by Annie Groves
Dulcie’s sophistication deserted her, though, once they were inside, and she could see down the long gallery of the hotel through the restaurant, busy now with lunchtime diners, to the hotel’s gardens and beyond them to Green Park. But it wasn’t the view of the hotel gardens and Green Park that had Dulcie transfixed; it was the opulence of the French château-inspired elegance all around her.
Huge chandeliers dazzled her with their glitter and their light, reflected from embossed wallpaper and gilded furniture so that it seemed to Dulcie that everywhere she looked there was golden light and glamour.
‘This way, sir, madam.’
A waiter so grand-looking that the sight of him almost had Dulcie’s eyes popping out of her head, escorted them to the restaurant. There, another waiter said to Wilder, ‘A table for luncheon for two? Somewhere private overlooking the park? This way, please,’ and then led them to a table tucked away out of sight, where Dulcie wouldn’t be able to see anyone else other than Wilder.
She was so disappointed that she protested, ‘If I’m having my dinner at The Ritz then I want to sit somewhere where I can see what’s going on.’
‘Of course, madam.’
They were good these waiters, moving so fast that it was almost as though they were on wheels, Dulcie approved as she and Wilder were led to another table. At this one everyone who came into the restaurant had to walk past them so that it was a bit like having a ringside seat. Not that she was actually allowed to touch her seat. As she made to pull out her chair the waiter was there, quick as a flash, pulling it out for her and then, if you please, putting the serviette across her lap and then doing the same for Wilder.
‘See that? That waiter would have made us make do with that poky little table where no one could see us if I hadn’t stuck my oar in,’ Dulcie informed Wilder in a hissed whisper once the waiter had disappeared. ‘It’s much better here.’
She had another complaint to make, though, a few minutes later when they had both been handed their menus and she had opened hers.
‘There’s no prices on the menu,’ she told Wilder suspiciously.
‘That’s because you’re my guest and a girl,’ Wilder told her. ‘It’s the person who pays who gets the menu with the prices on it.’
‘Why?’ Dulcie asked him.
‘Because it’s the way things are done,’ Wilder told her.
‘Well, it’s not the way I like them done,’ Dulcie told him. She stopped speaking to watch as the wine waiter poured a small amount of wine into the glass of one of the four men in military uniform at a nearby table, and then waited as he swirled it round his glass and then tasted it, before nodding his head. However, before she could query what was going on, her attention was caught by a couple coming into the restaurant, her eyes widening as she recognised Lydia. Her companion was an older man who Dulcie didn’t know. When Lydia saw her her eyes widened in disbelief. Gleefully Dulcie tossed her head, her delight growing when her old adversary and the man with her were shown to the table she herself had rejected. Well, that was one in the eye for stuck-up Lydia, being hidden away in that corner where no one could see her. Not like her. Everyone who came into the restaurant could see her, Dulcie preened happily.
She’d ordered vegetable soup followed by chicken, the waiter explaining to a less-than-impressed Wilder, when he ordered the soup, a fish entrée and then the chicken, that the rationing rules meant that he couldn’t have both a fish dish and another ‘main’ course.
‘What I’d really like,’ he told Dulcie when the waiter had gone, ‘is a nice juicy American steak. You guys over here don’t know what proper steak is, I can tell you.’
‘No one asked you to come over here and become a pilot,’ Dulcie felt obliged to point out in defence of her country.
‘Sure they did,’ Wilder argued back. ‘Your Winston Churchill is always asking our President to help. Thing is, though, our President won’t agree.’
The arrival of their soup brought an end to their argument, Wilder pulling a face over the soup.
‘Olive, that’s my landlady, gave us Heinz tomato soup for supper the other night, as a special treat,’ Dulcie told him, sighing as she added wistfully, ‘It was ever so good.’
‘Better than this stuff,’ Wilder agreed.
‘I’ll ask Olive if you can come round for your tea one night if you like,’ Dulcie suggested. ‘Then she can meet you and maybe you can have some.’
