Miss Carter's War (29 page)

The habitués of this closeted world seemed to have little in common but their devotion to alcohol. Each new arrival was greeted warmly by the clientele and insultingly by Mavis. The laughter became raucous as the drinks flowed. One ignored woman in the corner wept continuously.

When Marguerite pointed her out to Jimmy he said, ‘Don’t worry, she enjoys it. She can let it all hang out here and nobody cares.’

Jimmy was proudly introducing Marguerite to one strange character after another, some of whom expressed exaggerated pleasure in welcoming a new person to their bibulous fold, and some of whom ignored her completely. She was trying to understand a rambling tale of woe told by a man in a floral dress, about an outrageous arrest for being drunk and disorderly, when she was conscious of a hush descending on the room.

Two aliens had descended from the real world outside. A young woman, tall, with blonde hair in an upswept beehive hairdo revealing diamond earrings, and wearing a white dress, low-cut to set off a string of pearls, stood in the doorway. Behind her was a short middle-aged man, immaculate in bowtie and dinner suit.

As everyone stared at the couple, Mavis drawled, ‘Hello, darlings, doing a bit of slumming, are we? OK, animals, don’t just stare – perform for the two ladies. Do louche, do bohemian, do the scum of the earth. Give them their money’s worth.’

The young woman strode to the counter.

‘Two double whiskies, please.’

Mavis didn’t budge.

‘I don’t think so. I think it’s champagne all round, don’t you, petal?’ She looked across to the man cowering in the doorway. ‘The party’s on you, you lucky lady. Open your handbag, Lottie, and let’s party. Do the honours, Jimmy.’

The little man was hauled into the club, and everyone beamed as they told him what a fine chap he was. Jimmy meanwhile opened several bottles of champagne and handed out glasses to the grabbing hands.

Marguerite noticed that the young woman was talking to Mavis, who went to the till and handed her several £5 notes. She turned round to put them in her satin pochette. Peering through the gloom, Marguerite gasped. As Jimmy had taken his working stance behind the now-busy bar, Marguerite left her seat in the shadowy corner and walked towards the young woman.

Her face lit up as she caught sight of Marguerite.

‘Miss Carter. Bloody hell. What on earth are you doing here?’

‘It is Elsie, is it? I wasn’t sure. You’ve changed so much.’

‘I knew you at once. I’d recognise your lovely hair anywhere, Miss Carter. What are you doing in this dump?’

‘I’m here with a friend. There, behind the bar.’

Elsie looked surprised.

‘Jimmy?’

‘You know him?’

‘Only by repute. From coming here. I thought . . .’ She trailed off.

‘Are you here often then?’

The noise from the champagne-drinking clientele was becoming deafening.

Marguerite said, ‘Let’s go outside. I can’t hear myself think in here.’

They retreated up the stairs and stood by the dustbins.

‘Fag?’ Elsie took out a cigarette from a silver case and, in cupped hands, lit one for each of them. Then she took a pill from a small box and gulped it down without water.

‘Have you got a headache?’

‘No, it’s a magic pill. I’ve got a long night ahead with that boring old git. Do you want one? They give you a real high. Purple hearts, they’re called.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘They’re harmless. You get them from the doctor.’

‘So, Elsie. Who is the boring old git?’

‘A customer. I work for an escort agency. High-class one. He’s down from Manchester and I’m showing him the sights and keeping him company.’

‘And this club is one of the sights?’

‘Yes, they love it. They think it’s really cool.’

‘And what do you think, Elsie?’

‘I don’t think anything. It’s my job. And I get extra from Mavis and others for bringing them customers.’ Her eyes were bright. ‘I’m doing really well, Miss Carter. I’m making a bomb.’

Unlike Jimmy, there was a refreshing honesty about the girl’s attitude to the way she earned a living that made it possible for Marguerite to ask, ‘And do you sleep with these men?’

‘Not unless I want to. Most are quite happy to just talk and be with someone who knows her way around. Someone attractive, that they can show off about.’ She looked diffidently at Marguerite. ‘Do you think I’m attractive, Miss Carter? Bit different from when you last saw me, eh?’

‘You look very glamorous, Elsie.’

‘I bought these earrings myself. They’re real diamonds. Only little, but real. What about that?’

Faced with this slightly frantic enthusiasm, which Marguerite supposed might be related to the pill, she could only reply, ‘Congratulations, Elsie. They’re lovely earrings. But—’

‘No. No buts, miss, please. I know you would rather I was a teacher or something but I bet I earn a lot more than you. And anyway it wasn’t possible.’

‘I know, Elsie. I’m sorry. How is your child?’

‘He’s fine. Well looked after,’ she continued quickly. ‘You probably think the trouble you took with me was wasted, but it wasn’t. Especially the acting. I use it all the time. The old git thinks I find him fascinating, funny, clever, handsome.
Saint Joan
was a piece of cake compared to this.’

They laughed together. Marguerite hugged the girl and said, ‘Oh Elsie, take good care of yourself, please. Go easy on those pills.’

‘I’m fine, Miss Carter. Unlike that lot downstairs, I hardly drink at all. Well, better get back and rescue my client from those vultures or he won’t have enough money left to pay me. Have a dab of perfume, take away the dustbin smell.’

She took a small bejewelled phial from her bag and dabbed the fragrance behind Marguerite’s ears.

‘Thank you. It’s lovely. Joy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Do you use it?’

‘No. I knew someone who did. Years ago.’

‘Don’t leave me, Maman. I don’t want you to go. Who will look after me? I’m frightened.’

‘I like the smell. It cheers me up.’

‘I wish you joy, Elsie my dear.’

‘And you, Miss Carter.’

Elsie scrutinised her face in the mirror of a gold powder compact.

