The Second-last Woman in England

by Maggie Joel

  The gang! Did Mumford imagine himself on the film set of some American musical?

  With a growing sense of foreboding, Cecil entered the hallway.

  His brother-in-law’s house was painted egg-yolk yellow and was stuffed with moulded, bakelite and laminated furniture—ghastly receptacles that Mumford called ‘free-flow’ chairs and hideous coffee tables which swept upwards at either end like meringue desserts and a piece he claimed was a genuine Barbara Hepworth—furniture one never felt inclined to actually sit on and artwork one never wanted to look at.

  The French doors at the rear of the house were open and Cecil could hear voices beyond—a man laughing, a woman making some arch reply and a peal of laughter from several others—and he felt a shudder of dismay. Surely this wasn’t going be one of those dreadful Continental affairs, everyone standing around in the garden juggling a plate and a fork in one hand and a glass in the other? Were they not going to sit down to lunch? What was it about a warm, sunny day that made otherwise rational people abandon a perfectly civilised lunch around a table in an elegant dining room just so they could stand about in the garden?

  Beyond the French doors he could make out perhaps a dozen people in shirt sleeves and sleeveless summer dresses standing in a group on the lawn. The men all wore brightly coloured silk scarves tucked into their open-necked shirts like a badge that announced their BBC-ness. Everyone looked very young. Cecil paused a moment in the doorway.

  ‘Cecil.’

  One member of the circle broke free and came over to him.

  ‘Felicity. How are you?’

  Brother and sister greeted each other with a slight kiss on the cheek and a vague touch of hands then stepped apart.

  Felicity looked unwell. The sunshine did not suit her. Her frame, always on the slim side, looked almost gaunt; her skin, always on the pale side, took on an unhealthy pallor in the sudden brightness of this September afternoon. And she had a knack for wearing something unflattering. Today it was a floral print frock with very short sleeves gathered at the shoulders and a hat of some undistinguished design in an unwise shade of mauve. One couldn’t quite put one’s finger on what exactly didn’t work—no doubt Harriet could, that was very much her line of country—one simply knew that in a fashion sense Felicity rarely pulled it off.

  She smiled at him now a trifle wearily. ‘I’m quite well, thank you, Cecil. We’re having a fork lunch in the garden. I know you’ll hate it,’ she said simply and resignedly as though such trials must be borne quietly and with the minimum of fuss.

  ‘Ah well. Can’t be helped.’ No use denying his dislike of it. ‘Leo’s idea?’

  ‘Naturally … Harriet, my dear. How are you? Hello, Anne darling.’

  When Felicity leant over to kiss her, Anne shied away in horror and ducked behind her mother. Clearly disconcerted, Felicity straightened up and smoothed down her skirt.

  ‘Is Anne perhaps a little overwrought?’

  ‘Oh, I dare say,’ said Harriet, to whom Anne’s behaviour had long ceased to be a subject for comment.

  ‘And Julius. My! How you’ve grown!’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s inevitable, Aunt Felicity,’ said Julius, thrusting his hands into his pockets in his man-of-the-world stance. ‘At our age one never stays the same height.’

  ‘It’s really not our fault,’ explained Anne, wiping a smear of scarlet lipstick from her cheek then studying her reddened fingertips thoughtfully.

  Felicity laughed, her head back, her mouth slightly open, her lips remaining in a perfectly straight line and Anne and Julius observed her with polite interest. Cecil smiled. It really was a pity she and Mumford had no children of their own, Felicity was good with the youngsters. Most women were, of course, but Felicity had that something extra—an ability to get down to their level; yes, that was it in a nutshell.

  And it no doubt explained the extraordinary success of the hippo.

  ‘Would you like to help yourselves to lemonade, children?’ she said. ‘There’s a lovely lot of strawberry ice-cream for afters, too,’ she added and Anne and Julius smiled obligingly. They wandered off in the direction indicated by Felicity, where a long trestle table was set up, covered with a white cloth and a mountain of perfectly good food that was about to be spoiled by wasps and flies and falling leaves and pollen and, oh yes, if they were really lucky, a summer shower.

