Peter was happy to agree.
Dinner was abbreviated as a gesture to wartime austerity, no more than five courses. Talking over port and in the drawing room afterwards, Peter was introduced to the bulk of the local and powerful, all of those with strings to pull in their own ways. He was accepted as more than another second son.
His father left the dinner very pleased at its success.
“Useful for after the war, my son. If you choose to come out of the Navy, they will have a lot of possibilities between them. When must you go back?”
“Tomorrow morning, Father. I can expect to be flying the day after tomorrow and there is much to be done beforehand.”
The excuse was accepted without question.
Peter was sure that lunch with Charlie would be more entertaining than a day at home helping his mother pack parcels for the troops.
Chapter Nine
The dress shop was just off Oxford Street, a most expensive location, with a window large enough for three gowns on display, the frontage brightly painted and prosperous, the showroom stretching back at least forty feet, discreetly lit by electricity. There were customers inside talking earnestly to their couturiers – it was in fact far more than a ‘little shop’ as even Peter could see.
A woman in her forties came sweeping up to him, smiling as he took an involuntary pace backwards. She was lean, blonde by choice, heavily made-up, dressed in a dark blue suit that to his eyes was almost masculine, the skirt divided to seem like trousers. Her earrings dangled almost to her shoulder, angular silver and amethyst, Art Something, he was sure. He was not at all sure what to make of her, did not think he had met her like previously in his sheltered Naval life.
“Ha! A Commander with a bright, shiny new ribbon! Must be Naseby! Charlie – your gentleman has arrived!” The last was spoken in a roar over her shoulder.
Charlie appeared from the back, dressed very modern, black and white, straight up and down, flounced skirt to her knees, a slightly over-size flapper.
“Got to dress the part, my dear! This is Adele, our creative genius. She makes ‘em, I sell ‘em! Henrietta out the back is the bean counter – division of labour, you know.”
He had never heard the term, was reasonably sure what it must mean.
“Time for lunch, Delly, I shall be gone some time. The girls can cope – no special clients due today, are there?”
“None, dear. Enjoy yourself!”
Charlie led him to a small restaurant in Soho.
“Marcel’s, Peter. All the rage. Everybody who is anybody eats here, this week. Do take a seat! Marcel, darling, your best for the Commander before he goes back to the heights in his balloon!”
Marcel, a Belgian refugee, Charlie explained, bowed and smiled and sent champagne to the table, complimentary.
“Not a bad bottle, Peter. Submarine bashing is worth a better vintage, it would seem. Something light, I think.”
Peter realised the last comment was addressed to the waiter, nodded his agreement.
There were no more than a dozen tables, all occupied, all known to Charlie, exchanging waves and little cries of joy with her.
“Be all around Town by this evening – Charlie hooked up with the naval fellow who sunk the submarine. Not to worry – none of the people here would ever speak to a banker!”
Peter did not think his banker father would care, said nothing.
They ate something unknown to Peter, his palate used to unimaginative naval cookery rather than to the creations of a chef. He enjoyed the meal and drank his share of the champagne and smiled at Charlie’s friends as they came to the table and made more or less sensible comments about his action in the Channel.
He took the bill and followed Charlie as she announced coffee, five minutes in a cab and into a large old house converted into flats for the fashionable. He found himself seated in a comfortable chair in another five minutes and undressed in a very large bed in ten.
They came up for air in mid evening, deciding that dinner was necessary, both being hungry.
“When must you go back, Peterkins?”
“Good God, Charlie! There is a limit, you know! Peterkins is well beyond it!”
She grinned in triumph, leaning back luxuriantly, displaying her gifts.
“I thought it would be. When must you report for duty?”
“I must be back for six in the afternoon. There are things I ought to do, people to talk to before I go out again in the morning. I should be in my cabin for one o’clock.”
“Duty calls, my dear. So it should. Dinner and a drink and then back here and I shall drive you down mid-morning. Bought a Sunbeam two weeks ago, been wanting to take it out on the open road, not just potter about Town.”
He bowed to a greater force.
They drove to Polegate far faster than he could have managed in his blimp; after the first five miles and three near-misses he relaxed in his seat, turning up the collar of his greatcoat against the slipstream and putting his trust in karma. To his amazement, they reached the gate unscathed, braking in a flurry of gravel and swearing from the driving seat.
“Misjudged that turn-in a bit, Peter. Could have been worse. Probably will be next time! Grab your bag. All ready to go? See you again… sometime! Toodle-pip, old chap!”
A growl from the exhaust and a mighty clang from the gearbox as she missed the double-declutch from first to second and she was gone, fishtailing up the lane and then achieving a straight line back towards London.
Peter glanced across to the gate guard. A rating trotted across to pick up his bag, officers being constitutionally incapable of carrying their own baggage, and he passed through, returning the salute of the petty officer.
“Latest secret weapon, PO. Guaranteed to strike terror into the hearts of the Hun.”
“Drove all the way from London, did you, sir?”
“An hour and a half, PO.”
“Jesus!”
“He was looking after us, I think. Someone must have been, the way she drove! Is the new Commander aboard yet?”
“Arrived this morning, sir. Nine o’clock.”
“Good. I must make my number with him. Freshen up and change uniforms first, I think. This one’s a bit dusty.”
He stretched out smartly to his cabin – must not be seen taking a leisurely amble at his place of duty – thinking back over the previous energetic twenty-four hours, grinning. Not the material for a naval wife, he suspected, and he was not what she would want in a husband – far too staid and conventional in his ways. He wished her the best of good luck in her future, wherever it might take her. She had talked of going out to the States after the war, making her way in a new environment. She would do well wherever she ended up, he hoped, was almost certain; she would not end up with him, that he knew full well, even if somewhat regretfully – she would add spice to an otherwise conventional life.
‘Too much of a good thing! An interlude, old son’.
He wondered how Josephine would compare between the sheets, decided she would certainly have far less experience.
‘Not to worry – there’s a difference between a tart and a wife. Pity, really.’
Time to face reality again.
The balloons were all in the hangars, the wind dying but still the occasional gust making flying too great a risk. They needed more powerful engines, or a pair rather than one, to give them more control, make it possible to risk typical English winter weather.
Oadby was waiting for him, the gate guard probably having sent a message to his mess.
“Good leave, sir?”
“Very. Useful to have a break away from the flying here. Working uniform, please. I must make my number with the new man and get on top of the paperwork. Looks as if we shall be flying tomorrow.”