Authors: Peter Bradshaw
Elizabeth didn’t.
‘Very often,’ Katharine continued, speaking in a trance of worldliness, ‘a man’s father or uncle will arrange for him to meet a professional, often in France.’
Baffled, Elizabeth assumed that she meant a medical professional, some sort of genito-urinary specialist.
‘My own husband has seen the world, a lot of the world,’ continued Katharine, and again Elizabeth now noticed how her new friend’s manner would veer between knowing, girlish
intimacy and a glassy-eyed reverence for what she imagined to be the norms and conventions of society. ‘When we met, he was ... well, he was attached. Engaged, actually.’
‘Ah,’ said Elizabeth, not sure how to reply.
‘He was
engaged
, yes,’ Katharine reasserted, as if clearing up, for good and all, an evasive ambiguity which others had been trying to foist on her. ‘We met in
Pangbourne. It was just before the war. His people had a place there.’
‘Yes?’
‘There was a party at his parents’ house. William was there and
she
was there too. Now, I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Well,’ said Elizabeth politely, ‘it is rather late, and I suppose I was just wondering if I ought to be getting ba—’
‘You’re thinking that this was
actually the engagement party itself
. That I had insinuated myself into someone else’s home and nabbed another girl’s man. Not a bit
of it. I actually found William rather a bore at first.’
Katharine now looked around, and said, ‘Do you suppose we shall ever find somewhere to sit down?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Anyway, I arrived on my own. And do you know what struck me first about William? His eyes. Those terribly sad spaniel eyes!’ Katharine laughed convulsively, like a sneeze, and for
the first time Elizabeth realised how far gone she was. ‘How I used to tease him afterwards about his poor-me look!’
She was continuing to scan the room, but there were no free tables.
‘I knew he was unhappy. And the woman he was with, well! She was clingy and destructive. And frankly she wasn’t quite the thing, do you know what I mean? Perhaps William had thought
it frightfully romantic to get engaged to someone like that. But actually it wasn’t practical at all. How on earth was she supposed to mix socially with William’s people? Oh, no. It
wouldn’t do at all. What about
that
one?’
Katharine pointed sharply at a table which appeared to be empty, but no. A rowdy group of Canadians got there first.
‘Anyhow, I could tell that William was discontented. He began to confide in me almost from that very first evening. I sat next to her father at dinner: an awful old bore, and a nasty piece
of work at that. He actually put his hand on my thigh during the meal; I stuck his leg with a fork. He let out a yelp and had to pretend he’d been stung by a
wasp
!’
Katharine laughed fondly at the memory.
‘“What wasp?” said his wife, a terrible old dragon. “Wasp I tell you!” he shouted and went out to bathe his leg under cold water, though the silly old fool had to
pretend it was wrist because nobody would believe a wasp could sting him through his trousers, not that anyone believed him in any case. Anyway, our eyes met. William could sense that something was
going on; he could sense that I had asserted myself and he respected me for it. I was also wearing an extremely low-cut gown.’
‘Was William working for the Home Office at that time?’ enquired Elizabeth politely.
‘Oh, yes. He was. Anyway, it was a fine summer’s night and everyone mingled in the back garden after dinner; there were candles on stalks and they had staff bringing round glasses of
pudding wine on trays. It was rather ghastly actually, but anyway that’s when William introduced himself. His fiancée was – well, she was somewhere else. Perhaps she was up in
the bathroom, attending to her poor papa’s wasp-sting. Do you want a cigarette, incidentally?’
Katharine held out a packet to her. Elizabeth considered. Margo had claimed recently to have smoked a cigarette, but Elizabeth didn’t believe her, and of course they had had a quarrel
about it. It was precisely the sort of thing they were always arguing about these days, and these days Margaret appeared, irritatingly, to be somehow overtaking Elizabeth in the growing-up stakes,
to be more knowing about the ways of the world.
‘All right, yes, thank you.’ She took one and demurely put the wrong end in her mouth, with the filter-tip pointing out. What an odd taste. Katharine wordlessly removed it, turned it
round, re-inserted it. Then she asked a passing waiter if he had a light. Smoothly, the man produced a lighter from his hip pocket; the tiny flame kissed the tip of both their cigarettes and
Elizabeth wondered how she knew how to suck in at the moment of lighting. She was not so foolish as to try to suck down the smoke into her lungs directly; instead she swirled it around her mouth
and gently exhaled. The mild euphoria had nothing to do with nicotine: Elizabeth had passed herself off as a member of the glamorous smoking classes. She placed the cigarette between her middle and
index finger and held her hand steady over the glass, marvelling at how easily these gestures came to her: discreetly twirling hand movements as formal and yet relaxed as those of a flamenco
dancer. She took another gulp of gin and found herself smiling, almost grinning, at what Katharine was saying.
