Two for Sorrow (3 page)

‘No, no—I'll manage,' Josephine said, knowing that she had—in Miss Timpson's eyes at least—wasted quite enough of Robert's time already that day. ‘They're not heavy.'

‘If you're sure.' She reached up to take the key off its hook, and Josephine realised instantly that the resemblance she had been racking her brains to place was with the mannequin in the shop window: Miss Timpson shared that untouched-by-the-cares-of-the-world quality, an air of casual perfection which most women found insufferable, if only because they aspired to it themselves and always fell so short of the mark. ‘Just say if there's anything else you require.'

‘You'll be the first to know.' She took her key and headed for
the stairs, but hadn't got far before a familiar voice called her back.

‘Josephine! Just the person I was looking for.'

She turned to greet Celia Bannerman and was struck—as always—by how little she had changed in twenty years. Her long dark hair, which Josephine had never seen worn any other way than scraped back from her face into a bun, was streaked with grey at the temples, and her glasses were needed too frequently now to be worn on a chain around her neck, but no one would have guessed that she was nearly sixty. They had first met during the war at Anstey, a Physical Training College in Birmingham where Josephine was a student and Miss Bannerman one of the senior teachers; by the time their paths crossed again at the Cowdray Club, Miss Bannerman—or Celia, as she had tried to get used to calling her—had become one of the most respected figures in nursing administration and was heavily involved in the management of the club. She had certainly come a long way since her earlier job as a warder at Holloway, but it was those years that interested Josephine now.

‘I was just going to leave a message for you at reception,' Celia said, ‘but you've saved me the trouble. Your note said that you've got something for me to read?'

‘Yes, the first draft of what we discussed the other day. I wondered if you'd have a look at it, just to make sure it's reasonably accurate—and I have a few more questions, if you've time.'

‘Yes, of course.' She looked at her watch. ‘I'm free now for a while, if that suits you? Shall we say in fifteen minutes' time, just to give you a chance to catch your breath? I'll see you in the drawing room.'

She walked back into the lounge without waiting for an answer, and Josephine recognised the same confidence in her own authority that had earned Miss Bannerman the respect of all her students—respect tinged with just the right amount of fear. She had seen that authority falter only once, and then just briefly and under exceptional circumstances, and it never failed to bring out the schoolgirl in her. She headed for the stairs again like a straggler late for lessons, but was stopped once more in her tracks, this time by Miss Timpson. ‘Oh Miss Tey, I nearly forgot—don't go upstairs without this,' she called, and at the higher volume her East End vowels were satisfyingly evident. ‘It arrived for you earlier this afternoon.' She bent down to pick something up from the floor behind the desk and presented Josephine with an expensive-looking ornamental gardenia. Josephine held out her hand for the card.

‘Sorry—that's it. There's no note.'

‘Are you
sure
it's for me?'

‘Oh yes. The boy from the shop was very particular. I had to sign for it.'

‘But no one knows I'm here.'

‘Then perhaps you have an admirer on the inside, darling.' There was no need to turn round to see where the suggestion came from: the voice—warm, attractive and full of innuendo—was an established feature of the Cowdray Club, as familiar to its members as the decor and just as expensive. The Honourable Geraldine Ashby fell into an unusual category of membership: neither nurse nor professional, she was one of a handful of women who were elected to the club at the discretion of the council and whose purpose was purely social. Geraldine's mother was more than happy to secure the position each year
with a generous cheque to the College of Nursing—after all, the association was the most respectable thing about her daughter—and Geraldine took her social responsibilities as seriously as the other members took their work. No one could deny that she livened things up considerably, and not just because she mixed the finest cocktails outside the Savoy: everything about her was daring, and that made a refreshing change from the cloud of earnestness that hung over so much of the club. It was impossible not to be drawn to her charm and good humour, and her beauty—a chic, adventurous beauty—sparkled as effortlessly in a tailored suit as it did in the latest Chanel. Forgetting for a moment the young girl on her arm—a pretty if rather dull-looking blonde—Geraldine smiled wickedly at Josephine. ‘Just think—it could be any one of us. Who would you
like
it to be from?'

