No! Shes got short hair. None of them had short hair before.
She does, she does, Stephen persisted. She looks like the girls used to look. She looks
David was cheering the star, Sylvia de Charmante, who was curtseying deeply, like a debutante at court.
She looks like there had never been a war, Stephen said slowly. She looks like there had never been a war at all.
Go backstage! David said with sudden abrupt determination. If you like the look of her, take her out!
Dyou think she would come? Stephen asked. The curtain had dropped and now rose. Lily was at the end of the line; he could see her blush at the applause and her frank grin.
Oh yes, David said cheerily. Heroes we are. Bloody heroes. We should have worn our medals.
I didnt think youd got any medals. I didnt know they gave medals for pushing papers in London.
We cant all be you, David said pleasantly. Charging around, blowing your whistle and massacring Huns single-handed. He slapped Stephen on the back. Lets have a little bracer and ask the girl out, he said. She can bring along a friend for me. Theyre all tarts, these girls. Shell come like a shot.
He shouldered his way back to the bar and shouted for two single whiskies. Stephen downed his in one thirsty gulp.
Come on, then, David said cheerily. Theres usually a stage door around the back somewhere.
The two men pushed through the crowd spilling out of the little music hall and then linked arms to stroll down the dark alley at the side of the theatre. Further down the alley a couple were locked in each others arms; the womans hat was pushed back as they kissed passionately.
Dirty bitch, Stephen said with sudden venom. I hate tarts.
Oh, you hate everybody when youve had a drink, David said jovially. Bang on the door!
A hatch in the stage door opened at once. George, the stage door porter, looked out.
Please send our compliments to the dancers, David said with assurance. We were wondering if you could tell us the name of the little blonde one.
The porter looked blankly at them. A shilling found its way from Stephens pocket to gleam in the gaslight. George opened the door and the shilling changed hands.
The young one, with the fair bobbed hair.
Miss Lily Valance, gentlemen.
We wanted to ask her to dinner. Her and a friend.
She can bring the plump dark one who was on with the conjuror, David interrupted.
Miss Madge Sweet, gentlemen.
Ask them both. Shall I write a note?
The porter nodded.
Stephen took out his card case. It had a small silver propelling pencil inside. On one of his cards he wrote in small spidery script: My cousin and I would be honoured if you would come to the Queens Hotel for dinner with us. We are at the stage door.
Well wait for a reply, he said to the porter.
The porter nodded and was about to go inside when a middle-aged woman, drably dressed, came down the alley behind the two men, quietly said Excuse me, and stepped between them and through the open door.
These gentlemen are asking for Lily, the porter told her.
Helen Pears turned and looked at them both. My daughter, she said quietly.
Stephen had to remind himself that she was only the mother of a chorus girl and therefore she could not be a lady. There was no need to feel abashed. She was a tarts mother, she was probably an old tart herself.
I am Captain Stephen Winters, he said, invoking his wartime status. This is Captain David Walters. We were wondering if Miss Valance and Miss Sweet would like to have dinner with us.
The woman did not even smile at him, she had the cheek to look him straight in the eye, and she looked at him coldly.
At the Queens, he said hastily to indicate his wealth.
She said nothing.
We can go in my car, my driver is waiting, he added.
Helen Pears nodded. She did not seem at all impressed. I will tell Miss Sweet of your invitation, she said levelly. But my daughter does not go out to dinner.
She went inside and the porter, raising sympathetic eyebrows, shut the door in their faces.
Thats that then, David said disconsolately. What a harridan!
You go on, Ill meet you at the Queens.
Youve got no chance here, not with her ma on sentry-go.
Ill give it a try, Stephen said. Go on.
Forlorn hoper!
Stephen walked with David down to the end of the alley and waved across at Coventry, waiting in the big Argyll limousine in front of the music hall.
Bring the car up here, he called.
Coventry nodded, and drove the car up to the end of the alley. Half a dozen of the cast looked at it curiously as they went past. Stephen stood by the rear passenger door and waited.
