Winter of the World

  By lunch on Sunday she was desperate. Tomorrow she and her mother were to return to London. If Boy had not proposed by then, his parents would begin to think he was not serious, and there would be no more invitations to Ty Gwyn.

  That prospect frightened Daisy. She had made up her mind to marry Boy. She wanted to be Viscountess Aberowen, and then one day Countess Fitzherbert. She had always been rich, but she craved the respect and deference that went with social status. She longed to be addressed as "Your Ladyship." She coveted Princess Bea's diamond tiara. She wanted to count royalty among her friends.

  She knew Boy liked her, and there was no doubt about his desire when he kissed her. "He needs something to spur him on," Olga murmured to Daisy as they drank their after-lunch coffee with the other ladies in the morning room.

  "But what?"

  "There is one thing that never fails with men."

  Daisy raised her eyebrows. "Sex?" She and her mother talked about most things, but generally skirted around this subject.

  "Pregnancy would do it," Olga said. "But that only happens for sure when you don't want it."

  "What, then?"

  "You need to give him a glimpse of the promised land, but not let him in."

  Daisy shook her head. "I'm not certain, but I think he may have already been to the promised land with someone else."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know--a maid, an actress, a widow . . . I'm guessing, but he just doesn't have that virginal air."

  "You're right, he doesn't. That means you have to offer him something he can't get from the others. Something he'd do anything for."

  Daisy wondered briefly where her mother got this wisdom, having spent her life in a cold marriage. Perhaps she had done a lot of thinking about how her husband, Lev, had been stolen from her by his mistress Marga. Anyway, there was nothing Daisy could offer Boy that he couldn't get from another girl, was there?

  The women were finishing their coffee and heading to their bedrooms for the afternoon nap. The men were still in the dining room, smoking their cigars, but they would follow in a quarter of an hour. Daisy stood up.

  Olga said: "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm not sure," she said. "I'll think of something."

  She left the room. She was going to go to Boy's room, she had decided, but she did not want to say so in case her mother objected. She would be waiting for him when he came for his nap. The servants also took a break at that time of day, so it was unlikely anyone would come into the room.

  She would have Boy on his own then. But what would she say or do? She did not know. She would have to improvise.

  She went to the Gardenia Suite, brushed her teeth, dabbed Jean Nate perfume on her neck, and walked quietly along the corridor to Boy's room.

  No one saw her go in.

  He had a spacious bedroom with a view of misty mountaintops. It felt as if it might have been his for many years. There were masculine leather chairs, pictures of airplanes and racehorses on the wall, a cedarwood humidor full of fragrant cigars, and a side table with decanters of whisky and brandy and a tray of crystal glasses.

  She pulled open a drawer and saw Ty Gwyn writing paper, a bottle of ink, and pens and pencils. The paper was blue with the Fitzherbert crest. Would that one day be her crest?

  She wondered what Boy would say when he found her here. Would he be pleased, take her in his arms, and kiss her? Or would he be angry that his privacy had been invaded, and accuse her of snooping? She had to take the risk.

  She went into the adjoining dressing room. There was a small washbasin with a mirror over it. His shaving tackle was on the marble surround. Daisy thought she would like to learn to shave her husband. How intimate that would be.

  She opened the wardrobe doors and looked at his clothes: formal morning dress, tweed suits, riding clothes, a leather pilot's jacket with a fur lining, and two evening suits.

  That gave her an idea.

  She recalled how aroused Boy had been, at Bing Westhampton's house back in June, by the sight of her and the other girls dressed as men. That evening had been the first time he kissed her. She was not sure why he had been so excited--such things were generally inexplicable. Lizzie Westhampton said some men liked women to spank their bottoms; how could you account for that?

  Perhaps she should dress in his clothes now.

  Something he'd do anything for, her mother had said. Was this it?

  She stared at the row of suits on hangers, the stack of folded white shirts, the polished leather shoes each with its wooden tree inside. Would it work? Did she have time?

