Acknowledgment

MY THANKS ARE due to the Commissionaires of London, particularly those at The Embassy and Ciro's, for their sudden and convenient interest in astronomy whenever a lady vanished into the gloom of a Mews. Your chivalrous star-gazing has saved many a reputation.

I must also express my gratitude to the gossip mongers at The Tatler and The Sketch, not for publishing this volume — Heaven forbid! — but for providing the broadsheets that serve as such excellent camouflage whilst one is otherwise engaged behind a parked Tourer.

Finally, a nod to the Constabulary of Greater London. I must thank you for your heavy boots, which provide such a helpful warning to those of us playing the game. Your occasional lapses in vigilance have been the mother of our invention. We publish this guide not for profit, but because noblesse oblige. Mrs. Grundy may disagree. Mrs. Grundy may keep her opinions to herself.

Foreword

By The Honourable Iona Tree

I WAS CLINGING to the rail of the boat deck of the RMS Majestic, watching the rather sick-making bleak dawn break over the Atlantic, and seriously considering throwing myself into it.

It was May 1922, and we were steaming toward Southampton after five glorious days in New York. Days spent dodging Prohibition agents, whispering passwords through speakeasy doors, and drinking gin that tasted of turpentine and treason. Now, safely aboard and bound for England where one could order a proper cocktail without fear of arrest, we had celebrated our liberation rather too enthusiastically. We had been dancing since the savoury, and while the rest of First Class slept, our party had spilled out onto the deck like so much expensive confetti.

It had been utterly divine, but now I was paying the price. My head was behaving as though the entire percussion section of a jazz band had taken up residence inside it, my nerves were positively shattered, and I felt exactly as though I had been dragged backwards through a hedge by a vengeful omnibus.

To make matters considerably worse, I was suddenly and violently caught short.

Looking around the deck, I tried to remember the layout through the fog of the previous evening's gin. Navigation back to my cabin was impossible, yet there was not a cloakroom in sight. The necessity was becoming rather urgent. One was, quite simply, in extremis.

Then I saw her. Lady Isobel.

She stood a few feet away, leaning against a davit and lighting a gold-tipped Turkish cigarette with the steady hand of a card sharp. Up all night, just as I had been, yet while I resembled a shipwreck, she looked simply immaculate.

The silver lamé evening dress she wore shimmered against the pearl-grey backdrop of the sky. Her hair was cut in a severe Shingle, her eyes bright as champagne, and she possessed the sort of terrifying chic that usually requires twelve hours of sleep and an entire household staff to achieve.

As the brisk Atlantic breeze began to threaten us with actual daylight, the call of nature became impossible to ignore. Turning to her, I enquired with what dignity I could muster if she knew the location of the nearest retiring room.

The answer came not in words but in a wink of such deliberate mischief that I knew something extraordinary was about to happen.

With a cryptic smile, she drained the last drop of champagne from her fizz glass. Then, as I watched, the glass vanished entirely into the folds of her gown. Hands free, she performed a graceful twirl amongst the deck chairs, a dance of sheer, unadulterated genius.

A moment later, the glass reappeared. What had been empty was now decidedly not.

"What had been empty was now decidedly not."

Struck utterly dumb, I stood paralyzed, watching her glide away with the evidence. It was at that moment I knew this woman held the keys to the universe.

Tracking her down to her Stateroom later that afternoon, I begged her to tell me everything. There I learned that what I had witnessed was no desperate improvisation.

The remainder of the voyage was spent in feverish conspiracy. We turned her Stateroom into a tactical headquarters, codifying every manoeuvre from the Boudoir to the Bentley. By Southampton, the pact was sealed: we would arm those with the pluck to turn a scandal into a sport.

This book is the result.

The Problem Stated

No Lady's Land

CIVILIZATION is widely supposed to be an ascent from the mud. In one vital respect, our own private geography, we are still dragging our silk through it.

