by Lily Baxter
Elsie sank down on the sofa, staring at Marian wide-eyed. ‘You go out to work?’
‘Yes, I’m a secretary at the War Office. Of course I had to bluff my way in as I can’t type and I’ve no idea how to write shorthand, but I’m managing very well.’ She hesitated, staring hard at Elsie. ‘I’m assuming you must have found employment of some kind too.’
‘I’m an interpreter, helping the Belgian refugees.’
‘Good for you. But it obviously doesn’t pay very well.’
Silenced by a bout of coughing, Elsie shook her head.
Marianne sat down beside her. ‘Look, Elsie. I don’t want to patronise you or to interfere in your life, but you and I grew up in the same village. You might say that we’re sisters under the skin, and I don’t like leaving you in a place like this when you’re obviously unwell.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Elsie murmured, sneezing into a hanky. ‘I’ve got the rest of the day off.’
‘It’s less than a week until Christmas. Have you anywhere to go other than here?’
‘I’m working every day and I’m helping to organise a party for the refugees in the East End on Christmas Eve.’
‘I’m staying in a lovely large flat in Cromwell Road. Anthea’s aunt is a darling and very public-spirited – she’s gone to France to entertain the troops.’ Marianne rose to her feet with a determined look on her pretty face. ‘I can’t leave you here like this. You must come with me now and spend Christmas with us.’
Elsie was momentarily lost for words. ‘I – I have to go to work.’
‘Nonsense, you’re sick. I’d be happy to telephone your boss and explain.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I can’t impose. Besides which, your friend might object.’
‘Anthea will be off somewhere with her boyfriend, Tubby McAvoy, and Henri is returning to France in the morning, so I’ll be left all alone.’ Marianne held out her hand. ‘Come on, Elsie. Leave a note for your friend and pack a few things in a bag. I’m not leaving you here, and that’s that.’
Felicia Wilby’s flat was situated on the third floor of a five-storey terrace built in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, or so the caretaker informed Elsie at length when they arrived at the house in Cromwell Road. He encompassed the echoing marble-tiled entrance hall with a wave of his hand. ‘This establishment has electricity and internal plumbing,’ he said proudly. ‘Leave your luggage and I’ll send the boy up with it when he returns from his errand.’
‘Thank you, Bailey,’ Marianne said, meeting his curious gaze with a smile as she dropped Elsie’s cardboard suitcase at his feet. ‘Come along, Elsie. There are quite a lot of stairs to climb to the third floor.’
Elsie followed her to the foot of the wide marble staircase. Looking up, she could see a seemingly endless set of landings framed by iron banisters and polished mahogany balustrades. As they made their way upwards Elsie could only be glad that Miss Wilby’s flat was on the third floor and not at the top of the building. Marianne was ahead of her but moving slowly, hampered by her hobble skirt and muttering about the impracticability of such a stupid fashion. ‘Why can’t we wear trousers like men?’ She rang the doorbell. ‘I must get Felicia to give me a key.’
A maidservant ushered them in. ‘Miss Wilby is in the drawing room, Miss Winter.’
Elsie looked round in awe. The main entrance hall might be on a grand scale, but this much smaller version was decorated and furnished in a style that she recognised as art nouveau. In quiet moments, when there was no danger of being caught idling by Mrs Tranter, she had leafed through Josephine Winter’s magazines and had admired such glamorous interiors.
The manor house was grand in its own way, but Felicia Wilby’s home spoke of taste, refinement and above all, money. The walls were painted off-white, and the parquet floor was stained and varnished to a glassy sheen. Crystal chandeliers had been replaced by rainbow-coloured Tiffany lampshades, and rather odd-shaped chairs, with high backs shining with black lacquer, stood sentinel either side of the double doors which led into the drawing room.
Anthea Wilby was sitting in a chintz-covered armchair, reading a book. She looked up and smiled. ‘Marianne. I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to, and I see you’ve brought a friend with you.’
‘Anthea, this is Elsie Mead. She’s the brilliant person who bobbed my hair.’
Anthea rose to her feet and shook Elsie’s hand. ‘How do you do, Elsie? You might like to have a go at mine sometime. I’m sick of having hair down to my waist.’
