A Fragile Peace

  He laughed softly. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Oh I did! I’d like to see it again tomorrow! And the next day, just for luck. I thought Ivor Novello was wonderful…’ She hummed again, happily, her strong profile outlined against the flicker of the street lamps: straight nose, obstinate chin, smoothly waving hair. She giggled suddenly, like a child.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’

  ‘I just remembered the expression on that waiter’s face when I helped myself to what was left of your peach Melba. I got the distinct impression that he thought one shouldn’t do such things at the Savoy.’

  ‘You can do what you like as long as you do it with style.’

  She tilted her head. ‘Mm. I rather like that. And the peach Melba was much too good to waste.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I’ve never been to the Savoy before. Wasn’t it frightfully extravagant of you?’

  ‘It was to make up for leaving it so long.’

  For a moment she was silent, thinking back to the brilliance and glitter, the expensive scintillation of precious stones, the sheen of silk, satin and fur. ‘All that wealth concentrated in one place,’ she mused, more seriously. ‘I must say—’ She stopped, aware of the gracelessness of implied criticism in what she had been about to say.

  ‘What?’ He looked at her, quickly and curiously, before concentrating his attention on the road again.

  ‘Oh – nothing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She hesitated. ‘Well – I went to a meeting the other day. In my lunch hour. Ernest Bevin was speaking—’

  ‘Bevin?’ His voice was astonished. ‘What on earth were you doing at one of his meetings?’

  ‘Listening. It was a protest rally against unemployment. It just occurred to me that if half of what was hanging round some of those elegant necks in the Savoy tonight was invested in modernizing our industries – oh, cripes, hark at me. I sound like the worst kind of know-nothing bluestocking. I know it isn’t really that simple.’

  ‘Socialist politics? From a Jordan? Good Lord, girl, whatever next?’ His voice was at the same time amused and genuinely interested. ‘You’re full of surprises.’

  ‘I was at one time. Interested in politics, I mean, not full of surprises. But – well – life got a bit complicated and I sort of’ she gestured, ruefully, ‘gave up for a while. But lately – well, we can’t ignore what’s going on right under our noses, can we? Even if we want to?’

  ‘Some of us can.’

  ‘I can’t. I wish I could, I really do. I wish I could be like Libby and simply enjoy life as it comes. But—’ She stopped.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Oh, it’s stupid. There’s nothing I can do about it. It isn’t my business. But I just can’t help but feel that what’s going on – what’s been going on for generations – is wrong. It isn’t right that we have everything and others have nothing. That I can walk into a nice, cosy job with Sir Brian while a skilled man with a wife and family to support walks the streets looking for work…’

  ‘I doubt that Sir Brian would appreciate a Clydeside shipbuilder entertaining his clients.’ There was a thread of amusement in his voice.

  She fell silent. Sensing her exasperation at his facetiousness, he asked gently, ‘So what would you do about it?’

  She resisted answering for a moment, then pulled a face in the darkness. ‘That’s just it. I haven’t the slightest idea. I listen to Bevin talking about the iniquities of the 1927 Trades Disputes Act and I want to be out there marching in the streets for the right to picket. I listen to Daddy and his reasoned views on individual liberty and private enterprise, and I find myself agreeing with him. Perhaps there isn’t any answer.’

  Peter glanced at her. ‘Does that worry you?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  They drove in silence for a moment. ‘Well, at least you care. That’s more than can be said for most people. If enough people care enough, then perhaps something will change.’

  Allie made an inelegant noise, and he grinned.

  ‘What awakened your interest again?’ he asked, curiosity in his voice.

  It took her by surprise. ‘Oh – something that one of Richard’s friends said to me. Made me think, I suppose.’ The recollection of that light voice – ‘Where did all that fervour go?’ – still, oddly, brought a faint lift of mortification. She pushed the thought away and another, rather more alarming, took its place. ‘You won’t mention any of this to Mother or Libby, will you?’ she asked in sudden anxiety. ‘About my going to the meeting, or – well – anything?’

