‘Which party’s meant to be in uniform?’ Phyl asked with a grimace of distaste.
‘Either or both, I expect. Phyl, you’d be surprised to hear the inventive suggestions I’ve had for bringing my navy serge into disrepute. The offers roll in! I could make a fortune if I were that way inclined. More if I were a nurse, of course.’
Phyllis grunted her disapproval. ‘There’s probably a word for that sort of thing. Something in Greek that I’d rather not hear. But that’s not this man’s problem, evidently. He wants to see you in “something sparkling at the wrist and throat”. I’m assuming something in between … yes? I can see you intend to accept this invitation, if that’s what it is – it reads rather more like a royal command. So what are you planning? Got any sparklers?’
‘He has no idea! I expect he only knows women who visit Asprey the jeweller’s twice a week and have wardrobes full of evening clothes.’ Lily’s voice was bitter. ‘He could have asked any of the other recruits. They don’t exactly have their tin lockers at the hostel stuffed with ball gowns but they’ve got silks and satins by the furlong stashed away at the family seat, you can bet. I should think he doesn’t even know the price of a pair of evening gloves.’
She gave the cocoa an over-vigorous stir. ‘I know. Barmy of me even to think of accepting. I nearly chucked in the towel when I thought about it. But – all too easy to do a Cinderella and stay behind blackleading the grate and sighing with frustration. I can’t do that.’
Phyllis looked at her with affection. ‘No, love. You were never a Cinders. More of a Little Red Hen – “I can do it myself”. God, that can be annoying!’
‘I have to find out what this man’s up to. Even if I have to kit myself out from a stall in Petticoat Lane. It could be that he really wants me to do a bit of serious detective work and that’s a chance I’m not going to pass up. So, I have to work something out. I thought I’d borrow my mother’s black silk evening dress – the one she wore to the Mayor’s Armistice Day do last year. I could tack up the hem and put a belt round it. You could help me tiddle it up a bit … I wouldn’t tell her and she’d never notice. I can just afford a pair of new shoes and I wondered …’ Lily hesitated, hobbled by the task of asking a favour from anyone, even from the woman she was closer to than her own mother.
Phyllis read her thought. ‘… wondered if I’d lend you a little cocktail hat to distract from the God-awful black number you’ll be wearing? A little bit of nonsense in silver and pearl trembling over the right eye to hold his attention? Of course I will. You’ve a dozen to choose from. But look, love, this needs a bit of planning. This sparkling bit is the bloke’s way of signalling evening dress. It means he’ll be in tails. The Royal Opera House? The Ritz? Either way, your ma’s silk is not going to rise to the challenge. And it’s summer still – no one under thirty’s going to be wearing black. Inconsiderate oaf! Why couldn’t he have been more precise? Think back. Did he give you a clue while you were having your chat – express an enthusiasm for Puccini, rave about the sole normande at the Caprice?’
Lily shook her head. ‘We’re not on those terms, Phyl. But I don’t somehow see him at the opera. I doubt he could sit still long enough. He’s a bit too outdoorsy and twitchy for that. I can more easily imagine him cutting a rug at a jazz club.’
‘Gracious! How old is this gent? I’d imagined some old fart with mutton-chop whiskers and gouty knees.’
‘No, not at all. He’s younger than Uncle David. Not thirty yet, I’d guess. Too young for the position he holds, everybody says. The others of that rank are moustached, mouldering old codgers who do nothing more energetic than shift papers from one side of the desk to the other all day, checking staff rotas and sacking people. This one’s different. After the Paddington station performance, I asked around a bit. “Know your enemy.” He oughtn’t to feel like an enemy, but he does. What the men say is that Sandilands is one of the new generation of officers – you know, brought in from outside the force to put a bit of grit in the mix and train on for higher things.’
‘My word! Can this be the dear old Yard we all know and hate? I thought you had to wear out fifty pairs of boots plodding the streets before they made you a sergeant.’
‘It’s the post-war stir-up,’ Lily said. ‘Talent shanghaied and shoehorned in at the highest level. General Macready, then Brigadier Horwood, made Commissioners … Hor-wood’s only qualification was three days as a Chief Constable of a county force when he was invited to take over. And what they do is appoint younger men in their own image. They favour ex-military. Though Sandilands predates Macready, they say. He’d already done his regular beat-bashing when he was spotted.’