Hill Manse London 1955 ... Chapter 1

London 1955

Chapter 1

Daisy Landis tented her hands over the plate of fragrant buttery steam that floated up from the ‘hot-out-of-the-oven’ scones a pinafored waitress had set before her. The waitress wore as well … with serene confidence … a matching mop-cap. Wrapping her palms around the piping hot teacup, Daisy lifted it to her lips so that the vapors might begin to thaw the tip of her nose. She wasn’t sure she really liked tea, but that was what one was expected to order in London, especially in a shop whose signpost read … Tillie Anne’s Tearoom. Her under-heated hidey-hole around the corner made this homey place a welcomed haven for a light breakfast on a cold morning. Who knew, she might acquire a taste for things ‘British’ … if she stayed long enough. Being more than willing to sample the local fare, she’d come to the conclusion that lemon curd was a concoction made in heaven, but kidney pie or kidneys served in any form, for that matter ... was much overrated.

She was from the States ... Omaha, Nebraska, to be precise, on vacation in London. Well … sort of on vacation. She’d been here about a month and it had taken nearly all of her savings to make the trip. Daisy taught high school English as well as a journalism class. But, for the last year or so she’d been diddling with the idea of working full time as a journalist. This overseas journey was a chance to get her feet seriously wet, so to speak. She was to write a news article for the Omaha Leader Press.

“Rosemary, please”, a low voice whined. The intrusive sound came from behind a rose patterned screen that was placed between the tables to provide patrons with a faux sense of privacy. “I’m not to blame, truly I’m not. He was offish, much too disobliging. Why, everything I said to help move things along upset him. And, you know how disrespectful girls are these days.”

A harsher whisper pierced through the screen behind Daisy who, by this time, was blatantly eavesdropping. “Unmarried, career-minded women are easily come by, it seems. Margaret. You’ve hired three tiresome females – three in the past seven months. Father is terribly disturbed. You must find someone soon. The year is slipping by and, as we both know, it matters not if she can spell or type.”

“The first whisperer hissed, “I know, I know; she must be a bleeder … be dead and bleed as soon as possible!”

Choking on the crumbly scone, Daisy gulped some tea to wash down the stuck bits … then leaned her head closer to the screen to better hear the sinister pair.

“Is another one is applying for the position this afternoon?” Asked the harsher of the two voices.

“A Miss Wiggs ... Hopefully he won’t terminate her too soon. The last one survived but a month before he ........

Scraping chairs drowned out the voice … then shoes began scuffing the floor. Soft swishes rustled against the taut screen indicating the women were probably donning their coats. When the sharp stuttered clicks on the floor faded, Daisy peeked through the cloth panels and saw two furry females open the tearoom door and flounce grandly from the shop. Her journalistic instincts jumped to the fore. Deciding that the matronly pair, who were obviously up to no good and should be kept an eye on, she stuffed a scone in her pocket, laid down the right change and swept out of the door in hot pursuit. On the pavement she watched the posh pair hail a taxi. Before she could grab the next one and yell, “follow that cab”, a chilly gust of wind tipped her hat over her ear and a large callused hand jutted out and grabbed her arm. Her heart stumbled ... all but stopped.

“Daze, it’s me … Pat … Pat Chaynes. You remember me … don’t you?” The man asked, relaxing his grip. “I scared you, I’m sorry.”

“Pat Chaynes? Oh, my lord”, she stepped back in utter astonishment. “You are

alive. Your mother said you were.”

“Yes ... yes I am. It was Mom who sent me your London address. I just left

your rooming house. Its great luck I saw you come out of that shop there. You look wonderful, Daisy. Are you going somewhere?”

She scarce could take in that Pat Chaynes was beside her on Bond Street in London. He’d grown older … of course he’d grown older … still handsome, some gray at the temples. Where’s the guy been for the last ... what ... ten years; the guy who had asked me to marry him; the guy who ran off without even a word right after the war was won. Lordy! Why was he here?

“Daisy, are you going somewhere?” He repeated. Pat reached for her hand and laying her arm over his, he moved forward. He didn’t know where he was going, but Daisy hadn’t pulled away.

Confused, she gave herself a swift mental shake and said, “Well, not really … no, wait. I was going to follow those women.” Needing a moment to catch her breath, she slipped her arm from his hold and walked to the curb. Shading her eyes, she peered down the road. “Shoot!” The women were well out of sight. Shaken, her mind muddled by two really weird situations, Daisy tried to focus her thoughts.

They’re off to their lair to ensnare some woman to do their typing and then help some man to slit her throat from ear to ear. Oh, lordy, I shouldn’t have seen The House of Wax … that film scared the piddle out of me ... probably pleated my brain, too.”

“You’re supposed to meet those ladies that left in the taxi?”

“No, no … I don’t know them or where they are going.” A ‘suspense thriller’ of sorts had dropped in her lap and had driven away ... disappeared. Just as suddenly she’d been pulled into the middle of another mystery and was feeling uncharacteristically peevish as well as confused. Here he was … Pat from the past with the same brown eyes and strong cleft chin; the same Pat who’d abandoned her. Now he was again wrapping her arm around his as if he was entitled and began walking.