She could see that Wilder was looking slightly wary, but Dulcie had made up her mind the minute he had told her that he was bringing her here to The Ritz for her lunch that she and Wilder was going to become an item. A chap who brought a girl to The Ritz for her lunch was definitely worth hanging on to, Dulcie decided as the salty soup made her reach for her wineglass and take another swig, once again grimacing over its taste.
‘A nice shandy would have been better than this wine. Nasty sour stuff, it is,’ she informed Wilder, frowning reprovingly when he spluttered and coughed.
By the time they had reached the ‘pudding’ course – apple pie served with thin watery custard – Dulcie decided that she was prepared to overlook the fact that the food was nowhere near as good as Olive’s home cooking, because she’d enjoyed herself so much studying the other people in the restaurant, especially the women – the ladies, Dulcie mentally corrected herself, feeling smugly delighted that she was now elevated to that social status since she too was here.
All the other women, no matter what their age or physical appearance, were wearing what Dulcie, with her experience of working in Selfridges and serving so many women of the same class, immediately recognised as ‘posh’ clothes: fur coats worn over tweed suits, twinsets, and pearl necklaces on the women under forty, or an expensive-looking brooch on those over forty. One dowager, who had fascinated Dulcie after she had heard her being addressed as ‘Your Grace’, was wearing so many rows of pearls it was impossible to see the flesh of her neck, and her fingers were heavily beringed.
Whilst many of the men, especially the younger ones, escorting these women were in uniform, some were not, wearing dark suits instead, like Lydia’s companion.
All in all she was having a wonderful time, Dulcie decided happily, even if Olive’s roast chicken knocked The Ritz’s offering into a cocked hat. She couldn’t wait to tell everyone at number 13 all about her lunch, although of course she would not be telling them about the fact that she had invented a non-existent stomach upset as an excuse to slope off from work. She felt disappointed when Wilder summoned the waiter and told her, ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to call it a day. I’ve got to be back at base for five o’clock.’
‘That’s all right,’ Dulcie assured him, graciously adding, ‘I’ve enjoyed it ever so much, and you can bring me here again, if you like.’
It was later, in the foyer, whilst she was waiting for Wilder to return from the gents that Dulcie saw Lydia again, sweeping past her on the arm of her grey-haired companion, and so deep in conversation with him that she didn’t notice Dulcie. Dulcie had noticed her, though. Dulcie considered herself to be a girl who knew what was what, but when she heard Lydia’s companion asking the girl behind the desk if ‘their’ room was ready yet, her initial reaction was to be so filled with disbelief that she thought she must have misheard.
But then the receptionist smiled and said as clear as day, ‘Yes, your room is ready for you now. The porter will show you up. I do hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr and Mrs Storney.’
Mrs Storney. How could Lydia be that when Dulcie knew for a fact that she was married to David?
‘I’ve just had ever such a shock,’ she told Wilder when he rejoined her. ‘I’ve just seen a woman who I know for a fact is married to an RAF pilot calling herself the wife of another man, as bold as brass.’
Wilder shrugged. ‘That’s what war does for you. Folks feel they have to snatch at every little bit of happiness whilst they can.’
‘Well, you’d never get me doing anything like that,’ Dulcie
told Wilder firmly. ‘Passing herself off as a man’s wife when she’s no such thing. She ought to be ashamed of herself.’ Dulcie felt indignant on David’s behalf. Indignant and astonished that someone as cold as Lydia should actually want to go to an hotel room with a man who wasn’t her husband.
Once they were outside the hotel the doorman hailed them a cab.
‘Where to?’ Wilder asked Dulcie. ‘The store?’
Go back to Selfridges now? Not likely.
‘No, he can drop me off at the bottom of Fleet Street.’
Although Wilder was sitting close to her in the back of the cab, Dulcie didn’t realise what he had in mind until he put his arm round her and then tried to kiss her.
Pushing him away, Dulcie retreated to the corner of the cab, trying not to slide on the worn leather seats, before folding her arms across her body as she told him indignantly, ‘Here, there’ll be none of that, thank you very much. I’m a respectable girl, not the sort that lets a man she’s only just met kiss her in the back of a taxi, I’ll have you know.’
