Bluebirds Read online

  Her fingers were aching painfully as they thawed. She rubbed them hard again. They overtook an RAF lorry, grinding along. The Lagonda purred on smoothly.

  Anne twisted round in her seat. ‘You’ve just missed the turning.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘The turning to Colston . . . it was back there.’

  ‘Was it?’ He made no attempt to slow down.

  ‘Aren’t you going to turn round?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going another way?’

  ‘No. We’re going to have dinner.’

  ‘We most certainly are not. Would you please turn round and take me back.’

  ‘When we’ve had dinner.’

  ‘If you don’t stop and go back, I’ll open this door and jump out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it at this speed. Besides the door’s locked and it’s a very tricky one to undo.’

  ‘You can’t do this.’

  ‘I’m doing it, as you see.’

  ‘I suppose this is your idea of a joke? It amuses you to do this sort of thing.’

  ‘Not particularly. It just happens to be the only way to get you to have dinner with me.’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘And where are we supposed to be going for this dinner that I don’t want and won’t eat?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘London! Are you mad? It’s miles away!’

  ‘Not in this piece of machinery. I often pop up there for a quick bite – I told you. Nothing to it. I thought the Savoy might be rather pleasant. There’s a good band there and we could dine and dance and have you back by the stroke of midnight – just like Cinderella.’

  ‘Cinderella actually wanted to go to the ball – in case you’ve forgotten. And I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You will be by the time we eat.’

  ‘And she had a pass until midnight, not twenty-three, fifty-nine precisely. And nobody was going to put her on a charge if she didn’t make it.’

  ‘Then her coach will return one minute early – at least.’

  ‘There’s another thing you’ve forgotten. Cinderella had a fairy godmother who waved her wand and turned her rags into a ballgown. I can’t go into the Savoy dressed like this.’

  ‘There’s a war on, haven’t you heard? They’ve bent the rules. You can go anywhere in uniform now, and that’s what you’re wearing.’

  ‘You know what Cinderella’s coachman really was, don’t you?’

  ‘A white mouse?’

  ‘No, that was the horses. The coachman was a rat.’

  He laughed. She lapsed into a cold and mutinous silence.

  It was the first time she had seen London in the blackout. Anne peered out of the car window at what little of the city she could distinguish in the inky dark . . . whitewashed kerbs, the blinking of Belisha beacons, the shielded crosses of the traffic lights, a blue lamp outside a police station, here and there the pale glimmer of a big S marking the entrance to a public air raid shelter and, everywhere, hand torches flickering like fireflies. She heard, before she saw it, the tram rattling towards them down the Embankment.

  Johnnie turned the Lagonda into the narrow side street that curved round to the back entrance of the Savoy. He learned across to unlock the passenger door.

  ‘Well, here we are at the ball.’

  For a moment Anne contemplated refusing to get out of the car, just as she had contemplated refusing to get in. The hotel attendant was hovering but she was prepared, if necessary, to be parked away with the car. The snag was that on the journey she had somehow acquired an appetite. In fact, she realized that she felt pretty famished. And she liked the Savoy. Her parents had taken her and Kit there two or three times after a visit to the theatre. Inside, away from the blacked-out streets, there would be soft lights, warmth, nice music and, most appealing of all, nice food. Not rissoles or sausages or baked beans, or any of those canteen things, but yummy, scrummy, civilized fare – cutlets and steaks and game, and afters like crêpes suzettes, ice-cream and meringues. She got out of the car.

  They went up the back staircase and along the corridor that led through to the main restaurant – Anne stalking rather than walking beside the pilot to make her point. She could hear a dance band playing in the distance.

