‘Right foot back one step,’ she was shouting. ‘Now kick backwards with the left foot; move right arm forward. Feet and arms back to the start position; right foot kicks forward while the right arm moves backwards. Go, on, Squidgy, do a little hop in between steps!’
Morgan’s dark eyebrows met in a frown. ‘And now I hear that the telegram about the ship’s delayed arrival did come to Beech Grove after all.’
‘That wasn’t my idea,’ said Daisy guiltily. ‘I honestly didn’t know that my aunt would not be here in London. And Poppy wanted . . .’ Her voice faded away as she wondered how to explain.
‘None of my business,’ said Morgan, eyeing Poppy. ‘I’m only the chauffeur. But you know what your father is like – thinks of the two of you as little girls.’
‘We are chaperoned,’ said Daisy defensively. She was surprised how much she minded his criticism. ‘By a married woman too.’
He raised his eyebrows and then glanced across the room at Violet. ‘You would think that she would have more sense,’ he said. ‘She should take you both home now that things are getting a bit out of hand. Do you want me to drive you?’
‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘Poppy would never forgive me. Don’t worry. We’re old enough to look after ourselves.’
‘You might be; she’s not,’ he said shortly.
‘Actually,’ said Daisy defensively, ‘Poppy is older than I am.’
‘By ten minutes,’ said Morgan with a grin.
By six weeks, thought Daisy, wondering how it would feel to carry this secret with her for her whole life. Elaine, her mother, would die if it got out, and Michael Derrington would be devastated after all the years of pretending that she was his daughter.
‘Anyway, what about all the attention you’ve been paying Joan? You can’t suggest that you’ve been perfectly behaved,’ she said with spirit. ‘She’s not much older than us!’ Without waiting for an answer she turned her back on him and joined the group around Joan, taking Edwin’s hand; he was doing his best to follow Joan’s instructions and to put in the little hop between the steps.
‘Time to start the music again,’ shouted Morgan. ‘Come on, band members.’ He went across to his drums, performed a quick flourish and settled down to a fast beat, his drumsticks moving at an incredible speed. Obediently the jazz band, including Baz and Poppy, came and joined him. In a moment the tune of ‘Running Wild’ filled the crowded room and the couples lying on cushions, or kissing in dark corners, leaped to their feet.
There was something hypnotic about jazz, thought Daisy as she danced the Charleston. Morgan led the band through tune after tune without any break. The little house almost rocked with the strange music and Daisy found that she could no longer think about anything at all but seemed in a strange sort of trance, her head and arms swaying, her feet performing the kicks and the steps back and forth with the little hops almost of their own accord.
A moment later, Morgan ceased his frenetic drumming, held up a hand and the other instruments immediately stopped.
‘Twelve o’clock – that’s all, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said decisively. He walked across to the gas lamp, struck a match, turned the switch and a tiny flame appeared. After a few seconds it flared and lit up the cellar. ‘Always leave them wanting more,’ he said in low voice in Baz’s ear.
‘Taxis, gentlemen, please,’ he continued out loud. ‘Ladies, if you would be so kind – a quick tidy-up – we must get ready for the next party,’ he said with a charming smile at Joan. She immediately got to her feet with an exclamation of ‘Dear, dear St Clair, anything for you!’
Daisy suppressed a small grin when she saw even Poppy was obediently putting her clarinet into its case and then joining the group picking up cushions, albeit in a somewhat wobbly fashion. Perhaps she had taken a little too much wine. There were many empty bottles on the table and lots of half-finished food, all of which, under Morgan’s orders, went into a dustbin in the arena outside the basement window.
‘That was fun,’ said Violet with an elderly sigh as Morgan drove them home. ‘Made me feel young again. Not like an old married lady.’ She leaned across to Justin, who was sitting in the front beside the chauffeur. ‘Let’s have a party next week, Justin. Morgan, will you bring your drums? And the jazz band, of course?’
‘Depends on what Lady Elaine says, my lady,’ said Morgan stiffly, slowing down and looking to his left. ‘This house here, is that right, sir?’ he said to Justin.
‘You’re very starchy, Morgan. What’s the matter?’ asked Poppy once Violet and Justin had gone up the steps to their little house.