  He laughed. ‘A secret vice?’

  ‘Not exactly. It just isn’t something that they understand. Or approve of,’ she added honestly.

  ‘I won’t mention it, I promise.’

  As they drove from the lit suburbs into the country, the quiet darkness of the small car produced a kind of warmly companionable intimacy that needed no words. There was little traffic on the roads, and as they sped through the empty lanes, it seemed to Allie that they might have been the only people awake in the world. She found herself oddly regretful when, in the car’s sweeping headlights, she recognized the walls of the churchyard and the lichgate, and knew that they were nearly home. As they swung into the drive, she saw that lights still shone from the windows of Ashdown.

  ‘Would you like to come in for a nightcap? Mother and Daddy are still up, and I’m sure they’d be glad to see you.’

  ‘I won’t, thank you. Another time, perhaps.’

  She groped on the dark floor for her handbag. When she straightened, it was to find that he had half-turned, to rest his arm along the back of the seat behind her. She stiffened a little. She could hardly see him in the darkness. He might have been a perfect stranger. She felt a sudden jolt of physical excitement that astonished her.

  ‘Thank you again,’ she said, in a voice that sounded peculiar in her own ears.

  He leaned towards her and, very gently, his mouth brushed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you at the party on Christmas Eve.’ His hand moved to the door handle and the door clicked open.

  ‘I – yes, of course.’ She scrambled inelegantly from the car. Her face was burning. She slammed the car door and watched as the headlights swung in a tight circle, then moved off down the drive, flickering like summer lightning in the trees.

  The front door opened and Robert stood silhouetted in the light. ‘That you, Allie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  She refused to try to analyse the disturbing emotion that still seemed to be lodged somewhere beneath her rib cage. ‘Yes, thank you. Lovely.’

  In the car that ran quietly along the deserted village street, Peter Wickham smiled quietly to himself and hummed softly, ‘“I can give you the starlight…”’

  * * *

  On Christmas Eve, Allie went straight from work to her sister’s flat. Sir Brian had finished early that day, and Allie found herself with the best part of the afternoon free. As she hurried through the bitterly cold, festive streets she felt the stirrings of a pleasant anticipation. In the small case she carried was a new dress, long and elegant, of printed pale blue silk with a dark blue bolero to cover her bare shoulders. It had been an extravagant buy only made possible by a loan from her mother; the dark blue satin shoes and tiny silver evening bag that were to complete the ensemble were her mother’s, too.

  The flat in Rampton Court looked the very spirit of Christmas from the holly wreath on the door to the enormous, elegantly decorated tree in the big living room.

  ‘Allie, darling.’ Libby, wrapped in a soft, pearl-grey housecoat with wide lapels and a tightly belted waist greeted her sister with an enthusiastic kiss. ‘I thought you’d never get here. Do come and tell me if the beastly table looks all right. I don’t know whether to use the red candles or the white…’

  Behind her, Allie caught sight of a small, plump maid in neat black and white uniform, hurrying through the kitchen door. She
raised questioning eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, she’s from the caterers, darling. You surely didn’t expect me to do the lot myself?’ Libby cast appalled eyes to heaven, laughing. ‘Believe me, it’s absolutely exhausted me doing the Christmas tree, never mind about anything else! Now – what do you think?’ She indicated the large oval table upon which rested an enormous cooked turkey, a ham the size of a hatbox and a great piece of roast beef. There were dishes of salad and of small, cold new potatoes. In the centre of this feast, an elaborate decoration of holly, laurel, tinsel and candles was in a state of disarray. Deftly, still talking, Libby rearranged it, removing the tall white candles and replacing them with red. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Perfect. It’s all perfect. Where on earth did you get new potatoes at this time of the year?’