‘I thought we were having a good time together.’
‘We were until you went and spoiled it by getting fresh. Just because you bought me dinner that doesn’t mean that gives you the right to kiss me,’ Dulcie informed him sharply.
‘Oh, come on, Dulcie,’ Wilder wheedled. ‘Take pity on a poor lonely airman and don’t be so hard-hearted. I’ve been dreaming about kissing you from the moment I met you.’
‘Then you’ll just have to dream on, because you’re not going to,’ Dulcie responded, but this time her tone was less acid.
‘It isn’t my fault that I want to,’ Wilder told her with a grin, ‘not when you’re such a pretty girl, Dulcie, with lips that are just made for kissing. You shouldn’t have lips like that if you’re going to drive a guy crazy by refusing to let him kiss you.’
Dulcie tried to look severe but it wasn’t easy when she was being lavished with the kind of compliments she had only previously heard in a film at the cinema. Not, of course, that she was going to let Wilder know that she was impressed. She wasn’t that much of a fool. She wasn’t a fool at all.
‘And you know what?’ Wilder was asking her.
‘What?’ Dulcie responded cautiously.
‘I’m going to keep on trying,’ he told her, ‘because I reckon I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.’
‘You can try as much as you like,’ Dulcie assured him, ‘but in this country girls – respectable girls – don’t go letting men kiss them unless the two of them are an item.’
The taxi had reached the bottom of Fleet Street and was pulling into the kerb. Wilder was sliding along the seat towards her a determined look in his eyes. Quickly Dulcie opened the door and scrambled out, giving him an equally determined look back.
‘See you, sweet lips,’ Wilder told her, ‘and when I do, I’m going to make those lips mine.’
He could try, Dulcie thought as she slammed the taxi door and the driver pulled away. He could try as much as he liked. A smile curved the lips Wilder had just been complimenting and, uncharacteristically, Dulcie gave a small skip of mingled excitement and determination as she headed in the direction of Article Row. Life was suddenly looking very promising. And fancy her seeing Lydia, and then catching her out like she had. David had been a fool to marry her. What a pity she wouldn’t be able to tell Lizzie about Lydia’s shameful behaviour, Dulcie thought with disappointment. You’d certainly never get her behaving like that, married or not married. Everyone knew what happened to a girl’s reputation when she started visiting hotel bedrooms with a man she wasn’t married to.
Chapter Sixteen
It was lucky that she’d kept that nearly empty bottle of brandy, Olive congratulated herself, carefully pouring a small amount into the hole she had just made in her Christmas cake with a meat skewer. Her late father-in-law had sworn by a drink of brandy and port for settling upset stomachs, and had always insisted on keeping a bottle of each in the house. Now the flavour and moistness of the Christmas cake which Olive had baked at the beginning of October, would benefit from her late father-in-law’s ‘medicinal’ remedy.
She’d been lucky with her cake, Olive admitted. She’d been worried about it being overcooked when the siren had gone before it was ready, but luckily there’d been a break during the bombing just at the right time so that she’d been able to nip back to the house to remove it from the oven.
Olive had had a busy morning, doing her weekly bake. Not that she was able to bake anything like as much as she once had, thanks to rationing. She had, though, made a couple of trays of currant biscuits thanks to her excellent store cupboard. She’d perhaps take a few down to Mrs Lord after she’d had her dinner – a slice of Spam and the previous night’s leftover potatoes and cabbage, fried up together with some of the bacon fat Olive had saved from their precious Sunday morning bacon ration.
Putting her dinner on the table, Olive resealed the Christmas cake in its tin, put it in her store cupboard and then placed the bottle of brandy back on the sideboard in the front room.
One of the curtains hanging at the front room window wasn’t quite straight, so Olive went to straighten it, frowning as she thought she heard her back door opening. That was odd. She wasn’t expecting any of the girls home at this time. Immediately Olive’s maternal anxiety was aroused. The only reason one of them would come home at this time was because something was wrong.