Forcing herself to put one foot before the other, she looked over at him and asked, “What are you doing here, Pat?”

He hesitated then said, “I’ve got so much to tell you and only a week before I fly back to … back to my boat. Spend some time with me, Daisy … I have to tell you how it was. ”

The armor of pride that had protected her for years, the pride that still shielded her from any looming hurt and humiliation, tightened around her.

“Sorry, I can’t do it today … got a deadline to meet. The Leader Press … remember the ‘Leader’? Its small but the readership really has grown since the war. I’m doing an article on ….”

Interrupting her, he pressed on. “Daisy … please, what I have to tell you is important.”

She picked up the pace, walked rapidly around the corner and said firmly, “I must finish an article and telex it before the last pick-up. Tell you what”, she said quickly. “I’ll meet you tomorrow for lunch.”

Pleased she’d thought of a reason to avoid a one-to-one with him right now, she slipped her arm from his hold. I’m a grown woman … twenty-eight, for heaven’s sake … not eighteen and raw, no longer waiting for Pat or anyone else to come and launch the rest of my life.

“Tomorrow”, he moaned. “Finish it up as fast as you can, Daze. Let’s get together tonight … I have to talk to you soon.”

“You’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow, Pat. Meet me at the Queen’s Head Tavern … one o’clock on Chauncey Road.”

Stopping in front of a gritty brownstone permanently rooted in London soot, Daisy looked up at his frustrated frown. “Well, here we are, my provisional home … see you at one tomorrow.” She ran up the steps and stopped at the top to give him a brisk wave, “I’m glad you’re alive and looking so … well … healthy”, then bolted through the open door … fearing her knees might buckle any second.

Taking the stair treads two at a time up the four flights she entered her room; snatched several farthings accrued in a beaker … grumbled again about being held hostage by a darn heater voracious for coins. It’d be warmer and cheaper to keep a pet dragon.

“Settle down, you ninny”, Daisy muttered to herself. She turned to peer out the window. Warming ring-less fingers in the hollows ‘neath her arms, she watched him cross the road, climb in a cab and ride away; then waited for thin hissing sounds to drift into the room.

He’s come with reasons, most likely excuses … ten years worth. London’s just a one- week stop … then he’ll head back where he came from … back to wife and kids?

A wisp of steam spewed from the grate … a teasing breath of warmth.

“He left you … all but broke your heart, but you’re never going to let that happen again.” She aimed the spoken pledge at her mirrored reflection. Moving closer to the full-length mirror that hung upon the wardrobe door, her wits sought to justify her anxious frame of mind.

It’s how we girls were raised. Our futures were secured if we found a man who’d marry us. Now, a beau I haven’t seen for years pops up and grips my wrist … and, let’s be honest here, my dear, didn’t dormant scenes of gown and veil spring to mind?

Gazing at her reddened nose and hat perched wonky on her head, the blond pageboy hair-do sadly wilted, she shrugged and rolled her eyes and sighed, “Oh, lordy, he looks good. This has been a wild and crazy morning!”

----

Sharon Lampson, editor at the Leader Press, the small family-owned newspaper in Omaha, had agreed that Daisy could send a couple of human-interest stories to the ‘Leader’ during her holiday. So far, the only news of note she’d telexed home was the waited-for announcement made by Princess Margaret Rose, the sister to the Queen.

Daisy wrote: “For two years rumors have been floating over ‘the pond’ suggesting that the Royal was ‘in love’. ‘Was she was (or was she not) to wed the handsome Peter Townsend, the decorated hero and equerry to the queen? He was a man divorced (reminiscent of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor scandal that had publicly plowed that path in 1936) the way of godless conduct … so we’re told.

“Being mindful of my duty, I won’t marry Captain Townsend”, said the Princess to the press, and therefore to the world at large. To shed Great Britain’s acrimony, Margaret turned down matrimony.”

Hell’s bells … its post war modern … A.D 1955.

----

Daisy spent a restless night parading through strange rooms with folks she seemed to know when sleeping but couldn’t put a name to when she awoke.

Snug and warm and unwilling to get up yet, she mused. How odd to spend nights with people in places I don’t recognize and be involved in situations I wouldn’t normally find myself. What if I couldn’t wake up? Would I have to conform to the dream world ... dwell in strange rooms ... become attached to those unfamiliar people? What if I’d had a nightmare and couldn’t wake up? Lordy, Daisy, get a grip!

Bravely facing the icy dawn, she stumbled out of bed and toddled down the hall to pee and have a sudsy soak. The blue wool suit was warm and flattered Daisy’s slender form and, happily, her silk stockings had no runs or snags ... this time. She glanced at her wavy reflection as she passed the wardrobe door … shrugged and said, “You don’t look all that bad for being tired, confused and jumpy as a toad.”

No … Daisy didn’t look bad. At five foot eight, the trim green-eyed blond was very attractive ... downright lovely, in fact. She was also candid, excessively imaginative and willing to speak her mind … with tact, if she had the time to think things through.

At her favorite Tilley’s table, Daisy again warmed her hands over the steamy scones and breakfast tea.

“Hello, Nancy,” greeted Daisy. Nancy waited on all the tables near the rose splashed privacy screen.

