The Secret Keeper

  To be faced with danger and find oneself fearless was thrilling. Dolly was aglow, and she wasn’t alone either; a special atmosphere had gripped the city and it sometimes felt that everybody in London was in love. Tonight, though, it was something above and beyond the usual excitement that had her hurrying through the rubble. Strictly speaking, she needn’t have been racing at all—she’d left in good time, having administered to Lady Gwendolyn her nightly three drams of sherry, just enough to send the old dear into the arms of blissful slumber and keep her there through even the loudest of raids—but Dolly was so excited by what she’d done that merely to walk was a physical impossibility; she was propelled by the force of her own daring; she could’ve run a hundred miles and still not been out of breath.

  She didn’t, though. She had her stockings to think of, didn’t she? They were her last pair without ladders and there really was nothing like a sharp piece of Blitz debris for ruining one’s nylons, Dolly knew that from experience. Damage these, and she’d be forced to draw lines up the back of her leg with an eyebrow pencil, just like common Kitty. No, thank you very much. Taking no chances, when a bus pulled in near Marble Arch, Dolly jumped aboard.

  There was a pocket of standing room at the back and she filled it, trying not to inhale the salty breath of a pompous man delivering a treatise on meat rationing and how best to saute liver. Dolly resisted the urge to tell him that the recipe sounded bloody offal (ha!), and as soon as they’d rounded Piccadilly Circus, she leapt off again.

  ‘Have a good night, darling,’ called an elderly man in ARP uniform, as the bus drove into the distance.

  Dolly answered with a wave. A pair of soldiers, home on leave and singing ‘Nellie Dean’ in drunken voices, linked arms with her as they passed, one on either side, and led her in a little spin. Dolly laughed as they each kissed one of her cheeks, and then called goodbye as they continued on their merry way.

  Jimmy was waiting for her on the corner of Charing Cross Road and Long Acre; Dolly could see him in the moonlit square, right where he’d said he’d be, and she stopped short. There was no doubt about it, Jimmy Metcalfe was one fine-looking man. Taller than she remembered, a bit leaner, but the same dark hair swept backwards, and those cheekbones that made him seem as if he were always on the verge of saying something amusing or clever. He wasn’t the only handsome man she’d met, certainly not (at times like this it was all but a civic duty to bat one’s eyelashes at a soldier home on leave), but there was just something about him, some dark animal quality perhaps—a strength both physical and of character—that made Dolly’s heart pound against her ribs like nobody’s business.

  He was such a good person; so honest and straightforward, that being with him made Dolly feel as if she’d won a race of sorts. Seeing him tonight, dressed in a black dinner suit just as she’d told him to, made her want to squeal with glee. It really did look tremendous on him—if she hadn’t known better, Dolly would’ve presumed him a real gentleman. She took her lipstick and compact mirror from her handbag, angled herself to catch some moonlight, and accentuated her cupid’s bow. She made a kissing motion to the mirror and then snapped it shut.

  She glanced down at the brown coat she’d finally chosen, wondering vaguely about the fur trim on the collar and cuffs, mink, she supposed, though very possibly fox. It wasn’t exactly the latest design—out of date by at least two decades—but the war made that sort of thing less important. Besides, clothing that cost a lot to buy never really went out of fashion; that’s what Lady Gwendolyn said, and she knew an awful lot about such things. Dolly gave the sleeve a sniff. The mothball smell had been terribly strong when she first liberated the coat from the dressing room, but she’d suspended it from the bathroom window while she was bathing, and then sprayed it with as much atomised perfume as she could bear to part with, and it really was much better now. Hardly noticeable, what with the general smell of burning on the London air these days. She straightened the belt, careful to conceal the moth hole at the waist, and gave herself a little shake. She was so excited, her nerves were tingling; she couldn’t wait for Jimmy to see her. Dolly straightened the diamond brooch she’d pinned to the soft fur collar, tossed her shoulders back, and primped the curls pinned at the nape of her neck. With a deep breath, she thrust forward from the shadows—a princess, an heiress, a girl with the whole world at her feet.

