The Penny Bangle

by Margaret James

  Then the conversation turned to Denham family matters, and Cassie pinned her own ears back.

  ‘What’s all this about Mum and Charton Minster?’ Robert asked his sister as they bounced and bumped over the potholes, and the taxi’s mostly blacked-out headlamps threw narrow beams of silver on the dirty, rutted streets.

  ‘Well, she wants to buy it back,’ said Daisy. ‘It’s going to rack and ruin, the roof is falling in, but that sod who owns it won’t pay for the repairs.’

  Daisy shrugged inside her satin wrap. ‘The kids who live there now are hopeless cases,’ she continued. ‘They’re boys from prisons and reformatories, all of them bad lots. They’re wrecking it inside, so Mrs Hobson told me. One of her grown-up children does some casual gardening there, and he’s appalled at how the kids behave. But Mum thinks she could save the place.’

  ‘But she can’t afford to buy it, can she?’ Robert put his arm round Cassie, hugged her tight, and Cassie snuggled warmly up against him.

  ‘I was thinking I could help her out.’ Daisy shrugged again. ‘It’s partly down to me she lost it in the first place.’

  ‘But would she let you help her out?’ asked Stephen. ‘You’ve tried to give her money before, but she would never take it.’

  ‘What would she do with Charton Minster, if she got it?’ put in Robert.

  ‘God only knows. Maybe she and Dad could go and live there.’ Daisy lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew out smoke. ‘It means a lot to Mum, and if she wants it, I’m going to see she gets it.’

  ‘That’s fighting talk, my darling.’ Ewan Fraser hugged his wife. ‘I know who I’d put money on. Well, chaps, it looks like this must be the Florida.’

  They got out of the cab. Ewan paid the driver, and then they went inside the club. Cassie saw there were several girls in various forces’ uniforms, but these looked like drab sparrows compared with those in evening gowns of emerald, ruby, gold. The men wore uniform or black, blending into the smoky background as the women swooped and fluttered, like so many birds of paradise.

  Daisy and Ewan knew everyone, it seemed, and spent the first ten minutes walking round, kissing and being kissed. But then they got a table.

  ‘Champagne, Cassie?’ Robert took the bottle from the bucket and poured an ice-cold glassful.

  ‘Not too much, Rob,’ Daisy cautioned him. ‘She isn’t used to it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a rotten spoilsport, Daze,’ said Robert, frowning. ‘Go on, Cassie, try it. Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s a bit like Tizer.’ Cassie took another sip. ‘I like the way the bubbles go up my nose.’ Then she took a hearty swig, and giggled. ‘Blimey, Rob, it’s got a kick to it! But it’s delicious.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ Robert topped up her glass, and from then on he kept it full, in spite of Daisy’s frown.

  After they had listened to a black girl in a gorgeous silver sheath dress singing jazz, Ewan said it was time to make a move, and that they should go on to the 400.

  This turned out to be a dimly-lit and claustrophobic cavern, the walls of which were draped with blood red silk, with red plush seating and a wine red carpet. ‘What do you think?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘It’s very red,’ said Cassie, hiccupping and giggling and wondering why she felt so very strange – floating outside herself and seeing lots of flashing colours, glittering lights. As she’d stumbled from the taxi, she’d been very glad to cling to Robert for support.

  Now, she stared in wonder at the women, most of whom were laden down with jewels and wearing fabulous evening frocks. They danced with handsome officers, tossing back their perfumed hair and laughing at their escorts’ jokes. They sat at little tables lit by just one glowing candle, flirting while they drank champagne. This is what I want, thought Cassie. This is how I want to live.

  Ewan didn’t care how much he spent. He smoked the best Havanas, ordered bottle after bottle of champagne, and later there was caviar, served with ice on dainty little plates.

  Cassie tried a mouthful. ‘I don’t think I like this,’ she said, and puckered up her face. ‘It’s much too salty, and it’s slimy. It makes me think of fish paste that’s gone off.’

  ‘Then we’ll no’ be wasting it on you,’ said Ewan grimly, and took her plate away. But then he smiled to show he wasn’t cross, and Cassie giggled back at him.

  Cassie danced with Robert, Ewan and Stephen, and then some more with Robert.