  In the scented opulence of the ladies’ cloakroom she took off her beret and raincoat and surveyed herself grimly in a long glass. Her blouse, skirt, and navy cardigan looked pathetically out of place and about as soigné as school uniform, except that at St Mary’s they had worn a revolting shade of bottle green. She took off the cardigan, which made a slight improvement, and then sat down at one of the dressing-tables and applied face powder liberally from a cutglass bowl. The woman at the next door mirror, diamonds sparkling round her neck, was repainting her mouth carefully with lipstick as bright as Pearl’s Pillar Box Red. Despondent, Anne rummaged in her raincoat pocket for her Yardley Rose Pink, worn almost to a stub. She thought of the blue tulle frock and silver sandals that she had worn for her birthday dance, and then stopped thinking about them. She couldn’t actually care less what she looked like – in fact, the worse the better, in the circumstances. It would serve Johnnie Somerville right to be seen with her looking an absolute mess. Teach him to be such an arrogant pig. She dragged a comb anyhow through her hair and dumped her things with the cloakroom attendant.

  He was waiting for her outside, leaning against a pillar – as usual, she thought – and smoking a cigarette. She had to admit, even though she was still angry, that he looked pretty good, standing there in his uniform. A bloody knock-out, Pearl had called him. Well, it was a pity Pearl wasn’t here instead because she would have loved it all – the dreamy dance music, the posh diners, the thick carpets, the glitter and the gold, not to mention the food. She would have loved the way the head waiter came forward, bowing and scraping, to lead them to one of the best tables by the dance floor, and she would have loved the way he held her chair for her and then bowed some more. The wine waiter came and went, bowing too. Another waiter flourished starched napkins and large menus were set before them. Anne consulted hers, running through scrumptious possibilities and then decided to pick the most expensive things she could find. She’d run up the biggest bill possible; maybe that would teach him a lesson.

  ‘I’ll have the quail’s eggs and then Steak Tartare, please.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure what?’

  ‘About the Steak Tartare?’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s one of my favourites.’ She had never actually tried either but knew they cost a lot and it sounded pretty sophisticated asking for them.

  She hummed to the tune that the band were playing while he ordered and tapped her foot under the table. She could have felt quite carefree and gay at this moment if it hadn’t been for the man sitting opposite her and looking sickeningly pleased with himself.

  The wine waiter returned. A silver ice bucket was placed beside the table, a cork popped.

  ‘Why the champagne?’

  ‘Does one need an excuse to drink it?’

  ‘And pink champagne?’

  ‘I thought you might like it.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘To us. And to many more dinners.’

  ‘I can’t drink to that.’

  ‘Very well. Choose a toast.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘To the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. God bless us every one.’

  ‘I’ll second that.’

  ‘Hum!’ She put down her glass. ‘Don’t they mind your having that red lining to your tunic?’

  ‘They don’t seem to. It cheers the uniform up a bit, don’t you think? How’s the champagne?’

  ‘All right. Actually, I think it’s rather affected.’

  ‘The champagne?’

  ‘The red lining. So’s that tie – blue not black.’

  ‘Blue’s nicer, though, don’t you think? Less funereal.’

  ‘Pink champagne’s actually pretty affected too.’

  ‘There’s no
pleasing you, Anne, is there?’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Care to dance?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Pity. I thought you’d like Carroll Gibbons at least.’

  Anne liked the music very much, as it happened. She had been watching the band leader at his white piano and had been itching to dance. But not with Johnnie.

  ‘That woman at the table over there seems to know you.’

  ‘Does she?’ Johnnie turned his head. ‘Oh, lord, her.’

  ‘An old flame?’

  ‘More like a damp squib. Let’s ignore her. Tell me more about you. I know your name, but not your age.’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘Nineteen, or twenty, I’d say. Thereabouts. I’m an ancient twenty-three. And I now know you’ve got a brother – older than you, presumably.’

  ‘Five minutes older, to be exact.’

  ‘A twin? That’s intriguing. I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl who was a twin before. I have three much older sisters. I’m the baby of the family.’

  ‘And I bet they spoiled you rotten.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. They can be very bossy. Fortunately, they’re all married now so they can boss their husbands about instead.’

