My Sweet Valentine

by Annie Groves

  Wilder’s equally irritated, ‘You’re blonde so I thought it would go with your hair,’ didn’t do anything to mend matters.

  Olive recognised that for all that she herself often felt irritated by Dulcie, and even critical of her, just as though she was Dulcie’s mother and not merely her landlady, the sight of someone else betraying that irritation brought an immediate surge of protective emotion towards Dulcie and an increase in her growing dislike for what she often considered to be the less than gentlemanly way in which Wilder treated her.

  As she hugged both girls before they left she whispered discreetly to Dulcie, ‘You could always “forget” about your corsage and leave it in the cloakroom by mistake. To be honest, Dulcie, the diamantè on your dress mean that neither it nor you need any added enhancement.’

  Dulcie had been right about the fur bolero, Olive acknowledged, as she waved the quartet off. It suited the style of her gown perfectly. It was, though, once again the sight of Tilly’s shining happiness that lingered in her mind after they had gone, and she and Agnes had settled down together to a quiet evening of listening to the wireless and knitting squares of unravelled wool to make blankets for those in need.

  ‘Doesn’t Dulcie look lovely in her new dress?’ Tilly asked Wilder loyally as their taxi rumbled toward their destination. He hadn’t yet paid Dulcie any compliments on her appearance. The Cafe de Paris was housed in the basement of a five-storey building, and, recently refurbished, it was claimed by its owner to be safer from bombs than any other nightclub in the whole of London.

  In response, Wilder gave a grunt and announced, ‘If you were to ask me I’d say that we could have had a better night at somewhere where the real action is.’

  ‘But the Cafe de Paris is the place to go,’ Tilly protested.

  ‘Yes it is,’ Dulcie agreed. ‘David was saying the last time I saw him that all the upper-class set go there.’

  If Dulcie had hoped to provoke Wilder into some jealous comment about David, she would be disappointed, Tilly recognised, when instead Wilder simply shook his head, and told her, ‘Who gives a damn about the upper class and where they like to go? Give me somewhere that’s got a decent game of poker going or a roulette table over that any day.’

  They’d reached their destination, Drew paying off the cabby. Coventry Street, where the Café de Paris was, was just off Piccadilly Circus, and it hurt Tilly to see everywhere looking so dull and dark under the blackout. It was so sad to see one’s much-loved city reduced to such grimness, Tilly thought, as she tucked her arm through Drew’s.

  As they headed for the nightclub she noticed that, unlike her and Drew, Wilder and Dulcie were walking at least two feet apart.

  Once they were inside the building they had to go down a long steep staircase to the nightclub itself, where they were greeted by an elegantly coiffured redhead with the longest red nails Tilly had ever seen, who took their names, ignoring Tilly and Dulcie – although not Dulcie’s dress, Tilly noted – to flash a warm smile at both Wilder and Drew, but especially at Drew, Tilly saw indignantly.

  In the cloakroom they both had to part with a sixpence to hand in their coats, the levy of such a charge causing Dulcie to start objecting that she thought she might prefer to keep her own fur on, ‘seeing as this place is really a cellar and my Norman Hartnell is sleeveless. Everyone knows that cellars are cold and damp.’

  Despite this statement being delivered in an accent as close as Dulcie could manage to the accents of Selfridges’ more well-to-do customers, the cloakroom attendant was patently unimpressed, giving a silent sniff that somehow conveyed her opinion that young women who were ready to argue about parting with a sixpence were not in a position to criticise somewhere like the Café de Paris, even if they were wearing a Norman Hartnell.

  ‘Who does she think she is, acting all high and mighty with us?’ Dulcie complained to Tilly as they left the cloakroom, in a wave of the expensive scent she had sprayed liberally on a piece of precious cotton wool after nipping into Selfridges before returning to number 13, and which she was now wearing tucked into her bra.

  ‘I dare say she could tell that we aren’t upper class,’ said Tilly comfortably. Not being thought of as out of the top drawer didn’t worry her at all. She was perfectly happy as she was.

  Predictably, given the time, they were the first to arrive. Having been shown to a table which, as Dulcie had requested, was slap-bang at the front of the very small dance floor, Dulcie still tried to argue for one right opposite it. That table, she was informed, was already booked by someone else and no, it didn’t make any difference that they had arrived first.

