Debutantes: In Love (7 page)

‘I think that Maud should stay and make sure that they do it properly,’ she said. ‘Now, boys, no playing jazz until we get this place looking shipshape.’

‘I say, would you like me to lend you my riding whip?’ Joan asked Maud. ‘Are you sure you will manage?’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Maud firmly. ‘Give me a shilling or two and I’ll go and get some soap and anything else that we need.’ She opened a cupboard and found an immense array of mops, brooms and dusters.

Joan gave a squeal of delight. ‘A witch’s broom!’ she said. ‘That has to go across the window.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Poppy. She thought that they should move quickly before Morgan had any doubts about taking the two girls without a maid in attendance. If the place was to be cleaned up, then Maud’s supervision was essential.

‘Too, too sweet of you,’ said Joan, smiling warmly at Maud. ‘I say, I hope you don’t mind my remarking, but I do love your eyebrows. Most unusual. How do you get them to have that sort of tilted-up shape? Do you go to a beauty parlour?’

‘No, my lady.’ Maud gave a giggle. ‘I wouldn’t know a beauty parlour if I saw one, but I do know plenty about cleaning.’

‘She’ll lick this place into shape or my name is not Bob Morgan,’ said the chauffeur with a grin.

‘Do you like the name Bob?’ said Joan with interest. ‘I suppose it’s got a solid, reliable, sensible sort of sound to it, but it is quite boring, isn’t it? Oh dear, am I embarrassing you? Do say if I am.’

‘Not at all,’ said Morgan politely. ‘I don’t like the name Bob either. Reminds me of the orphanage. My middle name is St Clair, if that would suit you better.’

‘Bettermost,’ approved Joan. ‘I shall call you St Clair. It’s got a nice ring to it. I say, Poppy darling, does your papa have one of those tubey thingamajigs in your car. I do fancy calling “St Clair” down it.’

‘Take no notice of her,’ advised Baz. ‘Lots of insanity in my family. We try to keep it quiet, but it does tend to seep out. What colour silk will you get, Poppy? What about a sort of flame-coloured red like your hair? What would you think about that, Joan?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Joan again. ‘I do so hate decisions. Can’t we leave it all to St Clair?’

‘You choose the colour,’ said Morgan decisively. ‘I’m buying a hammer and some tacks. That will be my part in the shopping.’

‘I have an idea,’ said Poppy, suddenly inspired. ‘Why don’t we call for Violet and Daisy? Violet has great taste and she always knows which colours go together.’

Violet was pleased to go, and Poppy was glad that she had thought of it. She had forgotten how good Violet was at anything practical. Joan passed the time between Violet’s house and Petticoat Lane by pretending that the bumper-to-bumper jam of cars on the Strand was a racing track and that number twenty-nine, driven by an intrepid racing driver called St Clair, was edging into the lead.

‘I would so love to have a car,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Dearest St Clair, you must teach me to drive. I feel, deep within me, that I was born to be a racing driver. I’ll even give up smoking in order to achieve my ambition. The steward at the racing track where I went last Sunday was such a bore about my throwing cigarette ends over into some barrels full of water – or rather they weren’t full of water, but petrol, but how was I to know that, my dears? Oh, that looks like the market, doesn’t it? Now, St Clair, imagine that I’m waving the little blue flag and that means you must pull over.’ And then, in a loud whisper to Daisy, she said, ‘Doesn’t St Clair have the most wonderful eyes? So beautifully brown, just like moorland pools.’

By the time that they got back from the market, the place no longer smelt of mould and mice but very strongly of carbolic soap. It was clean, but still rather dismal.

Violet’s presence was an inspiration, thought Poppy. It was Violet who organized everyone to open all the doors and windows, Violet who had the good idea of soaking a sponge in eau de cologne, which was then set into a bowl behind the warm stove. By that stage everything began to smell much more party-like and then they all set to work on transforming the basement. Coral-red swathes of artificial silk were tacked on to the beams and draped down the walls by Morgan and the boys; Joan stood on a chair with an old deaf-aid trumpet which she had found in a cupboard and called out orders to ‘St Clair’; Daisy and Simon draped short lengths of black silk over the small windows; Poppy blew softly into her clarinet and imagined the scene that night.

