A Fragile Peace Read online

  Celia inclined a shining dark red head, smiling. She was a tallish, slim girl, well groomed and with a striking rather than a pretty face. Her voice when she spoke was a little husky. ‘And since she made a point of asking us not to keep Allie out for too long then perhaps we’d better go…?’

  ‘Allie isn’t ready yet,’ said Allie’s sister, positively.

  ‘Yes I am.’ Allie was not the least bit put out.

  ‘Oh. Are you?’ Libby eyed Allie’s skirt and jumper in vague surprise. ‘Right then. Off we go. I thought we’d go to Plumber’s. Sticky buns and things. Marvellous. What do you say?’ Typically, before anyone could say anything she had swept down the corridor ahead of them, well aware as she did so of the turned heads and wide eyes of a group of second-formers who were making their decorous way to the music room. She waited for a moment, dramatically posed, for Allie to catch up with her, then tucked her arm into her sister’s. ‘What’s all this I hear about not going to Switzerland, you silly thing? Giving Madame Lascalle’s famous establishment le brush-off? Whatever next. The poor old bat’ll jette une fit.’ A passing girl giggled and Libby, pleased, threw her a droll look, which had the girl scarlet with the effort of not laughing outright – a pastime strictly forbidden in the corridors of St Leonard’s.

  Embarrassed, Allie ducked her head. ‘I…’ She wondered for a dismayed moment if Libby were her mother’s advance guard.

  ‘Oh, leave the kid alone, Lib,’ said Celia good-naturedly. ‘We don’t all want to be finely polished young ladies, you know. And when it comes down to it, it’s none of your jolly business. Now – make yourself useful and lead us to the sticky buns. I’m starving.’

  The little tea shop was dark, very warm and quite crowded. The air was heavily fragrant with the yeasty, appetizing smell of baking. A cheerful waitress whose starched cap sat upon her head like an improbably perched, petrified butterfly showed them to a corner table. Allie recognized several acquaintances, pupils from the school being ‘treated’ by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and, in one case, what looked suspiciously like a boyfriend masquerading as a brother, judging by the warm looks and finger touching. She did not miss the eyes that followed Libby’s small, striking figure across the room.

  ‘Good Lord.’ Once seated Libby reached into her smart little handbag and produced a slim cigarette case. She extracted a cigarette, placed it between her bright lips, lit it, and surveyed the room through a veil of wreathing blue smoke. ‘This hasn’t changed much, has it?’ Her glance, almost proprietary, took in the small leaded glass windows, the cottage furniture, the crisp gingham tablecloths.

  Allie smiled slightly. ‘It hasn’t exactly been a hundred years since you were here.’

  Libby blew smoke from her nostrils, smiling wickedly. ‘That’s true. It only seems like it. This place and its sticky buns was the only oasis of civilization in the dreary desert that was my days at St Leonard’s. They do still do them?’ she asked, with exaggerated concern.

  Allie nodded.

  ‘Good. I’m going to make an utter pig of myself.’ She waved a small, marvellously manicured hand. ‘Perhaps we should get Plumber’s to supply some sticky buns for my party?’ she giggled suddenly, like a child.

  ‘Sticky buns and champers,’ said Celia, speculatively, ‘that’d be something new, wouldn’t it?’

  Libby threw her head back and laughed, an infectious sound that rang above the buzz of conversation and turned a few smiling faces towards her. ‘Spectacular! Oh, it’s going to be a wonderful party! The most wonderful party anyone ever had. New Year’s Eve and my twenty-first. What a combination! Wasn’t I clever to be born on such an appropriate day?’

  ‘I think Mother and Father actually had something to do with that,’ said Allie solemnly.

  Libby cocked her head on one side, a faint, slightly offended line creasing her brow. ‘I do wish you’d be a sport and come for the whole of the Christmas hols, Celia.’

  Celia shook her head. ‘I’ve told you, I can’t. I do have a family of my own, you know. Mother and Father would be left alone. You know I can’t do that. I’ll come a couple of days before New Year’s.’ She turned to Allie, smiling. She had a truly lovely smile that lit her rather severe features like a sudden burst of sunshine. Allie thought it impossible that anyone could resist smiling back. ‘Are you looking forward to the party?’

