After the Last Dance (25 page)

‘Well, I do, darling, especially if it involves you having romantic intrigues with strapping GIs,' Jane said. ‘It sounds like something out of a film.'

‘Oh, I'm sure you'd find it very boring,' Rose demurred.

‘Well, considering that Jane didn't even know clothes were rationed, I'm sure she'd find it educational,' Leo said, easily stepping out of range of Jane's arm, which was poised to strike. ‘What? Even I knew about clothes rationing and I used to sleep through history lessons.'

‘Unless it's too painful to talk about,' George said and Rose placed her hand over his as if there was nothing so painful they couldn't talk about it. ‘If it hurts too much to remember.'

‘Maybe once it did, but now it's rather lovely to remember Rainbow Corner.' Her voice was full of longing. ‘It was the most marvellous place. When it opened, they threw away the key because they said their doors would always be open for any American servicemen who needed a place to go. Not just GIs – Rainbow Corner never turned me away either.'

 

The refugees arrived on a sunny day at the end of May.

Rose hadn't seen Edward at Rainbow Corner since he'd reprimanded her on the stairs but she'd sent word via Mickey Flynn and two men turned up at Montague Terrace to collect the teetering piles of donations stacked up in the hall.

Edward had sent a note back with Mickey.

That Thursday, with a teddy bear knitted from wool repurposed from her old school jumper and her pockets stuffed with chocolate, Rose arrived at the house in Kensington.

Since she'd been there last, the front door had been repainted a cheery cherry red. Rose rang the bell then waited long moments before the door opened and Edward appeared. He'd discarded his uniform jacket and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, sleeves rolled up.

‘Oh, it's you.' He frowned. ‘Sorry. I didn't mean to sound so abrupt.'

Rose clutched the paper bag she was holding tighter to her chest. ‘Are they not here, then?'

Edward ran a hand through his fair hair, which was rumpled as if he'd been running his hands through it all afternoon. ‘They are, but, well… you'd better come in.'

She didn't want to – he looked so discombobulated – but she stepped past him into the hall. The walls gleamed fresh and white. The smell of new paint caught at the back of Rose's throat as she moved towards the front room, but Edward took her arm.

‘Just to warn you – they're not a pretty sight,' he said quietly. ‘Try not to be alarmed.'

Then he ushered her into the room. Rose held her breath as she glanced timidly around. The place had been transformed: pristine white walls in here too, the rotting floorboards replaced, sanded and polished, even the fireplace tiles had been cleaned, the grate blackened.

Then she saw them in the corners, at the edges, where the shadows congregated, and it was just as well Edward had warned her so she had time to bite down her shocked gasp.

There were six – no, seven of them; ghosts hugging the walls, watching her with wary faces. Two men and two women, who could have been eighteen or eighty, and three children. Their skin, as pale yellow as the pretty oxlips that had fluttered in the breeze as she'd sat in the copse with Phyllis, was stretched tight over protruding bones and if a draught drifted in through a gap in the newly restored windows, they might topple like skittles.

When Edward put a hand on her shoulder Rose nearly screamed, but she managed to bite that down too and let him push her forward.

‘This is Rose,' he said. ‘She's come to say hello.'

‘Do they speak English?' she whispered, though her voice sounded loud and shrill in the suffocating stillness of the room.

‘I don't know,' he whispered back, as if he felt as helpless as she did.

One of the children, a little girl with mousy hair in two spindly plaits, was nearest. Rose had always hated it when grown-ups loomed over her so she crouched down. ‘Hello,' she said. ‘I'm so pleased that you're finally here.' She smiled. The girl stared back at Rose.

‘My friends and I have been busy finding you all sorts of things to play with,' she said because her gabble was better than silence. Inspired, she delved into the paper bag she'd placed on the floor and pulled out the misshapen bottle-green bear she'd knitted. ‘I made you a new friend in case you had to leave some of your old ones behind.'

She held it up for inspection. Maggie had donated two jet beads for eyes and Rose had sewn on a smile with a scrap of red felt. ‘He's called Bill. Bill the bear. He's ever so cuddly. Here, why don't you see for yourself?'

There was still no response.

‘I have other things too.' Rose smiled at each of the children in turn. ‘Do you like chocolate?'

She pulled a handful of Hershey bars from her pocket. In no time at all, the chocolate was snatched away by hungry little hands.

Rose's mother had said, frequently, that good manners meant making other people feel comfortable no matter the circumstances, so once the children had retreated to a corner, where they sat on the floor and sniffed the chocolate as if they weren't sure whether it was real, she straightened up and walked over to one of the women.

