Lady Pixie's War Ch. 08: Phoney War

I am aware that I was born into a privileged life. I have tried to give back something to others in return. But one of the greatest privileges has been to be Hope Carrington's godmother. The first four months of her life were ones when, despite the fact there was a war on, things seemed to centre on that little gift from God.

From the very beginning she was as adorable as she was adored. Beccy poured into her the unconditional love of a mother who had found her true vocation. That Jack was away on active service in France probably made the bond even tighter than it would have been. Little Hope was surrounded by adoring women: her Mama, Anna her nurse, and myself. We would take turns giving Beccy the rest she needed; but she never needed a rest from Hope; nor did we. Even Archie, the least observant of men when it came to our sex, commented that "you all seem perfectly in love with each other."

Of course, he spoke more truly than he knew. Of my love for Beccy, and of her love for me, he was well aware, but with the advent of Anna, a new element came into play. Just a trifle older than Beccy, the two women swiftly formed the strongest of bonds, cemented, if that is the mot juste, by the fact that Anna took on the duty of helping Beccy when her breasts needed milking when Hope had already had her fill.

I first saw them one morning when I came back early from a meeting about setting up local defence volunteer force. It was evident from the noises in the sitting room that Anna had volunteered for something very local. As I watched her, half naked, sucking Beccy's nipple, I was aware of two emotions: pleasure that the two women were so intimate; and arousal. The latter, I dismissed. It was their love, and they needed time to develop it. Everything has its time and place, everything evolves. But love remains love.

"Mama Pixie," Beccy said to me one evening not long after that, "you are my angel. Anyone else would be upset at how close Anna and I are, but you, well, you seem to love me no less and not to feel put out. Or am I being dense and missing something?"

"No, no my love. Love is not love if it alters when it finds alteration. I have more than enough love for you, Hope and Anna!"

Nor was that hyperbole.

For whatever reason, jealousy and envy had never been among my many faults. I found that love was inclusive for me; the more of it, the more to share. I adored my goddaughter, still do. I adored Beccy, and accepted, easily, that she loved Anna. She was faithful to myself, and to Jack in her fashion.

As winter turned to spring, it began to seem as though the war itself was no more than a declared state of affairs, full of sound and fury, but rationing apart, signifying not much.

Archie, who kept me well abreast of matters at Westminster, told me that Winston had been urging Neville and Edward Halifax to "take action," but, as Archie pointed out, during the coldest winter of the century, it was hard to see quite what could be done. Archie said Winston had written a long letter to Neville on the subject, without ever saying what the "something" was. Neville's view was that it was one for the "memoirs." Interestingly, there it is in the first of his six volumes on World War II as it came to be called.

In the end, as First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston was able to prod the Government into action - the disastrous Norwegian campaign in April.

So confident had the Government seemed about the way the war was going that Sam Hoare, the Home Secretary, declared that "Hitler had missed the bus." The problem with this view turned out to be that it had mistaken the Führer's mode of transport, The Germans were coming - just not by bus.

The attempt to mount a peripheral operation in Norway which was Winston's brainchild, proved as fruitless as his Dardanelles plan in the Great War. The Germans got there first. Our planning, and our execution of the operation competed to see which was most useless. The thing was a disaster and led to a debate in the Commons.

Attlee, with whom I spoke on the telephone, said that there was no point putting down a vote of no confidence as Chamberlain had a huge majority; but a debate would, he thought, do some good. I agreed to come up to town.

I told Beccy and Anna that I'd be away for the week. What none of us could have known was what a week that would be.

As a former MP and a peeress, I had the right to a seat in the Pees' Gallery, and from there I watched the most dramatic debate I ever saw. Neville spoke competently, and Attlee, made his points clearly, but there was little passion. But on the second day, just as the momentum seemed to be going with the Government, the Great War naval hero, Sir Roger Keyes, rose and excoriated the Government. He was devastating in his criticisms, and one suddenly sensed the mood shifting. What tipped it, and Attlee, to a vote of no confidence was the speech of a lifetime by Leo Amery,

Amery was so far to the right of the Party that he had almost fallen off the edge. A small, pugnacious man, he was not known for his oratory. But on this one occasion - well the man was on fire.

Chamberlain was not in the House when Amery started, just after eight o'clock, but was there in time to hear the devastating finale:

"This is what Cromwell said to the Long Parliament when he thought it was no longer fit to conduct the affairs of the nation: "You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go".

I felt shivers go down my spine - and I could see from the Gallery that others felt the same.

I saw Attlee afterwards and he said that he was going to put a motion of no confidence - if I thought that enough Tories would vote against their own Government. I assured him they would. I heard, via a note the following morning that a vote of no confidence would, indeed, be tabled.

When the House convened at four in the afternoon on 8 May, the place was alive with rumours.

I breakfasted with Archie, who was gloomy.

"Pixie, you can't change Prime Ministers in the middle of a war!"

"Archie, we are not going to agree!"

We dropped it.

I popped into the Foreign Office with him, and caught Edward Halifax for a moment. I told him that I thought that Chamberlain was finished, and that Labour was going to put down a motion of no confidence.

