by Nancy Revell
‘Ma chère,’ she exclaimed, putting her heavily jewelled hands on Charlotte’s shoulders and planting a kiss on both cheeks. ‘It has been one whole week since I have seen my favourite fourteen-going-on-fifteen-year-old.’
Rosie sighed, knowing when it came to Lily and Charlotte, she was fighting a losing battle. She might as well be done with it now and capitulate, saving herself some time and energy. The madam of a bordello, though, would not have been her first choice as a substitute mother for her little sister.
‘Go straight into the kitchen, Charlotte,’ Lily said, opening her fan with the flick of a wrist. ‘If you ask nicely, I’m sure Vivian will make you one of her special chocolats chauds.’ She started fanning herself. ‘Just thinking about it has me breaking out into a hot sweat.’
‘Délicieux! Et merci!’ Charlotte spoke French like a native.
‘I’m going to take that child to gai Paris one day when this wretched war is over,’ Lily promised, more to herself than to Rosie.
Hurrying down the hallway, Charlotte disappeared into the kitchen.
Rosie could hear Vivian’s American drawl welcoming her – her impersonation of Mae West now pretty perfect – then Maisie’s southern accent commenting on how Charlotte’s hair could do with a good cut and didn’t she fancy having a bob.
‘How long have we got?’ Rosie asked.
‘Until seven,’ Lily sighed dramatically. ‘Then the pumpkin turns into a carriage and the first clients arrive. Or is it the other way round?’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Anyway, tell me, how’s she been?’
Rosie pulled a face.
‘Clingy.’
This past week, Rosie had not been to the bordello, which she now part-owned, due to Charlotte sticking to her like a limpet and her not having the heart to abandon her sister at home on her own.
‘Mmm,’ Lily said. ‘Not surprising, all things considered. Could be worse.’ It had been Lily who had told Charlotte about Rosie’s former life as a call girl and the vile actions of her uncle Raymond.
She looked at Rosie.
‘You look tired, my dear. Not often I see you with dark circles,’ she said, before turning and walking down the hallway.
‘So, ma petite …’ Lily bustled into the kitchen and took a seat at the head of the table. ‘We want to hear all about you and what you’ve been up to.’
Before Charlotte had time to answer, they heard the front door clash shut and the sound of a walking stick striking the parquet flooring.
‘George, mon amour!’ Lily looked at Charlotte and winked. ‘Come and join us. We’re slumming it in the kitchen.’
George appeared, looking dapper, as always, in a grey three-piece suit and tie.
‘Ah, Charlotte, lovely to see you.’ He took off his trilby and smiled at their guest.
‘Sit down, darling.’ Lily pulled out the chair next to her and patted the cushioned seat. ‘Charlotte was just going to regale us with what’s been happening this week.’
‘Nothing. Just school,’ Charlotte said as Vivian put a steaming hot chocolate down in front of her. ‘Merci beaucoup,’ she said to Vivian, who was wearing a cream-coloured dress with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination.
‘De rien.’ Vivian somehow always seemed to make any French words she spoke sound American.
‘No after-school clubs? Hockey matches?’ Lily asked.
‘We played a tournament yesterday,’ Charlotte said.
‘And?’ Lily asked.
‘We were runners-up,’ Charlotte said.
‘Charlie!’ Kate came bustling into the kitchen. She was holding a dress over her arm as though she were a maître d’. As always, Kate looked chic but comfortable, her trademark black stylish rather than sombre. An onlooker would never have guessed she had spent years begging and living rough before her old friend Rosie had spotted her in a shop doorway and taken her to Lily’s, where she had been given a bed, clean clothing – and, most importantly, a sewing machine.
‘How are you?’ She went over to Charlotte and gave her a kiss on both cheeks.
She looked at the blue dress Rosie’s younger sister was wearing – and which she had worn every time Kate had seen her since she had made it for her.
‘Pop into the boutique when you get a chance and I’ll see if I can rustle up a summer dress for you,’ she said.