  Allie nodded. Libby’s coming-of-age had been a subject of anticipation and excitement at Ashdown for the whole of the winter. Only one thing shadowed the thought of it: Richard would not be there. She tried not to think of that. ‘Yes, I am.’

  They ordered their tea and buns. The waitress remembered Libby. ‘Well, miss,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye, ‘aren’t we the smart one now? No climbing out of windows in that outfit, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Climbing out of windows?’ Celia raised austerely pencilled brows and widened her rather oddly coloured, sea-green eyes. ‘What can she mean? Tales of a misspent youth?’

  Libby stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Oh, all of us used to do it,’ she said, airily. ‘We used to break bounds to meet the boys of St Saviour’s, down the road. Holding hands and going gooey-eyed over a cold cup of tea. Ugh! The Buzzer used to patrol the place – if you saw her coming, you had to do a rather hurried bunk out of the back window. I did it rather often,’ she added, modestly.

  ‘St Saviour’s? Wasn’t that Richard’s school?’ asked Celia.

  ‘Yes,’ said Allie, and the word came out just a little too quickly.

  Celia glanced at her, a gleam of sympathy in her eyes. Libby snorted inelegantly. ‘And a fat lot of good it did for him. Don’t talk to me about Richard.’

  The tea had arrived. Allie ducked her head and tinkered with her teaspoon in her saucer. ‘Christmas and the party are going to seem funny without him,’ she said in a small voice.

  A look of brittle anger flickered across her sister’s face. ‘Whose fault’s that? If the beastly stupid boy and his equally stupid sidekick would rather be in Spain killing people than at my party, then that’s their lookout.’

  Allie lifted her head, shocked. ‘Libby!’

  ‘I hardly think that Richard and Tom went to Spain just to spite you, Lib.’ Celia’s voice was quiet.

  Libby shrugged. ‘I think it flatters them both to suggest that they had any logical reason at all,’ she snapped.

  Celia lifted her dark red head, her eyes fixed on some point at a distance that the small room did not actually afford. ‘“It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees,”’ she quoted, softly. Then ‘A month ago Mosley’s blackshirts were attacking Jews in the streets of Whitechapel. Where’s the logic in that?’

  Libby made a sharp, impatiently angry gesture. ‘What’s that got to do with us? For God’s sake – let’s change the subject, shall we?’ She snapped open her cigarette case again.

  The silence was awkward. Libby’s pretty face had set in an arctic mould that Allie recognized all too well. As her sister lit her cigarette with abrupt short temper, Allie glanced in desperation at Celia and was rewarded by that warm, attractive smile.

  ‘I hear that you’ve decided against university?’

  Allie nodded, grateful for the change of subject. She was uncomfortably warm now. She wished that she had taken her coat off. Her fingers were sticky from the buns and she had spilled sugar on her scarf. Ineffectually she tried to brush it off, aware that Celia looked cool, composed and perfectly groomed.

  ‘And you aren’t going to Switzerland either?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Libby raised caustic eyebrows. ‘Two idiots in the family. What did I do to deserve it?’

  Celia ignored her. ‘What are you going to do then?’

  ‘I – don’t know exactly. That is – I want to go to work. But I don’t know really what I might be able to do. Daddy offered me a job with Jordan Industries, but that isn’t what I want really.’ She laughed, a little self-consciously. ‘Not that I know what I do want. I
just feel that I need to do something different, something of my own. I couldn’t bear to do nothing—’ She broke off, too late, looking worriedly at her sister.

  Libby, who had spent the past year pursuing a little, but not much, ladylike charity work, inspected the fingernails of her small, spread hand. ‘Don’t be sanctimonious, darling.’

  ‘I’m not being,’ Allie said doggedly. ‘I’m just saying—’

  Celia, unexpectedly, cut her short. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t I recall that you speak German rather well?’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘Then I might be able to help you. If you’re interested, of course.’

  Both sisters looked at her in surprise.

