The Penny Bangle (27 page)

‘No, that can’t be right,’ said Cassie, frowning. ‘It’s all a big mistake. Frances, think about it, think how clever and courageous – no, Robert can’t be dead!’

‘Cassie, if you want to have a cry – ’

‘Why should I want to cry?’ Cassie put her shoulders back and forced herself to grin. ‘Fran, you’re all so gloomy, so bloody pessimistic, you don’t have any faith.’

But, later on that evening, when Cassie was alone and trying to sleep, she found faith was very hard to come by, that despair was stronger, and she feared Robert might indeed be dead.

The letter which came the following morning was a cruel mockery of hope.

‘We’ve taken Florence,’ Robert wrote. ‘It’s all moving very nicely now. So I don’t think it will be long before we meet again, my darling.’

Yes, thought Cassie wretchedly, but in this world, or the next?

Chapter Fourteen

When one of the drivers in the Chelsea house told their commanding officer what had happened, that Cassie’s fiancé had been reported missing and was most likely dead, Cassie was informed she was entitled to some compassionate leave.

But she didn’t take it. Robert was just missing, that was all. He wasn’t wounded, wasn’t dead, and he would turn up again, she knew it.

If he were trapped behind the German lines, she told herself, some Italian family would help him, take him in. Italians weren’t all Fascists, and they didn’t all side with the Germans.

There were lots of rumours going around about Italian partisans receiving drops of arms and ammunition from American and British planes, then blowing up river bridges, railway lines, and killing German soldiers in ambushes and raids. There were also stories about American and British soldiers going on secret missions behind the German lines, and helping the Italian partisans.

Daisy was optimistic about Robert’s chances, too. She was sure he must be holed up somewhere, maybe with Italian partisans, waiting for a chance to get back to the Allied lines.

‘But what if he’s a prisoner?’ Cassie asked, when she and Daisy met for lunch at the Savoy, on a day when Daisy didn’t have a matinee, and thus had some free time.

‘He’ll be treated well, my love, don’t worry,’ Daisy said, as she ate her ultra-patriotic Woolton pie. ‘POWs get food and shelter, and Red Cross parcels, too. So, if Rob’s a prisoner, once we find out where he’s gone, we’ll send him scarves and jumpers, tins of soup and spam, and books and magazines.’

‘If Robert
is
a prisoner, he’ll escape,’ said Cassie, as she toyed with her parsnip, carrot and soggy oatmeal mush that didn’t really taste of anything.

‘Yes, of course he will,’ said Daisy, smiling. ‘Yes, my darling – knowing Rob, I’m sure he’s working on it now. Come on, love, eat your lunch. Or else you’ll waste away, and when Rob comes back he’ll be so sad to think you pined.’

So Cassie forced herself to eat, and after she had eaten all her pie, she felt a little better.

‘That’s my girl,’ said Daisy as she signed the bill. ‘Let’s go and look at gloves and scarves and things. I saw some lovely Fair Isle jumpers in the Army and Navy yesterday. They should have Robert’s size. I’ve got some coupons.’

But although his sister and Cassie were so optimistic, Stephen wouldn’t have anything to do with their determination to look for silver linings. Sunk in gloom and misery, he was drinking far too much, and Cassie ached for him. But she didn’t dare to try too hard to cheer him up, in case he took it the wrong way.

Nowadays, there was nothing on the wireless to make anybody happy, no comfort for a population that was sick and tired of war. Even though there was occasionally some good news from France, the expected Allied victory had not materialised.

London wasn’t the cushy number it had been in spring. Since June, the Germans had been sending over their new flying bombs, and these rained down on London with terrible effect, coming out of nowhere and killing people travelling into work, standing on railway station platforms, walking home from school. The anti-aircraft batteries shot some down, but plenty more got through.

So Cassie was glad to spend a couple of days later that month in the peace and quiet of Melbury, seeing Rose and Tinker.

‘We must hope for the best,’ said Rose. ‘We have to keep our spirits up.’

‘You haven’t heard any more then, Rose?’

‘Not yet, but when I do, you’ll be the very first to know.’

Rose looked at Cassie and she smiled encouragingly. ‘In spite of what his CO said, I still feel optimistic. Robert will want to live, I know, and that must mean a lot.’

Who are you trying to comfort, Rose, thought Cassie – you or me?

One September evening, when they were both off duty, Stephen suggested going out for dinner at the Ritz. Cassie had never seen inside the Ritz, and she was curious, so she agreed to go.

She thought the place was grubby. The brass all needed polishing, and Lily Taylor would have had a fit. The food was muck. All messed about and titivated, served on great big plates, it was clearly trying to be something it was not.

The meat was raw inside, and Cassie knew you shouldn’t eat raw meat – unless your meat was boiled or roasted, you’d certainly get worms – and so she didn’t eat it, even though Stephen told her it was meant to be like that. She could have fancied a plate of mince and onions, or a nice pork pie.

She didn’t like the way the waiters fawned and sneered and grovelled, all at once. It must be because her escort was an officer, but she was just an NCO.

Afterwards, Stephen wanted to go drinking. Cassie was tired, she’d had a busy week, and she had to drive a truck to Hull the following morning, so she wanted to go home.

But Stephen looked so hangdog when she said she was going back to Chelsea that she agreed to go and have a drink.

‘Just one or two,’ she told him, ‘and then I must go home.’

‘Just one or two,’ he promised.

The night sky was deep purple, and the moon was up. Cassie hoped there wouldn’t be a raid. She hated it when flying bombs came over, hated waiting for the aftershock, hated seeing flames light up the sky. These days, she hated any kind of fire – even the comfortable red glow from the bailiff’s cottage kitchen range, when she went down to Dorset to see Rose.

