An East End Girl

by Maggie Ford

Cissy smiled happily. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  The bill paid, addresses exchanged, they walked out into the August sunshine, and, pecking each other’s cheeks, went their separate ways.

  Meeting Daisy had been as wonderful as it had been unexpected and, she realised only after she returned to have lunch with Langley, Margo and the friend Margo had brought out with her, a Percy Mildenhall, it was also an enjoyable change from the affected chatter she had become used to this past year.

  For some odd reason, she didn’t tell Langley about Daisy. If anyone had asked her why, she couldn’t have told them when she wasn’t even sure herself. But something inside her made her feel that it was not a matter she wanted to share with him. Maybe because it might diminish her in his eyes or he might laugh. She didn’t know.

  In early November, with Paris skies becoming as dull as London ones, they began talking of trying Venice where the legendary Adriatic sea lapped warm against the discoloured bases of treasured buildings and the sky, hopefully, would remain blue and hot.

  Yet somehow, Cissy did not feel the excitement and elation of last year when they had gone to Biarritz. She told herself it was because she’d probably grown blasé to all the high living, swanning it up at Le Mans or being silly on some chateau terrace, shooting at bits of fine china. She told herself the journey to Venice would be tiresome, those around her just a little boring. But it was really the idea of leaving Daisy. These last two months had been so enjoyable, not having to put on airs with Daisy. Nothing like an old friend…her words that first time they met. But it was more than that – it was a breath of fresh air being as she used to be, and oh, so pleasant – making her realise that this last year she had been just playing a part, not true to herself at all.

  Now she was off again, living it up, playing a part again. It was sad saying goodbye to Daisy but she would see her when she returned. Daisy would be staying in Paris for a long time. She had met someone. His name was Theodore Helgott. She called him Teddy, and sometimes affectionately ‘my German’. Cissy met him once and was taken by his soft brown though somewhat worldly eyes, his open smile and charming manners. He was a small handsome man of about forty, eighteen years Daisy’s senior. But she was so obviously in love, and told Cissy every last detail of his life story.

  He had been born in Dusseldorf, his father a financier of some sort. He never knew his mother who had died giving birth to him and had been brought up by servants. He was seven when his father married someone whom he did business with. She was Christian, but his father had never been that concerned with his Jewish faith anyway. When he was eleven his father had died too, and after two years his stepmother married back into her own faith. So, neither one thing nor the other, with a stepmother who understandably had no real motherly affection for him, he was left to his own devices and at fifteen left home to make a life for himself. Ending up in Paris, he had done very well, something in finance dealing in investments, so Cissy gleaned, for Daisy said it was too involved for her. At least, Cissy thought as she listened to the history of Herr Theodore Helgott, if Daisy did end up marrying him, she would want for nothing.

  So, leaving Daisy to her German, Cissy departed with her own clique to Biarritz – despite what Langley had said about Venice, after a lot of debate and argument, it was Biarritz again, because Margo hadn’t been for two years and wanted to renew her acquaintance with it, and Margo, being Margo, got her way. It was the playground of the rich after all, and as Margo said, why go off exploring the unknown when all you want is to be somewhere where other fashionable people know you?

  Cissy didn’t mind too much. It would still be warm and romantic and perhaps all that warmth and romance would prompt Langley to propose marriage this year. She hoped so, they’d been together long enough.

  But she was destined to go on hoping. Every time he made love to her, she expected a proposal to follow. She hinted, but he hadn’t picked up on it. She baulked at hinting too strongly and perhaps that was why he hadn’t. Making love never seemed quite the right time, strangely enough, to mention marriage. Other times, there was too much going on to turn his mind in that direction. But he would propose eventually.

  At the moment he seemed content with their present arrangement, revelling in his role of introducing her again to all the pleasures Biarritz had to offer and delighting in her more gauche moments, as she tried hard to play tennis as skilfully as the others who had been playing it all their lives.

  Langley of course was an expert tennis player, his lithe frame strikingly handsome in well-pressed, gleaming white ducks and white shirt with a neat striped tie. His game was graceful yet full of power and he was always laughing, that light chuckle of his echoing across the courts, when he bettered an opponent.