The closer she got, the less the woman looked like a haunted apparition. She was wearing a ragged black coat, thin brown hair falling in her face as she looked at Rose with suspicion. It would be so much easier to leave, simply run away from the house and these broken people.

It was much harder, maybe the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, to hold out her hand and say, ‘I'm Rose. It's lovely to meet you.'

The woman looked at Rose's hand, then her gaze travelled upwards to the hopeful expression on Rose's face. Rose tried to smile welcomingly, though she wasn't sure she'd succeeded because the woman suddenly bowed her head and started to cry.

‘Oh, please don't. I never meant to upset you,' Rose said and it was easier even than running away to put her arms around the woman and hold her as she sobbed, her head resting on Rose's shoulder. She was so thin that Rose was scared she might shatter. Beneath the thin coat, she could feel each of the knobs of her spine, her ribs like spillikins. ‘Everything will be all right. You're safe now. Edward will see to that.'

Edward stepped forward then, proffered his handkerchief and the woman allowed herself to be led to an ancient overstuffed armchair where she sat down and blew her nose. ‘Thank you,' she said in an accented voice. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.'

Her tears unlocked the others from their inertia and soon all the adults were seated on the chairs that Edward had managed to rustle up from somewhere. Rose was still holding the woman's hand and the little girl with plaits, clutching Bill the bear as if she'd never let him go, had climbed onto her lap while Edward went to the kitchen to make tea.

They drank black tea, as Edward's connections hadn't stretched to obtaining any milk, and ate stale buns, though no one seemed to mind. They didn't mind sleeping on camp beds either or not having much in the way of furniture. As Edward and Rose showed them around the house, they exclaimed over each new discovery – from light bulbs to running water to a playroom on the second floor with Rose's spoils displayed on the shelves.

Rose didn't know where they'd come from or what horrors they'd escaped, but whatever their circumstances, they really didn't need to keep saying thank you. It was the very least she could have done and she'd only done that to take her mind off Danny. These seven lost souls, and the hundreds of thousands of others just like them, were the reason he climbed into his plane night after night. Danny's treatment of her had been cruel and selfish but even cruel and selfish Danny had been prepared to risk his life twenty-five times over to save people he'd never met, from countries that he'd only seen in an atlas. If Danny could do that, then Rose could have done so much more than the odd assortment of bric-a-brac she'd scrounged up.

‘I'll keep hunting things out for them,' she told Edward when he walked her to Kensington High Street to catch the bus. ‘Those poor people. And the tinies! What happened to them?'

‘They've spent the last two years hiding in a cellar but… never mind about the finer details. They're Jewish. They were lucky to have spent the last two years in a cellar.'

Rose glanced up at Edward. His voice was flat, toneless, but his face was even tighter than when he'd told her off for being selfish. ‘They were lucky you heard about them, that you brought them here.'

He shrugged. ‘Seven lucky ones. Thousands upon thousands of not so lucky ones.'

‘Do you think they'll be any more of them arriving?'

‘No.' It was unequivocal. ‘Not until this whole ugly business is finished.'

‘So, it will be finished soon? I know that we're not meant to talk about it on account that one of us might be a spy but if you were an enemy agent then you wouldn't be smuggling Jewish refugees out of Europe. And I'm definitely not an enemy agent,' she exclaimed, because a Nazi official would only have to give her a stern look and an ‘
Achtung
!
' and she'd spill every single secret she knew.

‘Oh, Rose!' It wasn't one of Edward's slow, serious smiles but a grin that scrubbed away the troubled expression he'd worn all afternoon. ‘If you really are a Nazi spy, then you're a very good one. Anyway, you're at Rainbow Corner most nights – I'm sure you have a better idea of what's happening than even Winston himself.'

Rose giggled. ‘I'm sure I don't.' They'd reached her bus stop. ‘But, well, it feels like something big is about to happen. Maybe this time when people say that the war will be over by Christmas, it might actually be true.'

The number nine bus stopped, but Rose made no move to board. There'd be another one along soon. She wanted to spend just a little longer with Edward. He didn't treat her as just another pretty girl but as if she had some substance to her.

‘I'm not sure it will be over by Christmas,' he said. ‘But I am sure that things will probably get worse before they get better.'

‘I don't see how,' Rose groused, as she fished in her purse for the thruppence fare. ‘Unless they start rationing water and fresh air and the Nazis drop bombs morning, noon and night.'

‘What an alarming thought.' Edward smiled again. ‘Would you mind awfully coming back next Thursday? You don't have to bring anything, just yourself, and if they're feeling a little stronger and the weather's nice, maybe you could take the children to the park.'

