Half a Crown (2 page)

“Don’t be a ninny,” I said, pulling off the pillow. “They can’t make you marry a man with a beard.”

“Ghastly Lady B. is Mummy’s best friend, and her son’s frightfully rich and doing things with the government that seem likely to make him even more frightfully rich, and powerful as well. And he’s very polite, which makes him perfect in Mummy’s eyes. You don’t know how lucky you are being an orphan, Elvira.”

In fact, my mother was alive and well and running a pub in Leytonstone, but I thought it better never to mention her in my daily life. She certainly wasn’t going to interfere. She hadn’t wanted me when she ran off with her fancy man when I was six, and she hadn’t wanted me when my father died when I was eight, so she wasn’t likely to want me now. I hardly remembered her, but my aunt Ciss, my real aunt, my father’s sister, kept me up to date with gossip about her. Aunt Ciss would have taken me in, even though she had five children of her own, but she thought having Uncle Carmichael take an interest in me and offering to send me to Arlinghurst was a great
opportunity for me to make something of myself. I’d thought it a funny phrase then, like making stew of a neck of lamb, or a fruit cobbler of two bruised apples and a squashy pear. What they had hoped to make of me was a lady, and I’d been too young to question why anyone thought this would be better than what I would have grown into if let alone. It was only in the last year or so I had wondered about this at all, as I’d grown old enough to consider what they had made of me so far and what I might want to make of myself, given the opportunity.

“Put on a clean dress and come down, do,” I said. “I’ll do my best to draw the cross fire.”

That made her smile. It was, of course, Bogart’s famous line from the end of
The Battle of Kursk.
She stood up and pulled her dress off over her head. “I met Sir Alan the other night when you were having dinner with your uncle,” she said. “Oh, how I loathe this whole dreary business. Men. Dancing. Coming out. And on Wednesday, fittings for our Court dresses, which cost a fortune and which we’ll wear for one night next week, to make our curtsey to the Queen, as if it makes any difference at all to anything.” She dropped the green dress heedlessly on the floor and opened her wardrobe. “What should I wear?”

“What do you want to look like?”

“I want to look like Elizabeth instead of Betsy.” This was her newest enthusiasm. I found it very hard to comply with, and nobody else tried at all. “And I want to look like someone who doesn’t need to have her parents drag home a husband for her. I swear Daddy’s expression is just like Tigrath’s when she’s dragged home a mouse and dropped it proudly on my pillow.”

I laughed. “Why not the cream seersucker thing with the gold ribbon we bought in Paris?”

“Because we don’t want to look like twins,” she said. “It only makes me look worse.”

I smoothed the ribbon at my neck self-consciously. I can’t help being prettier than Betsy. She never cared before Zurich.

She pulled out a forest green dress patterned with leaves so dark you could hardly see them except when the light was angled just right, another of her Paris purchases. Somebody, probably her mother, had once told Betsy that redheads ought to wear green. In my opinion it did nothing for her. “What about this?” she asked.

“What about the gray one?” I countered. It was the same cut, and almost the same fabric only in gray with the leaf pattern in black.

“I hate the gray one,” she said, pulling it out. “All the same, I’ll wear it, because I hate Sir Alan too. He’s such a fascist.”

“We’re all fascists now, surely?” I asked. “And anyway, what’s wrong with fascism? It’s fun!”

“I find fascists just too sick-making,” Betsy said, pulling on the gray dress and belting it viciously tight. It fell precisely just above her ankles. She looked all right. Most people are neither beautiful nor ugly, they fall somewhere in the range of the middle. If I tried, and trying was what we’d been taught at our expensive Swiss finishing school, I could get into the top end of that range. All right was about as good as poor Betsy could manage.

I passed her her hairbrush, silver-backed with her initials engraved, a present from her father when she turned eighteen. “You’re just saying that to be shocking. It’s your mother makes me sick. She said I was ‘not quite.’” I tried to say it lightly, but my voice let me down.

“That’s ghastly. To Lady B.?” Betsy asked, dragging the brush through her hair much too hard.

I nodded. “Just now. I’d finished studying for the time being and I was coming down the stairs in search of tea and I overheard them.”

“She was probably trying to make sure Sir Alan didn’t fall for you instead of me,” Betsy said.

“Oh Bets—Elizabeth!” I said. “That’s ridiculous. As if he’d look at me when I’m nobody, and about to be an undergraduette too. And anyway, he has a beard!”