Colonel Buckmaster looks embarrassed. ‘I always give the blokes cigarette cases before they go into action. I thought this was more fitting for you. Don’t worry, it’s French-made so quite safe to take with you. Must keep that pretty nose powdered, eh?’

He shakes her hand. ‘Good luck, my dear.’ He smiles but his eyes look troubled.

‘Are the scars showing?’ Elsie asked Marguerite.

‘Hardly at all.’

Marguerite followed Elsie down the basement stairs and saw that the unfortunate git was handing over wads of notes to Mavis. Then he and Elsie left, ignored by the revellers, who with the champagne drained dry were back to their usual gossiping.

Jimmy came over and hissed, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Talking to Elsie. Why?’

‘You’re here with me. You should stay with me. They see you disappearing with that slag it makes me look a fool.’

‘She is not a slag, as you put it. She is an ex-pupil of mine of whom I am very fond.’

‘She’s a buddy of Mavis, who’s a dyke, so if you disappear with her, the bitchery starts. What did you talk about?’

‘Jimmy, you’re drunk. Stop this. I told you, she was a pupil of mine.’

‘I’m sick to death of your pupils. You’re here to meet my friends. Did she talk about me?’

‘No.’

‘Right. Here’s your coat.’ He threw it at her and got into his trench coat and hat.

Mavis was watching this scene like a hawk watching its prey. She clapped her hands.

‘Oh look, everybody, a lovers’ tiff. We like those, don’t we? Breaks the monotony of the sweetness and light we usually have down here.’

They hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards up the road in stony silence before Jimmy doubled up dramatically, and started moaning, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

Marguerite said nothing.

With his head hanging down over his knees he howled, ‘I’m jealous of anyone who takes you from me, even for a minute. You’re so beautiful I can’t believe that every man, and even every woman, doesn’t want to steal you from me. Especially in that place.’

Marguerite was rooted to the spot. He grabbed a lamp-post, lit a cigarette and leaned against it, looking at her piteously.

‘Don’t leave me alone, Marguerite.’

She started to giggle.

Jimmy looked affronted.

‘What are you laughing at?’

Marguerite, who had had a few glasses of champagne herself, spluttered, ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy, “you’re never alone with a Strand”.’

In a trice, despair abandoned, there it was again. The lopsided grin.

Chapter 29

‘It’s the end of an era,’ said Marguerite.

She and Tony were standing on London Bridge in the pouring rain, surrounded by mourning men and women, and wide-eyed children. Sir Winston Churchill’s coffin, covered in the Union Jack, with some of his many decorations on top, was piped on board a boat that was to take it upriver to Waterloo, and thence to the grave in his country home. Bagpipes played a melancholy dirge and a military band struck up with ‘Rule, Britannia!’ as the boat set sail. Planes swooped by in a fly-past, but most moving of all, the cranes in the dockyards all slowly lowered their huge arms in unison like a herd of weeping prehistoric beasts. The crowd was still and silent, but there was much dabbing of tears with hankies, and a child was crying his eyes out, bewildered by the adults’ grief.

It was a while since Marguerite and Tony had spent time together. This melancholy occasion could not be classified as one of their treats, but Marguerite was glad to be sharing it with Tony. Jimmy had flatly refused to even watch the momentous event on television, having never forgiven Churchill for ordering the Bomber Command operations during the war, and then ignoring any reference to the participants in the victory tributes, when the justification for the annihilating raids was in question.

‘He was a great man,’ said Marguerite.

‘You can say that? When the old bugger destroyed your fleet? And you were on our side?’

‘It was war, Tony. The Nazis were on the other side of the Channel and we didn’t stand a chance, but he got us through it. By sheer force of his personality. When you listen to the likes of mealy-mouthed Wilson, you wonder how a man could be so brutally honest as Churchill was. “Blood, sweat and tears”, “fighting them on the beaches” and “never surrendering”. All that.’

‘Yes, he certainly had the gift of the gab.’

‘He was a great orator. The present lot are non-entities in comparison.’

Despite the rain they decided to walk along the South Bank and have lunch at a café they knew near the Royal Festival Hall, all that was left of the Festival of Britain. The desolation of the empty muddy landscape around the hall was especially poignant when they remembered the optimism of their younger selves on that heady day in 1951.

‘I’ve got a bit jaded since then,’ said Marguerite. ‘Especially at the moment. The end of Churchill is in the natural course of things. His time has passed. But I can’t believe that we are seeing the destruction of the future, because that is what Duane is. Or should be.’

The situation at Risinghill was desperate. It seemed incredible to both of them that one or two retrograde councillors and a handful of teachers could bring an end to such an imaginative way forward, before it had had a chance to prove itself. The parents and children were fighting back hard, but learning that, when it came to the crunch, democracy did not work in their favour. The absence of any of their critics at the school play proved that the powers that be were not listening to them. The pupils even organised a march to Downing Street with home-made banners and steel band accompaniment, but no one heeded them. The insecurity of their futures unsettled the children and it was difficult to control their anger. Mickey, the serial truant, disappeared again, and Marguerite saw no point in trying to persuade him to return to such instability.

Over a Welsh rarebit, Tony questioned Marguerite about Jimmy.

‘Is he a comfort to you while all this is going on?’

‘He certainly takes my mind off it when I’m with him.’

‘Do you love him, Mags?’

‘I think I do. He’s feckless. I get furious with him, but he wins me round. He’s irresistible. You know I like to collect lame ducks, so yes, I do love him.’

Tony put down his knife and fork and looked at her.

‘Good. Because I’ve got something to tell you.’

Marguerite felt a pang of fear.

‘I, too, have fallen in love.’

She stared at him.

‘I know. Hard to believe. Sad old queen that I am, but I’ve found a bono homi and I think this is it. So he’s moving into my flat.’