  Then the room began to spin.

  ‘We need to put this girl to bed,’ said Daisy, as Cassie slumped down next to her and yawned behind her hand.

  ‘Yes, I’m really sleepy.’ Cassie turned to Robert, fell against his chest, gazed up at him. ‘Your sister says we have to go to bed.’

  Stephen and Ewan stood up at once. ‘Come on, Cass, let’s get you home,’ said Stephen.

  ‘No, I don’t want you and Ewan, I want to go with Robert,’ Cassie told them, hanging on to Robert.

  ‘Get her in a taxi, Rob, and take her home,’ said Daisy. ‘Mrs Jimp will be back now, and she’ll put Cass to bed.’

  So Robert picked up Cassie’s wrap and then he helped her totter to the exit, holding tightly on to him.

  The doorman found a taxi, and between them he and Robert helped a very drunk but merrily giggling Cassie into it. Robert was aware of thumps and bangs – a raid was going on somewhere – but all Cassie seemed to feel was happiness and calm.

  She laid her head on Robert’s shoulder, and he put his arm around her waist. ‘Rob, I’m having such a lovely, lovely time,’ she whispered, as she snuggled up to him and hiccupped. ‘I’ve never been so happy in my life.’

  ‘Oh, Cassie, you’re so sweet,’ said Robert, laughing.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Cassie, frowning.

  ‘You’re sloshed, my darling.’ Robert held her as the taxi lurched over the ruts and bumps. ‘You’re in the middle of dirty, dangerous London, in an air raid, but you’re having a lovely, lovely time. You’re sloshed, but very sweet.’

  The flat was dark and chilly after the light and warmth of the 400. After he’d checked the blackout curtains, Robert put on some lights, and Cassie blinked because they were too bright.

  ‘Got to go to bed,’ she muttered as she kicked off Daisy’s silver shoes, then staggered off along the passageway.

  ‘Yes, you must,’ said Robert, catching her as she fell against the dado rail and scraped her elbow painfully, then righting her again.

  ‘Robert, you come with me.’ Cassie wound her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Come and tuck me up and cuddle me?’

  ‘Oh, Cass, I can’t do that,’ said Robert.

  ‘Why not?’ pouted Cassie.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking me, that’s why.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Just the same, you need to sleep it off, all by yourself.’

  ‘But I’ll be so lonely.’ Cassie rubbed herself against him, smiling up at him with big, round eyes. ‘Robert, will you come and put my light on?’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Robert, then half-walked, half-carried Cassie to the bedroom.

  ‘You’ll have to help me get undressed,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ll see if Mrs Jimp is back from fire-watching yet, then she can help you into bed.’

  ‘But I don’t want Mrs Jimp,’ sulked Cassie. ‘Robert, the only one I want is you.’

  Then Cassie sat or rather fell down on the bed. She flopped against the lacy pillows. ‘Rob,’ she whispered softly, ‘will you take my stockings off for me?’

  ‘You must take them off yourself.’

  ‘But I can’t,’ said Cassie. ‘You do it, Robert – please?’

  So Robert did as Cassie asked him, rolling down her fine silk stockings, carefully turning them around her ankles so as not to ladder them, then slipping them off her feet. She had such tiny little feet, he noticed now, and the urge to kiss them was almost overwhelming.

  But he didn’t – couldn’t
– it would not be fair.

  ‘I love you, Rob,’ said Cassie, as he stroked her ankle. ‘I love you more than anything.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Robert sighed. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. ‘I’ve been such a fool. I shouldn’t have made you drink all that champagne. You’ve gone a really ghastly shade of green. I think we need to get you to the bathroom.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re going to be sick.’

  Chapter Eight

  Cassie couldn’t remember very much about what happened next that evening. She had some vague, embarrassing recollections of being in a cold, white bathroom, making awful noises, and then of someone putting her to bed.

  Later on, she must have dozed a while, she thought, because she woke up lying in a little pool of dribble. Both of her eyes were glued together with mascara, and she felt very ill.