‘My, my, Charlie,’ Vivian said, putting her hands on her hips and widening her eyes, ‘consider yourself honoured. Most of us have to wait in line for Coco Chanel here to work her magic.’ She looked at Kate and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘Unless your name’s Alfie, of course, and then you just go straight to the front of the queue.’ Alfie was the former timekeeper at Thompson’s who had recently got a job in admin. It was obvious to just about everyone but Kate that he was sweet on her, and that he called upon her seamstress’s skills as an excuse to spend time with her.
‘Alfie gets pushed to the front of the queue because his tend to be just quick tailoring jobs,’ Kate defended.
Vivian and Maisie looked at each other. They had joked on more than one occasion that Alfie purposely ripped his clothes so as to have an excuse to see Kate.
‘Never mind Alfie,’ Vivian cooed as she inspected the dress draped across Kate’s slender arm. ‘This looks fabulous. I do believe it’s been worth the wait.’
‘Why don’t you try it on?’ Kate said, handing over the dress.
Vivian gently took the garment as though it were a sleeping child she did not want to wake.
‘I’ll come and give you a hand,’ Maisie said, putting her cup of tea down.
George went to put on a record of the Glenn Miller Orchestra playing Rhapsody in Blue, a choice met with relief by Lily, who had been complaining about George’s new affinity for what she called ‘screeching jazz’, and a few minutes later Vivian and Maisie were back – with the bordello’s very own Mae West giving an impromptu fashion show in her new dress.
For the next hour Charlotte revelled in the chatter and laughter filling the kitchen and in the company of those she now felt were family. A rather unusual – some might say dysfunctional – family, but a loving and caring one all the same. Lily had become a surrogate mother of sorts, replacing the one Charlotte had lost when she was just eight, while George had become a quiet but concerned fatherly figure. Maisie and Vivian were akin to two eccentric aunties who just wanted to have fun and would happily lead Charlie astray if Rosie was not on guard.
Kate was definitely the ‘middle sister’, having known Charlotte as a small child when she’d lived in the same village. By an uncanny coincidence, she and Charlotte had been orphaned at the same age, albeit years apart. But whereas Charlotte had been sent to a posh all-girls’ boarding school in Yorkshire, Kate had been taken to live with the nuns who ran the Nazareth House children’s home – a place that was far more ungodly than any house of ill repute.
Later on that evening, after Rosie and Charlotte were long gone and the bordello was bustling with activity, Maisie popped her head round the kitchen door.
‘Sorry,’ she said, seeing that Lily and Kate were poring over bridal magazines spread out on the table. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘No, no, ma chère, come in. I can sense Kate is getting tetchy because she’s been parted from her beloved Singer for at least an hour.’ Lily looked at Kate. ‘She always starts shuffling round on her chair and I know my time’s up.’
Kate tutted but didn’t deny the accusation; instead, she gathered up her magazines and made quick her exit, ducking under Maisie’s arm as she held the door open.
‘Good job I’ve got plenty of time before the big day,’ Lily said.
‘You still set on a New Year’s Eve wedding?’ Maisie asked as she shut the door.
‘I am,’ Lily said, getting up and retrieving a bottle of Rémy from the armoire. ‘Although which New Year’s Eve that might be, I’m not so sure.’ She winked at Maisie and poured out two brandies.
‘I’m guessi
ng whatever you want to tell me is confidential?’ Lily asked, waving her arm at the chair adjacent to hers.
‘It is,’ Maisie said, ‘and it’s a tricky one.’
She sat down at the table, crossed her legs and put her slender, manicured hands around her glass.
‘Can you remember a while ago when I was worried about a client?’
‘That he might be Bel’s father?’
‘That’s right,’ Maisie said.
‘And it all sorted itself out – it wasn’t him?’ Lily said.
‘That’s right. It did. Thank God.’
Lily took a sip of her brandy.
‘The thing is …’ Maisie paused, re-crossing her slim, stockinged legs.
‘Go on,’ Lily said, reaching for her Gauloises.
‘Night, Geraldine … Night, Pearl!’
Bill was standing at the doorway to the Tatham, his attention momentarily drawn away from his two barmaids by a striking full moon, its beauty visible thanks to a perfectly clear night sky.
