‘Some of those women are bowed not so much by the weight of their duties, but by guilt over other aspects of their lives.’ She raised her eyebrows and looked knowingly at the girls. ‘We offer a period of cleansing, as it were, for those who have been a little free with their favours and feel the need to make amends. In the current situation, many of these are wealthy women who have become intimate with the superiors of that young man who visited us tonight.’ The showgirls knew exactly the type of woman Marguerite described, although Lily was surprised that any of them sought to cleanse their consciences in a convent. The simpering, bejewelled women she had observed at Le Prix were having far too much fun to consider the consequences of their sin on their immortal souls.
‘At the moment,’ Marguerite continued, ‘we have a lady staying with us who is particularly devout during the day, assisting us with a number of charitable works and attending Mass every morning. However, once she retires for the night, her old ways return. She is not aware that we know, but we have noticed that her car calls for her each evening at around midnight and then returns her in the early hours of the morning in time for Matins.’
‘It is not for us to point out the error of her ways,’ observed Mother Beatrice steadily, ‘that is between her and God. We merely provide an opportunity for her to cleanse her soul.’ Mother Beatrice’s further wisdoms were arrested by the arrival of Maria who explained breathlessly that the car had not yet arrived. Marguerite exchanged a pointed nod with her superior.
‘Good,’ murmured Mother Beatrice softly, ‘that will provide an opportunity for me to have a little chat with Madame Lefevre and suggest further ways in which she might atone.’ She turned to the confused showgirls. ‘Madame’s ... friendship with the Germans ensures that the car passes the checkpoints without being stopped, so I will suggest to Madame that she may find it in her interest to grant us a little favour and return you girls to your apartment.’
Lily and Poppy gasped with delight. It was the perfect scheme. Clearly these were nuns of a rare calibre who hid British officers on the run and arranged their safe passage with the resistance while coolly dealing with the occupying forces as if they were naughty schoolboys. Lily marvelled inwardly at the courage of these wimpled heroines.
Mother Beatrice beamed softly and addressed Marguerite.
‘I will leave the girls in your capable hands, Sister, while I seek out Madame Lefevre.’ She rose to depart and Poppy and Lily rose too, thanking her profusely for all she had done for them and for undoubtedly saving the life of Madame Claudette. She pressed their hands warmly and promised to pray for them and for Madame Claudette. Lily felt a warm suffusion of wellbeing. Was this how it felt to have someone pray for you? And a nun at that, who surely had a direct line to the Almighty. She was pleased that Mother Beatrice had not enquired too closely over the state of her soul — and Poppy’s for that matter. It had been years since Lily had last entered a church and she had certainly welcomed Guy into her bed without the sanction of marital vows. As for Poppy ... images of the beautifully Teutonic Gunther swam into view. Yes, there was another reason not to share too many life stories with the warm, but undoubtedly pious Mother Beatrice.
The slightest sound at the rear of the building now claimed Marguerite’s attention.
‘That will be Madame Lefevre’s car,’ she announced with relish. She beckoned to the girls to follow and they trotted after her. At the rear of the convent was another small building which somehow Sister
Marguerite had omitted from the tour she had conducted for her German visitor. A shiny Mercedes pulled soundlessly into a driveway and Marguerite sallied forth for some genteel negotiation with the driver. A few minutes later she beckoned the girls towards the car which now hummed quietly, the crisply uniformed chauffeur holding the door open to allow them to slide in. Lily hugged Marguerite, whispering as she did the one question she had been desperate to ask all evening.
‘Is Guy safe?’
‘Yes, my dear,’ came the murmured reply. Marguerite had a question of her own for Lily.
‘There is someone I know who lives and performs at a cabaret, perhaps you have come across her? I believe her stage name is “Coco”.’ Lily swallowed her surprise with difficulty.
‘Yes, she lives in the same apartment as we do.’
‘Ah,’ replied Marguerite, ‘she is my sister.’
Chapter 26
A dose of red-tinged optimism
Lily and Poppy were deposited as promised at the glass doors of Le Prix by Madame Lefevre’s chauffeur who, having been informed of his destination, stole constant peeks at his passengers, a quizzical smile lighting his face. The girls smiled shyly at him, too tired for conversation, but still rocked by their extraordinary experience.