  ‘Well, I suppose it will have to do,’ Dulcie conceded.

  Drinks were ordered and the menu studied, Wilder announcing grimly, ‘It doesn’t matter what we order, it will still be the same crap.’ He looked at Drew. ‘Wouldn’t you just give anything for a proper American steak?’

  Tilly could tell from Drew’s expression that he hadn’t liked either Wilder’s language or his comment, but before he could say anything it was Dulcie who reminded Wilder fiercely, ‘We’ll have none of that sort of language, thank you. And I’ll thank you to remember too that we’re on rations here in this country because we’re fighting the Germans.’

  The room was beginning to fill up now, with elegantly gowned women and their male escorts, many of whom were in uniform, drifting in to find their tables.

  The nightclub was very small – Tilly didn’t want to think disappointingly small, out of loyalty to her city – the air heavy with cigarette smoke and expensive scent. The red and gold décor was certainly very rich-looking, and she felt a small tingle of anticipation in her tummy when the master of ceremonies came down one of the pair of stairs that led up to a small balcony area, to announce the imminent arrival of the the West Indian Orchestra led by the fabled Ken ‘Snakehips’ Johnson.

  Immediately the waiting diners began to clap, a group of three couples who had arrived late momentarily blocking Tilly’s party’s own view of the space where the orchestra was assembling. One of the women – a brunette with hard eyes, on the arm of a much-medalled naval officer – hesitated just as she was about to walk in front of them. Later, Tilly wondered if it had been fate that had made Dulcie look up at the woman; some inbuilt female instinct. Whatever it had been, the look on Dulcie’s face was enough to have Tilly reaching for her arm when she stood up and announced sharply, ‘Well, look who it isn’t! Mrs David James-Thompson, but not, it seems, escorted by the gentleman I saw her booking into the Ritz with for the night, not so very long ago, never mind her own husband.’

  There was a pause that Tilly truly thought could quite rightly be described as ghastly. The nightclub was only small, and Dulcie had a voice that carried quite a long way when she chose to make it do so.

  ‘Dulcie …’ she begged, but Dulcie shrugged off her attempt to tug her back down into her seat.

  An angry tide of red was spreading over the brunette’s pale, heavily maquillée face, the hard-looking eyes hardening even more. The two couples she and her escort were with were giving Tilly’s party coldly dismissive looks.

  Dulcie, though, didn’t care. From the minute she had recognised David’s wife, Lydia, Dulcie had been filled with righteous indignation on David’s behalf, not to mention the chance to have a go at her old enemy and put her in her place.

  ‘Oh, I say,’ the young naval officer was protesting, tugging at his tie as he did so, plainly feeling uncomfortable in the way that men did when faced with warring women.

  ‘Told you about the husband she’s dumped because of the wounds he got defending his country, has she?’ Dulcie asked him, whilst Tilly looked helplessly at Drew.

  This time the young officer’s ‘Oh, I say’ was decidedly muted, whilst the two other couples exchanged looks that suggested they had not known.

  ‘Lydia, sweetie, surely you don’t actually know this person?’ one of the other women asked.

  ‘Know her? Certainly not,’ L
ydia told them. ‘She’s just a little shop girl from Selfridges. A frightful type – dreadfully common.’

  Tilly held her breath. To call Dulcie common was like waving a red rag at a bull. ‘Drew,’ she pleaded, but it was too late.

  Dulcie pushed back her chair and walked to the front of the table, raising her voice to make herself heard above the sound of the orchestra tuning up.

  ‘Common, is it? And me wearing a Norman Hartnell frock. You don’t get one of them for being common.’

  ‘Goodness, yes, it is a Hartnell. I remember seeing Honoria Fanshawe wearing the same model the other week,’ one of the two women with Lydia acknowledged.

  ‘Well, we all know the only way that a girl like you could possibly end up wearing Hartnell. Your … friend … is obviously very generous in return for your favours,’ Lydia told Dulcie with a coldly contemptuous look.

  ‘What? You dare to say that to me when I saw you, as bold as brass, booking into the Ritz with that old chap who most definitely was not your husband.’

