by Betty Burton
‘When I was in the business,’ Anomie said, ‘I used to call myself “a hostess”. It was good, really, because being that, I was the one who had the say in how far I would go. As far as the Jimmys were concerned, they paid me for my companionship by the hour. It was a job,, and it paid well. Anything extra was negotiated. A night in my bed, in my flat, didn’t come cheap. But you know, you can get fed up with all that sameness, so when Commander Keifor got me a chance with Special Ops, it was the best thing that had happened to me in ages.’
‘You’ll have to give us a few lessons in hostessing, Miss Nash,’ Electra said.
DB, in her blunt and honest way, said, ‘You didn’t do badly with dear old Paul.’
Electra gave a wry lop-sided smile. ‘I didn’t, did I?’ Locking her fingers tightly, she pressed her thumbs hard against her mouth before she continued. ‘Look, can I say this now and finish with it? Losing the baby soon after Paul being killed was pretty bad at the time, but that’s behind me now. The only thing I seem to be able to do well is drive, and seduce a man.’ Now she cupped a hand over her mouth and smiled. ‘Paul and I had a fling. He didn’t intend to make a mistake… neither did I… but it happened and we would have got married if… you know? That’s it.’
‘DB,’ Phoebe asked, ‘are you all right with the hostess idea?’
‘Why not? I won’t be spending all my time singing in foreign nightclubs. And, although I like women best, I can do men; second best, but they like what lesbians do for them. Also, I’d really like to sing in the kind of sleazy joint this seems as though it’s going to be.’
‘Darling Wilhelmina, I was merely thinking that the Finishing School won’t be turning out all that number of undercover operatives who are lesbians.’
‘Phoebe,’ Janet McKenzie said, ‘aren’t you making assumptions? And Miss de Beers is right: men are often intrigued by having sex with a lesbian – they think that a good man can cure her of it.’
Janet and DB burst out laughing together.
‘Not with you anywhere near me, Doctor.’ DB leaned a shoulder into Janet.
The coffee substitute made palatable by a dash of whisky, which had been Phoebe’s idea, was doing what it was supposed to do, helping them to relax and be open.
‘I have been given several suggested names of likely girls, but who are not SOE, and I thought we could best discuss such a ticklish idea with women we already know, and who know at least one or two of the others. If any of you would have difficulty in working with Miss Anders, then let’s talk about it. If the rest of you think you won’t get along together, that’s not going to matter too much.’
‘I’d be fine,’ Anomie said. ‘We were OK at the Priory.’
DB said, ‘Eve seems to be a natural leader, don’t you think?’ Vee and Electra agreed. ‘What about Eve?’
‘You realise that I won’t be a FiFi – that name seems to have stuck so we may as well go with it. My role is to see that the new graduates of the Finishing School are left in the company of FiFis. Then you will take over.’
‘You think it will work?’
‘Of course it will work. We’re Special Ops.’ Phoebe said, ‘I always liked the idea of you being named FiFis.’
No matter what now, this small group of women would go down in the history books as SOE’s FiFis.
* * *
The refurbishment of Griffon House was now complete. A great deal of money had been spent on it. Every bit of crisscross blast paper had been removed from the windows, and replaced by screens of fine mesh wire, so that when there was sun, it came into top rooms all day, spattering floors, walls and furniture with cathedral-window colours.
Dressed in civvies appropriate to the glamour of the rooms, Petty Officer Glasspool showed Eve round with almost proprietorial pride – ‘We have done this. We have done that. Don’t you think that we have restored this room wonderfully?’
‘Nobody could say it looks like a tart’s boudoir now it’s finished.’
‘Pm glad you like it, ma’am.’
‘Maybe we should settle somewhere and make ground rules?’
‘I thought maybe you would like to see how things might run in a small way. I mean, in the nature of a guest arriving for an informal visit?’
‘OK.’
‘Tea or coffee? We have the best of both in many varieties.’
‘French coffee?’
Glasspool pulled a bell pull embroidered in silk and gold thread.