‘So,’ Lily asked Poppy after a few minutes and several smiles at the chauffeur, ‘was that depressing prayer the novices were reciting one of your childhood memories?’
‘Probably, but I stopped being a real Catholic such a long time ago I honestly don’t remember.’ She grinned and turned to look at her friend in the gloom of the car’s interior. ‘Funny thing, though Lil, I kept thinking of that awful nun joke that Chinon tells, you know, the one about the nun falling down the stairs.’ Lily laughed aloud.
‘You didn’t!’
‘Couldn’t get the thing out of my head. And what were you thinking?’
‘Actually,’ admitted Lily, ‘I was re-introducing myself to God. I think we might need Him. After all, we’ve had a brush with a German patrol, sent one of Coco’s clients to the next world and ...’
‘Don’t forget Dirty Dietrich!’ added Poppy with a laugh. Lily sighed heavily and looked at her friend.
‘Dear Lord, I’d forgotten about him! Maybe I should become acquainted with this St Vitus as well — we might need reinforcements!’
The girls dashed around the side of the darkened theatre, skirting its solid shape and slipping into the alleyway that led to the apartment boarding houses. They tripped up the steps of the rear apartment block which housed Monsieur Maurice and Madame Claudette only to stop short. The solid wooden door was firmly locked.
‘What do we do? We can’t wake Madame Fresange, she’ll think we’re burglars and call the police.’ They stood for a moment, shivering and pulling their coats tighter against the chill wind that nipped at their legs.
‘Can we knock on someone’s window?’
‘Not Monique’s!’ They looked at each other in despair — they could not risk waking Monique in case her nasty boyfriend, Paul Colbert, was with her.
‘Doesn’t Carin live in the room next to Monique?’ Lily brightened considerably — Poppy was right. They counted the windows until they arrived at the one they thought belonged to Carin’s room.
‘Carin!’ they called, again and again, trying desperately not to wake the fire-breathing dragon that was Madame Fresange. Finally, after what seemed hours, the window opened and Carin’s dishevelled head appeared.
‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s us, Lily and Poppy, we have medicines for Madame Claudette, please come and open the door!’ There was a muttered conversation beside Carin’s window and another head was briefly visible.
‘Who was that?’ whispered Poppy to Lily.
‘I don’t know, but he looked young and handsome.’
A few minutes later the door opened and Carin stood sleepily to one side.
‘He looked nice, Carin, is he one of ours or one of theirs?’ Carin swallowed a smile and disappeared upstairs without answering. The girls followed her as far as the landing and then turned towards the apartment where Monsieur Maurice and Madame Claudette lived. They tapped softly and the door opened almost immediately. Monsieur Maurice greeted them with relief and gratitude.
‘Lily! Poppy! May God be praised! Do you have the medicines?’ The girls nodded breathlessly as they slipped through the door. Dr Paul stood inside still wearing his coat and hat and clutching his bag. Clearly he had just arrived. The medicines duly
handed over and Maurice’s continuing stream of profuse thanks parried, the girls staggered back to their own apartment in the early stages of exhaustion. It had been a wild night and, as Lily drifted off to sleep, she thought wistfully of Guy, longing for his comforting solidity next to her, holding her, caressing her. Ah, now she knew that he was safe — as safe as anyone who was being escorted through occupied France. She wished fervently she could find a way to ask whether he had reached English shores in safety. She heaved a sigh. Better to place her trust in St Vitus, the newly discovered patron saint of showgirls.
Lily was woken late the next morning by a gentle tap on the door and the news that Madame Claudette had rallied slightly during the night and was now sleeping peacefully. The medicines, which had almost cost the girls their freedom, had proved every bit as life-saving as they had hoped. Lily emerged into the light of day to join Poppy, swathed in blankets against the November chill, and lounging on the sofa smoking a cigarette. They began to discuss the extraordinary nuns who had saved them when mention of Sister Marguerite jolted Lily’s memory. She sat bolt upright and faced Poppy, whispering under her breath.
