The Daisy Club (14 page)

George said nothing, and they continued through Guy's small writing study to his large, light studio, where he could paint, and think, and make himself small meals in a tiny kitchen off the main room.

It was a perfect place for thinking, being creative, and hiding from the rest of the world – and, even better, it overlooked a lake.

‘No one ever finds me here,' he told George, who had never been to the studio before, and as a consequence was looking around him in some admiration – at the paintings and the sculpture, pieces collected from all over the world. ‘Here, in the studio, I can be quite alone in my little bit of paradise. I can leave poor old Guy Athlone, the famously witty playwright, in the other part of the house. So relaxing, don't you see?'

But George wasn't interested in Guy's little bit of paradise, nor in his fame, only in what information he had, which, happily, was plentiful.

‘I have a list here.' Guy put his hand into his pocket and took out a very small diary. ‘For obvious reasons I have noted down the names in such small characters that you will need a magnifying glass to see them.' He handed a small piece of flimsy paper to George. ‘You will see that beside some names I have written a large ‘A' for appeaser, and beside others ‘FT', also for obvious reasons. There are, happily, far more appeasers than there are fellow-travellers. Not many of the latter around at the moment, not since the Spanish Civil War. At least not that I know of, although I might just have been lucky.'

They both knew that, being well-known, Guy was incredibly useful to ‘the office', since he could mix, and always had done, with any number of different people. He had been used by Operation Z, an entirely privately funded anti-Fascist, anti-Communist organisation, without arousing suspicion, either from left or right. Whether in a crowded pub or a ballroom, everyone saw Guy Athlone as he wished them to: as a consummate lightweight, someone who could not care less about anyone other than himself and his success, and whose main interests were whether or not the Windsor knot had gone out of fashion for gentlemen's ties, or who might be having an affair with whom. As a matter of fact, that last was certainly of great interest both to Operation Z, and to himself, most especially if national security was involved, which was certainly the case with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and their all-too-recent visit to take tea with Herr Hitler.

‘No Communists, I see,' George stated, as he carefully placed the thin slip of paper between the pages of his own diary, and closed it by sliding a small pencil back into place at the side.

‘No, no Communists, at least not that I know. I have found, in artistic circles at any rate, that the hammer-and-sickle brigade went out of fashion after the Spanish Civil War, even with the younger chaps. What a nightmare to end up being killed, having fought for the wrong cause! Tucked away in some corner of a foreign field that
isn't
for ever England.'

George turned from studying a nearby sculpture of a beautifully draped woman with her hand on the neck of a stag, and gave Guy a surprised look, for although Guy's tone was, as always, light, it was also filled with disparagement.

‘How many of these people will be coming here for your New Year's Day thrash?'

‘Oh, I should think as many as I can keep my eye on without feeling “ick”,' Guy assured him. ‘Oh, and by the way, I also have a new little person in my life, who I think might be useful to us.'

George looked instantly bored. Guy's affairs had been numerous, too numerous to annotate, even on file, but since some had actually proved useful to George and the Bros at Operation Z, he was hardly in a position to disapprove.

‘No, not that sort of new person, dear boy, far from it. No, this person is a very young beauty, who has taken it into her head to devote her life to me, or at least a few days, or so she told me. I shall use her at the party to listen, and report back to me. It will only seem a game to her, but she might come up with something. The trouble with operating solo, as one does at these things, is one cannot be in two places at once, but by using her, I might well have broken my duck, and you, Georgie boy, might turn out to be really happy with me, which will surely be a miracle of sorts?'

‘As a matter of fact we are all happy with your work, both the Bros and myself,' George said, accepting a whisky and soda from Guy.

The Bros, as they were always and ever only known within the organisation, were the two men, brothers naturally, who had started Operation Z as long ago as 1931. The anti-Jewish feeling in Europe was such back then, that they had secretly begun to infiltrate various organisations with the sole purpose of getting as many as possible of their own faith to safety, which, to all intents and purposes, usually meant to America.