  ‘Why, you …’ There was no mistaking Lydia’s fury. She stepped towards Dulcie, who was looking more as though she was thoroughly enjoying the confrontation than feeling shocked or upset by it.

  ‘Poor David,’ Dulcie continued, very much getting into her stride. ‘No wonder he says that he’s well rid of you. According to him you never was much of a wife in that department.’

  ‘Charles, I think you’d better call the manager,’ the older of the two women with Lydia announced acidly. ‘I can’t imagine how these people have been allowed in here.’

  ‘Oh, that’s rich,’ Dulcie told her, in full flight now, ‘trying to get us thrown out. She’s the one who ought to be shown the door.’ She nodded in Lydia’s direction. ‘You be warned,’ she told the apprehensive-looking naval officer, ‘don’t you go losing your legs, like her husband did, or she’ll drop you as well.’

  ‘Charles, call the manager.’

  ‘I think that’s enough, Dulcie,’ Drew said quietly. ‘We all know how loyal you are to David, but this isn’t really the place—’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that, you … you nobody. I’ll have you thrown out of this place,’ Lydia hissed at Dulcie, before turning on her heel and stalking off to the table that Dulcie had wanted to move to, leaving her openly fuming.

  ‘Do you think she can get us thrown out?’ Tilly asked Drew uncomfortably. Now that Lydia and her party had gone, Tilly could see that everyone in the room was looking in their direction.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Drew admitted, ‘but perhaps it might be a good idea if we left anyway.’

  Wilder, who had been steadily supplementing the whiskies he had ordered with his own whisky from a flask he had concealed in his jacket pocket, and was now quite obviously the worse for drink, suddenly stood up unsteadily, to announce, ‘I’ve had enough of this place. Never wanted to come here anyway. Wanna play poker instead,’ before heading for the stairs at an unsteady walk, leaving the others with no option than to follow.

  Predictably, Dulcie was not pleased. ‘It will make me look like I’m letting her win,’ she protested, as she and Tilly collected their coats.

  Outside the club they had to walk to Piccadilly Circus to find a cab, but as Drew was escorting both girls into it Wilder suddenly announced, ‘Not coming with you. Going somewhere else.’

  ‘Wilder,’ Drew protested, but Dulcie poked her head out of the still open cab door and said crossly, ‘Oh, let him go, Drew.’

  ‘It’s not that late. We could still go to the Hammersmith Palais, if you like?’ Tilly suggested to Dulcie. She couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for her, all dressed up as she was, and Wilder deserting her.

  ‘What? Go to the Palais in me Norman Hartnell? No, thanks,’ Dulcie refused.

  ‘Where to, mate?’ the cabby asked Drew impatiently.

  The unexpected and shrill rising sound of the air-raid warning shocked them all into silence for a few seconds whilst they looked at one another.

  ‘Where’s the nearest shelter?’ Drew began, but Tilly shook her head.

  ‘No. Let’s go home. Mum will be worrying, and we aren’t that far away.’

  Nodding, Drew told the driver, ‘Article Row, please.’

  They were almost home when they heard the ominous drone of the German planes followed by the first of the bombs starting to fall, the magnesium flares as they exploded lighting up the night sky.

  ‘Whose idea was it not to head for the closest shelter?’ Dulcie began to complain. ‘We’d have been safer if we’d stayed where we was.’

  Under cover of the darkness inside the taxi Tilly reached for Drew’s hand. The incendiaries were falling thick and fast around them, fire engines racing past them with their bells ringing.

  ‘That’s your lot. I’m not going any further,’ the cabby told them when a fresh explosion of incendiaries lit up the sky.

  ‘Come on,’ Drew urged the two girls, ‘we’ll have to make a run for it.’

  ‘Run in these shoes, and with me bad ankle?’ Dulcie protested, but she still hitched up her skirt and grabbed Tilly’s arm as she followed her out of the cab.

  At number 13 Olive and Agnes’s quiet evening had also been disrupted by the air-raid warning. With the fire-watching group not officially in action, and after so many bomb-free weeks, the sound of the alarm caught them off guard.

