Stratton's War (19 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
The anti-Jew talk was only the sort of thing one would hear anywhere - she obviously wasn’t going to learn anything new today. What she really didn’t understand was how, if all Jews were supposed to be capitalists and financiers and so forth, they could be Reds at the same time: the two things just didn’t fit. The only time she’d ventured a remark of this sort was to one of the rare men one saw at Right Club gatherings. She’d prefaced it with a lot of self-deprecatory flim-flam about being a mere woman and therefore liable not to understand things very well, and she’d been told that it was all part of the conspiracy and it didn’t do to forget, even for a moment, that all Jews were very cunning. Diana dabbed her lips with her napkin, drank some water, and tried, vaguely, to remember the name of the person who’d said this. Quite a handsome man - American, which was unusual - tall, and . . . Watson? No, that wasn’t it . . .
She jumped slightly as Helen Pender, who was seated next to her, dropped her cutlery onto her plate with a clatter and pushed back her chair. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ Helen’s voice was abrupt, and, as she edged behind the chairs to get out into the main body of the restaurant, Diana felt a hand brush her shoulder - deliberately. Taking this as an invitation to follow, she also excused herself from the table.
In the cloakroom, she busied herself repairing her lipstick until Helen emerged from the cubicle. Her eyes and nose had a slightly pinched, pink look, as if she’d been trying, unsuccessfully, not to cry. ‘Is something the matter?’ Diana asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Helen. ‘I know I don’t know you well, but I couldn’t bear to sit there for another moment. It’s Mummy, you see. We had the most fearful row last night. About Walter.’
‘Oh?’ Diana, who was clearly supposed to know who Walter was and why Lady Calne was having rows about him, nodded encouragingly.
‘It’s ghastly. I know he’s not our sort of person - well, he couldn’t be, could he, being American, but all the same . . . Honestly, it’s quite unbearable, you really can’t imagine . . . Mrs Montague thinks he’s splendid. She’s told Mummy he’s a terrific asset to the cause. Mrs Montague doesn’t know about us, of course, and Mummy’s so horridly suspicious she just won’t listen.’ She started to cry again. Diana, comforting her, tried to make sense of the jumble of information. ‘She simply can’t see,’ gulped Helen, ‘that none of it matters any more.’
‘Of course not,’ said Diana soothingly, patting Helen’s shoulder abstractedly while the penny dropped: Walter, American, an asset to the cause . . . The man at the Right Club who’d talked about the Jewish conspiracy. Not Watson, but . . . Wymark. That was it, Walter Wymark. What exactly had he been doing, she wondered, that Mrs Montague thought so splendid? Gathering information, perhaps - not the sort of out-of-date stuff that she’d been passing over on F-J’s instructions, but important things. She’d got no idea what he did - a journalist, perhaps, or maybe the Embassy . . . ? Diana tried to concentrate on what Helen was saying and make the right soothing noises. As an older and married woman, she felt she ought to be able to offer some tremendously wise statement about human relationships and matters of that kind - clearly that’s what was needed - but she couldn’t think of anything to say beyond the fact that these things were difficult and took time, and that Lady Calne was bound to come round when she saw how committed Walter was. ‘Oh, he is,’ said Helen eagerly. ‘He sees things so clearly, far more than—’ She broke off as the cloakroom door opened and, to Diana’s annoyance, Mrs Montague appeared.
‘Good heavens, is anything wrong?’
‘Just nerves,’ said Diana quickly. ‘It’s the raids. I’ve been feeling pretty much on edge myself.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Montague. ‘Everyone’s the same. People are suffering dreadfully, and it’s all so unnecessary.’
It took quite a few minutes, and a great deal of face powder, to make Helen calm and presentable enough to return to the table. Diana, who had been hoping to find out more about Walter Wymark, found herself thwarted when Mrs Montague insisted on staying to supervise the proceedings. Still, there were bound to be other opportunities, and now she had established a bond with Helen, it shouldn’t be too difficult to bring the subject up on a future occasion.
