Authors: Merryn Allingham
But not any more, or not for much longer. Today the owner of Rigby’s had been his usual uncivil self but Gerald didn’t care. He had Daisy’s letter tucked into his pocket and was making for the park, where he could sit and read without the need to look constantly over his shoulder. As if to celebrate, the sun had decided to shine and the trees to remember it was April and time to shake off winter’s sleep and embrace life again. And that was just what he intended for himself. He had no doubt the letter contained good news. Daisy wouldn’t have written so soon unless she had something positive to say. He found a bench a little way into the park and sat down, careful to ensure that his back was to the railings and he had a good view in all directions. You couldn’t be too safe. He needn’t have worried, though. This morning only a handful of people had been enticed to one of the few green spots in the East End: several dog
walkers, the park warden making his rounds picking up rubbish as he went, and a couple working on the allotments that most of the park had been given over to.
He spread the note across his knee. It was brief but he didn’t mind. It said all he wanted it to say. Daisy was promising to get the papers to him as soon as she could; he was sure that he’d have them within days. He imagined she would be glad to see the back of him. Well, he’d be glad to go. He’d thought of taking her with him, if she were willing, and he might have enjoyed a reunion of sorts. But really a chap did better on his own. He stretched out against the back of the bench, an expansive smile on his face. He’d almost found safety, and an unexpectedly strong feeling of relief spread through him. He’d been very scared, he realised. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, had tried to suppress the thought, but there had been a quiet voice in his ear that said he’d never escape. That he’d be forced to face the past and its sins, and pay for all of them. But that was over now. He could look forward, not back, and didn’t he deserve to? All credit to Daisy. She’d done a splendid job in persuading Grayson Harte to perjure himself. But he deserved some credit too. And that’s what he’d never been given. Quite the contrary. He’d tried to save her life, hadn’t he, but there’d been no praise for that. Instead, he’d been hounded from place to place and was still being hounded in his own country.
Okay he’d done wrong, he’d admit it, but it hadn’t been his fault. He’d got in with the wrong people, that was all.
Anish, for instance. Why on earth had he made him his friend? He was a brother officer, a graduate of the Indian Army Academy, and he’d appeared to be a true gentleman. How could he have known the man was some kind of mad patriot who would involve him in criminality of the worst kind? Involve him to the point that he lost everything he ever cared for. Made him behave in a way that was wholly out of character. All those accidents that had haunted Daisy. Accidents that weren’t accidents. He hadn’t liked knowing. Not at all. But he’d been forced to go along with them and he knew she would never forgive him for that.
But she’d been as much to blame. If she hadn’t been so stubborn, so wilfully determined not to take his advice, she wouldn’t have suffered. If she’d gone to the hills for the summer with the other wives, as he’d told her to, none of it would have happened. The stolen arms would have left the bungalow without a problem, and when she returned home in the cool season, she would have found nothing untoward. He’d have paid off his debts at last, and life would have gone on as usual. But she had to pry, didn’t she, poke her nose into what didn’t concern her and end up in danger? And he’d had to go to the rescue. It was bad enough standing by while she coped with dangerous snakes, and flying rocks and saddles that mysteriously failed, but he couldn’t ignore cold-blooded murder. He’d had to try to rescue her and he’d nearly died doing it.
And
branded himself a murderer in the process. So yes, he deserved her help, he deserved those papers.
He tucked the envelope into his shirt pocket and sauntered out of the park, weaving a slow path through traffic-filled roads towards Ellen Street. The calm that had settled on him lasted until he turned the corner and saw the gothic face of number seventeen lurch into view. From this position, its three storeys loomed over the squalid cottages at its feet, the dense black roof a dark pall threatening the entire neighbourhood. If the house were no longer there, he thought, the road might look homely, inviting even. Well, perhaps not inviting, but certainly not as menacing. He almost wished the Luftwaffe would pay the building some attention on their next visit.
