The FitzOsbornes at War (18 page)

20th July, 1940

I
ARRIVED HOME FROM WORK
yesterday to find Veronica cramming clothes into a suitcase.

‘What’s happened?’ I cried, fearing the worst. The Germans had landed on the beaches! They were swarming across the fields and the hills, converging on our street!

‘I just have to go away for a few days, that’s all,’ Veronica said. ‘A work thing. Which dress do you think for evenings, the black silk or that red one with the gold ribbon?’

It was only then that I saw she’d been up to the house to collect some of her old evening gowns – definitely
not
the first items Veronica would snatch up during an emergency evacuation. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, it depends. Where are you going?’

‘On second thoughts, that red dress would take up half the suitcase,’ she said. ‘It’ll have to be the black.’

‘You’ll need at least two evening gowns, if you’re staying more than one night,’ I pointed out. ‘Take the blue chiffon. And our big trunk.’

‘I’m only allowed a small suitcase.’

I frowned at her. ‘Veronica, you’re not . . . You aren’t going
abroad
, are you?’

Her gaze flicked up from the gown she was folding, but she remained silent.

‘You’re going to
Spain
, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘I don’t believe it! There’s a war on and you’re flying straight into the middle of it!’

‘Oh, Sophie,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s only for a few days, and I won’t be going by myself.’

‘Why would anyone from the Foreign Office need to go there at
all
?’ I demanded, my hands now on my hips. ‘Isn’t there a British Embassy in Madrid?’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a sigh, ‘but only the British would appoint a new Ambassador who knows nothing of Spanish history or culture, and doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. Anyway, the Embassy staff are rushed off their feet trying to draw up a new trade agreement, whereas we’ll be –’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Veronica concentrated on tucking rolled-up stockings into the corners of her suitcase.

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, ‘it’s
a
secret mission
! You do remember that Spain’s right next to France, don’t you? And France is crawling with Nazis now, and I can just imagine how they feel about
you
after that speech of yours at the League of Nations!’

‘Spain is neutral in this war,’ Veronica said. ‘Or at least, non-belligerent. Besides, I’m travelling on a British diplomatic passport, so I’ll be perfectly safe . . . Oh, all my handkerchiefs seem to be in the wash. Can I borrow some of yours?’

‘No,’ I said, but I went off to fetch some. ‘What’s the difference between “neutral” and “non-belligerent”?’ I asked, on my return.

‘“Neutral” means they’re not on anyone’s side except their own. “Non-belligerent” means they aren’t going to drop any bombs on Britain, but they’re secretly doing everything they can to help Germany win.’

‘Oh, good, now my mind is completely at ease.’

She gave me a fleeting smile as she snapped her suitcase closed. ‘Sophie, why don’t you go and stay with Julia till I get back? It would stop me worrying.’

‘How come
you
get to worry, when I’m not allowed to?’

‘Because I’m older, and there’s a far greater chance of air raids here than in Madrid – or wherever it is I’m going to be.’

‘You really can’t say why you’re going?’

She bit her lip. ‘Not at the moment. Anyway, I don’t know all the details. But . . . well, I
can
tell you that it’s important.’

‘Change-the-course-of-the-war important?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I think so. I’m not sure it’ll work, but the stakes are so high in this particular game that anything’s worth trying.’ She heaved her suitcase off the bed, then added, ‘If it makes you feel any better, the Colonel knows all about it.’

‘The Colonel!’ I stared at her with renewed dismay. ‘Why would
that
make me feel any better? I thought your trip was some sort of . . . of diplomatic peace mission! Now I find out it’s one of his spy schemes!’

‘Sophie,
please
go and telephone Julia.’

‘I’m going to have a word with
him
, the next time I see him,’ I muttered. ‘Dragging you into his ridiculous cloak-and-dagger business . . .’

I stomped off to telephone Julia, who said she’d be delighted to have me as a house guest for as long as I cared to stay. So, after I’d waved Veronica off in a taxi this morning, I cleaned the entire flat, did a week’s worth of ironing, packed my own suitcase, then took myself off to Julia’s house.

I found her stretched out in the cool dimness of her sitting room with her friend Daphne, both of them drinking some strange green concoction.

‘Darling!’ Julia cried from the chaise longue. ‘
Too
kind of you to come and stay, just when I desperately needed cheering up!’ She held out a hand to me.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked, dropping my suitcase by the doorway and going over to work out whether she was genuinely distressed.

‘Ant’s been transferred to
Dover
,’ she said, tugging me down beside her. ‘With German guns not twenty miles away in France, pointed straight at the town!
And
they’ve started bombing our ships in the Channel.’

‘You don’t know that Ant will be involved with any of
that
,’ said Daphne. ‘He’ll probably just be doing patrols. And, Julia, think about how you’ll be able to see so much
more
of him now. None of those awful treks up to Scotland, where you’d spend two days on a train, and then he’d get his leave cancelled at the last minute, and you’d have to turn around and come straight back again.’

‘It sounds so much more
dangerous
for him in Dover, though,’ Julia said.

‘Yes, but there’s nothing you can do about it, and meanwhile, you’re being a terrible hostess,’ said Daphne. ‘Sophie, what would you like to drink? I think there might be about half a glass of sherry left, or there’s some gin somewhere, isn’t there, Julia?’

‘Just don’t ask for one of
these
,’ said Julia, peering into her own frosted glass. ‘They’re lethal.’

‘They’re American,’ Daphne said proudly.

