The Blue Note

by Charlotte Bingham

  Bobbie stared at her feet. She had suddenly found her feet extraordinarily interesting for the very good reason that Julian was bossing his eyes at her again. She knew that he was just as unable to think of Miss Moncrieff as ‘Bel’ as she was, and that, like herself, he was having difficulty keeping his face straight.

  Yet undeniably they were both committed to helping the Major in his romance. More than that, they wanted to put their shoulder to this particular wheel most probably because it was like the Major’s buying smuggled gin and defying the authorities. It was an exciting, spivvy, black market kind of thing to do, to help the Major elope with Miss M, help them get under the wire before Mrs Harper and Mrs Moncrieff discovered that poor Miss M was wild about the Major.

  Indeed it was quite touching to see just how wild about Major S poor old Miss Moncrieff really was, seemingly happy only if she was following him around all day long, she pushing the wheelbarrow, he strutting ahead with his axe or his saw, once again a man in a woman’s eyes.

  ‘It’s getting her things packed up, and, you know, rushing her, as it were, getting her under the wire before she thinks she has to tell Mother. And then again, getting her packed up before your Mrs Harper arrives and decides that she cannot possibly do without her for all the tea in China, that sort of thing. It worries the hell out of me, really it does. If she is made to choose between me and Mother she will choose Mother – no doubt about it, and she is not to be blamed. So. So this thing has to happen soon, because Mother telephoned again, didn’t she, Bobbie? Last night, left a message here, so, if we are to be realistic, it’s all ends to the middle, really it is, if we are to get under the wire.’

  ‘I am afraid it was not only Mother who telephoned,’ Bobbie said forlornly, ‘Mrs Harper did too. Twice. So we have to get Miss M packed up and shut up, before either of them find out. Packed up and shut up,’ she finished, in a determined voice.

  ‘And into my old Riley, and off up to Gretna Green before she can think of some reason why she doesn’t want to enjoy the rest of her days with me.’

  ‘So tomorrow night had better be the night, wouldn’t you say?’ Bobbie looked at her co-conspirators.

  They both nodded their heads, both of them serious once again.

  ‘Isn’t it funny, they’re both women, Mrs Moncrieff and Mrs Harper, and yet we’re all frightened of them?’ Bobbie stared at the Major, thinking this over, but the Major shook his head, and finally having knocked back his drink he said, ‘Not funny at all, dear bean. Not funny at all. Some of the worst of the Nazis were women. Very frightening creatures, women.’ He looked seriously at Bobbie. ‘Just make sure you don’t turn into one, that’s all.’

  Bobbie too frowned at that, suddenly knowing that the Major was right, that he had hit the nail on the head. Life was all about not just becoming something but also not becoming something. Whatever happened she must not turn into a woman; no sea-green change for her into some authoritarian with a foghorn of a voice and steely eyes.

  ‘I,’ she announced, thinking of something, her cheeks burning with the excitement of the moment, ‘I won’t. I promise, Major S, I will not turn into a woman, not ever, not for anyone, not ever, ever, ever.’

  Julian gave her one of his quick, darting looks, looks that always acted like a pat on the back for Bobbie, but he was waiting, not quite believing that she could come up with something.

  ‘What then? If not a woman, what are you going to be, Roberta Murray, if not a woman?’ asked the Major.

  ‘A person. I think I’ll just stick with that.’

  Julian nodded, satisfied, and Bobbie knew at once that because he had said nothing, he had said everything.

  ‘You know, Major, I am going to miss you. Julian and I – we’re both going to miss you.’

  As soon as Bobbie came out with that she realized that she quite felt like knocking back one of the Major’s drinks, but instead she knocked back her lemonade and smiled, staring straight ahead at herself in the mirror behind the bar. The lemonade was having a strangely intoxicating effect on her, for some reason she did not really understand.

