When the last note held, rang and fell silent the room was very quiet, as if people were sick of dancing and pretending that everything was well now, in this new world that was being made without the young men, in this new world of survivors pretending that the lost young men had never been. Then one of the plump profiteers clapped his hands and raised a full glass of French champagne and cried: Hurrah for pretty Lily! and Sing us something jolly, girl! then everyone applauded and called for another song and shouted for the waiter and another bottle.
Lily shook her head with a little smile and stepped down from the stage. Stephen led her back to their table. A bottle of champagne in a silver bucket of ice stood waiting.
They sent it, Mrs Pears said, nodding towards the next-door table. Theres no need to thank them, Lily, you just bow and smile.
Lily looked over obediently, bowed her head as her mother had told her and smiled demurely.
By jove, youre a star! Stephen exclaimed.
Lily beamed at him. I hope so! Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling. I really hope so!
The waiter brought the round flat glasses for champagne and filled one for each of them. Lily raised her glass to the neighbouring table and dimpled over the top of it.
Thatll do, her mother said.
Stephen grinned at Mrs Pears. I see you keep Lily in order!
She nodded. I was a singer on the halls before I met Mr Pears. I learned a thing or two then.
Ma goes with me everywhere, Lily said serenely.
Nearly time to go home, Mrs Pears said. Lilys got a matinée tomorrow. She needs her sleep.
Of course! Stephen nodded to the waiter for the bill. The two women stood up and drifted across the dance floor to fetch their wraps from the cloakroom while Stephen paid.
He waited for them outside, on the shallow white steps under the big glass awning. Coventry drew up in the big grey Argyll motor car, got out, walked around to open the back door and stood, holding it wide. Stephen and Coventry looked at each other, a long level look without speaking while Stephen lit a cigarette and drew in the first deep draw of fresh smoke. Then the doorman opened the double doors and the women came out, muffled against the cool of the May evening. The men broke from their silent communion and stepped forward. Stephen licked his fingers and carefully pinched out the lighted ember of his cigarette, and raised his hand to tuck it behind his ear. Coventry shot a quick warning glance at him, saying nothing. Stephen exclaimed at himself, flushed, and dropped the cigarette into one of the stone pots that flanked the steps.
He helped Lily and her mother into the luxurious grey-upholstered seats of the car and got in after them. Coventry drove slowly to the Highland Road corner shop and parked at the kerb. Mrs Pears went into the dark interior of the shop with a word of thanks and goodnight as Lily paused on the doorstep, the glazed shop door ajar behind her. Stephen thought Lily was herself a little commodity, a fresh piece of provender, something he might buy from under the counter, a black-market luxury, a pre-war treat. Something he could buy and gobble up, every delicious little scrap.
Thank you for a lovely evening, Lily said, like a polite child.
Come out tomorrow, he said. Coventry can drive us along the seafront.
Cant. Ive got a matinée.
The next day then, Sunday?
If Ma says I can.
Ill call for you at three.
All right.
Stephen glanced shiftily towards the darkened shop. He could not see Mrs Pears in the shadowed interior. He leaned towards Lily. Her pale face was upturned to look at him, her fair hair luminous in the flickering gas lighting. Stephen put his hand on her waist. She was soft under his tentative touch, unstructured by stiff corsets. She reminded him of the other girl, a girl long ago, who only wore corsets to Mass on a Sunday. On weekdays her skin was hot and soft beneath a thin cotton shirt. He drew Lily towards him and she took a small step forward. She was smiling slightly. He could smell her light sweet perfume. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the cheap fabric of her cocktail dress.
Time to come in, Lily, said her mothers voice immediately behind them.
Stephen released her at once.
Goodnight, Captain Winters. Thank you for a lovely dinner, said Mrs Pears from the darkness inside the shop.
The door behind Lily opened wide, and with a glance like a mischievous schoolgirl, she waved her white-gloved hand and went in.
Stephen sat beside Coventry for the short drive home, enjoying the open air of the cab.
Damned pretty girl, he said. He took a couple of cigarettes from his case and lit them both, holding the two in his mouth at once. The driver nodded. Stephen passed a cigarette to him. The man took it without taking his eyes from the road, without a word of thanks.