There was no stop opposite the Ritz Hotel, but it didn’t matter because the Piccadilly buses always pulled up to let girls off. ‘Have a good time, darling,’ called the conductor, as Diana stepped off the platform. ‘Mind how you go!’ It was early evening, and she was meeting Claude in the hotel bar. On the way, she’d read Evie’s latest letter, which was full of complaints about disappearing servants. ‘How is one supposed to manage with a staff of five?’ What does she expect? thought Diana, and then, I bet they couldn’t wait to see the back of her. ‘I don’t mind so much for myself, but when dear Guy comes home . . .’ The subject of Guy’s leave, which surely couldn’t be long away, was one she’d deliberately avoided. She’d have to ask for leave at the same time, and if it were granted . . . Of course, the more she and Claude were seen in public together, dancing and so on, the greater the chances of some friend of Evie’s spotting them and reporting back; but even without this worry, the idea of a week with Guy at Evie’s house filled her with dread. Of course, she’d pretend to be pleased, and act the part of the dutiful wife . . .
Sitting on the bus, she’d suddenly remembered what F-J had said about the qualities of a good spy: ‘The person must be honest, loyal, and trustworthy, but only to us.’ Well, thought Diana, she was honest and loyal to F-J - she was firmly convinced about the rightness of that - but she certainly wasn’t being loyal to her husband. She’d wondered if betrayal did not, perhaps, bring its own, rather nasty reward, even if you were doing it for the good of your country - the memory of the exalted feeling and sense of power in the taxi after her first meeting with Mrs Montague made her uneasy. It was, when you came down to it, the satisfaction of having one up on somebody else. She remembered Jock’s words, back in June, about danger making one feel more alive, and shivered. Was she turning into a different sort of person? These things never seemed to bother Lally, but then Lally wasn’t married, and was obviously having the time of her life. Diana felt envious: so far, she’d resisted Claude’s advances, but the idea of being his mistress was undeniably thrilling; as thrilling as the thought of Guy’s touch was dreadful. His fumbling attempts at carnality were quite bad enough, but the knowledge that her husband’s real desire was to please his mother by fathering a son and heir was repulsive to her.
What can I do? she thought. The answer, of course, was nothing. Better to enjoy herself while she could than to dwell on what couldn’t be changed. In any case - and this thought hadn’t been far from her mind since the first night of the raids, when she’d stood on the roof of Nelson House with F-J and watched the East End go up in flames - it might be her last chance. It might be the last chance to see Guy, too, if he was killed . . . How would she feel then? For a moment, the tangled shipwreck of her emotions, never far submerged these days, threatened to surface in its horrible entirety, but she managed - only just, because it was becoming more and more difficult - to suppress it.
The Ritz bar was crowded with officers, and women in uniform - FANYs, mainly, and Diana looked round quickly to check whether Sir Neville Apse’s driver, Rosemary Legge-Brock, was amongst them, but couldn’t see her. She was in the process of being accosted by an enormous and ferocious-looking man with a monstrous moustache and a very thick accent when Claude appeared and rescued her. ‘Who on earth was that?’ she asked, when he’d gone.
‘One of King Zog’s bodyguards, probably. They’re all over the place. Anyway, don’t let’s worry about him. How are you? Apart from being utterly beautiful, that is.’ Claude ordered drinks and proposed dinner and dancing at the 400 Club afterwards. ‘Take your mind off it,’ he said, reaching for her hand under the table.
Diana, who hadn’t been aware that she was showing any sign of her anxieties, was surprised. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I know you are, darling, but you’ve got that bomb look. Lovely, in your case, but slightly stunned.’
Diana laughed. ‘I’m probably better that way. It’s just that one doesn’t get much sleep.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Claude, ruefully. ‘It’s all right for F-J, having that luxurious shelter at Dolphin Square and outside fire escapes in case it gets too lively when one’s upstairs. I’ve had to fix myself up with a mattress underneath my bed - borrowed four enormous tins of polish from the porter, jacked the legs up on that, and put a board across the top. I reckon it’ll protect me if the ceiling comes down, and at least’ - he looked at her meaningfully - ‘it’s private.’
Diana decided to ignore the last bit. ‘We’ve got a shelter of sorts at Tite Street,’ she said. ‘The basement. You wouldn’t believe how some people snore. The girl from the flat below mine - only about five feet tall, and terribly delicate - but she sounds like a hippopotamus.’
