Hothouse Flower (14 page)

‘Of course,’ confirmed Harry. ‘It’s a damned unsettling time to be living in. To be honest, I’ll be relieved when we all know where we are.’

‘Well, you never know your luck; it might get me out of the Season,’ chuckled Olivia. ‘They can’t hold it if there’s a war on, now can they?’

‘Horrors!’ said Harry amiably, lighting a cigarette and offering her one, which she refused. ‘Not even a war could stop that, surely?!’

They both smiled in comfortable acknowledgement.

‘Well, if war does come, I, for one, am not going to sit around and drink tea,’ she replied fiercely. ‘I shall sign up for something. I’m not sure what yet, but Mummy and Daddy can hardly stop me from helping to save my country, can they?’

‘That’s the spirit, Olivia! Now step in here.’ Harry opened the blue-painted wooden door that led into the kitchen garden. They walked through rows of immaculately planted cabbages, carrots, potatoes and turnips, across to a hothouse nestling in the corner of the garden, sheltered by a high red-brick wall. Harry opened the door to the hothouse and they both stepped inside.

The pungent smell of flowers, combined with the heat, sent Olivia spiralling back to her former homeland. She inhaled the evocative scents and surveyed the riot of colour in front of her.

‘Oh, Harry,’ she said in ecstasy, as she began to walk down the long rows of plants. She turned to him. ‘It’s simply heavenly!’

Harry could see that there were tears in Olivia’s eyes. She leant forward to grasp a delicate yellow plant, held it in her hands and smelt it. ‘This is frangipani, which used to grow outside my bedroom window in Poona. I lay there every night breathing its scent.’ She buried her nose in the flowers again. ‘I had no idea you could grow them here.’

Harry was moved by her emotional reaction and realised then what a shock it must have been for her, landing here in England after years of living amongst plants like these, abundant in their natural habitat.

‘Well now, you absolutely must take it with you, mustn’t she, Jack?’ Harry turned to the middle-aged gardener, whose face was weathered and lined from years of outdoor work.

‘Of course she must, Master Harry,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I’ve plenty more where that came from, managed to get the hang of them frangipani now, I have. Grand job,’ he muttered. ‘You wander around as much as you like, miss. It’s a pleasure to have someone in here who appreciates them.’

Olivia strolled up and down the rows of flowers, dipping her nose into the blooms and stroking the velvet petals.

‘You’ve done a simply marvellous job, Jack,’ she commented. ‘These flowers can’t like the English climate any more than I do.’

‘Well, I’ve been growing them now for fifteen year and I might be no trained botanist, but I understand what they all like and dislike. And my son, Bill, here –’ Jack said, indicating the tall, handsome young man watering some of the pots further down the hothouse – ‘has a real feel for them, don’t you, Bill?’

The young man turned and nodded. ‘Suits me far better than cabbages,’ he grinned. ‘The best part is when we get a new bulb in, and we’ve no idea what’s going to grow out of it.’

‘He’ll be good to take over, Master Harry, he’s a natural,’ Jack confirmed. ‘As long as he don’t get called up. They say they’re recruiting from the Territorials already round here.’ Jack eyed him. ‘Is that true, Master Harry?’ he asked, concern in his eyes.

‘I really couldn’t tell you, Jack,’ Harry answered diplomatically. ‘I think all of us are rather in the dark at the moment.’

Jack turned to Olivia. ‘At least the hothouse will be safe with me if the war does come, miss. The Hun blew my leg to pieces last time, so they won’t be wanting me again.’

‘Well now, Jack, Bill …’ Harry nodded at them both. ‘You really are doing the most marvellous job in here. Well done.’

‘Tell her Ladyship from me she’s to come down when she’s got the time. One of the new bulbs she gave me has just flowered and I want her to see it.’ Jack touched his cap. ‘Good day to you, Master Harry, and you, miss. Enjoy your frangipani.’

‘Thanks awfully, I will,’ said Olivia. ‘It really is very sweet of you to give it to me.’

‘Grand job,’ said Jack, as Harry led her out of the hothouse.

