Her Ladyship's Girl

by Anwyn Moyle

  Aldgate East Tube station was the nearest and safest place to go when the bombs began to fall but, one Saturday night at the end of February 1941, I was out at a local dance when the air-raid sirens went off. The closest shelter was the basement of the London Fruit Exchange at Spitalfields Market – it was called Mickey’s Shelter after Mickey Davies, who was a marshal there. The place was crowded, as it would be on a Saturday night, and we were packed in like sardines. I was standing and the man next to me was sitting on a packing case. He stood up and offered it to me and I accepted, as it was difficult for me to stand still in one place for a long time, with my foot. He was quite a good-looking man and his clothes were expensive and fashionable. He was short in stature, about my height maybe, and slight of build. He sported a thin Clark Gable moustache and his teeth were pearly-white when he smiled.

  I was getting on for twenty-three and he looked a good eight or nine years older than me, but not really middle-aged, as some of the men in their late twenties looked then. He offered me a cigarette, but I told him I didn’t smoke. Then he held out his hand for me to shake.

  ‘Alan Lane.’

  ‘Anwyn Moyle.’

  ‘Welsh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sut wyt ti?’17

  It took me by surprise that he asked how I was in Welsh. So I answered him back in Welsh.

  ‘Yr wyf yn.’18

  He laughed, and his teeth shone in the shelter lamplight.

  ‘I’m sorry, I only know that one phrase. It was taught to me by a colleague.’

  ‘A Welsh colleague?’

  ‘He was a Dylan Thomas enthusiast.’

  We got talking about literature as the bombs fell on the burning city above us and I found him to be intelligent and charming and very good company in such a crisis. I hardly knew I’d been down there when the all-clear siren went and we were able to emerge into the smoke and flying sparks. He noticed my limp and offered me his arm for support.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Commercial Road. It’s not far.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s all right.’

  ‘I insist.’

  So he walked with me to The White Lion and, on the way, I told him I was cook/barmaid there and he said he’d pop in for a pint and a pie some night when there was no madness falling from the screaming skies. He doffed his hat and bowed slightly to me, like gentlemen did, and I rushed upstairs to my room and watched from the window as he disappeared round the corner into Whitechapel.

  The following Wednesday night myself and May were working and it was quietish by comparison to the weekends, with just a steady crowd in. Then the door opened and I saw Alan Lane standing there. He looked round first, then walked slowly towards the bar. I ran into the kitchen to fix my hair and put on some lipstick and, when I came back out, May had served him a whisky and water and they were chatting together and laughing. My eyes went green.

  ‘Ah, Anwyn, sut wyt ti?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you.’

  I elbowed May out of the way and she flounced off, pouting, to serve some of the other customers. We chatted when I wasn’t busy and he told me he worked as a dealer, though he didn’t say what in. He lived in a big house in Clerkenwell and I didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger, so I assumed he was single. He asked me what I did on my nights off and I said I liked dancing. This seemed to surprise him and I knew he was thinking about my limp.

  ‘You don’t notice it so much when I’m on the dance floor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The limp.’

  He laughed, and his face smiled, even if his eyes didn’t.

  May came over and tried to butt in, but my expression warned her away again.

  ‘You ever been to the Palais de Danse in Hammersmith?’

  ‘Yes, I used to go there with a friend.’

  The mention of the Palais reminded me of the times with Lucy and I felt guilty as I hadn’t been down to her grave for a while. I made a mental note to go there and see her family on my next Sunday off.

  ‘Do you still go there with him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend.’

  ‘Her . . . it was a girlfriend. No, we don’t go there any more.’

  He had another whisky and water and lit a cigarette. He offered me one, which I declined.

  ‘Why don’t you let me take you? We can have dinner as well.’

  ‘Really? I’d love that.’

  ‘When’s your next Saturday off?’

  ‘Week after this one.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up here at six, then.’

  I went to serve someone else and, when I came back, he was gone. May wanted to know who the handsome man of mystery was and I played it down and told her he was just someone I met in an air-raid shelter.

