The FitzOsbornes at War (30 page)

After dinner, we all piled into a taxi and drove off to the Four Hundred. The sirens started wailing as Peter was paying the taxi driver, and someone suggested taking shelter in the Leicester Square underground station. But the nightclub entrance was only a couple of yards away, so we dived down the stairs. It turned out to be not much of a raid, anyway – not compared to those awful ones after Christmas when the whole of the City caught fire and everyone thought St Paul’s Cathedral was gone (although, of course, it was saved).

I hadn’t ever been to the Four Hundred, and thought it very glamorous, once my eyes adjusted to the gloom. I sank into the burgundy velvet cushions of our banquette and gazed around at the silk-panelled walls, the heavy drapes, the thick carpet, all in rich shades of red and very dimly illuminated by candlelight.

‘Like going back to the womb,’ remarked one of the pilots, and Julia blanched, so Daphne quickly shouted across the table at me, ‘Oh, and Sophie darling, I forgot to tell you I ran into
Simon Chester
in here last week! Looking his usual gorgeous self, of course, girls fluttering about him.’ She turned to her companion, the gregarious red-head, and explained, ‘Simon’s in the RAF, too, in Fighter Command. Anyway, he was dancing with someone, and guess who it was?’

‘One of the Churchill girls,’ said Julia. ‘Sarah.’

Daphne pouted at her. ‘Oh, she
told
you! I keep forgetting they’re your cousins.’

‘You are related to Winston Churchill?’ the blond pilot said to Julia, looking impressed.

‘Second cousin, once removed, or something. Believe me, we’re the poor, insignificant relations. I’ve met him twice in my entire life.’

‘Still,’ said Daphne, ‘I bet someone’s been gossiping about it to you.’

‘No, it’s just simple deduction,’ said Julia. ‘Why would you bother telling us unless she was the daughter of someone important? And Diana’s not Simon’s type, too nervy – and Mary’s too young.’

‘Well, she was draped all over him, not that I blame her. I’d do the same, if I ever got the chance, except he always pretends not to see me. I’m sure he thinks I’m a terrible influence on you, Sophie.’

‘Who
is
this man?’ Peter asked me.

‘Oh, a sort of . . . cousin of mine,’ I said. I was absolutely
fuming
. Simon had had an evening off and come into town and hadn’t so much as bothered to telephone me! When I’d been turning myself inside-out to track down the Colonel for him! As for the flirting, well, that was only to be expected – but really, the Prime Minister’s daughter! Who also happened to be
married.
Did Simon’s ambition know no bounds?

The band struck up again, and I raised my chin and turned to Peter. ‘Would you like to dance?’ I asked him.

‘I would be delighted to dance with you,’ he said, and he stood, bowed and held out a long, elegant hand. They were playing a slow song, and after a couple of fumbling beats, Peter and I fell into a comfortable rhythm. He was a competent dancer, but not a showy one, so I felt no anxiety about having to keep up with any fancy steps. Not that there was
room
for anything complicated on that dance floor. The crush of bodies was curiously liberating, though – I began to feel as though I were quite alone with him, entirely unobserved. My irritation at Simon drained away, and the fatigue that had been assailing me all day settled into a pleasant drowsiness. By the second song, I had relaxed completely into Peter’s arms, allowing him to tug me closer; by the time the band stopped for their break, it seemed inevitable that I would lift up my face to smile at him, and he would stoop to kiss me.

It was lovely. His mouth was smooth and warm and firm, and tasted of champagne. The kiss lasted exactly the right length of time, long enough for me to get over the tiny shock of his lips meeting mine, to feel the gentle pressure begin to slide into a delicious melting sensation . . . but not so long that I started to worry about how to breathe or where I ought to put my hands. Quite apart from how delightful it felt, I was relieved to discover that kissing was, in fact, just as nice as novels make it out to be (I’d had a vague fear that they might all be lying, or that I might turn out to be terrible at it).

The other good thing was that, as it happened on a crowded dance floor, I didn’t have to concern myself with thoughts of how far I should go, or how to tell him to stop (he seemed an utter gentleman, but Aunt Charlotte’s dire warnings about men’s ‘uncontrollable urges’ had sunk in). As it was, he broke it off himself, pulling away just far enough to give me a searching look. I must have assumed the right (or the wrong) expression, because he nodded, gave a tiny smile, then led me back to our table. And his behaviour was entirely correct for the rest of the evening, if one doesn’t count his leg brushing against mine several times under the table, which was probably accidental. We
were
rather squashed together on that seat, after all.

Julia announced at midnight that she had to leave, so I said I’d go with her. Her companion looked crestfallen, but he and Peter dutifully walked us up to the street and found us a taxi (Daphne was still dancing with the red-head, if one could call what they were doing ‘dancing’). Peter lifted my hand and pressed his lips to the back of it.

‘Goodbye,’ he said, with his matinee-idol smile. ‘I had such a pleasant evening. Perhaps we shall see each other again, some other time.’

But he said it in such a way that I knew it would only be by purest chance if we did. He no doubt went dancing with girls all the time, girls much prettier and more experienced than I, and he probably kissed most of them, and possibly did much more. And why shouldn’t he? He was a fighter pilot. He might be dead tomorrow.

‘Goodbye,’ I said, smiling back at him, ‘and good luck.’

Those words never meant so much before the war. He handed me into the back of the taxi, closed the door and raised a palm in farewell. Then we drove off.

‘He was nice,’ said Julia sleepily. Then she blinked. ‘Oh! Should we stop and help?’

