Diana's property in London, to which she always referred to as her little house, had been converted, just before the First World War, from two coachman's dwellings with stabling for horses beneath. The front door stood in the middle, with garage on one side, and kitchen on the other. A narrow steep staircase led straight to the upper floor, which was unexpectedly spacious. A long sitting-room (the venue for many memorable pre-war parties), a large bedroom, a bathroom, another lavatory, and a small bedroom, mostly used as a repository for suitcases, ironing board, and the few clothes that Diana had never bothered to move to Cornwall. It still, however, boasted a bed, and was useful for overflows.
There was no dining-room. This had bothered Diana not a jot, because when she was in London she dined out most of the time, except for rare evenings of solitude which she shared with Tommy Mortimer, eating supper off a tray and listening to beautiful music played on the radiogram.
Mrs Hickson, who in the old days had worked for Diana, housekeeping when she was in residence, and keeping an eye on the place when she wasn't, was now engaged in full-time war-work, as a tea-lady in the Forces Canteen at Paddington Station. But she lived in a block of council flats nearby, and two or three evenings a week popped in to the Mews to do a quick check-up. Mrs Carey-Lewis did not come to London now, and Mrs Hickson missed her company most dreadfully. But she had given keys of the Mews to a number of young service people outwith her own family, and Mrs Hickson could never be sure if she'd find Athena in residence, or some unknown young flying officer. Sometimes the only evidence of occupation was a few scraps of food in the fridge, or a bundle of sheets on the bathroom floor. In which case, she would tidy up, and remake the beds with clean linen, and take the used sheets home in a paper carrier-bag, to launder herself. She rather enjoyed these brief encounters, and there was nearly always five bob on the dressing-table, to be scooped into her pinafore pocket.
During the early months of 1940, when it had still been a phoney war, Edward Carey-Lewis was the most frequent visitor, usually bringing a friend with him, and using the Mews to entertain a number of dizzyingly pretty girls. Mrs Carey-Lewis had written herself to Mrs Hickson to tell her that Edward had been killed, and Mrs Hickson hadn't been able to stop crying for a whole day. In the end, her superviser at the Forces Canteen, rightly deciding that Mrs Hickson's tears were doing nothing for the fighting man's morale, had sent her home.
Miraculously, the little house had survived the blitz. At the height of the raids, a great bomb had dropped nearby, and Mrs Hickson had been filled with fear. But the only damage done had been a few cracks in the walls, and all the windows blasted in. Broken glass all over the floor and everything — furniture, china, glass, pictures, carpets and rugs — shrouded in a thick layer of brownish, grimy dust. It had taken her a week of evenings to get it cleaned up.
Judith took out her key, turned the latch and went inside, closing the front door behind her. On her right was the kitchen, and she glanced in, saw the fridge, empty and open, so went to close its door and turn on the switch. The fridge started to hum. Sometime, before the little corner shop closed, she would buy some rations to put in the fridge. But, for the moment, shopping would have to wait.
Humping her grip, she went up the steep stairs, which led directly into the sitting-room. There was no central heating and it felt a bit cold, but later, when she came back again, she would light the gas-fire and it would all warm up in moments. Beyond the sitting-room were the bedroom and the bathroom. The second bedroom and the lavatory were over the kitchen.
She felt blissfully relieved to have finally arrived. Every time she came to the Mews (and, taking advantage of Diana's generous offer, she had been now, from Portsmouth, three or four times), she was assailed by the comforting sensation of coming home. This was because Diana's touch, her style, and taste, were so unique and personal, that it felt a bit like walking into a miniature Nancherrow. Comfortably, even luxuriously, appointed: raw-silk curtains the colour of cream, and thick beige carpeting all through the rooms and the passages, the monotone relieved here and there by Persian rugs. Sofas and chairs were covered in a Liberty print, furniture was small-size and elegant. There were pictures and mirrors, fat cushions, family photographs. All that was missing were the arrangements of fresh flowers.