  He talked for a while about himself, a subject that usually fascinated his dinner companions who liked to hear all about the family estates in Gloucestershire, the shooting lodge in Scotland, the chalet in St Moritz, the villa near Nice, his other cars besides the Lagonda, his Moth and his penthouse flat in Belgravia. None of these things, however, appeared to interest Anne, still less impress her. On the contrary, she yawned once or twice and interrupted his account of pre-war ski-ing in Switzerland to ask when the food would be coming. He did not know what it was about her that attracted him so much, and made him persevere. She was pretty enough with her funny short upper lip and those large so-candid hazel eyes that looked at him with near scorn, but he had certainly known more beautiful girls, and most certainly ones who were more amenable. Eager, in fact, was a word he would have used about most of them. Eagerness only registered in Anne’s face when the waiter finally arrived and the quail’s eggs were set before her.

  She tried not to fall on the eggs with unseemly haste. They looked very small and were sunk in some kind of dear jelly, like smooth white pebbles at the bottom of a pond. When she tasted them they were rather disappointing. A bit dull. Also, there wasn’t nearly enough of them and she still felt ravenous. She picked at the residue of jelly clinging to the sides of the dish. Johnnie was eating some delicious-looking smoked salmon and she watched him with surreptitious envy. When he looked up unexpectedly, she improvised.

  ‘I was just thinking . . . I’m sure I’ve seen pictures of you in those society mags like the Tatler. I look at them when I’m waiting at the dentist. You know the sort of thing they have on those back pages – Lord Bloggs and Miss Blankety-Blank enjoy a joke together at Lady Doodah’s dance . . .’

  ‘It’s possible,’ acknowledged Johnnie who appeared regularly on such pages.

  ‘My mother wanted me to do the Season but luckily the war started.’

  ‘Very obliging of Adolf Hitler.’

  ‘I know I’d’ve hated it.’

  ‘I must say I can’t quite picture you . . .’

  ‘I can picture you as a Debs’ Delight very easily.’

  ‘I’m not sure I was ever one of those . . . one went to the odd dance when one felt like it.’

  She followed a couple wistfully with her eyes as they went past the table and onto the dance floor, drifting off to the music.

  ‘Would you like to dance now?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  The empty plates were whisked away and the Steak Tartare was served to her. Anne stared at her plate in horror. Something horribly resembling a large round rissole sat there, except that the minced up meat was obviously completely raw. In its centre, in a little hollow, lay a raw egg yolk.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’

  She shook her head.

  He was laughing. ‘Anne, you did realize it’s not meant to be cooked – steak tartare?’

  ‘Of course I did. I told you, it’s one of my favourite things. It’s just rather a lot, and I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Do you want to change it for something . . . lighter? Some fish perhaps?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  She struggled valiantly through it, disguising the taste of the raw meat with the tartare sauce, the vegetables and bits of bread roll, and sluiced each mouthful down with the champagne. Nothing would have induced her to admit her mistake but she could have wept, remembering all the succulent things she might have chosen if she had not been so intent on merely picking the most expensive. The waiter poured more champagne into her empty glass and she took yet another gulp.

  Johnnie, fully aware of her struggles, pretended to notice nothing. He talked on easily and tried a subject that he guessed would be close to her heart.

  ‘Was your twin brother at Eton?’

  ‘You’re as bad as Susan.’

  ‘Who on earth is Susan?’

  ‘One of the WAAFS. She’s as big a snob as you are.’

  ‘I simply thought I might have come across him.’

  ‘As a matter of fact Kit was at Eton, but I doubt if you were there at the same time.’

  ‘I’m trying to remember a Cunningham . . .’

  ‘You must have been leaving as he was starting. He only left at the end of last summer term. He was going to try for Oxford if the war hadn’t started. He’d have got in easily.’

  ‘He’ll be able to when the war’s over.’