“I believe it doesn’t impede one’s sex life,” Betsy said, and we both giggled. “Do my necklace up?”

She ran her hands through the little silver box on her dressing table and fished out a thin gold chain hung with a half circle of seed pearls. I lifted her hair and fastened the clasp. It sat nicely on her skin above the neckline of the dress. “That’s pretty,” I said. “Where did you get it?”

“My aunt Patsy gave it to me. It was hers when she came out, and she felt it brought her luck. It’s a funny length, but I like it.” She straightened it. “Do you want something?”

“I’d better not; I can’t trust your mother not to say something if I borrow your jewelry. Besides, there’s this ribbon.” I smoothed it again.

“I’m sure your uncle will give you something of your own soon now,” Betsy said. “I expect that’s what he’s going to do when he takes you out on Thursday, take you to Cartier and let you choose.”

“I don’t think he has any idea I ought to have something. He has no wife, no daughters of his own, no sister even. I can’t really tell him. He’s been so good to me already, paying for all this nonsense, and for Oxford too,” I said. “But I’m sure that’s not what we’ll be doing on Thursday. That’s our annual date to go down to Kent to look at the primroses, in memory of my father.”

Betsy hugged me. “I’d forgotten,” she said. “Well, you’re welcome to anything of mine any time, whenever Mummy isn’t looking. Come on. We’d better go down, or they’ll be sending out search parties.”

We went down to the drawing room together. There was a much better than normal selection of tea, several kinds of sandwiches, and
a whole plate of cream cakes from Gunter’s, as well as the usual fruitcake and digestive biscuits. I took an eclair and a cup of tea and retreated towards the wing chair by the window. Sir Alan was on the sofa by his mother, and Mr. Maynard on the other wing chair. “Cross fire,” Betsy mouthed, as she cut me off from the wing chair, leaving me the place that had clearly been left for her, at the other end of the sofa. I sat there and sipped my tea. No matter how hard I tried, I thought, these people would never truly accept me. If they did, if I managed to fool some of them for a little while, someone who knew, like Mrs. Maynard, would be sure to tell them that I wasn’t “quite.” This was why I wanted to go to Oxford. Even in the little glimpse I’d had of it so far, I could tell that standards were different; intellectual attainments still mattered more there than who your parents were.

But “not quite” had stung. I might want to turn my back on this world, I didn’t want to be rejected by it as not good enough. I’d made so much effort already, worrying about clothes and hair and jewelry. It was just over a week until we made our debut, and then there would be a round of balls and parties over the summer. April, May, June, July, August, September. Then, in October, I could begin my real life. Six months.

The silence in the drawing room now everyone had settled was a little uncomfortable. I leaned towards Sir Alan. “So, Sir Alan, Betsy tells me you’re a fascist?” I said.

“Betsy’s too kind,” Sir Alan replied. “And you, Miss Royston, are you fond of fascism?”

“Oh yes, I think it’s the most terrific fun,” I said.

Mrs. Maynard winced a little and exchanged a sympathetic glance with Lady Bellingham. The thing was that fascism, while all very well in its place, was in Mrs. Maynard’s eyes something to look down on just the tiniest bit, as being very useful of course, and
something that did very well for keeping Them in place, but was actually not quite … After all, it was open to everyone, except Jews of course.

My reply seemed to please Sir Alan, who nodded and smiled. “Fun, yes, absolutely. Have you ever been to an Ironsides rally?” he asked.

In fact I had, when I was very young. It had been a march through Camden Town, where I lived then, and my father had taken me. I remembered the uniforms and the bands, the fireworks and the tremendous spirit of fellowship. “No,” I said, regretfully. “I never have. Only on television.”

“Not the place for a young lady, perhaps, Alan,” Lady Bellingham said, carefully, her hands fluttering in her lap.

“Nonsense, Mother,” her son corrected her robustly. “Certainly not the thing unescorted, but if Miss Royston and Miss Maynard would like to join me, I could see that they had a good time without being near any trouble. You hear much more about trouble than you see these days; the Jews and communists don’t try to break up our marches anymore, the Watch have cracked down on them too hard. It’s been years since there was any trouble of that kind. There’s a torchlit march to Marble Arch tomorrow night, what do you say, ladies?”

Mrs. Maynard was looking like a pug with a stomachache. “I’m not sure it would be quite …,” she said, looking at her husband, who was staring at the faded pattern on the rug as if it interested him extremely.

