In Love and War (8 page)

Back in the room she found Rosemary waiting for her. ‘Hurry up and get dressed, Elsie. It's the same at breakfast as it is in the evening.'

‘I hope it's not toasted sinkers,' Elsie said, pulling a face.

‘Well, tonight it's mince followed by spotted dick and custard, and tomorrow it'll be fish cakes and bread and butter pudding.'

‘I can't wait.' Elsie hopped on one leg as she pulled on her stocking. ‘Does that mean you want me to stay?'

‘It's rather nice to have company, and maybe Mrs C will do a deal with the rent as we're sharing. That is if you don't mind sleeping on that awful sofa.'

‘I don't want to put you out, Rosemary.'

‘Nonsense. There's a war on; we've got to help each other.'

Elsie started work that morning. She and a group of French-speaking volunteers were sent to Victoria station to meet the exhausted and overwrought refugees, most of whom were women and children, and some frail and elderly men. Their needs were as varied as their stories, and they were touchingly pleased to find someone who could speak their own language. Elsie was very much the new girl and for the first few days she worked alongside a more experienced charity worker. Being unfamiliar with London it took her some time to find her way around, but she was quick to learn and eager to help the people displaced through no fault of their own.

After a fortnight, her mentor decided to let Elsie deal with a mother and her six children who had been travelling for days and wore the dazed look she had seen on so many faces. Armed with a list of cheap lodging houses and families who were willing to give homes to the displaced victims of war, Elsie did her best to get the family settled in their new accommodation. It was rewarding but exhausting work and she returned to the lodging house each evening too tired even to eat, although it was not too much of a hardship to forgo Mrs Crabtree's culinary efforts. She existed on tea and toast, which she made in front of the fire in the attic room, supplemented by bowls of broth from the soup kitchens set up to feed the hungry refugees. At night she slept as best she could on the uncomfortable sofa and awakened each morning with backache and a stiff neck, but she could not afford to rent a room of her own and she was grateful to Rosemary for allowing her to stay.

It was not easy sharing such a small space, and as there were no laundry facilities in Mrs Crabtree's establishment the girls were forced to wash their undies and stockings in the bath and hang them over a rickety old clothes horse that Rosemary had bought in a second-hand shop. Condensation dripped off the walls and by the middle of December Elsie had developed a chesty cough that refused to go away, despite copious doses of Owbridge's Lung Tonic.

‘You should see a doctor,' Rosemary said one morning as she pulled on her clothes. The temperature in the attic had dropped dramatically during the night and ice frosted the inside of the dormer window. ‘You don't want to be ill at Christmas.'

Elsie sneezed into a handkerchief. ‘I'm all right. It's just a cold.'

‘You'd better watch out you don't go down with lung fever like your poor ma,' Rosemary said gloomily. She sat down to put on her stockings. ‘I'm going to my cousin's house for the festivities. You won't be staying here, will you?'

‘I expect so, but I'll probably catch up on my sleep. I can't think of anything I'd like more than a day in bed with nothing to do.'

Rosemary eyed her with a worried frown. ‘It won't be much fun here. I'd ask you to join us, but Jessie has a large family and a small house in Barkingside.'

‘Don't worry about me. I'll be fine, really.' Elsie's teeth were chattering so loudly that it was almost impossible to talk and she finished dressing in silence.

‘Tell you what,' Rosemary said eagerly. ‘I'm going to Oxford Street at midday. I love Selfridge's and I could die happy in the perfume department just breathing in all those glorious scents. Anyway, I'm going to buy a small present for Jessie, and I'd value your advice.'

Elsie knew that she would not get out of it easily and she nodded. ‘All right. As it happens I'm just doing house calls this morning to make sure my families have got everything they need. I'll meet you there.'

‘One o'clock,' Rosemary said, smiling. ‘We might not be able to afford to buy anything much but we can pretend.'

Business as usual
. The sign in the window of Selfridge's made Elsie smile, despite her sore throat and runny eyes. She had only ventured a few times to the busy thoroughfare of Oxford Street with its large department stores and bustling crowds, and it gave her a thrill to see the lavish window displays. She had found London overwhelming at first but she was becoming accustomed to the fast pace of life, and even though she had no money to spend on luxuries she took pleasure in simply looking at the items that only the wealthy could afford. She saw Elsie and waved as she hurried to meet her.