She hurried into the kitchen, where the back door was open and a boy was standing by the table, gobbling up her dinner with one hand whilst holding some of her newly baked biscuits in the other.
The moment he saw her he ran for the door, but Olive was closer to it. She closed it and stood barring the way.
‘And just what do you think you are doing?’ she demanded.
He was an unprepossessing-looking boy, thin, with a narrow grubby face and untidy dun-coloured hair. His clothes were shabby, there was dirt under his nails and he smelled of smoke.
A memory stirred in Olive’s head. ‘You’re Barney, aren’t you?’ she challenged him.
The startled look he gave her confirmed Olive’s suspicions that this was the boy Nancy had talked about. The boy Sergeant Dawson had felt so sorry for.
‘I’m sorry, missus. I didn’t mean to eat your dinner, only I was that hungry, and when I saw it just sitting there . . . It was them biscuits that did it. Looked ever so good, they did, when I seed them through the window.’
‘You’ve been watching me,’ Olive accused him. It wasn’t a very pleasant thought – one heard such harrowing tales from homeowners about looters and thieves – yet it was hard to feel anything other than pity for this too thin, wary-looking child, even if his manner was slightly belligerent.
‘I didn’t mean no harm,’ the boy defended himself. ‘I only come in your garden to get away from her next door. Thought she’d seen me, I did. I know her sort. She’d have me taken away and locked up, and then me dad will never be able to find me.’
Beneath his shabby too small jacket his narrow shoulders were hunched.
‘You might as well finish eating that now that you’ve started,’ Olive told him, indicating her half-empty plate.
The hazel eyes widened. ‘You mean it?’
Olive nodded. She could make do with a bit of bread and Spam, the boy needed a decent meal, she could see that.
‘So what are you doing round here?’ she asked him as she filled the kettle and waited for it to boil to make them a pot of tea. There was a bluish tinge to the boy’s skin and he couldn’t possibly be warm in those shabby clothes. ‘Were you looking for Sergeant Dawson?’
The boy was too intent on polishing off her dinner to answer her.
Olive went over to the back door and locked it, removing the key whilst the boy watched her in silence
‘Here’s a hot drink for you,’ Olive told him, ‘and whilst you drink it I’m going to go and get Sergeant Dawson.’
The boy looked towards the door, a
nd then back at her.
‘Where did you sleep last night?’ she asked him gently.
‘I dunno. In some bombed-out house.’
‘Do you really think that’s what your mother would want you to do, Barney?’
‘Her? She wouldn’t care where I slept so long as she got her gin, and someone to pay for it. They’re no loss to me, either her or me gran. Never wanted me, me mother didn’t. Tried to get rid of me, she said, by drinking a bottle of gin and then throwing herself downstairs, only it didn’t work.’
Olive fought to conceal her shock at hearing a child talk in such a matter-of-fact way about something so dreadful.
‘It was all right when me dad was at home. I wish he hadn’t joined up. Ruddy war.’
‘You have to have somewhere to live, Barney,’ she told him. ‘It isn’t safe for you to live in bombed-out buildings. I’m going for Sergeant Dawson now. There are people who can write to your father, to tell him where you’ll be so that he can find you when he’s on leave.’
Olive knew that the sergeant would be on ARP duties because he’s said so at church on Sunday.
‘I’m not going into no home,’ the boy insisted. ‘And if anyone tries to make me I’ll run off. I can look after meself, I can.’
By living rough and stealing food, Olive thought ruefully. That was no way for a child to grow up.
* * *
It was another cold raw day with the almost ever-present veil of smoke and dust hanging in the air.
It didn’t take very long for Olive to reach the ARP shelter close to the junction with Farringdon Road. Two ARP officers and a boy messenger were standing outside the sandbagged post, huddled over a brazier and drinking tea. Olive asked for Sergeant Dawson.
‘Go in and tell Sergeant Dawson that there’s a lady wanting to see him,’ the older of the two men told the boy messenger.