  The blackout curtains were still closed, but the bright morning sun had somehow found its way between the curtains and the window sill, and a shaft of light had sliced the room in two. The tiny gilt alarm clock on the bedside table said the time was half past eight.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ Cassie started up, fell out of bed, scrambled to her feet again and grabbed her army uniform, which – thank you, Blessed Virgin – someone had put neatly on a hanger and hung up from a hook behind the door.

  She tore off Daisy’s crumpled evening dress, and started pulling on her shirt and skirt and horrid lisle stockings, fastening her suspenders and buttoning her jacket.

  But – Holy Mother – where had she left her cap? On the sofa in the sitting room? Or had the butler hung it on the hallstand when he’d hung up Rob’s and Steve’s? Please, God, let it be there!

  ‘What’s all the rush?’ asked Daisy’s husband, who was in the dining room, reading the morning paper, eating toast and drinking coffee. Ewan was in uniform today. Perhaps he was in ENSA? ‘Sit down, Cassie,’ he continued calmly. ‘What would you like for breakfast?’

  ‘I ought to be in Piccadilly! I have to take a bridagier to Alsherdot. Please, is there any coffee?’ she gabbled, wondering why she felt so bloody awful and couldn’t seem to make her words come out the way they should – was she sickening for something, maybe? Did she have any spots?

  ‘A bridagier, eh?’ Ewan Fraser smiled and poured some coffee, and Cassie drank it greedily, because her throat was parched.

  ‘Where’s Rob today?’ she croaked.

  ‘He went out with Stephen, but they’ll be back at lunch time. We thought you’d sleep for hours.’ Ewan took some toast out of the rack, spread a curl of butter on it, handed it to Cassie. ‘You need a prairie oyster, lassie – that’ll set you up.’

  ‘Or kill you off.’ Daisy came in then, and she was also wearing uniform, dark green with smart red piping. But, unlike Cassie, Daisy was immaculately groomed and ready to start the day.

  ‘Good morning, Cassie,’ Daisy said. ‘Pour her out another cup of coffee, could you, darling?’ she continued, as she kissed her husband on the cheek. ‘Black, with a little sugar in it, if we have some left. She ought to have a glass of water, too.’

  Ewan nodded, fetched a glass of water, and Cassie drank it down.

  ‘Come on, love,’ said Daisy. ‘Let’s get all that varnish off your nails and I’ll repair your face.’

  Cassie made it – just.

  As she skidded round the corner from the Ritz hotel and ran towards the garage, she met her passenger going in.

  The brigadier was a thin, sour-looking man who carried a bulging briefcase. His trousers were very sharply pressed, his boots gleamed like new conkers, his neat moustache was newly trimmed, and all his buttons shone. A stickler, she thought, a bloody stickler – that’s all I flipping need.

  ‘You’re late,’ the officer observed, looking Cassie up and down with obvious disapproval.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Cassie. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she added, just about remembering to salute.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s good for you.’

  As Cassie opened the door for him to get into the car, the brigadier scowled crossly at his driver. ‘Straighten your tie, Lance Corporal,’ he rapped. ‘Tie your shoelaces, and try to be a credit to your service.’

  Cassie checked the water, oil and petrol, took the pressure of the tyres and pumped them up again. She got the engine running, got into the cab and carefully reversed out of the garage. She drove the ponderous Humber staff car along Piccadilly and set off for Aldershot.

  She couldn’t believe she’d got it all so wrong, made such an exhibition of herself, and ruined her whole life. She wouldn’t see Rob again, of course. His leave was almost over, and soon he would be going overseas, where he was likely to be killed.

  As for Daisy, who had been so kind – Cassie had paid her back by spilling champagne on her expensive dress, getting make-up all over her sheets, and being sick in her bathroom.

  As she made her slow way back to Aldershot, head throbbing, throat as dry as the Sahara, she couldn’t believe she could have been so stupid, so unutterably awful. They reckon breeding always shows, she thought, and now they’ll know that I’ve got none at all.

  ‘Did you get her autograph for me?’

  ‘What was her house like?’

  ‘Does she have a sunken bath?’

  ‘Does she dye her hair, or is she naturally blonde?’

  Cassie had originally planned to tell the others all about it, down to the last detail – to reveal all Daisy’s beauty secrets, to describe her home, her husband, servants, the contents of her wardrobes, everything.