“Good morning, Miss.” she answered tippling tea into the dainty cup.

“Yesterday at ten, I think it was,” Daisy began. “They wore such lovely furs. I’m speaking of two particular ladies … they were sisters, I believe. They were sitting at the table right there just behind the screen. Do you remember them?

“Oh yes, Miss, quite distinguished … Mrs. Broadmoore likes green tea. The kind from Northern China … costs a packet, so it does; her sister, she’s the dark one, is Miss Gregor from Hill Manse. You know, the manor north of Bond, Miss”, Nancy prattled amiably.

“Does Miss Gregor live alone at Hill Manse?”

“Live alone at Hill Manse … oh no… my goodness … what a thought.

Her father and her brother are ‘at home’ there all year ‘round. It used to be, before the war, the family motored out to spend the hot weeks in their summer manor on a cliff above the sea. But now they don’t … they have to suffer heat and yellow air with the rest of us poor fish that live in Town. Would you be wanting jam or milk to go with breakfast tea, Miss?”

“Thank you, no, I’m fine for now”.

Lots of information ... the Gregor’s of Hill Manse live north of Bond and maybe aren’t as well off as they were before the war. Either that or they just limit their evil ways to life in Town … where victims are only a want ad away. I don’t imagine there are many ‘typists’ for hire by the seaside.

Daisy paid her breakfast fare and moseyed to the corner where she bought her daily paper every morning. It was overcast … not wet yet, but her black umbrella stood at the ready to unfurl when the need arose. Mr. Fieny entertained her with noteworthy headlines as well as sagas as to his domestic life with wife. According to the put-upon proprietor of news, Mrs. Fieny was a “bleedin’ terror most of the time.”

“Mr. Fieny”, called out Daisy, plunking down her pence. “How far is it from here up to the top of Hill Road?”

“You no be goin that far in those silly shoes you’re wearing. Foolishness is what I calls it … ‘tis too far for walkin’. Now, you be a hearing me, Miss Daisy, fifteen K it be … a cabbie you had better be a usin’ for that slog. You want that I should holler down Old Willie for ya, Miss?” He started toward the road to wave his arms … the normal taxi hail.

“Thank you, Mr. Fieny, I won’t be going now … just needed your trustworthy reckoning as to distance."

Daisy liked to ride the double-decked red buses London was noted for. This morning she rode to the London Times news office.

“Agnes, may I look through past editions of the Woman’s page and social news. I’ll keep out of your way.”

“Daisy … sure … a course you can. Come on back.” Her glasses dropped and flopped against her ample bosom. They were tethered to a silver chain that hid in a crease around her neck. “Use the table near the window … you won’t be no bother.”

Daisy thought that Mrs. Broadmoore and Miss Gregor might have attended affairs that benefited charities or other interests that could prompt a reason for an interview. She spent an hour scanning pages … found one mention of the Gregor’s. Mister’s Alistair and Duff Gregor of Hill Manse had sponsored a banquet for the Veterans of WWII. Tomorrow she’d have to come back and research the data further.

Meeting Pat at one o’clock meant getting a move on. Her feelings were a blend of exhumed hurt, resentment, curiosity, and defensive indifference as well as the queasy memory of how much she had ached for this man at one time.

----

The Queen’s Head Tavern south on Chauncey was an antiquated dwelling. One could easily imagine folks medieval would come to town and pass through its blackened doorway tired and hungry, throats parched raw. They’d spend a night in rooms above then start for home at early light. Crowded streets and sounds of dusty clamorings, smells that were more than a tad malodorous, would scarce be noted in those times. Most modern folks appreciated living in a sanitized and deodorized society,

Even walking slowly, Pat arrived at half past twelve. A wedge of sun broke up the bank of clouds that clung to treetops threatening to douse a fellow who carried no umbrella. He could see that there would be no privacy here. Each table held at least six diners … noisy strangers lapping lager between mouthfuls of beef and potatoes. He asked the barman for a mess of fish and chips wrapped in newsprint. He also bought some fresh baked cookies, the hand-printed sign propped against the plate called them ‘biscuits’, and two tepid bottles of beer. As an afterthought he stuffed some tissues in his pocket. Outside the pub he leaned his back against the wall and thought, once again, about the day before.

She was surprised, confused and wasn’t particularly happy to see me. That’s understandable, I guess. Pat searched for her tall, slim figure and pretty face among the crowds of people passing by. She was real anxious to get away from me, too. Years ago she’d have gone where I wanted and done what I asked, but not now. She has a job and she isn’t married; that could mean she would rather work than raise a family. Oh, God, don’t let me mess this up. There she is.

“Daisy … over here”, he waved … “too crowded in the pub. Is there a park or place near by where we can talk? I had a lunch made up.”

“Yes. A couple blocks that way just past the Old Kings Road is an open area with benches. Hopefully this slice of sun will stick around awhile. The air feels slightly warmer so the day may turn out fine.” Daisy opened up her handbag as a tote for the beer bottles … hooked her arm through his to better steer the tall tan fellow toward Beacon Square. “I hope you have a church key on you somewhere”, Daisy smiled. “So far I’ve had a thirsty but not a particularly successful morning researching.”