‘Leave her alone, Anthea. The poor thing has the most ghastly cough and cold. I just hope it isn’t flu. Anyway, she needs looking after and I thought she could have the spare room for a few days.’
‘Absolutely fine by me, darling. I’ll be out most of the time anyway. Tubby’s making noises about joining the Royal Flying Corps and I’m trying to dissuade him. I’d rather have a live boyfriend than a dead hero.’
‘Wouldn’t we all?’ Marianne said, chuckling. She turned to Elsie with a bright smile. ‘I’ll show you your room. Bailey should have sent your luggage up by now. He’s a pet but don’t get him talking or he’ll never stop.’ She opened the door and led Elsie to a room at the end of a wide corridor. ‘This is yours,’ she said, ushering her inside. ‘The bathroom is opposite, and I’m next door, so if you need anything you only have to call out.’
‘Thank you, Miss Marianne.’
‘It’s just Marianne. We’re both working girls now, so we’re equal.’ Marianne patted her on the shoulder. ‘A couple of days’ rest and a comfy bed will do wonders for you, old thing. Dinner’s at seven thirty, but do join us in the drawing room when you feel up to it.’
‘Thank you, Marianne. I really am grateful.’ Elsie stepped over the threshold with an involuntary gasp of surprise and pleasure. Somehow she had expected to be consigned to a box room at best, and it was hard to believe that this light, airy space was for her alone. The stylised rose pattern of the wallpaper was repeated in the curtains and the upholstery of the chaise longue placed beneath the tall window. Down below she could hear the traffic in the busy Cromwell Road, and found it oddly comforting. She turned to examine the burr-walnut dressing table, which boasted a triple mirror, and, as if that was not luxury enough, there was also a tall cheval glass. She tested the bed, perching on the edge of the mattress. It was soft and yet springy, and the sheets were the finest Egyptian cotton, and the coverlet quilted pink satin. She had to pinch her arm to realise she was not dreaming, but to have a double bed to herself seemed almost sinful. Not so long ago she had slept on straw-filled sacks on the dirt floor of Tan Cottage.
After several days in bed, Elsie woke up one morning feeling much better, and after a luxurious bath in an elegant modern bathroom with a seemingly endless supply of hot water, she dried herself on soft fluffy towels. She dressed, brushed her hair and made her way to the dining room. Marianne and Anthea were just finishing their breakfasts.
‘You’re up,’ Marianne said, buttering a slice of toast. ‘You look more like your old self.’
‘I feel a million times better,’ Elsie said, smiling. ‘I’ve never felt so pampered in my whole life.’
Anthea glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Golly, is it that time already?’ She jumped up from the table and brushed crumbs from her uniform jacket. ‘It’s time I wasn’t here.’ She gave Elsie a friendly smile. ‘You’re looking well. Quite different from the poor bedraggled creature you were when you arrived.’
‘I feel so much better; thanks to you both.’
‘It’s good to see you up and about. Sit down and have some breakfast.’ Marianne raised a teacup to her lips, sipped, and put it down with a clatter. ‘I’m off in a minute as well, but I hope we’re finishing early as it’s Christmas Eve.’
‘Toodle-pip, old thing,’ Anthea said, making for the door. ‘I’ve got to dash because I’m on duty in fifteen minutes. I’ll see you at Frascati’s this evening.’ She rushed out of the room.
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‘What does she do?’ Elsie asked curiously.
‘She’s a despatch rider. Tubby has a motorcycle and he taught her how to ride, so she applied for the job and got it.’ Marianne put her cup back on its saucer. ‘We’re all doing war work of one kind or another.’
‘And you’re a secretary at the War Office?’
‘I am indeed. Anyway, about this evening, you’ll come with us, won’t you, Elsie?’
Elsie took her seat at the table. In front of her a boiled egg sat beneath an embroidered cosy. She looked up, startled. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I thought I told you about it, but maybe I forgot. Anyway, it’s a Christmas party at Frascati’s. Do you know it?’
Elsie took the cover off her egg and tapped the top with a spoon. ‘The only places I know in London are the Lyons teashops.’
‘Then this will be an experience. It’s a very nice restaurant.’
‘You’re not serious, are you?’
