Chapter Seven

THROUGH THE DARK FOREST, the king and his liegemen rode. All around them stretched the deep entangled woodland, the sun reaching only through gaps in the canopy above.

Men rushed out of the trees, bows and arrows held aloft. In a chaos of whinnying horses, the procession that had been advancing through the forest stopped. These brigands, dressed in green and flashing pearly white smiles, were suddenly all around them.

‘I suppose you realise the penalty for killing a king’s deer is .?.?. death?’

In the shadows of the new Odeon cinema on Leicester Square, Nancy Nettleton curled into Raymond de Guise. Up above them, across a sea of countless heads, the scene was being played out in glorious Technicolor. Robin Hood himself – the dashing figure of Errol Flynn, flashing his trademark smile – seemed as tall as the Buckingham Hotel.

‘Do you know,’ whispered Raymond, ‘I’ve always liked the name Errol—’

The laugh that burst out of Nancy’s lips was quite unladylike, and attracted the attention of the cinemagoers in the row directly behind. Some moments later, she settled into the crook of his arm and whispered, ‘I prefer a good, solid name. A name my father would have been proud of. Edward, perhaps. Teddy. Ted.’

‘If we were to have a son,’ Raymond grinned, ‘I was thinking of naming him Raymond.’

‘You’re not serious.’ Nancy stopped. Up on the screen, Errol Flynn was whistling past. ‘Raymond?’

Raymond fixed her with a forlorn look, as if in one single word and its grave intonation she’d destroyed the dream of a lifetime. Then, unable to keep up the pretence any longer, he chortled.

‘One day, Nancy. One day. We’ve a wedding to think about first.’

A wedding. Their wedding. Nancy had known girls who’d grown up dreaming of nothing else but walking down the aisle, all of their family and friends looking on – and, though this was not her, she had to admit that, now that she was wearing Raymond’s ring, the thought of her wedding day kept popping into her mind at the most inopportune moments. She’d be changing grotty bed sheets in the Grand Colonial Suite and, all of a sudden, she’d be picturing a dress, or remembering a beautiful line of poetry that she imagined someone might recite as Raymond led the toasts.

Later, as the film finished and they joined the crowds tramping out of the picture house, she was thinking of it still. Evidently, so was Raymond.

‘I wrote and told Georges,’ he said. ‘He must have written back instantly, because I received a reply this morning. Georges says he wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Georges de la Motte: Raymond’s benefactor and, once upon a time, his ballroom tutor – and the very man who had been responsible for lifting Ray Cohen out of the dance halls of the East End and turning him into the darling of high society. Georges was out in California now, pursuing his own stardom on the silver screen. Perhaps, some day soon, his face would be projected into the cavernous interior of the new Odeon cinema. Nancy liked the thought of that.

They were slow to leave the cinema. Conversations buzzed all around them. Into the chorus of voices, Raymond said, ‘I wonder if Georges should be my best man. Artie would only make a mess of it.’

‘You do him a disservice, Raymond!’ she chided him, grinning. ‘Your brother’s a transformed man. You ought to see the pride he takes in his work, down at the Daughters of Salvation.’

‘Have you thought, perhaps, about bridesmaids?’

Nancy said, ‘Rosa, and Ruth, of course, but you know Ruth – she’s a stick in the mud. She won’t even tolerate the idea of a dance with Billy, so the thought of getting her into a bridesmaid’s dress is .?.?.’ She faltered. ‘The truth is, I already broached it with Miss Edgerton, but .?.?. she seemed uncertain, somehow. I may have made a mistake there, Raymond. Sometimes, I forget that Miss Edgerton’s a cut above. The last two years .?.?. I know she loves me, she’s said as much – but, I don’t know, perhaps something of the old feeling still lingers. Doing the proper thing.’ She paused. ‘Or maybe I’m complicating it. Maybe she just has something else on her mind. I suppose she thinks I’ll be walking out on the Daughters of Salvation, as soon as I’m Mrs de Guise. But .?.?.’

Her thoughts had taken her this way a few times over the past few weeks. Every time she got carried away, picturing life as the new Mrs de Guise, a little voice whispered in her ear: a married woman, at work changing beds by day and in the East End by night? Will the world even allow it? The voices became strongest when she wasn’t with Raymond; at least when he was here, she could breathe him in, picture vividly the future she held in her hands.

The night was still young when Nancy and Raymond emerged, arm in arm, out of the cinema and took in the starry vaults above Leicester Square. As the other cinemagoers fanned out around them, hailing passing taxicabs or scurrying for the sanctuary of the last Underground trains, they wandered past the Regent Street arcades and through the grand town houses of Mayfair’s outermost edges. It took them an age, or so it seemed, to reach the open expanse of Berkeley Square, where the balmy spring night was filled with the scents of crocuses opening up – but that was only because they wandered so aimlessly, walked so slowly, so that the night didn’t have to end.

