London Belles (22 page)

They held each other tightly.

‘Sally has offered to go with you and Agnes to the Palais, just to help you find your feet there the first time you go.’

‘You mean . . .’ Tilly swallowed hard. This generosity on the part of her mother was too much for her to bear. Fresh tears fell.

‘You’ll have to take care of Agnes, Tilly. She isn’t as used to thinking for herself as you are.’

‘Can I stay here with you tonight?’ Tilly asked.

Olive smiled in the darkness and drew back the bedcovers.

They were almost the last to leave the Palais and now, in the foggy darkness outside the dancehall, they stood facing one another on the pavement.

‘Next time,’ David told Dulcie, ‘I’ll take you somewhere a bit more exciting than this.’

So there was going to be a next time. A thrill of pleasure surged through Dulcie; not that she was going to let him see how she felt. Instead she demanded, ‘Who says there’s going to be a next time?’

‘Not who but what,’ David answered, ‘and this is what says there will be.’

When he cupped her face in both his hands and gently drew his thumbs along her cheekbones, gazing down into her eyes as he did so, Dulcie could only gaze back at him. She’d been kissed before but never like this, like she’d seen people kissing in films, and no cheeky fumbling with her clothes either. David was a true gentleman. And awfully good at kissing. The only thing that could make right now any better would be being able to boast to Lizzie about it, but of course she could never do that.

‘There’ll be no seeing me again after you get married to Lydia,’ Dulcie felt bound to warn him, but David merely laughed.

‘Giving Lydia a wedding ring isn’t going to stop me enjoying life, Dulcie.’

Deep down inside, Dulcie felt unexpectedly shocked. She knew that David didn’t love Lydia, but to hear him speak so casually and uncaring made her wonder how serious he could ever be about any girl.

‘It might not stop you enjoying life, but it will stop me from going out with you,’ Dulcie insisted.

David was frowning now. ‘If you’re trying to persuade me not to marry Lydia, then I should tell you—’

‘I’m not trying to persuade you to do anything,’ Dulcie defended herself heatedly, not letting him finish. ‘What I’m doing is telling you that I won’t cheapen myself by providing a bit of fun for a married man. I think more of myself than to do that, even if you don’t.’

David looked crestfallen. ‘I’m sorry, Dulcie,’ he said immediately. ‘I didn’t mean . . . That is, you know how it is with me and Lydia. She doesn’t want me, she just wants who I am. You and I, we’re two of a kind, I know it.’

‘We aren’t two of anything, and we aren’t going to be.’

She meant it, David could see, and part of him admired her for her determination, even whilst most of him wished that she was more malleable. He might not have spent much time with her, but there was a quality about Dulcie that touched something in him that Lydia would never be able to reach. Perhaps it was a trait he had inherited from his Gaiety Girl grandmother that made him feel so at home with Dulcie, and if things had been different . . . But his parents, and especially his mother, would never accept Dulcie. And it was through his mother that ultimately he would inherit his wealth, just as it was his mother who was insisting on him marrying Lydia. David gave a brief inner shrug. Dulcie was a pretty girl but London was full of pretty girls. It wasn’t in his nature to fight for what he wanted; it was easier instead to want something else, and more within reach, so he gave Dulcie another smile, and nodded in acceptance of Dulcie’s decree before telling her, ‘I’ll get us a taxi,’ and then stepping out into the road.

Almost by magic a taxi materialised through the fog, and within seconds David was helping her into it, whilst Dulcie battled against the dangerous temptation to wish that she hadn’t closed the door quite so firmly on she and David getting together again.

She wasn’t in any danger of falling for him, Dulcie assured herself as she let herself into number 13 – she’d made David tell the taxi to stop at the entrance to the Row because she didn’t want Olive to hear the taxi and look out of her window to see what was going on – she wasn’t that daft, or that soft. And she’d meant what she said about not seeing him again.

When she reached the top landing she saw that the door to Sally’s room was open, a narrow oblong of light thrown by the bedside lamp. Then Sally appeared in the open doorway, wearing her dressing gown.

‘I just thought I’d warn you that Olive caught Tilly and Agnes trying to sneak out earlier this evening,’ she told her quietly

‘So what if she did?’ Dulcie hissed back. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me what Tilly does.’

