The Second-last Woman in England (13 page)

The young lady who came into Cecil’s office and who had just lost her father in such distressing circumstances was not dressed in mourning. Mourning clothes were already going out of fashion by then, particularly so amongst the young, so perhaps the cherry-red winter coat was not so very remarkable, and yet he remembered so well the impression the young lady made as she strode into his suddenly rather stuffy and shabby office. She had been wearing a fur tippet, he recalled—though every lady wore furs in those days—and a small hat, cherry red to match the coat. And long black gloves. It was 1936, of course—December, so Harriet had been 24.

He came quickly out from behind his desk holding out both hands in a way that was both greeting and discreet sympathy.

‘Miss Paget. How do you do? I am Mr Wallis. Cecil Wallis. Thank you for making this journey to our office at such a difficult time.’

Miss Paget shook his hand with a tight smile as though she was uncertain whether he was referring to her father’s sudden demise or to the abdication of the King. Cecil realised he wasn’t sure himself. He hovered for a moment, hands clasped before him.

‘Please do sit down.’ He indicated the padded Edwardian chair before his desk. ‘May I start by offering my sympathy to you at this distressing time?’

Miss Paget shrugged. ‘Oh, well. These things happen. No use crying over spilt milk. Do you mind if I smoke?’

Cecil blinked, a little flustered by her off-hand response. ‘No, indeed. Please do.’

Actually, he loathed the habit, but had trained himself to prepare for every social eventuality. He opened a desk drawer and produced a silver ashtray. It was a little too chilly to think of opening the window. Besides, that would have been rude.

She really was a striking-looking young lady. Strong features, dark eyes—what colour? One couldn’t really see, but dark, and her face had colour to it as though she had returned, not from New York where it was currently 20 degrees, but from South Africa or the West Indies. She was very self-assured, didn’t look at him at all as she concentrated on lighting her cigarette. Perhaps she was keeping a tight rein over her feelings; persons in a state of shock often did.

Miss Paget’s father was not Cecil’s first trans-Atlantic death.

‘May we offer you a cup of tea, Miss Paget? I find tea often helps in these circumstances.’ He smiled in a way that offered both friendship and comfort.

Miss Paget raised a curious eyebrow.

‘Does it?’ she asked, frowning. ‘Do you get a lot of this on your ships, Mr …?’

‘Wallis. Not a lot, no. But I’m afraid it is probably a lot more common than the average passenger would expect. We don’t advertise the fact, naturally. That would alarm our passengers. Nevertheless, we are prepared for all circumstances and I trust that we may offer a swift and, where possible, painless resolution to ease your distress.’

The eyebrow raised a second time.

‘Well. You amaze me, Mr Wallis.’ She drew on her cigarette. ‘Shall we get on with it? I have an engagement at the Café Royal in one hour.’

She certainly was a cool customer. But no doubt the young lady had not been close to her father, one often read of such things … Indeed he recalled when his own father had passed away …

Cecil shook his head to clear it.

‘Certainly. Though I should warn you, Miss Paget, the paperwork is rather lengthy in these situations. Any shipboard incident when one is, shall we say, in
terra nullius
, always results in a great deal of bureaucratic and diplomatic to-ing and fro-ing. I’m sure you understand? But we shall endeavour to make it as speedy as possible.’

He opened another drawer and began to assemble the various forms that Miss Paget would be required to complete.

‘
Diplomatic
?’ exclaimed Miss Paget, rather indignantly. ‘Surely you are joking, Mr Wallis? I hardly see what there is of a diplomatic nature about this.’

Cecil smiled sympathetically. Most young ladies, in his experience, had little understanding of the machinations of State and Commonwealth, of the intricate nature of bureaucracy—indeed, they rarely needed to know. It was a pity she did not have a husband to accompany her in this unpleasant task. Then he sat up. She had not brought a husband. Had not, in fact, mentioned a husband—was in fact, a
Miss
. Somehow this seemed … miraculous.

