by Tessa Lunney
How is it that something as simple as a tub of hot water can make you feel safe? That all is right with the world and nothing can harm you? Is it the closed space of the bathroom, private and steamy? Is it the warm embrace of the water? Whatever it was, the hairs on my body rose up to greet the bath, and sighed, and settled down with me as I floated in its soothing, scented warmth. I hadn’t had a bath this wonderful since I’d left my family home, with the servants to bring in all the water I needed. This bath was a feat of plumbing and engineering and modernity, but it had all the force of simple truth. I slid under the water until all I could hear was my heartbeat. Fox couldn’t claim me. Whatever message had come from over the sea, I had already found my freedom and no one could take it away.
The little window opposite the bath was ajar and the sounds of the street floated up to mix with the steam. I hoped Bertie would come in with food soon, as the two drinks I’d downed in quick succession had made me woozy. As I waited, I examined my form. I didn’t usually; I preferred my lovers to do that for me. I was still too thin. My hipbones jutted out sharply, and there were hollows at my knees and wrists. My breasts were efficient, compact, where they sat above my appearing and disappearing ribs. My body had lost its pre-war plumpness, that late-teenage ripeness. My face too – my jawline was sharp, and the slight dip in my cheeks made my cheekbones shine through my skin. All that bad food in the mess huts – bread and tinned meat when I could get it, but most often I finished my shift once the mess had closed and I had to make do with biscuits I’d brought from town – all that irregular eating and stress had ruined my appetite. I still forgot to eat. When I did remember, the food was often so rich that I could only stomach a few mouthfuls. I wouldn’t admit that perhaps I smoked and drank to forget my hunger. All my hungers.
‘Princess of the Buttons,’ Bertie called through the door, ‘the food is here. May I interrupt?’
‘You’ll be interrupting nothing but the growling of my stomach. I have a hole in my belly the size of Mons.’
He brought in an enormous tray. ‘I have an omelette, fresh baguette, butter and jam, Brie and Roquefort and pâté with those little toasty-things, Florentines and some madeleines. Oh yes, and a huge pot of earl grey tea, which I insisted they bring with milk.’
‘You’re a wonder, Bertie. Why can’t you live here in Paris and take care of me?’
‘Because I have to live in London and take care of your income.’
He placed the tray on the floor and sat crossed-legged in front of it, his waistcoat open and his socks getting wet.
‘It’s a bathroom picnic, Bertie.’
‘And here I was thinking I’d come over for a night in the Montmartre hotspots.’
‘It’s Montparnasse now, darling. Montmartre is so last century.’
He laughed and poured the tea. He passed me a cup with a madeleine perched in the saucer. ‘Take a sip and a nibble and talk.’
‘Is that an order?’
‘Never again, Kiki.’
I reached out and he squeezed my hand. The tea tasted of comfort and the madeleine of strength, both of them citrusy and spicy and light. I sighed. ‘What was the message, Bertie?’
‘Well, he . . . it was very odd. He was very polite but he had this, it was a steel, no, a menace – yes, there was a threat behind his words. They seemed to imply my swift demise if I didn’t comply. Although he was very charming – lovely manners, beautiful whisky from his own Scottish distillery—’
‘Oh God . . .’ This was Fox at his best, which meant he was up to his worst.
‘Anyway, he asked me, ever so nicely, to give you this.’ He slid a letter on thick cream paper out of his pocket. ‘It’s even sealed with wax! Otherwise – you know me – I’d have read it already.’
Bertie placed it gently against one of the taps. I was glad that my hands were wet as I could hardly bear to open it.
He pushed himself up and went into the bedroom. ‘He also asked me to give you this, Kiki,’ he called, ‘although I’ve no idea why.’ He brought in a dirty handkerchief. ‘Those aren’t your initials.’
