Chapter Six #2
‘Sayings about war can be transposed to love quite easily,’ she said. ‘Too easily, now that I think about it. In any case, he said he’d call me on Wednesday for the post-mortem. It wouldn’t surprise me if alcohol will once again be applied to that conversation. Do I have your approval for that?’
‘Do you think you can restrain yourself from further osculation, Sparks?’ he said. ‘Our operative doesn’t need the competition.’
‘She’s probably a better kisser than me as well, isn’t she?’
‘I have no basis for comparison,’ he said. ‘Very well, go on with your contacts. We’ll leave the rest of it to Miss Lowle.’
‘Thank you for walking me home, Mr Danforth,’ said Miss Lowle the following evening as she clung to his arm.
‘Tony, please,’ he said.
‘All right. Thank you for walking me home … Tony,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘May we stop here for a moment?’
‘Don’t you live further down?’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘But my landlady is a busybody and I don’t want her asking me questions about you.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘There’s a bench. Shall we sit for a moment, Miss Lowle?’
‘I’d like that very much. And you shall call me Evelyn. No! Don’t call me that!’
‘Why not?’ he asked, amused.
‘Because only my gran calls me that,’ she said. ‘Please call me Evie, Tony.’
‘I will.’
‘And what I wanted to tell you before we got within earshot of my landlady is that I had a lovely time with you tonight,’ she said, the words pouring out of her in a rush.
‘I was gun-shy coming into it, because the last date they set me up with … oh, it was awkward. He was nice enough, but there was no connection there.’
‘Do you feel that we have one?’
‘I’m not saying we should find the nearest church and rouse the minister,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I do feel that there is something here, something worth exploring further. I’m being too forward, aren’t I? Sorry, I’m told it’s a fault of mine.’
‘No, no, I find it refreshing,’ he said.
‘It’s just that I came to The Right Sort thinking, well, this is either going to be a complete lark or an act of desperation, do you know what I mean?’
‘I do, in fact.’
‘And, um—’
She stopped.
‘Go on,’ he urged her.
‘I’ve been so lonely since coming to London, and I think I’ve shut myself down after all this time,’ she said, looking down for a moment. Then she looked back up at him shyly. ‘But I’ve felt very comfortable talking with you.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘And I think what I’m trying to say is … I know, I know, I’m the female, and we’re not supposed to take the initiative—’
‘By all means, initiate,’ he said, laughing.
‘What I’m trying to say is if you are wondering what I would say to a request for another date, then the answer is yes,’ she said, looking at him expectantly.
He didn’t speak for a moment, his face suddenly serious.
Her face fell.
‘Oh, God, you weren’t going to!’ she cried. ‘I’m such a damn fool!’
He leaned towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
‘I am definitely asking you for another date, Evie,’ he said. ‘What I was wondering is whether or not I should kiss you right now.’
‘If you’re seeking my input on the question—’ she said.
‘I am.’
‘Then I would heartily endorse the idea.’
He closed the distance between them. The kiss was gentle and slow, and when they separated, she looked up at him, her eyes brimming.
‘I’m awfully glad you did that,’ she whispered. ‘I’m very much looking forward to our next date.’
‘I will ring you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Now, let me get you back to your warder before the portcullis is lowered.’
She glanced around when they reached the door, then turned and kissed him again quickly before turning the key and slipping inside. The last glimpse he had of her was her turning to smile at him one last time through the diminishing sliver of the doorway before it closed entirely.
Promising start, he thought to himself as he turned and headed to the Tube station.
He took the underground to Pimlico, from where it was a six-minute walk to Grenville House.
He went through the Grosvenor Road entrance, then, not quite trusting the lift, which had made some disturbing grinding noises when he had taken it in the morning, bounded up the stairs until he reached the fifth storey.
His flat faced Dolphin Square East, his view being of the rooftops of the houses separating Grenville House from St George’s Square, a park beloved of the local dogs and their owners.
He switched on the lights when he entered, wincing slightly at the bareness of it.
He had the furniture deliverers coming in the morning, with luck.
He had left the windows closed, and the place felt stuffy.
He opened the parlour window and threw back the shutters.
Then he went into the bedroom, turned on the overhead lamp, and repeated the process with that window as well, leaving the door between the two rooms open to provide some ventilation.
He turned away from the window and started heading towards the bathroom.
Which meant he had his back to the explosion.
Iris was distracted at The Right Sort the next day, twitching every time the telephone rang, waiting for the muffled tones of Mrs Billington next door to be followed by the news that it was Tony calling.
‘He may be busy,’ said Gwen. ‘He does have a job, you know.’