He pushed the blistered paint of the front door and edged it open. It swung back easily. He tried never to use the large brass knob in the centre of the door. It was rusty and, when turned, filled the air with a loud, grinding noise. He was keen to avoid noise at all costs. His nerves were back on duty and he felt his stomach jumping in tune with his breath. He inched his way up the stairway giving the door of the first-floor flat a wide berth. Last night, there’d been another row. Something bad had happened, that was certain, and the two men had raised their voices at each other for minutes on end, forgetting they could be overheard, forgetting that he might pick up a Hindi word here and there. He hadn’t. He’d cranked up his radio and deliberately played it at full volume just to tell them that he wasn’t listening. Now, though, their flat was utterly quiet and, if anything, it felt more ominous than the shouting.
Gerald eased his way upwards and into his own front door without incident. Once inside, he pulled Daisy’s envelope from its resting place and settled it on the stained wooden mantelpiece, behind the clock stuck permanently at three minutes past ten. The letter was his talisman and while he had it, nothing could harm him.
London, mid-April, 1941
‘
I
should have gone into supper and sat with Willa.’
Both girls had crammed into Daisy’s room and their outfits for the evening were strewn across the narrow bed. The small desk was covered with pots of every shape and size. Connie had emptied her drawer of anything she thought might vaguely help their preparations for this grand Saturday night.
‘Stop fussing,’ she chided. ‘You couldn’t have gone to supper. You couldn’t have eaten a thing.’
‘But Willa wanted to talk to me,’ Daisy insisted. ‘She caught me at the front door, just as I was coming in, and I said I’d try to meet her.’
‘She knew you were going out, didn’t she?’ Daisy nodded. ‘Then she’ll understand. You can speak to her in the morning. Tonight the Ritz awaits. And to make things even more peachy, I’ve just seen tomorrow’s shifts—neither of us are on until nine. How lucky is that?’
She only half heard Connie’s words. She was remembering the almost desperate note in the girl’s voice. ‘Willa
braved the dining room tonight,’ she went on, ‘that was my chance to speak to her.’ She jumped up from the chair and stood, irresolute. ‘I could go to her room now.’
‘You can’t. There’s no time. If you start listening to her troubles, you’ll make yourself late for your taxi.’
‘Then I’ll call another one.’
She couldn’t get the unfortunate Willa out of her mind. They’d been on the same ward today and when she’d asked, the girl had said she was fine, but her white face and tight mouth told a different story. And her eyes, her eyes had made Daisy shiver; they’d been blank, hardly alive. And then tonight, coming into the Home, the girl had twitched at her sleeve, her head bowed, seeming unable to look into Daisy’s face.
‘There won’t be another taxi.’ Connie planted herself in front of the door, barring the way. ‘Willa has problems with a capital P. You know that. And she’ll still have them tomorrow. You can see her then. Tonight’s too special. Now are you going to let me make you up?’
Daisy felt unhappy. Surely she could spare the poor girl a few minutes. But the clock was ticking and the evening about to begin. Her stomach was already fluttering with excitement. Her friend was tugging at her arm, trying to steer her towards the inadequate mirror.
‘I’ll do my own make-up, thanks Connie. I’d rather.’
‘Suit yourself. I intend to be bold and go to town with the red lipstick. The Astoria is bound to have lighting that’s very bright and I don’t want to be bleached out.’
She settled down at the desk, humming quietly to herself. Daisy watched, but her mind was elsewhere, thinking of all the ways in which she could have been a better colleague. In ten minutes, Connie had finished and swivelled round to face her. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘You’ll certainly make your mark.’ Her friend had found a vivid green eyeshadow and used it to complement the blood-red lipstick. Her hair, hennad the previous night, shone brightly copper.
‘Is it too much?’
‘You said yourself that artificial light leaves you looking a ghost,’ she replied diplomatically. Connie could take strong colour, she thought, and at this moment she looked positively vibrant.
Her friend scooped up the olive-green dress and funnelled it over her shoulders, tugging at it hard to fit over ample hips. ‘It doesn’t look that great,’ she mused, moving this way and that in front of the small mirror. ‘Still beggars and all that …’
‘You look fine.’ Daisy hugged her. ‘Colin will know you’ve made a tremendous effort and be flattered. And so he should be.’