“A guy is not a real guy without a bottle opener folded into his pocket knife. Have you gotten used to this warm stuff they call beer?”

“Not really. Brits are not as free with ice as we are in the states.” Daisy kept the neutral banter going. “At home the beer is clear and cold and tangy. Here it’s got some real oomph, but not the chill that quenches thirst.”

Arriving at a grassy square, they looked around for seating. A bench was being quitted at the park’s far end by two nannies starched right proper pushing prams up towards the gated entry.

Pat spread the lunch between them then he popped the bottles opened and gave a foamy one to Daisy. He hesitated … his head was a in a muddle. He’d practiced last night what he’d say and now he couldn’t put two thoughts together. All he said was, “Here’s to you, Daze” … and clinked his bottle against hers.

“And … to you, too”, she toasted back.

They were silent while they ate and watched several little boys administer loud kicking smacks to rubber balls around the middle of the green. Their squeals and yells annoyed an old man who glared at them as he shuffled slowly down the pebbled pathway steadied by a cane. People on the other benches scattered round the square, ate their lunches and visited affably ... flicking an occasional glance at the ambivalent sky.

“Share some of those tissues, Pat”. She mopped her hands and mouth. “Good thinking … napkins are a must with fish and chips.”

“Daisy … you’re not in a rush to leave are you?” asked Pat. He wrapped the detritus of their lunch in the soiled paper. “I’d like to spend the day with you, if you have the time.”

“I’ve no plans this afternoon.” She noticed he was as nervous as she was. “Do you want to see the sites? This city is a glut of history.”

“No. I want to be with you … I want to talk to you.”

“Well, the day is turning out great. We could talk while we walk.”

“Look over there, Daze.” He nodded toward a group of ladies leaving a gazebo. “That place is perfect. Come on … let’s grab it fast.”

He seized her hand and they ran into the vine swathed hut.

“Even if it rained today we’d stay quite dry in here,” Daisy tilted back her head, lifted a hand to secure her hat and peered at the ivy-twined roof. Turning round to Pat, she saw that he was standing right behind her … his arms were raised but then he quickly lowered them, stepped back … and bumped into the bench.

“Let’s sit right here”, he said taking a seat leaving room for Daisy to sit next to him. “First, I want to tell you” … he faltered a moment then forged ahead. “I loved you back then, Daisy. I really did. You were ‘my girl’. But, I couldn’t go home when the war ended because you wouldn’t have understood that I had personal things to work out … things I didn’t want to stick you with. I knew you wanted to get married and I just couldn’t do it.”

“Stop … Stop right now!” Daisy said softly but firmly. She stood and walked to the opening, then turned to face him, her arms crossed tightly beneath her breasts. “It was a long time ago. I’d imagined every possible reason why you never returned home, or wrote or called. I figured I’d done something wrong. But, not being able to understand any explanation you might have had didn’t occur to me.” Suppressed anger caused her voice to sharpen. “I’ve put all this behind me. Why bring it up now? Why are you here?”

Pat stood. Not daring to touch her, he simply said, “Please, Daisy Claire, please sit down and hear me out. I know you and you’re too good a person not to listen to me. You have a right to be mad … not because I didn’t come home, but because I didn’t tell you why I wasn’t coming home.”

Puzzled, she said. “So, you’re saying, things wouldn’t have turned out any differently … regardless of my reaction to whatever you decided not to tell me. There was no chance of us being together?”

“It wasn’t the right time.”

Daisy felt a numbness form in her chest. Keeping her voice low and even she said, “There is nothing you need to explain to me now. It is all water under the bridge, as the saying goes. The circumstances you were under at that time were probably very distressing and at eighteen, I might have understood what you had to say … you don’t really know that I wouldn’t have. My knowing wasn’t necessary ten years ago; I shouldn’t think it was necessary now. You have obviously been thriving … you look healthy, happy and successful … just as I am. Nothing more needs to be said.” Fighting back humiliating tears, Daisy picked up her handbag, umbrella and left.

Pat started after her. “Daisy, stop … you have to listen.”

She wheeled around lifting the long umbrella, which very much resembled a fabric-wrapped sword, and pointed it at his chest. “Please leave me be. Enjoy the sites of London and then go home.” Once again she turned onto the path and hurried away.

Pat moved back into the gazebo, sat down, settled himself against the latticed wall with his hands clasped behind his head, closed his eyes and stretched his long legs the length of the bench. You didn’t expect her to fall into your arms, did you sailor? Yep … the Daisy you used to know would’ve been happy to listen to me and would have understood that I was right to do what I did, and say all was forgiven. Then we’d start over again. He swung his legs off the bench, sat up with his hands pressed on his knees and lowered his head. What do I do now?

Daisy marched to the bus stop and waited for the number twelve that would drop her off at the London Times again. What kind of wimpy goods does he think I am, she seethed. I’ve nothing better to do than languish while he ‘does his thing’. Not a letter, not a card, not a phone call. For over ten years that man ignored me and now I’m supposed to listen to his excuses because he ‘loved’ me when I was eighteen. The number twelve ground its brakes and wheezed to a stop. She boarded with three other women and moved up the stairway to the top deck. I am not a Jane Austin heroine. I have not been waiting for the navy man of my youth to show up and rescue me. Surely he is not assuming any such thing!