A young Asiatic man, dressed in wardroom whites, appeared. ‘You wish for something, Miss Glasspool?’
‘Nasser, this lady is Miss Anders.’ He nodded a stiff little bow. ‘Miss Anders is my boss-lady, which means that she is also your boss-lady.’ Glasspool spoke as though Nasser might not be able to hear or to understand.
Nasser replied in soft, accented but well-spoken English, ‘Good morning, Miss Anders. Is that how I should address you?’
‘That would be fine, Nasser.’
‘We should like some coffee – French mild roast – not breakfast roast.’
‘Madam.’ Nasser disappeared, his soft-soled shoes soundless on the thick-pile oriental carpet.
Eve ran a hand over its luxurious surface. ‘This is beautiful. It’s silk, isn’t it?’
Glasspool nodded. ‘Washed silk. I hope you don’t mind me saying, ma’am – it is a compliment – I had been hoping for someone who understood and appreciated what had gone into making Griffon House – and you obviously do.’
‘Did you go to art school?’
‘Yes, ma’am, and then for a while I worked with Phoebe and Keef in their theatre days. I have always been interested in extravagances. My ultimate delight is Gaudí. If it hadn’t been for the war out there, I would have loved to go to Barcelona.’
‘I have seen his work – never seen anything as beautiful – breathtakingly beautiful.’
‘Don’t mind me saying so, ma’am, but you don’t look old enough to have been there.’
‘I was there when Barcelona fell.’ Eve gave a wry smile. ‘Unfortunately I wasn’t in a position to appreciate the Gaudí buildings fully. But I shall go back when things are better.’
‘You went…? I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m too inquisitive.’
‘We all are when we find somebody who likes the things we do.’
Nasser returned with the coffee, and poured the aromatic blend into small porcelain cups. Eve was delighted to be reacquainted with something she hadn’t tasted since staying at the Madrid Ritz. On the tray were crisp little cigarette biscuits dipped in chocolate.
‘What has all this to do with SOE?’ Eve asked. ‘There’s a war going on. Have you met the person responsible for this finery?’
‘Oh yes, ma’am. He’s a very handsome young man – Prince Raffi.’ Glasspool made a gesture of regret. ‘He isn’t interested in women.’
‘And Griffon belongs to him?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s a very complicated story from what I know of it.’
‘I’d like to know,’ Eve smiled. ‘“Unattributable”, as they say.’
‘I only know what I have picked up from Miss Moncke. She will probably tell you more herself.’ Glasspool poured more coffee and settled back in the comfortable upright chair. ‘An important member of the aristocracy closely connected to the royal family, a naval officer, and Prince Raffi are very close companions.’
‘Lovers?’
‘I think they must be. The Englishman is married to a tobacco heiress. They have two daughters. I think you could describe them as part of the fast set. She likes the same type of lover as her husband, but not necessarily as young. They live very respectable lives, Lord and Lady of the Manor, hugely charitable, admired for everything that is publicly known about them.’
‘Pillars of the establishment?’
‘Exactly!’ Glasspool was quite relishing this gossip, as was Eve. Having just done with one royal entanglement it appeared that here was another.
‘How close to the royal family?
’
‘The same German ancestors. Close.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t think I should… I know you said “unattributable”, but I think none the less, I ought not to say. But you can work it out for yourself. Their estate isn’t a hundred miles from here. And Portsmouth is his port and Prince Raffi’s, which is why Griffon is so convenient.’
‘All this is to conceal a member of the royal family who is homosexual.’
‘I’m not sure if you would say that he was a member. And he has two daughters.’
‘Just the same…’ Eve gave the room a meaningful look.
‘A man with a wife and a lover both rolling in it? Small change to them. And most of the furniture and furnishing have been sent over by Raffi’s father.’
‘So… how am I to fit in here?’
‘Officer Moncke suggests that Griffon shall be run very much on the lines of an exclusive club and a safe house. Beyond that, I think that it is up to you to suggest what you would like.’