Morgan pulled away from the pavement and inserted the Humber into the stream of cars coming home from a large cinema nearby. When he spoke his voice was very firm.
‘You’re lucky things didn’t get even more out of hand than they already did tonight. Things are different for girls than they are for boys. You’ve got your reputations to think of. You don’t want to miss your season as debutantes, either of you, and Daisy has her career to think of. She’s going to be a big name in film-making one day. She needs to be in London, don’t you, Daisy? My lady, I mean,’ he added in a perfunctory tone which amused Daisy. Morgan normally called Poppy by her first name when they were practising jazz in the cottage – or even ‘Pops’ as Baz called her – but in the car and around the house he was quite formal with both of them. She was touched by his thought for her though.
‘It was just the once,’ she assured him. ‘And no one need know. My . . . my aunt will be back in a day or two and then everything will be normal. We’ll be going to parties like two demure little debutantes and we’ll be very well chaperoned. That’s right, isn’t it, Poppy?’
I hope, she thought as Poppy did not answer. She was staring out of the window at the busy London scene. Young girls in short coats and tightly fitting hats were everywhere, hanging on to the arm of an escort, by themselves, mounting the high step of a bus, disappearing down the steps to the underground, girls twirling on the pavement, even one singing at the top of her voice as she swung with one hand around a lamp post at the roadside. A taxi driver hooted violently as she almost swayed into him. Daisy understood what Poppy was feeling, but saw Morgan’s lips tighten.
‘Let’s get you both home,’ he said abruptly.
When they reached the pavement in front of the rented house at Grosvenor Square Daisy saw to her relief that the light outside the door was still switched on and the hall, through the pane of stained glass in the front door, appeared to be lit up also.
Morgan said tersely, ‘Wait here,’ and then jumped out of the car, ran up the steps and pressed the doorbell. The footman opened the door almost instantly and Morgan exchanged a pleasant nod with him and ran back down the steps and had the car door open and his hand extended to Daisy before the footman could make up his mind whether they were important enough for him to come out in the cold.
‘Straight to bed now, and say your prayers that no one finds out,’ he murmured in a low voice as he handed Poppy out.
‘Yes, Grandpa, certainly, Grandpa,’ murmured Poppy with an innocent smile. ‘What a pleasant evening that was with Violet and Justin,’ she said in loud tones, though Daisy did not know why she bothered. It was unlikely that the footman cared.
The loud voice, however, took the attention of a lady across the road who was just getting out of a taxi. Daisy saw her look over and then, to her horror, come straight over to them.
‘My dears,’ she said in tones of amazement, ‘so you came to London after all! I understood you had been informed that Sir John and his wife were detained. Engine trouble on the ship, I understand. So, so horrid for them.’ She peered inquisitively at them.
‘We didn’t get their telegram,’ said Daisy, trying to sound as natural as possible. ‘It doesn’t matter though. We’ve spent the evening with our married sister. Our chauffeur drove us over and collected us.’ She gave one quick look at Morgan, but he was standing stiffly to attention, looking the embodiment of di
scretion.
‘Oh, but why didn’t you stay the night with your sister? It can’t be suitable for two young girls to be alone in the house,’ shrilled the lady.
Daisy stifled a giggle. Not exactly alone, she thought. There must be at least six servants in that house.
‘House full up with guests,’ said Poppy laconically and then she began to laugh. ‘We’d have to perch on the roof like a pair of little birds.’ Daisy cringed. Poppy’s breath smelt of alcohol.
‘I must introduce myself,’ said the officious lady. ‘Lady Cynthia de Montfort. I am a cousin of Jack, I should say of Sir John Nelborough. My son Charles had been with him out in India and they are coming home together. It was so disappointing when I got the telegram. I am so looking forward to my son’s visit; still, one hopes we have only a few more days to go. And it is so lovely to meet dear Elaine’s two little nieces.’ She shook hands with Poppy, who was at least a head taller than she was, and then with Daisy, saying, ‘Now which is which?’
‘Guess,’ muttered Poppy, and Morgan cleared his throat warningly so Daisy went into a hurried explanation about the flower names for all of her sisters. By the time that she had finished Lady Cynthia was beaming again.