  ‘In my father’s office. He imports wine – you probably know?’ Allie nodded. ‘I work for him. It’s quite interesting – secretary-receptionist stuff. The girl who shares the job with me – we work every other day – is leaving to get married. So we’re looking for someone to join us.’ She smiled at Allie. ‘I really think you might enjoy it, and it would be bliss for Father to have another German speaker around. How about it? Shall I put it to him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to impose on you.’ It was a helpless try. If she had not been able to explain to her father, what hope here? Privilege, unknowing, defended its own. And anyway, what real alternative had she?

  ‘You wouldn’t be. On the contrary you’d be doing us a favour. Father would much rather employ someone who’s known to him. What do you think, would you be interested?’

  Allie smiled, smothered in kindness, helpless to resist. ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said, like a small girl offered an apple.

  ‘Right. I’ll speak to him and let you know. Now, Libby dear, for heaven’s sake,’ she added in the same equable, husky voice, ‘take that scowl off your face like a good girl and tell us about your party. We promise we won’t interrupt you for five whole minutes. Will we?’ she appealed to Allie, smiling.

  Allie, grinning back, shook her head.

  Libby held out for a moment, trying to nurse her ill-humour. Then with a capricious suddenness that was typical of her, she threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘You’re an absolute pig, Celia Hinton,’ she said. ‘And I’m damned if I know why I put up with you.’

  ‘Because I’m the only one who stands up to you, darling,’ said Celia. And to Allie it sounded suspiciously like the simple truth.

  Chapter Three

  That Christmas at Ashdown was almost entirely dominated by preparations for Libby’s party. The comings and goings of caterers and dressmakers, the hiring of the marquee, the ordering of flowers and decorations took precedence over every other activity. Christmas itself came and went as a short lull in the proceedings and very little more. The big house, always spotless, was unnecessarily spring-cleaned by an army of additional help. Mrs Welsh, at first greatly offended by the advent of outside caterers, was soothed by the wholehearted agreement of every member of the family that no one but she should have charge of making the cake – a duty that she took so seriously that it resulted in a total ban on visits to the kitchen. The cake was Mrs Welsh’s secret, and not to be seen until the stroke of twelve on New Year’s Eve.

  And so, with ruffled feelings soothed and a peaceful household restored, the rest of the arrangements were embarked upon. A dance band was hired, complete with a rather precious young man who described himself to Allie as ‘dear old England’s answer to Crosby, my duck. If you want a singer, you’ll have to look elsewhere – I croon.’ There were streamers, balloons and bunting by the hundredweight stacked at the back of the garage awaiting the great day. Myra pointed out in some alarm that the guest list appeared to be getting longer every time she looked at it.

  Allie enjoyed the excitement thoroughly. She ran errands, checked lists, decorated the big drawing room, took phone calls, ticked off names and stacked boxes of supplies, while Libby changed her mind twice a day about the colour theme for the marquee, the flower decorations for the tables, the order of the dances.

  On the day before New Year’s Eve, a sudden, odd silence fell upon the house, a stillness accentuated by the heavy, leaden clouds that filled the sky. It was, thought Allie, as she wandered through the lovely, spacious rooms, as if the house were holding its breath. Libby and Celia were upstairs with the dressmaker who was making last-minute adjustments to Libby’s dress – a dress that Allie considered with no envy to be the most beautiful she had ever seen. It was of bias-cut white satin, sleek and shining. It clung to every sweet curve of Libby’s figure, flared gently, shimmering, from her hips to the floor. It looked – and was – elegant and expensive. Her father had been the only one to ask, innocently, if the dressmaker had forgotten to put the back in it? Allie grinned at the thought. Secretly she was more than a little pleased with her own dress. It too was of satin but of demurer cut than her sister’s and in a deep autumnal brown, which suited her less spectacular colouring. She knew that the narrow waist and swirling skirt emphasized her height and slight build. She had spent several very private hours before the mirror in her bedroom, practising the arts of standing and walking gracefully, determined to eliminate the inelegant, hunched stance that the always-too-short St Leonard’s uniform seemed to have bequeathed to her. She was tall. She would have to learn to live with it now, or she never would.