‘You should be very happy with my work, George, since I never even send in my expenses. Now, let me see, on behalf of the Bros, I have been to America twice, France three times—'

‘Smuggling back cheese as usual, eh?'

‘And Germany, for my sins, once – although never again, not since I have found out that my great-grandmother was a Romany, and that I have an uncle who has always scrupulously avoided associating with the opposite sex. Tut, tut.'

In reality the risks that Guy had run were no joke, which was exactly why he
was
joking.

‘Here's to the downfall of Mr Chamberlain, and of all the Fascists who ever lived and breathed in this great country of ours,' Guy said, after a pause, and quickly drained his own whisky and soda.

‘Yes, indeed.' George drained his, and then added, quietly, ‘Keep up the good work, old boy.'

‘Will do, dear boy.' Guy smiled. ‘You see, that's the difference between us, George. You say “
old
boy” and I say “
dear
boy”!'

He let George out of the ivy-covered door, and George free-wheeled quietly down the back drive, only starting the engine of his battered old motor car once he was well past the entrance to the main house. It wasn't exactly necessary to do this, but old habits die hard, and secrecy was now second nature to him, as it was to Guy.

When Guy summoned Aurelia to his study, she thought she had made a mess of laying out the canapés to go with the cocktails, or that the apron on her uniform was not as starched as it should be. Certainly, her heart sank as Clive beckoned to her to follow him, and all she could think about was what she might have done wrong. After all, they had only just arrived.

‘I think Relia's in for it now,' Daisy murmured, taking over her canapé duty. ‘I think Mr Athlone is going to have her washed and brought to his tent.'

Freddie and Laura laughed, but then looked at each other, nervously. Aurelia's disappointment when Guy had cancelled his Christmas party had been palpable.

Daisy had been taken in by Jessica and allowed to live at the Court until she had finished her flying lessons, and had joined them once again at the flat above the stables. But it had been noticeable that their happy festive mood had not rubbed off on Aurelia, who could frequently be found sighing, making her passion for this famous man all too evident.

‘Well, at least he's not married, Daisy,' Freddie said, looking round at the other two for support. ‘I mean, that is something, surely?' she went on, keeping her voice low so that the rest of the kitchen couldn't hear them.

‘Hardly a comfort when you're wandering the streets all alone, pushing a pram.' Laura nudged the bottom of her maid's cap further up her head. ‘Still, I don't think anyone puts waitresses on casting couches these days, do they?'

‘If she's not back in half an hour, I vote we get the secretary – Mr Montfort – and torture him, until he tells us where she is.'

Unaware of the stir caused by her being hauled out of the kitchens and taken to see the boss, Aurelia grabbed her coat and followed Mr Montfort out into the garden. Much as she was determined to take everything in her stride, she was well aware that unless she was very careful she might well succumb to her nerves, and faint – and of course the secret nature of the door, the fact that she had no idea where she was being taken, or why, only added to her nervous state.

As they went through to the studio, perhaps sensing this, Clive turned back to give her a reassuring smile.

‘I shan't leave you, don't worry,' he told her in a low voice. ‘I'll be around and about.'

He ushered her into the studio, and then slipped into the kitchen.

‘Ah, there you are, pinny all starched, and maid's shoes on, too. Commendably clumpy, I see,' Guy joked as Aurelia walked into the middle of the room, and he turned back from an easel, where he was busy drawing something which was, perhaps happily, not yet discernible. ‘I always start a drawing before a party,' he said, turning back to the easel to admire his work. ‘It keeps me going, you know. Either that or a new play, or a book, or a lyric, anything creative; that way I can let all the idle chatter wash over me, while thinking all the time of what I have left here. It means I can float above everything, detach my mind from the silliness, let the real me wander back here to sit beside the quiet stream of the imagination.'

