Willie's War Ch. 06

Pulling Willie onto a chair she began running a comb through shoulder-length blond hair. "How do you wear your hair, Willie?"

"Up mostly."

"Good choice. You have nice cheekbones and a very graceful neck. It would be a shame to hide 'em."

It was still damp as she put it up for him, persuading the thick waves into an elegant chignon which made the most of his elfin features and big eyes.

"Will there be many guests tonight?" Willie asked.

"Some half dozen, I guess, mostly men."

"What do I say to them?"

"My advice is just be pleasant and don't try to be too clever. Just talk about parties and hats and expensive pearl earrings. That's all men want to hear, otherwise they get to thinking you're smarter than they are and you'll scare 'em."

"Sir Mortimer is a nice man."

"He's an OK guy. Helluv a shy one with girls. I think he only invited me to come to England because he couldn't think of anything else to say to me." The transvestite laughed. "I guess I'm being a little unfair. Mortimer rates me rather high in his affection."

Willie went to the side of the room, threw off the dressing gown, and quickly slipped on the fragile top that Debbie had brought for him. It clung to him like a second skin and was probably the sexiest thing he'd ever worn.

His companion noticed that he was slim with small jutting breasts that blended with a rather small frame, and he had a small face and big blue eyes, delicate facial bone structure and smooth skin. And he was blond, she noticed. Natural golden blond. Not like most blond tranny's she knew who played around with peroxide. Sleeping Beauty's prettier little sister, she thought.

She cocked her head for a better look at his face. "You're going to look sensational." she said softly, the husky quality of her voice telling him she meant every word. "Every eye is going to be on you tonight."

Willie looked faintly alarmed. "I do hope not." He was not unaware that he was already being closely studied, but being what he was he had taken the precaution of wearing pants both to and from the bathroom, and the lower reaches of him seemed of no interest to Debbie. Not yet, anyway.

She returned to the pile of clothing she had brought with her. "Say, how about a pair of these?"

Willie's eyes opened in wonder. "Nylon stockings! I've seen people wearing them but I've never owned any."

"They're fifteen denier, an' that kind ain't been available long, not even in the States."

Willie sat on the bed, then he carefully rolled up an item of hosiery, pointed his toes and slid it up over a shapely smooth leg, slowly, so that he could enjoy the cool sensation. "The term 'nylon' is an abbreviation of New York-London, isn't it? That speaks of close collaboration, but Americans share no close attachment with the English in the war against Hitler."

Debbie shook her head. "Ach! I'm afraid we Americans are pretty ignorant when it comes to other countries. We're insular, I guess. The President would like to get more involved with what's happening here, but he can't carry Congress with him. Heck! You Europeans have been banging each other over the head ever since you first learned about swinging sticks, so most Yanks would rather leave you to get on with it."

Fiddling with the silver backed hairbrush she still held in her hand she then added. "As a matter of fact I think the British have had it. Ambassador Kennedy said it last year and nothing much as changed since then. They've left it too late to do anything to win this war. Everyone thinks the same except some politicians who should have stood up to Hitler years ago. But here we are and I suppose we've just got to make the best of it."

Indicating Willie's legs she reverted to the theme of his stockings. "Make sure the back seams are straight on those things when you put them on, and take care not to snag 'em or they'll run like a bitch on heat."

Willie flapped the remaining stocking in his hand and displayed an expression of puzzlement. "They run by themselves. How is that possible?"

Debbie wafted a dismissive hand and turned away towards the door. "Forget what I just said. Life ain't long enough to explain everything."

As she reached the door she swung about and caught Willie rocking his face behind his hands and laughing uncontrollably.

"You crazy Dutch cheese. You knew what I meant all along."

Willie descended the stairs sometime later with a degree of trepidation. He had tricked his way into Sir Mortimer Brascombe's home in the guise of a girl, but whether he could fool all the guests gathered for the evening meal was another matter.

If he didn't succeed it would be no fault of his outward appearance, he knew. The outfit Debbie had given him was comprised of an ivory-coloured top with shoe-string straps that showed off the bare slope of his narrow shoulders, and he had a salmon-coloured silk tube for a skirt. His hair, drawn up at the back, hung down at the sides in ringlets, while glass ear rings in the shape of two crystal pear-drops hung down from his delicate ears. On his bare arms Florentine gold bangles gleamed with satinato lustre. The whole made the most of his small breasts, round bottom and lean curvaceous legs, and there was not the least evidence anywhere that he was not a girl.

