The Wardrobe Mistress_A heart-wrenching wartime love story

by Natalie Meg Evans

  He wanted The Farren to be part of that rise. He needed to believe in something. He didn’t, however, believe that Christopher Wichelow had broken an ankle. Had little Mrs Kingcourt knowingly lied? She’d quavered, telling him about the phone call from the embassy.

  At the theatre, he fed Macduff and passed him into the care of the night janitor. The dog lived at The Farren, sleeping mostly in Alistair’s office; he found the stairs up to the flat in Cecil Court too steep. Alistair left for home – a ten-minute walk away – where he washed, changed and set out for his club. This wasn’t an evening to spend alone. It was, however, to prove an evening when truth overturned lies.

  His father had made him a member of the Overseas and Colonial Club as a twenty-first birthday present. It was popular with military men, civil servants and diplomatic corps. The qualification for membership, other than being male, was to have served one’s country abroad.

  Walking in, he saw faces he knew. Most were his father’s generation and they offered him nods that implied, ‘I know you, young fellow, but damned if I can put a name to you.’

  He encountered a former colleague as he crossed the lounge in search of an empty table. Jameson had been a sub-lieutenant on the battle cruiser Filton when Alistair had been an eighteen-year-old midshipman.

  ‘Now out with it, Redenhall –’ Jameson grasped his forearm as if arresting a thief, ‘I keep hearing you’ve joined a circus. I threatened to thump the last halfwit who said it.’

  ‘Theatre, not circus.’ Alistair indicated his civilian suit and offered to stand his friend a drink to assuage the shock. While he was at the bar signing his tab in the member’s book, someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was then that the surviving shreds of Alistair’s faith disintegrated.

  ‘Thought I recognised the salty silhouette. We both survived, eh? If that doesn’t make Fern happy, nothing will.’

  Alistair finished signing before he turned. Christopher Wichelow’s lean, sunburned face confirmed at last that Fern was lying to him. And that Vanessa Kingcourt was dishonest, too. It pained him more than he could have imagined, and pain with nowhere to go turns rabid.

  Soaking in hot water, scented with Yardley’s bath salts, Vanessa asked herself at what point of Fern’s marital drama had she intruded. Not at the first rift. Fern’s weary bitterness, combined with Alistair’s simmering anger, suggested a lengthy estrangement.

  Turning the hot tap on with her big toe, she blew lather away from her chin. Such luxury. Blood-warm water, in a setting that could have come out of Home Magazine. She’d bundled her expensive new curls under a silk-jersey turban that she’d found hanging on the bathroom door. There was a robe of the same fabric and the shelf beneath the mirror was spread with makeup, tweezers, combs, razors and pots of skin cream. It had been a draining day and an important one. She had a job, starting September 16th. Her eyelids surrendered. Dreams stole in. Menacing dreams. She was in a coffin, somebody hammering hard on the lid. She sat up with a yell, splashing bathwater over the rim. The knocking was real.

  Somebody was at the door, waking the dead.

  Chapter 10

  The last time she’d been yanked from sleep this way was by a military policeman, alerting her accommodation block to an imminent air raid. She gave herself a rough towelling, pulled off the turban and grabbed Fern’s bathrobe. She ran to the stairs, shoving her arms into it as she went. The slippery fabric resisted her wet limbs, and she was knotting the belt around her waist as she arrived at the door.

  The unseen hand attacked again. ‘Hold fire,’ she called out. At last she got the door open. ‘Oh – you.’ She stepped back, her hand rising to close the last inch at the neck of her robe. One look at the Commander’s face and she knew that lying for Fern had caught up with her. Had she been dressed, she’d have ducked round him and run for it.

  Walking straight past her, he picked up letters from the centre table, looking at them one after another before slamming them down. He turned to her. ‘Have you any idea how angry I am?’

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes had a glassy look, humanity rinsed from them, which told her that excuses were pointless. ‘I don’t know why Fern has gone to Paris, or if her brother’s hurt or not. That’s what her note said and I wanted to protect her.’

  ‘From what?’