‘Except that you encouraged her. Olive was very upset, Dulcie. It wasn’t a very nice thing to do. Olive is a decent sort and this is a good billet.’

‘Look, it’s not my fault if Tilly wants to go dancing. Serves Olive right, if you ask me, the way she carries on, fussing over that Agnes and treating me as though I’m something the cat brought in.’

Sally gave a small sigh. She’d only stayed up to warn Dulcie, thinking that the other girl might want to prepare an apology for Olive, but far from being remorseful Dulcie seemed to relish the trouble she had caused.

Tilly thought she was the happiest she had ever been – at least, she would have been were it not for the war. The new grown-up status now conferred on her by her mother meant that Tilly now felt she had to take her adulthood very seriously. That meant that whilst, of course, she was excited at the thought of going dancing at the Hammersmith Palais, she must also think about the war and all those who were involved in it.

Mr Salt, who was in charge of their St John Ambulance brigade had actually praised her at their last meeting for the attention she’d paid to his lecture about the correct way to use a stirrup pump, in case they were called upon to deal with any incendiary bombs.

It was Sally now whom Tilly admired and looked up to rather than Dulcie, although she had begged her mother not to say anything to Dulcie.

Reluctantly Olive had refrained from taking Dulcie to task, although she now felt even cooler towards her lodger than she had already done, and would have been very much happier if Dulcie had decided to leave.

Agnes, who had heard from Olive about Ted’s visit and his concern for her now thought that Ted was even more heroic and had started blushing for no reason at all when he looked at her when they were having tea together in the café. Ted had told her to let him know when they were going to the Palais so that he could, in his own words, ‘Go along as well and keep an eye on things.’

They were only a week away from Christmas and it had been decided that the girls would attend the Hammersmith Palais’s Saturday night dance the day before Christmas Eve, since on Christmas Eve itself they would be going to the dance at the church hall.

All the shops had made a brave show of putting up their decorations in their windows, but of course there could be no Christmas lights because of the blackout, and it seemed to Olive as she did her Christmas shopping, queuing up with other housewives, that there was an atmosphere of weariness and irritation rather than of anticipation. And no wonder. So many of the shops seemed to have sold out of things, which meant shopping around to find increasingly elusive necessities.

Olive was glad that she had stocked up early. Her mother, having been in service, had instilled in Olive the importance of keeping a well-stocked kitchen cupboard, a habit also favoured by her late mother-in-law. Olive took it for granted that her own cupboards were always filled with fruit bottled in season, jams and pickles made from ingredients she’d bought from the barrow boys at bargain prices, and a good supply of tinned things, just as she knew to a nicety how to make a joint last from Sunday until Wednesday and how to make a tasty meal out of leftovers.

She’d heard several women complaining that they’d been unable to buy jars of mincemeat for their mince tarts, but she had plenty in her store cupboard. She just hoped that the goose she’d ordered would be big enough to go round. She’d got some sausagemeat on order for the sausage rolls she intended to make for her Boxing Day party, and she planned to cook a ham as well.

Her local greengrocer had promised her a nice bushy Christmas tree. Sergeant Dawson had offered to get her one from Covent Garden when he got one for the police station. Mrs Dawson wouldn’t have a tree in the house since they’d lost their lad, he told her. She’d thanked him but explained that she’d already ordered her tree, and then on impulse she’d told him about her Boxing Day get-together and said that he and Mrs Dawson would be welcome if they fancied coming along.

They’d been busy in the Lady Almoner’s office with patients who were well enough to get home in time for Christmas, which meant that there’d been lots of coming and goings. Most of their patients were in hospital insurance schemes, which paid their bills when they were in hospital. This meant extra administration for Tilly and her colleagues at this busy time of year.

When the tall dark-haired man in naval officer’s uniform came in at lunch time, Tilly was manning the office on her own, having volunteered to do so. First sitting in the canteen was always more popular than second because the food was hotter and you got bigger portions.

The officer was carrying his cap and smiled warmly when Tilly asked if she could help him.

‘I hope so,’ he answered. ‘Only I’m trying to trace someone, a nurse, a friend from Liverpool, by the name of Sally Johnson, who I think might be working at St Barts. I’ve already tried St Thomas’s and Guy’s without any success.’