Experience had taught Josephine that a suitable response—flirtatious, with just the right amount of disdain—would only come to her later that evening, so she didn't bother to reply but picked up the flower with what she hoped was an enigmatic smile and strode determinedly up the stairs. She realised from the smirk on Miss Timpson's face that her admirer had been a matter of speculation from the moment the flower crossed the threshold, and tried to work out who could have sent it. Archie? It seemed unlikely—gardenias weren't his style; if he knew she was already in London, he would have chosen something far less showy and he would have brought them himself. It certainly couldn't be the Motley sisters—she doubted that Ronnie had ever done an anonymous thing in her life, and a flower from Lettice was always accompanied by a dinner invitation. Lydia, perhaps—it was a luxury beyond the budget of a struggling actress, but her friend was notoriously bad with
money and such an extravagance would be typical of her. Or perhaps Geraldine was right after all, and another member of the club had sent it. Just what she needed—awkwardness creeping into the only safe haven left to her. She shut her door with a sigh of relief, stuck the flower unceremoniously in the sink, and tried to forget about it.

The room was small but comfortable, and charmingly furnished with everything she needed and nothing more: a single bed, a solid writing table, a large wardrobe and plenty of cupboard space, and—her favourite feature—a tall window which took up most of one wall and looked out over Cavendish Square. She tidied the parcels away, freshened her make-up and found her glasses, then went over to the desk and picked up the sheaf of papers which she had been working on that morning. Scanning them quickly, she made a note of the questions which she hoped Celia might be able to answer and went downstairs, keen to find out as much as she could about the Finchley Baby Farmers.

There was no sign of Celia in the drawing room, so Josephine chose one of the blue horsehair chairs by the windows overlooking Henrietta Street and settled down to wait. It was the largest room in the house, extending the full width of the building on the first floor, and one of the most beautiful, with nicely proportioned panelled walls—painted in ivory-white enamel to maximise the reflection of light during the day—and a parquet floor. Fine rococo mirrors hung over original fireplaces—one at either end, suggesting that the space had once been two rooms—and there were other splashes of opulence in a gilt Louis XV couch with sapphire-coloured cushions and three enormous chandeliers, but most of the furnishings were quietly tasteful: simple mahogany bookcases
housing an eclectic selection of fiction and non-fiction; plain velvet curtains; and comfortable Sheraton armchairs, alternately upholstered in blue and fawn and free of the tassels and loose covers that would have made the room look untidy. A number of women sat around in small groups or on their own, playing cards and reading newspapers, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the room, punctuated every now and then by laughter or the chink of cup against saucer. It spoke of privilege but most of the women had worked hard to get here, and Josephine could still remember how proud she had felt when she was first elected. For her, as for many women of her generation, the membership of a private club represented a new and cherished independence; ten years later, although her life had taken a different path from the one she had expected, her achievements as a novelist and a playwright more than justified her place here, but success had not dulled that early excitement. It was partly to do with the possibilities which the future now held for women—for the lucky ones, at least—but there was something more to it: in the Cowdray Club she had rediscovered the sense of female solidarity which she had known in her teenage years and early twenties, and she was honest enough to recognise in herself a need to belong which she resented but could not seem to outgrow.

‘Josephine—sorry to keep you waiting but something came up unexpectedly.' Celia hurried over to the window, looking apologetic, and Josephine stood to greet her.

‘It's fine,' she said. ‘Please don't worry. We can do this another time if you're too busy.'