Marianne raised an eyebrow. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s awfully kind of you and Anthea to have me here, but I don’t expect to be included in your social life.’
‘Surely you don’t want to stay in the flat with Cook? Even Violet is going out on Christmas Eve.’
Elsie sliced the top off her egg. ‘I don’t know any of your friends and I haven’t got anything to wear.’
‘You know Anthea, and you’ll meet Tubby, he’s a hoot. Then there’s Algy, my date for this evening, and there’ll probably be one or two others.’
‘It’s very nice of you to invite me, but …’
‘No buts. You’re coming with us, Elsie. I’ve got a wardrobe full of evening dresses and you can borrow one if you like. We’re much the same size and height.’ Marianne’s determined expression melted into a persuasive smile. ‘Come on, Elsie. Say you’ll come. Anyway, you’ll be doing me a favour because one of the girls at work has dropped out, and you’ll even up the numbers.’
Elsie paused with the spoon halfway to her lips. ‘Put like that, how can I refuse?’
‘Good girl. You might even enjoy it.’ Marianne stood up and reached for her handbag. Despite what Marianne had said about her lack of training, Elsie thought that she looked every inch the efficient secretary in a high-necked cream blouse worn beneath a smart and doubtless very expensive navy-blue two-piece. Marianne’s bobbed blonde hair shone like silk, and a touch of rouge on her cheeks and a hint of lipstick emphasised the delicate bloom of youth and good health. ‘I’m a complete fraud,’ she said, smiling. ‘I can only type with two fingers and I write in longhand, telling my boss off if he dictates too fast, but somehow I muddle along.’ She looked round as the door opened and Violet sidled into the room. ‘We’re not ready to clear the table yet, Violet.’
‘It’s not that, miss. I wanted to catch you before you left for work.’
‘Can’t it wait? I’ll be late if I don’t hurry.’
‘It’s just that I want to give a week’s notice, miss.’ Violet eyed her warily. ‘I’ve got a job in munitions at Woolwich Arsenal.’
‘Good heavens, why?’
‘The pay is good, and I can live at home. I’ll be doing my duty for king and country too.’
Marianne shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, well. Jolly good for you. I’m sure we’ll manage. Now I really must fly.’ She hesitated in the doorway. ‘Miss Mead will be borrowing one of my evening dresses, Violet. Could you show her where they are?’
‘Yes, miss. Of course.’ Violet waited until Marianne had left the room. She picked up the coffee pot. ‘Would you like some fresh coffee, miss?’
‘Yes, please.’ Elsie plucked a slice of toast from the silver rack. ‘Where do your family live, Violet?’
‘In Woolwich, miss. That’s why I want to work nearer home. Mum hasn’t been too well and I could help with the nippers.’
‘I expect you’d like to be with them today, wouldn’t you?’
‘I have to work, miss.’
‘I think you should go home and be with your family. I’ll do whatever it is you usually do.’
Violet stared at her wide-eyed. ‘You’re joking, miss.’
‘I’m deadly serious. I’ve nothing to do today and you can’t teach me anything about cleaning and housework. Go home, Violet. Enjoy your family Christmas.’
‘What will Miss Winter say?’
‘Leave Miss Winter to me.’
‘It’s really kind of you, miss. I dunno if I ought to, but if you’re sure …’
‘I’m quite sure.’
‘I’ll show you Miss Winter’s wardrobe first, and then I’ll introduce you to Cook. She’s a nice old soul, and easy to get on with as long as you don’t get in her way.’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’
That evening the hackney carriage dropped Marianne and Elsie off outside Frascati’s restaurant in Oxford Street, and the doorman rushed forward to shield them from the rain with his umbrella. The weather might be cold and wet but warmth and light enveloped them as they entered the magnificent vestibule. Columns sculpted with caryatids supported the arched ceiling, and crystal chandeliers spread pools of shimmering light on the thick red carpet. The air was redolent with the fragrance of expensive perfume and pomade. Their outer garments were spirited off by a cloakroom attendant and they were escorted into the Winter Garden where Marianne’s friend Algy waited to greet them. He kissed Marianne on the cheek but when he saw Elsie he looked from one to the other in amazement. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a sister, Marianne.’