Pity about the mother, Stephen said half to himself. Fearfully respectable woman.
The driver nodded, exhaled a wisp of smoke.
Not like a showgirl at all, really, Stephen said. I could almost take her home for tea.
The driver glanced questioningly at Stephen.
Well see, Stephen said. See how things go. A man must marry, after all. And it doesnt matter much who it is. He paused. Shes like a girl from before the war. You can imagine her, before the war, living in the country on a farm. I could live on a little farm with a girl like that.
The cool air, wet with sea salt, blew around them. It was chilly, but both men relished the discomfort, the familiar chill.
There are plenty of girls, Stephen said harshly. Far too many. One million, dont they say? One million spare women. Plenty of girls. It hardly matters which one.
Coventry nodded and drew up before the handsome red-brick house. In the moonlight the white window sills and steps were gleaming bright.
You sleeping here tonight? Stephen asked as he opened the car door.
The driver nodded.
Brew-up later?
The man nodded again.
Stephen stepped from the car and went through the imposing wrought-iron gate, through the little front garden, quiet in the moonlight, and up the scoured white steps to the front door. He fitted his key in the lock and stepped into the hall as his mother came out of the drawing room.
Youre early, dear, she said pleasantly.
Not especially, he said.
Nice dinner?
The Queens. Same as usual.
Anyone I know?
No-one you know, Mother.
She hesitated, her curiosity checked by their family habit of silence and secrecy. Stephen went towards the stairs.
Father still awake? he asked.
The nurse has just left him, Muriel said. He might have dozed off, go in quietly.
Stephen nodded and went up the stairs to his fathers bedroom.
It was dark inside, a little nightlight burning on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. The fire had died down, only the embers glowing dark red. Stephen stood inside the door waiting for his eyes to get used to the darkness. Suddenly, he felt his chest constrict with terror and his heart hammered. It was being in the darkness, waiting and straining to be able to see, and knowing he had to go forward, half-blind, while they could watch him, at their ease, in safety; watch him clearly against the pale horizon, and take Their time to put the cross-sight neatly in the centre of his silhouette, and gently, leisurely, squeeze the trigger.
He put his hand behind him and tugged the door open. The bright electric light from the landing flooded into the room and Stephen shuddered with relief. He loosened his collar and found his neck and his face were wet with the cold sweat of fear. Damn.
He could see now that his father was awake. His big head was turned towards the door and his sunken eyes were staring.
I hate the dark, Stephen said, moving towards the bed. He pulled up a low-seated high-backed chair and sat at his fathers head. The sorrowful dark eyes stared at him. The left side of the mans face was twisted and held by the contraction of a stroke. The other half was normal, a wide deeply lined face.
Took a girl out to dinner, Stephen said. He took his fathers hand without gentleness, as if it were a specimen of pottery which had been handed to him for his inspection. He hefted the limp hand, and let it fall back on the counterpane. Music hall girl, he said. Nothing special.
With an extended finger he lifted one of his fathers fingers and dropped it down again. There was no power in any part of the mans body.
Youre like a corpse yourself, you know, Stephen said conversationally. One of the glorious dead you are. Youd never have been like this but for Christopher, would you? Mother told me she handed you the telegram, you took one glance at it and fell down like you were dead.
There was complete silence in the room except for the slow ticking of the mantelpiece clock.
You wouldnt have dropped down half-dead for me, would you? Stephen said with a hard little laugh. Not for me! One of the white feather brigade? He raised his fathers hand, casually lifting the limp index finger with his own. Then he dropped it down again. Who would ever have dreamed that Id come home a hero and Christopher never come home at all? He smiled at the wide-eyed, frozen face. You do believe Im a hero? he asked. Dont you?
Stephen heard his mothers footsteps on the stairs and he got up from the chair and smoothed the counterpane. Sleep well. He went quietly out of the room.
Goodnight, Mother, he said.
She was going to her bedroom opposite. Are you going to bed now?
Im having a brew with Coventry, he said.
She smiled, containing her irritation. You two are like little boys having feasts after lights out. Dont leave cigarette ends around, Cook complains and its me who has to deal with her not you.