She went through to the bedroom. Cream curtains again, and the downy double bed veiled in a canopy of lace. Chintz bedcover, smothered in roses, and the same roses frilling the dressing-table and the little Victorian chaise longue. Diana had not stayed here since the start of the war, but her perfume bottle still stood on the dressing-table, and the musty air was heavy with her remembered scent.
Judith took off her hat and coat and slung them across the bed, and then sat down and looked at her watch. Half past twelve. No time to change into plain clothes. Heather would just have to take her as she was, in uniform. She unzipped her grip and took out her wash-bag, and went into the bathroom (pink marble and a sheepskin rug) to fill a mug with water and take a couple of aspirin. Then she opened the mirrored cupboard and searched around for a bit, and found a bottle of Glycerine of Thymol, so she gargled with that, and simply hoped that these medications would get her through the day. She washed her hands and face and then went back to the bedroom and sat at the mirror to fix her hair, put on some make-up and scent, inspect her white collar for train smuts, and straighten the knot of her black satin tie (her best, from Gieves). Behind her, the reflection of the bed was not only inviting, but alluring. She thought of climbing between the sheets, with cool pillows and warm hot-water bottles, going to sleep, and being ill in peace.
However, already she was running late for her rendezvous with Heather, and so bed, along with everything else, must wait until later.
She had intended taking the tube to Piccadilly, but as she stepped out into Sloane Street, a bus rolled up, so she got onto that and bought a ticket to Piccadilly Circus. It was still very cold and grey, with the smell of snow in the air, and the streets of London were battered and dirty, bombed houses gaping like missing teeth and store windows boarded up, with only a peep-hole for window-shopping. Over the park, the barrage balloons flew high, lost in cloud, and the grassy swards were humped with sandbags and air-raid shelters. All the ornate wrought-iron railings had gone, to be melted down for armaments, and the lovely old church of St James, which had received a direct hit, was a ruin. In Piccadilly Circus, the statue of Eros had been removed, evacuated to some place of safety, but crowds still sat on the steps of the plinth which had supported the statue, fed pigeons and sold newspapers.
It was a city at war, and every other person seemed to be in uniform.
The bus stopped, and she got off and walked down the pavement by Swan & Edgar's, and around the corner to the main door. Heather was already there. Instantly visible, with her dark, shining hair, and wearing an enviable scarlet overcoat, and long suede, fur-lined boots.
‘Heather!’
‘I thought you were never coming.’
‘I'm sorry. Ten minutes late. Are you frozen? No, don't hug me, nor kiss me, because I think I'm getting a cold and I don't want to pass on any germs.’
‘Oh, I don't give a damn for germs.’ So they hugged anyway, and then started laughing, because it was so wonderful, after so long, to be together again.
‘What shall we do?’ Heather asked.
‘How long have you got?’
‘Just today. This afternoon. I've got to be back this evening. I'm on duty tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow's Sunday.’
‘We don't have Sundays where I work.’
‘It's too bad. I thought you might have come back to Diana's house with me and spend the night.’
‘I'd have loved to, but I can't. It doesn't matter. My train doesn't go till half past seven. We've all the rest of the day. I'm starving. Let's go somewhere and eat lunch, and over lunch we can decide what we're going to do. Now, where to?’
They discussed this for a bit, rejecting the Kardomah Café and Lyons C
orner House. In the end, Judith said, ‘Let's go to the Berkeley.’
‘But that's frightfully grand.’
‘Doesn't matter. It's not allowed to cost more than five bob, anyway. With a bit of luck, we'll get a table.’
So they set off in the direction of the Berkeley, walking the short distance back up Piccadilly. Going inside, through the perpetually revolving doors, they were injected into a world of comfort, and warm, expensive smells. There were a great many people about and the bar was packed, but Heather spied a free table and two empty chairs, which she swiftly claimed, while Judith went in search of the restaurant and the head-waiter, to ask if it would be possible to have a table for two. He was rather a nice man, and did not look at her down his nose (a Wren on her own, and not even an officer) but went to his desk to inspect his bookings, and returned to say that if she didn't mind waiting fifteen minutes, there would be a table then.
