Dancing at the Savoy
By
Daisy Thurbin
Copyright 2015, Daisy Thurbin, All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Where public figures, historical events or places are used, they are used in a fictitious way. Otherwise any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to the VMFA and to my friend Maree Morgan, who introduced me to their splendid exhibits
Acknowledgement
To my wonderful husband, Pat. His tireless efforts, insightful advice, careful scrutiny of every draft and invaluable feedback made this book possible. He remains my harshest critic and my greatest fan. Any errors or inconsistencies that remain are entirely my own.
One
“I say, old man, what say we pop into London and I show you what we do for a good time over here?” James Carrington asked his American friend.
“What about the curfew and blackout?” Guy asked.
“You’re not going to let a little thing like a War stand in the way of possibly meeting the girl of your dreams, are you? I know just the place.”
They had a mandatory 48 hours stand-down and intended to make the most of it. The two flying officers, their spotless uniforms pressed and their shoes buffed to a high gloss, briskly walked the short distance from the officers’ quarters to Uxbridge Station. Forty-five minutes later they stood at the entrance to the Savoy Hotel.
“It looks pretty bare inside. Are you sure they’re open?” The tall lean American with the unruly shock of brown hair asked his friend.
“They’ve made a few adjustments, but I think you’ll find it satisfactory,” James smiled as he opened the glass fronted doors and they entered the dimly lit foyer.
“Sir James, how nice to see you,” the concierge said when they approached his station.
“Business as usual?” James asked mysteriously.
“Best not to use the lift, Sir James; one never knows when we’ll have a power outage.”
Music and the sounds of a party in progress wafted up the stairwell as James led the way down the double flight of stairs to the basement.
Many of the better furnishings that had formerly adorned the hotel’s foyer and corridors now graced the main room of the storage area turned ballroom, and cordoned off sections along the back provided curtained sleeping quarters in what must have been the most well-appointed air raid shelter in London.
“I gather you’ve been here before,” Guy said as they waited to give their drinks order to the barman. “What was all of that Sir James stuff about, anyhow?”
“I must admit I have been here once or twice,” James said as he sidestepped his friend’s question. “My father has an account here. Makes it handy when I’m a bit short.”
He clapped Guy on the shoulder and indicated a table off to the side that had a clear view of the makeshift dance floor.
“I thought everything was meant to be rationed,” Guy said. “What are they doing, raising cattle down here in the basement?” He laughed as they watched a liveried waiter uncover a silver serving platter and expose a large roast of beef with all of the trimmings.
“That only applies to private households,” James explained. “Hotels are exempt. As a matter of fact, my parents have taken an apartment here,” he admitted. “Quite a few of their friends moved in at the start of the War; here or at Claridges’ or the Mayfair.”
Guy looked around. Several obviously well-heeled couples danced to the live band that played the popular swing music that had rapidly spread to Europe with the influx of American servicemen, journalists and personnel attached to the Embassy. Others enjoyed their meals. What appeared to be a wedding party occupied a large round table near the edge of the open area.
“She’s a looker,” Guy said when his eyes fell upon the young woman who sat next to an attractive older version of herself.
“Do you mean Olivia? The Smythes are friends of the family. I was at Harrow with her brother. That’s Thomas on the opposite side of the table with Pippa. They must have moved the wedding forward because of the War. He’s meant to be posted to France later this month.”
“Do you know her?” Guy persisted. “I don’t suppose you could get me an introduction?”
“Alright, then,” James said. “C’mon.”
Olivia had grown into quite a pretty young woman since the last time James had seen her two or three years earlier when he had gone home with Thomas over their spring break; she had been all skinny legs and knees then.
They walked over to the table. James congratulated Thomas and gave Pippa a kiss on the cheek before he introduced Guy to Olivia’s father, Lord Percy Smythe and to her mother, Lady Jane, and to Pippa’s parents and the rest of their party.
“And this is Thomas’s baby sister,” he said as he introduced Guy to Olivia.
Up closer the girl was even more beautiful than from across the room. She wore a sky blue gown of the most delicate gossamer silk that perfectly matched her eyes. Guy was not at all sure what peculiar formalities might be in order. He only knew that if he did not do something he might never get the chance again.
“Sir, may I dance with your daughter?” he blurted out.
“I think you’d do better to ask me that question,” Olivia said confidently as she handed her purse to her mother and got up and held out her gloved hand.
“Tommy and Pippa and Mummy and Daddy already had a dance, and Pippa’s parents as well, but no one danced with me. I was just about to ask our waiter, but Mummy and Daddy would have been scandalized.”
“Do you come here often?” Guy asked.
“We stay here when we’re in London, but most of the time I’m stuck in the country,” Olivia complained. “This War has spoiled everything.”
Guy looked closely at Olivia. She was seventeen or eighteen at most. He had already lost two or three friends in sorties over Germany who were not much older than she was; war was a serious business. But of course, he might well have felt the same as she did if he were still in his teens.