At her stop, Daisy climbed down the steps feeling calmer, but still a bit tetchy. The stacks of papers she’d checked out that morning were still lying on the long reading table.

“Hi, Agnes, Richard … Basil, how are Cathy and the baby?”

Basil smiled broadly, “Terrific, Daisy, just terrific! Come have tea on Sunday … Cathy will bake those lemon tarts you’re so fond of.”

Richard said, “Come on, Basil … you have to invite me, too; I’m standing right here. Daisy has her heart set on a date with me … haven’t you Daisy?”

Arching her brows, Daisy smiled at the flirty newsman and turned back to Basil.

“Do you want me to ask this ugly bloke? He’s at loose ends since his Fiona ran off with the milkman.”

“It’s your party, Basil. You may ask as many blokes as you’d like. I’d be happy to come. I have something special for your little Errol.”

Since coming to London four weeks ago, she’d sought out the reporters at the Times for directions as to finding a room, inexpensive eating-places and where the briefing room was at Buckingham Palace and the Parliament building. The staff writers in the large pressroom upstairs were too busy and distracted by telephones and the boisterous banter between desks to pay her much notice. In the much smaller space off to the right of the front entrance, a half dozen column specific editors and sports writers, plus Agnes the secretary and all around gofer, worked much more quietly and were more than pleased to help the pretty American settle in.

She sat down and riffled through pages of upper crust social events. The sisters from Hill Manse were not in the news but father and son were much heard of. As war veteran advocates they carried out “good works” and certainly didn’t come across as murderous monsters. But then, who knew what evil dwelt in the hearts of men … or fur-wearing women, for that matter. She made detailed notes of the charitable deeds and the wartime accounts of both the younger and the elder Gregor and wondered if she’d maybe misunderstood the conversation in the tearoom.

What else could ‘dead’, ‘bleeding’, ‘terminating’ and ‘not surviving’ mean?

If either Gregor would give me an interview, would I be in danger? Of course not ... they wouldn’t dare mess with an American citizen and I wouldn’t be fool enough to go alone. I could ask Basil or Richard or maybe Agnes would go with me if a nice tea after were offered as a bribe.

Daisy walked over to Richard Hamblin’s desk. He was a sports writer for the London Times. When she’d first come to the Times to seek information, she’d headed first to Agnes’ area. Agnes introduced her around the office staff and they’d eagerly helped her. Richard, who apparently was no longer dating Fiona, as of two weeks ago, enjoyed flirting with Daisy. His desk was one of chaotic order. He knew exactly what was where and why it mattered.

“Richard … how much do you know about the Gregor’s of Hill Manse?”

“What are you up to, girl?”

“Just researching a human interest piece … I’d like to do an interview with the father and son. What do you think? Are they approachable?”

The thirty-something sports writer, formerly a star on the rugby field, still had a powerful athletic build, was of average height with a good head of brown hair lightly sprinkled with gray. He had an easy manner, nice-looking friendly face with regular features and a great smile. And, he smiled often … especially when Daisy was around.

“Approachable … maybe not. I’ll tell you what I know. Gregor, the elder, fought in WWI and was horrified at how many veterans came home from the war maimed in mind and body. My grandfather was one of those poor sods that came back without an arm and only half of his left leg. The government was bereft of funds needed for dealing with the war wounded, especially the mentally ill. Men who should have been in hospital were sent home to families that had no idea how to cope. The suicide rate for shell-shocked and facially disfigured vets was appalling. The same, in fact, happened after WWII. That was Duff ‘s and my war. He came home with a prosthetic leg and a zeal to do right by all Vets. Since WWII, there’s been the Korean conflict (police action as the politicians would have it) … more dead … more mutilated. Father and son do more than most to raise money for the Veteran’s Hospital here in London and assorted hospice organizations in all of Britain.”

Daisy said, “You admire them, then.”

“What’s not to admire? They’re rich, to be sure, but they spend it where it will do the most good. They sold their seaside place and employ only the number of household staff necessary to maintain the Manse. They regularly entertain the upper class donors so necessary to their cause. Daisy … Duff is a friend of mine so my account is not impartial. We play cricket on Saturday mornings when the weather permits.”

“How does he run with an artificial leg?”

“Not gracefully, but doggedly. No one dares to take it easy with him, either.”

“Are the Gregor men married?” Daisy had seated herself opposite Richard in order to use the only clean corner on his desktop to take notes.

“Alistair Gregor is a widower. His wife died … oh, let me guess … some twelve or more years ago. His son, Duff, has never married. He’s around my age, somewhere in his mid-thirties. Even with that peg leg the women throw themselves at him … or used to.” Richard smiled and winked. “He shuns the debutantes ... too young, won’t date the eligible women of his class, and scares away the secretaries his sisters parade in front of him.”

Gripping the reins of her imagination, she asked. “Doesn’t he like women?”

