Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie (34 page)

Lady Beech meanwhile had not been idle. It was quite uncanny what a lot of Sir Ivor’s furniture, books, knick-knacks and even cooking utensils had been lent to him by Lady Beech. The house was really nothing but a loan collection. She had, with great forethought, provided herself with two packets of labels, stick-on and tie-on, and by the time Sophia had finished her business, these appeared like a sort of snow-storm, scattered through all the rooms.

‘Darling, I have just labelled a few little things of my own which dear Ivor had borrowed from me from time to time,’ she said, putting a sticky one firmly on to the giant radiogram as she spoke.

‘Very sensible, darling.’ Sophia secured the jet tiara, an object which she had coveted from childhood. ‘Goodbye, then, Larch,’ she said. ‘Keep the wigs, won’t you, and we’ll send them to the Ivor King Home of Rest. The aged singers are sure to need them, and I feel it’s just what
he
would have liked.’ Larch evidently thought that this idea was full of good feeling, and held open the door of the car with an approving look.

They motored back to London in silence, Sophia loved Lady Beech and would have done almost anything for her, but she knew that it would be useless to present Vocal Lodge to the Nation if Lady Beech was always to be there, sighing at whatever visitors might venture in.

‘S
T
. A
NNE
’
S
H
OSPITAL
F
IRST
A
ID
P
OST

‘PS. Did I tell you Luke is proceeding to America on a very secret mission for the F.O.? Fancy choosing that old Fascist. I must get him some Horlick’s malted tablets for the 100 hours in an open boat which will almost certainly be his fate – I keep advising him to go rowing on the Serpentine to get his hand in. So here I shall be, left all alone with Florrie and her gang, isn’t it terrifying for me? Should you say Heatherley and Winthrop are ones too?’

Sophia was now designated by the newspapers as ‘Wig Heiress’. The reporters pursued her from the pillars of her own front door to the Post, where Sister Wordsworth finally routed them with a hypodermic needle, in an effort to find out how she intended to dispose of her legacy. As she refused to make any statement, they invented every kind of thing. Ninety-eight Granby Gate was for sale, and Sir Luke and Lady Sophia Garfield would take up their residence at Vocal Lodge. They were only going to use it as a summer residence. They were going to pull it down and build a block of flats. (The Georgian Group, wrapped in dreams of Federal Union, stirred in its sleep on hearing this, and groaned.) They were shutting it up to avoid the rates. They were digging for victory among the Lesbian Irises. Only the truth was not told.

Luke, who really hated publicity, even when it took the form of a beautiful studio portrait of Sophia in
Vogue
, because, he said, it did him harm in the City, became very restive, and speeded up his arrangements for leaving England. Sophia spent a busy day shopping for him. Her heart smote her for not having been much nicer to him, as it did periodically, so she tried to atone in Harrod’s man’s shop, and he left England fully equipped as a U-boat victim. Florence saw him off at his front door and presented him with the balaclava helmet but Sophia, who accompanied him to the station, threw it out of the taxi window explaining that there was a proper machine-made one in his valise. She kissed him goodbye on the platform
to the accompaniment of magnesium flares which, rather to her disappointment (because although she always looked like an elderly negress in them, she liked to see photographs of herself in the papers), were prevented by the Ministry of Information from bearing any fruit. Luke’s mission was a very secret one. As a final parting present she gave him a pocket Shakespeare to read, she explained, on the desert island where his open boat would probably deposit him.

‘And if you hear a loud bang in the night,’ she added, as the train drew out of the station, ‘don’t turn over and go to sleep again.’

‘Luke hates jokes and hates the war,’ she said to Mary Pencill who was also on the platform, seeing off one of Trotsky’s lieutenants, ‘so isn’t he lucky to be going to America where they have neither?’

Mary carried Sophia off to her flat when the train had gone, and they had a long and amicable talk during which they managed to avoid the subject of politics. Sophia, who was considered absolutely red by those supporters of Munich, apologists for Mussolini and lovers of Franco, Fred and Ned, was apt to feel the truest of blue Tories when in the presence of Mary whose attitude of suspicion and obstruction always annoyed her.

‘Still writing on foreheads?’ Mary inquired when they were settled down in front of her gas stove.

‘It’s all very well for you to laugh, just wait until you’ve got a crushed tongue and slight oozing haemorrhage like one of the patients we had in yesterday – you’ll be only too glad to have me writing on your forehead.’

‘How d’you mean, yesterday? Was there an air raid – I never noticed a thing.’

‘Darling, you are so dense. Practice of course. The telephone bell rings, and I answer it and it says “Southern Control speaking. Practice air raid warning Red, expect casualties.” Then, some time later, a lot of unhappy-looking people are brought
in out of the street in return for threepence and a cup of tea. They are labelled with a description of their injuries, then we treat them, at least the nurses do, and I write on their foreheads and take them up to the canteen for their cup of tea.’

‘With their foreheads still written on?’