‘It’s a common mistake,’ she said airily. ‘This is my childhood friend, Elsie Mead.’ She turned to Elsie with an encouraging smile. ‘And this of course is Algernon Fortescue-Brown, known to his friends as Algy.’
He took Elsie’s hand with a courtly bow. ‘How do you do, Miss Mead? I’m so sorry to stare, but the likeness is quite astonishing. You might well be twins.’
‘How do you do?’ Elsie wondered vaguely if she was supposed to curtsey, but Algy’s friendly manner was disarming and she smiled. ‘A lot of people have said so but we can’t see it ourselves.’
‘I’m dying for a drink, darling,’ Marianne said sweetly. ‘You promised me nothing but champagne this evening. Remember?’
‘Of course. Nothing but the best for you, Marianne, my dear.’ He proffered an arm to each of them. ‘What a lucky chap I am to have the company of two beautiful young ladies.’
‘You’re a dreadful flatterer,’ Marianne said, smiling. ‘But it’s only the truth, after all.’ She shot a sideways glance at Elsie when they reached their table on the edge of the dance floor. ‘I hate to admit it, but you look far better in that gown than I ever did.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second,’ Elsie said, chuckling. ‘But thank you, Marianne. I really appreciate all this.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ Algy demanded, handing them each a glass of champagne.
‘Nothing important,’ Marianne said, raising her glass. ‘Happy Christmas, darling.’
Elsie echoed the toast and took a seat, watching the couples gyrating on the dance floor. Music and laughter filled the air and clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke wafted upwards into the glass dome. She looked round at the well-dressed people who were out to enjoy themselves, seemingly oblivious to the fact that war was raging on the other side of the English Channel, and that the rain beating down on London might also be drenching the troops in the trenches. Everyone, it seemed, including Marianne and Algy, was laughing and chatting as if nothing in the world would ever change. She looked up with a start as Anthea arrived at their table with Tubby in tow. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone,’ she said, smiling. ‘This is lovely, Algy. How kind of you to invite us to your party.’
He rose to his feet, holding out a chair for her. ‘Thank you for coming, Anthea. I see you’ve brought old Tubby with you.’
‘Less of the old,’ Tubby said, grinning.
‘We’re an odd number, Al
gy,’ Marianne said, looking round. ‘I thought you’d invited one of your eligible bachelor friends?’
‘I did and he’s just arrived.’ Algy waved to a man who was threading his way through the crowd. ‘I invited Guy Gifford. He’s a good chap, but he keeps himself to himself. I thought this might bring him out of his shell. He doesn’t seem to have much of a social life.’ He moved towards him holding out his hand. ‘Guy, old chap. Glad you could make it.’
‘I didn’t realise it was such a formal party, Algy.’ Guy cast an anxious eye over the men’s evening dress. ‘I came straight from the office and didn’t have time to change.’
Elsie sensed his discomfort, even though he hid it well. Marianne’s friends had been charm itself, but she still felt like the odd one out.
‘Never mind, old chap. It’s my fault; I should have put you straight.’ Algy slapped him on the back. ‘I think you know everyone, except this lovely young lady, who’s a friend of Marianne’s. Elsie Mead, Guy Gifford.’
‘How do you do?’ Elsie was not sure whether etiquette required her to shake hands with a strange man, but she held hers out.
‘How do you do?’ Guy shook her hand and his features were transformed by a charming smile. Elsie warmed to him instantly. No one could call him handsome, but he had nice eyes. She could not decide whether they were brown or hazel, and his softly waving hair was a shade between dark blond and warm chestnut. He was the sort of man it would be easy to walk past in the street, but his smile would be hard to forget.
‘There’s an empty chair beside Elsie.’ Algy patted Guy on the shoulder. ‘Sit down and have a glass of bubbly.’
‘It’s nice to see you again, Guy.’ Marianne turned to Algy, holding up her empty glass. ‘Top-up, please, darling. It is Christmas and we have to enjoy ourselves. It’s compulsory, especially in wartime.’
‘You do talk a lot of rot, Marianne,’ Anthea said, chuckling. ‘I’d like to dance. How about it, Tubby?’
‘Of course, my dear. Only too happy to oblige.’ He rose to his feet and led her onto the dance floor.