The Daisy Club
Page 10
There was a short pause while Aunt Maude turned and stared out of the library window, and Daisy caught her breath, and tried to pretend that her heart was not racing. Somewhere in the house she could hear one of the maids pounding about with the upright vacuum cleaner; somewhere in the garden a bird was singing; distantly, someone like herself was flying an aeroplane. Daisy thought of this, and started to speak – then paused. Finally, not wishing to be either angry, or emotional, or anything else, really, she turned on her heel and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. If Aunt Maude disinherited her, so be it. She would be disinherited.
The following morning, after an uneasy day, and a much more uneasy night, she walked past Aunt Maude with a determined air.
‘I think you should know I am going to Bramsfield aerodrome this morning, for another flying lesson, Aunt Maude, and I will be back in time for luncheon.’
Aunt Maude watched her walk smartly through the double front doors out on to the steps, before turning to one of the maids, who was hanging around the dining-room door with a tray, watching what was going on with some interest, before going in to clear. Maude turned to her.
‘You can leave that, Bowles. Leave clearing the dining room for the moment, and follow me.’
They climbed the stairs in silence, Bowles following Miss Maude, while still for some reason carrying her large wooden tray.
Her mistress stopped outside Miss Daisy’s door.
‘You can put the tray down for the moment, Bowles. We have other work to do.’
Bowles stared at her in astonishment. ‘We’ have other work?
‘Yes, Bowles,’ Maude replied to the maid’s unspoken question. ‘We, that is you and I, are going to pack up Miss Daisy’s things, so that when she returns from Bramsfield, she will be all ready, and packed, everything just so, in order to leave the Hall before luncheon.’
Maude did not add ‘for good’, simply because the age-old habit of not telling servants more than they needed to know still pertained. Bowles and Pattern, and all the rest of them, would find out soon enough that Miss Daisy had been disinherited, but not from her.
Besides, knowing how fond Bowles and all the others were of Daisy, Maude did not want tears. More than that, they might beg for her to be forgiven, which could never happen. Daisy could not be forgiven for defying her.
Aurelia might have decided to join Freddie in donning naval uniform, but since the Wrens were still in abeyance, the two of them were forced to return to Twistleton Court for the weeks running up to Christmas. Freddie could not help regretting this, but Aurelia was deeply grateful, since it brought her back within Guy Athlone’s divine orbit. She supposed that he must be going to entertain widely during the festive season, and would be in need of extra hands to help out at the farmhouse.
‘The dachshunds do not need to be on their leashes all the time, you know,’ Jessica told Freddie, almost apologetically, as the dogs rushed out to greet them on their eventual return from London, where Freddie had been staying with Aurelia. ‘It was all in Blossom’s mind, this great army of dachshund haters who were going to kick them to death because they were German.’
‘It has happened in London—’
‘It most certainly has, Aurelia, but not, I think you will find, in Twistleton. The people of Twistleton are far too kind to do such a thing to a dumb animal.’
No one would argue with Jessica on the subject of Twistleton or the kindly folk who lived there. The Valentynes had lived there even longer than the Beresfords, in fact longer than anyone, except perhaps the sheep, whose ancestors dated back to time immemorial, their faces carved with loving care by travelling craftsmen employed to decorate the ancient church stalls. Angels might gaze down with beatific expressions, but the sheep in the choir stalls looked out on the congregation with mystical expressions, or, seated close to the Virgin Mary in the crib, helped to keep the infant Jesus warm, while the cow behind the holy family gazed out with bovine content at the blessed people of Twistleton.
‘You look most modish, Freddie dearest.’
Aunt Jessica’s expression was not particularly disapproving, but it was cool.
Freddie saw this at once, and looked embarrassed.
‘In fact you look almost soigné I would say, Freddie, and you, too, Aurelia, your coats and skirts are really quite up-to-the-minute.’
Freddie did a twirl. It was a pathetic effort to cheer up Aunt Jessica, which it singularly failed to do.
