Fallen Skies

by Philippa Gregory

  She ran from the room and downstairs to the dining room. She opened the French windows on to the balcony. Nanny Janes was rising from the garden seat and collecting up her knitting. She was not going to stay in the garden with her peace disturbed by the irritating noise of a crying baby. She was on her way indoors. Lily waited until the woman had come up the steps to the balcony.

  “Oh, Nanny Janes,” she said. She could feel herself breathless and nervous. She took a deep breath and adopted her Duchess voice. “Mr. Winters wants to see his grandson. If Christopher is awake please take him to his grandfather.”

  Nanny Janes paused for a moment as if she wanted to deny that Christopher was awake but his protesting yells were too loud to ignore. “It’s his rest time,” she said unwillingly.

  Lily smiled. “I’m afraid Mr. Winters insists,” she said. “I’ll ring for Coventry to bring the pram in.”

  She turned and went back inside, up the stairs to Rory’s room. When Nanny Janes brought in the baby Lily was sitting in the window seat looking out to sea, indifferent.

  Rory held his arms out for the baby. Christopher, still red-faced and sobbing with distress, was settled beside him on the bed.

  “That’ll be all,” Rory said.

  Nanny Janes turned to Lily with studied rudeness. “I can’t understand what he says,” she said.

  Lily beamed at her. “He told you to go,” she said pleasantly. “You can come and fetch Christopher at lunchtime.”

  They waited until the door was firmly shut before they laughed and Lily fled across the room and scooped Christopher up into her arms.

  Lily played with Christopher in Rory’s room until two minutes before lunchtime, when she handed him over to his grandfather and slid from the room. When Nanny Janes knocked on the door at the stroke of one, and came in, silent with disapproval, the baby was in his grandfather’s arms, Lily was not even there. The woman took the baby from the old man without even looking at him and left. Rory, exercising his muscles as his nurse had ordered, poked out his tongue at her back.

  • • •

  Stephen signed a pile of letters one after the other, and gazed blankly out of the office window. In the building opposite, a handsome Georgian town house newly converted to offices, he could see a girl tapping away at the keys of a typewriter. She worked slowly, one keystroke at a time, and sometimes there was a long gap between letters. Her hair was bobbed, she was obviously very much a modern girl: short hair, working in an office. She probably did not even live at home, she probably was not even married, thinking herself something special because she earned her own living, putting skilled men out of work. Stephen could remember when his father would dictate letters to male clerks who wrote in perfect copperplate script, and typed letters were regarded as a vulgar novelty, suitable only for ambulance-chasers and litigious companies. Everything was changed. Everything was changed for the worse.

  John Pascoe put his head around the door. “Are you going home for lunch today?”

  Stephen nodded. “My car should be waiting downstairs,” he said.

  “How is your father? There’s something I wanted to ask him.”

  “Still very frail,” Stephen said at once. “What was it?”

  “It’s this lady’s will. It’s our filing system at fault, I’m afraid. It all went to pieces during the war. I could swear she made a new will in about 1917. Lady Seymore, she lived over the water in Gosport. An Admiral’s widow. I am sure she came in and made a new will. But I don’t know where to start looking for it. There are some other papers of that year missing as well. I was hoping your father might have a clue.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Stephen said unhelpfully. “I should think most of his memory is gone altogether. He’s talking a little better now, but I doubt he could help.”

  “Mind if I come over and ask him?” John Pascoe opened the door, and Stephen saw that he was carrying his light summer hat. He was obviously determined to come.

  “I’ll phone ahead and ask them to lay an extra place for lunch,” Stephen said, good manners asserting themselves over his wishes.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it . . .”

  “Mother would love to see you.”

  Stephen telephoned home and spoke to Browning before the two men went downstairs. Coventry was waiting with the Argyll at the office door. The two men got in and the car moved off.

  “Is it tomorrow the car goes in for service?” Stephen asked.

  Coventry nodded.

  “All day?”

  Coventry nodded again.

  “Bother,” Stephen said. “Lily has a concert. She and Charlie are going to St. James’s, at Havant. I meant to tell you. We’ll have to cancel the service. Do it another time.”

