The Diamond Waterfall

by Pamela Haines

  And suddenly, here he was. The beloved, looking so wonderful in his uniform. Better even than in white tie and tails.

  They sat for a while drinking sherry. The major seemed boring. He stared at Teddy a lot. The best, Willow thought, was knowing Gerry watched her all the time as she talked and laughed—and sneezed.

  “Bless you,” the major said predictably.

  Gerry said, “You know what I heard, blast it? No Douglas Byng after all. He’s been pinched for a charity do.”

  “Oh,” Willow said, looking at him. “Oh well. Worse things happen at sea.”

  It was a moonlit night. They got into taxis. The Café de Paris was underground, in Coventry Street, off Piccadilly. A cinema above it. As they went down the long flight of stairs to the foyer, Gerry said, “Know what this place used to be, darling?”

  “No.”

  “A bear pit. Honestly. That’s why it’s below ground, sunken like this.” “All to the good these days,” the major said. “We shan’t hear a damn thing.”

  Willow came out of the cloakroom and stepped onto the balcony encircling the restaurant. Gerry stood beside her and said, “I’m the captain, this is the bridge of my ship. I’m looking down on the quarterdeck …”

  “You are silly,” she said. Then: “I’m so happy, and excited.”

  The double curved stairway led down to the dance floor and tables. The bandstand was between the stairs. Teddy and her major went down first. Willow wondered if he perhaps bored her? He seemed, even as a companion for someone of forty, rather heavy going. When they were home again, she and Teddy might have a laugh about him.

  The mirrors around the walls gave a sparkling effect. Most of the men dining and dancing were in uniform. There were even a few kilts. It was very crowded—and very exciting. Willow thought, I like it that way, squeezing Gerry’s hand as they sat down at their table.

  He said, looking around, “That’s another thing. This whole decor and everything, when they first turned it into a ballroom—1910 or 1911—it got modeled on the dining and ballroom of the Titanic—first class, of course— which was just being built. That’s what I meant by being captain on the bridge.”

  “You do know a lot,” she said.

  “Brother John told me. He’s a mine of information on all such matters. And on the best dancing places.”

  Teddy was ordering cocktails. Willow said, “I want to try a Between the Sheets.”

  Raoul asked what that was. Teddy didn’t know. The major said he thought Willow would be better to have a Maiden’s Blush. Isabelle frowned as if not quite understanding, and then laughed. She had a frank, infectious laugh. Gerry said, laughing too, “Willow’s only ordering that sort of thing because she thinks it’s smart.”

  Teddy said, “Cocktails were meant to be wildly decadent when I was young, but Mother always said the fast set among the Edwardians—she may have included herself—had been drinking them for years.”

  The music was Ken Johnson and his Caribbean Band. Snakehips Johnson, he was known as. “Isn’t he wonderful?” Gerry said. “His ‘Snakehips Swing.’ One of us should tell him it’s your birthday, Isabelle. He might play a request.”

  Teddy said, “I’ve got this mad urge to sing to him, ‘Tell me, are you from Georgetown?’ which he is, to the tune of ‘Tell Me, Are You from Georgia?’” She paused. “I used to have that sort of cheek.”

  Gerry asked, “Did you never want to sing and dance, Mrs. Nicolson, like your mother?”

  “We’re not concentrating on food,” Teddy said. “If we don’t give our order soon …”

  The major said, “Drink’s easy. We’re sticking to champagne. Beats me, though, why you spoil a fine taste with cocktails.”

  When they’d finally made up their minds, Raoul asked very politely if the lamb would be pink: “If it will be brown I don’t choose …” Isabelle told him off. “You’ve escaped from the Germans—and you worry about pink lamb!”

  “But that’s what it’s being—to be free,” he protested. Isabelle held a cigarette out for him to light, shrugging her shoulders, laughing. Seeing Teddy take one out too, the major fumbled for his lighter.

  “While we’re waiting,” Teddy said, “I’ll just go and have a quick word with Harry—”

  “Harry?”

  “McElhone. Harry’s New York Bar. The Rue Daunou. He got out when the Germans came. Raoul, you’re Parisian, you’ll know. He’s barman here now.”