He realised he was leaning forward and smiling in a way that was neither friendly nor comforting, but eager, bordering on fervent.

‘Please do not distress yourself, Miss Paget. I am entirely at your disposal and we shall navigate the treacherous waters of international diplomacy together!’

This was intended to sound heroic. Instead it sounded a little gushy. He hoped he wasn’t going to blush.

Miss Paget held her cigarette a little distance from her lips and regarded him silently; regarded him—it had to be said—a little warily.

‘It’s really just the insurance I’m concerned about, Mr Wallis,’ she said.

She really was a cool one! Had the father been a tyrant? Somehow one couldn’t imagine anyone tyrannising Miss Paget …

‘Of course, all such matters must be attended to—I commend your practicality, Miss Paget. Let us start with the general release form. I would be honoured to complete it on your behalf,’ he announced, brandishing his engraved fountain pen in what he hoped was a official manner. ‘Shall we begin?’

She nodded her assent.

‘Now, then. When and where exactly did the … unfortunate incident occur? You see, if we can establish that, it may save a great deal of paperwork further down the line.’

Again she paused with the cigarette poised before her lips. She really was quite striking.

‘Well, it was evening. Our last evening at sea. Must have been around ten o’clock, as we had all finished dinner. I had been in my cabin but it was dreadfully stuffy, there was no breeze at all, so I went up on deck. I suppose I wandered about a bit on the pool deck. A pair of young men were trying to play quoits but it was far too dark and really they were quite drunk so it was just a bit of silliness, really. They asked me to join them but I didn’t feel like it, so I stood a little further away, near the rail, and watched the stars and … whatnot.’

She paused and drew on her cigarette and it was almost as though she was a little embarrassed at having to admit to such a thing. But where was the father during all this? In his cabin having a fatal heart attack, one presumed. Poor girl, no doubt she was experiencing a little guilt—people generally did, in Cecil’s experience.

‘What happened then, Miss Paget?’ he prompted gently.

She shrugged. ‘It’s rather hard to explain really. I wasn’t wearing my gloves, you see—well, it was an unseasonably mild evening—and one doesn’t follow all the usual rules on board ship, does one? You must have noticed.’

‘Of course.’

‘And all I can say is, I was twisting my ring round and round on my finger—it’s just a habit one has. And—well, the next moment it had gone. Fallen over the side.’

There was a silence.

‘I … see. How unfortunate.’ Cecil nodded to give himself time to phrase his next question. ‘And your father …?’

Miss Paget blinked at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your father. Where was he during this time?’

She gave him the oddest look. ‘At his home in Belgravia, one would imagine. Why on earth would you need to know that?’

This time the silence lasted a great deal longer. Cecil reached discreetly into a different drawer and pulled out another form.

‘You said it was an insurance claim?’

‘Yes, of course. My engagement ring. It was diamond. It was fully insured, naturally, but the insurance company are demanding I obtain a form from you before I proceed with the claim.’

There was a discreet knock and the elderly Miss Clough appeared around the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Wallis, but a Miss Hatchett has arrived—it’s about her father.’

‘A Miss
Hatchett
?’

‘Yes, Mr Wallis.’ Miss Clough returned his gaze expressionlessly.

‘Ask her to wait outside. I shall be with her directly.’

Cecil sat back in his chair. Miss Paget had lost an engagement ring. Not her father, just a ring. An engagement ring. She was engaged.

‘I’ll take this with me, shall I?’ she said, indicating the form, and he nodded, summoning a weak smile. Then he watched silently as Miss Paget opened her handbag, folded the form and placed it inside. She took a final pull on her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray and stood up. ‘Goodbye, then, Mr Wallis. And thank you for your assistance. I shall certainly know where to come the next time I mislay an engagement ring.’

And she had gone. Off, no doubt, to get married to some fabulously rich New York businessman.

But the odd thing was that Harriet hadn’t married some fabulously rich New York businessman—she had married him.

And they had honeymooned on board the
Swane
. He smiled, remembering.

