Happy Little Bluebirds

by Louise Levene

  Alphonse quick-stepped through the door, pulled the hairpins from Evelyn’s head and teased out the fuzzy mass of dark hair, complaining Gallically and extravagantly about the state of la coiffure de Madame. Who, pray, had cut it last? His accent was more Marseilles than Rue de la Paix (the e at the end of Madame was very characteristic).

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember …’ stammered Evelyn – her second lie that day (‘my sister-in-law’ would have been the correct answer). ‘Why do you ask?’

  The twitch of his lips was as slight as he could make it but the moue was magnified by his music-hall moustaches. He pulled her hair this way and that and said that Miss Jones must do sum-sing about Madame’s sourcils (the eyebrows were the architraves to the windows of the soul, n’est ce pas?).

  Evelyn surrendered herself to being combed and tweezed and poked. She tried to avoid her reflection but if she looked down she saw the tiled floor furring over with alarming quantities of hair and if she closed her eyes she became aware of a strong, open-wide whiff of surgical spirit that conjured Silas back into being.

  One of the pink girls handed her a magazine called House Beautiful whose ‘Hollywood Special Issue’ featured a ten-page glimpse of ‘Raymond Games’s lovely Bel Air home’ which had just been remodelled by Wally Grendon, ‘decorator to the stars’. A journalist called Myra Manning had spent the day with Mr and Mrs Games ‘and their pedigree Sealyhams Whisky and Soda’. Games, who would be playing King Arthur in the forthcoming Knights of Love, was pictured with his charming wife Cynthia in a variety of gaudy sports clothes playing croquet or pretending to weed the fern dell or mixing brightly coloured cocktails in his smoked-oak saloon bar (‘“Cynthia has a shocking weakness for orange curaçao,” laughs the Englishman in his booming baritone’). Elsewhere in the magazine, a man called Kramer was showing off the paintings in his ‘famous blue salon’. A golden-haired child star called Rindy McGee was swallow diving into a heart-shaped swimming pool and a woman called Magda Malo was explaining that she maintained her figure by adhering to a strict no-solids regime every weekend.

  ‘Et voilà!’ cried a delighted Alphonse. ‘Très belle!’

  After ninety minutes of snipping and teasing, the little Frenchman finally handed scissors and comb to his assistant and stepped back to admire his work.

  ‘And wizz a leetle twist comme ça –’ he skewered the whole thing into a sort of cottage-loaf arrangement with some species of tortoiseshell toasting fork ‘– Madame est en grande toilette. Très simple, très elegante, n’est ce pas?’

  ‘Oui.’ (‘Keep the old parley-voo under your hat.’)

  ‘Et du maquillage, non?’ A wag of the finger. ‘Très important.’

  Her face did look pasty and undercooked after Monsieur had finished and so when Evelyn had tipped her way out of his salon she paid a visit to the hotel’s ‘beauty booth’ where she bought a box of face powder and the lipstick (hat-red) that the young woman recommended. Silas would have frowned upon the whole transaction.

  Luncheon was about to be served in the Maple Room where waiters waltzed between tables to the glockenspiel chink of Bohemian crystal, balancing domed silver trays on the palms of their raised hands. The maître d’ checked his reservations.

  ‘Is Madame joining anyone?’

  ‘That’s all right, François, the lady’s with me!’ The voice, as English as brown soup, rang out through the marbled hall as a slim young man loped towards her. ‘Mrs Murdoch? Mrs Dandelion Murdoch? Allow me to introduce myself: Fitzmorton, Jeremy Fitzmorton.’

  Jeremy Fitzmorton would have been invisible at the Savoy but here passers-by turned to look at him, social antennae alerted by the alien tailoring, his swaggerless, un-American walk.

  ‘Can you face lunch this early? Perhaps François will stretch a point and let us have elevenses? The pastry chef here is a definite force for good. Viennese, they tell me … Tea? Tea for two, François.’

  ‘I was told to look out for the hat,’ he said as they sat down, ‘or I doubt I’d have spotted you from HQ’s description.’

  Evelyn looked over at one of the swagged and cherubed mirrors that lined the room and poked uncertainly at Alphonse’s handiwork, wondering what HQ had said about her. Her new eyebrows made her look much younger suddenly and very slightly surprised (pleasantly so).