There was the Buckingham hanging above them, its grand white fa?ade like a shimmering beacon in the night. The great copper crown that sat between the hotel’s pavilion roofs glittered where the moonlight spilled across it.

They stopped in the heart of the square and, quite unprompted, Raymond turned on his heel, opening his arms as if the whole of Berkeley Square belonged to him. Up above, somebody angrily closed their curtains and snuffed their bedchamber light; evidently, they were sick to death of seeing young lovers profess their undying affection on Berkeley Square.

‘Raymond,’ Nancy ventured, as he gazed at the stars above. ‘Raymond?’

Raymond’s turn came to a halt. ‘Nancy?’

‘What we said before. About children and .?.?.’

He rushed to her. ‘Don’t fear, those days are some time off yet. I mean to say, I dream of it, of course I dream, but .?.?.’ He was stumbling over his own words. Debonair Raymond de Guise, the King of the Ballroom – and yet, far too often, Nancy Nettleton turned him into a lovesick fool. ‘But, Nancy, don’t you?’

The earnestness in his voice prompted her to reach out for his hand.

‘Oh, Raymond, you old fool, of course I do! But I suppose there are things I haven’t thought about. Like .?.?. what does happen after? After we’re married, well, what does life look like? Will they even want me here, at the hotel? We’ll need to find a home, somewhere to call our own, and – well, none of the other chambermaids are married, are they?’ She paused. ‘Will they even let me stay? I’m not sure I’m ready for home life, Raymond.’

Raymond’s heart stilled. ‘Not ready?’ he whispered.

‘Raymond!’ She flung herself into his arms and he, in turn, waltzed her around the square. ‘I’m ready for a life with you. I am. I’m dreaming of it. But I suppose I haven’t thought about what comes next. I look ten years into the future and I see our children running around us, growing up loyal and decent and full of love. But when I think about next year .?.?.’

Together, they stopped and turned to the gleaming face of the hotel. There it was: the only home they knew.

‘Have you thought about where we might live?’ Nancy asked.

Raymond nodded. ‘It will feel strange not to live at the Buckingham – but Mr Charles said—’

‘The board wouldn’t allow it?’

He nodded. ‘Along those lines. It’s not considered appropriate for married men to live on site.’ He grinned. ‘We’ll work it out. Here or there. There or .?.?. anywhere. As long as we’re together. We have time to work it out. And .?.?. perhaps none of us should think too far ahead.’

In that moment, he was thinking of all the conversations he’d had with Maynard Charles, all the voices on the radio, the headlines from the Continent.

‘Come on, Nancy,’ he finally ventured. ‘It’s late already.’

Together, they approached the sweeping marble stairs, where the hotel doorman stood proudly in front of its great revolving brass doors. Hand in hand, they banked away from the grand entrance and strolled into the narrow darkness of Michaelmas Mews. One of the hotel pages was asleep at the tradesman’s entrance. Raymond gently roused him as they walked past.

‘Don’t let Mr Charles catch you sleeping on the job, young sir!’

As they waited for the service lift that would ferry them upwards, Raymond bent his lips close to Nancy’s ear and whispered, ‘Whatever happens next, it will all be worth it. I know that, in my heart.’

*

They were talking about the wedding in the chambermaids’ kitchenette when Nancy awoke, later than she’d meant to, and reeled out to meet the other girls. They were talking about it still, as they rode the service lift down to the ground storey and bustled, together, into the housekeeping lounge – where the chambermaids were busily bickering about who should lay which table, who should brew the tea, and who should man the banks of toasters busy churning out teacakes.

‘She says it’s going to be a registry office affair,’ one of the girls was saying.

‘A registry office? But that’s hardly the dream, is it?’

‘Well, Raymond’s Jewish, they say. But who’d have known? What, with a name like de Guise .?.?.’

‘But Mr Charles has promised you the Grand, hasn’t he, Nance?’ one of the girls chipped in – though Nancy, oblivious to it all, had hardly heard a thing. Her eyes kept flitting, instead, to the door which opened up onto Mrs Moffatt’s own little study. ‘Well, Nance, it’ll be as grand and romantic as any church, if they pull out all the stops for the Grand, won’t it? And they won’t be shy about spending the pennies, will they? Not with it being Raymond de Guise—’

‘It’s Nancy’s wedding too, you girls!’ Rosa snapped. ‘Raymond’s not a god, you know. He’s just a man. And he’s not a patch on our Nance.’ Suddenly, she caught herself and clapped a hand over her own mouth. ‘Sorry, Nance. He’s a good sort, and all, but it’s him who’s the lucky one here – not you.’

