Andrew Wareham - The Balloonatics - A Tale of the Great War

They parted to change, Peter swearing quietly that Oadby was not to hand to assist him with dress uniform.

Jennifer was not present to join them – apparently she worked long hours at the hospital, especially when a new batch of wounded came in from France.

“The figures are appalling still, Peter. Men going down by the thousand. Your Naval Brigade has been in the thick of it again.”

Peter wondered how the two unwilling recent recruits to the Brigade’s ranks had fared. He cared very little, he discovered. Neither man had been worthy of the name – he had no affection for the cowardly.

They took two cars to the Lancings, formal dress demanding space, for the womenfolk especially.

He had seen the Lancings’ seat before, a manor that had now been overtaken by the town, had new housing on three sides, all large, detached properties for the City men who travelled into Town every day, like the Nasebys.

“Will Lancing sell up, do you think, Father?”

“Get out of the area and let the developers pull down the old place and put up another hundred of ‘six-bedroom bijou mansionettes’ Peter? That is a quote from an estate agency, I would add, not my imagination!”

They savoured the ridiculous phraseology, almost admiring that sort of mind that could come up with something so pretentiously ridiculous.

“’Bijou’, Father? What exactly does that mean?”

“Small, delicate and elegant, I believe, my son. I looked in my dictionary, disbelieving, when I first saw it used for the redbrick monstrosities they are depositing all over Surrey and Middlesex.”

“Tasteless vulgarity taken to the nth degree, it would seem sir.”

“Well said, young man. Hush now, we must present ourselves, the Nasebys en masse, you at the front, Peter.”

“Not damned likely, sir. I may well walk in front of your coffin one day, but I shan’t claim superiority over you before then!”

“Well said. I stand rebuked – the fate of all fathers, they tell me.”

Lord Lancing stood next to his broad-hipped lady, welcoming his guests at the door, as was right. He was very slightly tipsy. Peter remembered that to be his normal condition at any time of day or night; he suspected that he took a double brandy on the hour, every hour, to maintain his condition.

“Good to see you, Naseby, and you, ma’am. Commander Naseby, you are most welcome to my roof, sir. Mr Naseby, Miss Ermintrude Naseby, I am glad to greet you.”

They made the appropriate mutters in reply and passed inside, leaving my lord to welcome the next comers.

At a glance Peter estimated a score of guests already present, stood in the large, old hall. It was unexpected to discover a country mansion in the town – inevitable, he supposed, considering London’s growth in recent years. Ewell had been a small market town, drowsily distant from the capital barely fifty years previously, was now a suburb of London. He suspected that the hall would very soon be demolished, almost as soon as the war ended and building started again.

His parents knew all those present, went through the series of introductions that brought him to their notice. Being Navy, he had been absent from local society for the previous decade and more, had become an unknown. Now, it seemed, all were anxious to meet him.

He spotted two other uniforms, both Army and general officers, well into their fifties, his father’s age. He came to attention as he met them, spotting breasts well adorned with campaign ribbons.

“Pleasure to meet you, Commander. Damned good job of work. Well deserved, that piece of ribbon!”

He made his thanks, said as little as possible. Stepping back, he found himself in the middle of a gaggle of young females, ages between seventeen and his own, he guessed. He presumed they were five of Lancing’s many daughters.

The eldest had a grin on her face, leading him to suppose his own emotions had been evident

“I’m Charlie Lancing. Surrounding you are Lottie, Mary, Effie and Silvie – we tend not to stand on formality. I’m Number One – the others are Three, Five, Six and Seven. Two is married and escaped our happy home and Four is male – according to rumour – and is elsewhere engaged in the military, staff officer to Sir John French. Eight, Nine and Ten are too young for company yet.”

They were overpowering, laughing, bright and enthusiastic. Fairly good-looking as well, he had to admit, all of middle height and prominent on bust and backside, definitely women, unlike the modern fad for the skinny, androgynous flapper. He much preferred females who were unashamedly that – sailors tended to be old-fashioned, he knew.

“Peter Naseby, ladies. I am pleased indeed to meet you.”

Charlie’s grin widened.

“I am to be your dinner partner, Commander, though there is such a shortage of males these days that we cannot produce a balanced table. I believe my father wants to marry me off – he has been introducing me to every single man he can discover, up to and including Colonel Wharton, ex-Indian Army, in his fifties, can’t be here tonight for his gout playing him up.”

“I don’t think I can compete with a colonel, Miss Lancing.”

“Not in rank, perhaps, sir. Do you have to go back to Polegate tomorrow? I am in London, I have a flat there, can’t stand the atmosphere here! I run a dress shop with a pair of friends – high fashion, our own designs. Drives my father mad that I can earn enough to make my own way. Do come and visit us for lunch on your way back.”

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.

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.”