  Jeremy Fitzmorton took a cigarette from the Turkish side of his case and screwed it into a holder (seaweed amber, no less).

  ‘Now then. As was doubtless explained, you shouldn’t really be here at all – you’re what we call an “illegal” and this is hardly the place for amateurs. If that wasn’t bad enough, it seems the whole thing is turning into a sort of ghastly sex comedy.’

  Hat feathers quivered at nearby tables and he dropped his voice to an almost ventriloqual murmur: ‘As you probably know by now, HQ were hoping for a boy but I suppose it may all turn out to be for the best. Selecting operatives for this sort of task has never been what you’d call an exact science – my opposite number back in London spends a fair amount of time steaming open enemy communications and sealing them up again and he picks his girls according to the slenderness of their ankles. More likely to be neat, d’you see?’

  He sat back in his chair and frowned down at Evelyn’s feet but perked up as the waiter materialised with a double-decker tray of fancy cakes.

  ‘What were you actually up to back home? Or was it all something so-secret-you-can’t-possibly-say? If I had half a crown for every little gin and French who told me she was doing something hush-hush in Hertfordshire, I could …’ He drifted off, thinking of all those half crowns, and helped them both to a large éclair. Silas had never been keen on cream cake.

  ‘Nine languages, eh? I only managed three – unless you count Esperanto which none of us does. Esperanto is a serious waste of time. I should know: six months of my life completely wasted. Do you speak Esperanto? Of course you do …’

  Mr Fitzmorton forked up the last bite of éclair and pushed his plate away.

  ‘Right then: to business. Mr Zandor Kiss divides his time between his own studio in West London and the Miracle men in Hollywood, and his aim in life – entirely unofficially – is to get the Yanks on side by showing the old country in the best possible light – you saw the Florence Nightingale thing? Quite. Now this is all well and good provided Kiss is kept on a short leash – as he was while Colonel Peyton was there to keep an eye on him – but he’s been sailing pretty close to the wind lately – the villains in his latest film all have little black moustaches. This did not escape the notice of our friends at the Los Angeles German legation whose days are spent sniffing out that kind of thing and reporting back to their pet isolationists – money men, senators, newspaper columnists and so forth – and generally doing what they can to get Kiss and his ilk in the bad books of the Senate Committee who take a very dim view of all that. They will eat him for breakfast and his influential friends aren’t likely to come to his rescue – not with the election six weeks away. The very last thing we needed was the addition of a rogue operative.’

  He paused for a moment and tonged a slice of millefeuille on to a clean plate. ‘You mustn’t take offence, Mrs Murdoch, but if anybody had asked my opinion (which they never do) I should have said that placing anyone, male or female, in California-of-all-places was an extremely stupid, potentially dangerous idea. Los Angeles is teeming with Kraut diplomats and fifth columnists – even the waiters, sometimes.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘Still, it can’t be helped. You’re here now and we can’t very well post you back again. New York will have to take you if the worst comes to the worst – Lady Genista could probably find something for you to do.’

  ‘Lady Genista?’

  Evelyn scraped her pastry fork across the plate to salvage every delicious scrap of cream.

  ‘Your guide in New York. Lady Genista Broome. Earl of Tring’s youngest – first earl of course, but you can’t have everything.’

  ‘I had no idea. She didn’t specify.’

/>   ‘Her type never do, then grouch about you afterwards. No matter. Between you, me and the gatepost she’s not long for HQ: being transferred to Library Services – and lucky to get it. She’s pretty enough – if you like that sort of thing – but if she ever bets anyone she can spell “manoeuvre” she’s going to lose her shirt.’

  Evelyn was to keep her head down, nose clean, eyes peeled and ears to the ground. HQ were to be kept informed – informally informed – should anything of genuine interest arise but she wasn’t to go looking for it and under no circumstances should she draw attention to herself or attempt any sort of heroics (she hadn’t the training). Her mail (as she was probably by now aware) would be bypassing the usual channels and would be paged across to her in a sealed studio document wallet. She was to reply by the same route.

  ‘On the whole we’d rather you destroyed anything you’re sent but I expect your work in postal censorship should alert you to what’s what.’

  There was a tiny blob of crème Chantilly on his upper lip.