“It’s wonderful how well they’ve decorated it down here,” Guy changed the subject. “When we came in upstairs, it looked like the hotel had practically closed down.”
“Daddy says that they brought most of the more expensive things down here in case it gets bombed,” Olivia explained. “That’s my favourite.” She pointed in the direction of a long ebony table that sat against the wall near the door where they had come in. In the centre was a small Tiffany lamp below a gilded mirror that hung on the wall above it.
“When I get married I want one exactly like that for my entrance hall.”
“Well, I’m sure you shall have,” he laughed.
“Are you in the RAF like James?” She asked as she held her head a bit back and took in the Lieutenant’s bars on his collar and the stripes on his cuffs.
“I was,” he admitted. “I wasn’t meant to, us being neutral and all. But now America’s in the War, the US Army Air Corps’ taken most of us into the regular American service, but some of us are still attached to RAF squadrons."
“I wish they’d let us girls fly airplanes. It all sounds very exciting.”
“Actually, some women do fly, but I don’t expect your parents would want to have you out there risking your life,” Guy said. “As I understand, your brother will soon be headed off to fight in France.”
“That’s why he and Pippa wanted to get married now. Of cours
e it wasn’t like a real wedding with hundreds of people.”
“You don’t have someone back home waiting to marry you or anything?” Guy asked.
“Certainly not,” Olivia replied. “All of the best ones are off fighting in the war; and besides, I don’t intend marrying anyone who doesn’t have enough gumption to do something daring,” she said.
“I don’t suppose you’d write to me after you and your family go back home,” he said after they had danced together several times.
“Of course I will, silly; but there’s really no need,” she said. “You can visit us in Leicestershire.”
“Maybe I will,” he said.
Guy had found her enchanting. She was too young, of course, but he had only to look at her mother to see the woman she would grow into. He could wait.
***
“Did you look at the roster?” Guy asked.
“Yeah; looks like the big boys are making a bombing run over Dresden. It’s thick as pea soup out there right now. I just hope it clears a bit or we won’t even find the Channel, let alone keep those Jerries away from our chaps.”
“Just stick with me and I’ll show you how it’s done,” the American laughed as he pulled on his flight suit and checked to make sure he had everything.
The two pilots had flown more than a hundred and fifty missions each. James had downed two German planes with his Super Marine Spitfire and Guy had three kills marked on the fuselage of his plane. They had lost three members of their squadron in the past month, but that was nothing compared to some. The RAF had been so desperate for men to fly their planes that they had accepted boys no more than nineteen with less than thirty hours in the air, and it had taken its toll. One squadron had lost all but two pilots; four had been downed on their very first mission.
It had cleared a bit by the time they took off. The run was uneventful. Then, just as they turned for home, James saw an enemy Messerschmitt appear from nowhere. He looked across at the cockpit of Guy’s plane and when he caught his friend’s attention he pointed off at their three o’clock. Guy nodded and did an aileron roll and peeled off to the left. James knew the signal. He would lure the German plane west while Guy circled around and sneaked up behind.
It was all going according to plan until they hit a cloud bank. When he came out the other side, the fighter was no longer tracking him. He banked hard to make his turn. The German plane had disappeared. Then he spied Guy off to his right. He was just about to slide in closer when he saw the Messerschmitt bearing down hard on his friend’s tail.
James tried to get more speed from his plane. If he could just get behind the Messerschmitt before the German got in close enough to fire, perhaps he could pull off the first round. He banked hard. As he bore down on the plane, he heard the familiar rat, tat, tat; then he watched as the German plane disappeared into the clouds at his ten o’clock. He thought he saw Guy’s plane level out for just a few seconds. For one brief moment it appeared that Guy might have it under control. The Spitfire choked once or twice. Then, silence before it made the all too familiar downward spiral, black smoke streaming out behind as it plummeted towards the Channel below. It was the last time that James saw his friend. He flew as low over the water as he dared, looking for any sign that Guy had somehow escaped. When the needle on his fuel gauge pointed dangerously to the red zone, he reluctantly pulled back up to normal cruising altitude and flew back to base.
It had been a banner day for the Allied forces. The bombing of Dresden had marked a turning point in the War. James tried to celebrate with the others when they heard the news of their success on the wireless that evening. Unfortunately it had not been a success for everyone.
James filled out his report and gave it to his Commanding Officer. He wrote only that he had seen Guy’s plane go down over the Channel, approximately twenty kilometers from the English Coast. He said that there was a chance that the pilot could have survived, although he admitted that he had not spotted the wreckage. He knew that the policy was to leave the matter open unless it was confirmed one way or the other.
For a long time after that last sortie over the Channel, James hoped that his friend had somehow miraculously escaped; that either he’d been picked up by one of the air sea rescue boats or else been captured by the Germans.
