The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘I know so. The Germans are flexing their muscles. Getting ready for the fray. I can’t see that we’ll be dancing like this for much longer.’

  ‘No.’ Rosamund felt a stab of sadness and regret. For the first time in her life, she was being swept around a dance floor by a dashing ‘beau’, as Celine would say, and circumstances would seem to be conspiring against her. It just wasn’t fair. She tried to put it out of her mind. To live the moment – a moment which might never come again. The sound of the clarinet and the lyrical tones of the slick young vocalist at the microphone filled the glittering room. Faces of other dancers swirled by as the words of ‘Begin the Beguine’ seeped into her head. But the dream was broken suddenly as she brushed past a figure she knew.

  ‘Diana!’

  ‘Rosamund! What are you doing here?’

  It was three years since Diana Molyneux had left Devonshire for London. Now, here she was on the same dance floor and looking … well … just as pretty as she always had, her once long, dark locks cut into a smart bob, her now shapely body encased in a sheath of emerald green slubbed silk.

  Without thinking, Rosamund let go of her dance partner and threw her arms around her old friend; then, aware of her apparent lack of manners, she turned back to Harry, only to find him laughing at her.

  ‘Shall I go?’ he said.

  ‘No! No! Please! I’m so sorry. It’s just that Diana and I … well … we used to live near one another …’

  ‘In Devonshire?’ he offered teasingly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen each other for …?

  ‘Three years,’ said Diana, helping to explain her friend’s unintentional rudeness.

  ‘Well then … why don’t I leave you to catch up?’ And then, seeing the look of dismay on Rosamund’s face, he offered, ‘Unless we all three sit down and have a drink?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’ blurted Rosamund, suddenly aware that she was probably sounding far too eager.

  ‘There’s a spare table there,’ said Harry, indicating a small booth at the far end of the dance floor. ‘You go and sit down; I’ll order a bottle of champagne and have it sent over.’ He nodded at Diana, turned on his heel and went off to find a waiter.

  ‘Well!’ said Diana, looping her arm through Rosamund’s and walking with her across to the table. ‘How did you manage that? Harry Napier, the most eligible man in the room! And the dishiest!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ros! Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the looks of all the other girls! If they could kill you and walk all over you they would.’

  ‘Well, I know he’s dishy but … eligible?’

  ‘My dear girl, he has just dumped – well, not dumped exactly, Harry would never be that rude – but he has just … said farewell, shall we say, to Henrietta Westmorland. He’s available.’

  ‘I’ve seen her but I’m afraid I don’t know …’

  ‘She’s landed. Stinking rich, but a bit of a shit. He’s well rid of her.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rosamund looked bewildered.

  ‘Oh, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you so much. And I was so sorry to hear about your ma and pa. I wanted to write but I didn’t know where to find you. So what are you doing here?’

  Rosamund began to explain to Diana the events of the intervening years, Harry arriving as the conversation got under way. Rosamund made to change the subject, but Harry begged her to carry on and listened intently as the story unfolded. At first Rosamund was self-conscious, but the attentiveness of her two companions soon relaxed her and, between restorative sips of champagne, she told the story of her parents’ deaths, how she and Celine had been whisked off to Aunt Venetia’s house, and about how life had changed – and how she herself had changed – in the years since they had parted.

  ‘And Celine?’ asked Diana. ‘Do you still speak French together?’

  ‘All the time.’

  Harry looked quizzical.

  Diana explained: ‘Ros was brought up by a governess – a sort of minder – Celine.’

  ‘French?’ enquired Harry.

  ‘Her father was,’ qualified Rosamund.

  Diana continued, ‘It used to make me so cross. When they wanted to exclude me they would just chatter away, and French not being my strong point, I was left out in the cold – completely.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not very fair!’ protested Rosamund.

  ‘No. Not really. It didn’t happen very often. Only when I’d ridden faster than her on the beach, or caught the eye of a groom that she quite fancied.’

