CHAPTER 1
“I’ve just had the most wonderful idea!” said Gwen.
“Have you?” replied Iris, who was looking back and forth between two index cards of possible candidates for Deirdre Currier, one of their more problematic ladies.
“We should throw a party!”
“What?”
“No, better yet—a ball! A New Year’s Eve dance!”
Iris swivelled in her chair to face her partner.
“Are you mad?” she asked.
“Not since mid-November,” said Gwen. “So sayeth the Court of Lunacy. I have an official judicial order to that effect, so I expect all of my ideas to be taken seriously from now on.”
Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge was indeed in possession of a court order from Assistant Master Cumber of the London Court of Lunacy declaring her to be no longer in need of supervision by the Crown, freeing her from the tethers of her legal guardians and her court-appointed committee and allowing her imagination to run free in promoting The Right Sort Marriage Bureau. Miss Iris Sparks, her co-proprietor, on the other hand, still had occasional misgivings over the quality of Gwen’s inspirations since she had become untethered, although if being honest with herself (which Iris rarely was), she might admit that her own stability might not necessarily pass muster if challenged in that selfsame court.
“A New Year’s Eve dance?” repeated Iris. “Do you mean like a lonely hearts ball?”
“Oh, that sounds so negative,” said Gwen. “We know they’re lonely, they know they’re lonely. That’s why they’ve come to us. There’s no need to rub salt in the wounds. Let’s call it a hopeful hearts ball.”
“For New Year’s Eve, though? It’s early December, and that doesn’t leave us much time,” Iris pointed out. “Have you any notion how to organise something like this?”
“I threw some smashing birthday parties back when I was in finishing school,” said Gwen.
“When you were sixteen and there were maybe a couple of dozen other girls to deal with,” said Iris. “We’re talking about our entire clientele. That’s nearly two hundred people if they all show up. We would have to locate a hall, order refreshments, line up a band, send out invitations—I don’t think we could even get invitations with the current paper shortages.”
“So we will call our clients,” said Gwen. “One by one.”
“You mean Mrs. Billington will call them,” said Iris. “She’ll be thrilled with the prospect. What will we charge them for this extravaganza?”
“We’ll have to figure that out,” said Gwen. “The first step is to find a suitable venue.”
“There won’t be any available this late,” said Iris. “They’ll all be booked.”
“Hopeful heart, dear,” said Gwen. “Pass me the telephone, would you?”
But Gwen’s optimism proved to be unfounded. Call after fruitless call was made interspersed between interviews of new clients and the hard work of trying to match the hitherto unmatchable, many of whom were matchless for very good reasons.
Meanwhile, the rest of London was gearing up for the 1946 Christmas season, its first after a full year of peace. Throughout the world, the remaining postwar issues were limping towards conclusion. Borders, amorphous as ever, were negotiated and fixed by the victors over the defeated and the liberated. Terms of truces were settled and signed. The Americans and British combined their occupied zones in Germany while the Soviets held tightly on to theirs and the French straddled the invisible diplomatic fence between them. A delegation of leaders from the subcontinent flew via a series of hops to London to meet with British leaders, then flew back without accomplishing much. The Persians invaded Azerbaijan to the bewilderment of the Allied powers, which hadn’t been paying close attention to that region. American coal miners decided not to go on strike before the New Year, enabling much-needed transportation of supplies to continue, and the steamer Saxon Star sailed into the Mersey from Canada with a shipment of more than forty-five million eggs—enough to provide one for everyone in the United Kingdom, assuming such scrupulously fair distribution could be accomplished.
But no clubs, church social halls, school gymnasiums, or other spaces of the right size were available, because of either prior booking, exorbitant price, or general unsuitability. The one possibility Gwen found was immediately vetoed by Iris.
“But why?” asked Gwen.
“It’s going to be closed down,” said Iris. “The police raided it for gambling recently, and they’re going to have their license taken away any day now.”
“They didn’t mention that when I spoke with them,” said Gwen.
“They were probably waiting for you to put down a nonrefundable deposit.”
“How did you know about that, anyway?”
“I was dashing out the rear door with Archie when the police were coming through the front. Quite exciting, I must say.”
“Why does this have to be so difficult?” complained Gwen in frustration. “I must have made fifty calls, and there is not one legitimate hall available.”
“Legitimate,” Iris repeated thoughtfully.
Gwen looked at her partner suspiciously.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“What if we found a place that wasn’t specifically a hall designed for this purpose?” asked Iris.
“Like what?”
“Remember the warehouse we used where we gathered all the parties incognito for our presentation of our investigation for the royals?”
“Of course,” said Gwen. “But you can’t possibly be suggesting we use that. It was dirty, it had broken windows, no decent lighting, and I doubt that the lavs were in any state of working order, much less cleanliness, although I couldn’t screw up my courage to try them. And we found it through Archie, which means it may be a storage house for who knows what contraband.”
“But that might add to the fun, don’t you think?” Iris persisted. “The very illicit nature of it, the sense of danger. Dancing close to someone you’ve just met in the dim light, waiting for the clock to tick down to midnight. Think how many couples we’ll match!”
“I should like to see the place again to determine if it’s feasible,” said Gwen. “Especially the lavatory situation. That would be crucial on New Year’s Eve if we get enough liquor supplied. Which, come to think of it, also may have to come through Archie. I never thought I’d say this, but you having a gangster for a boyfriend has been quite useful, hasn’t it?”