  Did she have anything to lose?

  She could pick the clothes she needed, take them to the Gardenia Suite, change there, and then hurry back, hoping no one saw her on the way . . .

  No. There was no time for that. His cigar was not long enough. She had to change here, and fast--or not at all.

  She made up her mind.

  She pulled her dress off.

  She was in danger now. Until this moment, she might have explained her presence here, just about plausibly, by pretending she had lost her bearings in Ty Gwyn's miles of corridors and gone into the wrong room by mistake. But no girl's reputation could survive being found in a man's room in her underwear.

  She took the top shirt off the pile. The collar had to be attached with a stud, she saw with a groan. She found a dozen starched collars in a drawer with a box of studs, and fixed one to the shirt, then pulled the shirt over her head.

  She heard a man's heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, and froze, her heart beating like a big drum, but the steps went by.

  She decided to wear formal morning dress. The striped trousers had no suspenders attached, but she found some in another drawer. She figured out how to button the suspenders to the trousers, then pulled the trousers on. The waist was big enough for two of her.

  She pushed her stockinged feet into a pair of shiny black shoes and laced them.

  She buttoned the shirt and put on a silver tie. The knot was wrong, but it did not matter, and anyway she did not know the correct way to tie it, so she left it as it was.

  She put on a fawn double-breasted waistcoat and a black tailcoat, then she looked in the full-length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door.

  The clothes were baggy but she looked cute anyway.

  Now that she had time, she put gold links in the shirt cuffs and a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the coat.

  Something was missing. She stared at herself in the mirror until she figured out what else she needed.

  A hat.

  She opened another cupboard and saw a row of hatboxes on a high shelf. She found a gray top hat and perched it on the back of her head.

  She remembered the mustache.

  She did not have an eyebrow pencil with her. She returned to Boy's bedroom and bent over the fireplace. It was still summer, and there was no fire. She got some soot on her fingertip, returned to the mirror, and carefully drew a mustache on her upper lip.

  She was ready.

  She sat in one of the leather armchairs to wait for him.

  Her instinct told her she was doing the right thing, but rationally it seemed bizarre. However, there was no accounting for arousal. She herself had got wet inside when he took her up in his plane. It had been impossible for them to canoodle while he was concentrating on flying the little aircraft, and that was just as well, for soaring through the air had been so exciting that she probably would have let him do anything he wanted.

  However, boys could be unpredictable, and she feared he might be angry. When that happened his handsome face would twist into an unattractive grimace, he would tap his foot very quickly, and he could become quite cruel. Once when a waiter with a limp had brought him the wrong drink he had said: "Just hobble back to the bar and bring me the Scotch I ordered--being a cripple doesn't make you deaf, does it?" The wretched man had flushed with shame.

  She wondered what Boy would say to her if he was angered by her
being in his room.

  He arrived five minutes later.

  She heard his tread outside, and realized she already knew him well enough to recognize his step.

  The door opened and he came in without seeing her.

  She put on a deep voice and said: "Hello, old chap, how are you?"

  He started and said: "Good God!" Then he looked again. "Daisy?"

  She stood up. "The same," she said in her normal voice. He was still staring at her in surprise. She doffed the top hat, gave a little bow, and said: "At your service." She replaced the hat on her head at an angle.

  After a long moment, he recovered from the shock and grinned.

  Thank God, she thought.

  He said: "I say, that topper does suit you."

  She came closer. "I put it on to please you."

  "Jolly nice of you, I must say."

  She turned her face up invitingly. She liked kissing him. In truth, she liked kissing most men. She was secretly embarrassed by how much she liked it. She had even enjoyed kissing girls, at her boarding school where they did not see a boy for weeks on end.

  He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. Her hat fell off, and they both giggled. Quickly he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She relaxed and enjoyed it. He was enthusiastic about all sensual pleasures, and she was excited by his eagerness.