The Gentlemen, naturally, may attend to such matters wherever they please. They have clubs, they have shadows, they have St. James's. A gentleman may stride into any Public House without scandal, whereas a lady crossing the threshold of The Dog & Duck is assumed to be selling something other than matches.

It is true we have been granted certain sanctuaries. A lady may seek refuge at Claridge's, or retreat to the mirrored cloisters of the Kit Cat Club. But between Mayfair and Ascot, between the ballroom and the country house, there lie vast, perilous gaps.

Worse still, Fashion has eliminated our ability to improvise.

Our grandmothers, formidable Victorians that they were, possessed the Bourdaloue — a porcelain sauceboat that slid discreetly beneath a hoop skirt. Aided by the open drawers of the age, a matron had only to slide the vessel into place and attend to matters comfortably while discussing the Corn Laws. A triumph of Applied Science.

We, tragically, have traded the sweeping crinoline for the bias-cut cylinder. A Victorian matron possessed a portable tent; we walk in a tube. We are sealed in our silhouettes like Egyptian mummies, holding a beaded bag that contains a lipstick, a sixpence, and absolutely no solutions.

The breaking point arrived during the General Strike, when the unions brought Britain to a halt and the Government converted Hyde Park into an emergency rations depot. Iona and I volunteered to peel potatoes alongside the Royal Horse Guards. It was all terribly patriotic until the tea set in.

The ratio was catastrophic: three thousand unpeeled King Edwards, a regiment of staring Guardsmen, and exactly one water closet, which had been commandeered by the Bishop of London following a questionable prawn vol-au-vent.

Utilizing the cover of a troop lorry, I executed what is now known as "The Lunge." A constable interrupted on his rounds. I told him I was stretching a hamstring. He saluted.

The Bishop remained barricaded. I returned to find half a dozen debutantes in various states of clenched desperation. A seminar was in order. By dusk, all six of them had mastered the hamstring stretch. The Coldstream Guards later remarked that they had never witnessed such dedication to preventative athletics among the peerage.

One does what one must.

I SAY: ROT.

If we cannot bring the pot to the party, we must make the party our pot.

"The Bishop remained barricaded."

The Golden Rules

UNLIKE THE CHAOTIC scavenger hunts organized by the Jungman sisters where one dashes about in a Bentley looking for a policeman's helmet, Pish Posh requires the grace of a Duchess and the nerve of a cat burglar. It is played in the open, under the noses of the unsuspecting.

The Object — To achieve the necessary without detection, armed with your wits, your wardrobe, and whatever the landscape affords.

How to Play — To master this Arcane Art, one must cultivate a nonchalance that borders on the cataleptic. If you cannot execute the manoeuvre whilst maintaining a conversation about the weather, you are not yet ready for the field.

The Ranks

The Hierarchy of Nerve

ONE DOES NOT simply waltz into the Savoy and behave like a nervous spaniel. There are levels to this sport. Know your place — or you may find yourself in the glossies, explained in a tone that suggests regret.

The Debutante

The Novice

She possesses courage but lacks imagination. She requires total darkness, a large rhododendron, or a very noisy motor-car. She is terrified of the Butler. She is right to be. She may be found at the bottom of the garden, or in the library during charades.

"Is anyone looking?"

The Bachelor Girl

The Intermediate

She has conquered the fear of discovery and replaced it with something rather like sport. She can execute a manoeuvre in a formal garden or behind a parked Bentley. She no longer needs the dark, merely a story that holds. She may be found at the Racecourse, in the Country House shrubbery, or wherever a fireworks display provides sufficient distraction.

"Oh look, a squirrel."

The Madcap

The Expert

She has nerves of what might reasonably be described as steel and a bladder of aristocratically controlled indifference. She requires no alibi because she leaves no evidence. She can perform under nearly any circumstances, in almost any company, and emerge discussing the weather with the Duchess. She does not break the rules. She edits them. She may be found anywhere she pleases.