‘Candles better be kept away from this stuff,’ called out Morgan, as Baz came back from the store cupboard with a few dozen, mice-nibbled plain white ones. ‘I’d say that is very flammable,’ he commented, running the silky material between his finger and thumb.

‘Dear St Clair; the man knows everything,’ intoned Joan into her deaf-aid, and everyone looked startled as the booming sound echoed around the room.

‘Fix them into bowls of water with some of that eau de cologne thrown into it,’ said Violet authoritatively. ‘Wait a minute – did I see some old bottles of red food colouring in one of the cupboards, Maud? Yes, that’s the one. Good job that there are all those white bowls stacked up in the crockery cupboard. I’ll cover that terrible old table with the last piece of black cloth and we’ll put the bowls and the candles on it. When people come in, tell them to put the food and drink on the table. It’ll look great. They are bringing food and drink, aren’t they, Baz?’ Violet’s tone was crisp and efficient, but for once she did not annoy Poppy. There was no doubt that her eldest sister had been a great source of ideas.

‘Told them it was a house-warming and they’d be turned away if they did not come with both hands full,’ confirmed Baz.

‘And they’ll believe him. He’s a funny fellow,’ said Joan, looking at her youngest brother with affectionate amusement. ‘He’s the only person in the world who never tells lies. He’s famous for it. Now, dears, I need to get back and start my beauty routine. Dear St Clair, when I come back you will be stunned at the sight of me. You will kneel at my feet and worship me with your wonderful dark eyes. Come on, Baz, dear Daisy is getting an irritated look and I always know when people are getting tired of me.’

Chapter Eight

Tuesday 1 April 1924

Back at Jack and Elaine’s house in Grosvenor Square, Poppy smiled at her reflection in the full-length looking-glass in her bedroom. Her gown was a straight shift with narrow shoulder straps. It was made of sunset-coloured silk chiffon; the bodice and dropped waist of coral pink shading into a pale purple, and both colours were misted over with a lace overdress. Its length just skimmed her knee and Poppy felt like a princess as she moved across to Daisy’s bedroom.

‘Oh, I’d forgotten how nice you looked in that black net over the pink satin,’ she said spontaneously as soon as she saw Daisy.

‘It’s not as fashionable as yours, but it’s the only one that fits me properly,’ confessed Daisy. ‘I’ve been eating too many potatoes.’

‘Nothing much else to eat at Beech Grove,’ mused Poppy, but then added hastily, ‘but it’s gorgeous, really suits you – the flowers made from sequins make it look so sophisticated.’

‘Perhaps we’ll both meet rich suitors who will be possessed of a good fortune and will fall madly in love with us, and then we’ll have twin weddings in June.’ Daisy added a pair of earrings with tiny diamonds which Elaine had bought for her and then tilted her head to see the effect.

‘Daisy . . .’ said Poppy, taking a deep breath, ‘Baz and I want to get married. We’ve got it all planned out.’ She knew that there was a note of defiance in her voice, but Daisy, of all people, had to understand, had to be with her in this. ‘We are going to have a jazz club in Baz’s house – it could be a great success, Daisy, don’t you see? That’s what I want for the future – just me and Baz working together. After all, it’s all turned out well for Violet and Justin, hasn’t it?’

Even as she spoke, Poppy realized that there was, of course, one difference.

Justin was a qualified lawyer and he did have a job.

‘Oh, Poppy,’ said Daisy with a joyful laugh, ‘I should have guessed! I’ve just been so wrapped up with my own plans for the season and my film career that I didn’t even think . . .’ She stopped, suddenly. Her face, porcelain pretty in the mirror, looked appealingly at Poppy. ‘But, Poppy, you do see that now I
must
marry money, since neither you nor Violet will. Someone has to save the house and the estate. We must go through the presentation and be popular debutantes so I can make a good match – for Father’s sake.’