  Willow didn’t enjoy her Between the Sheets, and she made Gerry drink most of it. The major said, “I told you you should have a Maiden’s Blush.” But by this time the first of the champagne had arrived. Seeing it beaded, bubbling in her glass, she felt a sudden surge of happiness.

  “Willow,” cried Teddy, coming back now to the table, “you’ll never guess who’s here!”

  “Reverend Mutt from Our Lady of V.”

  “Darling, no. Jay. With a glamorous blonde. They’re at the bar, just arrived. And he’s in uniform. Ours. He’s a horse gunner. He came back last May. He’s wicked, I said to him, not telling us a thing. In a little, when they’ve ordered, he’s coming over to talk.”

  She explained Jay to the others, how they were always losing touch. “I sang lullabies to him and his brother Harry, once upon a time. More recently, he was dreadfully kind to Willow when she was in a fix, just after Munich.”

  Willow thought, I want to see him, I want to show him Gerry. She thought too that she’d like to be seen by Jay in her glamour. Grown up.

  As their first course was served, Teddy said, “By the way, there’s an alert outside, Jay says. The banshees are wailing.”

  “Couldn’t be in a better place,” the major said. “Good as a shelter.” The waiter brought another bottle of champagne. Rattle of the ice bucket. “Champers, that’s the stuff.”

  Raoul had lit up after finishing his soup. He seemed a heavy smoker, like Teddy. Willow thought of becoming one too. So far she’d never managed to keep a cigarette alight.

  Her champagne glass was full. Gerry looked across at her and then, as the music started: “I’m going to ask the birthday girl for a dance, darling,” he said. He turned: “Isabelle?”

  She felt a sickening wave of jealousy. Isabelle, in her red dancing frock, so poised, so vivacious, her hair just right. Her hands, small, neat, the nails well shaped, a vivid scarlet. Why do I bite mine? Gerry had remarked on it. Tomorrow, I shall stop.

  Before the evening began, I was so certain … As the band struck up “Oh, Johnny, Oh”: I can’t bear it, she thought. Gerry and I love this song. Gerry has the Orrin Tucker record at home. We’ve played it together. He could have, should have, asked me!

  As Gerry swept Isabelle onto the floor, away out of sight: “Oh Johnny, oh Johnny, how you can love …” Raoul smiled at Willow. She thought, He’s going to ask me. She was trying to decide if she should say yes (he was after all shorter than she—they might look odd) when, stubbing out his cigarette, he turned to Teddy. As they moved off, Willow thought, he just wants to chatter in French.

  She was left with the major.

  “You’re not handsome it’s true, but when I look at you, I just …”

  “Old tune, this,” he said, wiping his moustache. “’14—’18—goes back to the last show.”

  “And when you’re near I just can’t sit still a minute, …”

  The rhythm was bouncy, and she wanted to bounce. She imagined herself out on the floor there. Why can’t …

  When she said nothing, the major went on, “Not too keen on this sort of dancing. But—been to worse spots. Dreadful, some of them. Shuffling around, floor the size of a dumb waiter.”

  “You make my sad heart jump with joy …”

  The major drummed his fingers on the table. “The Times goes up to threepence next month. Bad, that. The whole world’s going to pot.”

  Second chorus now. “Oh Johnny, oh Johnny, please tell me, dear, what makes me love you so …”

  Willow, feet tap-tapping, craned to try and s
ee Isabelle and Gerry. They must be over by the band. Gerry might be trying to get a request. Stemming her irritation, she said, “Can’t you read it in your mess or club or whatever? Save money that way?” What an old fogey he was.

  “My dear girl …” he began.

  She lifted her glass. And then it happened.

  Something … her head … as if she’d been kicked by a giant. Then suddenly—darkness.

  Where am I? She was sitting on the ground, in the silence, half-light. Eerie silence. At the table she could see the major. He stared at her. He was staring and staring, covered in dust. She was covered in dust. Everything … She opened her mouth to call out—but no sound came. It’s the silence of death, we are all dead. She saw the major’s mouth move. She couldn’t turn her head. His mouth opened and shut.