"Another glass, darling?"

ADVANCEMENT — One does not declare oneself a Madcap. One is accused of being a Madcap.

If one is caught, one is demoted immediately to the Nursery. If one is caught by the Press, one moves to the Colonies.

A Lady's Necessities

We are told the Modern Girl is liberated. We vote, we smoke, we drive motor-cars at dangerous speeds. Yet beneath our silk, we are harnessed with the severity of a Victorian treaty: stockings, garters, and the architecture beneath creating a rigging that would baffle an engineer. They gave us the vote and kept the rest of us.

To succeed at Pish Posh, one must dress not merely like a mannequin, but like a magician. Golden Rule III is a mandate: Fortune Favours the Prepared.

Essential Equipment and Foresight

On Dress — Choose a gown that moves with you, not against you. Avoid anything cut too straight, especially below the knee. Patou's inverted pleats, Lanvin's robe de style, or any beaded sheath with proper fringe and paneling will serve you beautifully. The silhouette should appear slender under the chandelier but allow complete freedom of movement when required.

On the Necessary Alterations — The solution is sabotage, elegantly delegated. Instruct your maid to take her scissors to the central seam and secure the breach with a single, flat pearl button. She will not ask questions. A good maid is paid to ensure your survival, not to guard your virtue. The result is a strictly private right-of-way, invisible from the ballroom.

"She will not ask questions."

On Vessels — Providence designed the human constitution, but Man designed the country house garden party. When the marquee is half a mile from the house and the host's plumbing is occupied by an army of adjusting matrons, you must bring the plumbing to you.

The cognac snifter is ideal for a dark terrace: it offers a wide bowl, a secure grip, and absolute forgiveness. The champagne flute is a hazard requiring the precision of a sniper. As for the teacup — it is sheer folly; simply too shallow.

For the ultimate trophy, look to the heirloom claret jug. One notable Madcap, seeking revenge for a slight at dinner from a certain Royal Personage, emptied His Royal Highness's favourite jug, utilized it herself, and left it on the sideboard to be refilled. This glorious act of treason proves that any vessel will do if wielded with sufficient malice.

"The teacup is sheer folly; simply too shallow."

On Capacity — Nature is tragically more generous than Lalique. A lady's requirement generally exceeds the capacity of a champagne flute by an alarming margin. This is why the Margaret Method is essential: master the art of arresting the flow mid-stream. One glass to ease the pressure, the remainder saved for a civilized retiring room.

On Departure — The First Commandment of the Vessel is Discretion. To hand a soiled cup back to a footman is not merely risky; it is the sort of vulgarity that gets one exiled to the colonies. Even desperation has standards.

Unless, of course, the hostess has seated you next to a Bore, in which case leaving a full cup on the mantelpiece is a valid form of literary criticism. For all other occasions, we empty before we abandon. The rhododendron is your most loyal confidante — empty the contents into its soil, nestle the glass deep within the foliage, and let the under-gardener discover it in spring and assume the fairies have taken up drinking.

"Let the under-gardener discover it in spring."

On Rehearsal — Never attempt a manoeuvre in a new gown without rehearsal. Know your layers, your fastenings, your architecture. A wet hem is a social obituary written in silk.

On the Opera Fan — No weapon in a lady's arsenal is more devastating than the ostrich-feather fan. What it obscures is left to the imagination of the observer and the nerve of the wielder. Choose black or midnight blue. A white feather is a terrible gossip.

On Motor Travel — A well-trained maid conceals a wide-mouthed jar within the folds of a heavy motoring rug in the rear footwell. It is utilized in transit and emptied at stops without a word spoken. Motor-car doors are tactical architecture. A wise girl reads them before she opens them. A wise girl notes her sightlines before her foot ever touches the pavement.

On Composure — The most essential item weighs nothing. It is your Breath. One deep inhale through the nose is worth every yard of Chanel in the room. A girl who panics splashes her hem. One simply doesn't.