"If he goes, Edward, would you serve as PM?"

Edward gave me that quizzical look he deployed when he did not know what to say.

"Would they have a Prime Minister in the Lords in this day and age?"

"You could get the King's permission to sit in the Commons?"

He looked quizzically at me.

"Pixie, no. Winston must be given a chance!"

From his lips that amazed me.

"But he is so unreliable. This Norway disaster was his doing!"

"Yes, but think for a moment. If I was PM and he refused to serve, and anything went wrong, we would get one of those great philippics of his. No, no Pixie, he must be given a chance. If, and it is a big if, Pixie, Neville falls."

Neville did not help himself with a poor speech which ended with the words:

"No Government can prosecute a war efficiently unless it has public and Parliamentary support. I accept the challenge. I welcome it indeed. At least we shall see who is with us and who is against us, and I call on my friends to support us in the Lobby tonight."

Talking afterwards even with MPs friendly to him, the consensus was that this was far too personal and selfish a view to take when the fate of the Empire was at stake.

To his credit, Winston did his best to defend Neville when Lloyd George, the great war leader from the last war, made a devastating attack on him. Winston took the blame for Norway in a way which made even me admire him. However annoying he could be, he was a man and took responsibility. But he did laugh when Lloyd George reposted:

"The right honourable Gentleman must not allow himself to be converted into an air-raid shelter to keep the splinters from hitting his colleagues."

Churchill's own speech, which closed the great debate, was a masterpiece. He defended the Government, but managed to give the impression that he had nothing to do with it!

When the House divided the tension was so intense you felt like you could cut through it with a knife. In place of the usual majority of 213, the Government won by a mere 81; 41 Conservatives voted against their own Government, whilst another 60 abstained. The House descended into chaos, which some Ministers shouting "traitors" at those behind them, and Labour singing "Rule Britannia."

As I left, I bumped into Bob Boothby, one of Churchill's supporters and a "good friend" of Archie's.

"They're fucked, Lady Pixie, they're fucked!"

"And you, Bob, are drunk!"

"I am. Hey, fancy a quick fuck?"

"Bob, it's me, Pixie, you need Archie!"

"I need a fuck, Pixie. Hey, do you fancy...?"

I cut him short, and at that point one of his other friends hove into view, and I was able to scurry away.

It was late for a cab and there were queues. The walk to Carlton House Terrace was not too far, so I strolled.

There were crowds scattered outside the House of Commons, and reporters everywhere.

As I reached St James' Park, I decided to take the risk. I was right, apart from the odd MP with a guardsman, the place was deserted. I stood looking at the lake, the moonlight shimmering on the surface. It was a universe away from the nose of the Commons. I stood a while and dreamed that the world might still be free. Even as I stood there, the German tanks were getting ready to advance.

As I approached Horse Guards Parade, rounding the corner, I almost bumped into a young woman who was sitting on the steps, sobbing.

"What's wrong?" I asked, hopefully sounding sympathetic. "Can I help?"

She looked up, her eyes wet with tears, her make-up stained.

"No one can. It's okay."

Tempted to take her assurance at face value, I began to walk up the steps toward home, but something prompted me to look back. She was walking to the Park. Having a bad feeling about her, I retraced my steps and followed, only to find her standing near where I had been a few moments earlier.

She was shivering and began to move towards the water.

"Do you really want to do that?"

She turned and looked.

"Just let me be Miss, it's all too much."

"Well, I am going nowhere in a hurry and live near here. Tell you what, come and have a drink at mine and if you still want to throw yourself in the Serpentine, I'll let you. Can I say fairer? I'm Pixie, by the way, you are?"

"I'm Jenny, Miss. Okay. You'll really let me go, you won't turn me in to the rozzers"

From her accent I could tell she was a Londoner. It was too dark to see how she was dressed, but my guess was that she was born within the sound of Bow Bells.

As we walked up the steps, Jenny suddenly became very chatty.

"Do you really live here Miss? These are very posh houses Miss. What does your husband do Miss?"

"He's a member of the Government, Jenny."

"Oh fuck, you really are posh then Miss."

"Guilty as charged," I said, ringing the bell so that the night porter could let us in.

"Your Ladyship," Bates said, "is there anything I can get you? His Lordship retired for the night about an hour ago."

"No, Bates, and my apologies for keeping you up late. I take it that Lady Rebecca's bedroom is fit for a guest?"

He looked sideways at Jenny, but in his best butlerese, replied:

"It is my Lady, and I shall leave a note for Molly telling her there is a guest."

"Thank you, Bates."

"Thank you, milady."

I took Jenny through to the library and poured us both a whisky.

In the light I could see her clearly, and why Bates had given me a quizzical look. She was (as I later learned) nineteen, five foot six, with short blonde hair. With her coat off, I could see that she was wearing a uniform - that of the Lyons Tea House.

"Thank you ever so much, Miss. I don't want to impose."

"Think of the imposition on those who might have to pull you out of the Serpentine."

She blushed.

"I am sorry," she coughed. "Oh this is nice Miss! Yeah, I am sorry, I am at my wits' end. I don't know what to do, and it seemed easier just to end it all."