He could see the streetlight glint on Lilys fair hair, only half-covered by a silly little hat, as she walked down the shadowy alley, her hand tucked in her mothers arm. They were laughing together. Stephen was struck at once by the easy warmth between them.
Excuse me, Mrs Valance, Miss Valance, Stephen said with careful politeness. I must apologize for my behaviour. I was in Belgium for too long, and Ive forgotten my English manners.
Lily beamed at him with her open friendly smile. Her mother stood waiting. Stephen felt a frisson of irritation. The woman showed no respect for a gentleman. He opened the car door. I quite understand that it is too late for dinner, he said smoothly. But may I, at least, see you home? It is so difficult to get a cab at this time of night.
Stephen saw the quick movement as Lily pinched her mothers arm. Helen Pears hesitated for only a moment and then she nodded. Thank you very much, she said. We live in Highland Road.
Helen went in first, Lily next. Stephen climbed in after them and spoke into the tube that ran from the back seat to the driver.
Highland Road.
Its the grocery shop on the corner. Pears Grocers.
My family is a Portsmouth family too, Stephen said, desperate for some common ground. We are Winters the lawyers.
Helen nodded. I know.
Do you? I beg your pardon! I did not recognize you.
Weve never met. I saw your photograph in the Hampshire Telegraph.
There was a short awkward silence.
I thought the porter said your name was Miss Valance, Stephen said gently to Lily.
She glanced up at him from under her eyelashes. Stephen felt desire like hunger. She was hardly a woman yet, she was still a girl with skin like cream and hair like honey.
Valance is my stage name, she said. Her voice was clear, her speech elocution-pure. My real name is Lily Pears.
The car drove slowly down Marmion Road; Stephen felt he was no further forward.
I wonder if you would like to come to dinner tomorrow night? he said nervously to Helen. You and Miss Pears. And Mr Pears too, if he would like to come?
I am a widow. There is no Mr Pears. Helen paused. Stephen saw again the quick secret movement of Lilys gloved hand on her mothers arm. Yes, Captain Winters, thank you. That would be very nice.
Shall I pick you up after the show?
Shall I pick you up after the show?
Thank you, Helen said again.
The big car slowed and stopped. Lily and her mother got out on to the pavement, and Stephen followed them.
Ill say goodnight then, and look forward to dining with you both tomorrow, he said.
Helen held out her hand and Stephen shook it, and then turned to Lily.
He took her gloved hand in his and felt the warmth of her palm through the white cotton. She looked up at him and smiled. She smiled as if she had some secret assurance, some private conviction, that nothing bad could ever happen to her. Stephen, looking down into that bright little face, felt again the potent magic of young confidence. He had not seen a face like that since the early days, the first days of the war. The young subalterns from public schools looked like that as if life were one easy glorious adventure and nothing would ever disappoint them.
Goodnight, Miss Pears, he said. I will see you tomorrow.
Goodnight, Captain Winters. Her voice was light and steady with an undercurrent of amusement, as if she might giggle at any moment at this game of being grown-up.
He let go her hand with reluctance, and waited by the car until the poky little door of the shop doorway had shut behind them. Goodnight, he said again.
Coventry drove him in silence to the Queens Hotel, where he dined with David, and then got royally drunk at half a dozen of the worst pubs in Portsmouth.
Chapter Two
The dinner was not a success. Lily was overawed by the gold and crimson grandeur of the Queens Hotel dining room, Stephen was awkward in the company of women and had little to say to Lily under these formal circumstances. They had discussed the eclipse of the moon a few nights earlier; Stephen had speculated about British chances at the Antwerp Olympics; then he had fallen silent. He had nothing to say to Lily. If she had been the tart that he first thought, then he would have taken her to some cheerful bar and got her so drunk that she would go to an alleyway at the back of the pub and let him take her, with deliberate roughness, against a brick wall. But with the two women masquerading as ladies, Stephen did not know how to deal with them. He could not resist his desire for Lily, nervous as a child in the formal dining room, wary of waiters and wide-eyed at the other diners. She was cheaply pretty in her little blue cocktail dress and her frivolous feather of a hat. Her mother was as dignified as a duchess in a beaded black gown and gloves.