She said, ‘I hope it isn't by the kitchen door,’ and he looked a bit surprised by her self-assertion, but respectful as well.
‘No, madam, it will be near the window.’
‘That's perfect’ She treated him to her nicest smile.
‘I'll come and fetch you when the table is free.’
‘We'll be in the bar.’
She returned to Heather, making a sly thumbs-up sign, and all at once it began to be fun. They shed their overcoats, and a porter appeared and bore them away to the cloakroom, and then a waiter swam forward and asked what they would like to drink, and before Judith could open her mouth, Heather had ordered champagne.
‘By the glass, madam?’
‘No, I think a half bottle.’
He left them, and Judith muttered, ‘Shades of Porthkerris Council School,’ and they began to giggle, and Judith ate crisps out of a little china dish, and Heather lit a cigarette.
Eyeing her, Judith decided that she looked amazing. Not tall, but wonderfully slim, and her dark colouring made her very distinctive. She wore a narrow grey flannel skirt and a fine navy-blue polo-necked sweater, and there was a long gold chain around her neck and gold rings in her ears.
‘You're looking terrific, Heather. I meant to change, but I didn't have time.’
‘I think you look terrific, too. And I like the uniform. Thank God you didn't choose to be an At or a Waaf. Nothing but pockets and buttons and busts. And the hats are a disaster. You've cut your hair.’
‘I had to. It's not meant to touch your collar. It was either cut it, or have a bun.’
‘I like it. It suits you.’
The waiter returned with their glasses and the bottle which, ceremoniously and efficiently, he opened. The wine creamed into Heather's glass, with not a drop spilt, and then Judith's was filled.
‘Thank you.’
‘A pleasure, madam.’
They raised their glasses and drank, and almost at once Judith felt infinitely better. She said, ‘I must remember. Champagne is the remedy for colds.’
They sat sipping champagne and looking about them, at elegant women, and staff colonels, and Free French officers, and young guardees, all talking their heads off, and drinking, and laughing as though they hadn't a care in the world. A lot of them were entertaining ladies who were clearly not their wives, but this only engendered a buzz of piquancy; the wartime affair, the undertones of illicit love. One girl in particular was immensely glamorous, with a mass of red hair and a sinuous figure made even more suggestive by her clinging black jersey dress. She had tiger-claw nails, painted blood-red, and a mink coat was draped from the arm of her chair.
Her escort was a balding group captain, his middle-aged libido fairly panting with youthful lust.
Much amused, ‘He can scarcely keep his eyes off her,’ Judith remarked.
‘Let alone his hands.’
Just as they finished the champagne, the head-waiter appeared to tell them that their table was ready, and to lead them across the crowded restaurant and settle them in their places, flicking open vast linen napkins to lay across their laps, giving each girl an enormous menu to study, and asking if they wished an aperitif.
Which they didn't, because already, they were both feeling extremely happy.
It was a lovely lunch, the restaurant so airy and pretty, so different from the dark, battered, dirty streets beyond the net-veiled windows. They ate oysters and chicken and ice-cream, and shared, between them, a bottle of white wine. They talked, catching up, covering the long months that had passed since they had last been together. Some of it was necessarily very sad. Ned's death. Edward Carey-Lewis. And Mrs Mudge's nephew, posted missing believed killed, had died on the beaches of Dunkirk. But Charlie Lanyon had been more fortunate, survived the shelling, and was now a prisoner-of-war in Germany.
‘Do you write to him, Heather?’
‘Yes, I do. Every week. Don't know if he gets them or not, but that's no reason to stop writing.’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘He's rationed, so he writes to his mum and dad and they give me the news. But he seems to be all right…and he's getting some of our food parcels.’
‘Will you wait for him?’
Heather frowned, astonished. ‘Wait for him?’
‘Yes. Wait for him. Stay constant.’
‘No. I'm not waiting for him. It was never like that with Charlie and me. I just liked him. Anyway, I told you once, I'm not mad on getting married. I mean, I will if I want to. One day. But it's not the be-all and end-all for me. There's too much to life. Too much to do. Too much to see.’