He nodded and went down the stairs, through the baize door at the head of the basement stairs and down to the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen. It was the only place in the house that smelled of life. His fathers bedroom smelled like a hospital, the drawing room smelled of cold flowers and furniture polish. But down here there were mingled smells of cooking and soapsuds, tobacco smoke and ironing. The range was still hot and Coventry had a kettle on the top. On the wide scrubbed kitchen table drawn up before the range was a battered tin teapot and two white enamelled mugs. Coventry poured the tea, added four spoonfuls of sugar to each cup and stirred them each ritually, five times, clockwise. The two men sat in comfortable silence, facing the kitchen range. They hunched up their shoulders, they wrapped their hands around their mugs. They sat close, shoulders, forearms and elbows just touching, huddled as if they were still in a dug-out. They did not speak; their faces were serene.
Lily, dressed in cotton pyjamas, leaned against the window frame and watched the moonlight reflected on the shiny slates of the roofs opposite.
Hes ever so handsome, she said.
Helen Pears, turning down the bed and slipping a hot water bottle between the cold sheets, grunted non-committally.
Dont you think hes handsome?
Get into bed, Lil. Youll catch your death of cold.
Lily left the window unwillingly. Helen drew the thick blackout curtains on the lingering yellow moon.
He was a hero in the war, Lily claimed. One of the girls had read about him in the newspaper. He captured a farmhouse and killed all the Huns.
Helen held up the covers, Lily slid into bed reluctantly and Helen tucked her up like a child.
Did I sing well?
Like a bird.
They liked me, didnt they?
They loved you.
Will you sit with me till Im asleep?
Ive got a bit of sewing to do, Ill sit in my chair.
Helen fetched her sewing and sat in the basketweave nursery chair under the gaslight. She was darning Lilys stockings, her face screwed into tired lines. When Lilys dark eyelashes closed, Helen put her work away and turned down the light. She paused for a moment in the darkness, watching her sleeping daughter, as she had done for the long years of Lilys babyhood and childhood. Goodnight, she said very quietly. Goodnight, my dearest. Sweet dreams.
Chapter Three
Lily had been stage-struck from babyhood when she would drape herself in her mothers old feather boa and traipse around the little flat above the shop, singing in her true little voice. Against all the odds Helen Pears had forced the corner shop into profit and saved the money to send Lily to ballet school and to a singing teacher. Scrimping on the household bills and hiding money from her husband, she had managed to get Lily a training which had been good enough to win her a place in the chorus of the Palais, owned by the Edwardes Music Halls of Southsea, Bournemouth and Plymouth. It was not what Helen Pears had wanted for her daughter, but it was the best she could provide. And it was the first step in moving the girl away from the narrow streets and narrow lives of Portsmouth.
Lily might have been a dancer in the chorus line for ever, if she had not caught the eye of the musical director, Charlie Smith, in the first week of rehearsals.
Here, Lily, can you sing? he asked during a break in one of the sessions. The dancers were scattered around the front seats of the darkened theatre, their feet up on the brass rail that surrounded the orchestra pit, drinking tea out of thermos flasks, eating sandwiches and gossiping. Charlie was picking out a tune on the piano.
Yes, Lily said, surprised.
Can you read music?
Lily nodded.
Sing me this, he said, tossing a sheet of music at her.
Charlie started the rippling chords of the introduction. Lily, her eyes still on the song sheet, walked to the orchestra pit, stepped casually over the brass rail and leaned against the piano to sing.
There was a little silence when she had finished.
Very nice, he said casually. Good voice production.
Back to work everybody, please, the stage manager called from the wings. Mr Brett wants to see the greyhound number. Just mark it out. Miss Sylvia de Charmante will be here this afternoon. Until then please remember to leave room for her.
Charlie winked at Lily. Buy you lunch, he said.
The girls climbed the catwalk up to the stage and got into line, leaving a space in the middle for the soloist.
Shes got a dog, the stage manager said dismally. A greyhound thing. Remember to leave space for it. Madge, youll have to move stage left a bit. Lily, give her a bit more room.
What does the greyhound do? Charlie demanded.