  Libby tapped the side of her nose with a beautifully manicured finger. ‘You can get anything if you can pay for it, my love. Mind you—’ she let out a small shriek of laughter ‘—Edward is going to have a fit when he realizes how much this shindig is costing! I’ve mortgaged next month’s housekeeping right up to the hilt! We’ll just have to eat out for a month! Right – well, I think that’s it. Now, go and pop your dress on a hanger in the spare room and then we can have a small noggin together before you jump into the bath. Do you know—’ she added, her fair head on one side, a smile on her face ‘—I do believe that this is the best Christmas Eve I ever remember. You really should get married, you know, Allie.’ Her face was mischievous. ‘I do most thoroughly recommend it— What in hell’s name’s that?’

  Allie flinched.

  ‘They’re tryin’ out them air-raid sirens agin, ma’am,’ said the little maid, self-importantly, from the kitchen door. ‘The man on the BBC said they was goin’ to.’

  ‘What a bloody silly time to choose,’ Libby muttered, then with a visible effort smiled, and gave her sister a little push. ‘Off you go, then back here for drinkies and a natter before the fun starts.’

  Oddly enough, though she watched for him, Allie did not see Peter Wickham arrive. The first she knew of his presence was a light hand on her arm and a quiet voice in her ear. ‘Come on now, own up. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  She jumped, then grinned at him. ‘Oh, it’s you. Hello. What are you talking about?’

  ‘The other day at the Ritz. Don’t disappoint me – I was sure you must have had a hand in it? Knowing your guilty secret, and all…’ Two days before, a hundred hungry, workless men had invaded the Grill Room of the Ritz Hotel, seating themselves at tables that had been laid for dinner and refusing to leave. The scenes that had followed had not been pleasant, but a point had been made and a few consciences stirred.

  ‘It was a damned good idea. If I’d been there I’d have joined them.’

  He leaned over to her and, perfectly naturally, dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘That’s what I like to hear. You look lovely. Happy Christmas.’

  Ridiculously, she blushed.

  ‘And to you.’

  ‘Allie, be a dear and give me a hand for a minute – oh, hello, Peter. Happy Christmas.’ Libby planted a distracted kiss on Peter’s cheek, leaving a bright smudge of lipstick. ‘That ridiculous girl they’ve landed me with doesn’t know her canapes from her cocktail sticks. It’s murder in the kitchen – Richard, you horror, you’re late!’ This called to their brother as he pushed his way through the throng towards them followed by a smaller, slighter figure the sight of whom caused a twinge of irritation in Allie. ‘And Tom. How nice to see you. Do come, Allie…’ Libby plunged off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Allie kissed her brother hastily, acknowledged Tom, shrugged, helplessly and apologetically, at Peter. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  She spent ten frantic minutes in the kitchen helping the flustered waitress, smiling to herself in exasperation as she realized that her sister had disappeared back into the gay and glittering maelstrom of the big living room. As she laid the last of the canapes on a tray and, with an encouraging smile, sent the girl off with it, Libby reappeared at the door clutching two virulently pink cocktails.

  ‘My God.’ Allie eyed them warily. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Pink Lady, my angel. Edward’s speciality. Here.’ Libby handed her a glass and toasted her with her own. ‘Thanks. Happy Christmas. By the way,’ Libby picked up a tiny smoked salmon sandwich and nibbled at it, her eyes innocent on Allie’s face, ‘I forgot to ask. Did you enjoy yourself the other evening?’

  Two could play the game of innocence. ‘The other evening?’

  Libby laughed, and, characteristically and easily, surrendered. ‘Beast. The theatre of course. With Peter.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Very much.’

  ‘Where did you go afterwards?’

  ‘The Savoy.’

  Libby rolled impressed eyes. ‘Did you indeed?’

  Allie smiled.

  ‘Peter,’ her sister said solemnly, sipping her drink, ‘is really a very nice man. Don’t you think?’

  Allie was aware, not for the first time, of none-too-subtle manipulation. ‘There’s a strange thing. That’s exactly what Mother keeps telling me.’

  Her sister’s quick smile was an acknowledgement.