  While on a Christmas shopping trip she had found and bought a book entitled The Modern Woman – Beauty, Physical Culture and Hygiene and had perused it in the privacy of her own room as avidly as if it had been a forbidden romance, jumping guiltily and hiding it beneath her pillow if anyone came into the room. She had arranged her hair a little differently, had experimented tentatively with cosmetics – an effort that had at first prompted her sister to ask her, a little uncharitably, if she had had strawberry jam for breakfast? Celia had then, with Myra’s blessing, taken a kindly hand and the results had been far from displeasing. This party was to be Allie’s first, real grown-up affair. She could not have been happier had it been her own coming-of-age. She was more than excited; she was almost sick with anticipation. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, the men would come to erect the great marquee, build the stage for the musicians, set out the tables and chairs. An enormous net of balloons was to be stretched out above the heads of the dancers, to be released at midnight. The marquee itself was to be decorated in pink, silver and white…

  Tomorrow.

  It seemed an age away.

  She could not, as everyone else seemed thankful to do, rest. She wandered into the drawing room. Ashdown was a gracious house, built in late Victorian times, the rooms big and high-ceilinged. The drawing room was Allie’s favourite. It ran the depth of the house, the long windows at the front overlooking the sweep of the drive and the front lawn upon which she could see now the enormous decorated Christmas tree glittering in a shaft of thin, wintry sunshine that pierced the clouds, while the french windows at the back gave on to a delightful, lofty conservatory, built and stocked by the first owner of the house and one of the passions of Myra Jordan’s life. Through the years of Allie’s childhood it had always been to her a place of enchantment. She loved the green, filtered light, the soft, damply warm atmosphere. Great palm fronds brushed the yellowish glass of the roof. An old vine curtained the wall, curled in tendrils around the gnarled trunks of other exotic trees and plants. The conservatory had been the main reason why Myra and Robert Jordan had bought the house more than twenty years before. To Allie, its allure had never died; it was a fairy-story corner of green nooks and crannies, warm silence and happy memories. She smiled as she looked at it now. It looked smaller, she thought, remembering the long, fanciful afternoons of childhood. But then, everything did.

  She peered through the lacework of leaves into the garden. Tomorrow the marquee would stand there. Tomorrow! In the grip of a swift and irresistible surge of excitement, Allie hugged herself, took a few swift, dancing steps, humming softly to herself a catchy, popular tune. She loved to dance. Tomorr
ow she would dance every dance. Every single dance. She stopped, the echoes of the tune she had been humming still in her head: Richard’s favourite song. As clearly as if he had been in the room, she heard his voice, slightly off key – ‘Yes, sir, that’s my baby. No, sir, don’t mean maybe…’ She nibbled her lip, the excitement curdling within her. Richard and Tom were in besieged Madrid. The Condor Squadron – German planes, German pilots, German expertise – were bombing and strafing. Practising, some said, for other targets. The pleasurable anticipation of a moment before ebbed from her like a receding tide, leaving her stranded on a familiar, bleak shore of worry. Her hands dropped to her side. In the garden, Browning was clipping the hedge, the sound of his shears sharp and loud in the winter air. From inside the house someone was calling her: ‘Allie. Al – lie.’

  Pushing her hair from her eyes she went back into the drawing room. ‘Coming.’

  * * *

  Inevitably, to begin with, everything went wrong. The men were late in coming to erect the marquee, the flowers were the wrong shade of pink and there weren’t enough of them, Libby did not like the way the hairdresser had done her hair and there was no lunch because Mrs Welsh was absorbed in the finishing touches to the cake. By late afternoon it was perfectly obvious that nothing and no one was going to be ready in time. Then, in a final flurry of activity the last pieces of the puzzle dropped into place and, miraculously, all was well.

  Just before eight, the family and Celia assembled in the drawing room for a first glass of champagne. The clouds of the previous day had lifted and it was a clear, cold evening. The lanterns that adorned house and garden sparkled in the frosty air. From the marquee came the sound of the band tuning up. There was a crackle of static, then ‘One, two, three,’ said a man’s voice. A piano tinkled, a saxophone played a snatch of tune. Through the double doors of the drawing room, Libby made a well-timed entrance, striking a prettily self-conscious pose, turning slowly to display shimmering perfection. ‘Will I do?’