It was warm inside the store and they were almost overwhelmed by a heady mixture of expensive perfumes and toiletries. A neatly dressed shop assistant held up an atomiser filled with golden liquid and puffed a little of it in Elsie's direction. ‘Would Madam care to try our latest acquisition from Paris?'

Elsie shook her head. ‘No, thank you.' She took a step backward, although she would have loved to try the perfume, but she had only a few pennies in her purse.

‘I will,' Rosemary said, peeling off her glove and exposing her slim wrist.

The shop assistant beamed at her and squeezed the silk-covered bulb, spraying Rosemary with expensive French perfume. ‘Madam has good taste. A bottle of this would make a wonderful Christmas present, and with the war in France who knows when we will get fresh supplies.'

Rosemary sniffed her wrist with closed eyes and a beatific expression on her plain features. ‘I'll have to find a rich gentleman friend to buy it for me. Ta, love.' She walked on, taking Elsie by the arm.

‘The only blokes I meet wouldn't know a French perfume from a bottle of brown ale,' she said, giggling. ‘One day I'll find a man who'll treat me like a princess.' She stopped suddenly, squeezing Elsie's wrist. ‘Like him over there. I bet he's buying that big bottle of scent for his lady friend.'

Elsie looked round and her heart lurched against her ribs. ‘Henri,' she murmured.

‘Do you know him?' Rosemary stared at her in amazement. ‘Surely not. Look at the cut of his coat. I bet it's cashmere, and those cufflinks he's wearing must be solid gold.'

‘I don't know him well.' Elsie experienced a feeling of panic. She must look a fright in her shabby overcoat and woollen hat, and a runny nose and red eyes would not improve her appearance. She did not want Henri Bellaire to see her in this state and she put her head down as she attempted to hurry past, giving him a wary sideways glance. But for some reason best known to him, he looked up and saw her. His smile dazzled her, and judging by Rosemary's reaction she felt exactly the same. ‘Cor,' she whispered. ‘He's the best-looking toff in the store.'

‘Elsie.' Henri walked towards them, holding out his hand. ‘How nice to see you again. I didn't know you were in London.'

‘I'm working here now,' Elsie said shyly.

‘No, really? I didn't realise you had left Darcy Hall.' Henri turned to Rosemary with a charming smile. ‘Henri Bellaire, mademoiselle.'

‘Ooer,' Rosemary said, blushing. ‘How do, sir. I'm Rosemary Brown.'

‘Enchanté,' Henri said gallantly.

Rosemary shot Elsie a mischievous smile. ‘I'd better look for that present, Elsie. I'll see you later.'

‘No, don't go,' Elsie said hastily, but Rosemary was already weaving her way through the crowds. She glanced up at Henri and was about to speak when a bout of coughing made it difficult to catch her breath.

‘You are unwell.' Henri's brow puckered in a worried frown. ‘You should not be out on such a day as this.' He glanced out of the window at the rain bouncing off the pavements into the overflowing gutters. ‘Where do you live?'

‘Not too far from here, but I'm quite all right, thank you. It's just a cold.'

He looked at her more closely. ‘I don't think so, Elsie. I am not a doctor but I'd say you have a fever. You must allow me to see you home.'

The mere thought of Henri visiting the cramped attic room she shared with Rosemary made her feel ten times worse. Her head ached and her throat was sore, and her limbs felt leaden, but she had no intention of allowing him to take her to Clay Street. ‘It's very nice to see you, Henri. But I couldn't take you out of your way.'

He took her by the elbow, propelling her towards the glass doors. ‘At least allow me to hail a cab.'

‘I'll take the omnibus to Baker Street. I have to work this afternoon.'

‘You're in no condition to travel on public transport or to return to work.' He opened the door and escorted her out into the blustery street, where he hailed a cab. ‘Where do you live?'

‘Clay Street, Marylebone.'