‘So, what do you say?’ she enquired. ‘What about coming to stay with me until Sir John and his wife come home? I’m just across the road. Wouldn’t that be cosy?’
Poppy hiccupped. This seemed to finish her off and she began to laugh without restraint.
‘How very kind of you, Lady Cynthia . . .’ Daisy started to say, but she could feel a storm of giggles rising within her also. She bit her lip hard and tried to keep the lid on them. Lady Cynthia eyed them both coldly. There was a flare of suspicion in her large blue eyes.
‘Excuse me, your ladyships,’ said Morgan stiffly. He touched his cap respectfully to Lady Cynthia. ‘It appears that the footman has a telegram in his hand. Perhaps there is good news from the ship.’
‘Oh, the ship!’ cried Poppy. There was a slight note of hysteria in her voice. ‘Perhaps Sir John has fixed her. He’s such a useful man, your cousin,’ she said to Lady Cynthia.
‘Oh, perhaps they’ll be home tomorrow. That would be wonderful news,’ gushed Daisy. ‘Do come quickly, Poppy. Lady Cynthia will excuse us.’ She grabbed Poppy’s arm in a firm grip and dragged her up the steps towards the waiting footman. Morgan followed, carrying Poppy’s discarded handbag and keeping his broad back between them and the lady on the pavement. Before they knew it, he had almost pushed them inside and closed the front door firmly behind them.
It was true. The footman did have a telegram in his hand. It was marked as sent from Beech Grove at six thirty in the evening. Daisy took it and read aloud:
SCARLET FEVER IN SCHOOL STOP
ROSE ARRIVES LONDON NEXT TUESDAY STOP
DERRINGTON
‘Scarlet fever! I bet there was something in that letter from Rose that I left behind. Rose would get wind of something like that before anyone else. Now what are we going to do?’ Thoughts ran around in Daisy’s head. Michael Derrington would be waiting for an answer to his telegram.
The first thing, however, was to get Poppy to bed. The yawning footman was obviously impatient to retire. Luckily the lady’s maid, engaged to attend on Elaine, had not thought it part of her duties to stay up for two girls who were so late home. No one else was about except Maud, hovering on the stairs.
‘Thank you, James,’ she said aloud. ‘We’ll leave you to lock up. Come, Poppy.’
‘Make her drink plenty of water,’ muttered Morgan in Daisy’s ear as he handed her Poppy’s handbag.
‘That woman is priceless.’ Poppy dissolved into another fit of giggles, but Daisy did not find it funny. She had taken some wine herself that evening – not as much as Poppy; just enough to give her a wonderful feeling of euphoria – but Morgan’s words had turned her cold sober. It was true. Fun was all very well, but the prospect of three whole months in London and the opportunities to pursue her ambition to be a film-maker – director, scriptwriter and camera operator – were just too good to be put in jeopardy by a silly evening like the one that had passed. She wished now that she had telephoned Michael Derrington as soon as she had found out about the delay to the ship – but of course he would immediately have gone storming down to the post office and Poppy’s theft of the telegram would have been discovered.
And that would have been the end of their long-awaited season in London.
Once Daisy had decided what was best to do she slept well, waking with a start when the housemaid carried in her breakfast. She ate quickly, had her bath, which Maud had already filled – such bliss to have a hot bath; too, too divine, as Baz’s sister Joan would say, and then went into Poppy’s room.
Poppy was eating her breakfast and looked quite recovered.
‘Wasn’t that fun last night?’ she said with a chuckle.
‘It was dangerous,’ said Daisy severely. ‘You do realize that we are within inches of being found out. Remember Father’s telegram . . .’ and she waved the piece of paper in front of Poppy’s nose.
‘That’s all right,’ said Poppy, chewing a mouthful of toast. ‘It will be fun to have Rose here for a while.’