  But now she saw that this would be the most mean-minded thing to do, and a huge betrayal of Daisy’s kindness.

  ‘She’s got a posh apartment in Park Lane,’ she offered lamely.

  ‘Yes, I know, it said so in the Mirror,’ said a girl from Hull, who kept a scrapbook about Daisy and other British stars. ‘But what’s it like inside? Does she have a marble bathroom, does she have gold taps, and big, gilt mirrors on the walls? Does she wear a satin dressing gown, and did you get a photograph for me? You promised me you would.’

  Cassie told them Daisy certainly didn’t dye her hair, that she was in the WVS, and that she looked very glamorous in her green tweed uniform.

  Then she went and sat down on her bed, and wrote a letter of thanks to Ewan and Daisy. She said that she was sorry from the bottom of her heart for all her bad behaviour, and she was ashamed. She added that they couldn’t think any worse of her than she thought of herself.

  She couldn’t bring herself to write to Robert. He must have been disgusted to find that she was nothing but a drunken, maudlin slut, a silly cow who couldn’t hold her drink.

  He had called her darling. She was almost sure he had. But now one thing was certain – he wouldn’t call her darling any more.

  She would have thought it couldn’t get any worse. But a few days later on, it did. One of the toff drivers caught her coming out of the shower room, and she pinned Cassie up against the wall.

  ‘So, you met Daisy Denham?’ began Lavinia Mayne, her spiteful, thin-lipped mouth curved in a sneer.

  ‘So, what’s it to you?’ demanded Cassie.

  ‘It’s just that you were seen at the 400. Or anyway, I imagine it was you. My cousin was also there that night, and said there was a ghastly, common woman with Miss Denham and her husband, slobbering all over some young Royal Dorsets officer, and getting roaring drunk.’

  ‘Yes, that was me all right,’ admitted Cassie.

  ‘Well, I just want to say, I think you’re awful.’ Lavinia tossed her fine, patrician head. ‘I don’t know what Luigi can be thinking of, letting people like you into the club.’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ said Cassie flatly.

  ‘I think you’ll find that I’m not in your way.’ Shuddering theatrically now, Lavinia stepped aside. ‘Some men like a bit of rough,’ she called as Cassie left the shower block, ‘especially if they’re going overseas. It gets them in the mood for for
eign women, who will do anything.’

  The next few days were horrible, with whispering and gossiping and giggling to endure, all made much worse for Cassie by the knowledge she deserved it.

  ‘So I burned my bridges,’ she told Frances, when she was finally feeling strong enough to write a full account of that disastrous, hideous night. ‘I really mucked it up. I dare say all the Denhams hate me now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, midget, they won’t hate you. It was just bad luck.’ Now posted up to Chester, Frances wrote back straight away. ‘Champagne can be very tricky stuff,’ she added wisely. ‘I remember having some at a wedding, when I was seventeen, and it knocked me for six! You think you’re stone cold sober, then suddenly – wham – it hits you, and you’re rolling drunk.

  ‘You’ll know better next time. I think Robert taking off your stockings, and him looking after you while you were being sick, is really rather lovely. What a perfect gentleman!’

  Yes, and what a pity I’m not a lady, reflected Cassie sadly.

  But then she made a vow. She would stop swearing, stop trying to act tough. She would learn to be a proper lady, in thought and word and deed, and she would never touch champagne again.

  Almost a whole week went by before she had the letter she was dreading. The pale blue BFPO envelope looked absolutely harmless, but Cassie held it gingerly, as if it was a hand grenade and likely to go off.

  She spent the day on motor maintenance, lying under lorries, changing tyres and cleaning spark plugs. All that time she worried about her letter, and wondered what it said. He didn’t want to see her any more, and anything between them was all over, obviously.

  But how would he say it?

  She finally couldn’t stand it any longer, and when she was queuing up to get her supper, she tore the letter open.

  ‘My dearest Cassie,’ it began, which was a big surprise. ‘I hope your headache’s better! I’m sorry that I missed you and didn’t get a chance say goodbye. I didn’t realise you had to drive a bridagier to Alsherdot so early in the morning. I hope you got him there!