James and Guy had been as close as brothers. He was aware of the frequent trips that Guy had made to Leicestershire whenever they had a break from flying duty. He also knew that Guy and Olivia regularly exchanged letters. A few days before that last mission, Guy had confided that he had fallen in love with Olivia Smythe and that they planned to be married as soon as the war ended.
Guy had shown a box to him that he kept under his bed. It was not that big, perhaps a foot and a half long and a little less than that in width and girth. James had watched the ritual whenever one of Olivia’s letters arrived in the post. Guy would read it and then reread it several times. Then he would slide the box out from under his bed, open it and remove the growing packet of letters that he kept inside tied with a piece of parachute twine. He would remove the entire bundle, carefully untie it and add Olivia’s latest letter to the pile. Then he would carefully re-tie the bow and replace it in the box before he returned it to its place beneath the bed. He had not told James what else he kept in the box, but he had said that it contained a present for Olivia. He told James that he was saving it to give to her after the War. He had also told him that if he should get shot down and killed, that he wanted James to see that she got the box and all its contents, and as he put it, ‘to consider it a wedding present from him to her and the lucky man she married someday’.
James had not sent the box right away. In his mind, if he did that, it was tantamount to admitting that Guy was dead. He had put off any mention that Guy’s plane had been shot down whenever he wrote to his family or to his friend, Thomas. In his mind that would make it a reality. Until then, he could think that his friend had somehow escaped unscathed. But it had been more than two weeks now, and sooner or later people were bound to question why there had been no word from him.
Until the day that Guy’s plane had gone down, he and Guy, like so many other young pilots, had thought that theirs was the best job in the world: a chance to defend King and Country as they pitted their skill and wits against the pilots of the Luftwaffe. James still felt a certain rush of excitement when he walked out onto the apron and climbed into the cockpit. But without his best friend to share their daring experiences, flying had lost much of its appeal. Now, more than anything else, he simply wanted the costly War to end.
On a cold overcast February day, after a particularly hazardous sortie over the Channel, he received a letter addressed to him from Olivia Smythe. James steeled himself and tore open the envelope that was stamped 25 February 1945.
Dear James,
I have had no reply from Guy to my last two letters. I am so worried. Please write to me and tell me if he has been injured, or worse. I cannot bear not knowing. I hope this letter finds you well. Mummy and Daddy and Tommy and Pippa send their regards.
Yours sincerely,
Olivia
James had flown thirty missions since the day that Guy’s plane had been lost. He was due for a forty-eight hour compulsory stand-down. He confirmed that he was not on the roster with his Commanding Officer before he telephoned his family to say that he would be there the following evening. He told them not to expect him until dinner on the Saturday because he had some personal things to attend to first.
James packed only a small bag with a few essential items. He still kept most of his civilian clothes at the country estate where his parents lived in Leicestershire. He gathered Guy’s box under his left arm and picked up his suitcase with the other hand. He had asked that a staff car collect him from his quarters at the base and take him to Uxbridge Station at nine that morning.
When he spoke with his Mother, he had asked that no one else be invited to their home during his visit. He was not in a celebratory frame of min
d. The missions that he had flown over the Channel had been hard. The one that he was about to carry out was far more difficult.
____________________
Two
Samantha set her alarm for seven o’clock. Caroline and Ella would get there sometime around midday and she wanted to clear her desk before they arrived. She took care of her ablutions, made her bed and then went down to prepare breakfast for herself and Pushkin.
“No point in trying to hurry me,” she admonished as her pushy cat insistently pressed against her legs and loudly protested the delay while she rinsed his bowl and replenished the water before she opened the Whiskas packet.
“There you go,” she said as she sat his little pewter bowl on the rubber mat and gave his arched back a quick stroke before she retrieved the bran flakes from the cupboard. She glanced up at the kitchen clock. Just gone seven-thirty. She pulled out the hide-a-bed in the back room and made it up with the crisp white sheets she kept downstairs in the utility room. She refolded the sofa before she set fresh towels and an assortment of toiletries and a hairdryer on the countertop above the washing machine. She checked to make certain that the bathroom was in order and that she had remembered to remove the ironing board from its usual spot behind the curtain inside the downstairs shower. She gave a cursory look around the makeshift guestroom; it would have to do. Samantha seldom had overnight visitors. Her Cousin Julie had stayed there when she visited from America and Ella had spent a few days with her when she was searching out a flat in Oxford, but otherwise she used the space as a cosy TV room and general chilling out spot.
Her guest accommodation sorted, she returned to the kitchen and removed the necessary ingredients for lunch from the fridge. Fortunately Marks had done all of the hard work. She had only to assemble the fresh seafood salads and set the table. Now that her domestic duties were under control she could look forward to going back upstairs to her office and getting stuck into her work.
Dancing at the Savoy: A Samantha Duncan Mystery (Samantha Duncan Mysteries Book 9) Page 1