He was disturbed by a soft tap on his office door. A moment later the door opened and Miss James appeared.

Cecil felt a slightly uncomfortably constriction in his chest. What on earth was it now? Ever since the Rocastle affair one felt like one could count on nothing; there were no certainties any longer.

‘Just your morning tea, Mr Wallis,’ she said, pushing the door open with her foot and sliding soundlessly into the office with the silver tea tray.

Tea. Of course. Everything settled once more into calm order. The silver Victorian tea tray and the elegant Royal Worcester tea set, more than fifty years old now, salvaged from Father’s house, its red and gold rim decoration as fresh now as the day it left the factory. Miss James placed the tray on his desk and departed, returning a moment later with a tea plate containing two biscuits—one digestive, one garibaldi—resting serenely on its cool china surface.

‘Mr Wallis, a Miss Corbett just telephoned. She seemed most anxious to talk with you. I didn’t put her through because I knew you were very busy.’

‘Miss Corbett? The nanny?’

‘So I am led to believe.’ Miss James never took anything at face value. She placed the teacup on Cecil’s desk. ‘Should be nicely brewed now,’ she observed, as she always did.

‘What did she want?’

Miss James paused to consider. ‘She didn’t indicate, other than to request that you telephone the house as soon as it is convenient.’

‘Thank you, Miss James,’ and as she retired to the outer office, he reached for the digestive and broke the biscuit in two with a satisfying snap. But it wasn’t satisfying. The biscuit may as well have been stale for all the enjoyment he was going to get from it. He lay both halves down on the plate. The nanny had rung. Something, clearly, was amiss and one couldn’t simply ignore it.

He picked up the telephone receiver and dialled the number. The telephone rang once and was picked up.

‘Kensington 8578,’ came Miss Corbett’s oddly formal voice.

‘Ah, Miss Corbett. It’s Mr Wallis. Miss James said you had telephoned me. Is everything all right?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not sure, Mr Wallis. I thought it best to telephone. Anne is unwell, you see, and Mrs Wallis has gone out, and Dr Rolley is out on call and cannot be contacted.’

He was baffled, then remembered that Anne had not come downstairs this morning to see him off.

‘I’m not entirely certain I follow you. Is Anne at home from school?’

‘Yes. She is unwell. A headache—of course, it could well be nothing, children get all sorts of aches and pains all the time, but I remember a girl in our street before the war who had a headache, and in three days she was down with the scarlet fever.’

‘Well. But I’m sure you are over-reacting, Miss Corbett. And you say Dr Rolley is unavailable?’

‘I’m afraid so. Of course, I would have consulted Mrs Wallis, but she went out early. To an appointment.’

What appointment? Harriet had mentioned nothing over breakfast. No doubt it was her hairdresser or something. Well, then, obviously Harriet did not deem it to be too serious.

‘I feel sure if Mrs Wallis thinks it is all right—’ ‘I’m afraid Mrs Wallis left before.’

‘Before? Left before what?’

‘Before things took a turn for the worse. I believe it would be best if you were to come home, Mr Wallis.’

Cecil was nonplussed. Yet the girl’s calm insistence was unnerving.

‘Exactly how sick is she, Miss Corbett?’

‘It’s hard to say. You can never tell, can you, with children?’

‘I can’t very well simply drop everything and come home. Now, listen, I want you to telephone Dr Rolley’s surgery again and find out when he will be available. Mrs Wallis is likely to return home soon, in any case. I shall telephone you again in an hour to ascertain further developments.’

Afterwards he sat at his desk while the tea grew cold and a skin formed over its surface. Scarlet fever? The woman was hysterical. He picked up the pile of papers in his in-tray and began to sort through them. After ten minutes he pushed himself up from his chair, grabbed his coat, hat and umbrella and left the office.

‘I shan’t be going to my club for lunch, Miss James; I shall be going home. I shall return sometime around two o’clock,’ and Miss James signalled her total astonishment at this unprecedented turn of events with a brief nod of her head and returned to her typing.