Embroidered in the corner were the initials T.A.I.T – Thomas Arthur Ian Thompson. It was Tom’s hankie and, judging by the mud stains, it was from the war. That meant Fox knew the truth about Tom. My heart skipped. I held the hankie to my face and it smelt both of Tom’s tobacco and Fox’s cologne. I didn’t want to but I burst into tears.
‘Kiki! Kiki, Kiki, my darling, shush now, there there.’ Bertie kissed my forehead and stroked my wet hair.
‘Bertie . . .’ I looked into his brown eyes, so friendly and trusting – so unlike Tom’s clear blue, so unlike Fox’s opaque grey. I pinched my eyes to push the tears back down and sat up. ‘Pass me a towel. I need to open that letter.’ I pushed my wet hair back, dried my hands and tore it open.
Darkling,
And many a time have I been half in love – now more than ever – To take into the air my quiet breath while thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears – perhaps the self-same song that found a path through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn; the same that oft-times hath charm’d magic casements –
Forlorn! The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Fled is that vision. Do you wake or sleep?
F to V.
I swore loudly. I could hardly believe it. But here it was, in his calligraphic handwriting.
‘What is it?’
‘My summons.’
I passed the letter to Bertie, and the hankie that I was still clutching, and sank down into the bath. Fox had told me at the beginning that there would be no end. And again, when I left two years ago, he sent me a telegram: There will be no end V. I’d thought he was talking about the war, how close we were, how much closer he had tried to make me. I never thought he meant that my work for him would never end. That there was no end to his power over me.
My hair floated about my face like seaweed around the drowned. Perhaps I would do it, I would just breathe in and never breathe out, let this marble room be my tomb. There would have to be an end then. But not for Tom. And even, I guessed, not for me; Fox would somehow use me from the grave.
But this wasn’t the war; he couldn’t order me, he couldn’t tell me when to sleep and when to wake, when to eat and when to starve. Whatever his power, I was in charge of how far I’d let it hold me. I’d fought too hard to stay alive through those years and to be here again in Paris. I wasn’t going to give up this life for anyone.
Bertie was waiting, with a Florentine and another cuppa, for me to re-emerge. ‘For strength, so you can tell me what the Fox is going on.’
‘What the Fox – I like that.’
The chocolate on the Florentine was smooth, the almonds soft, the caramel chewy, and the whole biscuit a mix of bitter and sweet. I moaned in appreciation. ‘Whoever the Florentine was that inspired this delicacy, I salute her.’
He sat in front of me. He had put on his Captain Browne face, his no-nonsense, demand-and-command interrogation face. He held up the letter. ‘Keats?’
‘Ode to a Nightingale. His favourite.’
‘A love letter?’
I laughed and it sounded bitter even to my ears. ‘It’s code. I have a mission.’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know yet. Did he say anything else to you? Any small talk, about the weather, about France—’
‘He said . . . yes, he said it twice, which was odd. He said, “Midnight in Paris is the best time to rendezvous, wouldn’t you agree, Browne? Midnight at the Rotonde.” No one’s called me Browne since the war. I never even mentioned Paris.’
Midnight at the Rotonde. He watched me and his Captain Browne faced slipped. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It’s my rendezvous.’
‘For what? You’re being very mysterious.’
‘I thought you liked mysterious.’
> ‘I like your velvet dresses and seductive stories, Kiki. But this is too much like home leave: all shadows and the echo of tears.’
He stroked my hair back, smoothed my eyebrows down so they made neat arches across my face. His hair curled haphazardly in the steam and his collar had become floppy. I held out my hand and he put pâté toast into it.
‘Do you know Fox from the war?’ he asked.
‘Unfortunately.’ I put out my hand for more food and was rewarded with Brie.
‘You worked for him? You work for him still?’
‘Apparently. So do you.’
‘Not possible.’
‘You relayed the message. You’re his Hermes.’
‘I didn’t agree to this!’
‘None of us ever do.’
‘But who is he?’