‘Your hair looks very nice up,’ Jessica continued. ‘And yours, too, Aurelia, very nice. Very tidy.’
Both girls looked at each other, hoping against hope that, although they were not wearing lipstick, Aunt Jessica would not notice that they were wearing face powder, and that as a consequence Freddie’s freckles had quite disappeared.
Of course Jessica had noticed, and straight away, but she was more concerned with how on earth Freddie had come by such a stylish coat and skirt, not to mention shoes and handbag, since on her allowance it just would not have been possible to buy such things.
‘Mrs Smith-Jones took us both to her tailor just off Bond Street,’ Freddie confided, after a quick reassuring glance at Aurelia. ‘She has this tailor who can copy anything, and so quickly. She has only to show him something in a magazine, and that is it, he has made it up in a trice, and so she let us choose, and he made us these. She thinks it ever so important for us to get as many things together as possible – silk stockings, underwear, make—Well, scent, everything, in case the war does come off, because there won’t be anything left, then.’
‘Well, quite.’ Jessica turned on her heel, dachshunds following her with their particular idiosyncratic waddle. ‘How very farsighted of her. I must remember to send her up one of our baskets of produce, by way of thanks, Aurelia. She has obviously been very kind to you both.’
Freddie tried to feel guilty about her new clothes, about her hair having been put up by Mrs Smith-Jones’s maid, about the beautiful hair combs Mrs Smith-Jones had bought her, among so many other things, but she failed, utterly. She felt pretty, and a young woman at last, not a freckly-faced girl with a plait down her back, who only really warranted a pat on the head and an offer of a piece of chocolate.
‘I am so glad you like our coats and skirts, and everything,’ she finally said, when Jessica came to kiss them goodnight.
Jessica glanced towards the wardrobe in Freddie’s bedroom, sensing it was now bulging with fresh purchases, while at the same time resigning herself to the fact. Well, well, nothing more to be said or done. They might as well enjoy these gifts while they could, since God knows what lay ahead of all of them – certainly not expensive presents.
The next morning they were up early, breakfasted early, and the sleep was hardly out of their eyes before they were helping Aunt Jessica roll stacks of bandages.
‘In the Great War we used moss instead of cotton wool, much better to staunch the blood,’ Jessica told them, conversationally, as they worked alongside her. ‘They would dig it up on Dartmoor and then bring it up to the various Red Cross points to help out with the wounded. Very effective it was, too.’
Up until then Aurelia’s bandages might as well have been ribbons, but now they suddenly became real bandages, covered in blood. She stared down at them, feeling vaguely sick.
‘I think, if I may, I will be excused for a minute.’
She slipped out of the room, and after a while both Jessica and Freddie noticed their guest, coated and hatted, smoking a cigarette in the garden.
‘Has something upset her, Freddie?’ Jessica turned to her niece, a look of concern in her eyes. It wasn’t like Aurelia to take French leave.
Freddie looked embarrassed.
‘She’s just not used to thinking about the war, because her parents are always away either in Europe, or in America. They still believe they can stop the war. Of course, Aurelia doesn’t agree with them,’ she went on hastily. ‘But her father’s on the side of Lord Halifax. They would do anything
to be nice to Germany.’
‘Not a very good idea. That kind of talk is no longer a very good idea, Freddie. I only hope that she doesn’t come out with that claptrap down here. She won’t find very many sympathisers.’
‘Daisy’s Aunt Maude thinks the same.’
‘I am all too aware of Maude Beresford’s attitudes. She won’t even take in any evacuees, despite all those empty bedrooms, she just refuses. She will, I think, take in the wounded, which is what happened in the Great War up at the Hall – they turned it into a hospital for wounded officers – but she won’t hear of anything else, just won’t. The committee in charge of this area cannot persuade her otherwise. She seems to be hanging on, hoping, always hoping—’
‘She’s kicked Daisy out without a say-so or a say-nay . . .’
