Authors: Philippa Carr
“She’s got a lovely voice,” put in Peggy.
“Well,” said Florette modestly. “It’s not bad. You should have seen me. Practicing for weeks, I was.”
“And she won it,” cried Peggy, impatient for the climax.
“Well, I got up there, didn’t I? Was my knees shaking? You can bet your life. I was like a lump of jelly. I thought, I’ll open me mouth, and there’ll be nothing but a squawk. Well, there I was. ‘Blue skies over the white cliffs of Dover.’ You can always get away with that one, and then an old-fashioned one. ‘After the ball was over.’ My mum always wanted to go on the Halls and she used to sing that one to me. Well, I got in the first six … and then we did it all again.”
“And she was the first,” cried Peggy again.
“Five pounds I got. First prize. Thought it was a fortune. It was a start. Well, I reckon I’d be on my way if it wasn’t for this old war. Where can you get in times like these? Still, I made a start. I’ve always got that. Gave me a certificate, they did, to say I’d won first prize.”
“It must have been wonderful,” I said.
“You wait. You’ll see me in lights. My mum used to talk about Marie Lloyd. That’s what I’ll be. You wait until this war’s over.”
While this conversation was going on, I was listening with earnest attention. Peggy was as excited as Florette herself and Mary Grace was watching me, to see if I were enjoying meeting her friends. Marian Owen was sitting quietly by, with a faint smile on her face. Every now and then she caught my eye, as though to say, “We must be lenient with these people. They are not as we are. They have not had our advantages of education.” At least, that was the construction I put on it. I would share the impression with Mary Grace in due course.
“Then I changed my name to Florette,” went on the owner of that name. “Well, Flora … mind you, it’s a nice enough name. I’m not saying anything against it. But it’s not quite show business.”
“Florette will look better up in lights,” said Peggy.
“It is all very interesting,” I said. “I hope you succeed. I am sure you will.”
Florette nodded agreement and Mary Grace said: “Violetta wanted to meet you all. She thought you sounded so interesting.”
“You won’t find me very interesting,” said Peggy. “Poor old me.”
“I am sure you have had an interesting life,” I said, and I meant it. Peggy was small, thin, and I guessed her to be in her mid-forties. Her face was prematurely wrinkled, and her hair had been dyed—not very expertly—a deep black. Her face gave me the impression of one who had lived through much—mostly tribulation. One only had to look at Peggy to see that life had not been easy for her.
Her past was revealed—if not all at that first meeting, soon after. She had married young—not very satisfactorily—and had had two children. One had emigrated to Australia five years before the war; the other had married and gone “up north.” Her husband had drunk away his wages every Friday night, and there was nothing to do but keep the house going. She had some odd jobs cleaning other people’s houses and so it had gone on. And now, here she was—husband dead, children far away and not really taking much trouble to come and see her; she admitted that it was a great pleasure to her to have this “cushy little job in the Ministry.” I admired her. She was irrepressible. Her wizened little face would light up with a smile and find something amusing in most situations. I supposed life had been so hard to her that she had learned to appreciate what she now had. Florette was her ideal, and she was as certain of her eventual success as Florette herself.
“What I’ll do,” she said, “is stand outside that theater and look up at her name and say, ‘I used to know her at that Ministry.’”
She smiled at Florette blissfully, who said: “Get away with you! I’ll have you back stage and you shall have free tickets for the orchestra stalls. Who knows, I might even introduce you to someone who is looking for a pet.”
This was a well-worn joke, I realized. Peggy had once said she had watched the dogs in the park, and all the fuss that was made of them—little pekes with fancy haircuts, diamond collars—and she had thought, “What a good time these dogs have … nothing to do but be a pet. I wouldn’t mind being a dog like that. I wish somebody would make a pet of me. Do you know anyone looking for a pet?”
That had amused Florette and it had become a joke.
“Peggy’s looking for someone who wants a pet,” she said to me. “Do you know anyone?”