I hadn’t quite made up my mind how far I wanted to push this, but Betsy, for all her saying fascism made her sick, decided for me. “We’d love to, Sir Alan,” she said, shooting a burning look at her mother.

“Oh yes,” I agreed, following her lead. “We’d love to. I’ve always wanted to see a torchlit parade close up.”

“As long as it’s quite safe, of course,” Betsy added.

“Quite safe these days,” Sir Alan reassured everyone, turning around the drawing room with a smile that made him look more than ever like a pirate.

So that’s why we were right there when the riot happened.

Watch Commander Carmichael glared down at the logistical nightmare on his desk. He quite understood that there had to be a peace conference for what the Germans were calling the “Twenty Year War,” but he couldn’t understand why anyone thought it was a good idea to hold it in London. All these heads of state and foreign ministers, all these meetings, all these security services with their own ideas who would need to be treated carefully, while the actual security for the whole event fell heavily onto the shoulders of Carmichael and the Watch. He looked up with relief when Lieutenant-Commander Jacobson came in, a parcel neatly wrapped in plastic in his hand.

“Sergeant Evans was on his way to bring you this, and I intercepted it on my way,” he said, putting the parcel on the corner of Carmichael’s desk.

“Just some books,” Carmichael said, not reaching for the parcel. He had sent Evans down to Hatchards to pick up anything new on Byzantium, in the hope it would be some consolation for Jack. Jack was unhappy, as usual, because Carmichael didn’t have enough time to spend with him and because they never got to do anything together. Jack was especially unhappy because he wanted a holiday in Greece or Turkey, to see his precious Byzantine remnants for
himself. Carmichael had been forced to say he couldn’t get away until September at the earliest, and then had offered him Italy, which was safer, and possible. Jack had objected that they had been to Italy before. To Carmichael it was all the same—sunshine, Mediterranean food, dusty ruins, rough wine, olive trees. Only Jack cared which ruins they were. Carmichael sometimes thought they lived in different worlds. In his world, there was an insurrection going on in Greece and the Turks had done an awful lot worse than sacking Byzantium since.

“I don’t want to interrupt, but there are a few things,” Jacobson said.

“I’m glad to be interrupted. I’m working on the blasted conference, and I can’t see how to do it without more men—and that’s with calling in the Met. And the Met are being irritating, as usual. Close the door and sit down.”

“Yes, sir,” Jacobson said, and turned to the door. It was a heavy oak door, like all the doors in the Watchtower, designed to swing on a touch and not to let sound escape. Like many things about the Watch, they were designed to intimidate but had more than one use. Once you were safely inside, you knew nobody outside the room could listen.

“Irish consignment get off all right?” Carmichael asked, once the door was safely shut.

“Like clockwork,” Jacobson assured him, sitting down on the other side of the desk. “Biggest one yet, and not a ripple.”

Carmichael smiled with relief. “Every time I worry—”

“Oh, the Irish will do anything to stick it to the Brits,” Jacobson said. “Anything up to and including accepting our unwanted Jews, anti-Semitic though they might otherwise be. And we have the transport down to a routine by now. But it’s going to be a damn sight harder when the Gravesend facility gets finished.”

“I kept saying that it wasn’t economic for us to have our own
death camp, which is an argument that usually gets their attention, but the Prime Minister himself was insistent that we needed it. He winced at the word though, kept saying
prison for intransigents
and
facility.”
Carmichael sighed. “I don’t know how we’re going to get around it.”

“Do you think Normanby’s envisioning an increase?” Jacobson asked, looking worried. “A general roundup, like in 1955?”

Carmichael shook his head. “He’d be bound to mention that to me, and when I saw him on Friday it was nothing but the conference. He didn’t even mention the Gravesend facility until I brought it up. They couldn’t do a roundup without us. We’d have warning, like before, for what good it did. I think it suits him to have the good quiet Jews right there as targets. It keeps everyone a little bit afraid. Same as having me on television. He knows it increases the numbers of people taking potshots at me, and he doesn’t care. He wants people scared. He doesn’t even have to bother making things illegal if people are voluntarily not doing things because they know the Watch wouldn’t like it, and the Watch is watching.” Carmichael’s voice rose in vicious imitation of the advertisement as he parroted the slogan. “If he’s expecting an increase in deportees I think it’s the strikers and marchers he’s aiming it at.”