‘Daphne’s new boyfriend is from New York,’ Julia murmured to me, ‘or so he
claims
.’

‘All right, he may be Canadian,’ conceded Daphne. ‘But he’s
been
to New York, and he dances like an angel.’

‘I didn’t realise angels knew how to jitterbug,’ said Julia. ‘Does that mean there are swing bands in Heaven?’

‘Of course there are,’ said Daphne. ‘And he takes me to the most
romantic
restaurants – Oh, and that reminds me! Julia, do you remember that darling little Italian place where we all went for my birthday? Well, it’s boarded up now! The lady next door said the owner’s been
interned
.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Julia. ‘Someone tossed a petrol bomb through the window, the day Italy declared war. Of course, that poor man’s been living in England for decades, he’s about as much a Fascist as I am. Didn’t you hear they’ve locked up the chef from Quaglino’s, too, and the man who managed the restaurant at the Ritz? I just hope they weren’t on that ship that got torpedoed – you know, the one taking our Enemy Aliens to Canada.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Daphne. ‘But wait – the papers said it was only Nazis who drowned.’

‘No, there were Italians on board, too,’ said Julia.

‘Well, honestly,’ sighed Daphne, flopping back into the cushions, ‘this government is the absolute limit! Don’t they realise Italian restaurants are vital for the war effort – that they’re essential for keeping up
morale
? As if it isn’t bad enough that it’s impossible to find silk stockings now, or the right shade of lipstick! It’s all very well
Vogue
telling us that beauty is our duty, that our job is to cheer up our soldiers on leave – but how exactly is one supposed to do that when the government keeps taking away all the
essentials
of
romance
?’

I smiled at her. She was dressed in her aircraft factory’s standard-issue brown boiler suit and a cotton headscarf – an outfit that went not at all with the embroidered silk upholstery and gold tasselled cushions of Julia’s sofa. But then I looked closer.

‘Daphne,’ I said, ‘you’re
glittering
.’

She glanced down at herself. ‘Mmm. Those metal filings get absolutely everywhere.’

‘I don’t know how you do that job,’ said Julia. ‘The hours you work.’

‘I don’t know how I do it, either,’ said Daphne. ‘And I’m not sure I can stick it out much longer, unless we get another foreman. He loathes women, makes our lives a complete misery – when he ought to be
grateful
to us. We work twice as hard as the men, and get paid two-thirds of the wages.’

‘Well, darling, it’s not as though you need the money.’

‘I’m not doing it for the
money
.’ Daphne sat up abruptly. ‘Can I have a bath?’

‘Of course you can,’ said Julia. ‘Clean towels on my bed, I haven’t had a chance to put them away yet.’ Then, after Daphne had gone upstairs, Julia added, rather sadly, ‘Daphne’s brother’s a pilot, too, you know. Flies
bombers
, poor thing – that’s even worse than fighters. But she says that at least if he gets sent up in one of
her
planes, she’ll know it’s been perfectly put together.’

Julia glanced at the photograph of Anthony on top of her desk, and he grinned back at us, his RAF cap tilted at a dashing angle. Julia frowned, and I saw she really
was
upset (and also, possibly, a tiny bit drunk).

‘This bloody war,’ she said. ‘I
hate
what it’s doing to us. Husbands and wives are meant to be
together
, but I haven’t seen Ant for weeks and weeks –’

Some of my thoughts must have shown on my face.

‘Oh, I know,’ she said quickly, ‘I
know
I wasn’t always very nice to him, not at the start. But that was just the strain of . . . of trying to live up to his image of me. He put me up on a pedestal, Sophie, he really did, he worshipped me. He didn’t have a clue how to go about living with the real me, let alone how to . . . Well, never mind about that, I don’t want to put you off men, because they really are terribly sweet when one gets used to them. But that’s what I mean, it was all
my
fault, for having my own ridiculous expectations about
him
.’

She stared down at her drink.

‘And it wasn’t until the war started that I really understood that. Once I realised Ant would be in the middle of it, putting himself in danger . . . You see, that’s why I’m determined to be the perfect wife now. Anything he wants, anything that makes him happy. I’d never, ever forgive myself if we had some silly tiff over the telephone one day and it turned out to be the last time we . . . Well. I’m not even going to think about that. But I
do
believe he’s happy now. He so loves flying – I just wish they’d move him to a training unit. He’s such a good teacher, so patient and persistent. He ought to think about doing something in that field, setting up a flying school or something – I mean, once the war’s over.’

She sighed, then shook her head. ‘But tell me
your
news, Sophie!’ she said brightly. ‘Where’s Veronica gone off to?’

‘Who knows?’ I said.

‘Ah, something hush-hush, is it? There’s a lot of that going around. Isn’t there, Rupert?’

‘What?’ said Rupert, coming into the room. ‘Oh! Hello, Sophie.’ His hair was damp and he was fiddling with his cuffs.

‘You’d better not have used up all the hot water,’ Julia told him. ‘Now – take Sophie’s suitcase up to her room, but before that, see if there’s another bottle of sherry somewhere and pour her a drink, and then go and find a different shirt, one that doesn’t clash quite so horribly with that jacket.’

‘Actually, I was going downstairs to make a pot of tea,’ said Rupert, giving me a sweet smile. ‘Would you like some, Sophie?’

‘Yes, thank you, that’d be lovely,’ I said, because I secretly think sherry tastes like petrol. I followed him down to the kitchen, where Mrs Timms was folding her apron.