  Coventry nodded again.

  “You should get her a little car,” John Pascoe said. “A nice little runabout.”

  Coventry nodded emphatically.

  Stephen smiled. “She drives rather well, actually. Coventry taught her. He thinks the world of her. I was thinking of getting her a little Morris.”

  “As soon as your boy’s up and about you’ll need two cars,” John Pascoe warned. “There’ll be cricket matches and school events.”

  Stephen smiled.

  “What a batsman Christopher was!” John exclaimed. “D’you remember? Every Wednesday your father would take the day off from the office to drive up to Christopher’s school and watch him play. Every Thursday he’d come in, red as a berry from too much sun, and boasting to all the clerks how well Christopher had done. When he made his first century we had a bottle of champagne at lunch!”

  Stephen’s smile died from his face. “I remember,” he said. He could remember playing with Christopher in the back garden. The ball had been hard in his little hands. Christopher, a demanding god in white flannels, had sent him fielding into the flower beds and holly bushes. While Stephen searched for the ball he could hear Christopher’s excited shrieking of runs: “Eighty-three . . . eighty-four . . . eighty-five . . . eighty-six.” The ball was nowhere to be found, Christopher would go on running from bails to bundled jacket forever, ignoring Stephen’s cries that the ball was missing, that it was not fair. Christopher loved to win. Stephen always lost. He always fielded and there was never time for his turn to bat.

  In football he was always in goal while Christopher weaved around the garden, the ball tantalizing inches from his clever feet. When they learned horse-riding Stephen fell off as Christopher cantered triumphantly around the ring. No-one helped him up—Christopher was learning to jump, everyone watched him.

  “Christopher won’t be playing matches for years yet, if he ever does. Maybe he won’t be a sportsman,” Stephen said.

  They drew up at the house and the two men went indoors. Stephen glanced back at Coventry as if he would rather have had bread and cheese in the kitchen with him. Coventry looked back at him as if he understood, and then turned to put the car away.

  John Pascoe was already in the house, greeting Muriel and Lily and going up the stairs to see Rory. Stephen went into his study without speaking.

  John knocked on the door and went in quietly.

  Rory was sitting up in bed. When he saw John his eyes lit up and then slowly, awkwardly, the rest of his face creaked into a smile.

  John crossed the room and took his hand. Gently, the grip was returned. “Well, you’re looking better!” he exclaimed. “Old chap! You really are looking yourself again.”

  Rory smiled his crooked smile. “Well,” he said. “I’m well.”

  John drew up a chair. “And talking again!” he said. “I had no idea! What a relief, eh? You must have been going crazy.”

  Rory nodded. “Long time,” he said.

  “We’re all well at home,” John said. “Still missing James, of course. Some wounds never heal, do they? You’d know.”

  Rory nodded. “The best,” he said. “The very best. Went first.”

  John cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “Our boys,”
he said softly.

  There was a little silence.

  “Still, you have a son, and now a grandson,” John said encouragingly. “How is the baby?”

  Rory beamed. “Bonny,” he said. “Christopher—again.”

  “And that pretty daughter-in-law of yours? Stephen picked a real beauty there.”

  “Lovely girl,” Rory said. “Sings. Sings like a lark.”

  “Talent!” John said. “It’s a wonderful thing. Maybe the boy will be musical.”

  Rory nodded thoughtfully. “Chorister,” he suggested.

  “Good Lord, yes!” John exclaimed. “You could get him into Winchester, anywhere, if he can sing. On a scholarship too! That’s a good thought, Rory. What a start for the boy! No knowing where he might end up with a start like that! We could see him really rise in the world.”

  Rory nodded with satisfaction. “Bonny,” he said again. He took a breath. “Good—see them together.”

  “Stephen and Christopher?”

  Rory shook his head. “Lily and her son.”

  John nodded approvingly. “A young mother and her baby,” he said. “Nothing better in the world. Gives you hope in the future, doesn’t it? Makes you think it might even have been worth while—all the losses.”