  ‘Well. If you don’t want him, Annie, I’ll have him.’

  I couldn’t wait for my next Saturday night off. But I had a free Sunday before that, so I went over to Bermondsey to visit Lucy’s family. The war was making things even harder for them than before, and I felt really sorry for the working-class people of London who seemed to bear the full brunt of everything, while the rich could swan off to their country estates or some other safe haven. If it wasn’t poverty, it was disease, and if it wasn’t disease, it was bombs and bullets. I went again with Lucy’s sister down to her grave in Bow Cemetery and I laid some fresh flowers and said another little old ways prayer.

  Emptiness engulfs me.

  Loss languishes me

  In grief, as my guide

  To the essence of the shadow,

  Recorded forever in the dream.

  There was an air raid on the way back and I was a long way from any shelter. I saw a group of people run towards Tower Bridge when the sirens began to squeal and I followed them. They ran down onto the pebbles near the water’s edge and took shelter underneath the bridge on the south side. I ran with them and we had to crouch down to get into the tight space underneath the bridge span. Next thing I knew the air was alive with noise and fire and bits of shrapnel were flying everywhere. We covered our heads with our arms, but it wouldn’t have done any good if we’d got hit. I could hear the deadly drone of the planes overhead and the sound of the anti-aircraft guns trying to shoot them down. The acrid smell of burning was everywhere and the thick smoke nearly choked me. Some of the people under the bridge were crying and others were praying and I just hoped I lived long enough to see Alan Lane again. The raid only lasted about twenty minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime to me. We stayed under the bridge until the sirens sounded the all-clear.

  Then we came out to the aftermath.

  I made my way back up off the bank of the Thames onto the walkway and across Tower Bridge. The view from the parapet, looking east, was like a view of the end of the world. Fire and smoke spread throughout the East End and buildings crumbled and minor secondary explosions rang out. I stumbled along past the Tower and East Smithfield and the Royal Mint and into Mansell Street. Fire engines were spraying water everywhere and soldiers and air-raid wardens were trying to cover the dead bodies with black sheets and tarpaulins. Ambulances and military medics were ferrying the wounded to hospitals and the whole place was dark and hell-like, apart from the searchlight beams piercing the sky like giant lighthouse lanterns. It took me over an hour to pick my way the mile and a half home and I had to have a brandy off Albert to steady my nerves when I got in.

  The White Lion continued miraculously to escape the bombs and life went on behind the bar and in the kitchen. But I had more than the London Blitz on my mind. I was looking forward to dinner and dancing with Alan Lane.

  He came for me in a black Morris Oxford car at 6:00 p.m. precisely on the Saturday evening. He drove us to the Black Gardenia restaurant near Tottenham Court Road and we had a three-course dinner of carrot soup with brown bread, followed by roast chicken with parsnips and potatoes and then homemade chocolate cake for pudding. It was lovely. I don�
�t think I ever tasted anything so nice in my life. We went on from there to the Palais and we danced the evening away to the music of the Lou Preager Orchestra. Alan was a good dancer and he made allowances for my limp. We had a wonderful time. He was very knowledgeable and talked about many things and I felt so scintillating and sophisticated in his company. We left before midnight and I thought he was going to drive me home. Instead, he took me to a place called Crockfords in Curzon Street, Mayfair. The man on the door obviously knew Alan because we were ushered inside with a well-practised smile while others were being turned away.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was a private gambling club for members only and there were green baize tables with people playing cards and roulette and dice and all sorts of other betting paraphernalia. A waiter came and gave us two cocktails off a tray and didn’t ask for any payment. The drink tasted wonderful, like nothing I’d ever drunk before. I thought this Alan Lane must be very well-to-do to be getting us treated like this. He took me through the club and asked me to sit on a chair in a corner for a few minutes till he ‘did some business’. Everyone was staring at me, as if I had two heads, and I thought it must be something to do with my limp. Alan joined a table where six men were playing poker. I knew it was poker because I’d seen them playing it in the Duke’s Head for pennies. But there was no money on this table, just coloured counters. There were other women in the club besides me – two kinds of women. Ones that came in with a man, like I did, and others scantily dressed, who hung round the tables watching the winners.