‘Well, they get threepence, don’t they? First of all, we used to practise on each other, but then Mr Stone very sensibly pointed out what a shambles it would be if there were a real raid and real casualties were brought in and found all the personnel tied up in Thomas’s splints, and so on. Think of it! So they work on this other scheme now; it seems much more professional too.’

‘Well, all I can say is, if there’s a raid I hope I shall be allowed to die quietly where I am.’

‘Don’t be defeatist, darling,’ said Sophia.

The next day Sophia, looking, she thought, really very pretty and wearing another new black hat, went off to the Horse Guards Parade where, in the presence of a large crowd, of the microphone and of cinematographers, she handed over to Fred, who accepted it on behalf of the Nation, a cardboard model of Vocal Lodge, the Shrine of Song.

Fred made a very moving speech. He spoke first, of course, about Sophia’s enormously generous action, until she hardly knew where to look. He went on to say that the Shrine of Song would be a fitting memorial to one whose loss was irreparable both to Britain and to the whole world of art; the loss of a beloved citizen and venerated artist.

‘And we must remember,’ he went on, warming to his work, ‘that Death never has the last word. When we think of the King of Song, when we pay our pious pilgrimage to Vocal Lodge, it is not of Death that we must think but of that wonderful old spirit which is still watching over us, merged with the eternal Spirit of Patriotism. The work he would have done, had he lived to do it, will now be left undone. But will it? Those who love him – and
they were not confined to this country, mind you, they mourn as we mourn in palaces and cottages the world over – those who loved him know that before he died he had intended literally to devote every breath in his body to an Ideal. He knew that if our cause is lost there will be no Song left in the world, no Music, no Art, no Joy. Lovers of music everywhere, yes and inside Germany too, will remember that the greatest singer of our time, had he not died so prematurely, was going to give his all in the struggle for Freedom. Many an Austrian, many a Czech, many a Pole, and even many a German will think of this as he plays over the well-loved gramophone records, fearful of the creeping feet behind his windows, yet determined once more to enjoy, come what may, that Golden Voice. The cause of such a man, they will think, as they listen to those immortal trills, to that historic bass and of such an artist, must be indeed the Cause of Right. Who can tell but that the King of Song will not finally accomplish more in death than he, or any other mortal man, could ever accomplish in life.

‘Oh Death! Where is thy sting? Oh Grave! Where is thy victory?’

This speech, which was extremely well received, put Fred back on his feet again with everybody except that irascible fellow who indicates daily to Britain what she should Expect.

‘We learn,’ he wrote the following day, ‘that Vocal Lodge has been presented to the Nation to be kept as a Shrine of Song. How do we learn this news, of Empirewide interest? Through the columns of a free Press? No! A Minister of the Crown withholds it from the public in order to announce it himself in a speech. Praise Lady Sophia Garfield, who gives. The clumsy mismanagement of the whole affair is not her fault. Examine the record of this Minister. It is far from good. We should like to see him offer his resignation forthwith and we should like to see his resignation accepted.’

However, all the other newspapers as well as Fred’s colleagues thought that it was first-class stuff and that he had more or less
atoned for so carelessly mislaying the King. He was extremely grateful to Sophia who had given him the opportunity for turning Sir Ivor’s death to such good account. He and Ned took her out to dinner, fed her with oysters and pink champagne, and stayed up very late indeed.

Sophia, when at last she got home, was surprised and bored, as well as rather startled, to find Greta in her bedroom. She never allowed anybody to wait up for her. Greta seemed very much upset about something, her face was swollen with tears and it was several moments before she could speak.

‘Oh Frau Gräfin, don’t let them send me back to Germany – they will, I know it, and then in a camp they will put me and I shall die. Oh, protect me, Frau Gräfin.’

‘But Greta, don’t be so absurd. How can anybody send you back to Germany? We are at war with the Germans, so how could you get there? You might have to be interned here in England if you didn’t pass the tribunal, you know, but I will come with you and speak to the Magistrate and I’m sure it will be quite all right. Now go to bed and don’t worry any more.’

Greta seemed far from being reassured. She shivered like a nervous horse and went on moaning about the horrors of German concentration camps and how she would certainly be sent to one, unless an even worse fate was in store for her.

‘You’ve been reading the White Paper,’ said Sophia impatiently. ‘And it should make you realise how very, very lucky you are to be in England.’

‘Oh, please protect me,’ was all Greta replied to this felicitous piece of propaganda. ‘They are coming for me; it may be tonight. Oh please, Frau Gräfin, may I sleep in your bathroom tonight?’

‘Certainly not. Why, you have got Mrs Round in the very next room, and Rawlings next door to that. Much safer than being in my bathroom, and besides, I want to have a bath. Now, Greta, pull yourself together and go to bed. You have been upset by
poor Sir Ivor’s death, and so have we all. We must just try to forget about it, you see. Good night, Greta.’

Greta clutched Sophia’s arm, and speaking very fast she said, ‘If I tell you something about Sir Ivor, may I sleep in your bathroom? He is –’ Her voice died away in a sort of moan, her eyes fixed upon the doorway. Sophia looked round and saw Florence standing there.