  This year too he had finally taught Cissy to swim – at least, she could float and flail her arms enough to move herself forward through the water. He’d laugh at her, his own strokes perfect in every way. But whether swimming or not, she loved the bathing dresses that hugged her figure and, as she remembered from jumping up and down in the freezing summer North Sea at Margate, didn’t sag or stretch with the weight of water.

  But whatever they were doing, be it splashing in the warm gentle ocean in a well-fitting bathing dress and swimming cap, lounging on hot, motorcar-lined beaches beneath the shallow sloping Basque cliffs, or pecking at a crisp salad and lobster lunch, a floral wrap draped over her bathing dress, later to be swapped for the little black crêpe de chine number with gauzy godets and handkerchief points, Egyptian-style jewellery, a sequined petalled hat and tango shoes with cross-over laces and silk flesh-coloured stockings, for an evening of dancing or gaming, Cissy was still new enough to this life to see herself time and time again with an outsider’s eye, comparing herself to that person of yesterday.

  She was still conscious of being thrilled at sitting on the back of speeding sport cars, in a fine check jacket and skirt, light jersey wool jumper, scarf and expensive hat, while people like Margo and Faith and Pamela took it all for granted, and always would. How could she take it all for granted when she had known the ordinary side of life? She still remembered carefully counting shillings in order to buy a halfway decent pair of shoes or to keep up her elocution lessons, foregoing tram fares to do so and begrudging every rainy day that forced her to spend out on public transport rather than walk.

  She vividly recalled her days at Cohens with a resultant low sensation in the stomach. Then her mind would wander to the simple pleasures of weekend freedom, strolling in the park with Eddie, going to the cinema with him, her mind conjuring up a picture of herself sitting at one end of a rowing boat while he was at the other, rowing mightily, his lean muscles rippling under a well-worn, striped shirt and his smile…

  No, she would not acknowledge the feelings the memory of his smile brought – feelings of longing she’d rather not have.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Langley, I’ve something to tell you!’ She was excited. He would be so pleased, and so proud of her.

  They were back in Paris – had arrived about the middle of April, the most delightful month to be in Paris. Cissy had returned to find Daisy had married her German and was now living in beautiful apartments not far from the Auteuil racetrack. She and Cissy had met twice in that time, Daisy looking marvellous and happy, no longer struggling to make a living with a chorus.

  It was now May. The twenty-first of May 1927 – an auspicious day during which endless streams of charabancs and motorcars had been heading for Le Bourget airfield from all directions since mid-afternoon. They had all come to watch Charles Lindbergh land from his non-stop solo flight from New York. He had already been in the air some thirty-three hours and not a wink of sleep. How could he, flying out there all alone? It was now ten-twenty at night and still no sign of the tiny plane – the Spirit of St Louis. Tension that for the past hour had been gripping the crowds clustered on the dark field, except for some floodlights, was slowly mounting. The wireless had reported sighting
s but no one was sure where Lindbergh was now and if he was still safe, or how safely he’d land on this field now teaming with humanity.

  Cissy tugged at Langley’s arm. ‘Did you hear what I said, darling? I’ve something important to tell you.’

  ‘Not now!’ He shook his arm free of her grip and pointed towards the western sky still with its faintest traces of twilight. ‘Look! There she is!’

  Every eye in their group followed his pointing finger. A tiny moving speck of light had appeared, growing more discernible with each second. Everywhere people were beginning to point. Excitement grew more frantic as the sound of the tiny monoplane’s engine was heard, getting steadily louder. People were clambering on to the roofs of cars to see better. Langley grabbed Cissy and began hoisting her up on to the roof of the nearest unattended vehicle. Climbing up beside her, he held her tightly around the waist to steady her as she teetered uncertainly.

  ‘God! What a thing! History in the making!’

  Cheering rose up in a sustained roar from every throat as the plane began making its gliding descent, engine purring, the landing strip hastily vacated by the hordes of onlookers.