I hesitated. My first instinct was to say nothing, keep my head down, deflect direct questions and imply by silence. But this wasn’t a Somme field and Bertie wasn’t a clueless VAD, German POW or nosy senior officer. He was my delicious friend, caring and funny and discreet as a locked box. He refilled my tea with just the right amount of milk. I could trust him.
‘He was the doctor in charge of surgery in my first unit. He trained me.’
‘As a nurse?’
‘No. As a spy.’
‘Spy! What, the entire war?’
‘No, from 1916. Towards the end of the Somme.’
‘But at least as long as you’ve known me.’
I nodded.
He stared. ‘You know, I always thought there was something. You weren’t like the other nurses, you never told stories of the wards, you just drank fearlessly and laughed at the men who tried to make you their little woman. You were tougher, somehow.’
‘He made me so . . . no, he made me understand how to be tough. You know, he kept me on my feet for forty hours straight once, until I collapsed.’
‘Charming!’
‘That was nothing, compared to later.’
‘And the Keats? Why Keats? What does it mean? It’s just a bunch of jumbled lines.’
I couldn’t meet his eye. I turned to the taps, the gold now garish, and ran the hot water. Bertie tapped his teaspoon on his knee. I could almost hear his frown in the muffled paradiddle.
‘You should’ve told me, Kiki. Although, if you were a spy, I suppose you couldn’t. You’re not even telling me now and the war is over.’ He looked into my face.
‘More cheese, please.’
He smeared Roquefort onto a piece of baguette and handed it to me. ‘So if he trained you, then he must be a spy too. He must be your . . . what’s a spy lord-and-master called?’
‘Just Fox will suffice.’
‘And in the letter – F to V?’
‘Fox to Vixen.’
‘You’re his lover?’
‘Only in his fantasies. But I’ve often had to play his counterpart.’
‘Did you give him that scar on his cheek for his trouble?’
‘That was a mortar. He was so happy when he got it, he told me not to treat it so it would scar properly. He said it made him look like a proper Prussian.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s German.’
‘Very well then.’
‘Jesus wept, Kiki—’
‘He’s English now. He was English in the war. But he’s a German native.’
‘Can we trust him?’
‘Not a whit.’
‘I don’t suppose we can ignore him?’
‘No.’ Memories of Fox’s cold smile seemed to chill the bath water. ‘I can’t, anyway. If you just relay the messages, as he asks, you might get away with doing just that.’
‘And the handkerchief?’
‘That’s my leash, my blackmail, my . . . my spectacles, if you will. The man to whom it belongs is . . . a dear friend, in a terrible situation. Fox must know the truth. I didn’t even know he knew about . . . but as he clearly does, then he probably has the power to clear my friend’s name. If I do as he asks.’
‘You know all this from the letter and the hankie?’ Bertie’s raised eyebrow seemed to want to crawl off his head.
‘I know all this from . . .’ From what – Fox’s hot-and-cold moods? His mania for secrets? His desire for power over all of the living world, including me? ‘From years of working for him.’
Bertie refilled my teacup and tucked some omelette into a piece of baguette. But I needed more than nibbles, I needed a proper sit-down meal with beer and pudding. I needed time to smooth out Bertie’s frown.
‘You still haven’t told me very much, Kiki.’
‘But have I told you enough?’
He looked me over under the water. It wasn’t a look of lust, or judgment, or even pity. It was a look that saw the mole on my inner thigh with its wiry black hair, the scars on my knees and forearms, the calluses on my fingers that would never recede, and accepted them. It made me feel seen.
‘Yes. I suppose you have told me enough. For now.’
‘Good. I’m cold, Bertie. I need you to warm me up.’
The old ways are sometimes the best ways – he warmed me up in bed. I was a little tender and sore, in mind, body and soul, but he was the perfect gentleman. I was the focus of his attention; so much so that he didn’t even get properly undressed.
‘But what about you?’ I asked.
‘Next time.’
‘Do you have a new boyfriend?’