Tilly nearly fell off her chair. She was deeply conscious of the debt she owed Sally for offering to go with them to the Palais, and she was delighted at the thought of being able to do something for her in return, especially when it meant putting her back in touch with such a handsome and friendly-looking man. Of course, they weren’t really supposed to give out people’s addresses, but in this instance that surely didn’t matter. Tilly couldn’t imagine Sally not wanting her friend to be able to find her, especially when he had gone to such a lot of trouble to do so.

She gave him a beaming smile, unable to stop herself from bursting out, ‘I know Sally. In fact she lodges with us. Oh, fancy you coming in and asking for her and me being here.’

‘A happy coincidence indeed,’ he agreed with another smile.

‘Sally’s on duty at the moment, but I’ll give you the address. Although you’d be better not to call until this evening. Around seven o’clock would probably be best. It’s number thirteen Article Row,’ she informed him happily, only realising once he had thanked her and left that she’d been so excited that she hadn’t thought to ask him his name.

Tilly hummed happily to herself as she got on with her work. She couldn’t wait to tell Sally about her impending visitor.

Tilly didn’t get the chance to tell Sally about the naval officer until they were both back at number 13, Tilly positively bursting with delight when she came in to find Sally in the kitchen with her mother.

‘You’ll never guess what, Sally. A man came into the office today asking for you, and he’s coming round to see you tonight. At least, I think he is.’

Sally, who had been standing up, sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, the colour draining from her face, leaving her skin the colour of milk.

‘A man, you say? Did he give you his name?’

Tilly shook her head. She could see that something was wrong and that Sally looked upset. Conscience-stricken, she told her lamely, ‘He was ever so nice. Good-looking too. He said he was from Liverpool. I thought . . . I thought you’d be pleased to see an old friend.’

Somehow Sally managed to produce a wan smile although it was an effort. It wasn’t Tilly’s fault. Tilly was desperate to show her how grateful she was over her intervention with her mother with regard to the Hammersmith Palais visit. At Tilly’s age she would probably have done the same thing.

‘Oh, Tilly,’ Olive shook her head reproachfully, ‘you shouldn’t have given him Sally’s address without checking with Sally herself first.’

Callum. It had to be him. It couldn’t be anyone else. Sally felt acutely sick. There was no point in upbraiding poor Tilly, though. She was now looking distressed enough as it was.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve done the wrong thing,’ Tilly said, looking flustered and guilty.

‘No . . . it’s all right,’ Sally told her unsteadily, feeling obliged to explain, ‘Callum’s sister married my father after my own mother’s death.’

Olive’s breath escaped in an understanding sound of compassion whilst Tilly looked confused.

‘I left Liverpool because I . . . didn’t approve of the marriage. I dare say Callum hopes that time and distance have softened my feelings.’

‘You don’t have to see him,’ Olive told her. ‘I am quite willing to tell him that you don’t wish to, Sally.’

Sally was tempted to accept Olive’s offer. Seeing Callum was bound to be emotionally painful. But what if something had happened to her father? Anxiety speared through her.

‘No. It will be better if I see him. That way I can make it plain to him that I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Tilly looked even more guilty and miserable.

‘You weren’t to know, Tilly. Callum is a very decent and respectable man. There would be no reason for you to suspect him of anything unpleasant. He’s a schoolteacher.’

‘He was in uniform,’ Tilly blurted out. ‘Navy. An officer’s uniform, I thought.’

Sally disliked the reasons that her heart was bumping along the bottom of her ribcage even less than she liked the uncomfortable breathless feeling it was giving her. Callum meant nothing to her now. She didn’t care what danger he might put himself into.

‘When he comes, Sally, you can see him in the front room. You can be private in there, and I’m here if you should need me.’

Sally smiled her thanks to Olive, shaking her head when her landlady continued, ‘We’ll have tea now, I think. That way Sally’s visitor isn’t likely to arrive when we’re halfway through it.’

‘There’s no need to change things for me,’ Sally told Olive. ‘I’m really not hungry at all, I’m afraid.’