  ‘God – what I wouldn’t give to be him!’ Langley shouted above the final roar of the engine and the welcoming burst of cheering as the plane touched down, ran a few yards to a stop, the engine coughing and dying away.

  The crowd surged forward as the hero emerged from the cockpit, his hand held up in a salute to them all. Reporters had already surrounded him, bulbs flashing as photo after photo was taken for their papers; notaries, VIPs, friends of the hero, all were there up the front, the rest, the eager onlookers, held back by a line of grinning policemen.

  Cissy had put aside her news for the present. Ecstatic as any here, she shrieked and waved and stretched her neck for a better glimpse of Lindbergh’s lanky figure as he leapt nimbly down from the aeroplane.

  ‘History, yes!’ she yelled to Langley’s remarks.

  To think she was actually here, seeing it all first hand instead of on the cinema newsreels later. News – history being made, here in front of her. And when the excitement finally died down she’d tell Langley of her own bit of news, equally as important, equally as exciting – that come December, Langley would be a father. The thought brought a wonderful thrill fluttering through her.

  Cissy, her skin, tanned by Biarritz sunshine, emphasising her fair hair, pale blue, printed chiffon dress and sequined jacket, looked and felt stunning as she walked into the sedate party on Langley’s arm.

  There hadn’t been time to tell him her news with so much going on: Lindbergh’s arrival; drinks in a small secluded but wildly expensive bar afterwards with everyone talking at once; hurrying home to prepare for this party to which Langley and company had somehow managed to get invited, Margo Fox-Prinshaw’s people being known in high circles.

  All the names that mattered were there, all hoping Lindbergh might put in an appearance later if not too tired. The large third floor hotel room was a continuous hubbub of unbroken conversation, interspersed with bursts of laughter against a background of forks clattering on plates while silent waiters with trays of golden champagne in wide glasses eased smoothly between the knots of people. In a far corner a piano played ‘The Man I Love’ – Cissy could just make out the tune.

  ‘Over there!’ Margo’s husky voice rose above the din. Margo, bare-backed in ivory georgette and a dozen barbaric gold bangles, began shouldering her way through the squash of the famous as though they were mere commonality, the rest of her group in tow. Langley hung back, his hand pressing itself over Cissy’s threaded through his arm.

  ‘Let her get on with it.’ He smiled, his smile thrilling her to the core as it always did. ‘We’ll get ourselves a drink. Go out on the balcony, though I suspect it’s as crowded out there as it is in here. We could perch on the parapet and look over the city.’

  Cissy laughed. If he knew her condition, he wouldn’t let her anywhere near the parapet. Time enough to tell him when they got home, most probably in the early hours, going on to a nightclub first.

  ‘Oh, God, there you are!’ Margo was beside them, a drink already in her hand. She hooked her arm through Langley’s as she seemed to love to do, had made a point of doing it ever since coming to France, dragging his hand away from where it lay on Cissy’s. Her grey eyes, heavily made up with kohl, gazed up into his, almost adoringly after a quick glance at Cissy, Cissy felt sure, to see if she was noticing.

  ‘Haven’t you a drink yet, you poor old thing? What have you been doing? We’ve found a nice little corner by the piano. Do come along, darling.’

  Dragged through the crowd, she still holding his arm, while Cissy hanging on to the other was all but pulled along, the trio met up with the others where Margo said they were.

  ‘Langley, darling, you and I will go and get ourselves a glass of champagne each. We’ll bring you one, Cissy. Be back in two ticks.’

  Cissy’s heart plummeted as she watched them go. She’d been so happy a moment ago. Now as she peeked between the gaps in the close-packed elegance of evening wear she could see the two of them by the buffet table. Margo popped a delicacy into Langley’s mouth. He was smiling, chewing, sipping his drink, and Margo stretched her face up to him and kissed him on the lips. What was worse was that he didn’t draw back. He was still smiling as Margo took her lips away from his.

