The chambermaids now watched, excited enough that not one of them spoke. Three great heaves later, the tree stood proud and tall. As the porters balanced it there, others rushed in to anchor its stump, and yet more emerged with the stepladder that had been used to dangle tinsel from every rafter in the ballroom.
‘Oh, Nancy,’ Rosa thrilled, ‘isn’t it beautiful?’
It’s more than that, thought Nancy, marvelling as the ropes were unbuckled and the tree stood alone for the first time. It looks so real. Like it’s back in the forest.
The lower boughs, which reached almost to the ground, rustled, and from behind the tree stepped Mrs Moffatt. ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘it’s time we had some fun!’ She gestured for the girls to follow her around the tree and, when they did, it was to discover great boxes and crates – and in them, glittering like treasure, baubles of silver and gold, miniature bells, snowflakes carved in ivory and glass, and mountains of tinsel that shimmered in the electric light.
‘When the guests awake this morning, let them discover a Buckingham transformed.’
The girls rushed forward, delved deep into the boxes excitedly, and hurried about their task.
The upper echelons of the Buckingham Hotel had been contemplating Christmas since long before the first snows. In an enterprise as vast and interconnected as the Buckingham, Christmas was an affair not for the cold winter months, but for the final days of summer. Maynard Charles had directed his subordinates to source the great Norwegian fir that was now being hoisted into pride of place in the hotel reception. Mr Simenon had been tasked with procuring the very best in crystal baubles and stars, and all of the other candles and crosses, tinsel and trinkets, which – by the time the guests awoke – would adorn the halls and lounges of the hotel. Maynard Charles had but one directive: if our hotel is to become a grotto, then let it be the most elegant and lavish grotto in London.
An army had been enlisted now. Nancy and Rosa and Ruth busied themselves draping tinsel and scattering stars, all under Mrs Moffatt’s watchful eye – ‘this is my twenty-first Christmas at the Buckingham Hotel, and I’ve never seen a finer tree! Great job, girls! Keep it up!’ – but they weren’t the only ones. A flurry of hotel pages skittered through reception, carrying the glass stars that would adorn the guest lounges. Kitchen hands, waiting staff and concierges passed, on their way to decorate the Queen Mary, the Candlelight Club, the brasserie and the ballroom. To Nancy, it seemed the most incredible thing in the world. The Buckingham was transforming in front of her eyes. One season was changing into the next – to the guests it would surely seem like magic.
In an hour, the tree was bedecked in glass angels and snowflakes, tinsel arranged so splendidly it constantly caught the light – and all that was left was for Maynard Charles himself to huff and puff his way to the top of the ladder and, watched by the assembled throng, place a single silver star at the top of the tree. Later that day, Billy Brogan would be dispatched to take careful note of the decorations on display at hotels such as the Savoy and the Ritz – and come back reporting that no tree was larger, no star brighter than that which shone at the Buckingham Hotel.
I wonder what it’s like at home, Nancy thought as she gazed up. Not that it’s really home any more. But . . . I wonder if there’s a tree for Frank this year. I wonder if Mrs Gable will wrap him a present. Raymond had taken her to Fortum and Mason, and there she had bought a little Christmas cake to send to him. Because you might be sixteen, Frank, but you’re still my baby brother. I’m going to make a home for you – for us both – down here. I just need a little more time . . .
‘You can be very proud of your work here, girls!’ Mrs Moffatt announced. ‘I wouldn’t have done it finer if I’d done every bit myself.’
‘It feels like Christmas now, doesn’t it?’ Rosa chirped gleefully. ‘Everything feels so much more—’
‘Festive!’ Ruth announced.
‘It makes you want to sing.’
‘Well, we should,’ one of the other girls chipped in. ‘We could go carolling. Sunday night’s off night. We can take some carols out there. Go a-wassailing, like when we was girls . . .’
‘What do you say, Nance? Carolling this Sunday. We can get all the girls up in the kitchenette tonight, practise some numbers. You’ll come too, won’t you, Mrs Moffatt?’