  Vanessa pointed – from you. ‘Have you any idea how you appear when your temper’s up?’ As he took a step towards her, her arm shot out. ‘Don’t! I’ve already admitted that I shared her lie. Wipe the floor with me verbally, but if you raise your hand to me, I’ll scream until the neighbours come.’

  Alistair did indeed raise his hands, but not aggressively. ‘I’ve never hit a woman and I’m not going to start with you. But I mean to know why you’ve turned into Fern’s accomplice. Why are you even in our lives? What and who the hell are you?’

  ‘Vanessa Kingcourt, Fern’s friend and your employee – unless, of course, this changes things.’

  ‘It changes every damn thing. I’ve just come away from a conversation with Christopher Wichelow, and I wasn’t in Paris. He was trying to shake my hand and I just wanted to thump the poor bastard.’

  She hung her head. How could she blame him? ‘I’ll go and dress,’ she said, fumbling the words because she wanted to cry and it was paramount she did not. ‘I’ll leave.’

  ‘It’s too late for you to be out, looking for a place to stay.’

  ‘I’ll get a train back to Kent.’ She kept her eyes low as she passed him, jumping in shock as he caught her wrist.

  ‘You thought you were helping, I suppose. I can accept a clean lie, out of loyalty, but why the artistic detail about Chris falling down museum steps? That was just insulting.’

  She nodded. ‘I liked the image; it had drama.’ She dug through the pile of mail he had briefly rifled and found the note Fern had left her. She handed it to him. He read it through with a short laugh.

  ‘I can see that. Christopher Wichelow is every Frenchman’s stereotype of a privileged Englishman. The crowd would have taken great delight seeing him rolling on the cobbles. Except it didn’t happen. No, don’t go upstairs. Come.’ He released her hand and went into the lounge. She followed reluctantly.

  When he’d arrived, she’d seen only his anger. Now she realised he’d undergone another transformation. His hair looked freshly washed and lightly oiled. His single-breasted suit was of mid-grey wool. It looked new, though in line with the diktats of austerity, it had no pocket flaps and no excess fabric except on the shoulders, which were wide. The trousers with their single centre pleat had no turn-ups. His white shirt was conservative, his tie dark. A silk pocket handkerchief made three yacht sails at the top of his breast pocket.

  Vanessa cleared her throat. He hadn’t actually told her not to turn up at The Farren in thirteen days’ time, and his tone had softened considerably in the last half-minute. One glance would tell her if the thaw had reached his face. Frustratingly, he went to a drinks cabinet and fetched out a bottle. ‘Somebody’s been at the Plymouth gin.’

  ‘Not I,’ she assured. ‘Look, I have to ask – ’

  He seemed just then to notice her state of undress. Fern’s robe licked every swell and curve of Vanessa’s form. What she saw in his face silenced her.

  His voice was different too. He asked, ‘Ever tasted a pink gin?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Would you like to?’

  ‘A thimble-full.’

  ‘No, that doesn’t work.’ He took out crystal tumblers and a small bottle with an outsized white label. Adding a few drops from the bottle to each glass, he swirled until they were stained carmine. Uncapping the gin, he filled one glass well above the halfway line.

  ‘Lord, not that much,’ Vanessa protested. ‘I’ll be . . .’ on my back. ‘Head over heels.’

  ‘I’ll give you a midshipman’s measure.’

  That was about half what he’d poured for himself. He held the glass towards her, making her come to him. He was looking at her now with
out anger. Gin vapours had stimulated something closer to hunger. His lips showed the first lift of arousal. He waited for her to try her gin and she wondered, Is this an attack by other means? Or is he trying his luck?

  Something was happening to her too. A treacherous heart-thrust, desire curling deep in her stomach. She wanted him. That madness was unchanged, but this other side of him scared her. She wanted closeness and protection and he was offering something riskier, colder.

  He said, ‘You’re trembling.’

  ‘I jumped out of a hot bath.’ She put her glass to her lips, tipped, and spluttered. ‘My word, that’s strong.’

  ‘That’s the point of it. Actually, tonight’s the first time I’ve had a real drink in months. Gin and bitters are pretty much all you have on board ship in the tropics. It wards off fever.’

  ‘I’m not feverish.’