  ‘The studio are sending a car to meet the train at Pasadena station at eight thirty-five ack emma the day after tomorrow. They’ve arranged a desk for you in the writers’ wing. This is the key to the Colonel’s office which will ensure a modicum of privacy. There’s a designated external line – the red telephone, I think he said – so you could book a trunk call in extremis but the calls still have to go via the city exchange. If you do have to make contact, be as circumspect as it is possible for you to be: no names, no addresses, no details. The mere fact you’ve phoned will put HQ on the alert.

  ‘You were given some pocket money? Kiss will be paying you $1,200 in cash via studio messenger on the seventh of each month – keeps you off the books, I suppose, but best to keep it quiet. You’ve been written into the plot as some sort of expert assistant. These will probably have their uses.’

  He handed over a tortoiseshell case filled with a selection of business cards: Evelyn J. Murdoch: Voice Culture; Evelyn J. Murdoch: Special Projects; Evelyn J. Murdoch: Consultant.

  ‘But consultant what?’

  ‘Whatever your little heart desires. Fencing? Knot gardens? Harpsichord tuning? Stained glass? Deportment?’ He looked at her shoes again and sighed heavily. ‘Or something. It’s an absolute madhouse, Saucy says. Voice culture is as good a front as any – so don’t be afraid to talk up that angle. And always assume, as Lord Curzon used to say: no one ever questions a fait accompli. It’s Colonel Peyton’s motto and it’s damned good advice.

  ‘Saucy won’t actually be there when you arrive – if at all. He volunteered to head up a new department – anything to get away from La Broome, I suspect – so he’ll be in Bermuda for the foreseeable.’

  ‘Doing what?’ wondered Evelyn.

  ‘None of your business. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but we like to operate on a strict need-to-know basis and you really don’t need to know.’

  ‘Yes, but what if someone asks about him at the studio?’

  ‘Lie. And don’t whatever you do refer to him as “Colonel”. Mister Peyton will suffice, or HP if you feel up to it – they’re awfully keen on initials.

  ‘Now then. There’s been no word from the studio on your billet but you’ll find them all terribly hospitable.’ Fitzmorton, already a veteran of eight months of hands-across-the-sea hospitality, uttered the word in an almost disapproving undertone. ‘But I expect you will be spoiled for choice: guest wings, pool houses or possibly some species of bungalow – their back gardens are infested with the things. If I hear anything I’ll wire the train but if not the driver who meets you should have all the gen and someone at the Miracle office is sorting you out a motor …’

  ‘And will Mr Kiss be at the studio?’

  ‘He’s away on location all this week but will make himself known at a party on Sunday evening – venue to be advised. Then you’re due to attend a special meeting on Monday morning where Mr K plans to discuss proposals for new films that present an opportunity to generally wave the flag, so you’ll need to familiarise yourself with these.’

  Fitzmorton reached down for his briefcase and extracted a small book bound in plain brown paper and two red folders: Duchess in the Dirt and The Boy in the Iron Mask.

  ‘Basically you’re to run your eye over those and blue-pencil anything that isn’t quite like Mother makes: Anne of Austria chewing gum, Louis XIII on a Western saddle, that kind of thing. They like to show due diligence on the historical front but chances are they will carry on regardless, Saucy says.’

  Silas would have relished pointing out all the wrong bayonets.

  The book in the brown wrapper was a pocket edition of The War of the Worlds.

  ‘Everyone at HQ was struggling to think of a suitable property that didn’t involve goose-stepping Normans or Philip of Spain in jackboots and then Saucy had a brainwave, genius really. Haven’t read it since prep school but I seem to remember Woking getting razed to the ground by the Martian blitzkrieg. You’re from that part of the world, aren’t you? California should make an extremely pleasant change: very clement weather and vast quantities of fruit. Ask nicely and they air-freight it back to Blighty for you in little crates.’

  Jeremy Fitzmorton gave a last look at his checklist, folded it lengthways and lit his next cigarette with it while Evelyn gazed about her. The lunchtime clientèle in the Maple Room was mostly female but there were two men in deep discussion at a corner table and one of them had a lean, tanned face she recognised. The young German from the New York train platform was seated with his back to the room but had taken care to position himself beneath one of the immense gilt looking glasses. He was watching the door but Evelyn was firmly in his line of sight. He would surely have seen her – he’d have remembered the hat if nothing else. What did one do? How best to alert Fitzmorton without arousing suspicion? She thought of silent film stars who mimed one thing but said another: Ronald Colman reciting cricket scores to Vilma Bánky while kissing his way up her arm.

