When Pearl left school, their mother had begun a two-year preparation period in readiness for her coming out. After spending almost a year at ‘finishing school’ in Switzerland, she was taken to Italy on a sort of mini grand tour. From there, she and her mother went to America. On the eve of her nineteenth birthday, Pearl received an invitation from the Lord Chamberlain in the post and, along with a great many other debutantes, she had been presented to the new but as yet uncrowned King Edward VIII, in a ceremony which marked the beginning of the social season. Right now, Milly’s mother and her sister were in London going to parties, sometimes more than one a night, where eligible young women did their best to attract eligible young bachelors, who would preferably be both rich and handsome.
It was of some relief to Milly that she wasn’t included. She knew she could never live up to her mother’s exacting standards, and sometimes the pressure to please was crippling. No matter how hard Milly tried, Agatha was always quick to criticise.
‘Sit up straight, Millicent, and for goodness’ sake take off those wretched glasses.’
‘But Mummy, I really can’t see without them.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! You look like an owl.’
Once Pearl’s season was over, Milly would be expected to follow the same path. Her sister had crammed so much into her coming out preparation, but for Milly, the thought of an endless round of buying new clothes, finding the best hairdressers and getting party invitations from the rich and well connected, all designed to result in marriage to some boorish young chap, filled her with dread. However, the one thing she was looking forward to was the travel. Who wouldn’t want to wander the slopes of Switzerland or go to art galleries in Florence? She would take her paints, and if possible her easel. Having been enrolled by her father in the Worthing School of Art and Science, Milly had become quite a clever artist. The course was for two years and Milly worked hard, something her father applauded even if her mother only sniffed at her work.
Even though she’d never breathed a word about what she and Pearl had done, Milly and Lena had grown much closer. With her mother and Pearl so frequently away in London, Milly was often on her own during the holidays. It gave her the opportunity to paint and to see more of Lena.
‘You look miles away,’ Uncle Neville remarked.
Milly sat up. ‘Do I? I’m sorry. I was just remembering.’
Uncle Neville chuckled and – completely misunderstand-ing her remark – said, ‘You and Susan certainly seemed to enjoy yourselves.’
‘We did.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We went to Bournemouth a lot,’ she said. ‘We swam in the sea and went to a show at the Pavilion. Aunt Betsy took us to Ringwood Market one day and, oh, I did quite a lot of painting.’
Uncle Neville chuckled again. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a lot of fun.’ He was pulling the car into the car park in front of West Moors station and not a moment too soon. Mr Watson, high up in the signal box, was already turning the wheel to close the gates across the road, so the arrival of the train must be imminent. Uncle Neville almost fell out of the car with the suitcase, and Milly was bundled onto the platform. A minute or two later, the train thundered in. There was a frantic moment looking for the Ladies Only carriage, and then Milly hopped aboard. Uncle Neville put her case and her paintings onto the luggage rack and stepped back onto the platform. Milly pulled down the window and he stood back to wave. ‘Safe journey, and remember to telephone your aunt when you get home,’ he instructed. ‘She’ll want to know you’ve arrived safely.’
‘I will,’ Milly promised, ‘and thank you.’
Uncle Neville lifted his hat and the train moved off. Milly sat down. There were two women in the carriage, one was reading a book and the other was knitting what looked like a glove on four needles. The knitter looked up and smiled. Milly nodded her head briefly before she made herself comfortable with her book to enjoy the journey to Brockenhurst.
Pearl stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked fine; no, more than that, pretty darned good. And so she should. She’d worked hard over the past eighteen months. She had slimmed down and blossomed into a beautiful woman. Everybody said so, especially Freddie – and what a catch he’d been. Still gazing at herself, she turned sideways and put her hand on her hip. The dress was fantastic and worth every penny. Figure-hugging, it had silk flowers at the neck, on the right breast, and dotted below the waistline with the last one on her right hip. It was the colour that made it stand out. A brand-new colour; a first in the world of fashion. Shocking pink.
Pearl did another twirl. Elsa Schiaparelli wasn’t as well-known as some of the other designers, but her clothes were still bought by the rich and famous – women like Daisy Fellowes, Marlene Dietrich and Wallis Simpson – and that, she told herself, was all that mattered. Pearl was desperate to be up there with the greats.