Mrs Moffatt smiled as she shook her head. ‘My carolling days are behind me. Don’t you girls go thinking that, just because it’s Christmas, there’ll be any less work in this hotel. Do you want to know a little secret?’ She leaned in and, grinning, whispered, ‘There’ll be more. But, I suppose, one night of carolling wouldn’t hurt.’ Dusting her hands off, she marched away, bound for the housekeeping lounge. ‘Breakfast in ten minutes. We still have rooms and suites to take care of.’
‘Well, Nance?’ Rosa went on, after Mrs Moffatt was gone. ‘Come practise some carols with us tonight?’
Nancy froze. ‘I’ll be there,’ she finally said – but inwardly she felt bereft. The girls would be disappointed in her – there’d be gossip again, she was certain of that – because if she joined them at all, it would be after the carolling was over.
Tonight, there was some place else she had to be.
*
The decorations extended even as far as the little windowless studio behind the ballroom. Here sprigs of last year’s holly, preserved all summer long, were entwined around the braziers in which a myriad of candles flickered – and the baubles hanging from the rafters, though faded from years of use, were no less brilliant. An hour before the ballroom was due to open its doors that night, Nathaniel opened the studio door and stopped dead.
The wireless in the corner was buzzing out George Hall and his orchestra, ‘Santa Bring My Mommy Back to Me’, while across the studio Raymond de Guise and his chamber girl danced a simple two-step.
Hélène stumbled into the studio alongside Nathaniel. Nancy must have finished her duties for the day, for surely she would not have absconded to come here and dance. A few weeks of dedicated dancing had not turned Nancy into a professional, but there was more elegance, more grace to the way she pivoted and turned. Some of the art was radiating out, from Raymond into her.
I’ve never seen Raymond in love before, thought Hélène. Love? The word had caught her by surprise. Is that what this is? The way he holds her, it seems so much more natural than the way he held Grusinskaya, or Philomena, or any of the other guests he’s danced with in the ballroom. Hélène had forgotten how technic-ally brilliant Raymond could be, but he wasn’t technically brilliant tonight. You can see how he doesn’t dare put his whole body’s weight onto the foot he’s stepping with. You can see he’s holding back. But none of that matters, does it? What’s technical brilliance when set against real connection? Hélène was almost envious. In all the years we’ve danced together, not once has he looked at me like this . . .
Nathaniel clapped his hands, slow and deliberate, and suddenly Hélène was pulled out of her thoughts.
On the studio floor, Raymond was so lost in the music – lost in his love, thought Hélène – that it was Nancy who noticed first. She pulled out of his arms and came to a stop, revealing her lazy leg for the first time.
‘Time’s up, de Guise,’ said Nathaniel flatly, striding down the step to the centre of the studio floor. ‘Hélène and I have real work to do, there’s a good fellow.’
Raymond’s withering eye flickered from Nathaniel to Hélène – who merely raised an eyebrow – and then back to the boy. Silently, he picked up his jacket, extended an arm to show Nancy the way, and walked with her past the spot where Nathaniel stood, glowering.
‘Raymond, I’m sorry . . .’
Raymond whispered to Hélène out of the side of his mouth, ‘Don’t worry, Hélène. It’s not your doing.’ Then something emboldened him and he spoke louder. ‘When the lord clicks his fingers, we all have to dance. Even when it’s with a fascist dog . . .’
Nathaniel tautened. ‘You’d be advi
sed to mind your manners, de Guise. You’re confusing your master for your dog.’
Nancy took Raymond’s hand, as if to heave him out of the room. ‘Raymond, leave him. He’s not worth—’
‘Oh, he’s not worth a thing. Imagine a man, Nancy, who didn’t get where he is today by the talent in his feet, nor even the courage in his heart. Imagine a man who got where he is today by a pat on the back from Daddy. A man who thinks he owns somewhere as grand as the Buckingham because his father went to school with somebody who went to school with somebody who once held Lord Edgerton’s valise. And imagine – just for a second, imagine – a man who thinks that he can dance, when really, he’s just tumbling around the room like a circus clown.’
‘ENOUGH, de Guise!’
Nathaniel’s voice took on the shrillest of airs when he shouted. His cheeks were bunched and the creases that appeared between his eyes gave his face a nasty, pinched look – precisely befitting the man, thought Raymond.