  She flashed Fitzmorton an uncertain smile, edged forward and grasped his hand. He flinched in alarm.

  ‘A man in the corner.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘Your Lady Whatsit pointed him out at the station in New York. He and another man were on the platform and I got the impression that they recognised her. He was in the train lounge yesterday evening and he seemed to be watching me.’ Evelyn ducked her head further. ‘Seemed odd.’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Fitzmorton. ‘Recognised her ladyship, you say? Awkward. They must have run across her in Los Angeles during the summer. Her visit was very ill-advised.’

  Fitzmorton toyed absently with Evelyn’s fingers while she rechecked the mirror from beneath her hat brim.

  ‘He can definitely see us.’

  Fitzmorton pressed her hand to his lips.

  ‘Describe. I can’t turn round.’

  ‘Tanned, fair, tall, early twenties. The man with him is wearing a bow tie in a blue and white lozenge pattern.’

  He brushed his cheek against her knuckles.

  ‘Sounds absolutely ghastly.’

  ‘It’s the Bavarian flag.’

  ‘Well spotted.’ He played for time, kissing each fingertip in turn. ‘Not the fool you look.’

  ‘And there is a long scar down his left cheek.’

  ‘Is there, by Jove?’

  Evelyn had always thought it a strange coincidence that all duelling scars should be the same – like the slashes in the top of a baguette – until it was explained to her that cadets did it to one another at Kriegsschule. Like sailors having tattoos or a gang of shop girls all having their ears pierced.

  Fitzmorton caught sight of the electric wall clock.

  ‘Crikey. Nearly half one: I ought to be getting back. Your train’s not until seven fifteen; you should probably keep to your room.’

  He picked up Evelyn’s cigarette packet and tumbled it thoughtfully in his long fingers.

  ‘Used to smoke those at school. Filthy things. And a frightful giveaway.’ He d
ropped them into his pocket. ‘We’ll get you fixed up at the kiosk.’

  He took her hand and guided her past the desk and a battery of gleaming fire extinguishers partially concealed by a glade of potted ferns.

  ‘Taking no chances. The previous building burned to a crisp about a week after the grand opening: three hundred dead all told – even their own dentists didn’t know them.’

  Odd, thought Evelyn, how often people mentioned dentistry. Like everyone banging on about cancer when her father died.

  He kept hold of her hand while he bought her some American cigarettes and made her choose a smart enamel case to put them in. He then walked with her to the reception desk to retrieve the key to her new room.

  ‘You’ll find that California can get quite chilly at times, darling,’ said Mr Fitzmorton, patting at Evelyn’s fox stole and still very much in matinée-idol mode. ‘Especially near the coast.’ He slid an arm about her waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her cheek while he looked back into the Maple Room behind her.

  ‘Yes, I see the chap now,’ he muttered. ‘Sure it’s the same one?’

  ‘Yes. Your colleague was quite agitated.’

  ‘Mmm … not a face I recognise. Try not to fret. It may be nothing – her ladyship can be somewhat excitable. They get that way at HQ sometimes. They forget that nearly thirty per cent of the population here has its roots in the Fatherland – more than half in some states. Doesn’t do to get too worked up about it but keep your guard up and remember to keep cavey on the plume de ma tante front.’ A final absent-minded kiss on the cheek. ‘We must have a proper lunch on your way back.’ He made it sound days away.

  *

  Evelyn took the next few meals in her Super Chief compartment. The train was not due to stop for passengers until it reached California so she was surprised when they slowed down to a halt at the town of Albuquerque, New Mexico just after four o’clock the next day. Even when the train hadn’t stopped, there were always people lining the platforms of the stations they passed through, watching the famous locomotive glide by like disappointed passengers who had misread the timetable. There were far more of them than usual in Albuquerque. A group of Red Indians gathered around the train windows hawking moccasins and primitive pots but were bundled off the platform by a brass band and a regiment of women wearing gardenias as big as football rosettes who were massed beneath a banner informing anyone passing that ‘Albuquerque Women’s Club welcomes Sybil Harper’. A very small child in Shirley Temple ringlets and an obscenely short frock was waiting to present the guest of honour with a bouquet of yucca flowers.