The Jazz Files Page 3

  “Of course I kept them, darling. I was so proud of you for writing them. Only twelve years old and already seeing the injustice in the world.”

  “But you didn’t post them.”

  “Only the first one. I didn’t dare post the rest after your mother saw your name in The Times.”

  Grace laughed. “Oh yes, Poppy, her expression was priceless. Dot was all set to send off the rest under the nom de plume ‘A twelve-year-old suffragette’, but I managed to talk her out of it.”

  Poppy smiled, remembering the delight at seeing her name in print for the very first time. She had sworn then that she would one day be a journalist. But as the years passed and the war and her brother’s death and the worthy but dull work of the Methodist Mission had taken over her life, she’d almost forgotten the dreams of her twelve-year-old self. But then, when she’d met that photographer at the station… was it possible? No, she chided herself. Her parents would be furious.

  Grace’s brown eyes stared intently into hers. “Don’t throw your life away, Poppy. Your aunt’s right. You have a chance here. Why don’t you take it? I’m sure we can get your parents to agree once you’ve got a job. And if they don’t…”

  “But they will!” piped in Dot.

  Poppy wasn’t sure they would. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the pile of letters wrapped in the pink bow.

  “All right. I’ll give it a go. But don’t tell Mam and Dad yet please. I don’t want them to worry.”

  “Of course not, darling. My lips are sealed.” Dot zipped her lips with her thumb and forefinger, then pushed the newspaper over the table to Poppy. “It’s decided then. Tomorrow you will reply to these advertisements and see if anyone calls you for an interview. And in the meantime, all this talk of work is making me hungry.”

  Grace smiled at her plump companion. “I can get started on dinner…”

  “No, don’t do that. Let’s go out! We’ll go to Oscar’s.” Then to Poppy: “It’s a new restaurant at the bottom of the road. They even play jazz!”

  “Jazz?” Poppy echoed.

  “Oh yes, jazz! My darling, tonight your education will begin!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Anyone who was anyone would have given their eye teeth to get a table at Oscar’s, and bookings were being taken two weeks in advance. But Aunt Dot, as a formerly famous actress and more recently infamous suffragette, had some sway. And an old friend of Dot’s – one of the first elected female MPs in 1918 – was the mother of Oscar Reynolds who owned the club. So by seven o’clock, Grace, Poppy and Dot made their way to the front of the queue waiting to be seated. They were ushered to a prime table, just left of the bandstand, by an effusive Oscar. “Miss Denby! Mrs Wilson! How delightful to see you!”

  “I’m sorry if we put you out at such short notice, Oscar. It’s just that my niece has come to stay with me and I wanted her to taste the best food in London.”

  “Oh, Miss Denby, you’re too kind! And may I say you are looking beautiful this evening?”

  “You may and you must!”

  “Thank heavens for that! You never know with these women’s rights types; a fellow could get a slap across his chops for daring to be such a gentleman in this day and age.”

  Oscar and Dot laughed as if they were sharing a private joke. Grace did not look quite so amused. Nonetheless she allowed Oscar to pull out her chair for her and the three women made themselves comfortable as menus were handed out.

  “How is Marjorie? I haven’t seen her in a while. No doubt up to her gills in legislation. Your mother’s done a sterling job, Oscar. You should be very proud of her.”

  “She wouldn’t be where she is now if it weren’t for you.” Oscar produced a wine list with a flourish. “May I recommend the Bordeaux? Or if you’re in a party mood, the champagne. A particularly good vintage…”

  “Oh, definitely the bubbly; what do you say, Poppy?”

  Poppy, who had never had “bubbly” in her life, was not quite sure what she was agreeing to, but she did so anyway. However, when she opened the menu she balked at the prices. There was no way she could even afford a starter. But Dot told her not to be so silly; that she and Grace were treating her. Poppy wasn’t sure where Dot got all her money, but it was rumoured that when she was an actress she had been the favourite of the Prince of Wales and had been on the receiving end of extravagant gifts. She had converted them to cash and on the advice of her good friends Frank and Grace, had invested it in shares. Now it seemed Grace managed her portfolio for her. It provided a tidy income for the pair, as well as helping to bankroll WSPU campaigns.