  Julius was humming to himself. It was a familiar tune though for a moment Cecil couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘And you, Cecil? What would you like to drink? Leo will try to force a martini on you.’

  It was the hippo song, of course, that Julius was humming. Hip, hip, hip hooray! It’s hip hip hippo day! Or something like that. And there was a second line too though Cecil couldn’t quite remember the words. Daft, really, but the children appeared to like it. He glanced at Felicity as she poured him a drink but she appeared not to have heard Julius’s rendition of her theme song. Not Felicity’s theme song really, the Hippo and Friends theme song.

  ‘Bit early for martinis, isn’t it?’ he repeated, for something to say.

  Hippo and Friends was a popular children’s television program broadcast by the BBC at five o’clock on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Felicity was the presenter. It was a ludicrous sort of profession really, but there you were—not everyone could be, nor wished to be, a doctor or a policeman or to work in a law firm or a shipping firm. No doubt the war was largely to blame—Felicity had been in the ATS manning a battery in Victoria during much of it and, by all accounts, had acquitted herself awfully well. He had expected that once the war was over she would marry and have a family—most of those young girls did, eventually. Instead she had landed a job in radio—the announcer between programs. She had that sort of voice—more BBC than the BBC itself. And that was where she had met Leo. Now of course there was Television, which was purely for entertainment, and most people didn’t even own, nor wished to own, a set, and yet here she was presenting a program about a hippo. And his friends.

  Hip, hip, hip hooray. Damn catchy tune, though.

  Harriet stepped into the garden and came over already carrying a martini. She moved gracefully in white shoes with a wicked stiletto heel that spiked the lawn as effectively as a golf tee would on the centre court at Wimbledon. But as the lawn was already pocked it was reasonable to assume every other lady had on similar shoes—except Felicity—and that Leo wasn’t overly concerned. Or hadn’t properly thought through his plan, which was more likely.

  Harriet shot Cecil a glance (oh Lord, the Rocastle thing!) and for a moment it appeared certain she was going to come over to demand an explanation. He prepared to produce his nothing-to-worry-about smile. But she veered off at the last moment and he saw with surprise that Simon was here.

  Relieved, he took a sip of lemonade. ‘Certainly wasn’t expecting to see Simon here,’ he remarked to Felicity, who had remained standing beside him and looked in no hurry to return to her guests.

  ‘Oh yes. He and Leo have become quite chummy,’ she replied and it was hard to tell if she approved of this chumminess or not. ‘The BBC is doing a program about Spitfires.’

  ‘Good God, not another one? Haven’t we heard enough about the war? Surely there can’t be any more stories left to tell?’

  ‘Apparently there are. At any rate, Leo has lined Simon up to be technical advisor.’

  ‘Well,’ was all Cecil could think of to say. What he wanted to say was, why in God’s name would Simon Paget wish to get himself caught up in some ghastly Television program? Did Harriet know about this? Quite probably she did. She did have an unnerving habit of dropping some revelation into the conversation and then making one feel foolish for not having known it oneself: Oh yes I’ve known that for simply ages—did you really not know? It was unsettling. And Paget was Harriet’s brother, after all. Yet Cecil had an idea she didn’t know. He had another idea that she wouldn’t actually care one way or the other.

  Did he himself care? In light of what had happened this m
orning? Damn Rocastle for putting them—for putting him—in this frightful position.

  ‘There you are, old man,’ said Mumford, reappearing at his elbow and waving his martini glass before him like a divining rod. ‘I hear things are not as one might hope on the work front?’

  Cecil froze and felt an uncomfortable tightening of the chest. How the devil could Leo know about the Rocastle thing? Could Harriet have said something? He kept his expression blank and concentrated on making the tightness go away.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I prefer not to discuss such things now, Mumford,’ he replied, with an attempt at a smile to soften his words.

  ‘But it’s all over the papers, old man.’

  Cecil blanched.

  ‘The United States,’ Mumford prompted. ‘Made the Atlantic crossing in under four days! Extraordinary when you think about it. Think there’s any way back for your lot?’

  The Blue Riband. Of course. Cecil allowed various internal organs a moment or two to steady themselves.

