The Nightingale Girls

CHAPTER Seventeen



LUCY LANE SAT at her dressing table, admiring her Christmas gift in the mirror. The pearls glowed prettily against her skin, three strings fastened together with a diamond-encrusted clasp. Her father assured her they were from the South Seas, so they were the best money could buy. They would go perfectly with the new dress her mother had had made for her, shimmering silver-grey satin and chiffon, cut on the bias so it skimmed over her slim curves before falling in delicate bead-trimmed points almost to the ground. With matching silver slippers, white satin evening gloves and her mother’s silver fox stole, she would steal the show at the Christmas Dance that night, she decided.

What a pity it was just a silly hospital do and not a really grand occasion where she might be photographed. But even if she didn’t make it into the pages of Tatler, at least she’d have the satisfaction of seeing the other girls sick with envy. Most of them couldn’t even afford a new pair of stockings for the occasion, let alone a dress designed by Hartnell.

Downstairs, her parents were arguing. It had been brewing like a storm since the last guest left their party on Christmas Eve. Throughout Christmas Day the dark clouds had been building, tension gathering, with long, oppressive silences punctuated by the odd sniping comment. It was almost a relief when finally the storm broke and the heavens opened in a spite-filled rage of shouting, screaming and breaking glass that had lasted all afternoon. It had been going on for so long Lucy barely noticed it any more as she sat at her mirror, turning her head this way and that to catch the pearls’ iridescent sheen, lost in her own world of dresses and dancing.

Soon, she knew, it would all be over. The storm would blow itself out, the screaming and smashing ornaments would stop, and peace would be restored. In a couple of days her father would appease her mother with a gift, some diamonds from Asprey’s perhaps, or a new fur, and then it would be all smiles again. Until the storm clouds gathered once more.

The front door crashed, making her jump. A moment later she heard her father’s car roar away. She steeled herself, still fingering the pearls. A flicker of dread uncurled itself in the pit of her stomach.

Sure enough, a few minutes later music from the crackling gramophone drifted upstairs. It had to be you. Lucy knew what song it would be long before she could make out the tune. Her mother always played it when she was drunk or unhappy, or both.

Lucy stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering how long she could stay out of her way. She hated it when her father ran off, leaving her to deal with her mother. Although she didn’t blame him at all. She’d wanted to run away herself often enough.

Finally, she could avoid it no longer. With a heavy sigh, she took off her pearls and headed downstairs.

She found her mother in the drawing room, glass of wine in one hand, bottle in the other, swaying gently to the music. Still dancing, she swung around slowly and saw Lucy. ‘Darling! Come and dance with me.’

She held out her arms, long and slender as a ballerina’s. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and she was still wearing last night’s ivory satin evening gown, her feet bare. Her make-up was smudged like bruises under her eyes.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ Lucy asked.

‘How should I know? I’m only his wife.’ Her mother turned languorously in time to the music. The gown plunged deeply at the back. She was so fashionably thin Lucy could make out every bone down the length of her spine. ‘I don’t give a damn about him anyway. I just want to dance and be happy and forget everything.’ She twirled, flinging her arms wide, carelessly slopping wine.

‘Give me that.’ Lucy stepped forward and took the bottle from her, uncurling it from her long, bony fingers. ‘You’re ruining the rug.’

Clarissa Lane gave a brittle laugh. ‘You sound just like your father. Don’t do this, don’t do that, remember who I am . . . As if I could ever forget!’ She faced Lucy, her eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Look at you. So disapproving. Such a daddy’s girl. You take after him far too much,’ she accused, pulling a face.

I’m glad I don’t take after you, Lucy thought as she watched her mother sway, humming the dying bars of the music.

She couldn’t remember when it had all gone wrong. One minute she was a little girl with two loving parents who treated her like a princess. The next she was caught between a father who preferred to be anywhere but at home, and an angry, bitter mother who drank to stop herself caring.

The music died away. Her mother carried on dancing. ‘Put it on again,’ she said dreamily, her eyes closed.

‘No. It gives me a headache.’

‘Well, I like it.’

Lucy watched her cross the room unsteadily. She dragged the gramophone needle across the record with an ugly screech. Then she was off dancing again, waltzing with an unseen partner, eyes closed, lips moving to the words.

‘This was our favourite song,’ she said. ‘I remember him singing it to me one night in Paris. . . . oh, God, I need more wine.’

‘No, Mummy. Please.’ Lucy rushed to stop her before she could ring for the butler. ‘It will only make it worse,’ she pleaded.

She held on to her mother’s arms, feeling the fragile slenderness of skin and bone. For a moment their eyes locked and Lucy held her breath in fear, waiting for her to react. Either she would fight and claw, or . . .

Clarissa suddenly went limp in her arms, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Her mouth drooped dejectedly.

‘Oh, God,’ she wailed. ‘Why did he stop loving me?’

Lucy caught her as she fell into her arms, comforting her like a child. ‘He does love you, Mummy.’

‘Then why does he have to treat me like this? I can’t bear it, Lucy, I can’t.’

Lucy helped her over to the chaise longue and sat with her, holding her as she wept.

She didn’t know who was to blame. All she knew was that she desperately wanted it to stop. She loved both her parents and hated seeing them both so unhappy.

‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ she pleaded. ‘It will all be all right, I promise.’

Her mother clung to her. ‘You won’t leave me, will you, Lucy? I don’t think I could bear it if you left too.’

Lucy thought of her pearls, so glowing and beautiful. How she’d looked forward to showing them off to the other girls at the dance. Proof yet again of how much she was loved.

But tonight wasn’t the night.

‘No, Mummy,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not going to leave you.’