beside him, then, remembering what she was, she bobbed up again in order to see that nobody was lurking behind her chair and that there was no microphone underneath it.

  ‘Walking round your
chair for luck?’ said Rudolph, still reading.

  ‘Put that paper down, darling. I’ve got a very great deal to tell you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Stop reading, then.’

  ‘I can read and listen to you quite well.’

  ‘Probably you can. But I can’t talk to you while you’re reading. Darling, really you are rude. You might have been married to me for years.’

  ‘To all intents and purposes I have.’

  ‘That’s very rude, too. Thank heavens I have Luke to fall back on.’

  ‘Poor old Luke. You always talk about him as if he were a lie-low.’

  ‘So he is, and it’s a jolly nice thing to be. The more I see of you, the more I like Luke, as somebody said about dogs. Rudolph now, please don’t let’s quarrel. Put that paper down and talk to me.’

  Rudolph did so with bad grace. They were both by now thoroughly out of temper with each other.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Darling, now listen. You know about me being beautiful?’

  ‘You’re all right.’

  ‘No, Rudolph, please say I’m beautiful; it’s part of the thing.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re a beautiful female spy?’

  ‘In a way, I was.’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite sure you were. And that you have a Chief, but you don’t feel happy about his loyalty, so you’re really working on your own, and the War Office and Scotland Yard haven’t got an inkling of what you’re up to because you’re blazing a lone trail, but soon there will be sensational revelations, and you will be a national heroine. Oh God! Women are bores in wars.’ Rudolph returned to his paper.

  Sophia left the Ritz in a great temper, and went straight to her Post where she had lunch alone at the canteen. It was much too late now to ring up Fred; he would be with his Blossom; she would have to make investigations on her own after all.

  13

  Sophia had wondered why the canteen was so empty, and when she got downstairs she found the reason was that the Post was in the throes of a major practice. This event had been canvassed with great excitement for the past few days, and nothing but Sophia’s preoccupation with other matters could have put it out of her mind. As soon as she arrived, she was engulfed in it. Not only did the Southern Control hiss into her ear ‘Practice red, expect casualties’, not only did casualties covered with ‘wounds’ of the most lugubrious description appear in shoals – these things had often happened before and been regarded as part of everyday work – today was made memorable by the fact that a real (not practice) Admiral was scheduled to escort a real (not practice) Royal Princess round the Post to see it at work.

  Sophia immediately saw that if she was ever going to conduct investigations, this would be the time. Heatherley and Winthrop were on continual stretcher duty and would not be able to leave the Treatment Room for a moment, except to carry ‘cases’ upstairs to the Hospital. Only Florence was unemployed; this must be remedied. Sophia went into the Treatment Room in search of Sister Wordsworth. It was a hive of industry; dressings and splints were laid out in quantities, and the instruments were all getting a double dose of sterilization, as though the royal eye were fitted with a microscopic lens which would enable it to note, with disapproval, fast gathering clouds of streptococci. Sister Wordsworth stood surveying the scene.

  Sophia said, ‘Can I speak to you a moment?’ and suggested that if everything was supposed to be in progress exactly as though there had been a real raid, surely Florence ought to be sent to a practice pregnancy. Sister Wordsworth saw the force of this argument, and taking hold of the next woman ‘patient’ who appeared, she bundled her into the Labour Ward.

  ‘Sixty-five if she’s a day,’ she said in a loud cheerful aside. ‘I should think it will be a very difficult delivery. Have the forceps handy, Sister Turnbull, and plenty of hot water.’ Florence looked very peevish indeed, and prepared to do as she was told with a bad grace.

  At this moment the real Princess appeared, and jokes were forgotten.

