Fallen Skies. Philippa Gregory
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know what,’ he said suddenly to David. ‘She looks like the girls used to look – before.’
‘No! She’s 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!’
‘D’you 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 didn’t think you’d got any medals. I didn’t know they gave medals for pushing papers in London.’
‘We can’t all be you,’ David said pleasantly. ‘Charging around, blowing your whistle and massacring Huns single-handed.’ He slapped Stephen on the back. ‘Let’s have a little bracer and ask the girl out,’ he said. ‘She can bring along a friend for me. They’re all tarts, these girls. She’ll 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. ‘There’s 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 other’s arms; the woman’s hat was pushed back as they kissed passionately.
‘Dirty bitch,’ Stephen said with sudden venom. ‘I hate tarts.’
‘Oh, you hate everybody when you’ve 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 Stephen’s 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.’
‘We’ll 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 tart’s 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.
‘That’s that then,’ David said disconsolately. ‘What a harridan!’
‘You go on, I’ll meet you at the Queens.’
‘You’ve got no chance here, not with her ma on sentry-go.’
‘I’ll 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 Lily’s fair hair, only half-covered by a silly little hat, as she walked down the shadowy alley, her hand tucked in her mother’s 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 I’ve 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 mother’s 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.’
‘It’s 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.’
‘We’ve 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