They walked up Piccadilly and ended up in Soho. They went to a louche club in Wardour Street, packed with army officers and their women. The place was full of smoke and smelled of stale fried food, men’s sweat and women’s scent.

The women looked like a lot of tarts, thought Cassie. Daisy had taught her how to recognise good quality in clothes, and she could see the frocks these women wore were not the real thing.

Although they all looked confident and flash, their evening gowns were made of rayon, they all wore too much make-up, their hair was badly bleached so that it looked like straw, and their jewels were obviously paste.

Stephen signed Cassie in and ordered drinks.

Stephen was drinking whisky. But Cassie stuck to tonic water, and she made each drink last for an hour, sipping slowly, savouring the pungent, bitter taste.

On a little stage, there was a band, playing the kind of music Cassie liked, and on the dance floor couples swayed and shuffled, cheek to cheek.

She wouldn’t have minded dancing, and she liked to dance with Stephen. He was strong and solid, and he always held her nice and tight. But he didn’t tip her backwards so she felt off-balance, or tread on her toes, or stick one knee between her legs, like so many other soldiers did.

She smiled at him, one eyebrow raised enquiringly. She nodded at the dancers, hoping he would take the hint.

But Stephen didn’t seem to want to dance. In spite of promising to have just one or two, he was drinking steadily to get drunk, and soon he was getting maudlin, too.

‘But Steve, we haven’t heard anything for certain,’ Cassie told him, when he started on his favourite topic and was fretting about Robert once again. ‘So we must go on hoping for the best.’

‘I tell you, Robert’s dead!’ Stephen took another gulp of whisky, and fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. ‘I’m his twin,’ he muttered. ‘I would know if he were still alive. I know he’s dead.’

‘Steve,’ said Cassie gently, ‘you know we’ve not had any definite news. So we mustn’t write him off just yet.’

‘When we were at Dunkirk,’ continued Stephen, as if Cassie hadn’t spoken, ‘when we were both lying on that bloody awful beach, both of us half-conscious, and both of us shot up, I was pretty sure he’d be all right. Then, when we were finally picked up by two different ships, and some boats got torpedoed – Rob’s was hit, you know, and lots of chaps on it were killed – I knew he was alive. He knew I was, too. Twins always know these things.’

‘But now you think he’s dead?’

‘Cass, I
know
he’s dead!’ cried Stephen, banging his glass down on the sticky table and making people turn to stare at him. ‘My mother thinks so, too.’

‘But that isn’t what she said to me,’ objected Cassie. ‘She said I had to hope for the best, and try to keep my spirits up.’

‘Mum doesn’t want to admit it, but she knows.’ Stephen clicked his fingers at the barman for another whisky. ‘Cassie, love, you haven’t seen the letter, have you?’

‘No, but – ’

‘Rob’s CO explained to Mum that Rob and a few other chaps had gone to sabotage some German guns. The Jerries must have caught them. I reckon Rob’s been shot.’

Cassie wished that Stephen would stop talking, and stop drinking, too. Daisy had said he wasn’t supposed to drink more than a pint or two of beer, at the very most, and Cassie was sure he shouldn’t be drinking spirits.

So, feeling guilty – for, after all, she had let Stephen take her to the club – Cassie peered through the haze of smoke, looking for a waiter, someone she could ask to find a taxi.

But Stephen must have read her mind. He stood up, rocking slightly, downed his drink. ‘Let’s go on,’ he muttered.

‘Go on where?’ asked Cassie.

‘Oh, I don’t know, another club or something. Maybe the Embassy. They’ll let you in, if you’re with me.’

‘I don’t think so, Steve.’

‘Cass, we’ve done our grieving.’ Stephen lurched against the table, nearly sent it flying. ‘Let’s go and have some fun.’

They climbed the steps up from the club, and then emerged into the moonlit night. Cassie decided she would try to get him to the house in Berkeley Street, where he was billeted.

Or maybe she should take him back to Daisy’s place? It wasn’t that much further, and Daisy could look after him if he had an attack, which Cassie feared he might. Then he could sleep it off.

Yes, that might be better.

Taking his arm, she steered him west along the broken pavements, heading for Park Lane. She didn’t see a single taxi, but she didn’t mind walking. When she was off duty, she often walked for miles and miles on these warm summer evenings, with other ATS girls or even by herself.

Now, she knew central London very well, and she loved it, too. Bruised and bashed and battered, it was still a city of wonders, of amazing places which suddenly appeared like magic amidst all the chaos. Palaces, cathedrals, castles, towers and bridges, which had been there for centuries, and after the war would be there still.

They were going down a narrow side street, taking a short cut she had discovered a few weeks ago, when Stephen stopped and grabbed at Cassie’s sleeve.

‘What’s the matter, Steve?’ she asked, hoping he wasn’t going to have a turn. ‘You look very pale. Do you feel sick?’

‘No, Cass, I don’t feel sick.’ But his speech was slurred, he stank of whisky, he was ashen, and she didn’t quite believe him.

‘Let’s get on,’ she told him. ‘We need to get you home.’

‘Just hang on a minute, eh?’ He took her by the shoulders and then he pushed her up against a wall, so now she was off balance. He was going to kiss her – more than kiss her, she could feel him hard against her, and she didn’t know what to do.

‘Stephen, let me go,’ she said.

‘Oh, Cass, don’t go all maidenly on me!’ Stephen’s dark eyes glittered, and he gripped her harder.

So Cassie kicked him sharply on the shin.

He yelped in pain, but let her go. ‘Why did you do that?’ he cried, his brown eyes wide with shock. ‘Christ Almighty, Cass – that bloody hurt!’