‘William was showing me around the garden – although what right he had to do that, I don’t know. It was clear he just wanted to get me on my own. We walked off from the group,
talking of this and that. I rather boldly asked him if he was unhappy, and he said he was. So handsome. My dear, you mustn’t be shocked. We kissed right then and there. He took me round the
waist like
this
—’
She took Elizabeth round the waist with her right arm, her left hand adroitly holding drink and cigarette.
‘And kissed me like
this
—’
Katharine kissed Elizabeth for the second time, and Elizabeth now realised that their position behind the large plant obscured their clinch from the view of the other drinkers. She struggled and
squeaked, trying also to smile indulgently, but was on the point of relaxing, when Katharine suddenly released her and continued:
‘My dear, I wriggled and wriggled, just like that, but William was so passionate. It was clear to me his engagement was at end. We were married at Christmas. Now. Isn’t that a
romantic story?’
‘Excuse me, miss.’
Katharine turned around and appeared highly irritated and displeased to find a man with sandy, receding hair, heavy bags under his eyes, and a slight squint. Elizabeth could see that one of his
eyes looked straight ahead, and the other turned out. Like everyone else here, he was clearly incapable.
‘I saw that you two ladies had nowhere to sit, and I wondered if you would like to join me and my friend? And I can’t let a girl in uniform stand around in discomfort. The
name’s Ware.’ The man smiled and held out his hand. Elizabeth shook it.
‘Well, Mr Ware,’ she said, decisively forestalling what she assumed would be Katharine’s rebuff, ‘thank you. That would be very kind. Come on Katharine!’
Mr Ware turned on his heel and Elizabeth followed; after a beat, so did Katharine. Through the murky crush, they found that this man did indeed have a table, a cramped square table that the
staff had evidently used for drinks or stacking plates, but which had now, on this special night, been commandeered for the customers. There was someone else there, too, an older, balding man in a
chalkstripe suit, slumped rather miserably. Elizabeth noticed that, as the evening wore on, about one in a dozen of the people she had seen that night were actually in the grip of intense, frozen
misery, like gaunt statues around which heedless people danced.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Ware, briskly. ‘This is my friend Colin. He was just being a bit of a bore on the subject of how he will fare as a wine merchant in peacetime. For Gawd’s
sake, buck up Colin.’
‘Awfully sorry,’ said Colin, grinning sheepishly and apologetically. ‘He’s quite right. Now’s not the time to talk about that. I’m Colin Erskine-Jones. How do
you do? Very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
Katharine and Elizabeth introduced themselves and sat down, and Katharine appeared to have resumed her air of someone cheerfully out on the town, game for anything.
‘Apart from anything else, Colin had better get into a better mood,’ said Mr Ware, briefly checking his watch. ‘He’s putting on an entertainment later on for one and
all.’
Elizabeth asked, politely, ‘Really? Are you, Mr Erskine-Jones?’
‘Oh yes, that,’ grimaced Colin. ‘It’s really nothing.’
‘Ho no it isn’t,’ said Mr Ware, ‘it’s quite something. You two ladies play your cards in the correct manner and you could witness one of the most remarkable amateur
talents in London.’
‘Now I really am intrigued,’ said Katharine smoothly.
The conversation lulled for a moment, and Colin suddenly narrowed his eyes and leaned forwards. ‘You know, you have a look of someone ...’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth smartly, ‘Margaret Lockwood. Everyone says so. Listen to that.’ For the first time, they listened to a trio of piano, bass and accordion thumping
out dance tunes in the din. The noise and crush had almost drowned them. ‘I say, Mr Ware,’ said Elizabeth impulsively, ‘would you like to dance?’
For the tiniest fraction of a second, Mr Ware looked affronted at this presumption, suspecting a tease. Then he replaced this expression with one of roguish wonder.
‘Goodness me,’ he piped schoolmarmishly. ‘What an inversion of the natural order of things! Are you asking, miss?’
‘I am.’
‘Well, all right then.’
Elizabeth could not, if pressed, define exactly the mood that led her to do this; she was rather merry and careless, and this was a diversionary tactic, yes, but this man was actually now more
likely to see through her disguise. She had almost decided she wanted to see what would happen when people knew that it was really her. She had seen people looking at her twice. Perhaps they had
guessed. People in London did not pester people they recognised, Elizabeth thought. Bobo said that even Mr Churchill could walk across St James’s Park, on his own, without being stopped.