  So not only did Poppy have champagne for the first time, but oysters and sea bass too. She felt a little guilty eating so much when she knew the people at the mission in Morpeth would be having bean stew at best, but she reminded herself that Dot made substantial donations to the mission every year and that she could do the same when she started working. She was going to start working! She was going to have a career! She felt positively giddy from excitement and champagne, and whatever guilt she might have had about her parents was disappearing in a bubbly haze. And then, just when she thought the night couldn’t get any better, the band struck up a tune.

  So this was jazz. Poppy had never heard anything like it. Back home at the Methodist chapel her mother would plonk out old Wesley hymns on the honky-tonk piano that had lost most of its felts. And she could never do anything in F Major because the B Flat above Middle C was missing. But nothing was missing tonight. Joining the pianist was a drummer, a clarinettist, a trumpeter, a trombonist, a double bass player and a dapper chap in a pinstripe blazer playing what Poppy believed was called a banjo. Aunt Dot told her the joyful, toe-tapping tune was called “The Tiger Rag”.

  “If I wasn’t in this wretched chair, I’d get up to dance!”

  As if on cue, couples tossed down their napkins, leapt out of their chairs and began cavorting across the dance floor. “It’s called the Black Bottom!” Dot clapped and laughed, and even Grace cracked a smile. As the band brought “The Tiger Rag” to a close and moved into another upbeat number, a young woman spun out of her partner’s arms and started dancing alone in the middle of the floor, her arms spinning like a windmill, her knees turned inwards and her legs kicking out to the sides. The other couples formed a semi-circle around her and started clapping and cheering. Poppy was itching to get up to dance herself, but she didn’t know how. But then people started forming a train behind the solo dancer and she led them around the room in a quirky little dance with legs kicking to left and right. As the train passed her table, Poppy jumped up and joined the end. The train got faster and faster as it snaked its way in and out of tables – then, at one point, over a table! – and Poppy’s head started spinning. The whole room became a blur: the dancers, the music, the lights. Poppy let go of the person in front of her, lost her balance and spiralled to the floor. But the train went on, circling around and around her. Poppy pressed her forehead to the floor; the cool of the tiles was soothing. The music faded, the dancers began to clear and suddenly, above her, someone came into view. It was the solo dancer, smiling and reaching out her hand. Poppy took it and was hauled up. The young woman laughed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I – I – think so.”

  She laughed again and led Poppy back to her table.

  “Too much champagne, I think,” said Grace and passed her a glass of water. Poppy drank it gratefully.

  “Delilah, darling! I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I would have booked a table for four!”

  Poppy, feeling a little better, focused on her rescuer. She was in her early twenties, short and slightly built with a sleek black haircut in a fashionable bob, Mediterranean olive skin and dark eyes, accentuated by thick lines of charcoal. She was wearing the shortest sleeveless dress Poppy had ever seen. A shimmering gold number, covered in tassels from neck to hem, which stopped a good two inches above the knee. The woman wore a long string of pearls, knotted halfway at wa
ist level, and matching “slave bangles” on each bicep. On her right forearm she wore another bangle, styled like a snake, winding its way up from her wrist. Poppy imagined for a moment that this was what Cleopatra would look like if she were reborn into the twentieth century.

  “Delilah, this is my niece Poppy that I’ve been telling you about. My brother’s daughter from Northumberland. Poppy, this is Delilah Marconi. Her mother, Gloria, was a dear friend of ours. Like Emily, she was a sister in arms and was taken from us too soon.”

  “Too soon,” echoed Grace and slipped again into her faraway place.

  But Delilah wasn’t going anywhere. She pumped Poppy’s hand up and down enthusiastically.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Poppy Denby. If you’re anything like your aunt you are going to be great fun. You look a lot like her, you know?”