  How long was it? Minutes, seconds? Her head felt loose suddenly—it trembled, jerked from side to side, uncontrollably.

  Then screams, groans, wave upon wave of sound—as if suddenly a door had opened somewhere. More, more. She could turn her head properly now. She saw that something terrible had happened.

  Just near her, a figure lay twisted, bleeding. Blood everywhere. Someone screaming, louder than the others, above the whimpers. Still the major didn’t move.

  Her mouth was full of dust. Dust coated everything. She said thickly, “Teddy, where’s Teddy?” Reaching out, wanting to shake the major. She was afraid to move from where she was. Something worse might happen. A voice behind said, “Bombs, they were bombs.”

  But where was Teddy? And Gerry, oh where was Gerry? She called out, “Gerry—where are you?” Her legs buckled under as she stood up. She went a few yards on her hands and knees. She saw her hand was covered with blood. Not my own, not my own. Just as it’s not me screaming.

  She stood up again. The waist of her dress was ripped. Her foot caught in it, so that she stumbled. A man in a kilt helped her up. “Where’s my Aunt Teddy?” she sobbed. “Don’t fret,” he said. “We’ll find her.” Before she could speak again he was gone.

  She could see light now up on the balcony. But oh, the balcony—it was about to fall. Bodies, people everywhere. Somewhere was Teddy. And Gerry and …

  A woman’s voice, whimpering, “Help, help, here. Someone help!”

  She saw the woman was holding the bloody head of a man.

  “I can’t, I don’t—I’ll try and do something.” She saw then a large man in khaki was helping, lifting the man.

  “Oh, where’s Teddy?” she sobbed. “Please, where’s—”

  From behind a squeaky-voiced young man cried, “They’re dead, all dead, this table. Look, all dead.” Excited, almost hysterical. She looked quickly. But they’re alive, she thought. She did not want to look again.

  A hand came around her shoulder.

  “Hey there, Willow. Willow, are you O.K.?”

  She turned, and then clung to him. “Oh Jay.” Her voice was someone else’s. “Jay, oh Jay. Teddy—”

  “O.K. O.K., Willow—Laura and I, we’ll help you find her.” A blond girl came up beside him.

  “We’re fine,” she said. “God, if we weren’t lucky. We’re trying to give a hand now, Jay’s doing what he can.”

  Willow held on to Jay still. “The far end, by the band, I haven’t been … Gerry was dancing …”

  They made their way nearer to the double staircases. She made out one side, blocked with dust and debris.

  The flare of a cigarette lighter. A man, sitting on the floor near them.

  “Put that out. At once.” Jay’s voice, peremptory, sharp, the voice of authority. “For Chrissake, we’ll all go up. Gas. Gas.”

  Then suddenly: Teddy, black hair white with dust, clasping Willow to her like a mother. “Darling, darling!”

  She had Raoul with her. Jay said, “Thank God—”

  Willow sobbed, “Your major’s all right, I saw he was all right.”

  Teddy said, “I’ve been there—to the table, looking for you. But he couldn’t talk. He’s …” She held Willow close. “Darling—Gerry and Isabella-”

  “Where’s Gerry? I was just going. I—”

  “Don’t go. Not that way. Isabelle—” Her voice raggedy. “Gerry too … Both of them.”

  “I want to see. Where’s Gerry? Where is he?”

  “Hush,” Teddy was saying. “Hush. You don’t want …”

  “They’re not dead, they can’t be dead!”

  She was never sure how she got through the next hour.

  Teddy kept saying angrily, “The ambulances—why aren’t they here?” She couldn’t understand, she said. Her own section was just nearby.

  Teddy, Jay, and Laura too were the efficient ones. Raoul and Willow just did as they were told. Raoul seemed stunned, bewildered. Someone had rigged up a spotlight. They congregated there. Dinner napkins, torn-up tablecloths—they used them as rough bandages, or to staunch blood. Champagne poured over a wound, cleansing it. “Alcohol, any you can find,” Teddy said. “That’ll do.” Stretchers were made from screens.

  Jay was directing things, Teddy too. Willow found that because of them, she too could help, be calm, seem all right.