He repeated the address to the cabby and helped her into the cab, climbing in to sit beside her. ‘I would never forgive myself if I allowed you to make your own way home on such a day, when you are obviously unwell.'

She had thought he would drop her outside the lodging house but he insisted on seeing her to her room, and she could tell by his tight-lipped silence that he was shocked. She unlocked the door but she did not invite him in. ‘Thank you for bringing me home. I'll be all right now.'

He glanced over her shoulder and his frown deepened. ‘This is not good, chérie. Why do you live like this?'

She met his horrified look with a steady gaze. ‘This is all I can afford, but it's fine. Rosemary and I share the room and we keep each other company.'

‘Two of you share this dreadful place?'

‘It's clean and it's cheap. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but perhaps you should go now.'

‘Marianne would be shocked if she could see how you are forced to live.'

‘With respect, it's nothing to do with you or Miss Marianne, and this is luxury compared to how some of the Belgian refugees have to exist. Thank you again, Henri. Goodbye.' She slipped into the room and closed the door before he had a chance to argue, sliding the bolt across in case he tried the handle. She waited, listening with her ear to the wide crack in one of the panels, and after a few moments she heard his footsteps retreating down the stairs. Breathing a sigh of relief, she made her way to the sofa. She did not want charity from anyone, nor their pity. She had made a life for herself in London and she was doing a worthwhile job. She just needed to shake off the cough and cold and then she would be fine.

She was awakened from a deep sleep by someone hammering on the door. At first she thought it was part of her dream, in which she had been running away from a nameless person who had chased her through a dark forest and along a muddy riverbed where her feet kept getting stuck in the thick black silt. Someone was calling her name and she recognised the voice.

‘Elsie, open the door, please. I know you're in there and I only want to make sure that you're all right.'

DRUNK WITH SLEEP
and a large dose of cough linctus, Elsie moved groggily to the door and drew back the bolt. She stepped aside as Marianne swooped into the room, stopping with a dramatic wave of her hands as she took in her surroundings. ‘My God, what a hole! Henri was right.'

‘What are you doing here, Miss Marianne?'

‘I came to see you, of course. Henri told me you were sick and that you were living in a hovel but I thought he was exaggerating. You know how the French are.' She looked with distaste at Rosemary's unmade bed and the rumpled coverlet on the sofa. ‘Why didn't you come to me, Elsie? I would have helped you find better accommodation than this rat's nest.'

‘I didn't know where to find you, and anyway, why would you care what happens to me? I'm not your responsibility. I can look after myself.'

‘You're ill. It's quite obvious and no wonder, living in a slum like this.' Marianne fingered a damp stocking as it hung limply on the clothes horse. ‘The war is changing everything, and if women can do the same work as men for the same pay then all this inequality will disappear. You might not believe this, but I myself have a job.'

Elsie sank down on the sofa, staring at Marian wide-eyed. ‘You go out to work?'

‘Yes, I'm a secretary at the War Office. Of course I had to bluff my way in as I can't type and I've no idea how to write shorthand, but I'm managing very well.' She hesitated, staring hard at Elsie. ‘I'm assuming you must have found employment of some kind too.'

‘I'm an interpreter, helping the Belgian refugees.'

‘Good for you. But it obviously doesn't pay very well.'

Silenced by a bout of coughing, Elsie shook her head.

Marianne sat down beside her. ‘Look, Elsie. I don't want to patronise you or to interfere in your life, but you and I grew up in the same village. You might say that we're sisters under the skin, and I don't like leaving you in a place like this when you're obviously unwell.'

‘I'll be all right,' Elsie murmured, sneezing into a hanky. ‘I've got the rest of the day off.'

‘It's less than a week until Christmas. Have you anywhere to go other than here?'

‘I'm working every day and I'm helping to organise a party for the refugees in the East End on Christmas Eve.'

‘I'm staying in a lovely large flat in Cromwell Road. Anthea's aunt is a darling and very public-spirited – she's gone to France to entertain the troops.' Marianne rose to her feet with a determined look on her pretty face. ‘I can't leave you here like this. You must come with me now and spend Christmas with us.'