Debutantes: In Love (27 page)

‘Morgan,’ she whispered, ‘would you go in and get the doctor out? If . . .’ She hesitated, but then went on, ‘If my father sees me, it will alarm and worry him and he’ll think of Poppy and then he’ll feel guilty about us.’

‘Write the doctor a note and I’ll just walk in and deliver it,’ said Morgan. Daisy gave a nod of understanding. That was the best way to do it. She went into the drawing room, took a sheet of paper and an envelope from Great-Aunt Lizzie’s desk and penned the note quickly, sealing the envelope and writing the doctor’s name in block capital letters in case her father was alert enough to recognize her handwriting. She waited in the shadows in the hallway and listened. Morgan did it well, she thought. There was no outburst from her father at the sudden appearance of his chauffeur whom he had supposed to be in London. She heard Morgan say, ‘For you, sir,’ and then as the doctor came out of the library, she heard the rattle of the logs in the fireplace and smelt the sharp smell of sulphur from the match. A fire had finally been lit in the library.

‘Where is she?’ Dr Taylor was by her side and he patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, my lady,’ he said. ‘She’s a tough old lady. I’m more concerned about your father, to be honest.’

‘In her bedroom.’ One thing at a time – Daisy sent a fleeting thought in the direction of all those girls whose parties she had attended during the past few weeks. They would be shrieking over the latest gossip column or the photographs in
Tatler
magazine and trying to decide which one of their dresses would be the most suitable for tonight’s dance; chatting about the young men at the dance before, secretly speculating on offers that might be made by eldest sons – second sons and below that would not be considered at this stage of the season.

Reality, for her now, on the other hand, was a desperately sick old lady and a middle-aged man who had been getting steadily more deranged over the years and who now seemed to have been driven into a catatonic state by the threats from his heir.

‘In here,’ she said, opening the door to the bedroom. And then, in a lower tone, ‘I’ve packed some things in case you think that she needs to go to hospital.’ She left him to go in on her own. Great-Aunt Lizzie was a very private person and would not want her niece around while the doctor examined her. Daisy, thinking back, could not recollect ever seeing her in bed before. She had suffered from colds and coughs throughout the years in the damp, draughty house, but she had battled through them.

And yet, thought Daisy, going across to look out of the tall window, this is such a beautiful place. If only money on essential repairs could be spent, if only there was enough to finance the proper running of the house, modernize it, heat it properly. She smiled to herself as she remembered all of their dreams last year. Violet was going to marry a prince – but had settled for an impecunious young lawyer. She and Poppy were going to make a fortune – Poppy in the jazz world and she in Hollywood . . . well, she had earned a few pounds and Poppy was having fun in the jazz world, but she hadn’t yet made any money from it. That was about as far as things had gone in a whole year.

And how much would it cost to put Beech Grove Manor on its feet again? she wondered, and then turned to face the doctor who had come down more quickly than she had expected.

‘I’m going to phone for an ambulance from my house so as not to disturb your father,’ he said, and then paused. ‘There’s not much that I can do for him now,’ he went on. ‘But now that one of his daughters is back home, that might be the very thing that he needs. Tender, loving care; that’s what daughters are for, God bless them,’ he said, and went towards the front door, leaving Daisy feeling uncomfortable and guilty.

‘Hope your lordship will soon be feeling better,’ he called into the library, and then in a peremptory tone to Morgan, ‘I’m ready to go now, my man.’

When Morgan had left to take the doctor back home, Daisy went back upstairs and into the sick woman’s bedroom. Her great-aunt was moaning, but she seemed to be asleep. Daisy went across and sat beside the bed and felt very helpless. There were some paper packets on the bedside table and she could see traces of powder clung to them. The doctor had given some sort of draught to her aunt and she hoped that it had eased the pain a little. The hot-water bottle was still warm, so there was nothing that she could do for her until the ambulance came.

Nor for Michael Derrington, who sat downstairs in his library with his mind seething with agonies of guilty and anxiety.

A resolution came to her. She could not go away and leave him there, and it would do little good for her to see him and try to talk to him. When Morgan returned, and the ambulance had taken her great-aunt off to hospital, they would take the Earl, with his permission or not, and they would drive him up to London. He could not be left here with just a few elderly and nervous servants to deal with him. His family needed to care for him now.

Chapter Thirty-One

Friday 16 May 1924

Poppy stared at her father with apprehension. She couldn’t get used to his appearance. When he had arrived at the house in Grosvenor Square last week she had been frightened by the sight of him. He seemed to have aged by years during the six weeks that they had been away. Jack’s valet had shaven him neatly and trimmed his hair, but there were heavy, dark pouches under his eyes and his thin hands shook continuously. What was she going to do with him until the others came back?

‘Talk to him,’ Daisy had urged. ‘You’re his favourite. You look like mother and you both share a love of music. Try to get him to open up and speak about his worries. I have to go out. We must see the lawyer and find out if there is any chance of postponing this court case on the twenty-sixth.’

Then Daisy was gone, flying down the steps to where Morgan was already cranking up the engine of the old Humber with its angular starting handle. And then Jack, looking efficient and businesslike, came bustling down the steps and Elaine, looking hesitant and unsure, trailed down after them, and she and Rose were left in charge of their father.