  She had grown nut-brown and almost bonny-looking in the past months. As a matter of fact they all had, she realized, her gaze moving away from her own face to the Major and Julian. They all looked quite different from how they had looked when they had first come together in the spring, as a simple result of Bobbie’s being too impatient to wait for the village shop to open, and thereby meeting the Major, and Boy, and all that.

  ‘What about Boy? Will Boy go with you? Will Boy be able to get under the wire and go to Gretna Green?’ She looked down at the pug, who was snoring noisily not beneath the Major’s feet, but on them.

  ‘Oh, he’ll have to come too. You know how it is with pugs – they have to come too or they take fearful umbrage. It is “no speakers” for weeks and weeks if they’re not allowed to join the excitement. Tails go straight, owner’s life becomes completely intolerable, dogs throw asthma attacks, wheeze loudly in company, and generally make themselves repulsive – so repulsive that the message eventually gets through that pugs are not to be left behind.’ The look on the Major’s face was suddenly one of pride mixed with amazement as he went on, ‘Besides, Amabel will never let me leave Boy behind. He’s come to mean a great deal to her too. She has told me – and Amabel as you know is very truthful – she has told me that she never ever thought, never imagined that she would like a pug, but she has come to realize that she does now. In fact, quite frankly, she worships the little fellow. Can hardly bear it when his tail goes straight, as happened yesterday, when he thought he had been stung by a bee.’

  After the Major had finished speaking they all stared down at the small fawn-coloured dog with the black mask and the curly tail. There was a few seconds’ complete silence before, eventually, Bobbie said, shaking her head and sighing lightly, ‘You know, Major S, if Miss Moncrieff actually likes Boy, then if you don’t mind my saying yours really does have to be one of the great love affairs of this century.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘This has to be one of the great affairs of the century, you and Miss Moncrieff. I mean if she worships Boy, snores and all, then she must really love you, Major S.’

  The Major beamed at Bobbie. ‘Get your point,’ he agreed, proudly. ‘She does rather like me, but the thing is – what we don’t know is, does she like me enough to run off with Boy and me?’

  For Miranda the whole shopping expedition had not stopped at gloves, and consequently had developed an unreal feel to it. ‘Sam’, as she now called Macaskie, did not bother with clothing coupons, nor did he seem to have any money problems. He merely took taxis, with Miranda seated primly some distance from him in the cab, to out of the way places, where doors opened immediately the vendeuses saw who it was with cries of ‘Oh, Sam!’ – as if they knew him so well that they were upbraiding themselves for not expecting him, as if a day when Sam Macaskie did not arrive outside their discreet doors was remarkable.

  Miranda found herself mounting steep staircases which led to small, wooden-floored rooms which echoed so much to the sound of everyone’s shoes that once more than two people moved around them, it was as if there was a ballet class in progress.

  And then there were the vendeuses themselves, black frocks, discreet brooches, and tight, tight lips, like thin red lines of ribbon in their white, white faces – most especially when they stood back to view whatever it was they had just put Miranda into, carefully lifting the clothes over her head with wooden sticks, to avoid handling the precious materials.

  Of course, because they worshipped at the feet of fashion, and doubtless at the feet of designers too, their manner was if anything more authoritarian than any police inspector’s. And while Sam might lightly kiss the tips of their fingers in greeting, and they might smile at him with their lips, their eyes merely said, ‘Ah, bon, bon, yes, it’s you, Sam Macaskie, we allow you here because you pay cash, on time, all the time.’

  They were not sh
y about mentioning money straight away either. As soon as he came into view, and even as they were appraising Miranda – her height, five foot eight inches, her waist size, twenty-two, her hips, thirty-four, her shoe size, five, her hat size, six, her glove size, seven – they rolled off figures and amounts of money at Macaskie. All the figures were spoken in French and very fast, so that Miranda started to get the impression that everything they tried on her, everything they showed them both cost ‘mille cinquante’ something or another.

