Stratton's War (33 page)

Read Stratton's War Online

Authors: Laura Wilson

‘A good friend?’ asked the man.
‘A very good friend. Let’s drink to friends, shall we?’
Diana heard the clink of glasses, and more bombs, this time duller and further away. The raiders must be leaving, or at least moving further down the river. Then more clinking of glasses, and whispering, and feet, moving towards her down the corridor . . . Two sets of footsteps. The strip of light at the bottom of the cupboard door darkened momentarily as they passed. They must be heading for the bedroom, she thought. There wasn’t anywhere else for them to go. She hadn’t finished her search, so perhaps he was going to give the boy something to take with him - an incriminating document - something that she hadn’t been able to find, under the floorboards, or . . . Oh, God. She’d switched on the bedside lamp. Apse would be bound to notice, and then . . .
She waited for the exclamation, but it didn’t come. Instead, there was a sudden giggle, high and girlish, from the bedroom behind her, and low noises - movement, shuffling about, and a creak as if someone had sat down on the bed. Diana heard a long sigh, then a groan, and then the boy said, ‘Let me do that.’
Apse spoke. ‘You haven’t shaved today.’
‘You like that, don’t you?’ said the man, and then, after a pause, ‘I don’t kiss.’
Diana clapped a hand over her mouth. Claude had pointed out a male tart to her once, in Piccadilly. He’d been walking with an elderly gentleman who had appeared, in the dim light afforded by the shaded headlamps of a passing car, to be wearing rouge. Claude had laughed at her for being shocked and said that the boys at his school had practised kissing on each other for lack of girls, and that some of them never grew out of it. But Apse had - he was married, with children, so he must have . . . Remembering the photograph of the children she’d found in the drawer, a thought struck her: he’d put it there not for the reasons she’d supposed, but because he’d planned to bring someone back for an assignation, and his desire was so strong that even the heavy raids hadn’t deterred him.
There were grunting noises now, heavier than before. Recognising the rhythm of sex, Diana, appalled, put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes tight. What if Apse were to come out of the bedroom and find her? She could pretend ignorance - saying that she hadn’t overheard anything wasn’t going to work, the place was too small for that - but could she make him believe that she hadn’t understood what she’d heard? If he didn’t . . . Supposing he thought she was trying to blackmail him? Possibilities raced through her mind, each more horrible than the last. He might even try to kill her - she knew he knew people, just as F-J did, who would do unofficial jobs, and she’d heard rumours about unreliable double-agents being ‘got rid of’ in various ways, one in the middle of the North Sea . . . Diana’s stomach heaved, and for a terrible moment she thought she was going to be sick. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought.
Now
. While they’re still in the bedroom.
She pushed open the door and crawled out on her hands and knees. The light was still on in the hallway - the carpeted distance to the door, in reality about twenty feet, stretched out in front of her like miles, and her shoes were still in the kitchen. Diana got to her feet and, holding her breath, tiptoed towards it. As she scooped up her things in shaking hands, she heard, through the wall, the sound, half-sigh, half-moan, of release. She hurried to the front door, and, after a few seconds fumbling with the catch, managed to open it. Closing it silently behind her, she ran along the passage and down the stairs in her stocking feet. She pulled open the outside door, and rushed into the garden, where there was still light enough from the fires to send her tottering in the direction of the nearest flower-bed, where she vomited between the rose bushes. She stood on the path, stomach heaving and throat aching from the bitter mixture of bile and the Scotch she’d drunk earlier, and looked up at the dark façade of Frobisher House. She could hear nothing beyond the distant crump-crump of artillery and the odd rumble of passing traffic from Grosvenor Road - no outraged shouts, no running feet.
She put on her shoes and, turning, looked in the direction of F-J’s flat. Then she remembered that he wouldn’t be back until Monday.
Standing in the telephone box at the end of Chelsea Bridge Road, Diana wasn’t entirely sure how she’d arrived there, or what she was going to do. She only knew she needed to talk to someone, needed help, needed . . . What? Praying that the line was still working, she put a coin into the slot and dialled. Hearing the operator’s voice, she pressed Button A and said, without thinking, ‘Gerrard 73468, please.’
After a moment, a male voice on the line repeated the number. ‘Claude?’
‘Diana? Is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Claude, I . . .’
‘What is it? Are you crying?’
‘Yes . . . I can’t . . .’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I can’t . . . I . . . it’s awful, I can’t . . .’
‘Calm down. Take deep breaths . . . Better?’
‘Ye-yes.’
‘That’s my girl. Now then, what’s going on?’
‘I can’t tell you now. Claude, please . . .’
‘Where are you?’
‘Chelsea Bridge Road. Claude, I can’t bear it.’
‘Don’t say any more. Just go home, and stay there. Can you do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. Go now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Oh, God.’ Diana hung up the receiver and leant against the side of the phone box. I must be mad, she thought. What have I
done
?
THIRTY-FIVE
Diana stumbled home as quickly as she could in the blackout, and was sitting shivering on the end of her bed, huddled in her coat and wishing that she hadn’t telephoned Claude, when her bell rang. She went downstairs and found him standing on the step, bearing half a bottle of brandy.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking her by the elbow. ‘Let’s sort you out.’
They went up to Diana’s flat where he pushed her into an armchair, put a blanket over her legs, and thrust a large drink into her hands. ‘Get that down you,’ he instructed. ‘Don’t speak until you’ve finished it.’
Diana nodded obediently and took a big gulp of brandy, which burned her throat and almost choked her. Claude, perched on the arm of the chair, rubbed her back until she stopped coughing.
Diana looked at him through watering eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Claude handed her his handkerchief. ‘Mop yourself up.’ He watched her apply the handkerchief, then put a hand on her chin and twisted her head towards him. ‘That’ll do for now, anyway,’ he said, critically. ‘Your colour seems to be coming back. I must say, it’s nice to see you again, even like this. I thought you’d stopped talking to me.’
‘I had,’ said Diana, ‘but it wasn’t—’
‘Later,’ said Claude. ‘Finish your drink.’ He slithered off the arm of the chair to the floor, where he took off her shoes and started rubbing her feet.
‘What are you—’
‘Not another word until you’ve had your drink.’
 