‘Of course. And I'll bring Phyllis. Most of the things I found came from Phyllis and she's awfully good at making people feel at home.'

‘By all means bring Phyllis and when you have a free night, I'd like to take you out to say thank you. Have you ever been to The Ritz?'

Just hearing the name of that place made Rose's heart flutter. ‘You don't have to do that. I'm glad that I could do something for them. I want to help.'

‘And I want to take you to dinner as long as you promise not to order the Tournedos Rossini again. You can bring your Phyllis too, if you like.'

Rose did like, because having dinner alone with a man, especially somewhere terribly expensive and grand, might give him the wrong idea. Then there was the whole ghastly situation with Danny, but that was far too complicated to explain, especially when she could see another bus bearing down on her. ‘That would be nice,' she said.

‘All these notes through Mickey Flynn are ridiculous. Are you on the telephone?' Edward asked as the bus came to the stop.

‘Only at work.' Rose jumped on board. The bus was pulling away so there was no time to debate the consequences of giving Edward her number. ‘Gerrard 7531, but you'll have to pretend that it's a national emergency. I'm not allowed personal calls.'

Sometimes Jane thought her adult life could be measured out in the number of dreary dinners she'd sat through. Making small talk with the person on her left. Thinking desperately of something to say to bring the person on her right out of their shell. Picking her way through food that contained ingredients she'd never heard of and couldn't even pronounce anyway.

Tonight was going to be a dull dinner with two of Rose's business advisers. Not like the dinners they'd been having lately, when it was just the three of them and George. After dinner they'd retire to Rose's sitting room and she'd tell them stories about Rainbow Corner and as she talked, Jane could see glimpses of that girl who'd danced until three in the morning.

It was all coming together nicely. Rose was on the good drugs and seeing Leo in a fonder, kinder light. Leo had a new sense of purpose and even if he didn't trust Jane, he was grateful. She'd much rather have someone's gratitude than their trust.

Anyway, what was one more dreary dinner, Jane thought, as she stepped into her heels. She hadn't worn heels in weeks and was a little wobbly as she turned and checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Rose had insisted quite sharply last night that standards had been allowed to slip and that she expected then to dress for dinner.

At least George would be there and Leo had promised to keep her entertained. ‘We'll play a drinking game,' he'd said that morning when they were walking down to breakfast. ‘We both have to take a sip every time someone mentions the housing bubble.'

‘Or talks about affordable housing for essential workers,' Jane had suggested and they'd texted each other back and forth all day with rules for their game, though Leo's last text had been a plea to stop him drinking after one glass of wine.
Then I'll switch to water. Can't have you taking advantage of me if I get drunk
.

He was quite hung up on the idea of Jane taking advantage of him and she knew that if she dispensed with the pillows down the centre of the bed, he'd quite happily lie back and think of England. Not that Jane was going to, but just thinking of the look on Leo's face if she did made her smirk as she started walking down the stairs. She heard a ring on the bell, saw Anna the maid scurry to answer it, then two men walked through the door and Jane froze. Literally froze. As if she'd suddenly been turned to ice and was frightened to take a step in case she shattered. He looked up and it wasn't a trick of the light.

It was Charles, all colour drained from his face, so he looked like a negative image, a picture that hadn't been developed.

With her hand suddenly clutching her thumping heart, Jane wondered if Charles had looked like that when she left him. When he found the note she'd written on the kitchen counter, along with her keys.

Now Charles was waiting for her as Jane walked slowly down the stairs, like she'd planned her entrance, but she hadn't. It was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other.

Anna was still waiting to take Charles's coat. The younger man he'd come in with was waiting too, but all Jane could see was Charles. He was older. His hair was greyer, receding; there were lines around his eyes, his mouth, that hadn't been there before. She had to steel herself to meet his anger and disappointment, but instead he smiled as if nothing delighted him more than to come face to face with her again.

‘Jane, how lovely you look,' he said, as she reached the bottom step. His eyes swept over her high-maintenance hair, the little black dress, and the heels that she'd learned to walk in while she was under his care. ‘It really has been far too long.'

‘It has,' she agreed and another five steps took her close enough that her hands were in his and his lips brushed against one cheek, then the other, an inconsequential greeting between old friends. The first time he'd ever touched her. How odd that there was nothing terrifying about Charles's hands; they held Jane steady even though she was sure that Charles could feel the frantic quiver that shot through her. The whole thing was unbearable. Jane smiled and pulled her hands away and glanced at the younger man waiting patiently in the wings. ‘And who's this, darling?'