Even so, he had hoped for a little time to find his feet in his new situation before having to confront so many people. Mentally he shook himself, then took a deep breath and put on his best smile to join the assembled company.

Sir Mortimer and Deborah were in conversation with a guest; he counted one woman and four men, and he made towards a face that he recognised from earlier in the day. Jeremy de Vere was handsome, smiling, and attired in an immaculately tailored dinner suit. "We need no introductions, we are old friends." he murmured.

"I hope I'm not to be on Jack the Rippers menu tonight." Willie returned playfully.

The man's eyes sparkled. "Chance would be a fine thing, Miss Naarden."

They had barely exchanged greetings before Sir Mortimer steered him about and a man called Arnold Knapp and his wife Brenda aligned themselves in front of him. They were people from a large industrial city descending upon a much smaller place, taking a break well away from the centre of things.

They were both about thirty, and seemed rather alike. Not that they closely resembled each other... she was slender with a good figure, but beneath her make up, her face was hard and tired. She had thin features with high arched eyebrows and hair that was short and very curly, and she wore a dark, demure dress with a lace collar. Her husband sported a neat pencil-line moustache and he looked slick and extremely self-satisfied in his dinner suit. But although unlike in appearance they clearly suggested the same kind of life and the same outlook. In a weird synchronisation they moved together like two people with one mind.

Alarmingly for Willie, who had become suspicious of officialdom, he was also introduced to two army officers in khaki-brown uniforms. In the hide-and-seek world he had inhabited after leaving Ravenskopf he had become nervous of military uniforms, but he barely had time to hear the names of the soldiers before the housekeeper gave a bang on a gong and Sir Mortimer ushered them to a dining table laid up with crystal and silver and good quality starched napery.

A number of servants were employed in the house, none of them young. There was a cook and a couple of old dears past retirement age who did most other things, but under Mrs Whippet's keen supervision they remained unobtrusive, hidden in the background and on the wings of life. They seemed to fade into the wallpaper.

He had expected to endure a difficult evening, because whenever asked about himself he could only tell lies. To his relief everyone accepted his story of being a desperate refugee, and it was important that they did, because for the work he had to do everyone had to accept him just as that.

For the first part of the meal he remained silent, just nodding with his mouth full and letting the others talk, but eventually Arnold Knapp pinned him with his eyes. "Sir Mortimer tells me you recently escaped out of Holland. A tricky business with the Germans being so watchful."

"It wasn't easy," Willie told him, "A trawler brought me over when the weather was thick with cloud. I was lucky."

"Glad to get away from under the Nazi jackboot, I dare say. Glad to be in a country where one can live normally, eh?"

Willie frowned slightly. "No one is living normally in a country where people are being bombed and where all the young men have to wear a uniform, Mr Knapp." He glanced at the two soldiers and then back at him. "You are not an old man, but you don't wear a uniform."

"I'm exempt from military service, my dear. I'm in a reserved occupation."

His wife leaned forward wearing a tight smile. "Arnold owns a firm that manufactures steel rivets. Such things are vital to the war effort." she explained, without allowing her smile to slip.

Arnold sucked his teeth as he manfully scooped the last potato from the tureen in the centre of the table. "I'd like to help in a more direct way, of course, but these days everyone must do as they're told."

Willie's eyes moved along the table until the man called Jeremy de Vere offered a disarming smile and threw up his hands. "I'm with His Majesty's Foreign Office, so I'm not in uniform either." he declared in a strong voice, "The government keeps me where I am too, and without being a braggart I believe people such as Sir Mortimer are glad of that. They find my opinions useful."

Willie accepted the explanation from him with surprising good grace, and he wondered why. What was so special about him, he questioned? Well, for one thing he was wearing his dinner suit with unselfconscious ease, and it fitted him somehow as though it was part of him.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to be sensible, and then opened them again, and moved his gaze onto the two soldiers. "You each have a medal ribbon sewn over your pocket. You must both be very brave." he said. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember your names."