Mr Ware clamped Elizabeth firmly to him and they proceeded to whirl around the floor, in a frantic two-step.
‘I do love a girl in uniform!’ said Mr Ware.
‘Thank you.’
‘What uniform is that?’
‘I’m in the ATS.’
‘Huh?’ asked Mr Ware, puzzled.
‘Why aren’t you in khaki, actually?’
‘Well ...’ said Mr Ware, ‘On the trot, see?’
‘I’m so sorry, I don’t underst—’
‘Watch it, pal. Have a heart,’ Mr Ware was remonstrating with a man who had just cannoned into him, and then blundered away without replying. For a long moment, Mr Ware just stared
after him, his face a plump, dead mask of hostility.
‘I don’t understand,’ persisted Elizabeth. ‘On the trot?’
Mr Ware recovered his good humour.
‘Oh. Oh well.’ He had decided to be coy. ‘I retired from the services. I invalided myself out. Army life didn’t suit me. It was my nerves.’
‘Nerves?’
‘I was extremely nervous about getting shot by a German.’
Mr Ware laughed immoderately, and Elizabeth found herself laughing too, without knowing why. The room continued to whirl after the music finished and they stopped moving.
‘Shall we return to our table, my dear?’ asked Mr Ware, with an elaborate bow, ‘I have a treat in mind.’
On regaining their former places, they found Colin and Katharine attempting to tear up their ration books.
‘We won’t be needing these any more!’ sang out Katharine gaily.
‘Not half!’
Mr Ware removed a matchbox from his pocket, and, like a schoolboy with a contraband frog, slid open the drawer to show Elizabeth its contents. They looked like six or seven squashed black
pellets of something or other. Elizabeth was baffled.
‘Here you are,’ said Mr Ware, with a wink. ‘These’ll pep you up.’
‘I say,’ said Colin. ‘Steady on.’
‘Steady on? Steady
on
? You steady on, if you like. You’ve got a show to do. We’re here to celebrate.’
He produced a cigarette, and with a pencil shoved one of the pellets into the end; it made some of the tobacco fall out, and gave it an odd, misshapen, bulbous look. Then he lit it, inhaling
deeply with a roguish smile. The smell was sweet and sharp and made some of the other people look over at their table, curiously, and then look away.
‘Well, you can jolly well give me a drag,’ said Katharine urgently. ‘Come on.’ She gave Mr Ware a sharp dig in the ribs with her fingertips and he passed the cigarette to
her. Elizabeth wondered how she could be so familiar with a casual acquaintance, one whom, just ten minutes ago, she didn’t seem all that keen to get to know. Katharine took two quick puffs
– the end glowed intensely with a throb – and her face assumed the same dopey, beatific look as Mr Ware’s. She offered the cigarette to Colin, who waved it away. Then she offered
it to Elizabeth.
‘What is it?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘A pick-me-up,’ said Mr Ware, smiling at her. ‘A little stimulant. I take them for my nerves, but they’re good for anyone. Colin’s mother takes them for her
irritable bowels. Athletes take them before a big race. I know for a fact that Mr Churchill took one at the Casablanca conference. Try it.’
Elizabeth took the cigarette, sucked and spat out the smoke.
‘You’ve got to take the smoke
in
,’ giggled Katharine, and Elizabeth thought: How does she know all about it? But she puffed again, and tried to keep the smoke down. This
she was able to do without any mortifying splutters and coughs. There was a brief pause, and her head swam. She felt Katharine’s hand on her knee; it then moved companionably up her inner
thigh, and caressed it. Elizabeth fancied she could hear the nylon shimmering and crackling. The three faces, now like moons or discs, grinned at her.
‘Another gin?’
She had not the smallest idea who had asked her that, but another gin appeared in front of her, and Elizabeth drank, and the moon-faces chattered and giggled, in what seemed like a foreign
language, Lithuanian or Portuguese. Katharine’s hand was still on her thigh. Then Katharine kissed her again, and Elizabeth let her. She was wondering what Margo, Hugh and Peter were doing
now. She was thinking about Philip. What was he doing now? When would he come ashore? And when was the first time he had kissed her? It had been at Windsor, before the war. They were both in
civvies, anyway. He had actually initiated the process by putting a curled forefinger under her chin and raising her face to his. How Elizabeth’s heart had hammered when she realised what was
going to happen! The kiss had been gentle, mannerly, temperate, quite unlike the queer kiss that Katharine was giving her now. Afterwards, Philip had withdrawn his face, smiled and said,
‘There.’ Just that. Katharine finally herself withdrew, but said nothing and only took another drag at her strange cigarette. Her hand stayed on Elizabeth’s thigh, now very high
up.