By the end of this speech Aurelia's expression had gone from nervous to reverential. It was strange to think of the celebrated Guy Athlone having to employ mental tricks to get over his social boredom.

‘Sit down, please.'

Aurelia looked around for a chair, but she need not have, for Clive was already behind her, chair placed.

‘I shan't beat about the bush, Miss Smith-Jones – are you really called Miss Smith-Jones? It sounds so like something in a song. At any rate, I shan't, as I say, beat about the bush.' He gave her a long look. ‘I need your help. At least it's not just myself, it's many people, but for the moment it is Clive here and myself who both need your help.' His expression changed to a grave one. ‘There are people coming here tonight, Miss Smith-Jones, who are a positive danger to this great country of ours. They are people who can help Hitler, and help him they will, the moment he lands. What I want you to do to help us is to listen in to their conversations, as often as you can. Hover with your plate of canapés, re-fill their drinks as soon as it is perfectly possible, and generally make a jolly good fist of being over-eager, while remembering what they are talking about. Can you do that?'

‘Yes, yes, of course, I will try.'

‘No, no, Miss Smith-Jones, trying is not what is wanted. Success is.'

Aurelia wanted to say that she would eat poisoned canapés every five minutes, if that is what her idol wished.

‘I will listen and report,' she affirmed, in a tone that – it seemed to both Guy and Clive – she had probably used when vowing to be loyal to God and the King when, as a little girl, she was being enrolled as a Girl Guide.

Clive cleared his throat to stop himself laughing, because, following Aurelia's words, as he turned away from her, Guy had bossed his eyes and made a bunny mouth at him, which he usually only did when he was with his accountants.

Aurelia hurried off, accompanied by Clive.

‘Well, and what did the great man want from you? Did he try to get his wicked way?'

Aurelia nodded. She didn't know why she did. She couldn't help herself. Perhaps it was the secrecy thing, perhaps, dimly, she thought that this would be the best way to put the others off the scent. She was so flattered that she had been the chosen one.

‘He did try to get his wicked way?'

They all turned as Aurelia nodded again.

‘And?'

‘And I turned him down, of course.'

The other three looked momentarily reassured.

‘What is it about you, Relia, that you always seem to attract married men and unsuitables?'

Aurelia shook her head.

‘It's OK, he perfectly understood. He's a gentleman.'

‘I should think so, too.'

Freddie gave Daisy the nearest she could manage to a grim look. Just wait until she told Aunt Jessica what she had just heard! But then she realised that if she did Jessica might stop them coming to help out at Guy's parties, and that would affect her so far all-too-meagre savings. Instead, she contented herself with the fact that Aurelia had returned within half an hour, and, it seemed, completely unscathed. Men were men, after all, particularly the older ones.

For her part, Aurelia was now quite certain that she knew what she wanted to do, and it had nothing to do with flying lessons, or joining the Wrens if they started up again, or the army, or even becoming a nurse. It was something more dangerous, and even more exciting.

Chapter Five

Jean never really found out what had happened to make Miss Beresford so angry with her, because with the rumours of war becoming more and more heated, life at The Cottages had accelerated to such a degree that she hardly had time to go to bed or wake up, before someone was knocking at the door with a new piece of news. Either about the expected gassing of civilians, or about shortages that were soon to happen, or evacuees soon to arrive.

This morning her close neighbour Dan Short had paid an unexpected and not wholly welcome visit, plagued by the idea of the coming of the ‘Germs', as he called the Nazis.

‘I'm told I'm going to have to paint me windows black against the Germs seeing me candlelight, but I don't use no candlelight. I go to bed with the light, and I get up with it, too,' Dan kept repeating, while staring round at the winter sky, which had barely become dawn.

Jean liked to get up early all right, but Dan's idea of early and her idea of early were, even so, just a little different.

She had long known that Dan was the salt of the earth, but seeing him so bewildered by what was happening – or, more importantly, what he thought might be going to happen – was unsettling, to say the least.