The Penny Bangle (15 page)

‘A bridagier, eh?’ Ewan Fraser smiled and poured some coffee, and Cassie drank it greedily, because her throat was parched.

‘Where’s Rob today?’ she croaked.

‘He went out with Stephen, but they’ll be back at lunch time. We thought you’d sleep for hours.’ Ewan took some toast out of the rack, spread a curl of butter on it, handed it to Cassie. ‘You need a prairie oyster, lassie – that’ll set you up.’

‘Or kill you off.’ Daisy came in then, and she was also wearing uniform, dark green with smart red piping. But, unlike Cassie, Daisy was immaculately groomed and ready to start the day.

‘Good morning, Cassie,’ Daisy said. ‘Pour her out another cup of coffee, could you, darling?’ she continued, as she kissed her husband on the cheek. ‘Black, with a little sugar in it, if we have some left. She ought to have a glass of water, too.’

Ewan nodded, fetched a glass of water, and Cassie drank it down.

‘Come on, love,’ said Daisy. ‘Let’s get all that varnish off your nails and I’ll repair your face.’

Cassie made it – just.

As she skidded round the corner from the Ritz hotel and ran towards the garage, she met her passenger going in.

The brigadier was a thin, sour-looking man who carried a bulging briefcase. His trousers were very sharply pressed, his boots gleamed like new conkers, his neat moustache was newly trimmed, and all his buttons shone. A stickler, she thought, a bloody stickler – that’s all I flipping need.

‘You’re late,’ the officer observed, looking Cassie up and down with obvious disapproval.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Cassie. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she added, just about remembering to salute.

‘It doesn’t look as if it’s good for you.’

As Cassie opened the door for him to get into the car, the brigadier scowled crossly at his driver. ‘Straighten your tie, Lance Corporal,’ he rapped. ‘Tie your shoelaces, and try to be a credit to your service.’

Cassie checked the water, oil and petrol, took the pressure of the tyres and pumped them up again. She got the engine running, got into the cab and carefully reversed out of the garage. She drove the ponderous Humber staff car along Piccadilly and set off for Aldershot.

She couldn’t believe she’d got it all so wrong, made such an exhibition of herself, and ruined her whole life. She wouldn’t see Rob again, of course. His leave was almost over, and soon he would be going overseas, where he was likely to be killed.

As for Daisy, who had been so kind – Cassie had paid her back by spilling champagne on her expensive dress, getting make-up all over her sheets, and being sick in her bathroom.

As she made her slow way back to Aldershot, head throbbing, throat as dry as the Sahara, she couldn’t believe she could have been so stupid, so unutterably awful. They reckon breeding always shows, she thought, and now they’ll know that I’ve got none at all.

‘Did you get her autograph for me?’

‘What was her house like?’

‘Does she have a sunken bath?’

‘Does she dye her hair, or is she naturally blonde?’

Cassie had originally planned to tell the others all about it, down to the last detail – to reveal all Daisy’s beauty secrets, to describe her home, her husband, servants, the contents of her wardrobes, everything.

But now she saw that this would be the most mean-minded thing to do, and a huge betrayal of Daisy’s kindness.

‘She’s got a posh apartment in Park Lane,’ she offered lamely.

‘Yes, I know, it said so in the
Mirror
,’ said a girl from Hull, who kept a scrapbook about Daisy and other British stars. ‘But what’s it like inside? Does she have a marble bathroom, does she have gold taps, and big, gilt mirrors on the walls? Does she wear a satin dressing gown, and did you get a photograph for me? You promised me you would.’

Cassie told them Daisy certainly didn’t dye her hair, that she was in the WVS, and that she looked very glamorous in her green tweed uniform.

Then she went and sat down on her bed, and wrote a letter of thanks to Ewan and Daisy. She said that she was sorry from the bottom of her heart for all her bad behaviour, and she was ashamed. She added that they couldn’t think any worse of her than she thought of herself.

She couldn’t bring herself to write to Robert. He must have been disgusted to find that she was nothing but a drunken, maudlin slut, a silly cow who couldn’t hold her drink.

He had called her darling. She was almost sure he had. But now one thing was certain – he wouldn’t call her darling any more.

She would have thought it couldn’t get any worse. But a few days later on, it did. One of the toff drivers caught her coming out of the shower room, and she pinned Cassie up against the wall.

‘So, you met Daisy Denham?’ began Lavinia Mayne, her spiteful, thin-lipped mouth curved in a sneer.

‘So, what’s it to you?’ demanded Cassie.

‘It’s just that you were seen at the 400. Or anyway, I imagine it was you. My cousin was also there that night, and said there was a ghastly, common woman with Miss Denham and her husband, slobbering all over some young Royal Dorsets officer, and getting roaring drunk.’

‘Yes, that was me all right,’ admitted Cassie.

‘Well, I just want to say, I think you’re awful.’ Lavinia tossed her fine, patrician head. ‘I don’t know what Luigi can be thinking of, letting people like you into the club.’

‘Get out of my way,’ said Cassie flatly.

‘I think you’ll find that I’m not in your way.’ Shuddering theatrically now, Lavinia stepped aside. ‘Some men like a bit of rough,’ she called as Cassie left the shower block, ‘especially if they’re going overseas. It gets them in the mood for foreign women, who will do anything.’

The next few days were horrible, with whispering and gossiping and giggling to endure, all made much worse for Cassie by the knowledge she deserved it.