The waiter, sensing another hiatus in a stilted evening, removed the pudding plates and replaced them with small coffee cups, cream, sugar, and a large silver coffee pot. Mrs Pears turned her attention from the band and the dancers and poured coffee into the three cups.
Jolly good dinner, Stephen said, seeking thanks.
Mrs Pears nodded.
I expect it makes a change for you, from rationing.
Mrs Pears shook her head. The only good thing about running a shop is that you never go short.
Oh, really, Ma! Lily exclaimed, thinking of the dried ends of ham joints and day-old bread.
Stephen had flushed a deep brick-red. I thought I thought that things were dreadfully short, he said. Th th that was what they t t told us.
Mrs Pearss smile was sardonic. Yes, she said. They would have told you that. But there would have been enough for everyone if people had shared. As it was, those who could afford it never did without.
You s s sold from under the counter? Stephen demanded. P p profiteered?
I saw that Lily had shoes on her feet and food on the table. I bought her ballet lessons and singing lessons. I made my money from rich and selfish people who would rather pay a little more than do without. If you call that profiteering, Captain, then Im a wartime profiteer. But youd best look around at the company youre in before you point an accusing finger at me.
Lilys fair head was bowed over her coffee cup. The feathers in her hat trembled with embarrassment. Hush, Ma, she said softly.
Mrs Pears pointed one black-gloved finger at the next-door table. That man is Councillor Hurt, cloth-maker. Ask him how much khaki and serge he ran off in the four years. Ask him about the greatcoats and trousers like paper. The other is Alderman Wilson, scrap metal. Ask him about the railings and saucepans and scrap given free for the war effort but then sold by him for thousands. And thats Mr Askew, munitions. Ask him about the girls whose skins are still orange and about the shells which never worked. She paused. We were all profiteers from the war except those that died. Those who didnt come back. They were the mugs. Everyone else did very nicely indeed.
Stephens hands were trembling with his anger. He thrust them beneath the tablecloth and gripped hard.
Lets dance! Lily said suddenly. I adore this tune. She sprang to her feet. Stephen automatically rose with her.
She led him to the dance floor, his arm went around her waist and she slipped her little hand in his. Their feet stepped lightly in time, gracefully. Lilys head went back and she smiled up at Stephen, whose face was still white with rage. Lily sang the popular song softly to him:
If you could remember me,
Any way you choose to,
What would be your choice?
I know which one I would do
Above them the winking chandelier sparkled as they turned and circled the floor. Stephens colour slowly came back to his cheeks. Lily sang nonsense songs, as a mother would sing to a frightened child:
When you dood the doodsie with me,
And I did the doodsie with you.
The music stopped and Lily spun around and clapped the band. They bowed. The band leader bowed particularly to Lily.
Miss Lily Valance! he announced.
Lily flushed and glanced at her mother. The older woman nodded her head towards the bandstand. Lily obediently went up to the band leader, her hand still on Stephens arm.
Miss Lily Valance, the new star of the Palais! the band leader announced with pardonable exaggeration.
Wait there, Lily said to Stephen and hitched up her calf-length dress and clambered up on to the bandstand.
Tipperary! someone shouted from the floor. Sing Its a Long Way to Tipperary!
Lily shook her head with a smile, and then stepped to the front of the stage. Ill sing Danny Boy.
The band played the overture and Lily stood very still, listening to the music like a serious child. The dining room fell silent as Lily lifted her small pale face and sang.
She had a singing voice of remarkable clarity more like the limpid purity of a boy soprano than a girl singer from a music hall. She sang artlessly, like a chorister practising alone. She stood with both her hands clasped loosely before her, not swaying nor tapping her feet, her face raised and her eyes looking outwards, beyond the ballroom, beyond the dockyard, beyond the very seas themselves, as if she were trying to see something on the horizon, or beyond it. It was not a popular song from the war, nor one that recalled the dead the mugs who had gained nothing. Lily never sang war songs. But no-one looking at her and listening to her pure poignant voice did not think of those others who had left England six years ago, with faces as hopeful and as untroubled as hers, who would never come home again.