  She reminded herself that she had a purpose. Things were progressing nicely, but she wanted him to propose. Would he be satisfied with just a kiss? She needed him to want more. Often, if they had more than a few hasty moments, he would fondle her breasts.

  A lot depended on how much wine he had drunk with lunch. He had a large capacity, but there came a point when he lost the urge.

  She moved her body, pressing herself to him. He put a hand on her chest, but she was wearing a baggy waistcoat of woolen cloth and he could not find her small breasts. He grunted in frustration.

  Then his hand roamed across her stomach and inside the waistband of the loose-fitting trousers.

  She had never before let him touch her down there.

  She still had on a silk petticoat and substantial cotton underdrawers, so he surely could not feel much, but his hand went to the fork of her thighs and pressed firmly against her through the layers. She felt a twinge of pleasure.

  She pulled away from him.

  Panting, he said: "Have I gone too far?"

  "Lock the door," she said.

  "Oh, my goodness." He went to the door, turned the key in the lock, and came back. They embraced again, and he resumed where he had left off. She touched the front of his trousers, found his erect penis through the cloth, and grasped it firmly. He groaned with pleasure.

  She pulled away again.

  The shadow of anger crossed his face. An unpleasant memory came back to her. Once, when she had made a boy called Theo Coffman take his hand off her breasts, he had turned nasty and called her a prick-teaser. She had never seen that boy again, but the insult had made her feel irrationally ashamed. Momentarily she feared that Boy might be about to make a similar accusation.

  Then his face softened and he said: "I am dreadfully keen on you, y'know."

  This was her moment. Sink or swim, she told herself. "We shouldn't be doing this," she said with a regret that was not greatly exaggerated.

  "Why not?"

  "We're not even engaged."

  The word hung in the air for a long moment. For a girl to say that was tantamount to a proposal. She watched his face, terrified that he would take fright, turn away, mumble excuses, and ask her to leave.

  He said nothing.

  "I want to make you happy," she said. "But . . ."

  "I do love you, Daisy," he said.

  That was not enough. She smiled at him and said: "Do you?"

  "Ever such a lot."

  She said nothing, but looked at him expectantly.

  At last he said: "Will you marry me?"

  "Oh, yes," she said, and she kissed him again. With her mouth pressed to his she unbuttoned his fly, burrowed through his underclothing, found his penis, and took it out. The skin was silky and hot. She stroked it, remembering a conversation with the Westhampton twins. "You can rub his thing," Lindy had said, and Lizzie had added: "Until it squirts." Daisy was intrigued and excited by the idea of making a man do that. She grasped a bit harder.

  Then she remembered Lindy's next remark. "Or you can suck it--they like that best of all."

  She moved her lips away from Boy's and spoke into his ear. "I'll do anything for my husband," she said.

  Then she knelt down.

  v

  It was the wedding of the year. Daisy and Boy were married at St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, on Saturday, October 3, 1936. Daisy was disappointed it was not Westminster Abbey, but she was told that was for the royal family only.

  Coco Chanel made her wedding dress. Depression fashion was for simple lines and minimal extravagance. Daisy's floor-length bias-cut satin gown had pretty butterfly sleeves and a short train that could be carried by one page boy.

  Her father, Lev Peshkov, came across the Atlantic for the ceremony. Her mother, Olga, agreed for the sake of appearances to sit beside him in church and generally pretend that they were a more or less happily married couple. Daisy's nightmare was that at some point Marga would show up with Lev's illegitimate son, Greg, on her arm, but it did not happen.

  The Westhampton twins and May Murray were bridesmaids, and Eva Murray was matron of honor. Boy had been grumpy about Eva's being half-Jewish--he had not wanted to invite her at all--but Daisy had insisted.

  She stood in the ancient church, conscious that she looked heartbreakingly beautiful, and happily gave herself to Boy Fitzherbert body and soul.

  She signed the register "Daisy Fitzherbert, Viscountess Aberowen." She had been practising that signature for weeks, carefully tearing the paper into unreadable shreds afterward. Now she was entitled to it. It was her name.

