Diana didn’t see, but she couldn’t quite formulate her argument.
Most of Wendelien’s evenings were spent at the big hotels; the Dorchester (‘the Dorch’ to its intimates) was probably the most sought out, and said to have the safest air-raid shelter in London, but the Savoy, Claridge’s and the Ritz were packed too.
There were the nightclubs, the Colony Club and the Café de Paris – also supposed to be the safest place in London – where people danced to the music of such luminaries as Snakehips Johnson and Lew Stone.
‘There are always a few chums home on leave,’ Wendelien said carelessly when Diana asked her who on earth she went with. ‘And then there are my parents and their friends – some of them are huge fun, and not too terribly over the hill.’
She was two years older than Diana, and had always moved in the most glittering circles; her mother, equally chic and beautiful, was rumoured to have had an affair with the Prince of Wales, briefly to become Edward VIII, and it was even more wildly rumoured that Wendelien was his child. ‘But of course as everyone knows, that’s completely impossible,’ she said to Diana, over cocktails at the Dorchester one evening.
Diana, excited by such infinite glamour touching her own life, asked why. Wendelien laughed. ‘Diana, you’re such an innocent. Because he couldn’t – you know – just couldn’t, everyone knows that.’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Diana, slightly crossly. ‘And nor did anyone else I know.’
‘Well, darling, that’s exactly why I couldn’t bear to live in the country,’ said Wendelien. ‘Now don’t look like that. Let’s have another drink. And then I’ve just seen Ludo Manners – he must be home on leave. He’s just the most handsome man I’ve ever met, apart from my darling Ian, of course, and such fun, you’d absolutely love him – or do you know him already?’
Of course Diana didn’t.
‘Well, you must meet him. He didn’t get married for ages, and there were lots of people who said he was a fairy, but I never believed it, and he got married just a year before the war. To Cecily Johnson. She was in my year, a very sweet, bit unsophisticated, but terribly pretty, country girl like you. Don’t look so cross, I’m only teasing. Come on, let’s go over and you can meet him.’
Ludo Manners was indeed charming and, Diana thought, one of the nicest men she’d met. He was, in spite of his unarguably wonderful, blonde look, self-deprecating with beautiful manners, introducing them to his companions – his godfather and his uncle – expressing huge interest in Johnathan’s war, and volunteering great admiration for Ian Bellinger’s.
‘It really is the Senior Service – wish I’d joined them in a way.’
He was home convalescing. ‘I got in the way of a bit of shrapnel couple of months ago – so stupid – had to have some surgery on my leg, and then got incredibly lucky and got a couple of weeks at home. Going back next week.’
‘So where’s Cecily?’ asked Wendelien.
‘Oh, at home in the country.’ Wendelien shot Diana a glance of amused malice, at this. ‘We’ve got one little sprog, expect you heard, born just before the war, jolly little chap, and now there’s another on the way, so she doesn’t feel quite the thing. I had to come up, get details of my next posting, and – well, what do you do with a spare evening in London? Head for the dear old Dorch.’
Chapter 9
1945
‘I can’t believe it.’
For the rest of his life, whenever Tom heard those words, he was back in the big shabby office at Pemberton & Marchant, staring at Betty Foxton as she stood in the doorway, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, her large bosom heaving.
‘It’s over,’ she said, her voice almost a shout. ‘The war’s over. I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it. My mother just telephoned, said she didn’t think Mr Pemberton would mind.’
Tom stared at her. ‘Really? Officially?’
‘Really. Mr Churchill’s just been on the wireless. Oh, I can’t believe it.’
‘Nor can I,’ said Tom. ‘Not really. Oh, God. How amazing.’ He was silent for a moment, oddly sober, ‘Oh, Betty. If only I was still out there with them all. Properly part of it.’
‘Now then, we don’t want any of that. You did your bit, more than most, so don’t go thinking you didn’t. Now, where are the other two?’
‘They went to lunch very late,’ said Tom. ‘They won’t be long, I’m sure.’
‘Oh well, Mr Pemberton, do you think he’s heard? Should I go in, do you think? As Miss Forshaw’s away today.’
‘I – I don’t know.’ And then, looking at Mr Pemberton’s closed door, reflecting on his own regret, contemplating a far greater one, he said, ‘Tell you what, Betty, I’ll tell him. I’ve got to go in anyway.’
Tom felt that possibly the last thing Mr Pemberton would welcome at that moment was an overexcited Betty.
Mr Pemberton was sitting at his desk, staring out of the window. He was very pale. He looked at Tom and half smiled.
‘Hello, Tom. And yes, I have heard the news. My wife telephoned. My goodness, what a wonderful . . .’ And then his voice tailed off, and he looked down at his hands, and when he looked up, his pale blue eyes were very bright. He tried to smile, his mouth oddly distorted; and then a tear rolled down his face. He wiped it away, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ he said, ‘sorry, it’s – it’s –’
And he put his head down on his arms on the desk, and began to sob heavily. And Tom, considering his own regret, considered Mr Pemberton’s own, infinitely greater one, considered his embarrassment too, and very quietly left the room.
It was actually something of a fiction that peace exploded that day in May on an unsuspecting public, and especially in London. It had been awaited for months. The Home Guard had been disbanded, celebrated by a parade down Whitehall as early as the autumn of 1944, followed in February by the part-time firefighters. The closure of the public air-raid shelters and the removal of the bunks in the London underground stations caused surprising sadness: of the six thousand people who had slept in them for years, only a quarter of them did so from genuine necessity. They’d just got used to it and they liked it.
‘My dear old char loves it down there,’ Wendelien said to Diana. ‘Says it’s home. Now she’s got to go and live with her daughter, and she says she’s losing lots of friends. They had a high old time in the middle of the war, you know, concert parties used to put on shows and everybody used to sing and dance. Oh, and listen to this, it says in The Times there’s a run on bunting for when the celebrations really get going.’