Eve had known ever since she had taken on what Phoebe insisted on referring to as ‘Operation FiFi’ that she would find her role difficult. Phoebe, at a meeting subsequent to the one in London, had said, ‘Not a pimp, Eve – that’s sordid – nor a madam. You will be an agent working with women who will willingly undertake their roles as undercover investigators… under-the-cover volunteers.’ Eve had smiled. Only Phoebe Moncke could come up with such a title.
Now Eve got up and wandered about the room.
‘If this place is to be run on the lines of a kind of exclusive private hotel, I think the Special Ops women would fit in very well. Some of them have been part of the nightclub set: they aren’t shrinking violets, and love the fast life they’ve been used to. Phoebe and Dr McKenzie are convinced that these young women could save lives. I hope that they are right. Between members of SOE I always want them referred to as Agent So-and-so. I think they will quite like that. It will make them feel that they are contributing to the war. Here they will be known as hostesses.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Is your role purely organisational?’
‘It is.’ Glasspool was glad of that in the circumstances.
* * *
Eve picked up the agent newly out of the Finishing School at the bus depot. Tom Seymore was the FiFis guinea pig. Smiling and extending a welcoming hand, she said, ‘Mr Seymore? I have a car waiting.’
‘I must say, I didn’t expect to be collected.’
‘I’ve been through the Finishing School, and I know how it feels to be let out at last.’
‘It’s quite bewildering in a way, but I’m eager to receive my orders.’
‘You are seeing Lieutenant Hatton – tomorrow, is it?’
‘Yes, at the Marine Barracks.’
‘He’s hoping to meet you tonight at Griffon House, the hotel where we put up some of the more specialist agents like yourself whilst they are awaiting orders.’
That evening, Tom Seymore met David Hatton and Eve in the bar. Things between David and Eve had become as they should be when two people are devising a vital plan.
‘Tom, this is Lieutenant Hatton,’ said Eve. The two men greeted one another. ‘David, I hope you don’t mind, but I have a friend staying here, and I thought it would be a nice idea if she joined us for dinner,’ Eve added.
‘Absolutely.’
Eve left and returned in five minutes with her friend, who was in a pretty dinner dress with necklace and earrings, and wearing dancing shoes. ‘Anomie, this is Lieutenant Hatton, and this is Tom Seymore.’
David said, ‘Oh, David, please,’ standing a little closer and holding her hand a little longer than was necessary, but Anomie didn’t seem to mind.
Anomie Nash was brilliant. She all but ignored David Hatton but was open-eyed with interest in Tom, asking him if she could taste a morsel of the duck from his plate. After closing her eyes with feigned passion, she said, ‘I just love good food and wine, don’t you, Tom?’
When Tom replied that he hadn’t eaten anything like it for months, Anomie whispered in his ear, ‘Poor Tom. I know all about Priory food.’
Tom was now stimulated by the revelation that Anomie was part of the world of covert operations. At least that was how it appeared to Eve and David, though perhaps Tom was playing Anomie along. But for now, Tom had reacted in just the way Eve and Anomie had hoped he would.
Anomie had said earlier that day, ‘What if he really doesn’t want to play, Eve?’
‘With all your experience, you’ll soon know, won’t you, Anomie?’
The Griffon dining room had the atmosphere of an expensive London hotel, pre-war – the clientele only officers in uniform, mostly naval – and women dressed prettily, as was Anomie.
One needed to know what was going on to understand that this wasn’t just any hotel. The young man waiting at table, dressed in white messroom waiter’s uniform, did not flinch when his hand was overlaid casually by a ‘customer’s’ hand, or his buttocks were felt discreetly as he served at table. Eve wondered why, if this was primarily a house safe for homosexuals to meet, that it was necessary for this charade, but then looked across the table at Tom, who was entranced by Anomie. Like most heterosexual Englishmen, had he seen the homosexual flirting, Tom would have regarded Griffon as a den of depravity and run a mile.