‘He said he would call,’ said Iris.
‘This may be a smaller matter in his life than it is in ours,’ Gwen pointed out.
‘I know,’ said Iris. ‘But the longer it takes, the more disproportionately grow my anxieties about it.’
‘You said once we set him up with Miss Lowle we were done with this,’ said Gwen. ‘You weren’t happy doing it, so don’t make yourself more unhappy worrying over it.’
‘Everything you say makes perfect sense. It follows that since I’m ignoring it all I am clearly not in my right mind.’
‘Focus on the work,’ suggested Gwen. ‘We have real couples to match, remember?’
Around three o’clock, the telephone rang. Then the intercom buzzed. Iris answered it right away.
‘It’s Mr Danielli,’ said Mrs Billington.
‘I’ll pass the telephone to Gwen,’ said Iris.
‘No, he wants to speak with you,’ said Mrs Billington.
‘Oh. Fine, put him through,’ she said, picking up the handset. ‘Hello, Sally. What’s up?’
‘Have you seen the Evening Standard yet?’ he asked.
‘No. I usually pick up the final edition on the way home. Why?’
‘There was some kind of fire last night. An explosion.’
‘What happened?’ she asked, her heart sinking. ‘Why are you calling me about it?’
‘A man was badly burned, it says here,’ said Sally. ‘It was Tony. Tony Danforth.’
She clutched the handset, the room blurring for a moment.
‘Where did they take him?’ she asked as Gwen looked over in concern.
‘St George’s,’ he said.
‘Do they know how it happened?’
‘Not as of publication time,’ he said. ‘“Police are making enquiries,” that vague cliché. But Gwen mentioned he was back in town and a client of yours, of all things, so I thought you should know.’
‘Thank you, Sally,’ she said. ‘Do you want to speak to Gwen?’
‘I can’t, actually. I’m at work, but I broke away for five minutes to ring you.’
‘All right. Thanks again.’
She hung up.
‘He wanted to speak with you, not me?’ asked Gwen. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Tony Danforth was injured last night,’ said Iris. ‘Someone torched his flat.’
‘Good God! Which hospital did they take him to?’
‘St George’s.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Gwen.
The hospital was across from Hyde Park Corner, normally a twenty-minute walk from Mayfair. They did it in fifteen, Iris’s nervous trot barely keeping up with the long, determined strides of her taller partner.
The hospital’s current form dated from a massive rebuilding a century earlier, with a Greek colonnade over the entrance facing Grosvenor Place. Iris pulled up short as they came to the entrance.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Gwen.
‘I haven’t set foot inside a hospital since Archie died,’ she said. ‘I need a moment to steel myself.’
‘If it’s any comfort, I have a very happy connection to this place,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s where I gave birth to Little Ronnie. Let me know when you’re ready.’
Iris took a deep breath, then grabbed Gwen’s hand.
‘I’m not being rational right now,’ she said. ‘Thank you for bearing with me.’
‘It’s an insane situation,’ said Gwen. ‘Fortunately, I have much experience with those.’
‘I’m ready,’ said Iris.
They went in, Iris still clutching Gwen’s hand. There was a line at the front desk. They waited patiently until they reached the receptionist.
‘May I help you, ladies?’ she asked.
‘We’re looking for a friend who was brought in last night,’ said Iris. ‘Anthony Danforth.’
The receptionist ran her finger down a ledger book.
‘Yes, he’s here,’ she said. ‘He’s in the intensive care ward.’
‘Still alive, then, thank goodness,’ said Iris, sagging against Gwen in relief. ‘May he have visitors?’
‘Are you family?’
‘Friends,’ said Iris.
‘Then I’m afraid not,’ said the receptionist.
‘Is there anyone we could speak with about how he is doing?’
‘I’ll see if either the surgeon or the matron is available,’ she said, picking up her telephone. ‘What names shall I give?’
‘Miss Iris Sparks and Mrs Gwendolyn Bainbridge.’
‘Very good. You may wait in the waiting room until they come down.’
They followed her directions to a room full of narrow, wooden benches, filled with anxious and exhausted people. They found space for themselves and sat.
‘This is a nicer waiting room than the one in London Hospital,’ Iris observed, looking around. ‘Is this where your husband waited while you were in labour?’
‘I believe there is a separate room for the maternity ward,’ said Gwen.
‘In any case, he wasn’t here for the birth.
He was already in training with the Fusiliers.
I had gone into labour before the due date, so there was no time to alert him.
Harold pulled some strings and got him leave to visit two days later.
I’d never seen Ronnie so happy as when he showed up, still in uniform, to meet his new son. ’