  As soon as H.R.H. had seen her office, and gone through into the Treatment Room, Sophia summoned up all her courage and left her chair by the telephone. If it rang while she was gone, Sister Wordsworth would never forgive her; this would have to be risked, among other things. She ran down a back passage to the hospital museum. The door was locked but she had Sister Wordsworth’s master-key, with which she opened it. Florence was standing in the Labour Ward, the door of which was at right angles to that of the Museum; she appeared to be leaning over her aged victim, and her back was turned on Sophia who slipped into the Museum carefully, shutting the door behind her. Then, shaking with terror, she switched on her electric torch and crept down the main avenue between the glass cases. She passed the pre-natal Siamese twins, fearful little withered white figures, unnaturally human and with horrible expressions of malignity on their faces. She passed the diseased hearts and decayed livers, and reached the case of brains with tumours on them. Then her heart stood still. On the floor beneath the brains, shining in the light of her torch like a golden wire, was a springy butter-coloured curl which could only have come from one source. The horrified curiosity felt by Robinson Crusoe when he saw the footstep of Man Friday, the ecstasy, and joy of Mme. Curie when at last she had a piece of radium, were now experienced with other and more complex sensations by Sophia. For a minute or two she almost choked with excitement; then, recovering herself, she followed in the direction in which (so far as a curl can be said to point) it pointed. Under the large intestines another one winked out a welcome, under the ulcerated stomachs was a third. The passage ended with a case of bladders against the wall, and under this was a curl. Very gingerly Sophia pushed the case. It moved. She put down her torch and lifted the case away from the wall. Behind it there was a door. As she opened this door she knew that she must be the bravest woman in the world. As a child, if she had been extremely frightened of something, she used to remind herself that she was descended from Charles II, and this had sustained her. She now invoked this talisman, to but little avail. The Merry Monarch had lived too long ago, and blankets the adult Sophia knew to have more than one side. In any case, even if his blood did flow in her veins, she thought, the worst terrors he had faced were Roundheads and death on the block, or, later in life, highwaymen who would have been easily charmed by a guinea and a royal joke. A hospital museum with its grisly exhibits, the darkness, the main drain, possible rats and creeping spies, were a test of nerves which might well break down the resistance of a man far braver than Charles II had ever shown himself to be.

  She was now faced by a long flight of stone stairs leading, she supposed, to some fearful dungeons. She went down them, and then down a short passage at the end of which was another door which she opened. Sitting in quite a cheerful little room with an electric fire was the old gentleman himself.

  ‘Darling,’ he cried, ‘what has happened – are they all caught? How did you get here? Where are the police?’

  ‘Ssh,’ said Sophia, her knees turning to jelly. ‘I am all alone. I came down from the Post.’

  ‘But my darling child, this is terrible, so terribly dangerous. You must go back at once. But just listen carefully to me. They – (do you know who I mean, Florence and the others?)’

  Sophia nodded. ‘Yes, I know about them being spies; go on.’

  ‘They have got some scheme on foot which I must find out. They are putting it into execution next Friday, in three day’s time. It is something devilish; I have half guessed what, but I must know for certain. Apart from that, I know everything about the German spies in this country. Now I want you to tell the police where I am and all about Florence and Co., so that they can be watched. But I also want them to wait before rounding up the gang until six o’clock on Friday evening. It, whatever it is, will happen at ten o’clock that night, so if I don’t know all by six, I probably never shall. Anyhow, I don’t dare leave it until later. Now quickly go back. If they find you here they w
ill put us both in the main drain, and all my work will have been wasted. Go, go. Be careful now. Goodbye till we meet again, my dearest. Goodbye.’

  Something in the old King’s manner terrified Sophia. He looked at her, she thought, as if he never expected to see her again in life; he spoke with the abruptness and irritation of a badly frightened man. She turned and fled back, up the stairs to the museum; here, with shaking hands, she put back the case of bladders as she had found it against the door. Then she crept through the medical curiosities and out again into the Post. The door of the Labour Ward was shut this time and the coast seemed clear. She ran as fast as she could to the office, collapsed into her chair and felt extremely faint; she held her head between her knees for a few moments until the giddiness had passed off. She longed for brandy, which she knew to be unobtainable.

  The Royal inspection was still in progress; indeed, although it seemed to her like several days, Sophia had only been away from the office for ten minutes, and very fortunately the telephone bell had not rung once during this time. It did so now, ‘Southern Control speaking, practice white.’ Sophia decided that she was not temperamentally suited to the profession, which she had so gaily chosen, of secret agent; she was not nearly brave enough. Her teeth were still chattering, her hand was trembling so much that she could hardly lift the telephone receiver. She would blaze her lone trail no longer, that evening the whole affair was going to be placed before Scotland Yard, and her responsibility would be at an end. This comforting resolution greatly strengthened her nerves; a large, red-faced policeman would be more stimulating than brandy and she would insist on having one to watch over her until Friday. She wondered if she could persuade him to sleep in her bathroom, and thought that nothing could give her so much happiness.