  Yet between all the arithmetic, both physical and commercial, they repeated a kind of approving litany to Sam as their eyes flicked from him to Miranda, and from Miranda to the clothes being brought in by their assistants. It was a litany which had a delicate emphasis, overtones of congratulation mingled with vague amazement, as if they were saying, ‘My, my, my, but how do you do it, Sam Macaskie?’

  ‘Mais elle est si mignonne. Très, très mignonne, même belle, vraiment belle, vous avez raison, monsieur.’

  If Miranda heard those words once that afternoon she must have heard them a hundred times, and each time they were said, Sam would smile, his eyes half closed, and laugh, and light another untipped French cigarette, and Miranda would stand as still as a statue as the assistants pinned and tucked the particular dress that the vendeuse, not Sam, had chosen, and then the vendeuse would turn Miranda, holding her firmly by the shoulders and, speaking rapidly in French, show her to Sam, who, eyes still half closed against the smoke of his cigarette, would nod approvingly, head on one side, while Miranda had the feeling that although he was in the room with them physically, mentally he was miles away.

  The very first time Miranda was turned by her shoulders, and the curtaining behind which she had been almost forcibly changed flung aside, she did so to the accompaniment of a stream of voluble French. Although Miranda could not understand what the vendeuse was saying at all, she did recognize her tone as being cross.

  ‘Sam, what is she saying?’

  Sam smiled his slow, almost patronizing smile. ‘She’s saying you have the wrong underwear on for the cut of the dress,’ he told her smoothly, and inevitably another cigarette was lit while Miranda blushed and Sam, pretending not to pay much attention to her sudden and quite evident embarrassment, gave her one of his reassuringly sleepy smiles before allowing her to be marched off to another room where the right underwear for her tall and slender figure was soon found.

  The sensation of good underwear on her body for the first time was something that Miranda would never forget, most especially after wartime deprivations, after wearing whatever came to hand, in whatever fashion was easiest. It was not just the comfort of good corsetry, styling as it did her youthful figure into a particular shape, so that her young, almost angular body fitted every dress and costume that was produced, it was the actual feel of it.

  And that was all before she stepped into a taffeta waist petticoat and swirled in front of the full length mirror. She did so spontaneously, arms above her head, petticoat flying, turning and turning so expertly that of a sudden the busy room in which she was being fitted, which normally did not stop for anything, not even the dropping of a bomb, suddenly did pause for a second, caught up in the sheer joy of the moment. Sewing machines ceased and pins were taken from mouths and stuck quickly back into pin cushions, as everyone laughed and applauded the sight of a young girl celebrating a moment that would never, ever come again.

  And Miranda of course, knowing that all eyes were upon her, and loving every moment of it, having ended her balletic display with a creditable version of the splits was roundly told off, in fast, explicit French, by Madame la Vendeuse. And although Miranda understood not a word of French beyond belle, which meant beautiful, which meant herself, she understood only too well the message coming via Madame’s boot-black eyes and wagging finger: that if Miranda wanted to do the splits she could join the Comédie Française or the Royal Ballet, but if she was going to be a mannequin she had to learn to take care of the underclothes, the dresses, the shoes – everything she was put in. They were not for her use, they were for her to make beautiful. That was what being a mannequin was about, making things look beautiful.

  ‘That woman in there said I was going to be a mannequin.’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was going to be a mannequin.’

  ‘What do you think this is all about?’ Sam stared at Miranda, who was clinging to the passenger strap well away from him.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Bless you, I just thought we were having fun, really.’ To cover her astonishment Miranda had suddenly reverted to Allegra’s conversational style.