‘No, no—it's nice to see you. And quite frankly I'm desperate to snatch half an hour away from committees and fund-raising and politics, so you're actually doing me a favour.' She
gestured to Josephine to sit down, and took the chair opposite. ‘You know about the charity gala next week? Of course you do—you're friends with Ronnie and Lettice Motley, aren't you? They're making such a lovely job of the clothes. But Amy Coward seems to think I've got nothing else to do except plan for it and, as she's the only reason we're getting Noël for the evening, I have to be so careful not to disillusion her.'

Josephine laughed. ‘You must have inherited a lot of that sort of work after Lady Cowdray's death. I can't imagine that this is an easy place to run—not smoothly, anyway.'

Celia gave her a wry smile. ‘Is it that obvious?'

‘Not at all. But with so many successful women in one place, it stands to reason that egos will clash sooner or later.'

‘If it were just about personality, that would be fine, but it's a little more serious than that—it goes back to the very principles that the club and the college were founded on. Have you seen today's
Times
?' Josephine shook her head. ‘The letters page is full of complaints from nurses about money being raised in their name and used to fund facilities for people who have never been near the sick in their lives. None of them mentions the club by name, but we all know what they mean.'

‘Surely it works both ways—don't the subscription fees help to support the College of Nursing?'

‘Of course they do, but the purists choose to forget that. If we're not careful, we'll find ourselves split right down the middle—and I don't know how the club
or
the college will survive if that happens.'

Having joined with a foot in the nursing camp but since abandoned that for another career, Josephine found it all too easy to see both sides of the argument. ‘Where do you stand?'
she asked, nodding to Geraldine as she sat down at the next table and trying to ignore her grin.

Celia sighed. ‘Oh, I'm all for mixing things up a bit. Lady Cowdray always said that women get far too narrow-minded if they don't spend at least some of their leisure hours with people from other professions, and I'm inclined to agree with her. Anyway, I feel obliged to fight for her original vision, but I fear that it's not going to be easy. And to cap it all—this is just between you and me, you understand—we've got an outbreak of petty theft on our hands. A couple of members have reported things going missing. Nothing very valuable—a scarf here, a bit of loose change there—but distressing, nonetheless, and I've had to involve the police. Discreetly, of course. Ah—here's Tilly with our drinks.' Josephine looked round and saw a young waitress carrying two large gins over on a tray. ‘I took the liberty of having these brought up for us. If you want me to relive the story of the Finchley Baby Farmers, I'll need some Dutch courage, and I refuse to drink on my own.' She glanced at the papers on the card table. ‘Is that what you'd like me to look at?'

Josephine nodded and pushed the typescript over to Celia, marvelling at how easy it was to slip back into the old teacher-pupil relationship. She looked on as the older woman read slowly through the pages, and thought back to the first time she had ever heard the names Amelia Sach and Annie Walters. It was during the summer of her final year at Anstey, shortly before the end-of-term examinations, when evenings were long and tempers short. The pressure of achievement—and, for the older girls, the urgency of securing a position in the world outside—weighed heavily on the whole college, and the common room was unusually silent as half a dozen of the seniors made the most of every last second of prep time.
Usually, Celia Bannerman's tall, authoritative figure could command a room from the moment she entered it, but that night she must have been there for some time before anyone noticed her: when Josephine glanced up, she was already standing over by the window, gazing at the girls in her care with an immense sadness in her eyes. One by one, they looked up and saw her and, when she had their full attention, she spoke, calmly but gravely. Elizabeth Price, a first-year student, had been found dead in the gymnasium; the body was hanging from one of the ropes and there was no question that the girl had committed suicide—a note had been discovered in her room. Miss Bannerman went on to explain that Elizabeth's real surname was Sach, and that she was the daughter of a woman who had been hanged for the terrible crime of baby farming. She was adopted as a young child and, until recently, had no idea of her true identity. Somehow, though, she had found out the truth, and her note made it clear that it was more than she could bear. The teacher normally moved with the grace of a dancer but, as she left the room that night, her steps were slow and heavy. Only later did Josephine learn that she blamed herself for Elizabeth Price's death.