‘You can’t deny it, boy,’ Raymond spat. ‘You dance half as well as some of the porters here in the Buckingham. You’re here because of who you are, and who you are is the worst of the world. Your father and Edgerton and all their hired thugs. Well, they turfed you out of Cable Street –’ at the mention of the place, Hélène looked perplexed, unable to make the connection, and yet Raymond carried on – ‘and I’ll be the one ejecting you from our hotel. You see these feet, Nathaniel? You see these shoes? They’re the ones that will be dancing in the Grand on New Year’s Eve. They’re the ones that will be dancing up a storm when your papa sends a gleaming Bentley to take you back to mama.’
‘You go too far, de Guise. One word to Lord Edgerton and . . .’
‘Oh, please. Whatever else Lord Edgerton is, he’s a businessman first. What matters to a man like him is the money. You must know how much our ballroom means to this hotel. And who do you think’s worth more in the ballroom, boy? You, indulging only his wayward stepdaughter night after night in a crass attempt to bed or even marry her . . . or me, indulging his guests, giving them some glamour, giving them the confidence to move and turn and spin, and come back for more?’
There was momentary silence in the studio.
‘I thought as much,’ said Raymond. ‘You’re a disgrace. You and all your kind. But your days are numbered in this hotel. Mark my words.’
Moments later, Nancy – the poor girl’s face aghast – was following Raymond out through the studio doors.
Hélène looked at Nathaniel, his face twisted with rage. She moved towards him – to placate, not to console – but before she could say a word, there came a deep, bass voice from the wireless. ‘You are listening to the words of Sir John Reith, Director General of the BBC. We take an intermission now from this evening’s broadcast to bring our listeners an announcement. This is Windsor Castle, His Royal Highness Prince Edward . . .’
Nathaniel’s face creased. ‘Prince Edward?’ he whispered.
On the radio the voice continued: ‘At long last I am able to say a few words of my own. I have never wanted to withhold anything. But until now it has not been constitutionally possible for me to speak. A few hours ago I discharged my last duty as King and Emperor . . .’
Hélène was still staring after Raymond – but these words grabbed her and turned her around. By now, Nathaniel had crept close to the wireless. And the voice rumbled on . . .
*
All across the Buckingham Hotel, in bedrooms and suites, in the housekeeping office and staff kitchenettes, people gathered. In the Candlelight Club, the head barman and his crew hunched over the wireless. In the staff kitchenette on the hotel’s uppermost storey, Rosa, Ruth, Mrs Whitehead and an assortment of other chambermaids listened as the prince – no longer their king – intoned, ‘My first words must be to declare my allegiance to him, our new king. This I do with all my heart.’ In the kitchens, chefs put down their knives. In the cocktail lounge, drinks went untended. In the reception hall, in the shadow of the great Norwegian fir, Mr Simenon grabbed Billy Brogan by the collar and wrenched him into the head concierge’s office, where another radio crackled. ‘You must believe me when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love . . .’ For seven long minutes, as long as the prince spoke, the great engine of the Buckingham Hotel came to a standstill. Time was out of joint.
And then the whispers began.
‘He was going to be here for New Year, wasn’t he?’ Rosa said in a low voice.
‘Wasn’t that why there’s a masquerade ball at all? At the behest of the King . . .’
‘They’ll all turn away,’ Mr Simenon seethed, as Billy Brogan pressed his ear to the buzzing wireless. ‘If the King isn’t in attendance, what of the Norwegians? There’ll be panic in the board. We’ve spent so much already to make this New Year an extravaganza . . . Mr Charles,’ he gasped. ‘I have to find Mr Charles.’
In the Queen Mary and Candlelight Club, in the French brasserie and cocktail bar, guests turned to one another in quiet reverence, unable to believe the whispers spreading among them. But it was the staff of the Buckingham Hotel who felt the blow most keenly. In the Queen Mary kitchens, the head chef sized up the menu he’d composed for New Year. The bookkeeper’s thoughts turned, inevitably, to the money squandered on reserving King Edward’s chosen suite. And, alone in his office, Maynard Charles hung his head and quaked. The whole spectacle, he thought. The whole extravaganza. The Buckingham’s reputation itself. All of it staked on a New Year masquerade ball thrown in honour of the new king. And now he’s fallen . . .