  ‘Certainly there’s a way back,’ he bristled. ‘Do you really believe American engineering can defeat British?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ replied Mumford, with obvious surprise.

  Cecil took a long sip of his lemonade.

  ‘I see Simon Paget is here,’ he remarked, choosing to pass over his brother-in-law’s facetiousness.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mumford gulped down his martini. Then he winked. ‘Pompous old boy, just between you and I, Ceece, but he’s proving very useful. We’ve made him technical advisor, you know, on this Spitfire drama.’

  So it was true. Simon working for the BBC. And he a bone fide Battle of Britain hero.

  ‘And how exactly does he square it with the Palace?’ Cecil enquired. His brother-in-law worked in some sort of protocol capacity at Buckingham Palace, a position that entailed spending a great deal of time on the telephone to various obscure foreign embassies, consulates and trade missions.

  ‘No idea,’ said Mumford breezily. ‘He does it in his spare time. Don’t suppose they know—or care.’

  Cecil frankly doubted this. A Palace employee assisting in the making of a fictional Television drama? Hardly appropriate, one would have thought.

  ‘It’s pretty exciting stuff, actually,’ Mumford went on. ‘Much of the action takes place in the air, well, in the cockpit really, and as we can’t actually fly the things—none of them are airworthy nowadays—we do the entire thing in the studio. Camera peering in through the cockpit window, chap on a wind machine at the front, another chap on sound effects—roar of engines, radio static, ack-ack-ack of enemy machine guns, that sort of thing—and chaps three and four on either side of the cockpit rocking it back and forth to simulate flight. Ingenious, isn’t it?’

  Was it? Was a team of ‘chaps’ rocking a broken down old aircraft back and forth in a television studio the crowning achievement of human endeavour?

  And meanwhile Rocastle had opened the safe in his office and absconded with who knew how many bonds and shares—not to mention the firm’s reputation. Cecil said nothing.

  ‘Have a martini, old boy,’ said Mumford.

  Cecil hesitated. Felicity, he noticed, had drifted off inside the house.

  ‘May I ask you a question, Mumford?’

  ‘Certainly, old boy. Fire away,’ Mumford replied, reaching behind him for an olive.

  But it was impossible. What on earth could one possible say to Mumford?

  The silence was broken by an unpleasant squelch as Leo bit into the olive. Cecil felt slightly nauseated.

  ‘Who on earth is that extraordinary creature in the hat?’ he said instead.

  They both looked over at a young woman in an enormous hat who was standing in a circle of Mumford’s BBC-types blowing smoke rings and looking bored.

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea,’ Leo replied. ‘Group Captain Paget brought her. Quite a girl, isn’t she?’

  Simon had brought a girl? First the BBC and now this! And she must be fifteen years his junior at least. But then one was led to believe the girls loved all that flying ace sort of thing. Cecil felt faintly disturbed by it all.

  ‘I had thought this was to be a quiet family luncheon, old boy.’

  ‘Had you? Yes, Felicity said you would detest it.’

  Cecil felt a second flicker of annoyance at this betrayal.

  ‘Well, better be the good host,’ said Mumford, darting off.

  I ought to go and say hello to Simon, Cecil thought. He could see his wife and her brother deep in conversation, Simon debonair in a smart dark-grey suit, all snow-white shirt collars and stiff creases. His Battle of Britain days were well behind him, but he still cut quite a figure. No doubt that was how one landed a job at the Palace.

  At this moment he was frowning and looking across the garden, perhaps at the extraordinary girl in the hat, and Harriet was frowning too, though she was looking at Simon. She touched his arm to get his attention again, but when she noticed Julius making his way over to them she fell silent and looked away.

  ‘Hello, Uncle Simes. How’s it hanging?’ called Julius, sauntering over.

  ‘Julius. How are you, old man?’ Simon pulled a pipe out of his jacket pocket and placed it in his mouth.

  Harriet appeared irritated by the interruption, but she gave Julius a brief smile, pulled out a cigarette from her case and lit it.

  ‘I suppose those policemen weren’t here for anything serious, then?’ Julius asked his mother.