We’d turned the corner into what looked like a winter wonderland, except the glistening snow was actually crushed glass, and the red glow wasn’t a brazier for roasting chestnuts and warming the hands of skaters, but a fire in the window of the nearest shop, which, according to the charred sign, specialised in ladies’ undergarments. The taxi driver stuck his head out and made enquiries of the ARP warden, but it was all right. No one had been killed, the two gentlemen who’d been injured had gone off in the ambulance, and the firemen had the flaming corsets under control.

‘Oh, I
am
glad to hear that,’ said Julia, settling back into her seat, and I was pleased, too. (Extinguishing fires is a messy business, in my limited experience – and I
was
wearing my favourite evening dress.) That this air raid had caused only minor damage added to my general feeling of satisfaction with the world. I had been kissed properly for the first time, and enjoyed it, and not embarrassed myself or hurt anyone’s feelings. Overall, then, it had been a surprisingly successful evening.

And I feel just as positive about it this morning, which is even better. It’s so nice when things go well for a change.

12th March, 1941

I
’D TRACKED DOWN THE
C
OLONEL
at the end of January and he’d agreed to investigate Simon’s allegations. Then . . . nothing. Six whole weeks of nothing, which is a very long time to be constantly dashing out to the letter box to see if the post has arrived, and leaping for the telephone at the first peal of the bell. I’d decided not to burden Veronica with it until I knew more, so I had the additional anxiety of wondering what to say if she asked what was wrong. I didn’t want to lie to Veronica. Perhaps I could imply I was broken-hearted over that Polish pilot and desperate to hear from him? But I would only resort to this story if it became absolutely necessary. This made me determined to stop it
becoming
necessary, so I renewed my attempts to contact the Colonel, leaving him half a dozen messages. At long last, he telephoned me at work, and we arranged to meet in Hyde Park during my luncheon break today.

‘It’s heartening, really, isn’t it?’ he said, as we walked past the muddy patches where the lawn had been ripped up to plant vegetables. ‘I mean, everyone, everywhere, digging for victory! And doesn’t the park look better now they’ve taken away the iron railings? There’s a flock of sheep grazing around here, too – I spotted them the other evening. We could almost be taking a stroll in the country.’

That was only because we weren’t in the section of Hyde Park that’s been turned into a wreckage dump. All those depressing piles of broken brick and charred timber; those stacks of rusting girders and twisted sheets of iron roofing; those salvaged bathtubs propped up on their ends, looking like a row of gravestones. But the Colonel was intent on being cheerful, for some reason.

‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he chirped, ‘and it’s an ill wind that blows no good –’

Well, I could see how
that
had sprung to mind. A cruel sleet was stinging our faces.

‘– because these days, nothing’s absolutely bad or absolutely good, is it? But what do you think, Sophie?’

‘I think,’ I said, ‘that you’re prevaricating. Why won’t you tell me what you’ve found out about Anthony?’

The Colonel stopped, took off his hat and smoothed back his hair. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, replacing his hat. The angle at which it was tilted hid his eyes. ‘Yes, you’re quite right. The fact is, I haven’t decided whether I
am
going to tell you.’

‘I’ve kept your secrets before,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, you have. But this one isn’t pretty.’

‘If you think that just because I’m a
girl
, I can’t cope with –’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Sophie. But I
do
think you’re an idealist. And if you’ve managed to hold on to any ideals, after all you’ve been through, I’d hate myself if I tore them away from you.’ He pushed back his hat brim and stared off across the park. ‘“Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” Is that what you believe?’

He didn’t
seem
to be mocking me, so I said, ‘Of course I think truth is important. That isn’t to say I believe it’s always
beautiful
. But given a choice, I’d rather know than not know. Ignorance isn’t bliss.’ Then I added, ‘Anyway, why agree to meet me here, if you had no intention of telling?’

He sighed. ‘Well, you asked me a question. I was worried that if I didn’t respond soon, you might get impatient and go looking for your own answers. And I didn’t want you getting tossed into Holloway for prejudicial acts against the defence of the realm and having to share a cell with Lady Mosley.’

I suspected he was exaggerating, but nevertheless, I felt a thrill of fear. ‘This is bad, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Fairly bad, yes.’

‘I still want to know. I won’t tell Julia.’

‘Or anyone else.
Anyone
, including Simon and Veronica. Promise me, Sophie.’

‘I promise,’ I said.

He scrutinised me for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But let’s walk, it’s freezing out here.’

I’d started to shiver, but I didn’t think it was from the cold.

‘Anthony
did
bail out of his plane before it crashed,’ the Colonel said, after we’d walked in silence for several minutes. ‘His parachute worked perfectly, so you needn’t worry about any other pilots being in danger from that. He very nearly reached the ground safely, but he was shot at close range, just before he landed.’

‘By a German?’ I asked, picturing a recently downed Luftwaffe pilot hiding in a nearby bush.

‘No,’ said the Colonel. ‘By the local Home Guard.’

‘What?’

‘Keep walking,’ he ordered, taking my arm as a couple appeared on the path ahead of us. They were young and utterly absorbed in one another, but the Colonel waited until they were far out of earshot. ‘The village Home Guard happened to be patrolling, and they watched the whole dogfight. One of the German fighter planes got hit, too, and crash-landed at about the same time as Anthony’s plane. Apparently, it’s fairly difficult to distinguish between an RAF uniform and a Luftwaffe one, when the man is dangling from a parachute twenty yards above your head.’