Richard pushed back his chair and stretched out his legs; his expression thoughtful. “A rich man, especially one with a ‘cause’, is not likely to be attracted by females tempted by his class or his money. He’s waiting for someone of ‘like mind’ to come along and he needs to find her soon, too. It’s April already and, for some reason, by December, Duff is supposed to ‘wed and start breeding’ children. That’s how his sister, Margaret, puts it, anyway. Something to do with his grandfather’s will. He was a bear all winter, though he’s happier lately than he’s been in a long time.”

Daisy sat up straight and thought back over the conversation she’d overheard the previous morning and began to giggle.

“What is it, Daisy? Share the joke with old Richard.”

“Well, old Richard. It is nearly five o’clock and I would like a glass of wine in a nice, quiet eating establishment … as opposed to a pub. Would you join me and hear the joke I played on myself?”

“As an American bloke I know is fond of saying … you can bet your bottom dollar I will! And, by the way … I’m taking you to the Palace Gardens. Stop looking like that. I won’t spend pence more than I have to, my girl. A couple of starters and some vino … that’s it. Come on; let me help you on with your coat. You need to go shopping ... this thing your wearing is shabby, quite ragged, don’t you know.”

“Oh, be quiet!”

----

“I was minding my own business drinking tea and eating scones when I overheard these two women, obviously sisters, arguing about having failed to hire a female that was pleasing to someone or other. They mentioned that their father was upset about this failure. What I heard one of them say was … the woman must be a bleeder … be dead and must bleed as soon as she can! She also said that the next one would likely be terminated immediately and the last one only survived two weeks.”

Daisy sipped some wine and, with a tiny fork fashioned for that particular purpose, picked up a large mushroom sautéed in an ancient balsamic vinegar, a hint of garlic and lots of brown butter, put it in her mouth and savored it slowly. “Mmmmmm … this is scrumptious.”

“Well … swallow it, you goose. What happened next?”

“I was startled, of course, and tried to hear more but they left. I took off after them but … “Daisy stopped, realizing she didn’t intend to mention Pat Chaynes.

Richard leaned across the table and topped off her wine glass, “But … what?”

“I lost them. They got in a taxi and left. The point is, Richard. What I thought I heard is not what the woman said at all. Duff Gregor’s sister did not say the typist must be dead and bleed as soon as possible. What she had to have said was ... she must be ‘wed’ and ‘breed’ as soon as possible. I heard her wrong! ‘Terminated’ meant ‘fired’ and ‘only survived two weeks’ meant that’s how long the last typist was employed.”

“Duff Gregor’s sister!” Richard leaned back in his chair and tapped his fork against the edge of the table as he thought over what she’d told him. “Let’s go back over these spotty points again, Nancy Drew. Those women were Duff’s sisters; you thought they were luring females into their father’s home to be murdered; and I assume, you wanted to follow them to somehow prevent more murders from happening. Having lost them, you then decided to ferret them out. All this for a ‘human interest’ story?”

“Oh, for heavens sake, Richard … I’ve admitted being the butt of my own joke … you’re supposed to laugh!”

“Actually, the story is novel material. It has mystery, adventure, the possibility of horror and decided violence, starring a nosey (if not particularly intelligent) heroine. All it really lacks is romance. You’re not leaving anything out are you?”

“Richard, I’m still hungry. Can we order more mushrooms?”

“Yes, certainly … listen to me, Daisy.” He leaned toward her. “You’re not an investigative reporter. Leave the crime beat to Tooms and Attleboro. I realize you need to write another article to send to your paper. I think an interview with Alistair and Duff Gregor is a good idea, even though you thought of it as a ruse to catch a murderer.” He shook his head in disbelief. “What they do for the veterans should be moved off the society page and put on the human interest page; the ‘People Who Make a Difference’ page. As well, more attention should be brought to the plight of British Vets and American Vets, too. If I get you an appointment with them, are you sure you’d be able to write such a piece?”

“Oh, my goodness, Richard. Of course, I could. I’d make it as in-depth and well-crafted as possible.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange.” Signaling for the waiter, he asked for more wine, mushrooms and, as an after thought, some breaded kidneys. Daisy shuddered and faintly muttered, “Yuck.”

Richard changed the subject. “Alright, now tell me about the ‘romantic’ bit you left out of the story. That fair complexion of yours turns real rosy when you try to lead me off topic.”

It may have been the wine, the warmth of the room, the soft shaded candlelight, the need to talk to a friend … whatever it was, she told him about the Pat she knew ten years ago, running into him on Monday morning and their lunch meeting today.

Richard was an easy man to talk with. His flirty manner didn’t disturb her … he was never crude or imposing. She always felt pretty in his presence even when her nose was red and sniffly, her hair stringy with damp, and her lipstick smudged from frequently having to blow her nose. (London had been cold, wet and dreary for weeks.) She felt as comfortable with him as she did with her next-door neighbors Steve and Howard in Omaha, whom she had known forever, whereas with Pat, she was experiencing the physical aches and hurts she had had as a girl. A few insecurities had been activated, too. Needing a boyfriend or husband in order to be happy had vaguely resurfaced. The self-reliance she had built up since her parent’s death wasn’t in danger of dissolving completely but it could easily fade a few shades. She thought she had buried Pat Chaynes long ago. Could it be that she still had feelings for him?