‘You’re an absolute darling for taking me in there, Harry,’ Olivia enthused. ‘I feel uplifted.’

‘It was my pleasure, really,’ Harry remarked amiably. ‘It is rather special, isn’t it?’

They walked back through the kitchen garden towards the house in silence. Harry lit another cigarette, took a few puffs, then stubbed it out with his foot. He sighed. ‘I was just thinking, if war does come, every bally family on the estate will be affected. Take Bill, for example. He’s currently courting Elsie, one of our maids up at the house.’

Olivia smiled. ‘I’ve met Elsie. She’s a bright young spark and she’s got herself a good-looking chap there.’

‘Won’t be so damned good-looking if he gets half his face blown away by the Krauts,’ Harry muttered as they made their way back up the steps to the terrace. He turned to Olivia. ‘Sorry to be so mis, but I rather wonder what will happen to the estate if all our young workers are called up.’

‘The women will have to take over,’ grinned Olivia.

Harry smiled genuinely at this and offered her a half-bow. ‘Well, there we are then, Mrs Pankhurst. It has been my pleasure to show you around our humble gardens. And now, I suppose I’d better go and search out the guns before anyone notices I’m missing.’

‘Why weren’t you out at the crack of dawn with the rest of the men?’ she asked.

‘I said I had some business to attend to but, if I’m truthful, any excuse will do. Not really my thing.’ He held out his hand. ‘I may not see you before you leave. Take care, Olivia, and safe journey back to the Smoke. It’s been an absolute pleasure meeting you.’

She shook his hand and smiled back. ‘And you, Harry.’

Harry nodded, stuffed his hands into his pockets and disappeared off inside the house.

12

It had been agreed between Lady Vare, Olivia’s grandmother, and her parents, that Olivia should move to London for the duration of the Season. Their Surrey home was not an appropriate location from which a debutante should be launched, as it was too far from the glitz and glitter of the London scene. So, two weeks after leaving Wharton Park, Olivia arrived with her suitcases at her grandmother’s house in Cheyne Walk.

The house was from another era: stuffed full of Victorian furniture and laden with heavy brocade curtains, the walls covered in highly patterned William Morris wallpaper. Olivia found it oppressive, and was glad to be billeted high up on the fourth floor in her own small suite of rooms, where at least there was some light. In the morning, she would pull back the curtains, open the windows and look across to the River Thames to stem her feeling of claustrophobia.

The first thing that had to be done to begin the process of becoming a debutante was to register at St James’s Palace. Girls could only be presented at Court if they were sponsored by a lady who had been presented herself. As Olivia’s own mother had been a debutante, she could have quite easily acted as Olivia’s sponsor. But Lady Vare would have none of it. In the end, Olivia’s mother gave in to her
own
mother’s determination to take charge and retreated to her Surrey home, leaving the arrangements for Olivia’s Season entirely to her grandmother.

Between the endless dress-fittings, Olivia was left much to her own devices. Which meant she had far too much time to think about Harry Crawford and her time at Wharton Park. The two days spent there had become almost mirage-like in her memory. She relived her conversations with him, relishing the fact that Harry had treated her as an intellectual equal. This was in stark contrast to her current life in London, where she felt she was little more than a doll being dressed up. She knew that, at least once the Season began, her timetable would be full as she embarked on the gruelling round of dances, lunches and late suppers, that were all part of launching her into Society and finding her a suitable mate.

The injustice of so much opulence – the whole jamboree – set against a backdrop of unemployment, poverty and unrest, was not lost on Olivia. As she was chauffeured around London in her grandmother’s old Bentley, Olivia would glance out of the window at the poor souls living on the streets, warming their hands on paltry fires; at the men who marched past Parliament, holding their banners which asked the Government to help feed their children because they were starving.

She felt isolated by her privilege and not part of the changing zeitgeist; she was trapped in the Old World when she wanted to belong to the New. She would sometimes take a walk along the Embankment, throwing coins at the homeless men and women shivering under the bridges, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable in her warm, wealthy clothes.

One afternoon, having just been to Lenare, so the famous photographer could capture her in her traditional white presentation dress, Olivia heard a knock on her door. It was her grandmother’s maid.