“And we’ve barely scratched the surface of what he can do,” said Iris.
“I don’t think we’d want to dig any deeper than we already have,” said Gwen.
“Be fair. We’ve dragged him into more shady situations than he has us,” said Iris. “In any case, unless you have a better idea, I’m going to call him.”
“I don’t,” said Gwen, passing her the telephone.
Iris dialled a number. It rang twice, then was answered.
“Eggy, is that you?” she asked. “It’s Sparks. Congratulations on your sterling victory over Callahan. I told you he was slower going to the right. Is Archie about? Yes, I would, please. Thank you, Eggy.”
“You must tell me how he got that name someday,” said Gwen.
“It’s a good story,” said Iris. “He was once caught— Oh, Archie, hello! I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important. Are you available for a consultation? How lovely! Mind if we come to the office? Yes, I’m bringing Gwen. See you soon.”
She hung up.
“Right, let’s tell Mrs. Billington,” she said.
They fetched their coats, hats, and scarves, then turned off the lights and locked up the office. Mrs. Billington, their secretary and de facto receptionist, had the office next door, which had been theirs when the two of them started up The Right Sort six months before on a bob and a notion; but as the business grew, they found they both needed and, more importantly, could afford a staffer.
“Are you going out for the afternoon?” she asked as they appeared, pulling on their gloves.
“We are,” said Gwen. “We might have a lead on a spot for the New Year’s Eve party.”
“Oh, good,” said Mrs. Billington. “Where?”
“Can’t tell you yet,” said Iris. “We’re off to see Mr. Spelling about it.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Billington. “Are you sure you want to get him involved in this? There are reputations to consider.”
“Whatever reputation I had was torn to shreds years ago,” said Iris.
“I was thinking of the firm’s,” said Mrs. Billington. “You always say you want to avoid scandal, yet somehow you keep finding your way into the newspapers.”
“Those incidents were out of our control,” said Gwen. “But at least the publicity proved favourable. We ended up getting more clients each time. Don’t worry, Saundra. Visiting Archie is strictly about finding a party venue. We aren’t joining the gang.”
“But if we do, we’ll put in a good word for you,” Iris added mischievously. “Their recordkeeping is atrocious.”
“I don’t suppose they like things written down,” said Mrs. Billington. “Some of the coppers can actually read, I hear. All right, get on with you. I’ll close the shop at five. Have fun gangstering.”
The two women walked down from the fourth storey, then turned left towards Oxford Street. The shops were cautiously festive this year, having retrieved from their cellars whatever Christmas decorations had survived the Blitz and years of storage. The previous Christmas had been one of relief, coming only three months after the end of the war, when the tolls of the dead and wounded were still being added up and the full extent of the horrors perpetuated by the Axis was being revealed. The winter and spring clothes currently displayed in the shop windows were still limited by rationing, but Gwen thought she detected a splash more colour now, a little more variety, even some daring, in the cut of the women’s dresses.
A hopeful heart needs a nice new frock, she thought, mentally adding up her current stock of coupons.
Iris, who was a devout atheist, glumly attempted to ignore the annual holiday onslaught, and felt an actual sense of relief as they left the surface of the city and descended into the chaos of the Oxford Circus Underground.
It was a slow, arduous journey to Wapping, requiring several changes, the last being to the East London Railway, and it gave them time to talk.
“I never thought when we began this mad venture that we would end up spending so much time with the criminal element,” said Gwen.
“Much less dating them,” said Iris with a grin.
“Speak for yourself,” said Gwen. “Apart from the night we all went out dancing, I’ve kept my contacts with Archie and company strictly business. And even that’s astonishing when I step back and look at it. I wonder how many women from my social circle have had similar experiences.”
“I’m sure most of them have someone they go to on the black market,” said Iris. “It’s the way life is nowadays. It will eventually settle down into something less desperate.”
“I hope so,” said Gwen. “But look at us, Iris. It’s the season of comfort and joy, we’re on a mission to bring love to people, and we are once again resorting to paths many would consider immoral.”
“Think of it as offering our immoral friends an opportunity to use their powers for good,” suggested Iris.
“Ends justifying the means,” said Gwen with a sigh. “Maybe we should join Archie’s gang. We could get an employee discount on whatever he’s going to charge us for the evening rental.”
“If there is such a discount, I should be able to get one,” said Iris.
“You don’t belong to the gang,” said Gwen. “You’re merely dating the gang leader.”
“Then I should get the moll’s discount.”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“Why not?” asked Iris.
“It’s demeaning.”
“I am dating Archie Spelling, head of the Spelling gang,” said Iris, “and it has never felt demeaning, not once. I would even go so far as to say it’s been the best relationship I have ever had, and that covers a largish sample size.”
“So he’s finally moved ahead of Mike Kinsey in the rankings?”
Iris grimaced at the mention of her second ex-fiancé, now married and a detective with the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.
“Archie doesn’t judge me,” she said. “He accepts me for who I am.”
“He accepted you for who you were when you were pretending to be someone else,” said Gwen.
“But he didn’t shy away when he met the real me, and he’s the only man ever to do that. Mike judged me and then moved on. He was right to do it—”
“You still haven’t told me the full story about that.”
Copyright © 2024 by Allison Montclair