‘Yes, I heard. Where is Daisy now?’
‘She’s dividing her time between the flying lessons at Bramsfield, and staying at a basement flat in London that her godfather has given her.’
‘Poor child.’
‘She can stay there just so long as she doesn’t bother him. He is going mad trying to get people to listen to his ideas, but they won’t. Still, he does approve of her flying lessons. She will be the first to be taken up by him when the time comes, but only so long as she keeps herself to herself. He doesn’t want to know about her, otherwise.’
‘I see. Well, in that case we had better ask her down for Christmas, hadn’t we?’
Freddie nodded, and threw her long plait of brown hair over her shoulder. Outwardly, at least, she was back being tomboy Freddie once more, hair no longer up, freckles to the fore, no face powder. She glanced out into the garden. Aurelia was still smoking. Crikey, that must be her second cigarette. She must be upset.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Freddie. Guy Athlone wants you and whoever happens to be here to help out with a small dinner party tomorrow night. Would you be willing?’
Freddie nodded, and bolted out into the garden. This was just the thing to cheer up Aurelia, a party at her hero’s house.
But the next day the party was cancelled because Guy was detained in London with a bout of flu, and Aurelia and Freddie were dragooned into helping stack tins of corned beef, and beans, and other sturdy foods in Aunt Jessica’s cellar.
‘I never knew cows had corns, but now I realise they must have when you see how many tins they fill,’ Aurelia joked, feigning naivety.
‘Come on, time to go out in the loudspeaker van that Branscombe’s rigged up. We have to yell for people to join the ARP. Apparently, Aunt Jessica says only about four people have volunteered so far. We have to yell at them through the loudspeaker, and then put posters up all over the village. Actually, I don’t think anyone in Twistleton really believes Hitler exists. I think they think he’s just something on the wireless, a comedian on the wireless.’
Aurelia tried to look scandalised, and failed. Besides, it was fun going out in the van with a loudspeaker, particularly when she thought of how it would shock her Hitler-loving parents.
For Guy, having flu over Christmas was a positive relief. He travelled down to Longbridge still with a raging temperature, but with the glorious knowledge that he had the perfect excuse for getting out of having to entertain his neighbours, or to put up bored friends who had been busy angling for invitations since the previous Christmas. The dreary side of it was that he simply did not have the energy to go to see George at ‘the office’, the influenza having left him, as he said, ‘as weak as Mr Chamberlain’. George therefore came to see him.
Under cover of darkness George drove to the farmhouse and, having parked his car, found his way to the far side of the house, where there was a private apartment that very few people knew about.
‘Ah, there you are. I have been scrabbling about outside trying to find a door, any door, a handle, anything,’ George complained, holding up his lighter to see Guy’s face better, as what had looked like just an outline in the ivy swung open, revealing itself to be a door.
‘This door is so well-hidden even I can’t find it,’ Guy told him proudly, opening it a little wider so that light from the self-contained apartment, that Guy had made for himself many years before, spilled on to the gravel outside. ‘Actually the ivy is false. Feel it. Rather good, don’t you think? I nicked it off a film set a few years ago, and very glad I am that I did, since they never paid me for my week’s work, the lice.’ He stopped suddenly in the doorway of his study, making George stop as suddenly behind him. ‘If someone is a louse, is the plural for nasty people lice? Does one ever say ‘what lice!’? No, one does not – strange but true.’
George said nothing, and they continued through Guy’s small writing study to his large, light studio, where he could paint, and think, and make himself small meals in a tiny kitchen off the main room.
It was a perfect place for thinking, being creative, and hiding from the rest of the world – and, even better, it overlooked a lake.
‘No one ever finds me here,’ he told George, who had never been to the studio before, and as a consequence was looking around him in some admiration – at the paintings and the sculpture, pieces collected from all over the world. ‘Here, in the studio, I can be quite alone in my little bit of paradise. I can leave poor old Guy Athlone, the famously witty playwright, in the other part of the house. So relaxing, don’t you see?’