The girl smiled cheerfully back. A small thing like a tight dress wasn’t going to spoil her evening, though Daisy hoped she would get her one decent frock back with the seams intact. Except it was no longer her one decent frock.
‘Let’s see the black lace then.’
She slid the wispy confection over her head and shoulders
and pushed her feet into her best shoes. They had nearly crippled her the last time she’d worn them, but then she’d walked miles. This evening she would have the luxury of taxis both ways.
She became aware of Connie staring at her. ‘What?’
‘You look sensational.’ Her friend drew a reverent sigh.
‘I do?’
‘Take a look,’ and she stepped to one side so that Daisy could view herself in the mirror. At any one time, she could only see a small part of her image, but it was sufficient. Her eyes travelled slowly downwards, taking in her barely made-up face, her dainty waist and finally, as she backed across the room, the remainder of the dress in all its splendour. Even with a shrunken mirror, she could see how it flowed effortlessly, swirling and swishing in a way that no wartime dress should. The amount of material it used was profligate, an utter and complete extravagance. And she loved it. She would keep it forever, she decided.
The taxi dropped her at the front entrance of the Ritz at a minute to seven. Piccadilly was alive with people. In fact, every street they’d driven down had seen crowds out to enjoy themselves. Clubs featuring live bands, theatres staging the latest shows, were full to capacity. Max Miller was at the Holborn Empire, she noticed, and a fabulous new singer, Vera Lynn, was performing songs from her radio programme,
Sincerely Yours.
She must remember
to tell Connie. Nurses were frequently offered free tickets at short notice and she knew her friend watched the board outside Matron’s office assiduously. A Vera Lynn show would be special.
As soon as the cab drew into the kerb, she saw Grayson’s tall figure through one of the stone archways. He was standing just outside the hotel lobby, his back to its revolving door. She was used to him always looking smart. Even in the searing Indian heat, his shirts had been immaculate and his shorts knife-pleated. But tonight, in evening dress, he appeared more elegant than any man she’d ever seen. And she was able to match him, she thought giddily. Connie had been right about the dress and she sent a silent thank you to her friend.
He helped her from the cab and ushered her into the sumptuous interior. The lights might have been switched off outside, but behind the blackout curtains, chandeliers blazed amid a cocoon of red and gold silk. He eased her nurse’s cape from her shoulders and immediately a uniformed receptionist glided forward to take it. To hide it more like, Daisy thought dryly, imagining the worn garment slowly suffocating beneath a tide of cashmere and furs. Grayson had turned and was looking at her properly for the first time. For a moment, he seemed stunned, unable to speak. Then the familiar smile flitted across his face and he said simply, ‘You look sensational.’ Connie’s exact words but now doubly precious.
His hand found her elbow and guided her towards an
opening on their left. ‘Our table will be ready in half an hour but first let me show you off in the bar.’ A rich, dark space opened up before them, lit by even more chandeliers, though this time dimmed to a subtle warmth.
When the waiter had taken their order, she looked around at the scattering of dark wood tables and silk-cushioned chairs. The room was divided into separate spaces by arches of ornamented mahogany, which made it impossible to see most of the people who shared the bar with them. Grayson sat upright in his chair, his eyes fixed on her, unable, it seemed, to look away. She roused herself to speak, to break the spell that seemed to have him in its hold.
‘Did you check the room for spies beforehand?’ She was only half joking.
‘No time, I’m afraid.’ Her taunt had woken him. ‘I should have, though. All kinds of dubious characters infest cocktail bars like this. But it’s usually fashionable wasters who can make a living from scams or even worse, blackmail.’
The waiter placed two fluted glasses on the table in front of them. ‘A martini cocktail,’ Grayson explained. ‘I hope you like it.
‘Perhaps we should carry out an inspection now,’ he said once the waiter had left. ‘That man over there, for instance, what do you reckon?’
She looked across at the corner seat he was indicating. The man in question wore the extravagant military dress of a country she couldn’t name.
‘He’s in uniform,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Exactly. What better disguise for a spy?’
‘Apart from a dinner jacket and bow tie you mean?’
‘Or a frock of the most enchanting black lace?’