  Alan didn’t come back after a few minutes, but the cocktails kept coming and I felt a bit tipsy after an hour or so. I was never a big drinker and I wasn’t used to this kind of liquor either. The waiter came over again with another glass.

  ‘What do you call this drink?’

  ‘A manhattan, Madam.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Whisky, sweet vermouth and a maraschino cherry.’

  ‘How very erotic.’

  ‘Don’t you mean exotic, Madam?’

  ‘That too.’

  We left the club at about 3:00 a.m. and I didn’t know my own name. Alan poured me into the back of the car and I didn’t remember much more, apart from him being very happy and lively and whistling on the way. He saw me to the side door of the White Lion, then got me up the stairs and into bed fully clothed, although he did take my shoes off. He kissed me on the forehead before leaving and I fell into a room-swirling sleep.

  Next morning, there was a hammer in my head, beating an anvil. I threw up in the toilet and swore I’d never drink manhattans again – or any other alcoholic beverage for that matter. I didn’t remember saying goodnight to Alan Lane or whether I’d made a spectacle of myself in the club or not. And I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I needn’t have worried. He was back in the pub the following Wednesday, with his pearly teeth and Clark Gable moustache, drinking his whisky and water and buying a round for the whole bar – which made him very popular. Lizzie was on with me that night and, just like May, hanging on his every well-considered word. We were quite busy, due to the lack of other pubs in the area – most of which had been bombed or had run out of drink. But Albert and his black market connections made sure we were able to keep going. I didn’t get to talk much to Alan that night because I had to keep serving the customers, but before he left he slipped me a note.

  Dearest Anwyn,

  I hope I didn’t offend you by leaving you so long on your own last Saturday. Please allow me to make it up to you. I know you get every second Saturday off, so next week I’ll come pick you up at the same time.

  Yours adoringly,

  Alan

  What could I say? My heart skipped a beat – yours adoringly. Now, I was no pushover for the passionate phrase. I’d heard it all before, from William Harding and Henry Rivers and Brynn the bicycle boy and others as well. But there was something about Alan Lane – he seemed to have that aura of hazard about him that some men have; men a woman knows she should stay away from, but is drawn to like a moth to a flame. It was an ideal – an image, a fiction – something I expected him to be from the books I’d read, but which didn’t actually exist. I showed the letter to the other girls and they were green with envy.

  The days passed greyly until my next Saturday off, then he was there, just as before with his Morris Oxford, at 6:00 p.m. precisely. This time we went to a secluded little brasserie in Soho for a fish supper and he was very quiet to begin with, not saying much at all. When we’d eaten, he ordered a bottle of champagne. It wasn’t real champagne because that would have been impossible to get, even for him. But it was the gesture that impressed me and I wondered why a handsome, sophisticated man-of-the-world like Alan Lane would want to spend so much time with a Welsh village woman like me and tell me he was mine adoringly.

  He leaned across the table.

  ‘This will probably seem impetuous, Anwyn . . .’

  ‘What will?’

  He took a little box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was what looked like a diamond ring. My hands went to my mouth.

  ‘Would you consider marrying me?’

  I didn’t know how to answer. My jaw dropped down to my chest and my mouth stayed open to catch the startled flies. A moment or two passed before I realised he was waiting for an answer.

  ‘Marry you?’

  ‘I know this is sudden, but let me explain . . .’

  He told me he was going to be called up for military service soon and he might be killed on active duty in North Africa. So he wanted to marry me now, because later might never come.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Will you at least think about it?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I will.’

  ‘Very well, we can consider ourselves engaged.’

  And he slipped the ring onto my finger.

