The FitzOsbornes at War by Michelle Cooper Page A

chance?’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m not sure. Do you know him?’
    ‘Perhaps.’ The Colonel looked very thoughtful. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been invited to the next cocktail party at the Embassy?’
    ‘Not yet, and I’m hoping I won’t be,’ I said. ‘I’m not very good at cocktail parties, I’ve discovered – I’m never sure what I’m meant to be doing. It’s too noisy to have proper conversations, and it’s so difficult to eat those little bits of food they bring round, when one’s holding a slippery glass and balancing on high heels and trying to talk. I honestly don’t see how anyone could enjoy a cocktail party.’
    ‘Well, I don’t usually attend them wearing high heels,’ he said, ‘but the general aim is to get drunk enough not to mind about the noise and the awkward eating arrangements. I don’t want you to do that , though, so forget about the party. Hmm . . . but you’ll want to deliver Kick’s birthday present to the Embassy soon, won’t you? As it’s her birthday on the twentieth of next month?’
    ‘How do you . . . Never mind. I’ll telephone you if I find out anything, shall I?’
    ‘I’d be very interested to find out if Mr Kent has access to any confidential letters or telegrams, if he’s had any visitors at the Embassy, and whom he meets outside work. But don’t draw any attention to yourself, or to him. It’s only if you happen to overhear something.’
    As if that’s the sort of information one tends to overhear .
    Still, at least something useful has finally resulted from all those uncomfortable hours at the Embassy – not that being forced to go to tedious parties is a true hardship, not compared to some of the things other people have to do now. Look at Simon, for example, slogging away at his pilot training so uncomplainingly. Reading between the lines of his letters, he seems to regard his situation as something to be endured, like a visit to the dentist. He doesn’t even get much leave, poor thing. That was why I wrote to him, to see if he could make it to a party I want to hold for Veronica’s birthday. She will be turning twenty-one, but Aunt Charlotte is completely ignoring this in favour of elaborate (and quite futile) plans for Toby’s own coming-of-age. Toby would rather spend his birthday in London with us and Julia than in Milford, but he can’t get any leave, either.
    Really, this war ! It hasn’t even started in earnest yet, and it’s already messing up everything for everyone.

16th March, 1940
    H OW BLISSFUL S ATURDAYS WOULD BE, if only one weren’t forced to fill them with tedious chores. Scrubbing out the bath, sewing a button back on my coat, washing the sheets and draping them all over the kitchen to dry, queuing for half an hour at the greengrocer’s and discovering there are no onions to be had for love or money . . .
    But now I am settled by the stove with my journal, watching Veronica bat damp sheets out of her way as she searches for her muffler. She is going out to inspect the flower beds and determine whether the ground has thawed enough for us to start planting potatoes. She is being remarkably optimistic, in my opinion. I think Spring has decided to give England a miss this year. Anyway, I’d prefer onions to potatoes. Actually, I’d prefer smoked salmon sandwiches and chocolate éclairs, but one can’t grow those in the garden, unfortunately.
    Apart from cleaning and shopping and mending, another of my regular Saturday chores is to write to Henry’s headmistress, who does not seem to have grasped the concept of vegetarianism. Henry is supposed to be getting extra cheese and eggs to make up for the lack of meat in her diet, but the headmistress feels that serving Henry separate portions would simply reward her ‘obstreperous’ behaviour. Apparently, Henry had been talking very loudly at breakfast about how intelligent, funny and charming Estella was – while her fellow pupils were trying to eat their bacon ration. After