Shrines of Gaiety

by Kate Atkinson

she had thought about the tragedy of that lovely blue dress.

She had not found an idol, she had found a heroine. For, after all, she might need to be saved from kidnap again.

They had all the latest gadgets in the Hanover Terrace kitchen, most of which were apparently intent on killing Nellie. Light bulbs were the limit of her beliefs where electricity was concerned.

In Niven, the rest of the family sensed backbone. It was strangely attractive to them, perhaps because of the novelty. Cokers had no backbone, only strength of will.

he did it because they were boys, barely out of childhood, even though one was his commanding officer, and he didn’t think they deserved to have their lives ended by the insanely stupid bastards in government who thought war was necessary and good. And furthermore he had said all of that to the lieutenant colonel who was trying to pin a medal on his chest, and thus found himself on a charge of insubordination. Perhaps that was foolishness, not courage.

He had never done a woman so many favours as he had Gwendolen Kelling in the last few days.

last night he had witnessed her in action under fire, rising to meet the moment. She had steel. He couldn’t but admire it.

Nellie had brought her children up without sentiment. She said it was a gift.

She was clearly trying to needle him and she succeeded.

What on earth had he been thinking when he decided to come courting Gwendolen Kelling? Thank God she had not been in.

Perhaps they would talk about the war. More and more, as the conflict faded into the world’s history books, Niven found himself not wanting to forget. Gwendolen Kelling seemed like someone who might understand the need to remember.

Niven liked to have a name to put on a man. There were enough nameless men in the soil of Flanders.

Her mother, so recently laid in that same ground, must already be feeding the soil. No doubt she would resent contributing.

Wasn’t this how the devil caught you? You travelled in a cream Hispano-Suiza and shrank from the idea of returning to the omnibus. You tasted pheasant (or a perfect Arnold Bennett omelette) and your spirits drooped at the return to boiled mutton.

She would never have thought of coming here if it hadn’t been for Niven. What had Frobisher said? It is very easy to be seduced by these people.

The housekeeper asked no questions and Gwendolen gave no explanation. The rich really do have different rules, she supposed. Gwendolen was beginning to realize that people in London didn’t seem to care what you did, especially if you had money.

Still, she had the odd feeling that she was being bought somehow.

The doorman at the Savoy hailed a cab for Gwendolen to return her to the dull prospect of the Warrender. It may as well have been a pumpkin pulled by six white mice.

The Distressed might be entertained by her adventures but Mrs. Bodley would be appalled.

It is a great freedom to lose your religion.”

Last night she had been the ringmaster, today she was surprisingly matronly.

“Is it nice?” Nellie said. She seemed to be questioning the character of the sun rather than its presence in the London skies. She lived a subterranean life, like a mole, and Gwendolen thought that the weather probably meant little to Nellie Coker.

found herself envious of someone who had a passion strong enough to require sacrifice. Nellie

Gwendolen burst out laughing. The woman was too much, she really was. A purse-lipped Mrs. Bodley said, “I’m thinking of your reputation, not mine, Miss Kelling.”

“I would like,” Nellie had said to Gwendolen over her fortune-telling cards in the Crystal Cup, “for you to run this club for me.”

Unlikely though it seemed to Freda herself, she was attending the evening Mass in Corpus Christi church on Maiden Lane, mimicking the theatre of bowing and kneeling and miming the prayers and responses. Quick as ever to pick up a beat, she was barely a breath behind the rest of the congregation.

she had only gone into the church to see if by any chance Florence was there,

After her encounter with Owen Varley it had not seemed possible to Freda that her life could get worse, but apparently it could. And it had.

Why was she the one who always had to make the decisions? Florence was such a lamb, always following, never leading. Perhaps lambs did lead, Freda didn’t know, but no lamb could possibly be as useless as Florence.

(In retrospect, Vanda had grown unrealistically saintly in Freda’s eyes.)

To tell the truth, Freda herself didn’t entirely understand what had happened to her. She just knew she had been crushed by something brutal and that it was horribly unfair.

“An eye for an eye,” Nellie said, unperturbed. A corpse for a corpse.

“There’s always something to see,” Nellie said, “even if it’s nothing.”

Freda jumped off the bench and sped away, feeling an unfortunate kinship with the poor pigeon, for she, too, had been snared and devoured by a beast of prey.

Nellie was furtive by nature, she didn’t like anyone knowing of any weakness in the family.

Edith, Nellie said, had “women’s trouble,” a diagnosis that covered a multitude of possibilities, many of which could have been more metaphorical than medical in Nellie’s opinion, although not in this case.

They had expected tubes and fluids and other unpleasant things, but Edith was unadorned by anything medical and looked as though she was awaiting the embalmer.

She hadn’t realized until now that she cared for Edith. The thought made her feel slightly sick.

The novelty of hospital visiting was being slowly replaced by the fatigue of hospital visiting.

She had discovered Edith lying lifeless on the bathroom floor, her lips bloodless and the sheen of a cold fever on her skin. Nellie had woken Niven,

It was a place where Nellie knew that, for a high price, medical skill was almost as important as discretion.

Sometimes her education was glimpsed.

“You’re not paid to think, Cobb. Just go and get on with it.”

He had entangled his mind horribly in seafaring imagery, there seemed no way out of it except to abandon ship.

Despite (much) evidence to the contrary, Frobisher retained a romantic view of nursing.

The question of lunch reared its head again. Would she think he was trying to court her? (Was he?) And, of course, he supposed that where his heart leapt at the sight of her, hers might well sink at the sight of him.

“I’m not entirely sure what happened, but Pierrots were involved.”

“I am to work for Nellie Coker. Isn’t that perfect? I shall be able to report back to you from the inside. A secret agent!”

What had he started? He sensed it would be unstoppable.

She seemed to be completely ignoring his concerns over her extraordinary plan to work for the Cokers. How vexing she was. She was treating it like a “lark,” he admonished, when it was clearly a venture fraught with jeopardy.