  Blast! thought Cecil. Why couldn’t the boy learn some discretion? No chance now of forestalling the inevitable questions.

  ‘Police?’ Simon replied, raising an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘I expect it was serious to them, dear,’ said Harriet, who was a master of deflection.

  No one had yet answered Simon’s question and Cecil moved out of ear-shot before he could ask it a second time. It was simpler to wander over to the food table, sip one’s lemonade and pretend one was taking an awfully long time deciding between the tuna, the shrimp paste or the ham and tomato sandwiches. He studied the array of neatly cut sandwiches and was about to place his faith in the tuna when Julius sauntered past. The boy was munching on a sandwich himself, his shirt open at the neck, and, inexplicably, his shirt collar out over the collar of his blazer in a rather secondary-modern way.

  They stood side by side at the long table, solemnly and silently regarding the plates of slowly curling sandwiches before them. There was, Cecil realised, something rather special in the bond one had with one’s son. It was something to take pride in. It transcended other relationships, perhaps even the bond between man and wife.

  He looked over to his wife who was studying the girl in the hat, over her sunglasses, the way women studied each other if they suspected the other one was more of a hit than they were. The marital bond was an enduring one—they had, after all, set up a home together, raised children together, gone through a war together—but once these things had been achieved, the relationship between a man and a wife naturally, perhaps even by necessity, tended to become more distant. One’s interests, having once coincided, now drifted apart. Like a peace accord between distant nations.

  He paused, his hand hovering over a plate of sandwiches. Was there still a peace accord? It occurred to him Harriet had barely spoken to him since Thursday. And it had taken him till Saturday lunchtime to realise it.

  Beside him, Julius reached for a shrimp paste sandwich on the top of the pile.

  ‘Oh, I should avoid that one, old man,’ Cecil remarked, ‘I saw a fly on it a moment ago.’

  ‘Oh. Right-oh.’

  Julius stuck out a hand and reached over for another sandwich, barely pausing to see what he had picked up from the plate.

  ‘Having a good time?’ Cecil asked.

  ‘Rather,’ replied Julius. The boy hesitated then he spoke, casually addressing the sandwiches. ‘What did that Inspector want, Father?’

  ‘Oh, procedural matters. Just procedure.’

  ‘Procedure fo
r what?’

  ‘Police matters. Julius, do tuck your shirt collar inside your blazer, old boy. Don’t want to look like an East End barrow-boy, do we.’

  ‘No, we most certainly do not,’ said Julius and he made a show of putting his sandwich down on the table and exaggeratedly carrying out this necessary adjustment to his appearance, then walked off.

  Cecil selected a shrimp paste sandwich from some way lower down the pile and inspected it dubiously. He took a hesitant bite, then paused, unable to swallow.

  Was he going to have to lie to the police?

  Chapter Four

  SEPTEMBER 1952

  The following morning Jean Corbett travelled by bus rather than taking the tube, because this was a momentous journey and from a bus you could see where you were and you had time to think.

  The number 11 took her from Liverpool Street into the city past bombsites and half-demolished office blocks and the remains of half a dozen churches. She changed buses at Trafalgar Square and there were no more bombsites. Hyde Park shone brilliantly in the morning sunlight and large, gleaming black cars cruised down Park Lane. In the distance a troop of Horseguards trotted silently through the park and a small crowd of smartly dressed women and small children with their nannies stood and watched.

  This is not my London, she thought, clutching her small case tightly in her lap.

  She arrived too early and had to sit in an ABC café on Old Brompton Road sipping a cup of tea and watching the early risers on their Sunday morning strolls or walking their dogs. No one looked dressed for church.

  At nine o’clock she presented herself at the Wallises’ front door, but instead of pressing the doorbell her index finger paused, midair, refusing to go the last few inches and she found herself glancing to left and right down the length of the street waiting for someone to stop her, for a shout, running feet on the pavement, a policeman’s whistle to pierce the serene Sunday morning stillness.

  She took a deep breath. She had every right to be here, a God-given right. There could be—there must be—no turning back now. Too many years had already passed. She rang the doorbell.