Poppy let herself in to 137 King’s Road, Chelsea. It was seven o’clock and she had stopped off on the way back from the office to have her hair trimmed. These fashionable bobs might look fabulous, but they needed regular upkeep. She also had a new frock in her bag, which had been on sale at Milady’s. Thank heavens for her clothing allowance from The Globe! She would never have been able to keep up with her best friend Delilah Marconi without it. When Poppy first arrived in London, Delilah had resorted to clothing her from the wardrobe department at the Old Vic Theatre. Poppy never aspired to be the fashion aficionado that her actress friend was, but she did need to stay up to date to fit in with the jazz set with whom she now regularly rubbed shoulders in her job as arts and entertainment editor.
Number 137 King’s Road, however, was far from “up to date”. Her aunt, Dot Denby, had had her fashion hey-day in 1905 as a leading lady on the West End stage, and the stuffy Edwardian décor had not moved on since. Stuffy, though, was not a word that could be used of the lady of the house herself, whose most recent career had been as a suffragette and socialist activist. A bubbly giggle emanated from the townhouse dining room, buoyed by a hubbub of dinner party conversation. Poppy remembered that her aunt was entertaining this evening. Drat, she should have skipped the hairdresser and come home earlier. Her aunt had invited her, but as she had not been sure what time she would get home from work, she had been non-committal on her timeline; so non-committal that it had slipped her mind entirely.
“Join us when you can, then, darling!” had been her aunt’s reply.
Poppy ran upstairs and got changed.
Ten minutes later she came down the stairs in her new emerald-green flapper dress and black boa. It might have been a bit risqué for a dinner party at home, but Poppy would be meeting Delilah later at Oscar’s and she didn’t want to get changed twice. Her aunt wouldn’t mind, Poppy knew; her guests, though, might have other views…
Poppy pushed open the dining room door and heard a Mozart concerto playing on the gramophone. The table was set for eight people, and a further two – wearing a maid’s and butler’s uniform respectively – hovered around the periphery. Aunt Dot – who sat at the top of the table in a Chippendale chair, her wicker wheelchair pushed into the corner – was typical of the socialist-leaning upper middle classes of her era. She did not employ a full domestic staff but rather had a cleaning lady and cook during the day and hired in a butler and maid from an agency for special social occasions. And if it were not for the fact that she was paraplegic, that would have been all the help she needed or desired.
Unfortunately, Dot’s long-term companion, Grace Wilson, was currently serving a prison term in Holloway, so her daily needs were now met by a Miss King, whose Christian name Poppy had yet to learn. Miss King, who sat primly to Aunt Dot’s left, had once been governess to the prime minister’s daughter, but now the child was grown, she was in need of new employment. Aunt Dot’s old friend the MP Marjorie Reynolds – sitting this evening at the foot of the table – had recommended Miss King as a “stop-gap” until dear Grace came home. The fact that Grace was serving time for blackmail and perverting the course of justice was not enough for her faithful suffragette friends to turn their backs on her. And as Aunt Dot kept reminding Poppy, the former accountant would only serve half of her two-year sentence if she kept her nose clean.
“Poppy darling!”
Aunt Dot raised her glass and toasted Poppy as she came into the room. Two of the gentlemen at the table stood up to greet her; the third remained seated but acknowledged her presence with a nod.
Poppy went around the table and kissed her aunt on her highly rouged cheek. Aunt Dot laughed like a schoolgirl. “I didn’t think you’d make it, darling. I thought you were chasing a deadline.”
“Not this evening, Aunt Dot. Although I will be on Sunday night.”
“My niece works at The Globe, you know. One of the new breed of women journalists.”
“And doing a splendid job she is too,” said Marjorie Reynolds, raising her glass to meet Dot’s.
“Hello, Mrs Reynolds.”
“Hello, Poppy. I believe you were at the Russian embassy this afternoon.”
“Yes, I was. Did Ike tell you?”
“Indeed he did. In fact I –”
“Marjorie, darling, if you don’t mind, you and Poppy can talk shop in a minute. But first I need to introduce her to everyone else.”
“Of course, Dot. Forgive my rudeness.”
“Not at all. The new minister to the Home Office can be forgiven anything. Did you hear of Marjorie’s new appointment, Poppy?”
“I did. Congratulations, Mrs Reynolds.”
“Thank you, Poppy. Perhaps we can arrange an interview sometime. But not tonight – your aunt’s right, we shouldn’t talk shop.” Then she nodded towards Aunt Dot. “She’s all yours, Dot.”
Dot clapped her plump hands. “Splendid. Have you eaten, Poppy?”
Poppy shook her head.