The little house in Belgravia seemed transformed when Poppy and Daisy, chaperoned by Violet and Justin, arrived in good time for the party. The boys had been busy after the girls had left. The scuffed bare wooden steps leading down to the basement had been painted black – still slightly sticky to the sole of the shoe, but dry enough to walk on. Tin trays, placed in the corners of the steps, had been filled with dyed green water where nightlights floated. The whitewashed walls of the stairway had been decorated with strange paintings drawn directly on to the walls; one was of a huge human eye, another of the backbone of a fish.

‘Bad imitations of cubist paintings,’ murmured Violet, but a crowd from a couple of taxis were behind them and they shrieked with hilarity at the sight of the paintings. For a moment Poppy wished that Daisy had not insisted on having Violet as a chaperone – she was spoiling the mood of excitement.

‘Joan! Darling!’ shrieked one of the girls, and then her voice rose up to almost a scream.

‘Oh, I say, how too, too stunning!’

‘Too, too amazing-most!’

‘Joan, you pig, you’ve been hiding this place from us.’

Poppy pushed ahead of Violet and went in. It had looked good when they had left, but in the darkness of the evening it looked spectacular.

The windows of the cellar were draped with black artificial silk and the many candles seemed to draw pools of palest silver on their glossy surface. Packets of glitter had been sprinkled over the cement floor of the cellar. The result was a bit haphazard, but quite enchanting. The gorgeous sheets of flame-coloured material draped over the walls from the ceiling gleamed like the most expensive silk.

Poppy gave a little shake to her sunset-coloured dress. Last year she, Daisy and Violet had sewn coral-coloured glass beads to the hem and they shimmered and flashed in the candlelight. Morgan, she noticed with approval, had shed his chauffeur’s coat and cap and now appeared in a dinner jacket with a gleaming white shirt and a smart bow tie. He had told her that he had sold a drum backing for a film and had used the money to buy proper evening wear – just like a real band leader. The three boys were turned out in the same way and Poppy went forward to take her place among them. The trestle table at the side of the cellar, covered with its length of silky black, was filling up nicely with bottles and cake boxes and small tasty savouries. There would be plenty for supper.

‘Jam jars!’ exclaimed Violet, staring at the rows of well-washed glass containers that were lined up beside the bottles.

‘The latest fashion from New Orleans,’ said Joan with aplomb. Maud’s discovery of a stack of jars in a dusty cupboard had solved the embarrassing problem of what to do about glasses.

‘Let’s go,’ whispered Morgan, tapping his drumsticks together to count the band in.

That was enough. The crowd started to jig around the floor, heads waggling, feet pointing, hands shaking. More guests arrived. Greetings were shouted over the music, the newcomers joined in, the fire in the stove died down a little, but it didn’t matter – the room was gloriously warm.

‘We should have charged an entrance fee,’ said Poppy when the band paused for a rest.

‘Not yet,’ said Morgan. ‘Have a few more parties, Baz, and then get the thing on a proper footing. Pay the band out of the entry fee, do some more decorating and then start saving.’

‘This will be most famous club in the whole of London,’ said Poppy. She felt herself tingling all over with excitement. The music seemed to be rippling through her blood and she felt incredibly thirsty, but also as though she could play for hours more without tiring. She crossed over to the table and ladled out a scoop of a punch that a girl called Annette had been making in one of the old cookery bowls probably belonging to the long-dead wife of the coachman. It tasted fantastic and she had some more, and then some more again.

When she went back to the band she felt her legs wobble with exhaustion, but the most wonderful variations on the tunes came floating through her brain. When the band started up again she let those tunes come, very quietly at first, and then blew more strongly when she saw smiling faces looking at her over shoulders. It felt as though she had entered into a new world, a fairyland where all her dreams had come true.

Chapter Nine

Tuesday 1 April 1924