‘Father is probably pacing up and down wondering why he has not yet had a reply. We must answer this immediately.’ Daisy took a pencil from the table beside Poppy’s bed and turned over the telegram. She wrote for a while – twelve words for a shilling, she said to herself. They had been given five pounds each – but that, according to Great-Aunt Lizzie, would have to last for the entire two months and there would be taxis to be paid for and tickets to concerts and cinemas to be bought, not to mention new stockings, tips to the servants and all of the hundred and one things that would come up while they were here. ‘What about this?’ she asked after a minute and read aloud:
WILL MEET TRAIN STOP WHAT TIME
AND STATION DOES IT ARRIVE STOP
‘Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve – twelve words,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Father is so used to economizing that he won’t be surprised that there is no name signed. He wouldn’t want to spend more than a shilling himself.’
‘Why didn’t the silly chump say the time in his telegram?’ Poppy tried to remove some of the worst tangles from her waist-length hair with her fingers.
‘Think ourselves lucky that he didn’t telephone.’ The telephone at Beech Grove Manor was forever going wrong. She hoped this was one of the frequent occurrences of trouble on the line. ‘He probably didn’t like to ask if Elaine would meet her and keep her overnight,’ she added. ‘You know what he is like about asking for favours. If he told the time and station then it would be like he was expecting her to be met. Now I’m off.’
‘Just going down to the post office, Tellford,’ she said, meeting the butler in the hall.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he said respectfully, opening the hall door for her. ‘Just down the road and then turn left.’
To her relief he showed no sign of thinking it odd that she went to the post office by herself. It’s 1924, not before the war when women wore long skirts and girls daren’t step outside their gardens without a chaperone. And it’s London, not down in the country in Kent, she told herself as she walked quickly down the pavement, looking at girls everywhere, alone, many of them running for a bus or driving cars. Living down in Beech Grove with two elderly Victorians, one forgot how the world had changed. The thought gave her courage and she dictated her telegram in a steady voice, then bought a Daily Mail for a halfpenny from newspaper boy outside the post office.
She needed to be back in the house at Grosvenor Square before a telegram was delivered, or, horrors, a phone call came from Kent. The newspaper would give her an excuse to sit in the hallway and await developments.
I wonder, could I persuade Poppy to see a film with me this afternoon? she thought as she unfolded the paper and perched on a seat beside the telephone in the hall. There was The Kid by Charlie Chaplin – she would love to see th
at, but would Poppy? There was another film that she wanted to see: The Iron Horse; her godfather, Sir Guy Beresford, had told her about that. As a film-maker himself, he kept a close eye on what rival companies were producing. Her eye went down the line of cinemas. Goodness! London was full of them, she thought, and then jumped as the doorbell rang.
Resisting an impulse to answer it herself, she waited for Tellford.
‘Two telegrams! Your lucky day!’ Daisy liked the brisk sound of the boy’s cheeky voice as he handed the telegrams to the butler. The post-office boy back home would never have dared to address Bateman in anything other than tones of deep humility. London was so modern, she thought as she rose from her seat and held out her hand for the telegrams.
One of them, she noticed, as Tellford reluctantly handed them to her, was addressed to Elaine; the other just had 12 Grosvenor Square on the envelope.
‘Thank you, Tellford,’ she said, resuming her seat and trying to look as if the hall were her favourite place to read the newspaper. She opened the Grosvenor Square telegram first. That would be from the ship.
ARRIVING THREE PM TODAY EAST INDIA
DOCKS STOP NELBOROUGH
‘Oh, good,’ said Daisy, ‘they’re arriving today, Tellford. They must have fixed the engine trouble more quickly than expected. My sister and I will meet them with our chauffeur, and . . .’ she hesitated and then thought of what Great-Aunt Lizzie would say, and finished bravely, ‘and I’m sure that I can rely on you to have everything ready for them.’ She had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself laughing into his affronted face.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he said in a wooden fashion, but she knew that he was bursting to tell her that he knew perfectly well how to welcome the returning travellers.
‘That will be all, thank you, Tellford,’ she said, still in Great-Aunt Lizzie mode. He would be unlikely to know what age she and Poppy were; and the older the staff imagined them to be, she thought, the less likely tales would be carried to Sir John. She gave him a haughty nod and waited until he had gone back downstairs before she moved. She certainly did not want to open the telegram addressed to Elaine in his presence or in front of the maid who had appeared to polish the brass knocker on the front door, so she took it and the newspaper up to Poppy’s room.
Debutantes: In Love Page 6