After dinner, they made their way down Piccadilly to Leicester Square, accompanied by distant bangs and flashes of light that seemed to tear the sky open. The 400 Club, with its red silk walls, deep, plush banquettes, and floor length velvet curtains, was glamorous and intimate, softly lit by standard lamps and single candles on the tables. Claude ordered champagne, which was delivered by Mr Rossi himself, and then they joined the other dancers. The small floor was packed so tightly with officers and their girlfriends that it was difficult to do more than sway in time to the music, but Claude was a good dancer, easy to follow and skilful at avoiding other couples, so Diana shut her eyes, let him hold her close, and lost herself in the music.
A sudden dull, but very loud, explosion made the room lurch. Lamps shook, candles guttered, and drinks slopped from glasses. The music faltered slightly, then continued as if nothing had happened, with new timpani provided by small chunks of plaster falling from the ceiling and the crash of bottles falling off tables. The dancers carried on, mechanically, but it was harder now, like trying to make your way across a ship’s deck in a storm. Diana was aware of Claude’s breath in her ear - he was saying something, but she couldn’t hear the words - and then he took her hand and led her back to their table, now ringed by smashed glass and sprinkled with plaster dust. Claude took out his handkerchief and flicked the mess from her seat. His mouth moved again, and Diana cupped her hand to her ear in an I-can’t-hear-you gesture. ‘I said,’ Claude’s voice popped at her, suddenly, like a balloon bursting, ‘Let’s sit this one out.’
Diana smiled and nodded - she didn’t feel up to talking quite yet - and sat down. Another thud, closer this time, made the chair buck beneath her like a horse so that she had to hold on to the edge of the table to stop herself falling, and then Claude was beside her, helping her to her feet, and, in the chaos of noise and plaster dust, a man was shouting, ‘Everybody out! Building’s on fire!’
Claude put his arm round her and they joined the crowd of people filing up the stairs and onto the street - patrons, waiters, and musicians clutching their instruments.
Outside, the pavement was so hot that it scorched through the thin soles of her shoes, making her hop. Every surface was frosted with broken glass that shone in the glare from the flames, and purposeful figures - wardens, firemen, a nurse - crunched as they moved through it. Every so often, a face passed before her, lit up, strained and grimy, and then darkened again when a shadow fell on it, as if she were watching riders on a carousel. She looked upwards, and saw the black London roofscape silhouetted against a sky turned copper-coloured by fire as Claude urged her forward through the throng in the road. Diana had the impression that no-one was speaking, but perhaps, she thought, it was because their voices were swallowed up in the roar and crackle of the flames. They went over Charing Cross Road and into Leicester Square station. Lally was there, with Davey Tremaine. Both their faces were grimy, and, looking at Claude, Diana noticed that his was, too, and supposed that she must look equally dishevelled. ‘Have you come from the 400?’ asked Lally. Diana nodded, still too shaken to speak. ‘We didn’t see you. Not surprising - it was a bit of a crush. Let’s get down to the platforms.’
Davey bought four one-penny tickets, and they managed, after stepping over a mass of supine bodies, to find a quiet corner at the bottom of the steps to the Piccadilly line, where they sat down. The air was warm and fetid, and the platforms crammed as far as the eye could see with squalid nests of ragged blankets on which people sat or reclined, drinking tea, playing cards, knitting, chatting, and sleeping. ‘I’m jolly glad I don’t have to come down here every night,’ said Lally.
‘They’re not supposed to,’ said Claude. ‘The
Daily Worker
’s been kicking up a hell of a fuss about it - ruling classes in their luxury shelters denying protection to the proles and so on.’
Daily Worker
’s been kicking up a hell of a fuss about it - ruling classes in their luxury shelters denying protection to the proles and so on.’
‘Well, they’re right, aren’t they?’ said Diana. ‘It isn’t fair. Especially when the East End gets it worse than anywhere else.’
‘No, it isn’t. But we’re fortunate,’ said Claude. ‘Doubly fortunate, in fact.’ With a conjuror’s flourish, he produced a bottle of champagne from inside his jacket.
Diana gaped at him. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘I picked it up on the way out. Sleight of hand.’ He pulled a glass from each pocket. Davey Tremaine clapped him on the back. ‘Well done, old chap.’
‘It isn’t ours,’ said Diana.
Claude shrugged, and started pouring. ‘Don’t want the rescue squad getting drunk on the job. Here,’ - he handed a glass to Lally - ‘you and Davey can share.’
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