  A great wave of jealousy and dismay was washing through Cissy’s chest as they remained lingering by the buffet, herself utterly forgotten. They were talking, their backs to her. Were they discussing her? He seemed content to have Margo entice him away. And why not? Margo had known him longer. She had probably enticed him many times before, before Cissy had come on the scene – had probably enticed him into her bed before now. Just a flick of her finger was all she needed, with her grey, kohl-rimmed eyes and her golden hair and every fibre of her fantastic figure proclaiming a knowledge of the world Cissy would never have.

  Cissy felt sick visualising the two of them in bed, rolling over each other, legs entwined, naked, the climax.…She wanted to vomit, the vision was so clear. Around her the rest of her friends were chatting as though nothing untoward had passed between those by the buffet. They hadn’t even noticed that she had dropped out of the conversation, had in fact not even taken part in it.

  She saw the pair finally turn from the table. They were coming back. Langley had two glasses of champagne. Margo with her arm linked possessively and confidently through his, Cissy wondered, vindictively, how he managed not to spill the drink when he was so encumbered by that bitch’s arm.

  She didn’t smile as she was handed her glass, and knew her lower lip was pouting. Her throat was tight and it was difficult to keep her eyes from gathering excess moisture.

  ‘Are you all right, Cissy?’

  ‘I’m fine.

  Margo was now talking to Miles, Faith, Ginger and Pamela, one slim hand supporting a bare elbow, her glass delicately balanced in the other. As her eyes, glancing sideways, met Cissy’s, those bright red lips quirked at the corners in a taunting smile. Seeing her standing there with those crafty grey eyes slewing her way, and that assured smile of hers, Cissy wanted to go over and hit her. The words formed in her head: You think you can take him from me. Well, just you try.

  But she wasn’t sure she could stop her. Margo had a fearful ability to twist men around her little finger, including Langley, as she had just shown. She’d exercised that ability several times in Biarritz but it wasn’t because she wanted him, or she’d have persisted. It was no more than showing people like Cissy that they had no hold over their man if Margo so chose.

  ‘You don’t look fine, my sweet.’ Langley’s reply brought her back to him. He was frowning, apparently at a loss to understand what had got into her – as if he didn’t know.

  ‘I told you, I’m fine,’ she snapped, then in case he moved angrily away, perhaps to seek Margo again, hastily modulated her tone. ‘I feel a little tired perhaps. All the excitem
ent today.’

  ‘Oh.’ The tone sounded vaguely irritated. Was he looking for an excuse to be angry with her and justifiably go off with Margo?

  She hastily shook off the feeling. He wouldn’t have bothered to ask her how she felt if he intended any intrigue with Margo, would he? She looked quickly towards her rival. Margo was no longer looking at her, but at Langley. And there was a smile, suggestive of a knowing wink. Langley returned the smile.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’

  ‘Home?’ There was a childish second of panic, visualising herself rejected, sent back to England. The fear must have shown for he gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Aren’t you feeling well? We could leave here now, if you want. I’m not much bothered. These parties can get awfully dull. Do you want to go, darling?’

  How could she have been so silly? Suddenly life was joyful again. Margo meant nothing. She needed to be pitied really. Half the time unable to hang on to a man for looking around for other conquests, poor Percy Mildenhall whom she had brought with her to Paris, used merely as a stopgap.

  Cissy noticed Percy standing on the sideline like a lanky question mark, looking on as Margo laid a flirtatious hand on Miles’s arm. Faith was looking dark and Cissy knew just how she was feeling. Percy too. Both of them unsure, sensing danger. But Langley was safe from Margo’s intrigues, and so was she. Tonight she would tell him about the baby. That would cement their relationship through which even Margo would not be able to hack her way.

  It was next morning before she told him. They had come home earlier than everyone else, she suspected because Langley wanted desperately to make love after having seen her so fraught by something that still escaped him. He made love with his usual sustained urgency, bringing her to such prolonged heights of delight in her own climax that anything as mundane as even the news of her pregnancy was out of place.

  These days, expertly counting her safe times, he knew when there was no need to take precautions as once he’d done, the result being a wonderful sense of freedom. Her falling pregnant had happened during one of those times when he had miscalculated, but it didn’t matter. He’d be the first to acknowledge that it had to happen sometime.