‘Now then,’ he said, a few minutes later, stroking her right foot, which was in his lap. ‘You’ve obviously had a shock. Tell me what happened.’
Diana started to tell him, haltingly at first, and then in a great rush of words. ‘This man,’ she finished, ‘It was obvious he was a . . . you know . . . like a prostitute, and Apse had brought him there for . . . for . . . I heard them, Claude. It was horrible. How could he?’
Claude shrugged. ‘People do. I must say, I’d never have guessed about Apse.’
‘Of course not. He’s married.’
‘So are you, darling.’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say. It isn’t the same at all!’
‘It’s not so different.’
‘Yes it is, it’s . . . it’s . . .’ Outraged and lost for words, Diana twitched her foot away from him.
‘For heaven’s sake, Diana.’ Claude leant back and looked at her. ‘It’s high time you realised that what people say, and the . . . forms, for want of a better word, that they observe, are quite a different thing to how they actually are. It’s only a question of degree, after all.’
‘It’s much more than that! It’s disgusting.’
‘To you, perhaps. Not to everyone.’
‘It’s illegal!’
‘That,’ said Claude, ‘is the problem. But it only matters if you get caught.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor old Apse. I had no idea you were watching him, you know. I’m surprised that F-J didn’t realise he was a . . . Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
‘Nothing. Just thinking aloud. It does make things rather messy, all this.’
‘Messy?’
‘That’s the thing about buggers, darling. Blackmail. Very simple, and very effective.’
‘You mean the Right Club?’
‘People like the Right Club . . . That’s what you’ve been up to, is it? I did wonder.’
‘Yes,’ Diana admitted, cursing herself. Thinking that now it made no difference, she asked, ‘You mean, that Apse could be passing them information because they’ve threatened him?’
‘It’s possible. Probable, in fact. You’ll have to tell F-J first thing tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘Oh . . .’ Claude waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Don’t worry about that. He’ll understand.’
‘Will he?’
‘He’s a man of the world, Diana. It’s not the first time something like this has happened, and it won’t be the last.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Telling F-J is the least of your worries. Are you sure Apse didn’t hear you?’
‘No. At least, he didn’t run after me.’
‘Hardly surprising, given the circumstances.’ Claude grinned. ‘I can’t imagine him charging out of the door without his trousers.’
‘It’s not funny, Claude.’
‘I know it isn’t, darling. But if he did hear something - it’s not a particularly large flat, after all . . . Obviously the door wasn’t forced, so he’d know that whoever was there had a key. Do you know who else has one?’
‘Lady Violet, I suppose, but . . .’
‘But she’s hardly likely to be sneaking around in the middle of an air raid. In any case, she’d have turned the lights on. You said he’d done the blackouts.’
‘Yes.’
‘Apse might think it was F-J, of course. Or me.’
‘You?’
‘Possibly. But the point is - if he did hear anything - that he doesn’t know it was you. You’re sure you didn’t leave anything behind?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You put the paper back, did you? After you copied it.’
‘Definitely. I remember doing it.’
‘That’s good.’ Claude patted her ankle. ‘Now tell me why you weren’t speaking to me.’
‘Guy’s mother,’ said Diana. ‘She knows about us. She made me promise.’
‘How did she find out?’
‘Rumours. People in London.’
‘It sounds as if she ought to be in Intelligence. She’s obviously wasted in Hampshire.’
‘It’s serious!’
‘I know. We’ll just have to be extra careful, won’t we?’
‘Claude, I promised her. And there’s something else.’
‘Oh?’
‘Something Lally told me. Stop stroking my leg.’
‘Sorry.’ Claude removed his hand. ‘I was under the impression you liked it. Tell me what you heard.’
‘It was about a girl who killed herself because of you. She was married, and—’
‘Julia Vigo.’ Claude sighed. ‘I can guess what she said. However—’ Seeing that Diana was about to interrupt, he held up a hand. ‘What Lally doesn’t know is that Julia was addicted to drugs.’
‘That’s ridiculous! She worked for F-J. Lally told me.’
‘Yes, she did. But F-J didn’t know. Not at the time.’
‘He must have. It would have been obvious.’
‘Why? Do you know how a drug addict behaves?’
‘Well . . .’ Diana thought for a minute, then realised she didn’t. ‘Raving, I suppose. Confused. Mad.’

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