  She had a cut on her neck—it must have come from a piece of glass. She couldn’t feel anything but she saw now that there was blood on her dress as well as the blood from the people she was helping. … It didn’t hurt at all. There was a lot of glass about, broken. Great jagged pieces, slivers like stilettos.

  And over all—a horrible bitter, pungent smell which stung her nostrils.

  The major was given more brandy. He continued to sit in absolute silence. Willow wanted to ask Can he talk? She thought with horror—he might be dumb for the remainder of his life.

  She said, “Imagine, Isabelle escaping from France—and then this.” As she spoke her mouth kept drying up. She was shaking. She said twice, “Say he’s not dead, they’re not dead.” She thought then, They never let me see Mummy. I saw her in the prison hospital while she was ill. But afterward, when she died, I never saw her.

  They left the Café de Paris, staggering up from that same entrance that only a few hours earlier …

  A girl who had followed them up said to her partner, “I don’t give a damn. You have to show them. I’m going on to the Suivi, I’m going to keep on dancing. Grab a taxi, would you, darling?”

  People had congregated, it was only natural, if disgusting. Jay put his arm around Willow. Laura and Raoul, and Teddy and her major came up behind. Perhaps there weren’t as many people as she thought—there only seemed a lot. But it was as if they pressed on her and Jay—on all of them, as they came out. Her eyes met those of a fat man in a blue muffler, his mouth half open in curiosity.

  The six of them went into a hotel nearby. A number of survivors of the raid were already there. She walked dizzily, supported still by Jay. Once she turned her head: a looking glass on her left. She said, “Oh, who’s that?” in a foolish trembling voice. Scarecrow almost, blue organza in stained tatters, white dust over all, blond hair gone a grayish yellow, an aging face. Blood ran down her neck.

  Teddy was in a fury still. “Jay, I have to tell Isabelle’s parents—”

  Gerry’s family. Willow said, “Who’s telling Gerry’s family, parents? I can’t—you won’t expect …”

  She sat in a chair. Brandy, she had to sip brandy. They looked at her neck more closely. She had said over and over it was nothing, that it was other people’s blood. But Jay said now that it almost certainly needed stitching. Charing Cross Hospital was dealing with the casualties. He said he’d take her. Laura, who seemed easy and friendly and eager to help, said she would come too. Teddy was taking care of the major, and Raoul, who still seemed in shock.

  At the hospital they asked her if she wanted to stay in for the night. They said that she too was in shock.

  She told the nurse who was attending to her, “Last time I was stitched up was when Tootles bolted with me.” (Oh easy nuisance … no matter of life and death then.)

 
“Well, what about staying in, Willow, and resting?”

  But she wanted to go back home to Teddy.

  “Tell me Gerry’s not dead,” she said flatly.

  “If I did, it wouldn’t help,” Jay said. “Look, little cousin—”

  She felt numb still. Not just where they had stitched her neck, but all over.

  She knew she didn’t believe about Gerry and Isabelle. It isn’t true, she said to herself, how can it be true? I can’t bear it to be true.

  23

  “And when you turned and looked at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square …”

  Teddy’s dress was crepe, in a vivid orange. The bodice ruched, the shoulders wide and padded. Large bishop sleeves billowed as she danced.

  Dancing. She had thought once, I shall never dance again. I never expected to want to, ever. She told her escort:

  “Nearly two years ago now, to the day. The Café de Paris. Thirty dead— sixty or so wounded. Two killed out of our party of six. And I’m angry still. It produced in me such a rage against the enemy, like nothing in the last war, nothing I saw in the Blitz. It’s irrational, but I have this hatred now, of all things German. Nazi—no, German. If I could actually do something.”

  “You seem to me to be doing a lot. Working all hours …”

  He was a colonel, in his mid-forties. She’d met him a few times before, refused two dates, and now given in. He was pleasant, even if he didn’t dance well.

  “There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang …”

  She said, “Dreadfully sentimental, but can you imagine an evening without their playing it?”

  His grip tightened slightly. “Who started it all?”

  “That revue, New Faces. Dunkirk time, about. Someone called Judy Campbell sang it. And then all that blitzing of Berkeley Square.”