  ‘I don’t recall ever fancying a groom! Certainly not one old enough to be my …!’ retorted Rosamund.

  ‘No. They weren’t much of a catch, were they? And some of them were far too young …’ interrupted Diana with a knowing glint in her eye.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Rosamund, ‘you were much better at maths so you could always get one over on me when it came to numbers.’

  ‘Not your thing?’ asked Harry.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Oh … no reason.’ He took another sip of champagne and asked, ‘So, now that you’ve met up again, what will you do?’

  ‘Well, we’ve a lot of catching up to do,’ said Diana. ‘We must swap telephone numbers. Where are you living?’

  ‘Eaton Square,’ replied Rosamund.

  ‘No! I’m just round the corner in Draycott Place. There is absolutely no excuse for us not to see each other. Belgravia ten-sixty-six. Easy to remember. Call me as soon as you can.’

  ‘I will!’ said Rosamund brightly.

  Diana made to get up. ‘But in the meantime, I have a man I need to dance with …’ She nodded to a small group on the other side of the dance floor, among them the rather crestfallen youth she had summarily dismissed when she had bumped into Rosamund. ‘Don’t think me rude, Mr Napier.’ She reached out and shook his hand.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Harry. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Molyneux.’

  ‘Oh! You know my name?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Diana did not, as a rule, blush. But at that moment she came as near to doing so as ever she had. She kissed Rosamund on the cheek. ‘Soon!’ she said. Then, casting a smile at Harry, she left to rejoin her group.

  ‘Fancy you knowing Diana Molyneux,’ said Harry.

  ‘I think she was rather surprised that you knew her,’ responded Rosamund.

  ‘Ah. Yes.’

  ‘So how do you know her?’

  ‘Through a friend of a friend.’

  ‘That sounds rather sinister,’ said Rosamund, finally regaining her composure and relaxing into the encounter.

  ‘No. Not sinister. Just …’ he shrugged as if to make light of the matter.

  ‘So what do you do?’ asked Rosamund. ‘You now know my life story. What about yours?’

  ‘Oh, rather dull in comparison. Minor public school, Oxford University …’

  ‘Impressive!’

  ‘Not really – only managed a second … and then a spell at that big house at the end of The Mall.’

  ‘Buckingham Palace?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Gosh!’

  ‘Oh, don’t get too excited. Nothing very regal. I’m a philatelist.’

  Rosamund looked surprised. ‘Stamps?’

  ‘Yes. Boring, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Surprising though. How does a philatelist come to be working at Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘Because the King has probably the finest stamp collection in the world. Thanks to his father. Volumes and volumes of them. Albums of red, and now blue. Hugely valuable.’

  ‘And you look after them?’

  ‘I helped to look after them. The man who’s really in charge of them is Sir John Wilson. But I’m now having to do something else. The albums are being transferred to the vaults of a bank in Pall Mall for the duration of the war. Fo
r safety.’

  ‘Goodness.’ Rosamund looked thoughtful. ‘So what will you do now?’

  ‘Oh, my future will be pretty much like every other twenty-something for the next few years. Part of the war effort.’

  ‘Of course. Army, navy or air force?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rosamund felt slightly uncomfortable. ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. Something … secret.’

  ‘Sort of. Dunkirk was a bit of a watershed. Life changed then. For all of us.’ Harry drained his glass, then stood up and asked, ‘Shall I see you home?’

  ‘Oh!’ Rosamund glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Goodness! Yes. I mean, thank you. If you’re sure …’ Rosamund nodded in the direction of the party that Harry had left to dance with her.

  ‘I’m sure. They can get along quite well without me.’

  ‘You didn’t come with anybody then?’

  ‘No. But I think you’d worked that out, hadn’t you?’ Harry smiled at her, and she blushed. Unlike her friend Diana, the blood would rush to Rosamund’s cheeks far too frequently for her liking.

  He walked her from the Café de Paris to his car – a shiny black Talbot Sports Tourer.