Upstairs in her bedroom she looked towards the window, covered with its blackout cloth, as the law decreed. When she had first moved to London she had been afraid that someone from home – her father, Callum or even Morag herself – might try to get in touch with her, but as the weeks had gone by she had begun to feel safer. Nothing could protect her from the pain of what had happened, but at least she had felt protected from fresh misery. Until now.

It was just gone seven thirty when Callum knocked on the door to number 13.

Unable to stay on her own in her room as she had intended, Sally had gone back downstairs to the kitchen where Olive had been putting the final coat of icing on her Christmas cake. Watching her, Sally had immediately been transported back to her childhood and her own mother’s kitchen. Tilly didn’t realise how lucky she was to have her mother, but at least Sally knew what it was to have a mother’s love, unlike poor Agnes, who was perched on a kitchen stool happily helping to cut out red berries and green Christmas trees from the marzipan to which green and red colouring had been added by Tilly as the two girls did their bit towards decorating the cake.

‘I’ll go,’ Olive announced when they all heard the door, putting down in a bowl of hot water the palette knife with which she had been smoothing the royal icing, then removing her apron before heading for the door.

Sally let her go. It was going to take all the emotional and mental strength she had to face Callum.

When Olive opened the door to Sally’s visitor, she felt very much as Tilly had done when she’d first seen him, liking his strong manly features and feeling reassured by his friendly smile. The uniform did its bit to establish him as someone to be trusted, of course. But then Sally had never said that he was someone who could not be trusted, and Olive could well understand why her lodger did not want to see him. She admired Sally’s love and devotion for her late mother and sympathised with her feelings.

Callum’s, ‘I’d like to see Sally if she’ll see me,’ received a small inclination of Olive’s head and a calm, ‘Yes. She is expecting you. If you’d like to come this way . . . ?’

He wasn’t wearing an overcoat, and since she wasn’t sure what the etiquette was with regard to the naval officer’s cap that he was carrying, she didn’t like to offer to relieve him of it.

She showed him into the front room, its gas fire hissing warmly and its green, fern-print curtains drawn over the blackout fabric to give the room an air of cosy warmth.

Olive was very proud of her front parlour. She had redecorated it herself, painting the walls cream, with the picture rail painted the same green as the curtain pelmet. A stylish stepped mirror hung over the fireplace. The linoleum was patterned to look like parquet flooring and over it was a cream, dark red and green patterned carpet. The dark green damask-covered three-piece suite had been a bargain because there’d been a small tear in one of the seat cushions, and on the glass and pale wood coffee table, which was Olive’s pride and joy, was a pretty crystal bowl that had caught her eye in an antique shop just off the Strand.

A radiogram in the same pale wood as the coffee table stood against the back wall behind the sofa, and Olive couldn’t help but give a very satisfied glance around her front room before telling Callum that Sally would be right with him and then whisking through the door.

When Olive opened the hall door into the back room, Sally was already getting up from her chair, her face set and tense.

‘I haven’t offered him a cup of tea or anything,’ Olive began anxiously.

‘No, please don’t,’ Sally begged her. ‘I don’t want to encourage him to stay.’

In the hall outside the front-room door Sally took a deep breath and smoothed her damp palms against the pleats in her neat flecked tweed skirt. She’d bought the skirt on a shopping trip with Morag early on in the autumn before her mother had died. Morag had said how much the heather colours had suited her, bringing out the colour of her eyes, and had persuaded Sally to buy a pretty violet twinset to go with the skirt. She wasn’t wearing that twinset now. Instead she had chosen a plain dark blue blouse.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Callum was standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, his hands folded behind his back. Seeing him in uniform was disconcerting. In her memories of him he was always wearing his patched tweed jacket softened by wear, a Tattersall checked shirt worn with a sleeveless pullover, and a pair of cavalry twill trousers. In his naval uniform he looked taller, stood straighter, the slight scholarly stoop she remembered gone. She looked away from him, aware of the pulse beating in her throat and the unwanted pang of longing seeing him brought her. His cap was on the coffee table.

‘You’re in the navy.’

It was stupid thing to say, but somehow the words had formed and were spoken, sounding, to her own dismay, almost like a reproach, as though she had the right to reproach him for doing something without her knowledge.

‘Yes. Sublieutenant. I’ve just finished my training at the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, and I should receive orders as to which ship I’m to join pretty soon.’