  Irritation stirred. ‘You’ve talked about it?’ Allie asked sharply. ‘About me?’

  Libby waved an airy hand. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that…’

  ‘How would you put it?’

  ‘Now, don’t get all aerated. Of course we’ve – mentioned it. We’ve been worried about you. I mean – it’s all very well to have growing pains, but you must admit that you took it a bit far, one way and another. Mother – and I – are just glad that you’ve met someone like Peter. Someone…’

  ‘Nice. And suitable.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you’re not above giving this nice, suitable young man a push in my direction?’

  ‘Well, Mother thought – a little encouragement…’

  ‘Like getting me to drop in when you knew he’d be here? Like practically forcing him to take me out?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, darling! Goodness, you can’t say you didn’t need someone to take a hand. You weren’t doing very well on your own, were you? Whatever you saw in that odious Ray whatever-his-name-was I’ll never know…’

  Allie remained silent.

  ‘Now, you’re not to be ridiculous about this,’ continued Libby, a little nervously. ‘Nobody’s made you, or anyone else do anything they didn’t want to. We’ve just – well, tried to make it a little easier, that’s all. Now please, don’t stand there like a thunder cloud,’ she added irritably. ‘You do remind me most dreadfully of Celia sometimes, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stubborn as mules, the pair of you.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Alexandra Jordan,’ said her sister on a short, sharp intake of breath, ‘if you don’t stop being so damned prickly, I’m going to tip what’s left of this drink right over your very becoming and I’m certain very expensive hairdo. I swear I will.’

  Allie held on to her indignation for a moment longer then, relaxing, pulled a wry face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t really mind, do you? That Mother and I have been playing cupid just the teeniest bit?’

  Allie laughed. ‘I suppose not. But just stop it now, will you? Let matters take their course. Peter and I are good friends.’ She ignored Libby’s derisive snort. ‘I don’t want to spoil that. I don’t think of him in…’ she hesitated ‘…that way at all.’ As she said it, she was aware of a confusion within herself. The words were at the same time true, and yet an evasion of truth. She knew beyond doubt that she could never explain that to Libby, could hardly in fact explain it to herself.

  ‘Well.’ Libby smiled, knowingly. ‘We’ll just wait and see, shall we?’

  ‘As long,’ Allie said repressively, ‘as that’s all you do, I’ll have no complaints.’

  The conversation and its inferences returned to her, on and off, throughout t
he evening. For all her quite honest righteous indignation at Libby’s interference, she had in truth to admit that part of her did not object too strongly. The old Allie was reasserting herself; the thought of pleasing everyone, of making up in some measure for her awful behaviour of the previous couple of years was more than appealing. And if, in pleasing others, she did not entirely displease herself – then so much the better. She found herself watching Peter Wickham as he moved about the room, his pleasant face animated, his smooth fair head bent attentively to his companions. She noticed that he listened rather more often than he spoke, that the intelligent eyes fixed steadily on the face of a speaker, that he had a habit that she had not noticed before of running his thumbnail reflectively back and forth across his small moustache as he listened. Once, lifting his head and catching her eyes upon him, he smiled. She smiled back.

  ‘Hello there.’

  She almost jumped out of her skin at the unexpected voice. Tom Robinson stood beside her, nursing a half-empty tankard of beer.

  ‘Hello.’

  He put his head on one side and contemplated her seriously, a spark of intemperate mirth in his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess.’

  ‘Guess what?’

  ‘Which particular Miss Jordan do we have with us tonight? The Red Crusader?’ He pursed his lips, shook his head. ‘The Bright Young Thing? Mm. Maybe. But I suspect not…’ He laughed at her quick, irritated movement.

  ‘Do you do it deliberately?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aggravate the life out of people.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Better than boring them to death. Like you, Pollyanna, I like life to be interesting.’ His pale, intolerant eyes were very bright and lit with a sardonic gleam of mischief. She suddenly suspected that he had drunk considerably more than his clear speech and steady gait betrayed.