‘Aye, night night, Bill,’ Pearl shouted out as she crossed the road. ‘Mind the lops don’t bite!’
Geraldine swung her gas mask over her shoulder and looked at Bill, whose attention was now back on Pearl. He was laughing. He’d been in good spirits since last week’s air raid; some might say it was because he’d dodged death, but Geraldine thought it had more to do with how well he’d been getting on with Pearl. God only knew what he saw in her.
‘See yer tomorrow, Bill,’ she said, gazing up at the star-speckled sky. She felt a shiver go down her back. The sky was clear. Just like the night of the last air raid. Clearer, in fact, for tonight the moon was full and bright, as though rebelling against the blackout.
Chapter Twelve
When the air raid alarm sounded out at exactly 2.49 a.m., Charlotte woke with a start.
She had gone to bed thinking about whether there was an afterlife and if her parents knew all that had happened after they had died, and if there was, did that mean her uncle Raymond was there too? She hoped not and that instead he would be stuck in purgatory – it seemed the least he could expect as punishment for everything he had done.
‘You know the drill!’
She heard Rosie’s voice through the wall and forced herself out of her warm bed and into her siren suit.
A few minutes later, she and Rosie were making their bleary-eyed way into Mr and Mrs Jenkins’ Anderson shelter in the back garden next door.
The Elliot household, as well as Beryl and her daughters, Iris and Audrey, had made it round the corner to the air raid shelter in Tavistock Place in record speed.
‘You feeling all right?’ Agnes asked Polly, who was wrapping a blanket around herself and Lucille. The little girl had snuggled up and had her head on her aunty’s bump.
Polly nodded, brushing her niece’s blonde hair away from her forehead.
‘We’re fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘All three of us.’
Reassured, Agnes sat back and started chatting to Beryl.
Polly looked across at Pearl, who was curled up with her coat wrapped around her, gently snoring; the woman could sleep through anything.
Next to her was Bel, who had her head on Joe’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed. Seeing her brother and her sister-in-law together, their arms wrapped around one another, Polly felt the slightest twinge of envy.
What she wouldn’t give for Tommy to be here with her now.
She closed her eyes and let her mind’s eye conjure up a picture of the man she loved. She saw Tommy as she had that first time, when he was being hauled out of the river after a dive. Her heart still hammered remembering how the linesmen had removed his huge twelve-bolt copper helmet and she’d seen him. It really had been love at first sight. She pictured Tommy standing at the altar, looking so handsome in his Royal Navy uniform, his eyes glued to her as she walked down the aisle. Recalling that day, and their ‘back to front honeymoon’ at the Major’s flat, made her feel almost giddy with happiness. She just wished she could stay in that moment – at least until the air raid ended.
But the tremors from the bombs that had just started to drop on the town wouldn’t let her and instead her thoughts moved on to her near miscarriage, and the awful feeling she still couldn’t shake of what it would feel like if she lost her baby – as well as Tommy. It was now five months since Tommy had left for Gibraltar. Five months of yanking mines off the hulls of enemy ships.
Everyone thought she was being so stoic about Tommy going back to Gibraltar, but when she had been faced with losing his baby – coupled with the very real chance that she might also lose Tommy – she’d known she wouldn’t be able to carry on.
That feeling was still fresh and had persevered despite Dr Billingham’s reassurances that she and her baby were ‘doing just fine’.
Her bravery was conditional, and in her mind that wasn’t being brave at all.
‘So, Mother, did you have a good time at the launch?’
‘Which one?’ Miriam said, pulling the quilt she had brought from her room more tightly around her shoulders.
‘The Chiswick,’ Helen said.
‘Was that Doxford’s or Pickersgill’s?’ Miriam asked. ‘They all blur into one after a while.’
‘Pickersgill’s,’ Helen said, taking a sip of her water and putting it back on the little side table next to her chair.
‘Ah, yes, I did, thank you very much.’ Miriam eyed her daughter as she lit another candle. ‘There was a little drinks do afterwards. It would seem Mr Royce’s son is nothing like his dear papa.’