Charles hadn't liked it when she'd started calling people darling. ‘It's so horribly contrived,' he'd complain, but now he continued to smile and took her hand once more as if seeing her again was so wonderful that he didn't want anything to spoil it.

‘Jane, this is Fergus, Rose's right-hand man and a good friend of mine,' Charles said as she shook hands with the tall man in his thirties with a shock of bright red hair and the air of a gangly teenager.

‘Jane, Leo's told me so much about you but I didn't know you knew Charles too,' Fergus said with a bright smile and a gentle handshake. ‘I'm never sure if it's comforting or terrifying that the world is so small. How do you two know each other?'

Charles had always introduced her as his niece. There was something more respectable about a niece rather than a goddaughter or the daughter of an old friend.

‘We go way back,' Jane said and Charles nodded. ‘So far back that I can't even remember how we met, can you?'

Charles wouldn't give away her secrets, or maybe he'd planned to but Lydia arrived to usher them into the drawing room. ‘I'm afraid Ms Beaumont is delayed,' she said. Jane had never heard her sound so formal. ‘And we're still waiting on Mr Hurst.'

It was thirty absolutely-fucking-agonising minutes of clutching a glass of white wine and perching on the arm of a chair while they talked brightly about the weather, why the council had dug up Kensington High Street yet again, then moved on to possible plans for Christmas.

Jane had cultivated the art of being witty and unstudied but that didn't mean much when she was sitting across from Charles, who'd witnessed her learning her trade. She felt like a wind-up doll whose mechanism was malfunctioning and when Fergus started talking about the Bank of England base rate, it was a relief not to have to contribute anything.

It was an even bigger relief when Leo walked in. For a moment, Jane wasn't sure that it was Leo. He wasn't wearing a crumpled T-shirt and baggy jeans, but a suit. Leo didn't do suits, except apparently he did: a slim-cut, navy blue suit with a black shirt. He rubbed his hands together nervously and smiled. ‘Fergus! Great to see you again. You must be Charles? No, don't get up. I'm Leo, Rose's great-nephew. Sorry to keep you waiting. Can I top you up?'

Leo had also been to a barber. The bleached ends had been shorn off and he now had a short back and sides with enough hair left on top that he could run his fingers through it as he was doing now while he chatted to Fergus and Charles about a job the maintenance crew had been working on that morning. ‘He swore he didn't know how the flat had got flooded but then we discovered all his clothes had been cut into tiny pieces and eventually he admitted that he'd cheated on his girlfriend and she'd let herself in while he was at work and left all the taps running.' He quirked an eyebrow at Jane. ‘Don't be getting any ideas.'

She'd seen Leo every day and every night for over a month now, but she'd stopped seeing him, so she hadn't noticed that his face was leaner, pared down, his shirt no longer straining against his belly. He seemed to take up more space now that there was a little less of him, Jane thought as she watched Leo snag a footstool and sit down so he could talk to Fergus about some new Arsenal midfielder who wasn't living up to the promise of his twenty-five-million-pound transfer deal.

Leo glanced over to where Jane was still perched on the arm of a chair. ‘God, I'd forgotten how well you scrub up,' he said. She'd had better, more elegant compliments but they'd lacked Leo's sincerity. When Leo bothered to make the effort, he could be so sweet. Suddenly, Jane wanted to pretend that she was a proper wife and that Leo had meant it when he promised to love, honour and protect her. Tonight, she needed his protection.

Lydia appeared in the doorway to announce that Rose was waiting for them in the dining room and when Leo got his feet, Jane tucked her arm in his and gave it a little squeeze as they walked through.

 

‘You look really good,' Jane said slightly incredulously, which made Leo wonder if he'd really looked
that
bad before. ‘Positively svelte. Just how much hard labour have you been doing, darling?'

‘I think it's because I've cut down on the booze,' Leo told her. ‘If I'm not hammered then I don't get a craving for a doner kebab with all the trimmings once they've called last orders.'

‘Yuck.' Jane grimaced. ‘I fear for your arteries.'

Rose was seated at the head of the table, George leaning over her to show her something on his phone. Like Jane, she was dressed all in black. It might have been the effect of the candles on the table, the dimmed uplighters on the wall, but Leo was sure there was a yellowing tinge to her face lately that even her red lipstick and the discreet glimmer of diamonds couldn't mask. Leo noticed that Rose wasn't getting up to greet Fergus and Charles. That was a first. She'd been fine this morning, but now she must feel… not fine.