  It was cold out, and Jimmy had just lit a cigarette when he saw her. He had to look twice to make sure it was Dolly coming to-wards him—the fancy coat, dark curls that gleamed in the moonlight, the long-legged stride as her heels clipped confidence on the pavement. She was a vi- sion—so beautiful, so fresh and polished, that it made Jimmy’s heart constrict. She’d grown up since last he’d seen her. More than that, he knew suddenly, as he took in her new poise and glamour, as he shifted uncomfortably in his father’s old suit, she’d grown away—away from him. He felt the distance with a jolt.

  She arrived, wordless, in a cloud of perfume. Jimmy wanted to be witty, he wanted to be suave, he wanted to tell her she was perfection, the only woman in the world he could ever love. He wanted to say the very thing that would bridge this horrid new distance between them once and for all; to tell her about the progress he was making with his work, his editor’s excited talk on evenings when they’d made their print deadline, about the opportunities that lay ahead for Jimmy when ‘all this war business’ was over, the name he could make for himself with his photographs, the money he stood to earn. But her beauty, and its contrast with the war and its cruelty, the million nights he’d gone to sleep imagining their future, and their past in Coventry and that long-ago picnic by the sea—all combined to blind-side him and the words wouldn’t come. He managed half a smile and then without giving it another thought, grabbed a handful of her hair and kissed her.

  The kiss, Dolly thought, was like a starter’s gun. She felt at once a welcome settling of her nerves, and a great rush of excitement at what was yet to come. Her plans, since she’d formed them, had been eating away at her all week and now, finally, it was time. Dolly was anxious to impress him, to show him how grown up she was now, a woman of the world, and not the schoolgirl she’d been when he first met her. She allowed herself a moment to relax, to imagine herself into character, before pulling back to gaze up at his face. ‘Hello there,’ she said, in the same breathy tone Scarlett O’Hara might have used.

  ‘Hello yourself.’

  ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ She ran her fingers lightly down his suit lapels. ‘And dressed very smartly, I see.’

  ‘What?’ He shrugged a shoulder, ‘This old thing?’

  Dolly smiled, but tried not to laugh (he always made her laugh). ‘Well then,’ she said, glancing at him from beneath her lashes, ‘I expect we should get started. We’ve a lot to do to-night, Mr Metcalfe.’

  She hooked her arm over his and tried not to drag him as they walked together quickly down Charing Cross Road to join the snaking queue for the 400 Club. They shuffled forward as guns fired in the east and searchlights swept the sky like so many Jacob’s ladders. A plane flew overhead when they were almost at the door, but Dolly ignored it; even a full-blown air raid wouldn’t have induced her to give up her spot in the line now. They reached the top of the stairs and music drifted up towards them, chatter and laughter and a furious sleepless energy that made Dolly so giddy she had to hold on tightly to Jimmy’s arm to keep from falling.

  ‘You’re going to love it inside,’ she said. ‘Ted Heath and his band really are divine, and Mr Rossi who runs the place is such a darling.’ ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Oh, sure, loads of times.’ A teensy exaggeration, she’d been once, but he was older than she was, and had an important job where he travelled and met all sorts of people, and she was still, well—her, and she desperately wanted him to think her more sophisticated than the last time he’d seen her, more desirable. Dolly laughed and squeezed his arm. ‘Oh now, don’t look like that, Jimmy. Kitty would never let up if I didn’t keep he
r company sometimes; you know you’re the only one I love.’

  At the bottom of the stairs they passed through a cloakroom and Dolly stopped to leave her coat. Her heart was beating hard like a hammer; she’d been longing for this moment, practising and planning, and now it was finally here. She thought back to all Lady Gwendolyn’s stories, the things she and Penny had done together, the dances, the adventures, the handsome men who’d chased them round London—she turned her back on Jimmy and let the coat fall free. As he caught it, she made a slow pirouette, just the way she had in all her imaginings, and then she struck a pose, revealing (drum roll, ladies and gentlemen) The Dress.

  It was red, sleek, candescent, the sort of thing designed to show off every curve on a woman’s body, and Jimmy almost dropped the coat when he saw it. His gaze ran all the way down her figure and then all the way back up again; the coat left his hand, a ticket replaced it, and he couldn’t have told you how.

  ‘You—’ he started; ‘Doll, you look—that dress is incredible.’