“He sounds a decent chap, Daisy. Why don’t you give him a chance to clear the air? You don’t have to like what he says and it might hurt like hell but he also may have a perfectly good explanation. You won’t know until you let him tell you.”

“Richard, I am not the girl he knew then. I hardly recognize myself as I was then. But I do recognize the feelings I used to have when I was with Pat.”

Leaning forward, elbows on the table, laying his hands on both her hands, Richard said, “You may have to decide if these feelings are real for you now or merely potent memories. I’m no Jung scholar but it just makes sense to sort things out … to ease your mind and Chaynes’, too, for that matter.”

“You’re a wise man, Richard Hamblin.”

“Oh, yes … wise, indeed. I’m so smart that I sit here with a lovely woman and tell her to give another guy a chance to win her.” He uncovered her hands and sat back, cocked his head and smiled.

“Tell me, dear girl, what the differences are between the young Daisy a decade ago and the uh … Daisy of today?”

“The young Daisy, smart aleck, was a real sweetheart. She looked with awe upon the male sex. A man was, inherently, the master, the boss, the decision-maker and the woman was his passive help-mate. I thought a woman was incomplete without a husband and family to love and care for. An unmarried female was a spinster … someone no man wanted … someone passed-over. A bachelor, on the other hand, was a male who chose to play the field rather than settle down. He was a romantic rogue to be caught and tamed.”

Daisy leaned back, too, and grinned. “There you are. I just called you a romantic rogue. Are you pleased?”

“Don’t be changing the subject. Get on with telling me what makes Daisy of today different.”

“Daisy of today is swimming against the tide of expectations. The idea that a woman must marry in order to fulfill her destiny I now consider old fashion thinking. This state of mind likely began with Pat’s abandonment. Later, when my folks were killed in a train wreck while on vacation in Washington D.C., I was forced to decide my future and take care of myself. I was twenty-one, still living at home and in my third year at University. I used some of the monies left to me to finish college then became a high school English and journalism teacher.” Sipping red wine within the candlelit atmosphere of Richard’s charm and total attention, she slipped easily into a loosely woven narrative. “Every summer for the past eight years, as soon as the school year ended, I’d head for one of the resorts on the East Coast. Have you ever heard of Twila Weber’s All Girl Orchestra? No? Well, she is extremely popular in the states. I’m in her orchestra.”

“Darling girl … you amaze me. What instrument do you play?’

“Drums … I play the drums.”

His dark brows waggled in surprise. The woman continually astonished him. First she ran around half-cocked looking to interview a man she believed to be a mass murderer; then she fobbed off a perfectly nice chappie she used to love just because he had reasons not to return to her after the war ... reasons, which were likely to be good ones, ones that she won’t even listen to. Richard thought she was being rather unfair. Now he’d learned she was a drummer in a well-known all-girl orchestra. Who knew what other startling morsels might turn up ... a writer of pulp fiction ... a former burlesque dancer?

Much intrigued, he asked her, “Are you finished?” She nodded. “Waiter … bill please. Daisy, let’s go dancing.”

“Dancing! I’m not dressed for dancing”, she protested.

“It’s a small club, not a ballroom. You look fine … more than fine. Come on.”

With his hand cupped under her elbow, he steered her out of the restaurant, waved down a taxi and fairly shoved her into it.

“What’s the big hurry, Richard? Where are we going?” Daisy smoothed her skirt and straightened her hat then pulled a compact from her purse and repaired her face as best she could in the faint light that bounced about inside the taxi from other cars and street lamps.

Richard ignored her questions. “Where did you learn to play drums?”

“At University … my roommate, Eleanor, played in the school orchestra and convinced me that I should learn to play an instrument, too. I took piano lessons as a kid so I knew the basics. I was devastated after my parents died and needed a diversion beyond the academics. My Dad played drums when he was in the Army. I decided that I would learn to play drums, too.”

Turning on the seat to see her better he asked, “Do you have your own set?”

“I have my Dad’s trio. Its okay, but nothing like Twila’s Slingerland. Her set-up has a tom, a floor tom, a bass and snare and five cymbals. It’s great!”

“A Slingerland … Gene Krupa plays on a Slingerland.”

“That’s right … He’s the best. I’ve never heard anyone who can top him.”

“Here we are … watch your hat.” Richard helped her out of the cab, wrapped his arm around hers and marched her into the dimly lit little dance spot called The Alley Cat.

“Give me that ratty shroud and I’ll check it.” He smiled as she shrugged off her coat and wrinkled her nose at him.

Several couples were boogieing to a Big Band tune on a not-so-big dance floor. “I haven’t played since last summer but the music sounds much the same. Swing-time seems to have traveled well over the ‘pond’.”

Winding through a number of tables placed only a body’s width from each other, Richard maneuvered them to an empty spot near the wall next to the bandstand.

“Shouldn’t we wait to be seated?” Daisy looked around for a maître d'.

“No need … we can seat ourselves if we know where to look.” He pulled out a chair and said, “Sit here ... back in a tick.”

After a few minutes, her eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings. Richard returned followed by a white-aproned waiter. “What would you like, Daisy?”

