Debutantes (24 page)

‘Have it your own way,’ said Daisy with a shrug. She looked around the ballroom and then laughed. ‘Look at Rose,’ she said with a chuckle.

Rose had just refused, with a polite smile and a shake of the head, an invitation from one of the boy cousins. She had opened her bag and was using the tiny pencil from her dance programme to make notes on the back of a paper dance list. From time to time she looked up, glanced at her sister in the arms of the young Prince and made another note.

‘It’s for the grand novel,’ said Daisy, but Justin was not as amused as he usually was by Rose’s ambitions. He frowned and began stiffly to discuss the orchestra. He was purposely engineering their steps so that they came nearer to the Prince and Violet, but Daisy didn’t mind. She, too, was curious to know what Violet was talking about that kept the twenty-one-year-old Prince in gales of laughter.

‘Of course, she is a bit pathetic, really. These Victorians find everything so unmentionable, don’t they?’ And Violet embarked on a cruel imitation of Great-Aunt Lizzie’s horror at overhearing Rose giving a funny version of the ‘facts of life’ to one of the farm children.

‘I say, we mustn’t lose touch with each other, Violet,’ said Prince George. ‘Are you going to Millington next weekend? You know Lady Diana Cooper, don’t you? I’ll get her to send you an invite. Do say that you’ll come.’ The Prince was obviously enamoured; Daisy was glad that her father wasn’t present. He would not have been happy at the way the two of them were dancing. ‘Dance with Justin,’ she whispered to Poppy just before the next dance. This time Prince George had come to a sense of his social obligations and had gone up to Catherine with a smile on his face and his hand outstretched. She curtsied and he grinned, no doubt remembering Violet’s ridiculous mimicry.

Daisy filmed this dance from the first to the last minute, making sure that she crossed in front of the Duchess several times so that their hostess noted what she was doing. But she had a sinking feeling that it was all too late. There was no mistaking the fact that Prince George’s eyes continually wandered in the direction of Violet. When the dance with Catherine finished, he left her after a bow and crossed the room towards the spot where Violet was chatting to David.

‘Don’t you go filming them.’ Justin’s voice was savage in Daisy’s ear. This was Violet’s fifth dance with Prince George.

‘I don’t want to,’ she said sadly. And she didn’t.

She remembered something said by Fred, the boy with malaria, when she was at Sir Guy’s studios. It now struck her as profound.

‘
One should never get the impression that the author of the film knows the end of the story all the time
.’

She did not want to film Violet in the arms of Prince George. She did not want to film the lovely face of her sister – not in love, no, it wasn’t that. Violet’s expression was more that of a once-starving cat who had a saucer of cream set before her.

Violet was lapping up the experience of being the focus of all eyes.

And she was spoiling Catherine’s coming-out ball, not just for Catherine herself, but for the Duchess of Denton, who had dreamed of this moment for years.

And Daisy knew quite well what the ending of this particular story would be.

The farewells the following morning were brisk and efficient – and inevitable. Violet had ruined Catherine’s coming-out ball; it would be too much to expect the Duchess to sponsor her through a presentation to their majesties.

‘Goodbye, Daisy dear; we’re so looking forward to the film. The bits you have shown me look wonderful. How clever you are, my dear. Here’s a little something for you in the meantime.’ Some coins chinked in the Duchess’s hand and were transferred to Daisy’s.

‘Goodbye, Rose, my dear, I’ve so enjoyed our chats, and Poppy – goodness, you are so like your dear, dear mother! It was lovely to see you. Goodbye, Violet. Do remember me to your father and to your dear great-aunt. Have a lovely journey, my dears.’

And then they were out through the front door and into the big, old-fashioned car and they were driving through the streets of London.

‘You’re all very quiet,’ commented Morgan as he pulled smoothly out into the morning traffic. He glanced over his shoulder and said sympathetically, ‘Didn’t things go well?’

‘Very enjoyable, thank you,’ said Violet stiffly.

‘You sound like Great-Aunt Lizzie,’ remarked Poppy.

‘Blood will tell,’ said Rose wisely. ‘Though there is still quite a distance between Violet’s nose and her chin.’

‘Shut up,’ said Violet viciously.

‘What about us all having an ice cream at Gatti’s?’ asked Morgan. ‘I made a bit of money on selling a drums recording that I made. There’s a market for that sort of thing now with all the new films that are coming out. It was only a few minutes long but I got a guinea for it. Here’s the Strand now.’ He slid the car neatly into a parking space and escorted them across the busy street.

It was so early in the morning that there was no one else in Gatti’s ice-cream parlour and Morgan found them a nice table beside the window where they could sit and watch the crowds walking down the Strand. A smart girl in a frilly apron and cap brought them a colourful menu and they settled down to choose, Rose decreeing that everyone should have something different so that they would get to sample five out of the ten varieties.

‘And the next time you come to London you can choose the other five,’ said Morgan.

‘I’ll never come to London again,’ said Violet mournfully.

‘The Duchess hasn’t made any offer to present Violet at court,’ Poppy explained to Morgan with her usual frankness.

Morgan shrugged. ‘Present yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m all in favour of people doing things for themselves. This is 1923, you know. Walk up to Buckingham Palace and shake the man by the hand.’

This made them all giggle – Daisy even felt slightly hysterical – halfway between tears and laughter. She hoped that Violet wouldn’t soon dissolve into tears again. However, her younger sister came to the rescue.

‘Oh, Morgan, my dear man,’ said Rose with a clever imitation of Great-Aunt Lizzie’s condescending manner, ‘you really don’t understand these matters. A girl can only be presented to the King by a lady who has been presented herself – even in the dim and distant past, like the Duchess,’ she added.