  The two men were silent for a minute, then John broke the spell. “Odd thing at the office, Rory. Can’t seem to find one of the files.”

  “Which?”

  “Lady Seymore’s will. The old girl has finally popped off but all I can find is a will dated 1913. I could have sworn she made another. Some time in 1917. She did it with you, I think. But there’s no record of it. I’ve been racking my brains but I can’t remember.”

  Rory nodded. “Banked it,” he said.

  “Come again?”

  “Threat of raids—zeppelins—bombing the dockyard.” Rory spoke in short coherent bursts of speech, the small muscles around his lips straining. “We decided—put in a vault—all the wills—equities. National Bank.”

  John Pascoe slapped his head. “Good God, I’m a fool!” he exclaimed. “And then we lost our boys, and you were sick and we stopped doing it, and I forgot all about it. God knows what we put away. We only did it for a couple of months. I must be going dotty.”

  Rory grinned crookedly. “Pop in beside me!”

  John laughed. “Your son will think I’m an absolute fool,” he said. “There was no note in the file or anything. Thank God you remembered, old boy.”

  Rory nodded. “Nothing wrong with brain,” he said slowly. “Remember everything. Good and bad. Speech tricky—getting better. Moving hands, arms, head. Legs stuck.”

  “Damned good to see you talking again,” John said. “I’ve missed you. Stephen’s a bright lad. A hard worker, and thorough. But . . .”

  Rory waited.

  “Cold,” John said at last. “It’s not like the old days when we started the office and we were full of dreams about what we would do. Rich clients and a top-flight company, and on Thursdays we did free advice. D’you remember? We called them the ragged clinics. All sorts of problems we had in, and most of them solved by a letter on headed paper. Cheap to do and I really felt we were doing some good. Little Robin Hoods!”

  “Good days,” Rory said.

  There was a short silence.

  “Any chance of you coming back?” John said tentatively. “Even in a wheelchair, old boy? There’s a lot of men worse hurt than you around the town. You see some dreadful sights. Blinded men, men in wheelchairs, men without legs. We’ve got a one-armed clerk. We could build a little ramp. You could have a downstairs office.”

  Rory was silent for a moment. “Wonder if I could.”

  “We need another man, Stephen was speaking of a part-timer. We’re overworked but we can’t find the right chap. The one we had in mind was too sick. He’d been gassed, poor fellow. His lungs have packed up.”

  “Wonder,” Rory said.

  The gong sounded dully from the foot of the stairs, resounded louder and louder, and then went quiet.

  John rose to his feet. “What about it?” he said.

  Rory grinned lopsidedly. “Damn—yes!” he said. “Start here. Get a telephone. You call me. Send clerk round. A little work. Later on. Come to office. Part-time. I can do it.”

  John Pascoe put his hand on Rory’s shoulder. “That’s grand,” he said. His voice was soft. “Get things back to how they were. We can make things right again. Having you back in the office would be excellent. Maybe we could start the ragged clinics again. There’s a lot of people hit hard by the war, pensions unpaid, compensation owing, unending marital work. There’s still work for you and me, eh?”

  “Christopher,” Rory said.

  For a moment John Pascoe looked grave, thinking that Rory was speaking of his son.

  But the dark eyes gleamed. “Keep seat warm for Christopher,” Rory said. “New partner.”

  John gripped his hand and felt the answering pressure.

  “Another Winters in the office,” he said. “Pascoe, Winters, Winters and Son.”

  Rory released him, and John went to the door. “D’you take your lunch up here?” he asked.

  Rory shook his head. “Tell them—wait,” he said. “Come down today.”

  John took the message downstairs and Lily clapped her hands and rang for Coventry to carry Rory down the stairs. Nurse Bells fled up to the sickroom to get him ready, and Browning laid another place at the table. Muriel and Stephen exchanged one silent look of displeasure but in front of John Pascoe there was nothing they could do.