‘Do you know what she told me?’ Poppy shook her head, mystified.
‘She’s Coco’s sister!’ Poppy almost fell off the sofa in shock.
‘What?!’ Lily nodded before shaking her head in disbelief. Both girls began to smile at the irony. Lily studied her cigarette and then looked over at her friend.
‘What sort of family produces a man-hating dominatrix and a nun?!’
‘Marguerite is so soft ... and warm ... and nice — she was even nice to that German, kept calling him “my son”.’
‘And Coco is so hard.’
Neither heard Crecy as he emerged from his room, padding softly towards them, cigarette in hand.
‘And what are you two scheming conspirators whispering about?’ he quizzed them, hand on hip, rollered platinum curls tucked neatly into a brilliant red chiffon scarf, silver-grey velvet dressing gown edged with faux fur sweeping the floor.
‘Crecy, that’s gorgeous!’ replied Lily, deflecting the question with a desperate appeal to the singer’s vanity. It was just the cue he needed. Sweeping the curved faux fur hem to one side and throwing his red-rollered head back, he swayed rhythmically towards the sofas and draped himself theatrically, assuming an alluring pose.
‘Like it?’ he tossed, ‘it’s from my new man. He’s’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘German and very high up.’
‘Oooh!’ was the melodic response.
‘He’s also very useful,’ he added, drawing on his cigarette and pausing to allow the soft wisps of smoke to waft skyward. Lily and Poppy waited with studied intensity, eager for Crecy to elaborate on this last intriguing statement.
‘He told me — after several bottles of champagne of course — that he had heard we were hiding something here at Le Prix.’ Lily and Poppy froze momentarily before Poppy managed to find her voice.
‘Really? Fancy that!’ now she was desperately attempting to sound light-hearted. ‘And what did you say?’
‘Well, I said of course we were!’ The girls sat stunned as Crecy blew several smoke rings which he watched slowly dissipate in the cold morning air. ‘And, I said, of course everyone’s hiding something. Even he was hiding something, wasn’t he?’ The girls drew a small breath. ‘He laughed and laughed and said I was such a silly thing, but that I had captured his heart.’ Crecy stopped and smiled to himself at the memory while the girls drew a second strained breath.
‘I said he was silly too and we had a cuddle and a laugh. But,’ now the smile had vanished, ‘I think he understands that as long as Le Prix is left alone, his little secret is safe with me.’ The girls breathed more easily now, while Crecy wore a smug smile.
‘So there, I told you he was useful, didn’t I?!’
The discussion was interrupted by the sound of the front door closing and the deliberate tread of footsteps on the stone stairs. A familiar tap accompanied each footfall.
‘Coco!’ they chorused together softly as the steps approached. Crecy leaned his crimson rollered head back and murmured as Coco passed, whip in hand.
‘Dahling, I think you know my new man.’
‘And which slimy German bastard is that?’ asked Coco airily.
‘See?’ Crecy turned to the other girls, ‘I was certain she would know him, that describes him perfectly.’ To Coco: ‘snake tattoo on the right cheek.’
‘Him!!’
‘There, that seals it, now there’s someone else who knows his secrets!’ Crecy was jubilant. ‘If I disappear one night, dahlings, Coco will spill the beans for me.’ Coco snorted derisively as if this would be her last act on God’s earth.
‘Sooo ...’ Crecy eyed her with mock gravity, ‘do I get your leftovers, or do you get mine? I just can’t work it out ...’
‘You’d know if he’d just been to visit me,’ hissed Coco with a slap of her whip and a smug smile. Crecy matched the smile as Coco turned to leave, but Lily arrested her progress.
‘Coco, we were talking about families before .’
‘Were we?’ raised eyebrows from Crecy.
‘Yes!’ insistent hiss from Poppy as Lily continued to address Coco.
‘Did you once tell us yours lives in the south?’
‘None of your business!’ and the door slammed at the end of the corridor. That, at least, Lily admitted to herself, was unequivocal. Plenty of familial love in that particular heart.
‘I know about Coco’s family,’ Crecy eyed them with a sly smile.
‘You know everyone’s secrets, don’t you!’ Poppy was astounded.