Morgan grinned. ‘Well, I’m only a poor boy from an orphanage, my lady,’ he said with mock humility, ‘but what about asking your great-aunt to do it, then? I bet she was hobnobbing with kings and queens when she was growing up.’

Violet shook her head tragically. ‘She’d never do that. She hasn’t a penny herself, you know. Remember her clothes. Everything has been darned so much that there are more darns than cloth in them.’

‘What about another relation?’ persisted Morgan. ‘What about any aunts or cousins or anything like that?’

Suddenly Daisy had an idea. She swallowed the last spoonful of the delicious ice and then asked: ‘Morgan, where is the Savoy Hotel? It’s on the Strand, isn’t it? I’m sure that I heard the Duchess talk about it.’

‘That’s right – just down there.’ Morgan pointed.

Daisy made up her mind quickly. It was worth a try. She took from her handbag the guineas that the Duchess had given her. ‘Let’s buy some clothes with these,’ she said impulsively. ‘Violet, you take Rose into that shop over there. Poppy and I will join you in a minute. Morgan, will you be all right here for half an hour or so?’

‘I expect so,’ said Morgan affably. ‘I’ll buy a paper and have a cup of coffee. Enjoy yourselves.’

‘Where are you and Poppy going?’ asked Violet as they reached the door of the shop.

‘Something to show Poppy,’ said Daisy rapidly as she pulled her twin sister away and began to run down the broad pavement of the Strand. In a few minutes they had reached the stately entrance to the Savoy. Daisy slowed down and put her hat straight.

‘Enlighten me,’ said Poppy as they walked down the hill towards the front door of the hotel. ‘What actually are we going here for?’

‘Elaine,’ said Daisy. ‘The boy at Sir Guy’s studios who told me that he met her on the boat coming back from India said that she mentioned she was coming here to the Savoy Hotel.’

‘And you suddenly thought that she might present Violet,’ finished Poppy. ‘Unlikely, I’d say. There must have been some big row or there would have been letters, Christmas cards – that sort of thing.’

‘Worth a try,’ said Daisy. She didn’t care for the look of the starchy individual in the Reception Office, or of the way in which he glanced disdainfully at their shabby coats, but she marched bravely in.

‘I’m looking for a Mrs Elaine Coxhead; I understand that she is staying here,’ she said, trying to sound a little like Great-Aunt Lizzie, but not succeeding.

‘Nobody of that name, here, miss,’ he said after scanning a few pages.

‘She came back from India a month or so ago and drove straight here,’ said Daisy firmly. ‘Her name must be somewhere.’

He turned over a few more leaves, and then stopped, a stubby finger pointing at an entry.

‘Left here two weeks ago,’ he said triumphantly.

‘Have you an address for her?’ persisted Daisy, but he shook his head.

‘No, miss,’ he said. ‘Will that be all?’

Daisy didn’t bother answering but stalked out, followed by Poppy, who touched a note on the piano in the foyer and said in clear, carrying tones. ‘Out of tune. Oh dear, what a shame! I couldn’t bear to take afternoon tea here and listen to an out-of-tune piano, could you?’

Daisy giggled and felt better. ‘I’m glad that I didn’t say anything to Violet,’ she said as they walked back up the short road to the Strand. She looked around at the crowds. How on earth could they find Elaine in a city the size of London?

Morgan was with Violet and Rose outside the ice-cream cafe.

‘Did you buy anything?’ called out Poppy when they had reached the pavement in safety.

Violet shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The clothes are terribly expensive, but I’ve got lots of good ideas from looking at them. I can alter some more of the dresses in the trunk to look like the latest fashion from London.’ She seemed much happier, though she did add, ‘Not that I’ll have any occasion to wear them.’

‘I’ve an idea,’ said Poppy. ‘I was thinking of what Bob here said about Great-Aunt Lizzie. Couldn’t we use one of the guineas to buy her something to wear? Or all of them? You can have mine if you like.’

‘Yes, but I need to have a season in London – and I need to have a ball, and things like that. Father would never agree to spending money on that, and Great-Aunt Lizzie won’t do anything without his agreement,’ objected Violet, but her colour had deepened and there was a calculating look in her eyes. ‘But one of Catherine’s friends has asked me to a house party in Berkshire,’ she added. ‘And . . .’ She hesitated and blushed, the colour in her eyes intensifying.

‘Save your guinea for new riding breeches,’ interrupted Daisy quickly. She had overheard Prince George’s casual invitation to Violet and knew that there was no possibility of Great-Aunt Lizzie or her father agreeing to her visiting a house where the hostess was unknown to the family. ‘Riding is something you do so well, Violet, and Berkshire is great horse countryside,’ she ended hurriedly.

‘Let’s all have another ice cream before we go back,’ said Morgan.

‘Gorgeous,’ said Poppy. ‘What are you having, Rose?’

Rose was taking a long time to decide so Daisy walked back to the table and set down her ice cream. Morgan’s newspaper had been left on the chair – the London
Times
. She began to scan through the personal column on the first page, hoping to find something funny to show to Rose – she was a little worried that Rose might have been more upset than was apparent at Sir Guy’s decision to get Fred to redo the design of the title cards.

‘
Could DM urgently get in touch with RW of Chelmsford. Address and phone number lost
.’ That was the first advertisement that she read.

And suddenly she had an idea. Surreptitiously she extracted the middle page from Rose’s splendid new notebook, took from her handbag the tiny pencil still attached to her dance programme, and wrote:

COULD ELAINE COXHEAD PLEASE CONTACT DAISY.

And then she looked at the address at the top of the newspaper – Fleet Street.