The voice on the wireless crackled on until, at last, the former king was finished. ‘The decision I have made has been mine and mine alone.’ Then, as one, the hotel inhabitants let out the breath they had been holding. The clocks started ticking once more. Porters re-emerged into the halls. Maynard Charles opened his office door, and Billy Brogan darted off on some new errand. The world would carry on turning, but its old king was gone and a new one was being elevated in his place.
Alone among the denizens of the Buckingham Hotel, only Raymond and Nancy did not gather to hear the news of the king’s abdication. As the old king was making his proc-lamation, they rode the lift and emerged onto the hotel’s uppermost storey. The rage had hardly left Raymond by the time they had reached his room. Nancy caught hold of his arm as he forced his way through the door, the key half-jamming in the lock.
‘Raymond!’ She’d been imploring him all the way across the hotel. This time, when he did not look back, she snapped, ‘Ray!’
That single syllable brought him to his senses. By now the door had flown open and Nancy followed him inside.
It did not feel right, to march so brazenly into his room. If Ruth and Rosa were to know . . . Courting Raymond was difficult enough to keep quiet in the hotel. But if Mrs Moffatt were to think I was coming up here, to Raymond’s room. If Mr Charles were to find out . . .
Now, seeing the hard set to Raymond’s face, how he carried himself not as lightly as a dancer but as forcefully as those thugs who’d broken him in the Midnight Rooms, she wondered if she had been foolish to follow him here. The anger still rippled up and down his arms. He prowled, back and forth, back and forth, like a man in a cage. Was it right that the same arms that had enfolded her and made her feel so safe could also be so ready to lash out?
‘Ray!’
‘Don’t call me that, Nancy.’
He had spoken with such venom. ‘But that’s who you’re being, isn’t it? Ray Cohen, not Raymond de Guise. I never heard Raymond de Guise speak to a man like you spoke to Nathaniel. I never saw Raymond de Guise with that kind of hatred in his eyes . . .’
Hatred? thought Raymond. Was that it? Well, why not? They hated him. They were the ones who’d torn up the streets where he lived, put his brother in the infirmary. They were the ones fomenting
hate and unrest on the streets of London town.
‘How dare he come into the ballroom? How dare we all let him? And how dare you defend—’
Nancy felt hot anger of her own now. ‘Defend him? For what? For being an obnoxious fool? For being one of those rich boys who think they own the world, and all because of the money in their back pockets? You’ve been in the Buckingham longer than I. You know the way of this world. But defend him as a . . . a fascist? You’ve danced with them before, Raymond. You said it yourself: the Grand is the Grand, and what happens inside—’
Raymond was quelled. ‘I was wrong—’
‘What changed?’ Nancy whispered. ‘What changed in you?’
The thought of them, men like Nathaniel, all his union friends, tearing his brother down from the barricades and trampling him into the earth. It was . . . the guilt. At last he admitted it. The guilt that he hadn’t been there. That he’d forsaken them all. That he danced for his supper for the very same men who would have seen his family driven out of their homes.
‘It’s our ballroom,’ Raymond stated. ‘I’m taking it back.’
*
Maynard Charles dialled the number furiously, so furiously that the telephone on his desk skittered off the edge and he had to pick it up from the floor and start all over again. Since the king – he would have to stop calling him the king – had stopped speaking, the radio had maintained a dignified silence. Now, as the voice of the BBC newsreader returned, he pulled the electric cord from the wall and waited for the voice on the other end of the line.
‘Yes,’ he began, when a lady finally answered, ‘I’m seeking Lord Edgerton. Yes, I need to speak to him immediately. Tell him . . . tell him it’s Maynard Charles. Tell him we must speak at once.’
The timid voice on the end of the line, no doubt Lord Edgerton’s housekeeper, did not get a chance to reply – for at that moment fists hammered at the office door and, even though Maynard barked out an order to wait, the door drew back to reveal Raymond de Guise. Maynard gave him a sharp look but the broken dancer closed the door behind him.
One Enchanted Evening Page 22