And everyone, including Peggy, laughed hilariously.
Peggy and Florette were easy to understand. It was not the same with Marian. She did not come from the same background as the others. She had made it clear to me from the start that she, Mary Grace, and I were of a kind—and apart from the other two. Marian’s hair was probably touched up, but discreetly so; she wore tailored suits and spoke with the utmost care.
She told me that her husband had been an army man; she had been a widow for fifteen years. She managed, but things were not as those she had been accustomed to. She had a small flat in Crouch Hill and had had to adjust her standards.
I saw at once that there was something rather secretive about her; she was faintly uneasy. I felt sure she was harboring some secret.
When we emerged from the teashop, regaled by the mysterious but tasty Home Pie and two cups of hot coffee, I realized that I had been completely taken out of the doldrums and been absorbingly entertained. This happened to me very rarely.
Mary Grace and I said goodbye to the others, who had to return to the Ministry as they were “full-timers”; Mary Grace and I went to the tube and back to Kensington.
“Well?” said Mary Grace when we were alone.
“Very interesting. Amusing, some of it.”
“I like them all very much. They were strangers to me a little while ago and I see them every day now—far more than I see my close friends. One really gets to know people well in such circumstances.”
“Florette is amusing,” I said. “Poor girl, I wonder how far her dream will take her. And Peggy … well, one should be sorry for her. She must have had a hard life, and yet she is not really in the least downcast. As for Marian, she is something of an enigma.”
“Oh, poor Marian. Seen better days. I am always sorry for such people. They spend so much time regretting the past that they cannot enjoy the present. If only she could stop worrying whether we can see the difference between her and the others. They don’t mind being as they are … nor does anyone else.”
“Well, thank you, Mary Grace. It really was a most interesting lunch.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the Home Pie.”
“Enormously—but most of all the company.”
When we returned to Caddington, my mother wanted to hear about everything that had happened.
“There is no doubt in my mind that the holiday did you the world of good,” she commented.
When I considered it I supposed she was right. I did feel more remote from Cornwall where the constant murmur of the waves and all the surrounding country reminded me of Jowan. And the days were passing. What hope could there be of news?
Both Dorabella and I were helping our mother with the work she was doing with the Red Cross; but working at the convalescent home was different—a definite occupation, which every able-bodied person should have in wartime.
I supposed I should have to go back there.
When I suggested this, Dorabella protested. Mrs. Canter and Mrs. Pardell were doing our work very satisfactorily. She did not want to go back, of course, but we could not stay away indefinitely. She could not plead immunity because Nanny Crabtree was looking after her child. Moreover, Captain Brent had suggested that she might work in one of the offices connected with his unit. It would be a part-time job, not very significant office work, but she would have to be in London, though she might get down to Caddington for weekends.
“And what of Violetta?” asked my mother.
“Perhaps Mary Grace could suggest something,” I said. “I gather her job is to find suitable places for people to work.”
I spoke half-jocularly. I realized I did not want to go back to Cornwall. They were right when they had said it was better for me to get away. I supposed I could stay at Caddington and help my mother, but I did feel I should be doing something more.
We were in this state of uncertainty when Mary Grace came down to Caddington for the weekend. We talked about it and she immediately said that she was sure it would be possible for her to get me into the Ministry.
“I know they are short of staff in my department,” she added.
I had a sudden picture of sitting at a table, filing papers with those I had met at lunch. I thought of going to the restaurant with them for lunch—Home Pie, coffee, and talk, and my dear Mary Grace would be there. I felt a tremor of pleasure at the thought.
Mary Grace noticed my interest and went on: “I could try … if you’d like me to.”
We talked and my mother, sensing a certain enthusiasm in me, came down in favor of the idea.
“I’ll make enquiries,” said Mary Grace. “It would be wonderful to have you there.”
It was not until the New Year that I joined the Ministry. I had spent the intervening time between London, with Gretchen, and my parents at Caddington.