  “I know,” answered Poppy. “Sorry about earlier. I’m not used to all of this.”

  Delilah looked her up and down appraisingly, but not unkindly. “I see that. Don’t worry, Dot, I’ll have her jazzed up in no time.”

  “Good raw material, eh, Delilah?”

  Delilah gave a delicious little laugh and plopped down on the vacant chair between Poppy and her aunt. “Oh, definitely.”

  The idea of being “jazzed up” by Delilah might have worried her at another time, but tonight Poppy felt she was ready for anything. “I’m going to be applying for some jobs in the morning.”

  “Oh really? Where?”

  “There are a couple of options in the paper. One of them’s at The Daily Globe. I’ve always wanted to be a journalist. The advertisement said they were looking for an editor’s assistant; I’m hoping to work my way up.”

  “It’s the only way to do it. I’m hoping the same in my job.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Delilah is an actress! Just like me! How did it go at the audition?”

  Delilah’s face lit up. Poppy had never seen someone so exotically beautiful.

  “I got the part!”

  “Titania?”

  “No. One of her fairies. But at least it’s a named part. Cobweb.”

  “Cobweb today, Titania tomorrow! I’ll drink to that.” Dot raised her glass and the other women did the same. “To bright futures for us all!”

  Elizabeth Dorchester readjusted her position on the bed, trying to ease the pressure of the straps on her wrists. She would have to put up with them for at least another night – she always did after one of her “reassessments”. A doctor would come and see her tomorrow and explain, yet again, why it was for her own good. If she could control herself enough and not lash out at him – as she had done at her visitor earlier – she would be spared the medication. She wanted to keep a clear mind and she needed to be free of her bonds so she could write the letter she needed to write. No one could know her plan; she had to play it cool. She had to keep on the sweet side of the person who was beginning to show some sympathy to her. At the appropriate time she would pass on the note and pray that it would be delivered to the right person out there in the world.

  She could hear some music down the hall, beyond her locked door. One of the orderlies had brought in a gramophone and was playing a disc record. They played the recordings most nights and Elizabeth had memorized the piece note for note. It was a new style of music and she had heard the staff refer to it as jazz. A lot had changed in the seven years Elizabeth had been locked up. Apparently there’d been an entire world war. She wondered if she would even recognize what was left of the world when she finally got out.

  CHAPTER 4

  Poppy got off the bus at the bottom of Fleet Street. The bus had been full and she had been forced to sit on the top deck, open to the elements. On a sunny day she wouldn’t have minded, as she would have been able to take in the sights of London between Chelsea and Blackfriars: Buckingham Palace, Pall Mall, Marble Arch, Trafalgar Square, The Royal Opera House at Covent Garden… but today was overcast and drizzly, and whatever view she would have had was blocked by a curtain of umbrellas. However, she was grateful for them and she got off the bus relatively unscathed, with both her hair and her new outfit dry and uncrumpled.

  She had bought the navy blue drop-waisted dress and matching jacket with white trim on Oxford Street the previous week. It had been a compromise between Grace’s suggestion for “sensible office wear” and Aunt Dot’s insistence on “something with a bit of flair; something to make you stand out”. The blue had been Poppy’s idea: a halfway house between Grace’s grey and Dot’s scarlet. Grace had taken one look at Dot’s proposed outfit and declared: “She’s going for an interview at a newspaper, not an audition for Carmen!”

  It had taken Poppy nearly three weeks to secure the interview. Despite Dot’s declaration that finding a job would be “easy peasy”, it had turned out to be far more problematic than anticipated. She had written a dozen letters in response to situations vacant, but only received replies to five of them. It had taken ten days for the first reply to reach her and she was getting very anxious that Dot’s great career plans might not work out at all. She was also feeling guilty because she had to lie to her parents. They had written and asked her how her new job with Dot was going. She was as vague as possible about the specifics and just said she was learning lots of new skills and that Dot was very encouraging. Both were true, but not in the way she knew her parents would understand it. She hoped she could get a real job soon and be able to tell them the truth. Surely they would forgive her – and Dot – if she actually had a decent, well-paid position. But that was proving trickier than she would have thought.