Adopting a sultry pose, she pouted a little and did another turn.
‘Can I come in?’
Agatha snatched back the curtain before Pearl could answer, and put her gloved hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Pearl!’
Pearl took her mother’s startled expression as a compliment. ‘Well? What do you think? Do you like it?’
‘It’s a bit . . . pink.’
The assistant glided towards them. ‘Madam looks stunning,’ she whispered, ‘but perhaps the colour . . .’
‘But it’s all the rage now, isn’t it?’ Pearl said defensively.
‘We do have an identical cream silk with pink accessories,’ said the assistant. ‘I’m sure it’s in madam’s size.’
Without waiting for an answer, she hurried away.
Agatha was looking at the price tag.
‘Mother, don’t!’ Pearl hissed. ‘It looks so vulgar. It’s bad enough that we can’t afford to have a complete designer wardrobe, without you reminding me that we have to shop “off the peg”.’
‘Darling, this is Harrods,’ Agatha protested.
‘All the same . . .’
While her mother wandered off to look at another dress rail, Pearl went back behind the curtain to take her dress off. It was hard to believe that she was still not engaged. Freddie was going to ask her, wasn’t he? It wasn’t that she wasn’t accomplished. She’d spent a year in finishing school in Switzerland, where she’d learned French and how to dance. She knew how to curtsey properly, with her left knee locked behind her right so that she could bow low without wobbling, and she was comfortable in places like Ascot, Henley, and Eton’s June the Fourth celebrations. She loved traditions like that. Pearl sighed. She’d been a glittering success and then she’d met Freddie. Delicious, handsome Friedrich von Herren, who was now called Freddie Herren. Pearl was quite smitten by him, especially when she discovered he had a castle in Germany and pots of money in the bank. They kept bumping into each other at luncheons and afternoon teas, even the occasional dinner party, which was why she couldn’t wear the same old stuff, so right now, she was extending her wardrobe.
The assistant came back with another dress, a sleeveless Coco Chanel creation in antique gold lace over a gold-coloured silk shift. The moment she saw it, Pearl had to have it. She tried it on and it was a perfect fit.
‘Shall I call madam’s mother?’ the girl asked.
‘No need,’ Pearl said imperiously. ‘I’ll take it – and the other one. Charge it to my father’s account.’
The book was good, but Milly’s mind kept wandering to memories of time spent with her secret sister. When they were younger, the two girls had played in the woods, picked wild flowers and ridden their bicycles around the countryside. As they grew older, they sometimes helped out with the harvest on the local farm. Just lately they would bike up the hill and have tea in the café under the windmill at the top of High Salvington. Lena never expected anything from Milly, so their friendship had been built on mutual love and respect. Only it wasn’t as honest as it might be. Milly still harboured that guilty secret.
After Angel died, their father sent Lena to the Findon village school until she was fourteen (the school leaving age). For a while, there was talk of sending her to college, but Lena was adamant that she wanted to return to her fairground family.
‘You’ve given me an education, Pa,’ she told their father, ‘for which I am eternally grateful, but half of me still belongs with my mother’s people.’
There were endless discussions about it and, in the end, their father agreed that she could go back to Rainbow George and the travellers.
Because the travellers only settled wherever there was a fair, it made meeting up more difficult. Lena might be in Wivelsfield for the St John the Baptist fair in June, or Hurstpierpoint for the St Lawrence the Martyr fair in July, then perhaps in West Hoathly for the feast of St Margaret, all of them quite a distance from Milly in Findon. That and the fact that her mother must never know who Lena was, or – worse – that she and Milly were friends, made everything doubly difficult, so the two girls hadn’t laid eyes on each other for almost two years. Milly had really missed seeing Lena, which was why she was so looking forward to September this year. At the end of the month, Milly was supposed to join her mother and sister in London but, before that, the Findon sheep fair would take place. Lena’s relatives would be organising the fairground activities, and their father had said Milly could go along. Having heard so much about Rainbow George and Big Alice, but never actually having met them, she could hardly wait.