Rose hadn't lost her autocratic edge, though. She directed them all to their places. Charles on her right, Jane seated next to him. Leo on her left, Fergus alongside him, George at the other end of the table. He didn't exactly know who Charles was, only that he was some kind of investment whizz and that Rose trusted him with her portfolios, so he had to be good people, because Rose hardly trusted anyone. Then he heard Charles say to Rose, ‘Actually, Jane and I are old friends. Though it's been a while, hasn't it?'

Being an old friend of Jane's could mean anything: fund manager, distant relative, lover. It was impossible to tell, only that she nodded her head briefly, tersely even, then stared down at her place setting and wouldn't look at Charles, while he stole tiny, furtive glances at Jane when he thought that nobody would notice in the bustle of shaking out napkins and Frank, drafted in for the evening as butler, bringing in the wine.

Dinner parties had never been Leo's speed, but somewhere between the bread and the soup he started to enjoy himself. Fergus was Rose's heir apparent, charming, amenable but with an iron-coated backbone, much like Rose herself. He also seemed to love the bricks and mortar, the houses, the
homes,
which made up the core of the business as much as Rose did.

‘You were going to tell me about the place on Powis Square,' Fergus said to Rose after the wine had been poured, and she was suddenly at her sparkling best as she embarked on a long, funny story about renting out a house in Notting Hill in the seventies to a rock star and his wife with a granny annexe for the rock star's boyfriend and
his
wife.

Then George talked about how he'd worked at Seditionaries, Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood's shop on the King's Road, and that early on in their friendship he'd taken Rose to see the Sex Pistols play on a boat.

‘Lovely boys,' Rose deadpanned, as Fergus coughed into his napkin and Leo thought he might actually cry he was laughing so hard. ‘And I only got gobbed on once before the whole affair was shut down by the police. Really, I've been to worse parties.'

Jane and Charles were the only ones who weren't laughing. She sat silent, teeth worrying at her bottom lip, a deep furrow between her eyebrows. Charles couldn't take his eyes off her.

Neither could Leo, for that matter.

‘So, Leo, what do you do?' Charles had torn his gaze away from Jane. ‘I know you've been overseas for a few years but I was wondering what your plans were now you're back in London.'

‘He's an artist,' Jane said quickly, as if she dared anyone to contradict her. ‘Portraits mostly.'

It wasn't even the anticipation of Rose's disapproving sniff that made Leo admit the truth. ‘I'm barely that. I'm between commissions, though to be honest, sometimes there have been whole years between commissions.' That was the thing with not drinking. It made you confront some hard, ugly truths. ‘These last few weeks I've been going out with the property maintenance team. Swapped my pastels for matt white emulsion, you know.'

Of course his ambitions amounted to doing more with his life than sanding down skirting boards, but then Leo was staring down the wrong side of his thirties and he didn't exactly know what his ambitions were any more.

They talked shop for the rest of dinner: Leo, Fergus and Rose, Charles and George chiming in with the odd comment and Leo couldn't remember the last time he'd been this fired up as he pleaded the case for doing something fancy with the keystone and springers on their latest renovation project in Westbourne Grove.

He was also saying ‘we', when he wasn't part of ‘we', but a disinterested third party. Except he
was
interested, especially when Rose talked about her employees' right-to-buy-scheme.

‘When this company started it was solely to house refugees coming from Europe at the end of the war,' she said, which Leo hadn't known. ‘Kensington was on the wrong side of the Park, as we used to say. You could buy up huge swaths of bomb-damaged property very cheaply. There were refugees, soldiers suddenly without work, who needed jobs. They got a decent wage and for a heavily reduced rent they lived in the properties they renovated. Back then, we all needed a sense of purpose, the belief that everything we'd fought for hadn't been in vain.

‘I still believe that if people are prepared to work hard, then they should have a decent wage and somewhere they can afford to live,' Rose stopped and smiled wryly. Maybe she was having a good day after all. ‘Goodness, I think it's time I climbed down from my soapbox.'

‘I like the view from up there,' Fergus said and Leo couldn't help but feel a little pang of something. Not jealousy, not entirely, but maybe regret that it was Fergus who shared Rose's passion, her vision and not Leo, or Alistair, or one of their cousins, so she could keep her legacy in the family. ‘You should be very proud of the right-to-buy scheme. Actually, Leo, if you're interested, I've got a property development company from Denmark coming in who are thinking of setting up a similar scheme. They specialise in carbon-neutral developments. Might be interesting, if you'd like to sit in. I remember we had quite a heated discussion about the challenges of being eco-friendly when renovating listed buildings.'