‘So I burned my bridges,’ she told Frances, when she was finally feeling strong enough to write a full account of that disastrous, hideous night. ‘I really mucked it up. I dare say all the Denhams hate me now.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, midget, they won’t hate you. It was just bad luck.’ Now posted up to Chester, Frances wrote back straight away. ‘Champagne can be very tricky stuff,’ she added wisely. ‘I remember having some at a wedding, when I was seventeen, and it knocked me for six! You think you’re stone cold sober, then suddenly – wham – it hits you, and you’re rolling drunk.

‘You’ll know better next time. I think Robert taking off your stockings, and him looking after you while you were being sick, is really rather lovely. What a perfect gentleman!’

Yes, and what a pity I’m not a lady, reflected Cassie sadly.

But then she made a vow. She would stop swearing, stop trying to act tough. She would learn to be a proper lady, in thought and word and deed, and she would never touch champagne again.

Almost a whole week went by before she had the letter she was dreading. The pale blue BFPO envelope looked absolutely harmless, but Cassie held it gingerly, as if it was a hand grenade and likely to go off.

She spent the day on motor maintenance, lying under lorries, changing tyres and cleaning spark plugs. All that time she worried about her letter, and wondered what it said. He didn’t want to see her any more, and anything between them was all over, obviously.

But how would he say it?

She finally couldn’t stand it any longer, and when she was queuing up to get her supper, she tore the letter open.

‘My dearest Cassie,’
it began, which was a big surprise.
‘I hope your headache’s better! I’m sorry that I missed you and didn’t get a chance say goodbye. I didn’t realise you had to drive a bridagier to Alsherdot so early in the morning. I hope you got him there!

‘I’ve still got a few days leave before I go abroad. If you like, I could come down from London and pick you up at barracks. We could go and have a drink somewhere. What do you think of that?’

As long as it’s just lemonade, thought Cassie, wincing in embarrassment at the very thought of anything remotely alcoholic.

‘Do you have any photos of yourself?’
continued Robert.
‘If so, could you spare a few for me? I’m sending you a cutting from the
Sketch
. You’ll see some hack photographer had nothing else to do that night, and snapped us at the Florida.

‘Look after yourself, my darling Cassie. I’ll hope we’ll meet again before too long, and in the meantime, I send you all my love.’

He sent her all his love!

Suddenly, Cassie felt beatified. She understood the power of holy relics, for she held one in her hand. As the queue for supper shuffled forward, she felt she’d been renewed, redeemed, reborn in Robert’s name.

She read the letter through again. She looked at the smudgy, smeary photograph, saw that it was captioned
Miss Daisy Denham, Mr Ewan Fraser and their party at the Florida Club last night
.

There was dear old Stephen drinking whisky, and there was Robert smiling, and he had his arm around her shoulders, and – oh, thank you, God – the picture had been taken before she had got drunk.

I’ll learn to be better, nicer, kinder, Cassie told herself. I’ll be the sort of girl he thinks I am, and I’ll deserve him.

‘Come on, Dolly Daydream,’ said the cookhouse orderly who was dishing up. ‘Do you want sausages in batter, spam and mash, or cheese and onion pie?’

Cassie couldn’t trust herself to send him anything longer than a sentence on a postcard. Saying she was sorry could come later, she decided. All she told him there and then was she’d be off duty Wednesday evening.

To Cassie’s huge delight, the vile Lavinia and her vile best friend, the Honourable Antonia Something, were both walking into barracks just as Cassie happened to be walking out of them, and as Robert came along the road.

As they heard his footsteps, both the women turned to glance behind them. When they saw a tall, dark, handsome officer, they smirked and started preening, smoothed their jackets round their hips and fiddled with their hair.

‘Good evening, ladies,’ Robert said, and Cassie realised from the way he looked at them that it was an effort not to laugh. ‘Cassie, what good timing. I was worried I was late.’

The look Lavinia gave Cassie would have curdled milk.

As Robert held out his arm and smiled at Cassie, she heard Antonia hiss.

‘Good friends of yours?’ asked Robert as they walked down the road towards the town.

‘No, Rob, they hate me,’ Cassie said. Then, before he started to ask why, she stopped and looked into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Rob,’ she said.

‘You’re sorry?’ She’d never seen a face blanch quite so quickly, as all the natural colour drained away. ‘You mean – ’

‘Yes, Rob – I mean no!’

Cassie realised what he’d thought she meant, why she had sent him that curt sentence on a postcard, and now a torrent of words came pouring out. How she was sorry for behaving like an idiot, how she was mortified, how she’d been sure she’d never hear from him again, how relieved she’d been to get his letter, how she’d never meant to get so drunk –

She stopped, and took great gasping breaths, and she was astonished to see he was breathing heavily as well.

‘I thought you meant,’ he said, ‘I thought you were telling me you’d changed your mind about me. I thought – ’

‘No, Robert – no!’ She grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him hard. ‘I didn’t mean that at all! I just meant I’m sorry to have behaved so badly, to have embarrassed you in front of Daisy, to have been such a stupid, drunken fool – ’

‘Oh, Cassie darling, don’t worry about that!’ Robert started laughing. ‘You should have seen me the first time
I
got drunk! I thought I’d never hear the end of it from Mum and Dad.’

‘What happened?’

‘Steve and I were fifteen, sixteen – I’m not sure exactly, but about that age – and we and some other chaps from school managed to get hold of half a dozen flagons of strong cider.

‘We drank the lot, and – God, we were so ill. You think
you
were embarrassing! But let’s not talk about it any more. There’s a little pub just down the road, and they’re bound to have some lemonade or ginger ale or soda water.’