He blushed a deep scarlet.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Hamilton Houseman. But he prefers to go by his middle name, Edward.’
‘Oh, Bertie—’
‘Teddy to his friends—’
‘My poor dear.’
‘How can I help it? He’s even blond. Other than that, he’s nothing like him. He’s his own man. Or boy, I should say.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Did he fight?’
‘For about ten seconds. I suppose that’s why he’s still here.’
Unlike Bertie’s first Teddy, his true love, Edward Greene, who’d been fertilising Flanders for the past five years with his very own version of blood and bone.
I squeezed Bertie’s hand. This boy wasn’t the first unsuitable Teddy replacement and I guessed he wouldn’t be the last. By Bertie’s embarrassment, he guessed it too.
‘What’s the time?’ He stretched lazily to his wristwatch on the bedside table, and started. ‘Oh, I have a dinner engagement, Kiki—’ He jumped up and began dressing for dinner.
‘I thought you came here for me.’
‘I had to justify the trip with the editor, so I’m dining with Uncle Maxwell’s aunt’s daughter-in-law’s—’
‘—sister’s lover’s—’
‘—second cousin, or some such. Anyway, Mabel is a great admirer of the paper and a great benefactor. I’m to supply her with gossip and flattery.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Like being the organ-grinder’s monkey. Will you be roaming the denizens later? After ten? I should have escaped by then.’
‘I’ll be at the Rotonde at midnight.’
‘Very good . . . Oh!’ He stopped dressing and looked at me. ‘I see.’
‘Yes. Quite.’
‘Will you want company? What’s in store for you?’
‘I have no idea.’ Except that not only was I a detective, I was now, once again, a spy.
5
Boy Wanted
MY IVORY DRESS GLEAMED in the twilight as I slowly walked back to my studio. Cafés were lighting their heaters and the street lamps stretched and blinked awake. Ladies of the night lounged in their doorways and windows, chatted to each other or called and winked at the stray men passing by still in their good church suits. The smells of salt and cream, potatoes and garlic mixed with the street stench of piss and rotting vegetables. The sky was purple like lilacs, like royalty, like a bruised mouth, as it slowly passed into darkness.
My hips were sore, my legs were sore; I f
elt as though every limb had taken a battering. I’d smoked too many cigarettes and sharp little pains in my stomach warned me off eating properly – it had enough work, it said, with all that cheese and chocolate. Usually the Parisian night soothed me and revived me, the lights all the way up to the tower, the river in its stone bed as it brought gossip to the sea. But tonight I needed time alone, I needed to read my letters again and again, I needed a sweet draught of vintage with beaded bubbles winking at the brim—
I cursed. There it was, a phrase from ‘Ode to a Nightingale’, Keats in my steps and my cadences. Fox was already in my head, already shaping my thoughts. He knew how my mind worked so he knew what that letter would do to me. But I wasn’t in uniform now – I wondered if he’d calculated just how much that meant to me.
I almost ran up the stairs to my studio, with anxiety, with anger, with a desperate desire to be in my own place and alone. I opened the windows to let in the cool night air, stripped off to my camiknickers and flopped on the mattress. The room smelt of geraniums and dirty clothes. I poured myself some water from the washing jug and felt under my pillow. There it was, my treat – Tom’s letter.
Button,
So, how are the mademoiselles? Do you hinky-dinky parley-voo, or do the Yanks and the Brits sing that as you saunter by? How is the Seine – does it still glitter in the lamplight, does it still ripple like a snake in the sun? Have you gone back to that little café where we taught mahjong to the proprietor’s daughter until dawn? Have you grown fat with croissants and éclairs and other rich food bought for you by rich suitors? I think I’d like to see you with a little tummy, dimples in your plump cheeks and fat arms swinging like a tuckshop lady. But I don’t think you have grown plump. I think, instead, that you’re sitting in a little garret, legs dangling out the window, smoking a cheap cigarette as you read this letter. Am I right, or am I right?