Aunt Dot raised her finger towards the butler. “Is there anything left, Mr Brown?”
“There is, Miss Denby. If the other Miss Denby would like to take a seat…”
The butler pulled out the eighth chair for her and then served her. Poppy was seated between two gentlemen, both of whom nodded politely. She knew one, but not the other.
“Well, as you might have guessed, this is my niece Poppy. My brother’s daughter. She’s from Morpeth, Norman. Near your neck of the woods. Poppy, this is Norman Veitch from Newcastle. He runs a fabulous little theatre there called The People.”
“It’s the People’s Theatre,” said a kindly looking dark-haired gentleman in his forties. “Did you ever attend, Miss Denby? It’s on Percy Street.”
“Unfortunately not, Mr Veitch. My parents did not approve of the theatre.”
Aunt Dot giggled again. “Oh, if they could see you now.”
Poppy’s heart sank. That was the last thing she would want. She had not seen her parents since she moved to London five months ago under the auspices of being her aunt’s companion. Her letters to them had been scant on details and loose on truth. They knew about her job on the newspaper, but not all that it entailed. She wasn’t quite sure how to put all that in a letter. So she was waiting until her next visit home to give them the full picture of her new life in London. She was not looking forward to it.
“Norman is a good friend of George’s, isn’t he, George?”
“Yes, he is. He and his brother Colin have been good enough to stage some of my plays,” a gruff, bearded man in his sixties commented in a Dublin brogue.
“And this is George Bernard Shaw, the playwright. No doubt you’ll be covering some of his work in years to come, Poppy.”
“It would be my honour,” said Poppy, trying to keep her voice casual. So this was the famous George Bernard Shaw. Poppy had read all about him in The Globe’s archives: socialist, supporter of women’s rights, vegetarian, teetotaller, atheist… apart from his views on alcohol, Poppy’s parents would have been appalled.
“George and I met at a Fabian Society meeting. Must have been nigh on twelve years ago now, George, wasn’t it?” asked Dot.
“Thirteen.”
“Yes, it was Gloria who introduced us. Were you there, Victor?”
“Unfortunately, I was not,” said a suave, olive-skinned gentleman. “Lovely to see you, Poppy.”
“You too, Mr Marconi. I’m going out with Delilah later. Did she tell you?”
Victor Marconi, the Maltese hotel magnate, laughed. “She might have, but I so easily lose track of my daughter’s comings and goings.”
“Have you met her new beau?” probed Aunt Dot.
Victor’s eyebrows met in the middle. “I have.”
“And do you approve?”
“The jury’s still out – as you English say.”
This brought a laugh from everyone at the table – including the gruff Bernard Shaw.
“Is he from a good family?” asked an exquisitely bejewelled fake-blonde, middle-aged woman sitting to the right of Victor Marconi, with the slightest hint of a Russian accent. She leaned in to him, her cleavage plump and white, offsetting a spectacular sapphire and diamond necklace.
“I have yet to meet his family, principessa.”
Shaw laughed coldly. “If by good, Selena, you mean ‘did his parents not send him off to boarding school or hire a nanny to make sure they hardly ever saw him?’, then I think he might be so low down the social ladder that you would never approve of them. And what’s it got to do with you anyway, unless you’re planning on trapping poor Victor here?”
Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova – second cousin of Tsar Nicholas II, White Russian refugee and current guest star at the Old Vic Theatre – bit her lip and teared up.
Victor cleared his throat. “There’s no need for that, Shaw.”
“Yes, George, there’s no need for that. Let’s have a pleasant evening, shall we?”
“Come now, Dot, surely this was exactly what you were expecting. You know my views on class and yet you invite me to a dinner party with a distant cousin of a dead despot.”
Selena’s tears were becoming sobs. “Dear Nicky w-was not a despot. A-and there is no evidence that he – he’s d-dead. It never seemed to bother you before that he was – how did you phrase it? – a despot, and you were all too happy to take his money for the Paris run of your show, and – and –” Selena choked up, unable to continue.
Victor patted her hand. “I think you should apologize, Shaw.”
“Apologize? Whatever for?”
Aunt Dot’s pretty pink nails tapped the damask tablecloth in mild annoyance. “For being rude, George. Selena is not responsible for her dear cousin’s politics – and she is here as my guest. On the other hand, though, I too do not agree with the way the Russian aristocrats ruled –”
Selena gasped.
“I’m sorry, Selena, but it’s true. You know my views on these things. And in George’s defence, politics has always been on the agenda at this house. So forgive him too, my dear; he is just doing what he normally does when he is here.”
“You mean not being a gentleman!”
