Page 29 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘Marvellous,’ Alex says. ‘Pleased to meet you. My, you are a solid girl, aren’t you? Look at those breasts, Christina! More than a couple of saucepan lids’ worth there.’
‘I know, darling – infuriating,’ Christina says. ‘And here we are, flat as pancakes!’
They both laugh uproariously, and I smile, very much like the awkward kid hanging out with the cool crowd at school.
‘I thought you might measure her up and work your magic with a needle on her clothes while I set her hair and sort out her eyebrows. What do you think?’
‘I do love a challenge,’ Alex says. ‘As long as the usual rules apply.’
‘The usual rules?’ I ask.
‘In here, I’m just me – take me as you find me. Out there, I’m Alex, army driver and drag-comedy turn in the concert party. Also, I have a fiancée at home called Dorothy. My life does rather depend on it, darling, if you don’t mind.’
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine there is much diversity around here.’
‘You what, love?’ Alex asks.
‘Never mind,’ I say.
‘Well, come on then, Tessie – come over here and let me measure you.’
‘Tessie?’ I look at Christina, who double-snips a pair of scissors at me.
‘Two Ton Tessie, darling. Now, come here and let me have a go at turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse.’
I don’t take offence at their jokes. Like everyone who has ever known Christina Ratcliffe, I am instantly in her thrall.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Not my best work,’ Alex says, looking me up and down. ‘But not my worst, either.’
‘You really must stop flattering me,’ I tell him wryly.
Smoothing down the rough material of my custom-made skirt, I vaguely wonder what time it is in my own world. I set my alarm for nine o’clock, and though more hours have passed here than they would have done in the night, I try to picture that quiet, air-conditioned room, full of blue shadows. If I could manage to wake myself now, would Alex and Christina be blinking at the thin air where I had stood moments before? I know they are not real – they can’t be real – but theyfeelit.
Christina has cut my hair quite short. She was delighted when it sprang into its natural curls. She then tamed it into something she considered far more fashionable. I watched, fascinated, as she created great solid curls that she stuffed with something she called ‘rats’. I felt considerable relief when she told me they were stuffed stockings tied off to keep the curls in place.
She has pinned the roll with as many bobby pins as she’s willing to spare and doused me with a liberal spray of something that smells a lot like beer.
‘Because itisbeer, darling,’ she tells me now. ‘A girl has to improvise. And with the shortage of hops, we’ll be looking for something else to set our hair with soon, won’t we, Alex?’
‘’Fraid so,’ Alex says. ‘One dreads the day.’
‘And I think we’d better take off this ugly old bandage,’ Christina says, snipping it off with her scissors. ‘There, that’s healing nicely. Lovely, neat work from the doc.’
‘Like the bride of Frankenstein,’ Alex adds approvingly.
Christina and Alex made a great and, honestly, hysterical show of not finding any clothes between them, not even costumes, that would fit my hips and bosom, making me laugh so much that tears rolled down my face. Christina has promised that the next time she’s at St Paul’s with her Warby, she’ll obtain some fabric for Alex to make me some frocks.
In the meantime, Alex has remade my T-shirt into more of a blouse by resetting the sleeves, adding buttons and putting in some darts under the bust. Then he ran up the skirt out of an old, thin red blanket that was burnt down one side so no longer fit for purpose.
The effect is surprisingly convincing, but I’m not at all sure it’s better. A least now I look like I fit in – frumpy as hell, and looking ten years older, but you can’t have everything. I suppose that feeling lumpy and itchy and trapped by my clothes with newly short hair is temporary, but I have to keep reminding myself of that.
‘Let’s give the boys a show!’ Christina says, leading me by the hand. ‘Get the RAF seal of approval.’
‘Oh, no thank you,’ I say, dragged along behind her. ‘They don’t want to look at me.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Alex says, ‘but I want an eyeful of Danny Beauchamp. He’s good for the soul, so he is.’