  The first two replies said that regretfully the positions had already been filled. The third was from a law firm looking for a secretary. It asked her to send in her curriculum vitae listing previous experience in the legal sector. She had none. Dot wanted her to make something up: “Darling, you just have to get your foot in the door. You’re like me, a quick learner; you’ll impress them in no time!”

  But Poppy was not prepared to live a lie. What she was doing with her parents was worry enough, but that was just temporary. And surely it was illegal to falsify references… Grace agreed with her that it was.

  The fourth reply proved more promising and she was invited to an interview for an assistant manager’s position at an Oxford Street stationer’s. When she got there and announced she was there for the interview, she was given a quizzical look by one of the counter assistants. He asked if she was in the right place. She said she was. He ushered her into a smoky back office, announced that a Miss Denby had arrived, and quickly withdrew. Through the cloud of smoke, Poppy made out a very austere-looking gentleman with facial hair to match Lord Kitchener’s. He didn’t bother removing his pipe before asking, “Denby? P. Denby?”

  “That’s correct, sir. Poppy Denby.”

  “You should have said.”

  “Should have said what?”

  “That you’re a woman, girl. A woman!”

  Poppy sucked in her breath and exhaled slowly, giving her time to formulate her response. “The application form did not ask me to specify,” she said carefully.

  “But it did specify that we are looking for an assistant manager, did it not?” The man ran his tongue along his teeth; then, appearing to have found something, he picked at it with his fingernail.

  Poppy suppressed a shudder. “It did, sir. And I have some experience helping to manage a charity shop in Morpeth. I have kept books, I have managed stock, I have…”

  The man slammed his fist on his ink blotter like a judge’s gavel. “You have lied about your gender.”

  “I have not lied!”

  “If we had wanted a woman we would have asked for a manageress. We did not ask for a manageress. Good day, madam.”

  The man moved his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other and waved her towards the door.

  Poppy was incensed. She had prepared herself for pertinent questions that she may have been asked and had even read up on the his
tory of stationery at the British Library. She had not prepared herself for this blatant discrimination.

  “But sir!”

  “What?” he spat, spraying flakes of tobacco over his ink blotter.

  “I am quite capable of doing this job.”

  “I doubt that. We need someone the staff can look up to; whom they can respect; who can motivate them. We need someone customers can come to for advice, and trust that what they are being told has authority; someone with an agile brain who will not tire easily or be emotionally overcome, who will not be frequently in the family way and have to take extended leaves of absence… in short, madam, we need a man. Good day to you.” This time he took the pipe out of his mouth and prodded it towards the door.

  Poppy turned on her heel and walked out. She fumed all the way back home to Chelsea, rehearsing what she would have said if she had the chance to do it over. She got herself so worked up that by the time she opened the door of number 137 she was in tears.

  After hearing what had happened, Dot was just as incensed. “Grace! Get the motor!”

  Poppy expected Grace to try to talk her out of it, but she didn’t. Instead she grinned and declared: “Into the breach once more!” and grabbed her hat, scarf and motoring goggles from the hatstand.

  On the drive back to Oxford Street, while bumpily applying her make-up in a little vanity mirror strapped to the dashboard, Dot regaled Poppy with a history of their lives as political activists before the war: the demonstrations, the arson attacks on sporting venues, the chaining of themselves to the railings outside number 10 Downing Street. “Those were the days, eh, Grace? We didn’t do all of that so that my niece could be humiliated at a job interview.”

  Grace’s eyes narrowed behind her goggles and she shouted over the roar of the engine: “Nor did our friends go on hunger strike, get tortured in prison and get run down by horses. You do know that your aunt’s ‘accident’ was nothing of the sort, don’t you, Poppy? A policeman deliberately ran his horse at her. And to this day he’s never been charged.”