Free Liberty Silk by Kate Beaufoy Page A

Great War. Was the living too
hard
?! Six months ago they’d stayed in the Pensione Balestri in Florence, where Signora Balestri had prepared the most glorious three-course luncheons from fresh produce. Jessie remembered, too, the afternoon that she and Scotch had feasted on biscuits and chocolate and cherries that they’d carted in their picnic basket all the way up the steep pathway to the monastery on the hill near Galluzzo. And afterwards they’d treated themselves to an aromatic liquor distilled from herbs grown by the Cistercian monks who lived and worked there. That liquor was nectar compared to the nasty absinthe that she drank occasionally now, to help blur the edges.
    There’d be no absinthe this evening: she couldn’t afford it. The rent was due tomorrow, and she’d have to find something else to pawn. Jessie signed
Love to you both
, then set aside her letter, dragged her suitcase out from under the bed and surveyed the contents. She knew it was useless to try to pawn the silver cigarette case that had been a wedding present from Tuppenny, her best friend back in England, because it had her initials engraved on it. Oh, how she wished that she had her twenty-first-birthday pearls! But they were at home in Mayfair, in a jewellery box in her bedroom – that pretty, airy room with its sprigged wallpaper and chintz curtains and feather bed with the counterpane that smelt of lavender, and, curled up on the pillow, her little cat, Purdy . . .
    Her evening dress? Could she pawn that?
    The mass of silk from Liberty lay in a drawstring bag at the bottom of the case. It might be worth as much as fifty francs. Why had she not considered pawning it before? She knew why. As she hooked her fingers around the shoulder straps and rose to her feet, the full length of the dress unfurled, the scent of Chypre emerged from its folds, and she remembered how Scotch had brushed aside the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck so that she could put the finishing touches to her toilette – a ribbon for her neck, from which hung the Egyptian charm. He’d bought for her in the flea market in Rouen because the stall-holder had insisted it would bring them luck, and had presented it to her that Christmas along with her engagement ring. And after she’d adjusted the length of the ribbon to ensure that it accentuated the tantalizing dip between her breasts, Scotch had re-pinned a curl that had come loose and kissed the hollow behind her ear.
    Jessie let the silk gown drop back into the case. She would take it to the pawnbroker tomorrow. That, and the ring with the cabochon sapphire – and maybe the charm, too. It had scarcity value, if nothing else – she’d never seen another like it. Perhaps she should cross the river and ask someone in the Musée du Louvre to have a look at it? It was quite possibly worth a great deal more than Scotch had paid for it, and she should be glad to get rid of it, for it did not seem to bring her luck. In fact, she thought mirthlessly, it had not brought her any luck at all.

CHAPTER EIGHT
BABA
AMERICA 1939
    THE TEAM THAT was to put the finishing touches to
The Thief of Bagdad
in Hollywood was transported across the Atlantic in the SS
Duchess of Bedford
. Crossing the ocean was a tortuous business because of the risk of being targeted by German submarines, and the
Duchess
zigzagged her way drunkenly around the coast of Greenland, dodging icebergs and careering up and down in the swells like some colossal fairground ride.
    Virtually everyone on board was laid low by seasickness, and for those passengers who were still standing the only topics of conversation were the blasted war, or the likelihood of the ship being torpedoed.
    Sabu and Baba took to patrolling the decks together, parading their sea legs past the rows of the afflicted who were marooned on their deckchairs swathed in blankets, and who were obliged to make the occasional undignified dash to the rails to throw up. During their promenades the