  She looked down at her plate, messy with the remains of raw steak. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’ll probably be over by the end of this year. He’ll be able to go then. I wouldn’t have missed my time up there, I must say.’

  ‘Did you do any work?’

  ‘Some. Mostly I played.’

  ‘I can believe it. Is that where you learned to fly? With the University Air Squadron?’

  ‘No. I’d learned before that. On the Tiger Moth I was telling you about, only you weren’t listening. It was a present for my seventeenth birthday.’

  ‘I said you were spoiled rotten.’

  He smiled. ‘It’s come in quite useful, though. I joined the Auxiliary lot as soon as I came down. It was fairly obvious that there was going to be a war, sooner or later.’

  She remembered Kit’s unashamed enthusiasm on the night of their dance. ‘Did you hope there would be?’

  ‘A war? Good heavens, no. I was having far too good a time enjoying myself.’

  ‘Going to deb dances?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘The perpetual playboy?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was about to go into the Foreign Office when Herr Hitler rudely interrupted the proceedings.’

  ‘Pretty typical – the Foreign Office.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean by that, but I doubt if it’s complimentary. What have you done to your fingers?’

  She took her hand off the table quickly and hid it on her lap. Three fingers were adorned with sticking plaster. Both hands, as she was well aware, were red and chapped from her labours in the scullery. And her hair seemed to smell permanently of cabbage and onions, even after she had washed it.

  ‘I’ve cut them. I’m always cutting myself with the kitchen knives.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing that work.’

  ‘So you’ve said before and I wish you’d shut up about it. It’s so boring.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll say no more on the subject. Now, take a good look at the menu and tell me what you’d like next.’

  He smiled with irony as he said this. This time, though, she made no mistake. She chose Meringue Mont Blanc – a gloriously sticky, sickly-sweet concoction of meringue and cream and chestnut purée, all piled up in a lovely little mountain,
and which went a long way to obliterating the lingering taste of raw meat. She had scraped her plate clean and was starting happily on the petits fours that the waiter had brought, when Johnnie rose to his feet. He grasped her wrist.

  ‘You can finish those later. Take them all with you. Cinderella didn’t go to the ball without dancing at least once before she had to leave.’

  She protested through a mouthful of sugared grape as he manoeuvred her firmly onto the floor.

  ‘I don’t want to dance.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Anne, you know perfectly well that you do. You’ve been tapping your feet under the table all evening.’

  He took her in his arms and after a few steps, when she had swallowed her mouthful, she relaxed. She was not at all surprised to discover that he was a very good dancer, considering the amount of practice he must have had. He was quite as good as little Stan of the Sergeants’ Mess, only without Stan’s showy Palais glissandos. All the champagne she had drunk was making her feel light-hearted as well as light-headed and she began to enjoy herself, loving the floaty feeling of moving smoothly across a dance floor to gorgeous, dreamy music.

  She was Ginger Rogers dancing with Fred Astaire, except that Ginger Rogers never wore lisle stockings and lace-up shoes. Now, if she had a proper uniform like the Wren who had gone by with the naval officer – smart navy and glamorous black silk stockings . . . Over Johnnie’s broad shoulder she caught sight of the damp squib still mooning from her table, and felt rather sorry for her. London was probably littered with similar squibs who had been mad enough to fall for him.

  ‘You dance very well, Anne.’

  ‘They taught us at school. One of the few useful things I learned there.’

  ‘Heathfield? Roedean? St Mary’s?’

  ‘You really are an appalling snob. What if I said the local Council school?’

  ‘I doubt if they have ballroom dancing classes.’

  ‘I suppose you went to Madame Vacani’s?’

  ‘From an early age.’

  They danced on and heads turned to watch them. Things would have been perfect if she had been dancing with someone else – someone like the dark stranger Pearl had seen in her tea cup . . . not that she believed that rubbish for a moment. She was quite sorry when Johnnie stopped by their table.