  ‘No?’ He tested her pulse. ‘Hectic.’

  She took a desperate slurp.

  ‘No, like this.’ He downed his drink, and when she didn’t follow suit, took her glass and put it with his on the cabinet. Then he drew her towards him and kissed her. The kiss tasted agonisingly sweet – and misplaced. This was Fern’s husband, in Fern’s sitting room, with an appallingly comfortable sofa two paces away. She pulled free.

  ‘We can’t do this. Please. It’s wrong.’

  His hand moved to the belt of her robe. One clever twist would undo it. He found her lips again, persuasively, and she knew that if she opened her mouth to him, they’d both be lost. His breathing was gaining intention, as were his hands.

  We want different things of each other, she wanted to tell him. Different yet mutually destructive.

  She did the only thing she could to save herself: she opened a gate in her mind to let in a memory that was guaranteed to quench her passion. It had been the fourth night of her marriage, the second she and Leo had spent together. Leo had come in, exhausted from a sortie, high on adrenaline and he’d wanted her. Before anything – drink, bath or meal. He’d wanted her with a carnality that frightened her. Her body hadn’t been ready; she’d needed reassurance he wasn’t prepared to

  give.

  Driven by the memory of what had followed, she elbowed Alistair in the ribs. He hardly seemed to notice and soothed her with a whisper. When he linked his hands around her waist, she slapped him hard across the cheek. She’d never done that before, and she tensed, waiting for the riposte.

  Rosehip patches bloomed on his cheek. The same cheek that Fern had injured. He said, ‘You’re meant to give a warning shot. A word would have done, ideally “no”. Just a suggestion.’

  ‘You came here, knowing I was alone in the house. What was your purpose?’

  ‘What was your purpose, opening the door in a damp bathrobe?’

  ‘You were bashing the place down. Drunk.’

  ‘Nowhere near drunk. Just enough to take the handbrake off.’

  ‘Put it back on again! You can’t get at Fern by using me.’

  A smile hovered on Alistair’s lips, but not a compassionate one. ‘That smacks of a disappointed past. What freight do you carry, Mrs Kingcourt? Did some glamorous pilot officer breach your widowhood then throw you over?’

  ‘There’s been no one – though it’s none of your bloody business, actually. Next time Fern thwarts you and you seek diversion, remember the bereaved millions who don’t have the luxury of marital discord.’

  He went to stand by the empty fireplace. ‘Did Fern take much with her?’

  ‘Luggage? I’ve no idea. You know Fern. She throws things into a bag and dashes off.’

  ‘To Paris, but who with? That’s the point of all this, isn’t it? The wart on the princess’s nose that nobody likes to mention. My wife has a lover.’ He said ‘lover’ like a tiger tearing flesh from bone.

  Vanessa said, ‘One of us should leave now.’

  ‘And of course it must be me. There’s something I might as well find while I’m here. Then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  She stayed in the lounge long enough to re-tie her belt. When she joined Alistair in the hall, he’d opened the console drawer and was staring at the smashed wedding photograph. His expression lanced her. Why, she demanded silently, did you kiss me when it’s obvious that Fern’s behaviour is tearing your guts out? He returned the photograph, rooted around in the drawer and located a red booklet.

  ‘My driving licence. I’ve asked Fern to send this several times but all she sends is bills.’

  Vanessa came to a fast, painful decision. ‘Commander Redenhall, I’m afraid I can’t work for you. I can’t work with you. Not after . . . I mean, with Fern being . . . I don’t want to be forced to choose sides. I’m sorry.’ It came out in a blind rush.

  Alistair was already at the door.

  ‘Sir, did you hear me?’

  ‘No. I’ll see you on the sixteenth. Ten o’clock. Our opening production is to be Wilde’s Lady Windermere’s Fan. You’ll find a second-hand copy easily enough on Charing Cross Road.’ Opening the door, he added, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  He touched his cheek. ‘For sobering me up. What happened a moment ago will not be repeated. You have my solemn promise.’