Nancy still didn’t seem to hear. The girls were all seated now, but she was still on her feet – and, leaving the chattering girls behind, she hurried to the door of Mrs Moffatt’s office.

Nancy’s fingers, delicately rapping on the door as she pulled it closed behind her, were hardly enough to rouse Mrs Moffatt from what she was doing. Mrs Moffatt was of the opinion that the Head of Housekeeping had to lead by example, and this meant everything from loading the laundry wagons to brewing the breakfast tea, so it was a quite unusual state of affairs to find her here at breakfast, immersed in her papers. As Nancy approached, she found herself prickling with a peculiar sense of foreboding. This only intensified as she crossed the small study and realised that one of the papers on the top of Mrs Moffatt’s desk had been torn into pieces, and left in shreds scattered there.

All of a sudden, Mrs Moffatt looked up and said, ‘Sit down, dear Nancy. I’ve been wondering how long it might be before we had our little chat.’

Nancy, even more perplexed, said, ‘Mrs Moffatt?’

Mrs Moffatt was smiling – but, if Nancy was right, it was taking her a great effort to do so. The smile had not reached her eyes. With her own face creasing in concern, Nancy took the chair, facing Mrs Moffatt across the desk.

‘Dear Nancy,’ Mrs Moffatt began, ‘I understand congratulations are in order.’

Nancy said, ‘So you heard, Mrs Moffatt.’

‘Oh, you know this old place. A girl can hardly wash her hair in the Buckingham without the kitchen porters hearing about it, then telling the concierges, who let it slip to the pages. I heard it from Harrison, the barber. By chance, he heard it from .?.?.’ Mrs Moffatt beamed. ‘I’m teasing you, Nancy. The girls haven’t stopped chattering about it ever since they heard. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you I wish you all the love and luck in the world.’

The words settled something in Nancy’s stomach. This, at least, was something. It gave her the courage to carry on.

‘My head’s been a whirlwind. I love Raymond. More than I thought possible. And Raymond, like he always does, is getting caught up in the romance of it. Don’t misunderstand – it’s what I love him for. I need a man like that. But you know me, Mrs Moffatt. I’m a good country girl. I like my feet on the ground. And—’

‘It’s usual to be nervous, my dear.’

‘I’m not nervous about Raymond. He’s the love of my life. And the way he thinks of us, his grand romance, that’s a part of him I’ll always treasure. It’s what happens next that’s been bothering me. We’re all dreaming of the wedding day and the dances in the Grand Ballroom, but .?.?. what happens the day after that, and the day after that? Nothing has to change for Raymond. He might not live at the Buckingham anymore, but when it comes to his work, he can carry on as it was before, always dancing. But as for me .?.?.’

Mrs Moffatt left aside what she was about to say: that, judging by the bluster on the Continent, things might change for all of them at any moment. Instead she said, consolingly, ‘You’re worried about your work – as a married woman.’

‘I’m worried about me, Mrs Moffatt. Oh Lord, it must sound so foolish! Foolish and .?.?. selfish, even. But I’ve been working, one way or another, since I was nine years old. Coming to London was never about finding a husband, not for me. I know other girls dream of those things, and I’m not saying they weren’t sometimes in my thoughts too, but I wanted to – why, I wanted to change the world! Raymond’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but it wasn’t part of my plan. And I feel I’ve made my contributions – right here at the hotel, and everything I’ve been helping Miss Edgerton do with the Daughters of Salvation, too. Does it all have to end, Mrs Moffatt?’

For a time, Mrs Moffatt was silent. But there was not judgement in her eyes. There was only love.

