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Responsible young woman, twenty-eight years old, fond of children with knowledge of India, will act as chaperone on Tilbury to Bombay run in return for half fare.
It seemed like a form of magic to Viva Holloway when, having paid three and six for her advertisement to appear in the September issue of The Lady, she found herself five days later in the restaurant at Derry & Toms in London, waiting for her first client, a Mrs Jonti Sowerby from Middle Wallop in Hampshire.
For the purposes of this interview, Viva wore, not her usual mix of borrowed silks and jumble sale finds, but the grey tweed suit she loathed by had worn for temporary work as a typist. Her hair – think and dark and inclined towards wilderness – had been dampened and clenched back in a small bun.
She stepped into the genteel murmurings of the tea room, where at pianist was playing a desultory tune. A small bird-thin woman wearing an extraordinary blue hat (a kind of caged thing with a blue feather poking out the back) stood up to greet her. By her side was a plump and silent girl who, to Viva’s considerable amazement, Mrs Sowerby introduced as her daughter Victoria.
Both of them were surrounded by a sea of packages. A cup of coffee was suggested, but disappointingly, no cake. Viva hadn’t eaten since breakfast and there was a delicious- looking walnut cake along with some scones, under the glass dome on the counter.
‘She looks awfully young,’ Mrs Sowerby immediately complained to her daughter, as if Viva wasn’t there.
‘Mummy,’ protested Victoria in a strangled voice and, when the girl turned to look at her, Viva noticed she had wonderful eyes: huge and an unusual dark blue colour almost like cornflowers. I’m sorry. I can’t help this, they were signalling.
‘Well I’m sorry darling but she does,’ Mrs Sowerby had pursed her lips under her startling hat. ‘Oh dear, this is a muddle.’ In a tight voice she, at last, addressed Viva, explaining that Victoria was shortly to go to India to be a bridesmaid for her best friend Rose, who was, and here a certain show-off drawl that had entered Mrs Sowerby’s voice, ‘about to be married to Captain Jack Chadler of the Third Cavalry at St Thomas’s Cathedral in Bombay.’
The chaperone they had engaged, a Mrs Moylett, had done a last minute bunk – something about her sudden engagement to an older man.
Viva had set down her cup and composed her features in what she felt to be a responsible look; she’d sensed a certain desperation in this woman’s eyes, a desire to have the matter speedily resolved.
‘I know Bombay quite well,’ she’d said which was true up to a point: she’d passed through that city in her mother’s arms at the age of eighteen months, and then again aged five where’d she eaten an ice cream on the beach, and for the last time at the age of ten, never to return again. ‘Victoria will be in good hands.’
The girl turned to Viva with a hopeful look. ‘You can call me Tor if you like,’ she said. ‘All my friends do.’
When the waiter appeared again, Mrs Sowerby began to make a fuss about having a tisane rather than a ‘normal English tea.’
‘I’m half French, you see’, she explained to Viva in a pouty way as if this excused everything.
While she was looking for something in her little crocodile bag, the silent daughter turned to Viva and rolled her eyes. This time she mouthed ‘Sorry, then she smiled and crossed her fingers.
‘Do you know anything about cabin trunks?’ Mrs Sowerby bared her teeth into a small compact. ‘That was something else Mrs Moylett promised to help us with.’
And by miracle Viva did: the week before she’d been scouring the front pages of The Pioneer for possible jobs, and one Tailor Ram had placed a huge advertisement for them.
She looked steadily at Mrs Sowerby. ‘The Viceroy is excellent,’ she said. ‘It has a steel underpinning under its canvas drawers. You can get them at the Army and Navy Store. I can’t remember the exact price but I think it’s around twenty-five shillings.’
There was a small commotion in the restaurant, the clink of cutlery momentarily suspended. An attractive older woman wearing faded tweeds and a serviceable hat had arrived; she was smiling as she walked towards them.
‘It’s Mrs Wetherby.’ Tor stood up beaming and hugged the older woman.
‘Do sit down,’ she patted the chair besides her. ‘Mummy and I are having thrilling talks about jods and solar topis.’
‘That’s right, Victoria.’ Mrs Sowerby said, ‘make quite sure the whole restaurant hears our business.’ She turned to Viva, ‘Mrs Wetherby is the mother of Rose. The one who is going to be married in India to Captain Chandler. She’s a quite exceptionally beautiful girl.’
‘I can’t quite wait to meet her,’ Tor was suddenly radiant with happiness. ‘She is so much fun, and so perfect, everybody falls in love with her – I’ve known her since she was a baby, we went to school together, we rode ponies…’
Viva felt a familiar pang – what a wonderful thing to have a friend who’d known you since you were a baby.
‘Victoria,’ her mother reproved, the blue feather poised above her eyebrow made her look like a slightly miffed bird. ‘I’m not sure we need to tell Mrs Holloway all this yet. We haven’t quite decided. Where is darling Rose by the way?’
‘At the doctor’s, Mrs Wetherby looked embarrassed. ‘You know…’ She sipped her coffee and gave Mrs Sowerby a significant look. ‘But we had the most exciting morning before I dropped her off.’ Mrs Wetherby continued smoothly. ‘We bought dresses and tennis rackets, and I’m meeting Rose again in an hour at Beauchamp Place – she’s being fitted for her trousseau. The poor girl will be absolutely dead tonight; I don’t think I’ve ever brought so many clothes in one day. Now, who is this charming young person?’
Viva was introduced to Mrs Wetherby as ‘a professional chaperone’, Mrs Wetherby, who had a sweet smile, put her hand in hers and said it was lovely to meet her.
‘I’ve done the interview,’ Mrs Sowerby said to Mrs Wetherby. ‘She knows India like the back of her hand, and she’s cleared up the trunk business – she says the Viceroy is the only one.’
‘The girls are very sensible,’ said Mrs Wetherby anxiously. ‘It’s just quite comforting to have someone to keep and eye on things.’
‘But I’m afraid we can only offer you fifty pounds for both girls,’ said Mrs Sowerby, ‘and not a penny more.’
Viva literally heard Tor stop breathing; she saw her mouth twist in childish apprehension, big eyes trained in her while she waited. She did some quick sums in her head. The single fare from London to Bombay was around eighty pounds. She had one hundred and twenty pounds saved and would need some spending money when she arrived.
‘That sounds very reasonable,’ she said smoothly as if this was something she did every day.
Tor exhaled noisily. ‘Thank God!’ she said. ‘Oh, what bliss!’
Viva shook hands all round and left the restaurant with a new spring in her step; this was going to be a piece of cake: the gawky one with the blue eyes and the mad-looking mother was so clearly desperate to go; her friend, rose, was about to be married and had no choice.