  They looked at one another for a few precious seconds before Olive announced, ‘Agnes, you go down to the shelter. I’m going to go on fire-watching duties. It will give me a chance to see if it will work.’

  ‘If you’re doing that then I’m coming with you,’ Agnes insisted stalwartly. Inside she felt nervous, but she wasn’t going to let Olive go out on her own, not after everything her landlady had done for her.

  At least Tilly would be safe at the Café de Paris, Olive reasoned as she clamped on one of a pair of hard hats she’d been given by Sergeant Dawson and offered the other to Agnes, before they pulled on their coats.

  Outside, the incendiaries were already falling. Jane Barker, coming to her front door, looked relieved when she saw that Olive was already outside.

  ‘We were just wondering if we should come on duty, even though nothing official has been arranged yet,’ she told Olive. ‘We’ve equipped ourselves with a rake and a spade, just in case.’

  Not really wanting her elderly neighbours to put themselves at risk, Olive suggested, ‘Why don’t you go back inside and fill the bath with water as Sergeant Dawson instructed us? That way, if an incendiary should fall through your roof, you’ll be able to dowse it and put out any fire.’

  ‘Good idea, Olive,’ she beamed. ‘We can open the trap-door to the loft as well, just to be on the safe side.’

  Olive took hold of the handles of the wheelbarrow filled with sand, now parked usefully and as out of sight as possible in the front garden, although of course Nancy had already complained about the untidiness of the sand-filled wheelbarrows standing in so many of the Row’s small front gardens.

  She was just pushing it through the gate, Agnes carrying the spade and the hoe, when she saw Tilly, Drew and Dulcie come running down the Row.

  Relief at knowing her daughter and lodger would be here at Article Row under her protective watch was mixed with surprise that they had come home so early.

  ‘Wilder didn’t want to stay at the club so we’ve ended up coming home,’ Tilly told her. No need to mention to her mother the altercation between Dulcie and Lydia. ‘We knew once the bombs had started to fall that you’d be worrying, even though the Café de Paris is so safe.’

  This was more like her old thoughtful loving girl, Olive acknowledged, as she gave her daughter’s hand a grateful squeeze.

  ‘You’d better go and get changed out of those clothes, all of you, and then you can help me keep an eye out for any incendiaries falling here,’ Olive told them.

  ‘What, spend the evening out here? No, thank you,’ Dulcie retorted huffily. She was still in a bad moo
d at the disruption of her much-anticipated night out.

  You’d never have got David behaving like Wilder, she told herself bitterly upstairs in her room, reluctantly removing her lovely new dress. David would have been proud to show her off wearing a Norman Hartnell dress. He’d have bought her the right kind of corsage. He would have treated her like a lady. He would have … Inside her head Dulcie had an image of David coming to the Hammersmith Palais and dancing with her there. He had been ever such a good dancer. So tall and handsome and so … so gentlemanly, even if he had tried it on a bit, and him an engaged and soon-to-be married man. She could forgive him that. After all, he’d backed off when she’d said no, she wasn’t the sort to get involved with a married chap. Backed off and disappeared from her life. But that hadn’t mattered. There were plenty of men who wanted to date her and she wasn’t ready for marriage, tying herself down to a man who’d want her at his beck and call just like her mother had been at her father’s beck and call. And then there would be the kids, too many of them too quickly after one another. No, she wasn’t ready for that, and she doubted that she would ever be, Dulcie admitted, as she hesitated between going into a full sulk, putting on her night clothes, going back downstairs and listening to the wireless with a cup of cocoa, or going out and joining the others.

  Sociable by nature, never one to miss out on whatever was going on, as much as she disliked the idea of mucking in and helping out, Dulcie knew she did not want to stay in on her own. And besides, wouldn’t she be far more help to Olive than that dopey Agnes, who always stood about waiting to be told what to do instead of working it out for herself? If Agnes saw an incendiary land two feet in front of her she’d have to ask someone else whether or not to put it out, Dulcie thought scornfully, as she pulled on her oldest clothes, and then tied her hair up in a scarf.

  Outside in the street it looked rather like Bonfire Night, the incendiaries, as they burst into flames, like thousands of sparklers throwing off their fierce white light.