  Rosamund gazed at it wide-eyed.

  ‘I know. She’s rather lovely, isn’t she? I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep her. Bought her three or four years ago in a fit of madness. There she sat in the Rootes showroom in Piccadilly, all 3½ litres of her. Fell in love.’ Then, clearing his throat, he said, ‘Eaton Square, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosamund slipped into the passenger seat and Harry closed the door behind her, then walked around the front of the car, slid into the driver’s seat and started up the powerful engine.

  She sat quietly as they turned right into Panton Street, then into Haymarket and down The Mall through a dark and unilluminated London towards Buckingham Palace.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Harry, noticing that Rosamund looked a little pale.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. Sorry. It’s just that – weirdly – I’m still a little nervous of fast cars. Since the accident. It’s almost two years ago now. You’d think I’d be over it …’

  Harry slowed down. ‘Not at all. I don’t think one can ever get over something like that. The suddenness of it, especially.’

  Rosamund felt comforted that he understood. ‘Will you go back to the palace?’ she asked. ‘After the war I mean?’

  ‘Who knows? Who knows when it will all end? Or what sort of state we’ll be in.’ Harry drove on through Belgravia, seeming to know his way about in spite of the diluted beam of the headlights and the lack of street lighting in the wartime blackout. ‘Or when I’ll be able to drive this beauty again. She’s going into storage. I’ve been able to use her for …’ he hesitated, then continued, ‘work … but petrol rationing will mean she’ll have to have a holiday for a while.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  Harry glanced at Rosamund. ‘You like her?’

  ‘I think she’s wonderful.’ Rosamund pulled her fur wrap high up round her neck, feeling unspeakably decadent as she nestled into the deep leather seat.

  He grinned, and they drove on through Belgravia in comfortable silence, finally reaching Eaton Square and pulling up outside the house that Rosamund indicated.

  Harry switched off the engine and turned to her. ‘Can I take you out to dinner next week?’

  The question was unexpected. Rosamund had been steeling herself for the moment when Harry would say, ‘Well, it’s been a lot of fun. I hope we meet again one day. Thank you so much.’ Instead, he was asking to see her again. She did her best to seem relaxed about it. ‘Yes, of course. That would be lovely.’

  She smiled at him and he leaned over and kissed her tenderly. It was the first time she had ever been kissed on the lips by anyone other than a stable lad. The difference was astonishing. She understood now all those seemingly trite songs about the earth moving beneath your feet, the sound of bells, and birds singing. Harry’s kiss was like something she had never encountered before and, truth be told, like something she’d never believed really existed. She felt sure he must now feel – or even hear – her heart beating within her chest. As he leaned back from her and smiled, she smiled back and tried hard to stop the tears from welling up in her eyes.

  As if he knew that this was not the time for further conversation, Harry opened his door, got out of the car and walked around to help Rosamund out of the passenger seat. As he took her arm and raised her to her feet, his cheek brushed hers, and he held her in his arms briefly before pulling back a little and smiling. ‘Welcome to London, Miss Hanbury,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  She waved briefly from the open doorway as he drove off with a smile and a nod, then she locked the door behind her and climbed the stairs to her room. The house was silent. Aunt Venetia had retired, but as she turned the handle of her bedroom door, Celine’s head popped out from her own room further along the landing.

  ‘You are back safely?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Rosamund whispered back. ‘But you shouldn’t have waited up.’

  Celine shrugged. ‘I like to know you are safe.’ Then, smiling, ‘Have you had a good time?’

  Rosamund beckoned her to join her in her room, and after quietly closing the door, she turned to Celine and said, ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  Celine shook her head and smiled. ‘You have to ask? After all this time?’

  Then she saw the look in Rosamund’s eyes – the dreamy, faraway look that she recognised. ‘You have met somebody?’ She began to undo the hooks down the back of Rosamund’s dress, preparing her for bed as she had done thousands of times for going on twenty years.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is he special?’