  Coventry came into the dining room carrying the tall man in his arms. Rory was wearing a dark grey suit and his old school tie. He looked distinguished. Even bundled in Coventry’s arms he looked like a man of authority. Coventry placed him gently in the chair at the head of the table and arranged his feet side by side before heaving the chair in place. Stephen watched impassively as his father claimed his seat at the head of the table—where Stephen had been seated as head of the family, for three years. Muriel took her seat at the far end of the table and nervously fluttered her napkin. Stephen sat beside her, as far from his father as he could possibly go. His mother and he were silent.

  Lily pulled out her chair on Rory’s right and John Pascoe sat beside her, opposite Stephen.

  It was tomato soup and then cottage pie for lunch, Lily noted with pleasure. There was no meat to cut and no gristle for Rory to chew. She asked him in an undertone if he wanted his napkin tucked under his chin and did it for him, lightly, as an everyday act. John Pascoe broke the chilly silence with a discussion of a planned new hospital on the seafront for men who had been gassed during the war. There was a committee formed to raise funds.

  Rory’s right hand, rigorously under control, went from bowl to mouth with spoonful after spoonful of soup. Lily gave him a quick encouraging grin.

  When the cottage pie came in with green beans and carrots, Lily spoke to Browning. “Mr. Winters will have his vegetables sliced,” she said easily.

  Browning nodded, served the rest of the table and then took the vegetables outside. She came back with them sliced into easy forkfuls. Lily nodded.

  Muriel and Stephen said nothing.

  Lily and John Pascoe talked easily about the seafront hospital, and about the benefit of sea air. Rory said a word from time to time and Lily and John paused to listen to him and respond. Muriel and Stephen were silent, as if strangers had forced their way into the house and brought with them unknown freedoms. Pudding was stewed apple and thin custard with thick skin. Rory did not spill a drop. They took coffee in the drawing room. Coventry appeared from the back stairs and carried Rory to his old seat by the fireplace. Stephen sat on the sofa with his mother. Lily perched in the window seat, watching for Christopher and Nanny Janes setting off for their afternoon walk.

  Stephen set down his cup of coffee and said he was ready to go back to the office.

  “And your father’s located the missing files!” John said blithely. “Isn’
t that a relief! He’s going to do a bit of work for us—time we got him back in harness I think, don’t you?”

  Stephen’s smile was shocked. “Are you well enough?” he asked his father. “You certainly can’t work with clients. They won’t understand a word that you say.”

  Rory nodded. “Paperwork,” he said. “Send clerk round. I’ll make myself understood.”

  “But surely . . .”

  “Lily can help.”

  Stephen shot a brief silencing look at Lily. “I don’t know what the doctor will say,” he said. “Surely you shouldn’t rush it, Father. And Lily has her singing, and Christopher to care for.”

  Rory grinned at Stephen. “I’m well,” he said in a tone which permitted no argument. “Ready to work.”

  Stephen was white around his mouth. “As you wish, Sir,” he said tightly. He stalked from the room without bidding any of them goodbye. He brushed past Lily and opened the front door and ran down the steps without his hat or his coat. Coventry came scrambling from the back door, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pulling on his cap.

  “Thank you for a lovely lunch,” John Pascoe said courteously, bowing over Muriel’s hand. He kissed Lily gently on the forehead and patted Rory on the shoulder. Then he joined Stephen, waiting in the car.

  “Lovely lunch,” he said as they drove off. “How charming your wife is with your father.”

  31

  STEPHEN BROODED OVER THE CHANGES in his life, saying nothing. A telephone was wired in to Rory’s room and John Pascoe supplied him three times a week with routine legal queries from clients which needed easy replies. Smedley, the one-armed clerk, called at number two, The Parade, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, to deliver work and to take down Rory’s replies. He was a patient man and would listen carefully to Rory’s speech, understanding almost every word.

  For the first few weeks Stephen monitored every letter, hoping that his father would expose himself as irreparably damaged. He thought he would find a letter of nonsense, of disconnected rambling thoughts. But his father’s dictated letters were succinct, legally and grammatically perfect. Smedley denied doing more than providing linking clauses in the sentences. “Your father is perfectly clear,” he told Stephen. “He has a fine mind.”