  She returned upstairs to find her bath had gone cold. ‘I hope you keep your promises.’ He’d be the type who did, who completely missed the effect he had on a hurt and lonely young woman. The respect he’d accorded her by giving her a job in his theatre had allowed her to make an emotional leap. From defeat to success. From shyness to sexual readiness. He’d roused an ache in her, then retreated and that was a crying shame.

  Chapter 11

  Monday, September 16th, was drizzly and Vanessa put up her umbrella as she stepped out on to Shaftsbury Avenue. She’d been staying with Joanne, whose flat was above a bookseller’s on Phoenix Street. The street had once linked Shaftsbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road but was now cut off at its eastern end by the devastation of a neighbouring road. Joanne paid just ten shillings a week for her two-bedroom, blast-damaged flat. She seemed on top of the world. Her show had opened to positive reviews and she had a new boyfriend whom she referred to as ‘The Gorgeous Specimen’. She’d invited Vanessa to live with her permanently and Vanessa was happy to accept: from Phoenix Street, she could reach The Farren in under twenty minutes.

  Wanting to look her best on her first day, she was wearing new shoes. They weren’t ideal for the rain, but she comforted herself with the thought that each splashy step printed her into the London pavements. She’d reignited a friendship with this maimed city, with its cracked walkways, boarded-off bomb sites and buildings plundered of the railings, gates and tracery that had once beautified them. Today, she’d finally enter her own, personal domain at The Farren. She touched her talisman key and her heart felt like a crab busily shedding its shell.

  She cut down Neal Street, between dead-eyed warehouses that stored the fruit and vegetables for Covent Garden market. From Neal Street, she took Long Acre and her heart gave a sideways scuttle. A few days ago, as she left Peach Cottage for the last time, her mother had handed over a wad of letters with the words, ‘You never said you’d planned to meet him the night he

  died.’

  The letters were those Vanessa had sent to her dad in Room 7, Old Calford Building, Long Acre. He’d kept every one.

  She’d answered, ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but I wanted to see Dad again. Besides, he had something important to tell me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say what, he didn’t trust the post. We exchanged a few words in a pub doorway without recognising each other. I have to live with that.’

  Ruth had pondered Vanessa’s admission, then said, ‘If ever you find yourself on Long Acre, pop in and ask about his clothing coupons.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘A person who dies suddenly always has coupons left over, and I reckon some rascal stole your dad’s. The landlord, most likely.’

  Not knowing whether
to laugh or cry, Vanessa had promised to inquire if she stumbled across the Old Calford Building. She fervently hoped she wouldn’t.

  Today, she did so within a minute. First, she was brought to a stop by a glorious aroma. A café’s doors stood open and she leaned in, like a cat to catnip. If these people had discovered the alchemy of turning chicory and roast barley grounds into real coffee . . . Get up early, have breakfast here tomorrow, she ordered herself. It was then she looked to the other side of the road and saw a functional three-storey building. ‘Calford Press’ was painted under the pediment in faded capitals. Vanessa counted nine windows. Some were boarded over, some were curtained and all were filmed with dirt. Crossing the road, she discovered that a second storey window had a ‘To Let’ sign taped to the glass. Room seven? She moved quickly on.

  As she entered The Farren by the stage door, a man in a commissionaire’s uniform tilted his clipboard.

  ‘Good morning, Miss.’ A campaign medal was pinned to his chest, while a mermaid tattoo swam suggestively around his throat, ending at the base of his ear. Or what would have been his ear had that side of his head not been reduced to a scorched cauliflower. A naval casualty, she guessed. He asked, ‘Are you on my list, Miss?’

  ‘Kingcourt, Wardrobe Mistress.’

  ‘Right you are, ma’am.’ She noted the uplift from ‘Miss’ to ‘ma’am’ and hoped she looked the part, in her dress with the yellow triangles, worn this time with a short, beige jacket and matching hat. Hats needed no coupons, and she’d bought two felt berets. She really ought to have bought jumpers and winter skirts, but advice from Joanne had branded itself on her brain.

  ‘Wear a hat or everyone will think you’re a typist or the boxoffice clerk. Heels, too, even if they hurt, and tailored shoulders because you must show that you’re the equal of any Wardrobe Master and not the second-reserve-substitute female version.’