‘Are there any nice chaps where you're working?’
Heather laughed. ‘A lot of weirdies. Most of them are so bright they're just about barmy. As for fancying one…you wouldn't touch them with a barge-pole. But that doesn't mean they're not interesting…scholarly. Very cultured. Just weird.’
‘What do you do? What's your job?’
Heather shrugged her shoulders, and dropped her eyes. She reached for another cigarette, and when she looked up again, Judith knew that she had clammed up, and not another word was she going to say. Perhaps, already, she feared she had said too much.
‘You don't want to talk about it, do you?’
‘No.’
‘But you enjoy it?’
Heather blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘It's fascinating. Now, talk about you. What's your job?’
‘Not very exciting. I'm at Whale Island, the Gunnery School. I work for the Training Development officer.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He researches and develops devices that will help train men to fire guns. Simulation domes. Mock Oerlikons. That sort of thing. Artificial visual trainers. Devices to teach the principles of centrifugal force. It's endless. New ideas crop up all the time.’
‘Got a boyfriend?’
Judith smiled. ‘Lots.’
‘Not one particular one?’
‘No. Not again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Edward Carey-Lewis. I'm not going through that again. I'm going to wait until the war's over, and then I shall probably fall madly in love with some unlikely man, and get married and have strings of babies and become a total bore. You won't want to know me.’
‘Were you in love with Edward?’
‘Yes. For years.’
‘I never knew.’
‘I never told you.’
‘I'm sorry.’
‘It's over, now.’
So they didn't talk about Edward any longer, but got onto more cheerful, positive topics, like Mr Warren being a sergeant in the Porthkerris Home Guard, and Joe Warren getting recommended for a commission.
‘How's your mother?’ Judith asked.
‘Same as ever. Nothing fazes her. She doesn't write much. Too busy, I suppose. But she did write to tell me when old Flasher Fawcett dropped dead in the bank. Couldn't wait to get that gobbet of gossip down on paper. Remember the carry-on we had that evening, when Ellie came back from the pictures in hysterics because the old toad had shown his al
l? I'll never forget it, as long as I live.’
‘Oh, Heather, you weren't even there.’
‘Heard all about it, though. Lived with it for days. My mum couldn't stop talking about it. “You should have seen Judith” she kept saying to me. “Like a real little fury.”’
‘He died of apoplexy, I think. Because the bank manager told him he had an overdraft. It was Mr Baines who told me about it, and all we could do was giggle. Dreadfully unseemly.’
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, I'd say. Now, what about the Carey-Lewises? Are they all right?’
So they talked about Nancherrow, and how Diana's grief after Edward's death had been eased, in a small way, by the arrival and constant diversion of her grand-daughter Clementina. Just as, in some obscure way, the undemanding company of Phyllis and Anna had helped to get Biddy Somerville back on her feet again.
‘So they're all living together at The Dower House?’
‘Yes, and it's working. You've never seen my house. Sometime, when you get some leave, you must come over, and I'll show it to you. You'll love it. I do. I love it to bits.’
‘I still can't believe you've got a house of your own,’ Heather marvelled. ‘Really grown up. I mean, understand, I'm not envious in the very least, because the last thing I'd want would be a house to tie me down. But for you, it must be like a dream come true. 'Specially with your family so far away.’ She stopped, and then said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Why are you sorry?’
‘Tactless. Singapore. I read the paper in the train this morning.’
‘So did I.’
‘Have you heard from your family?’
‘Not for too long.’
‘Worried?’
‘Yes. Worried stiff. I just hope they've been evacuated. Anyway, Mummy and Jess. Everybody says Singapore won't fall, that it's too well defended, too important, everything will be flung into the battle. But even if Singapore holds, there'll be air raids and every sort of horror. And there doesn't seem to be anything, or any army, capable of stopping the Japanese. I just wish I could find out what's happening.’ She looked at Heather across the table. ‘You…you couldn't find anything out, could you? I mean, sort of, under the counter?’