  ‘What?’ She lifted a shoulder, just as he’d done outside. ‘This old thing?’ And then she grinned at him and was Dolly again, and when she said, ‘Come on. Let’s get in there,’ he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

  Dolly scanned the area beyond the red cord, the small packed dance floor, the table Kitty had called the ‘Royal Table’, right up close to the band; she’d thought she might see Vivien here to-night, Henry Jenkins was friendly with Lord Dumphee, the pair of them frequently photographed together in The Lady, but first inspections revealed no one she knew. Never mind, the night was still young—the Jenkinses might show up later. She steered Jimmy towards the back of the room, through the close round tables, past the people dining and drinking and dancing, until their progress brought them finally to Mr Rossi and the start of the cordoned-off area.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said when he saw them, pressing his hands together and making a little bow. ‘You’re here for the Dumphee engagement, of course?’

  ‘What a wonderful club,’ purred Dolly, not exactly answering the question. ‘It’s been such a long time, too long—Lord Sand-brook and I were just saying we ought to make it into London more often.’ She glanced at Jimmy, smiling encouragement. ‘Weren’t we, darling?’

  The hint of a frown pulled at Rossi’s brow as he tried desperately to place them, but it didn’t last long. Years at the helm of his nightclub had left him adept at keeping Society’s ship on course and her passengers well flattered. ‘Dear Lady Sandbrook,’ he said, taking Dolly’s hand and brushing a light kiss on its top, ‘the place has been dark for the want of you, but you’re here now and light returns.’ He shifted his attention to Jimmy—‘And you, Lord Sandbrook. I trust you’ve been well?’

  Jimmy said nothing and Dolly held her breath; she knew how he felt about her ‘games’ as he called them, and she’d felt his hand stiffen against her back the second she started talking. If she were honest, the uncertainty of how he’d react only added to the adventure—until he responded, everything else was magnified—Dolly could hear the beating of her own heart as she waited for his answer, a happy squeal in the crowd, the shattering of a glass breaking somewhere, the band beginning another song …

  The little Italian fellow who’d called him by another man’s name was watching keenly for an answer, and Jimmy had a sudden vision of his father at home in his striped pyjamas, the walls of their flat with the sad-looking green paper, Finchie in his cage with the broken biscuits. He could feel Dolly’s stare, urging him to play his part; he knew she was watching, he knew what she wanted him to say, but it seemed to Jimmy there was something somehow crushing in answering to a name like that one. Something deeply disloyal to his poor old dad whose mind was so mixed up, who waited for a wife who wouldn’t come and cried for a brother dead these past twenty years, and who’d said of the crummy flat when they arrived in London, ‘This is real nice, Jimmy. You’ve done a good job, boy—you make your mum and dad as proud as punch.’

  He glanced sideways at Dolly’s face and saw what he’d known he would—hope, writ large on every feature. These games of hers, they drove him mad, not least because more and more, lately, they seemed to highlight the distance be-tween what she wanted from life and what he could afford to give her. They were harmless enough though, weren’t they? No one was going to be hurt tonight because Jimmy Metcalfe and Dorothy Smitham stood on the other side of a red cord. And she wanted it so badly, she’d gone to so much trouble with the dress and all, getting him to wear a suit—her eyes, for all the mascara she was wearing, were as wide and expectant as a child’s, and he loved her so well, he couldn’t stand to be the one to spoil things for her, not for the sake of his own foolish pride. Not for some vague notion that his lack of standing was something to hold firm to, and certainly not when it was the first time since her family died Dolly that had seemed like her old self.

  ‘Mr Rossi,’ he said with a broad smile, holding his hand out to shake the other man’s firmly. ‘Terribly good to see you, old man.’ It was the poshest voice he could find at short notice; he hoped to God it would do.

  Being on the other side was every bit as wonderful as Dolly dreamed it would be. Every bit as glorious as she’d gleaned from Lady Gwendolyn’s stories. It wasn’t that anything was obviously different—the red carpets and silk-covered walls were just the same, couples danced cheek to cheek on both sides of the rope, waiters carried meals and drinks and glasses back and forth—indeed, a less intelligent observer might not even have perceived that there were two sides at all; but Dolly knew. And she rejoiced to be on this one.