  Processing out of the church, Fitz took Olga's arm amiably, but Princess Bea put a yard of empty space between herself and Lev.

  Princess Bea was not a nice person. She was friendly enough toward Daisy's mother, and if there was a heavy strain of condescension in her tone, Olga did not notice it, so relations were amiable. But Bea did not like Lev.

  Daisy now realized that Lev lacked the veneer of social respectability. He walked and talked, ate and drank, smoked and laughed and scratched like a gangster, and he did not care what people thought. He did what he liked because he was an American millionaire, just as Fitz did what he liked because he was an English earl. Daisy had always known this, but it struck her with extra force when she saw her father with all these upper-class English people, at the wedding breakfast in the grand ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel.

  But it did not matter now. She was Lady Aberowen, and that could not be taken away from her.

  Nevertheless, Bea's constant hostility to Lev was an irritant, like a slightly bad smell or a distant buzzing noise, giving Daisy a feeling of dissatisfaction. Sitting beside Lev at the top table, Bea always turned slightly away. When he spoke to her she replied briefly without meeting his eye. He seemed not to notice, smiling and drinking champagne, but Daisy, seated on Lev's other side, knew he had not failed to read the signs. He was uncouth, not stupid.

  When the toasts were over and the men began to smoke, Lev, who as the father of the bride was paying the bill, looked along the table and said: "Well, Fitz, I hope you enjoyed your meal. Were the wines up to your standards?"

  "Very good, thank you."

  "I must say, I thought it was a damn fine spread."

  Bea tutted audibly. Men were not supposed to say damn in her hearing.

  Lev turned to her. He was smiling, but Daisy knew the dangerous look in his eye. "Why, Princess, have I offended you?"

  She did not want to reply, but he looked expectantly at her, and did not turn his gaze aside. At last she spoke. "I prefer not to hear coarse language," she said.

  Lev took a ci
gar from his case. He did not light it at once, but sniffed it and rolled it between his fingers. "Let me tell you a story," he said, and he looked up and down the table to make sure they were all listening: Fitz, Olga, Boy, Daisy, and Bea. "When I was a kid my father was accused of grazing livestock on someone else's land. No big deal, you might think, even if he was guilty. But he was arrested, and the land agent built a scaffold in the north meadow. Then the soldiers came and grabbed me and my brother and our mother and took us there. My father was on the scaffold with a noose around his neck. Then the landlord arrived."

  Daisy had never heard this story. She looked at her mother. Olga seemed equally surprised.

  The little group at the table were all very silent now.

  "We were forced to watch while my father was hanged," Lev said. He turned to Bea. "And you know something strange? The landlord's sister was there as well." He put the cigar in his mouth, wetting the end, and took it out again.

  Daisy saw that Bea had turned pale. Was this about her?

  "The sister was about nineteen years old, and she was a princess," Lev said, looking at his cigar. Daisy heard Bea let out a small cry, and realized this story was about her. "She stood there and watched the hanging, cold as ice," Lev said.

  Then he looked directly at Bea. "Now that's what I call coarse," he said.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  Then Lev put the cigar back in his mouth and said: "Has anyone got a light?"

  vi

  Lloyd Williams sat at the table in the kitchen of his mother's house in Aldgate, anxiously studying a map.

  It was Sunday, October 4, 1936, and today there was going to be a riot.

  The old Roman town of London, built on a hill beside the river Thames, was now the financial district, called the City. West of this hill were the palaces of the rich, and the theaters and shops and cathedrals that catered to them. The house in which Lloyd sat was to the east of the hill, near the docks and the slums. Here for centuries waves of immigrants had landed, determined to work their fingers to the bone so that their grandchildren could one day move from the East End to the West End.

  The map Lloyd was looking at so intently was in a special edition of the Daily Worker, the Communist Party newspaper, and it showed the route of today's march by the British Union of Fascists. They planned to assemble outside the Tower of London, on the border between the City and the East End, then march east--