What went on in Griffon could be called vice, but it had an air of respectability. Maybe Prince Raffi and the tobacco heiress had transformed Griffon, but Eve guessed that it was even bets that the property still belonged to SOE and that they had top say in how it was to be run. Linder, Faludi, and probably Keef and Phoebe too, were powerful people, and had friends in very high places.
Now, Anomie and Tom appeared to be getting along fine, drinking just enough to break down barriers. As they were about to take coffee, a bellboy brought a note to David. He looked nonplussed and bent towards Eve. All he whispered was, ‘Time to make ourselves scarce.’
Eve looked disconcerted. ‘Oh dear, is it absolutely important?’
David nodded. ‘’Fraid so. I say, Tom, Eve and I have been called away…’
He looked towards Anomie, who said, ‘Don’t you worry about us, David. Tom and I will be absolutely fine, won’t we, Tom?’
Eve said, ‘I feel dreadful, leaving you two to finish on your own. Shall we be back, sir?’
‘Probably not. You come to my office in the morning, as arranged, OK, Tom?’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Go away you two. Tom and I are going to dance, aren’t we, Tom?’
David walked with Eve to her temporary accommodation a short walk from Griffon, a big Edwardian House with ‘13’ in brass figures on its outer doors. It was being used by nurses and a few WRNS who needed a night’s rest away from air raids, sleeping on cots in an enormous basement reinforced with iron girders. Eve had slept in worse places, and, as all the women were dog tired, there wasn’t much talk.
‘How do you think it went?’ David asked as they walked along the blacked-out promenade.
‘Smoothly, for a first attempt.’
‘We shall see.’
‘I said it would work. It will.’
She wasn’t treating him well. He didn’t deserve to be.
19
The winter of 1940-41 was Siberian. Griffon House stood as though encapsulated in a bubble of light and warmth, whilst around it the whole country appeared to be going up in smoke. Thousands of people were killed. By then, Eve had had enough of Griffon House. Electra was well able to take her place. She determined to go over David and Faludi’s heads and ask Colonel Linder for something that could involve her more directly in the war.
A few days before Christmas she received a letter from him saying that she was to come to his office on 30 December.
Nobody went to London by choice, but if one was travelling out of almost any city at that time, it was a case of exchanging one blitzkrieg for another. It was hell on the railways, so Eve decided to travel up on the l
ast Sunday of the year to give herself more time. She had been given a permit to stay in the basement of one of the Government buildings in which Colonel Linder had his London office. It was a case of arriving and taking your belongings into the basement, and staying there overnight.
That night 10,000 fire bombs fell on the centre of London. Even so deep underground, Eve could hear the crash of buildings collapsing throughout the night. It was impossible to sleep. Smoking was not allowed. Those who had foresight had brought something to eat and drink. Eve had only a screw-top bottle of lemonade and sponge cake she managed to buy at the café on the Embankment where she had rowed with David Hatton in September.
Now that the social barriers had come down, English people were talking to one another. Eve struck up a conversation with a woman who told her that she was Mrs Jago, a Jewish refugee, and that she and her little girl had recently arrived in England and she must present her papers.
‘What about Mr Jago?’
‘Seb was taken away – some friends say in a cattle truck, but I wasn’t there.’ The woman said it so matter-of-factly. ‘I do not expect to see him again.’
What was there to say? ‘I am sorry’ was so inadequate. ‘But you have your little girl. What is her name?’
‘Elizabeth.’ The woman stared at Eve, disconcerting her. ‘May I tell you something?’
‘Of course. What have we got to do except sit here and talk until the raid is over?’
‘The day after we arrived, which was… I don’t remember, after Christmas Day, we came into London Docks. After we had disembarked and were free, there was an air raid. Elizabeth tripped as we ran for shelter. Her arm was broken, not a serious break. Some people were so kind. They took us to the hospital where we were told to wait to get an X-ray and plaster.’
‘So she’s still there?’
‘No. A nurse took Elizabeth and told me it would take time, so I should find a tea trolley and wait. The X-ray department was directly hit by a big bomb… nothing left but a big, big, hole. Everyone was killed.’
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Everyone.’