“Well, yes –”
“Then you must excuse me.” Selena stood up, nearly toppling her chair. Victor and Norman Veitch stood too. Shaw remained seated.
“Let me escort you, principessa.” Victor looked at Dot. “Perhaps we can take sherry in the drawing room.” Dot nodded her approval.
Selena simpered, raising a snort of derision from the Irish playwright.
Victor shot him a poisonous glare, then took the Russian princess by the arm and escorted her out of the room.
The butler, his face deadpan, opened then closed the door behind them.
“Oh dear, George, look what you’ve done!”
“Yes, George, that was very cruel, even for you,” tutted Marjorie.
“Poor form, old man,” contributed Norman.
Miss King and Poppy said nothing. What Miss King was thinking was difficult to tell – trained as she was to appear as wallpaper – but Poppy’s mind raced. An interview with George Bernard Shaw on his views on Russian politics as a side-piece to her spread on Stanislavski’s Cherry Orchard? She would run it by Rollo in the morning…
Shaw raised his hands in mock defeat. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. But really, Dot, what else did you expect?”
Dot sighed. “You’re a rogue, George. An Irish rogue.” Shaw laughed. “Guilty as charged. Shall we have the pudding now?”
Everyone but Miss King laughed.
“Mr Brown. What delights has cook prepared for us?” Dot asked.
“Fruit salad, meringue and whipped cream, I believe, ma’am.”
Aunt Dot rubbed her hands together in delight. “Oooooh, my favourite!” Then she frowned slightly. “We should keep some aside for Selena and Victor. Will you see to that, please, Mr Brown?”
“Of course, Miss Denby,” said the butler and retreated from the room.
“Poor Selena,” sighed Aunt Dot. “I didn’t even have a chance to introduce her to you properly, Poppy. She’s going to be staying here for a few weeks.”
“She’s what?” Shaw could not disguise his incredulity.
“Oh, do shut up, George,” said Marjorie in her best House of Commons debating voice.
“Thank you, Marjorie,” said Dot. “She has nowhere else to go, dear. Victor brought her over from Malta with barely more than the clothes on her back.”
“Did she come on the Marlborough with the other Romanovs?” asked Poppy, who had been keeping abreast of developments in the Russian Revolution.
“She did. And Constantin – the dear man – has cast her to replace Bernice Boardman.” She turned to Norman to explain. “The poor woman was suffering from a bout of vertigo and fell into the orchestra pit. Broke her collarbone!”
“Lucky for Stanislavski Selena was in town. She’s from the Bolshoi, isn’t she?” asked Norman.
“You’ve heard of her?” said Dot.
Norman grinned. “Newcastle does get the papers, Miss Denby. Things might have gone downhill since you left, but…”
“Oh, you flatter me, Mr Veitch. Do go on.”
But Poppy wanted to know more about the Russian actress. “Excuse me, Mr Veitch, but is it normal for a Russian royal to be an actress?”
“A lesser royal, dear,” said Marjorie. “But we mustn’t judge. In her own way, Selena is quite a progressive woman. Emmeline met her when she was visiting Lenin. Although the two of them had a blazing row, apparently…”
“Did they really?” asked Dot, her eyes dancing at the thought of some gossip she had not yet heard.
“Oh yes, you should ask her about it when she returns from New York.”
Norman looked puzzled.
“Emmeline Pankhurst,” said Poppy, helpfully. “The president of the Women’s Political and Suffrage Union.”
“Of course,” said Norman, folding his napkin into four then placing it in front of his dessert spoon. Shaw, on the other hand, was folding his napkin into a fan.
“Are we boring you, George, dear?”
“Not at all, Dot. I love hearing about the filthy rich and their filthy lives.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s that rich…”
“Didn’t you see her necklace?”
“Of course, but perhaps that’s all she managed to get out when she was fleeing for her life. A woman needs a little nest egg…”
“A Fabergé nest egg?” Poppy chirped.
Everyone looked at her. She blushed, but continued. “Apparently they had Rembrandts and Fabergés in their luggage, and jewels sewn into their underwear! There’s going to be an exhibition this weekend. I think they’re hoping to raise money to fund their exile…”
“Humph,” said Marjorie.
“Humph, what?” asked Dot.
“That exhibition is causing a diplomatic furore. Isn’t it, Poppy?”
“It is. The Russians – the Red Russians, that is – are furious. They are threatening to cancel trade agreements and everything.”
“The PM was just saying today…”
But Marjorie’s elucidation of the goings on at the House of Commons was interrupted by the arrival of the pudding.
Aunt Dot clapped her hands. “Tuck in, everyone!”
And they did.