Dorabella had a part-time job in London which pleased her very well. Most weekends we spent at Caddington and we were with Tristan for a great deal of that time. It seemed a very satisfactory arrangement and Dorabella was very happy with life.
Richard Dorrington and I met fairly frequently—whenever he could get away—and I found our encounters very pleasant. He seemed quite content to let our friendship drift along. It was different from the way he had been when he was courting me with marriage in view. He was more restrained and never referred to the past or suggested a resumption of our previous relationship. Indeed, there were times when I thought he was on the point of sharing some confidence. This undemanding friendship suited me perfectly.
As we came into that year of 1944 there was an air of hope throughout the country. Germany was losing the war on the Russian front; we heard stories of the hardship their armies were facing, not only from the Russians but from the weather, which was more severe than any they had been prepared for. For the first time since he had made his bid for power, it really seemed as though defeat would be Hitler’s reward.
The chance of an invasion of Britain seemed remote. There were still raids from the air and some of our cities had been severely devastated, but hope was everywhere. The Americans were now our allies and we no longer stood alone.
In the middle of January, I joined the Ministry. I received a warm welcome from the friends I had already met during the preceding months for I had on several occasions lunched with Mary Grace, Florette, Peggy, and Marian.
It was fortunate that there was room at their table and, as I was a friend of theirs, I was given a place there.
We were in a large room with windows on either side taking up almost the whole of the wall space, which made the room very light but was something of a hazard if bombs were dropped in the vicinity. It was actually a table for six at which we sat, and, as there were only five of us working, we had some space to spread out our papers and work with ease.
Seated at his desk in the center of the room was Mr. Bunter, supervising the arrangements and instructing us in our work.
It was all very easy and I picked up what I had to do in a few days. I fell quickly into the routine, sharing the jokes, laughing often, joining in on the treats, when anyone had “a bit of luck.” Marian Owen, surprisingly, had what she called her one vice, which was backing horses.
“Just a shilling or two here and there, you know, to liven the days—and sometimes it comes off.”
When it “came off” we were all invited to have a drink at the Café Royal or some such place, and there was a great deal of bantering talk about the “racing millionaire.” Unfortunately, the wins were not very frequent but that made them all the more exciting when they came.
Florette brought her book of cuttings to show us; they contained pictures of actresses and were arranged to indicate their rise to fame. On the first page of this book was a cutting from a paper which informed the reader that Miss Florette Fields had won the singing competition at the Empire Music Hall with her outstanding rendering of “The White Cliffs of Dover” and “After the Ball Was Over.” She had been awarded the first prize of five pounds. Good luck, Florette.
We all admired it, and I told her not to fill up the book with cuttings about others, for she must save it for those about herself.
That delighted her. She said she kept the book by her bedside in case there was an air raid. I think the most precious thing in Florette’s life was that newspaper cutting announcing her triumph.
And we never failed to laugh when Peggy, overcome by some momentary annoyance, would cry: “Wouldn’t anyone like to take me as a pet?”
Little things amused us then.
It was March and I had been two months at the Ministry. My mother said it was the best thing I could have done. Dorabella agreed with her, and I was inclined to think that they were right. I very much enjoyed the company during working hours. Mary Grace was greatly admired for her ability to draw, and if any little incident occurred she would make a cartoon of it, depicting the people concerned in caricature. These used to be passed round the department and were greatly appreciated. When one of them fell into the hands of Billy Bunter, he tried to look stern, but he could not repress a smile and ever after referred to Mary Grace as “our artist.”
We never knew when we should hear the air raid warning. They came fairly frequently and were given in the first place if enemy aircraft were detected crossing the Channel. We were then supposed to leave our room with the many windows and descend to the basement, but very often these aircraft were prevented from getting very far and so much time was wasted trooping up and down to shelters, so that what was called an “Imminent” was instituted which meant that we should only be warned when the enemy aircraft were almost upon us. Then we should make all haste to take cover.