‘These are difficult questions, and ones we all have to face.’ She paused and, reaching into a drawer of her desk, produced a handful of orange barley sugars, which she unwrapped from their wax papers and handed to Nancy. ‘I should like to tell you a story, Nancy – a story of a married woman who has worked all of her life.’ She paused. ‘Here I am.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘You’re too young to remember anything, I should hazard to guess, of the Great War. But those years are forever stained upon my memory. I daresay you’ll find it difficult to imagine, but there was a time, in an age long ago, when I wasn’t your Mrs Moffatt at all. My name was Emmeline Ellis until I was a fair bit older than you are, and my sweetheart Jack was the one named Moffatt. Well, we were married in 1913, scarcely a year before all the kings and emperors took it into their heads that the whole world should go to war. Jack took himself off in September that year, proud as any Englishman, and promised he’d be home by Christmas. But, of course, he wasn’t. None of those brave boys were. And we women – we married women – left behind, we couldn’t just put our feet up and wait, could we? No, Nancy, we had to find work. It wasn’t just our households that needed us. It was our country. All the men off dying for their king, and we women left behind to keep on living. And that’s what we did. As a matter of fact, that’s how I came to the Buckingham itself. You’d have been barely a girl, dear Nancy, and here I was, right where you are now – a chambermaid, just starting out. I suppose I’d have asked myself the same questions you’re asking yourself now, if my Jack had come home. But that wretched year of 1917 left so many of us widowed, and I had to keep on striving.’ Mrs Moffatt stopped, for she was growing dewy-eyed and had to dab at the corners of her eyes with the hem of her apron. ‘I’m getting away from myself. Nancy, what I’m trying to say is – the world is changing. To keep on working as a married woman would not be the conventional thing. But you are, my girl, one of this world’s unconventional wonders. It has been done before and, if there is a way, I will help you find it.’

‘Mrs Moffatt,’ said Nancy, and already she could feel a weight lifting off her shoulders, ‘I should like that very much.’

She was on her feet, and almost at the door, when something flurried up in her heart and she found herself compelled to turn around.

‘I’m sorry about your husband. I should think you’ve heard it said too many times across the years, but it seems too cruel, the way these things went back then.’

Mrs Moffatt said, so quietly that she almost went unheard, ‘It’s strange how time dulls the pain. I knew my Jack scarcely five years of this lifetime. And here we are, twenty years on, speaking of him now.’ She paused. ‘There are longer pains in a lifetime, Nancy. Trust me. Take your happiness where you can. Have your pleasures and your joys, and never be ashamed.’

‘It’s why Raymond and I want to marry as soon as we can,’ Nancy confessed. ‘All the talk of war in the air.’

‘War will have to take care of itself. But as for love – well, we only have a little time afforded to us. Go out there and make this a year you’ll always remember. I envy you it, my dear. Life’s too full of sadnesses we must all endure and overcome. We should each allow ourselves a little joy.’

*

After Nancy had gone, Mrs Moffatt remained at her desk, turning her barley sugar between her teeth. Remembering Jack made her sentimental. But it wasn’t the thought of his voice, nor his touch, that weighed on her as she listened to the girls chattering in the housekeeping lounge on the other side of the door. It wasn’t the memory of their wedding day, in the parish church in Pembrokeshire, nor how her father had wept when he walked her down the aisle. No – what weighed on her most was a story even older than that, one she had thought lost to the mists of time.

She reached out for the shreds of paper she’d scattered across her desk. There was a reason, she realised now, that she hadn’t burned them in the grate. She was testing herself. Taunting herself, perhaps. Because, as long as these shreds of paper were still in existence, so were the words written across them in a precise and diligent hand.

One by one, Mrs Moffatt gathered the pieces of paper together. One by one, she arranged them on the empty expanse of her desk. Soon, the letter was taking form once again. Her eyes gazed over it, taking in its every declaration, its every question and hidden aside.

One day I should like to sit with you and drink English tea, and speak of what it was like, on the beaches at Mandurah where I grew up. I would tell you about my summers there, and the wide open sands, or the first job I took on a convoy heading north, or the day my stepbrothers and I took off for the recruiting office and became Australia’s newest infantrymen. I should like to tell you about Shep, my boyhood dog, who waited for me every day, all day long, at the bottom of the lane that wound its way down to my school. I should like to tell you about Rachel, my first love. I should tell you about the day I went off to Point Cook, to train with the Royal Australian Air Force. And I should like to tell you about Neville and Charlotte, my ma and pa, who raised me with the courage of their Australian ancestors – but with, I now know, a touch of English class as well. Neville and Charlotte, who looked after me – I swear to you – as if I was their own.

One day, I should like to hear about your life too, Emmeline. There are questions I should like to ask, yes, and perhaps there are stories you’d like to tell me too – but, most of all, I only want to look you in the eyes and know you for who you are.

I am going to leave this letter, now, in the way that I have long dreamt of leaving it. With these three simple words, which are the sum of a lifetime:

Your son,

Malcolm

Little wonder that tearing it up hadn’t been enough to drive it from her mind, thought Mrs Moffatt, as she scrambled in her drawers for a roll of medical tape to begin fixing it back together. She’d been tearing up this particular story for nearly thirty-three years. More than half her lifetime had been spent in stopping shreds like these from piecing themselves back together – but what use was tearing up the paper, when not even tearing up the memory itself was enough to keep the truth at bay?

Secrets always came out in the end.