But George wasn’t interested in Guy’s little bit of paradise, nor in his fame, only in what information he had, which, happily, was plentiful.
‘I have a list here.’ Guy put his hand into his pocket and took out a very small diary. ‘For obvious reasons I have noted down the names in such small characters that you will need a magnifying glass to see them.’ He handed a small piece of flimsy paper to George. ‘You will see that beside some names I have written a large ‘A’ for appeaser, and beside others ‘FT’, also for obvious reasons. There are, happily, far more appeasers than there are fellow-travellers. Not many of the latter around at the moment, not since the Spanish Civil War. At least not that I know of, although I might just have been lucky.’
They both knew that, being well-known, Guy was incredibly useful to ‘the office’, since he could mix, and always had done, with any number of different people. He had been used by Operation Z, an entirely privately funded anti-Fascist, anti-Communist organisation, without arousing suspicion, either from left or right. Whether in a crowded pub or a ballroom, everyone saw Guy Athlone as he wished them to: as a consummate lightweight, someone who could not care less about anyone other than himself and his success, and whose main interests were whether or not the Windsor knot had gone out of fashion for gentlemen’s ties, or who might be having an affair with whom. As a matter of fact, that last was certainly of great interest both to Operation Z, and to himself, most especially if national security was involved, which was certainly the case with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and their all-too-recent visit to take tea with Herr Hitler.
‘No Communists, I see,’ George stated, as he carefully placed the thin slip of paper between the pages of his own diary, and closed it by sliding a small pencil back into place at the side.
‘No, no Communists, at least not that I know. I have found, in artistic circles at any rate, that the hammer-and-sickle brigade went out of fashion after the Spanish Civil War, even with the younger chaps. What a nightmare to end up being killed, having fought for the wrong cause! Tucked away in some corner of a foreign field that isn’t for ever England.’
George turned from studying a nearby sculpture of a beautifully draped woman with her hand on the neck of a stag, and gave Guy a surprised look, for although Guy’s tone was, as always, light, it was also filled with disparagement.
‘How many of these people will be coming here for your New Year’s Day thrash?’
‘Oh, I should think as many as I can keep my eye on without feeling “ick”,’ Guy assured him. ‘Oh, and by the way, I also have a new little person in my life, who I think might be useful to us.’
‘No, not that sort of new person, dear boy, far from it. No, this person is a very young beauty, who has taken it into her head to devote her life to me, or at least a few days, or so she told me. I shall use her at the party to listen, and report back to me. It will only seem a game to her, but she might come up with something. The trouble with operating solo, as one does at these things, is one cannot be in two places at once, but by using her, I might well have broken my duck, and you, Georgie boy, might turn out to be really happy with me, which will surely be a miracle of sorts?’
‘As a matter of fact we are all happy with your work, both the Bros and myself,’ George said, accepting a whisky and soda from Guy.
The Bros, as they were always and ever only known within the organisation, were the two men, brothers naturally, who had started Operation Z as long ago as 1931. The anti-Jewish feeling in Europe was such back then, that they had secretly begun to infiltrate various organisations with the sole purpose of getting as many as possible of their own faith to safety, which, to all intents and purposes, usually meant to America.
‘You should be very happy with my work, George, since I never even send in my expenses. Now, let me see, on behalf of the Bros, I have been to America twice, France three times—’
‘Smuggling back cheese as usual, eh?’
‘And Germany, for my sins, once – although never again, not since I have found out that my great-grandmother was a Romany, and that I have an uncle who has always scrupulously avoided associating with the opposite sex. Tut, tut.’
In reality the risks that Guy had run were no joke, which was exactly why he was joking.
‘Here’s to the downfall of Mr Chamberlain, and of all the Fascists who ever lived and breathed in this great country of ours,’ Guy said, after a pause, and quickly drained his own whisky and soda.