One of them, a genial, athletic looking young man with a bristling moustache and a ready smile, completed the introductions. "I'm Toby Troughton, Captain Toby Troughton," he said, "And the bounder sitting next to me is Captain Jimmy Hyde. Jimmy is Sir Mortimer's nephew. I'm just a camp-follower."

Toby was a caricature of an Englishman with a form of affected speech that would have appealed to upper-class English schoolgirls, but the other man, Jimmy Hyde, was altogether different; more brooding and more sombre. He was dark-haired and his face was cheekboney like in a fifteenth century portrait as depicted by Memling or Van Eyck, and although it was pleasant enough to be attractive, his eyes were another matter. They were fearsome, as if they were in a temper.

Jimmy Hyde gave a somewhat disparaging glance at the ribbon of decoration on his jacket. "France, last year!" he explained, "That was a bloody mess in every sense. Our army that went there was tiny compared to the one France herself mobilised, so it was put under the direction of their High Command."

"They made a complete ash of things." explained Toby Troughton. "They spread everything they had in a thin line along the frontier, all the way from the Channel to the Swiss border... just as if they were going to fight the Great War all over again...and they left nothing as a Central Reserve to reinforce places where Jerry may break through. Of course they did break through. They came through the Ardennes which everyone believed was an impossible way in, and we ended up needing the Navy pull us off the beaches at Dunkirk."

He paused to smile disarmingly. "Still, someone's got to fight the wars the older ones get us into, haven't they? And we can't have you girls doing it, can we? Fighting our battles for us."

Willie offered a nod of sympathy, but with his confidence blooming he couldn't resist a criticism. "Your country went to war unprepared. Your politicians should have been wiser and sent a larger army. Even now your country is still not yet halfway prepared. Not even a quarter ready."

"Don't you think so?" put in Brenda Knapp, "Not even with all the rehearsals and drills people are doing?"

"You may practise as much as you wish, but if you don't have the ships the planes and the guns you cannot expect victory."

Jimmy Hyde's mouth curled down slightly. "From the time of Oliver Cromwell the British have bucked at having a large army on their own soil. Napoleon called us a nation of shopkeepers, and maybe he was right. The profession of soldier is derided here, and the expense that an army incurs is resented, until there's a war, and then everyone wants to know why we weren't ready."

"Things are getting better. Mustn't be so gloomy and doomy." said Sir Mortimer, trying to introduce some optimism, "When France fell the big wet-ditch of the Channel gave us a second chance. We have a larger army under training now and the Dominions are assisting. Help is coming from Canada, South Africa and India, and the Anzac's are with us again. Roosevelt and Churchill have a good relationship and America is providing massive amounts of material aid."

Having finished eating Willie positioned his knife and fork neatly together on the centre of his dinner plate. "I am a foreigner here and perhaps I know nothing, but I feel you are only making the problem bigger with your building up of forces. The best solution surely would be to make peace."

Arnold Knapp chewed thoughtlessly on his last mouthful of main course. "Not a bad idea. Damned nuisance the Riviera being out of bounds at Easter."

The more earnest Captain Hyde dug in again. "To make peace under Hitler's terms would make us just one more of his lackeys. He would expect us to follow his aggressive policies. He would subvert our way of government and install a Fascist Police State much like he as in his own country. More than that, he would expect us to join in his war against the communists, so there would actually be no peace."

Willie poked his spoon at the stewed plums and custard that had been placed in front of him. "You're surmising a great deal, Captain Hyde, and you're only guessing at what might happen. There could be a completely different outcome to the one you expect."

The man stared back at him with eyes of vibrant penetration. They conveyed an impression of shrewdness, while his dark face, thin and hollow-cheeked, became overtly hostile. "You have a strong accent, Miss Naarden. More German than Dutch I'd say."

Willie had long been ready for an observation like that. His attitude to unsympathetic people, he had decided, should be whimsical and slightly roguish. Sitting back and composing himself he brushed the dark wings of his eyebrows with a delicate fingertip. "I was raised in Venlo on the Dutch-German border, Captain Hyde. Both language and accents tend to be rather fluid in such places."