‘Her Ladyship has asked if you would be kind enough to take tea with her in the parlour downstairs.’

When Olivia entered the room, Lady Vare was sitting stiffly in a high-backed leather chair placed by the fire.

‘Please sit down, Olivia. As your presentation is now so close, I wanted to talk with you about the people you might meet during the Season. In the old days, it was not necessary to be wary of anyone. But –’ Lady Vare wrinkled her nose in distaste – ‘unfortunately, standards have slipped and there is a certain …
element
that is no longer suitable company for a young lady such as yourself. The foreigners, for a start, but also, I have recently talked to another mother whose daughter is being presented and discovered there is a set who are considered
fast
. Olivia,’ she wagged her finger sternly at her granddaughter, ‘you are to stay clear of them.’

‘But, Grandmother, how will I recognise them?’ Olivia’s eyes were round and appropriately innocent.

‘They wear lipstick and smoke cigarettes.’

Olivia tried not to giggle. From the look on her face, Lady Vare could well have been saying that these girls carried knives in their evening purses.

‘I’ll keep on the lookout, Grandmother, I promise, and I hope to make you proud.’

Lady Vare nodded graciously. ‘I’m sure you will, Olivia. And now, you must excuse me, I have some business to attend to.’

Olivia went to bed that night willing the next three months to be over quickly, so she could finally begin to get on with her life.

The Presentation Night itself passed smoothly enough, and was actually far more enjoyable than Olivia could have imagined. As she was driven down the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, there were crowds of well-wishers lining the road and hundreds of people surrounding the gates to the palace. The crowds blew kisses at her, asked her chauffeur to switch on the interior lights of the car so they could look at her dress and cheered Olivia on her way. She was amazed that they didn’t seem to disapprove of her or envy her privileged situation.

Her own car followed the long line that drove into the inner courtyard at Buckingham Palace. Her main concern, as she walked up the grand staircases, past the palace servants wearing their powdered wigs, was that she might dirty her white dress and kid gloves. Even though she deemed her presentation a relatively unimportant moment in her life, she could not rid herself of the small butterflies in her stomach as she stood in the anteroom waiting to be presented to the King and Queen.

‘This is a hoot, I don’t think!’ said a striking young woman with jet-black hair standing behind her. She was thin as a rake and wearing what her grandmother would call unsuitable lipstick. ‘What number are you?’

‘I’m Number Sixteen.’

‘I’m in after you. Isn’t this is a yawn?’ Seventeen drawled, looking suitably bored. ‘So completely passé.’

Olivia wanted to agree, but as she was due into the Throne Room within the next two minutes she ignored the girl and tried to concentrate on what she needed to do.

Afterwards, everyone was much more relaxed. Olivia’s presentation had gone smoothly. She had not tripped or fallen at the King and Queen’s feet, or stumbled on her walk to and fro. The girls were chattering and tucking in to a feast provided by Lyons. They all seemed to know each other and Olivia stood on the sidelines, feeling awkward and out of place.

‘Buck up, almost over,’ whispered a voice beside her. ‘We met earlier, I’m Venetia Burroughs. And you are?’

It was Number Seventeen. ‘Olivia Drew-Norris,’ she replied.

‘Golly! I’m dying for a ciggie,’ uttered Venetia. ‘When do you suppose we’ll be released?’ Venetia flicked back her long black hair, which was noticeably not styled in a bouffant, unlike Olivia’s and most of the other girls.

‘I’ve really no idea. I’d look at my watch, except it’s such a palaver to take off these kid gloves,’ replied Olivia.

Venetia raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, heavens, yes.’ She looked around the room and indicated the girls. ‘We all look rather like brides of Dracula, don’t we?’

Olivia giggled. She knew that Venetia must be one of the ‘fast’ girls her grandmother had warned her about. And she was intrigued.

‘Oh, damn it! I’m going to have one anyway.’ Venetia pulled a cigarette from her evening bag and lit it. ‘Gosh, that’s better,’ she said, exhaling ostentatiously.