  ‘Gosh, yes. I had no idea he even noticed me. I mean, he never showed that he did.’

  ‘But you noticed him?’

  ‘Yes. But I tried to put him out of my mind. I mean, why would a handsome man-about-town notice a little country mouse among all those elegant women?’

  Celine smiled indulgently. ‘But you are no longer a little country mouse, are you?’

  ‘Aren’t I?’

  Celine shook her head. ‘Not any more, cherie. You are beautiful and sophisticated now.’

  ‘Oh, Semolina, stop it! I’m not at all sophisticated. I feel such a fraud.’

  ‘Still?’

  Rosamund was thoughtful. ‘Not as much as I did, I suppose.’

  Celine helped Rosamund into a silk dressing gown and sat beside her at the dressing table as she applied Pond’s cold cream to remove her make-up. ‘Look at me! Make-up and all. What has happened to me, Semolina? What has happened?’

  ‘You have grown up. That is all. You cannot stay a girl forever.’

  ‘I know. But I am still me, aren’t I?’ She took a small box from the drawer of the dressing table, opened it and showed Celine the contents. ‘I am still the Rosamund who collected these shells from the beach in Devonshire. Tell me I am still the real me, not some shallow London socialite.’

  ‘You are as real as those shells, and as long as you remember that, and as long as you value all those things – the shells, the memories and the events that made you what you are – you will be fine. Don’t reproach yourself for growing up. Hang on to the important things – the values and the happy memories – but have the freedom to make new ones. And new friends.’

  ‘And lovers?’

  ‘Yes. And lovers.’

  ‘Even if they break your heart?’ she asked, remembering Celine’s beau.

  ‘They may break your heart, but who wants a heart that does not feel; that does not take risks?’

  ‘Is it worth it? The heartache, I mean?’

  Celine shrugged. ‘Who can say? All I know is that you have to follow your heart wherever it leads – whether that be to heaven or to hell. There is no way of knowing which until you take the risk.’ She smiled. ‘Is he very ha
ndsome?’

  ‘Ridiculously!’

  ‘And kind? Tell me he is kind.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘And you are … head over heels?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Then there is nothing more to be said. We are at war. Live each day as it comes and do not be afraid to love. It is all that matters in the end.’ She bent and kissed Rosamund on top of her head and walked to the door.

  ‘And you?’ asked Rosamund. ‘Will you love again?’

  Celine paused, holding on to the door handle. She looked away and said quietly, ‘Maybe. There is someone; but it is too early to say.’

  For a moment Rosamund was a child again; she rushed at Celine and said, ‘Oh Semolina, do tell me! Who is he? Where did you meet him? What is he like?’

  Celine smiled wearily. ‘I told you; it is too early. But he has been kind to me, as your man has to you. He is an older cousin of one of the families whose children I teach French. I am not rushing things. I have given my heart before and paid the price. This time I want to be sure …’

  ‘Oh, but do tell me …’ Rosamund said no more, for Celine laid her finger gently upon her charge’s lips and murmured, ‘One day; when I am more certain. For now I am happy to … gentle it along. Perhaps one day I shall have the life of my dreams.’

  ‘And where will that be?’ asked Rosamund excitedly.

  ‘In a house on the coast.’

  ‘In Devonshire.’

  Celine shook her head. ‘In the south of France. Near Cap Ferrat, where there are beautiful villas and the sea is the colour of sapphires. Where the scent of lavender fills the air and the sun makes the wavelets glisten like diamonds.’ She came out of her reveries and added, ‘Now go to bed! Sweet dreams, ma cherie, sweet dreams.’ Then she quietly closed the door.

  Before she got into bed, Rosamund took out the journal she kept in her dressing table drawer. It was a small school exercise book that Mr Langstone had given her and she would jot down things that had amused or interested her or which might – who knows – come in useful later in life. In red ink she wrote the date and then, in her usual italic script, just twelve words: ‘I think I am in love. And I think Celine is, too.’

  Chapter 6

  LONDON