Observing the sudden build-up of tension Sir Mortimer sought a way to soothe it. "Yes, well, we've no coffee I'm afraid, so shall we adjourn and take a drink of another kind in the drawing room? We can play cards or play music or something."

When Debbie led the way into the drawing room she indicated a full figure portrait of a distinguished looking man wearing a solar topi gracing the wall above the fireplace.

"That's Sir Neville, Mortimer's grandfather." she told Willie, "He was Military Governor of some place called Baluchistan for a while. Mortimer's folks have all been soldiers since way back and he broke the mould when he favoured politics."

"Mortimer never wished to be a soldier?"

"Nope, he's dead against killing anything... if you'll excuse the pun. Those hunting rifles in the Gun Room haven't been out of their cabinet since his father died." She nodded up at the portrait. "Rather a fine painting, ain't it?"

Willie cocked his head left and right. "Hmm, it's a picture but it's not really art." His eyes settled on a smaller postimpressionist painting further along the wall. "That one is better, it's a Braque. He exhibited in London early in the century along with Cezanne and Picasso, so I expect that's when it was acquired."

Debbie looked at the collection of illogical shapes and designs being referred to, and then glanced sideways with a slight air of bafflement.

Willie continued unabashed. "All the best artists practised pointillism at that time. You see how the small dabs of colour mix together to produce an intense effect. Quite sensational isn't it?"

Suddenly having had enough of art Deborah turned him about, and when Willie surveyed the spacious surroundings of the drawing room he was amazed at the unexpected clutter. The floral patterns of the couch, wallpaper and rugs clashed in a riot that was almost audible, and added to that was the innumerable pieces of bric-a-brac that dotted every surface. Sir Mortimer's study was furnished sparingly with functional items, and this was only something a woman could contrive. A frivolous, feminine woman such as Deborah Findlay.

"Come on," she urged. "Let's you and me liven this joint up before Mortimer sets his mind on some boring game of bridge or something. Can you jitterbug?"

Puzzled, Willie shook his head. "What is a jitterbug?"

"It's a dance. Nobody does it here yet, but I'll show you how."

Everyone else was grouped to the side of the room sipping drinks and talking. Debbie stalked across to a box full of large vinyl discs, cranked up a Victrola gramophone that stood against the wall, and set some music playing.

Then suddenly they were dancing. Just Willie Froehlich and Debbie were dancing in the middle of the floor. Not an awkward one-two-three and stepping on toes, but gyrating to the beat of fast swing music and moving together in fast bouncy movements.

Willie loved it, and he responded with uncontrolled exuberance and delightful high contralto laughter when Debbie twisted and swung her hips, then looking like she'd swallowed the tune, grasped his hand and lifted it over his head to swirl him around.

Brenda Knapp seemed to find the entire spectacle appalling. When the music played out she gave everyone an icy look and took control of the gramophone, making a couple of vitriolic comments about 'jungle music' and 'civilisation' before saying that most people still preferred rhythms that are more sedate.

Her comments summed her up: brash, showy, snobbish, her voice a drawl, high-pitched and affected as if to make it clear to everyone that she was the only sensible person in the room. Not wishing to create a scene in Mortimer's house even Debbie declined to challenge her.

Selecting some slower music to her own taste Brenda put the stylus to it and demanded her husband dance with her. Jeremy de Vere asked Debbie to join in, and for some reason known only to him the sour looking Captain Hyde took Willie out into the middle of the room and led him through a clumsy two-step, holding him at arms length and moving like someone with arthritic joints.

For a moment Willie thought he was acting the clown, nearly treading on his toes all the time. But when he saw the determined expression on his face, he realised that he was just a poor dancer who had never had much practise.

"I'm not much good at this. Never have been." he admitted. "But I wanted to say sorry for being so sharp with you earlier. I'm afraid you caught me on the end cusp of a black mood."

Willie noticed that his eyes had lost their antagonistic glare and were now shiny and as brown as coconuts. "Ah, I thought so... I could practically smell the paintwork blistering under your bad temper. I hope your moods aren't too frequent, Captain Hyde."

"I'm afraid they are fairly frequent, Miss Naarden. It's nothing unusual these days. Prime Minister Churchill suffers dark moods that he terms 'black dog', so at least I'm in good company."