‘Oh, you have no idea. Absolutely everyone confides in me. I must have one of those faces that everyone trusts. Don’t you think?’ And he angled his head towards the girls wearing a look of such pained earnestness that they burst into noisy laughter.
‘So, what do you know about Coco’s family?’ asked Poppy, who could barely contain her curiosity.
‘Just tiny titbits really,’ sniffed Crecy with disappointment, ‘her parents were tragically respectable and I can’t think where she found her current predilection for beating everyone up. Quite a mystery really.’
‘Any brothers ... or sisters?’ Lily was fishing.
‘She never mentioned any ...’ he turned to Lily with an elegantly raised eyebrow and a narrow look in the kohl-rimmed green eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, just curious.’ Lily replied hastily, trying to turn curiosity into indifference with as much rapidity as she could muster. ‘We’re such an odd bunch here at Le Prix.’ She smiled falsely at Poppy looking for a lifeline. But the lifeline was not needed. Crecy had moved on, now turning his attention to the state of his nails.
‘Heavens to Betsy, look at these! I look like a cheap trollop from that dreadful bordello in the rue Chabanais! I must dash and fix myself up before I meet Otto again ... oops!’ He clasped a taloned hand to his mouth in mock horror, staring at the girls. ‘Fancy letting his name slip like that, how very indiscreet I’ve become!’ With a trilling laugh and a toss of the red-rollered head, Crecy slid off the sofa and slipped languidly away, the magnificent silver fur-edged dressing gown trailing in his wake, like a soft wave breaking on a seashore.
Madame Claudette continued to improve and, although her cough remained to plague her, by late winter she had sufficient strength to return to rehearsals where, with the help of the recently returned Mademoiselle Gris, she took her former position in her comfy chair, sandbagged by thick cushions and blankets, drumming her stick ferociously at injudicious lapses by the showgirls. The girls themselves were simply glad to have her back in all her ferocity. Despite her incessant criticism, Madame Claudette produced results and her popular showgirls boasted a devoted following. Monsieur Maurice was almost beside himself with relief, delighted to see the improvement in his wife and relishing the fact that she was almost back to her exacting best. He presented his friend, Dr Paul, with a beautiful bottle of
the Governor’s cognac, thanking him profusely for saving the life of his beloved Madame Claudette. Dr Paul had called past on his way to visit Madame Auguste Dupleix, the elderly hypochondriac who lived in Madame Fresange’s apartment block. Maurice had not envied his friend his assignment. Madame Auguste possessed a highly strung and bad-tempered Pekinese which was renowned for nipping the ankles of callers. Dr Paul had tried a number of ankle guards to protect the tender skin at the base of his shins, but to no avail. He gritted his teeth and set off through the tiny courtyard, prepared this time to wield his medical bag as a lethal weapon should desperate measures be required.
Maurice had accompanied his friend as far as the courtyard and now turned back towards Le Prix. He had walked no more than a few steps when a shaggy head protruded from a second-storey window and hailed him with hearty good cheer.
‘Maurice! Come up, I have great news!’ Chinon sported a three-day stubble and waved a bottle of his favourite brandy at his manager.
‘Sshh, Chinon, a little decorum, my friend, lest you disturb the good ladies of the apartment.’ But it was too late. Behind Maurice, on the other side of the courtyard, a window opened with a creak and Madame Auguste Dupleix thrust her bonneted head out, wielding a large ear trumpet which she fastened to one ear.
‘Who’s that?!’ she shrieked, ‘Why is there so much noise? Do you not understand that I am seriously ill?!’
‘I beg your pardon, Madame,’ replied Maurice, doffing his hat and proffering a tiny bow, ‘I am most distressed to hear that you are ill. But,’ he added with genuine optimism, ‘I have just seen Dr Paul and he is on his way to your apartment even as we speak ...’ he was cut short by an explosion of furious yapping amid low growling and frantic yells as a small dog evidently launched itself at its prey. Madame disappeared from the window, now protesting volubly to the hapless doctor, directing him to tread warily around her poor dear puppy which was her only loyal companion in these terrible times. Maurice grimaced with concern, imagining the state of his friend’s ankles.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 26