At that she began sobbing again.

"Steady on Jenny. Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

She looked at me, and a light went on in her eyes.

"I know you! You're that Lady Pixie, the "pink lady" who does good works! You were in the "Herald" last week."

It was indeed true that the Labour paper, "The Herald," had done a piece on me in the context of the work that Archbishop Temple and I were doing to help the poor.

"Guilty as charged," I admitted, for the second time that night. "So, if I am going to do any good for you, you need to tell me what's wrong!"

And there, in the Library at No. 9, as the great world swung toward a crisis that would put the very future of civilization at peril, young Jenny told me a story which made me wonder what was "civilised" about us.

"It's like this Miss. I work at Joe Lyons, you know, the Tea House by Trafalgar Square."

I nodded.

"Well, a few months back I, well, I was a bad girl Miss. I went with a young man, and last week I found out that I was up the duff Miss, pregnant, you know."

I had heard the expression, and nodded sympathetically.

"Anyway Miss, I saw the Yank what knocked me up and he gave me money to go to this place off Soho, you know?"

I did indeed. The backstreet abortionists in Soho were as much a part of the prostitution industry there as were the private clubs where young women could be hired by the hour.

Jenny began to cry again.

"I, I couldn't do it Miss. I went there but, well, I couldn't. I was walking around for an hour when I bumped into you Miss. Oh Miss, I am in so much trouble: my fella will be angry; my Mum and Dad will chuck me out; and the management will sack me."

At that, she dissolved into tears.

I could see her predicament. I had come across it so many times in my work. Her "best" hope was that her "fella" married her, but unless she lied to him, that was not very likely. The lot of the unmarried working-class mother was not to be envied. Here, I thought, was a challenge to my faith.

"Jenny, I want you to stay here tonight, and for a few days. I will have to stay here the rest of the week for reasons the papers will tell you about. Promise me you won't do anything silly."

"But Miss, I have no clothes here."

"Don't worry, a good friend of mine usually stays in the room you are having, and you are about the same size."

"Where is she Miss?"

"She is in the country - with her new baby girl!"

Jenny's eyes lit up.

"Is her baby cute, Miss?"

"Hope is adorable!"

And with that, we slipped into that wonderful female world of egalitarianism which is baby talk. I saw Jenny hold her own tummy. Talking calmed her.

I saw her to her room and told her I was just next door.

It must have been about five in the morning, to judge from the light, when I felt a presence in my room. It was Jenny, wearing just a nightdress and looking beautiful.

"Miss, would you mind if I tucked in with you? At home I often sleep with my sister, and, well, I need a hug."

Now there, I thought, was a temptation I did not need.

I had a meeting with Attlee and others scheduled for eleven o'clock, the only topic was the future of the Government. But Jenny needed a hug.

"Get in then!" I smiled.

She snuggled into me. She felt good. We dozed.

Suddenly, I felt a familiar sensation. Jenny's mouth was clamped onto my left nipple, sucking slowly, but determinedly.

Absent-mindedly, I stroked her hair before wondering what was going on?

I pulled her away for a moment.

"It's okay Miss. I got a friend who works for Lady Dora, and I know you like other girls. I want to say thanks. It's okay, I done this before."

Damn it, I thought!

I felt the familiar tingle as she began to suck again, but pulled away.

"Jenny, I don't want to take advantage of you. Last night you were about to chuck yourself into the Serpentine!"

She giggled and looked at me with mischief dancing in her blue eyes:

"Well I want to take advantage of you and chuck myself into your cunny!"

Saying which, she promptly did, diving between my legs which she opened, and then sliding her tongue along my slit.

She had done this before, and what's more, she was good.

She knew just where to put that skilful tongue, the tip just teasing my thin inner lips before slurping up to flick my clit, the hood already back. As she sucked my lips into her mouth, I moaned. Gosh, she WAS good!

Her hands slid under my bottom, gripping my cheeks, and then she pushed my legs over her shoulders, which allowed her to lick downwards to my perineum, before slowly sliding down to rim by dark star hole.

No sooner had she got my nerve endings there tingling than she slid her tongue back upwards, slowly. The tip pushed my lips apart and she thrust her face into me. Her nose pressed my clit, and as her tube-like tongue began to fuck me, I surrendered.

Usually I liked, nay, needed, to respond in kind, but, exhausted by last night, and by the prospect of the day ahead, I gave in to her evident desire to please me. And please me she did!

At that period of my life, orgasms were if not a rarity, not far off it, but Jenny's tongue and fingers knew how to coax a fire out of me. She teased my dark star hole with her finger, never quite pushing in, but always teasing. She slid her tongue and lips up to attend to my aching clit, which left her fingers free to tease my wetness, which she did with expert skill.

My hands ruffled her hair as I levered myself onto her face. I felt my tummy ripple and the familiar rising tide of erotic climax - cumming hard on her pretty face.

As my senses reconfigured themselves, she looked up at me with a great big smile, her face wet with my juices.

"You taste good, Miss. More?"

I lay back, and thought of England.