  It was a whirlwind engagement. Alan Lane swept me off my feet and showed me all the sights of wartime London. We went to places off the beaten track that few ordinary people would know about and he seemed to be able to get anything he wanted, despite shortages and rationing. We set a date for the end of April to get married, as he was expecting to be called up in May. I was busy working in the White Lion and he said his mother and sister would take care of all the arrangements, but I’d have to give up the bar job when we tied the knot, because no wife of his would need to work. I didn’t object, I’d been at the White Lion for nearly three years and that was the longest I’d ever spent in a job. It was time to pack in the slogging for a living and give married life a go.

  When he said his family would make all the arrangements, I believed it would be a big wedding, with the church swollen with guests and all the trimmings. I dreamed of walking down the aisle to the sound of Mendelssohn and an entourage of little bridesmaids throwing flowers behind me – a choir singing somewhere in the chancel and the people dressed like they were at the May Ball I went to with Miranda Bouchard. But it turned out to be a small ceremony in a register office in Waltham Forest. None of my family could afford to come down from Wales, so Albert and Pearl came on my side and Alan’s mother and sister were there for him. That was it. Afterwards, we went for tea and buttermilk scones at the Bull’s Head Hotel & Tea Rooms in Barkingside. Then Albert and Pearl had to get back to their respective pubs and I travelled to a house in Clerkenwell I’d never seen before. It was a four-bedroom terraced house in Woodbridge Street and he lived there with his mother and sister. I had about twenty pounds in savings from Devonshire Place and the White Lion and he told me he’d put it in the strongbox at the house for safekeeping.

  It turned out Alan was actually fifteen years older than me, though he didn’t look it, and the mother and sister doted on him like he was Little Lord Fauntleroy. Alan’s father was dead, but nobody told me how he met his end and the man’s name was rarely mentioned. His mother was small and slight, like him. Her name was Clare and she was
a pinched little woman of about sixty with a frugal face and grey hair. His sister was bigger, almost my size, with spectacles and a permanent wave. Her name was Geraldine and she was about thirty and heading down the road to spinsterhood. They waited on Alan hand and foot and he never did a thing for himself. As I’d never actually met them before, I expected that they were in favour of us getting married, but I soon found out that wasn’t the case.

  We didn’t honeymoon anywhere ‘because of the war’, but spent our wedding night in the house on Woodbridge Street with the other two women just a couple of partition walls away. Despite my close encounters with a number of men, I was still a virgin on my wedding night and I was a little nervous when we went to bed. It was cold in the room even though it was late April and I got between the sheets first, wearing a floral cotton nightdress. Alan slipped in beside me wearing a white string vest and knee-length drawers and his arm went round me. It wasn’t long before he manoeuvred himself into position and, after a few grunts and pushes, it was all over and he rolled off me and lit a cigarette. Maybe it was because they were Catholics, but Alan wasn’t the most imaginative man in bed, despite his playboy persona, and I couldn’t help remembering Mr Harding and the way I felt in the library with him all those young years ago. We did it again in the missionary position that night and then the honeymoon was over.

  The Blitz ended in May 1941 and things got a bit quieter in London, while the Germans were designing their doodlebugs and buzz-bombs. I waited for Alan to get called up and sent to North Africa, but he never was, and he kept saying it would probably be tomorrow, then the next day, or the day after that. Apart from in the bedroom, he was quite attentive to me, but his mother and sister were cool and I was more or less left to my own devices for the first week or so. They continued to look after Alan as they’d always done and I looked after myself. I think they believed me to be beneath them because I was once a servant and then a barmaid, and they thought they were on a higher level because they came from a professional family. As the days went by, I was increasingly given little jobs to do, like lighting the fires in the morning and cleaning up the kitchen after meals and making the beds and washing the floors. It felt as if I was being treated like their private maid and I’d gone back to being a skivvy again, only this time I wasn’t being paid. Alan came and went at odd hours. He didn’t seem to have a job like most men that took him out in the morning and back home in the evening. But he was kind and considerate to me, and his mother and sister kept their superiority complexes under control when he was around.