Poppy almost felt panicky. There is something almost terrifying about a person who doesn’t speak, she thought. Especially someone who looks as though frightening thoughts are simmering behind their eyes. She looked across at Rose sitting pensively at the piano, touching the odd note here and there and shooting anxious glances at the Earl. He had said very little since he had arrived, almost nothing to his daughters, though he had made an effort with Jack. Daisy, however, said that he was better than he had been at Beech Grove and that he wasn’t to be left alone.

‘Doorbell,’ said Rose, and then, with a note of relief, ‘Oh, it’s Joan. She’s come to say goodbye. She knows that I am to be incarcerated from tomorrow onwards.’ She rushed out into the hall and Poppy heard her exclaiming over a present – a make-up bag with rouge, mascara and eyeshadow, apparently. Joan and Rose were great friends, which was funny because Rose, it was generally considered, was the cleverest of the Derrington sisters, and Joan, thought Poppy, was pretty empty-headed and very silly.

Still, Poppy was delighted to see her. It was impossible to be quiet or anxious when Joan was in the room. She came in now – danced in, as a matter of fact, her feet beating out a rhythm. She twirled around, shrieked greetings and waved her hands in the air, then tossed her close-fitting cloche hat into a corner and unwound her feather boa from about her neck.

‘Poppy, dear old girl – guess what? Got the music for “I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate” – pity we don’t have the drums, but Rose can have a go at marking the beat on the . . . Oh!’

Poppy almost giggled at the expression on Joan’s face when she realized that the Earl was present. He said nothing but had risen to his feet politely, giving a half-smile and a nod in the direction of his neighbour’s youngest daughter.

Joan called across one of her speciality greetings – ‘
Hillo
’ – twinkled her fingers in his direction and then promptly forgot about him.

‘See, here it is,’ she said. ‘Look at it, Poppy. Baz got hold of it yesterday – he’ll be coming over himself, but he had to see Ambrose – they’re talking about allowances – something like that – discussing how much you two will need to live on, I suppose – anyway this is a great dance and a great tune. I’ll be the dancer – where’s Daisy? – she could be Kate, or could she? Perhaps I’d better be Kate – I’m a better dancer – oh well, we’ll manage without her. Rose, you do the beat on the piano.’

‘Try playing all four beats on two notes with your left hand,’ said Poppy authoritatively. She had almost forgotten about the silent presence of her father in the excitement of this new piece of music. She rang the bell imperiously.

‘I say, Tellford, could you ask Maud to come up?’ she said once the butler appeared, and then went back to instructing Rose not to lift her fingers too much.

When Maud came in she gave a sidelong, slightly scared glance at the Earl out of the corner of her large green eyes, but Joan hummed the tune to her and sang:

‘
Oh, I wish I could I shimmy like my sister Kate;

She shimmies like a jelly on a plate . . .
’

– all in a slightly breathless voice as she shimmied across the floor and swung her feather boa around her hips.

‘You’ve a terrible voice, Joan,’ said Poppy impatiently. ‘Maud, you do it. Rose, you just mark the beat, don’t get too fancy.’

That was almost perfect, thought Poppy, listening to Maud’s husky voice critically as the notes slid from her clarinet. But then she stopped. Something was wrong.

‘You’re not doing it right, Rose,’ she said in annoyance. ‘You’re doing all those cascading things with your right hand and you’re getting in the way of the clarinet. Keep those notes quieter or else play the left hand louder.’

‘My left hand is not strong enough,’ complained Rose.

‘Wish we had Morgan on the drums – why did Daisy have to take him off like that?’ wailed Poppy. ‘Or Baz. We need the drum or the bass.’

Her father’s presence had set her on edge and suddenly it seemed essential to her that this playing of ‘I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate’ would be a success. In her mind she heard exactly how it should sound.

‘I’ll do the left hand.’ Suddenly the Earl rose to his feet and went over to the piano. Rose, with a slightly nervous look, slid along the piano stool to make room for him beside her, but Poppy just gave a satisfied nod and put her clarinet back into her mouth. Her father was quite a musician and he had often accompanied her in the past.

And they were all still playing it and Joan was still dancing when the party came back from the visit to the lawyer. Maud sidled out the instant they came into the hall, but the others continued. Poppy looked at her father strumming the piano and then across at Daisy and took her clarinet from her mouth in order to laugh at Jack’s astonished expression. But then she put it back again straight away. Her father needed to lose himself in the music; he needed to play that incessant beat until his mind, his heart, his blood was saturated by it and nothing else in the world mattered. The music had to be kept going. In the beat lay salvation. Poppy knew that from her own experience.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Saturday 17 May 1924

‘
Then England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu;

My mother and my nurse that bears me yet!

Where’er I wander, boast of this I can:

Though banish’d, yet a true-born Englishman
. . .’

declaimed Rose to the astonished crowd queuing to present their tickets at the gate to platform ten at Victoria Station.

‘Shakespeare,’ she added, and then she spotted another girl in the brown and gold uniform and waved vigorously.

‘I say, Sheila,’ she yelled, ‘did you have a good time? I had an absolutely splendiferous holiday – balls, parties, cocktails, orgies . . .’

‘Rose!’ remonstrated Daisy, but despite the raised eyebrows of the respectable-looking mothers and fathers handing over their daughters to the harassed teacher inside the barrier, she was glad to hear her little sister back on form again. The silent, brooding presence of the Earl had had a bad effect on Rose. She had been white and worried-looking and had even given up inventing dramatic newspaper headlines. Despite her protests about being sent into exile, it would do her good to be back to normality with other girls for company and teachers to tease.