“I think I have had enough for one evening.”

“Won’t do, my girl. Can’t take up a table and this good man’s time without a tipple of something. How about a ginger beer? Make it two, Albert, thank you.”

Richard stood, held out his hand, “It’s a nice slow one … take a turn, duck?” He pulled her up and held her tightly against his broad chest and they began to step and sway to the unhurried strains of It’s Been a Long, Long Time.

The dance ended with Daisy twirling away from her partner and then being pulled back into the curve of his arm ... followed by a low dip. “My word! You’re very good”, Daisy grinned. Sitting down on the chair Richard pulled out for her, she lifted her ginger drink and then noticed a man bending down to talk to her. “I beg your pardon … I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Miss Landis … my name is Fred Wornig. I lead this band over here and I’m told you play drums with Twila Weber’s orchestra. Our drummer, Billy, is going to set out this next tune. We’ll be doing Duke’s Place. Would you like to join us?”

Daisy looked over at Richard’s pseudo innocent expression then turned to the bandleader and said, “I would be delighted to beat time on Billy’s toms.”

Taking the vacated seat behind the drums, she looked over the percussion configuration, adjusted the stool to better reach the bass pedal then nodded. The familiar intro into Ellington’s well-known melody began to percolate, first from the piano then linked by the reverberation of horns, winds and thudding bass fiddle. She chopped steadily on the tom and brushed the snare underscoring the pieces that gradually swelled into a satiated sensation of harmonies. Her concentration and skillful thumping back and forth on the tom, the snare, the bass … then abruptly striking stinging smacks to the cymbals created a fantastically pleasurable feeling that completely engulfed her. Following the final cymbal smash, the audience stood, whistled and applauded. Daisy’s adrenaline level was way over the top. It would take a good bit of time to simmer down. She couldn’t stop smiling … she positively glowed.

A cab rolled slowly down the street outside The Alley Cat Club hoping for a fare. It halted at a raised hand. The cabby hopped out and held open the rear door. Richard arranged the volubly cheerful Daisy comfortably on the back seat and slipped in beside her.

“My friend Eleanor from school, she was the one that told me I should learn to play an instrument … she said that this excited swelling that fills you up ‘til you nearly explode was better than … uh … well, uh … than most anything … ever, I guess”, Daisy stuttered, her face flaming in the dark.

“And, you know this to be true?” Had it not been black as pitch in the cab, Daisy would have seen an honest to goodness Cheshire grin spread across Richard’s face.

“Right now, all I know to be true is that I am talking too much.”

The cab came to a stop in front of the sooty row of brownstones. “This has been the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Thank you, Richard, thank you. And, I look forward to hearing from you about the Gregor interview. I hope they agree.”

Richard walked her up the steps and opened the door. He held her by the shoulders and placed a chaste kiss on each cheek and whispered, “Goodnight, Daisy.”

Running up the four flights she flew into her room and flipped on the light switch and headed for the beaker of farthings. Oh lordy, I get to rattling off at the mouth and say things I shouldn’t and embarrass myself. I know Richard isn’t shocked. As the Brit’s would put it, he’s cheeky by half. But impertinent chatter would probably put-off most men. Oh, I don’t give a ding-dong about what most men might think!

After a run to the “loo”, she swiftly changed into a thick flannel nightgown, turned off the lights and jumped into the feathers and snuggled deep down beneath heavy wool blankets. Her blood was still spinning like a top through her twitchy body and sleep was not ready to claim her. She flopped back and forth then remained on her back … to better stare at the street light reflected on the tin ceiling.

What a day. Richard’s right. I have to hear what Pat has to say. I behaved badly … something ‘young’ Daisy wouldn’t have done. She’d have gathered his reasons like rose petals and pressed them in her diary.

He made me so mad ... said I was incapable of understanding him. Talking about the past stirred up feelings I didn’t know I still had; the days and nights I cried my eyes out because he never came home and couldn’t be bothered to write or call. Back then, I thought I’d never get over him. Then, there were those warm sizzling sensations that surged through me when he used to hold me and kiss me and call me ‘his girl’. Those spurted up as fresh as yesterday. With all of that emotion swirling inside me, I figure he should count himself lucky I didn’t skewer him with my umbrella. Oh, I know … he may have a reasonable explanation. Richard thinks I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I’ll listen to him if he comes looking for me.

Then there’s the Gregor interview … well, possible interview. This could be a really important piece and I’ll need to do a bit of research. I’ll go to the BL ... glad I opted for a reader’s pass. I’ll start a study regimen tomorrow.

Playing the drums again was a blast. I did a swell job, even if I say so myself. Richard knows how to give a girl a good time. He’s also a great listener as well as a good dancer. I was really lucky to meet him, Basil and Cathy … Agnes, Tim and Ned, too. I’d never have made it into the pressroom at the Palace without Basil and Agnes’ intervention. Sharon telling me to get acquainted with a few people at the Times was good advice. They’ve become friends, too. I’ll miss them when I go home … better wrap the gift for little Errol tomorrow before leaving the flat. If I get too busy I’ll forget. What’ll I bring on Sunday that will go with lemon curd tarts? Let’s see … hmmm … zzzzzz.