  ‘Miranda.’ Sam took her hand and gave it a light squeeze before quickly dropping it, and lighting yet another of his untipped French cigarettes. ‘Miranda. You are only young, I know, but shall I tell you something? For absolutely sure, no man goes to this much trouble over a young woman unless he is going into business with her. I am going into business with you, dear. You are going to be a mannequin, and I am going to manage you. I could not be certain of this until I saw you wearing the clothes, but now – well, now it is quite clear you are going to join the ranks of famous fashion models on either side of the Atlantic. Mention who you like, Miranda Mowbray is going to be up there with them. You have the cheekbones, you have the height, you have the measurements, but most of all you adore clothes. The moment you saw those gloves I knew and you knew you had to have them. Not for yourself – you had to have them for the clothes. You owed them to your clothes. We both knew it. You just had to have them. I am not saying you would have done anything to have them, but I am saying you wanted them very, very much. There really is no more to be said. Next week I will arrange for you to be photographed in some of those clothes we tried, and send the pictures on to Paris.’

  He paused, smiling, and flicked her cheek with his free hand.

  ‘I predict you will be over-employed within hours, but hours. The moment my friends in Paris see what you can do for their frocks that will be it, my dear, completely.’

  He directed his eyes to the seats in front of him and smiled, staring ahead, obviously well satisfied with himself. As he did so Miranda realized that really she did not matter very much to him at all. Not the Miranda bit of her, anyway. Only her body mattered to him, her height, her shoe size, how she looked in the clothes in which he was making sure to see her fitted. She was going to be a means to quite another end: she was going to earn him a great deal of money. Perhaps she was also even going to earn money for herself?

  Whichever way it was he was quite obviously not going to be her ‘Colonel’. She was not going to be his ‘Pamela’. Their relationship was not going to be like that. They were going into business together, the business of showing clothes to photographers, to fashion editors, to magazines, to Parisian or American designers, to anyone and everyone who was in the business of fashion. Her heart sank. It would not be how she thought of her clothes. It would not be like putting on something and dancing around in it. It would not be a love affair, quite private. No, there would be thousands of dollars at stake, and everyone would not be happy and at ease as she had been when she was dancing quite alone in the silvered scarf. They would be serious and demanding. From now on it would be just money, money, money.

  She stared out of the window. The truth was, she could be just anyone to Sam Macaskie, any one of a hundred, or two hundred, young women. Miranda thought with sudden longing of the war days at the old rectory, when she and Teddy and Bobbie had seemed to spend hours and hours of so many days outside, gathering wool from hedges, until they had basketfuls of the stuff. And she thought too of how the aunts had given them blackberries in round blue and white bowls for their supper, and a strange kind of creamy stuff they called ‘junket’ to go with it. She remembered the way they had all used to rush out into the rectory garden as soon as lessons were over, and how they would then stand stock still. Longing and longing as they had to be away from lessons, once outside for a fe
w desperate seconds they had not known what to do.

  But then, as always, Bobbie would come up with something new, some marvellous game where they could all pretend, and if it rained they would go to a barn, and the pretence would start all over again, until it was time to go wool gathering, or walk down to see the cows being milked, or just lie in the long grass staring up at the sky half longing and half dreading to see an enemy plane. And sometimes they would hear one of the aunts calling to them from the house.

  ‘Quick, quick, under the stairs!’

  Somedays it was just a practice and at other times it was real, because the aunts would have had news of an enemy bomber from the village, and they would never risk the children, not at any time, because they had loved the three of them more than themselves, more even than their house.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Miranda?’

  Sam’s voice interrupted Miranda’s thoughts, and she found herself staring blankly at him, as if he, and the day, were not real, as if the only reality was in the past.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I said is anything the matter?’

  ‘No, no, why should there be?’

  ‘I thought you looked sad suddenly, as if you had heard bad news, that’s all, dear.’

  ‘Bless you, no. Why should I be sad? I have a whole new life in front of me, after all. A whole new life. I am as lucky as a sixpence. I am going to be a mannequin.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  Sam stared out of the window, and then back at her, the expression in his eyes quite determined.

  ‘More than anyone I have met since the war, believe me, you have the quality to become a famous model,’ he told her. ‘It is not that you are the most beautiful young woman I have ever met, far from it, but you have the ability to make what you wear change into something a great deal more. Good gracious, you make me want to wear the clothes, for heaven’s sake, and I, in case you have not noticed, am a man.’