‘Why?’ Helen asked. ‘Because he wants to drink and schmooze and socialise rather than roll up his sleeves and do a decent day’s work?’
‘Well, darling, being a workaholic has done Mr Royce senior no favours. No favours at all.’
‘Because he’s had a minor stroke?’ Helen asked.
Miriam let out a scathing laugh. ‘Darling, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the stroke was far from minor. The old man’s finished. Apparently, he’s paralysed down one side and talking like a drunk.’
Helen was riled by her mother’s total lack of compassion. She liked Mr Royce. He was a fair, straight-up man. He would never have partied while his employees worked. Even after a launch.
‘I think your grandfather was rather disappointed that you and your little friend didn’t stay and partake of the festivities,’ Miriam said, opening the door of the cabinet next to the single bed she was sitting on.
‘Mrs Elliot is not a “little friend”, Mother – she was there in her capacity as my secretary.’
‘I thought that Irish girl was your secretary?’ Miriam said, pulling out a half-bottle of Gordon’s.
‘They both are,’ Helen said, watching her mother. There hadn’t been the slightest hint that she thought Bel was anything but a friend and co-worker. It cemented her belief that her mother had no idea the woman she had been chatting to earlier on in the week was her sister.
‘Oh, who’s getting all la-di-da. Two secretaries.’ Miriam poured a slosh of gin into a glass tumbler she had retrieved from the cabinet.
‘And your grandfather wasn’t the only one disappointed by your no-show after the launch.’ She took a sip of neat gin and grimaced. ‘Mr Royce Junior was also decidedly down in the mouth you didn’t grace us with your presence.’
Now it was Helen’s turn to ignore her mother. She started looking around for a blanket. Finding one, she shook it out and wrapped it around her shoulders.
‘I told him that you were all work and no play, and that was why you were still single and hadn’t been snapped up.’ Miriam paused. ‘However, I might have let it slip that you were being hotly pursued by a highly regarded and very eligible surgeon from one of the county’s top hospitals.’
Helen’s head snapped up and she looked at her mother.
‘That really annoys me!’ Helen spat out the words and glared at her mother through the semi-darkness. ‘You have no right talking to complete strang
ers about me like that. And John is not “pursuing” me. Like I’ve told you a million times already – we’re just friends.’
‘Darling, don’t be getting all irate at me—’
They heard an explosion and Miriam took a large sip of her gin. ‘God, I’m going to have to remember to bring some tonic down here next time … So, where was I? That’s it … You see, Helen, sometimes you have to listen to your old mama. I know you think I can be scheming –’
Miriam ignored Helen’s forced laughter.
‘– but, you see, you have to play your cards right,’ she lectured, ‘and sometimes in this world you have to be a little manipulative to get what you want. Much as I know how fond you are of dear Dr Parker, there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of bagging him for a husband. I’d bet my inheritance that John likes you – more than likes you – and definitely finds you attractive – that goes without saying – but he will never marry you. I know it hurts to hear this, but he knows too much about you – and quite simply, he won’t want used goods. It’s just the way men are. Men of a certain standing, anyway.’
Helen took a deep breath to stop herself from going over to her mother and shaking the living daylights out of her.
‘But Mr Royce Junior, on the other hand,’ Miriam continued, ‘doesn’t know anything about you. Just all the good stuff. And even if he were to know, he’s a widower, and widowers are known for preferring a woman who might have been round the block once – or even twice. Providing they’ve been discreet, of course.’
Helen looked at her mother.
‘Quite finished?’
Miriam took a quick sip of her drink. ‘So, I told him he’d better stake his claim before the good doctor.’
Helen let out a gasp of exasperation.
‘Well, you seem to have it all worked out, don’t you, Mother dearest. There’s only one problem – I’m not remotely interested in either Mr Royce or getting married, so I’m afraid you’re wasting your time and your breath.’
‘Give it another year,’ Miriam said with complete confidence. ‘You’re no spring chicken and you’ll be even less of a one this time next year.’