  Of course, having achieved the Holy Grail, she was at some-thing of a loss as to what to do next. For want of a better idea, Dolly helped herself to a glass of champagne, took Jimmy by the hand and slid into a plush banquette against the wall. Really, if she were honest, to watch was enough: the ever-shifting carousel of colourful dresses and smiling faces, kept her enthralled. A waiter came by and asked what they’d like to eat and Dolly said eggs and bacon and they arrived, her champagne flute never seemed to empty, the music didn’t stop.

  ‘It’s like a dream, isn’t it?’ she said glowingly. ‘Aren’t they all wonderful?’ To which Jimmy paused in striking his match to offer a noncommittal, ‘Sure.’

  He dropped the flaming match into a silver ashtray and drew on his cigarette, ‘What about you though, Doll? How’s old Lady Gwnedolyn? Still commanding all nine circles of hell?’

  ‘Jimmy—you shouldn’t say that sort of thing. I know I probably complained a bit at first, but she’s really quite a darling once you get to know her. Calling on me a lot lately—we’ve become very close in our way.’ Dolly leaned close so that Jimmy could light her cigarette. ‘Her nephew’s worried she’s going to leave me the house in her will.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Dr Rufus.’

  Jimmy gave an ambiguous grunt. He didn’t like it when she mentioned Dr Rufus; it didn’t matter how many times Dolly re-assured him that the doctor was her friend’s father and far too ancient, really, to be interested in her in that way, Jimmy just frowned and changed the subject. Now, he took her hand across the table. ‘And Kitty? How’s she.’ ‘Oh, well, Kitty—’ Dolly hesitated, remembering the unfounded talk of Vivien and love affairs the other night. ‘She’s fighting fit—of course her type always is.’

  ‘Her type?’ Jimmy repeated quizzically.

  ‘I just mean she’d do well to pay more attention to her work and less to what’s happening in the street and at the nightclubs. I expect some people simply can’t help themselves.’ She glanced at Jimmy. ‘You wouldn’t like her, I think.’

  ‘No?’

  Dolly shook her head and drew on her cigarette. ‘She’s a gossip, and I have to say inclined to wantonness.’

  ‘Wantonness?’ He was amused now, a smile playing around his lips. ‘Dear, dear me.’

  She was serious—Kitty made quite a habit of sneaking her male friends in a
fter dark, she thought Dolly didn’t know, but really, the noise sometimes, one would’ve had to be deaf not to realise. ‘Oh yes, quite,’ said Dolly. There was a single candle flickering in its glass on the table and she swivelled it idly this way and that. She hadn’t told Jimmy about Vivien yet. She didn’t know why exactly; it wasn’t that she thought he wouldn’t approve of Vivien, certainly not, rather that she’d felt an instinct to keep the blossoming friendship a secret, something all her own. Tonight though, seeing him in person, fizzing a bit with the sweet champagne she was sipping, Dolly had the urge to tell him everything. ‘You know,’ she said, nervous suddenly, ‘I don’t know that I’ve mentioned in my letters, but I’ve made a new friend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, Vivien.’ Just saying her name made Dolly thrill a little with happiness. ‘Married to Henry Jenkins, you know, the author. They live across the street at number 25 and we’ve be-come rather firm friends.’ ‘Is that right?’ He laughed. ‘You know, it’s the oddest coincidence, but I just recently read one of his books.’

  Dolly might have asked which one, but she didn’t because she wasn’t really listening; her mind was swirling with all the things she’d been wanting to say about Vivien and had been holding in. ‘She’s really something else, Jimmy. Beautiful, of course, but not in an ordinary showy sort of way; and very kind, always helping at the WVS—I told you about the canteen we’re running for service folk, didn’t I? I thought so. She understands, too, about what happened—my family, in Coventry—she’s an orphan herself, you see, raised by her uncle after her parents died, a great old school near Oxford, built on the family estate. Did I mention she’s an heiress, she actually owns the house on Campden Grove, not her husband, it’s hers—’. Dolly drew breath, but only because she wasn’t sure of the details. ‘Not that she goes on about it; she’s not like that at all.’