by Clare Flynn
Then he thought of his sister, Jane. It hurt him that because of Martha’s marriage to Henderson he was prevented from seeing her too. Even though he had met her only for an hour or so, he felt sad that she was never to become a part of his life and his banishment from Martha meant also a banishment from her.
Nothing in his life had worked for him. His love for Martha. His career. His family. He was left with a loveless marriage, a harridan of a mother and the task of running Newlands, a task he had no stomach to do.
How hard would it be to move to the edge of the cliff and step out into the void? Death would come quickly, dashed to pieces on those rocks beaten by the great Atlantic breakers.
* * *
It was almost dark by the time he returned to Le Palais. A red-eyed Lavinia was waiting in the bedroom. She was stretched out on the bed, her frock creased and her hair dishevelled.
‘You left me all alone,’ she said, sounding peevish. ‘You went off and left me.’ She scowled. ‘It’s not fair. It was mean of you.’
Christopher sat down in an armchair by the window staring out at the windblown gardens.
Lavinia began to cry. Little panting sobs.
He turned to look at her. What had he taken on, in agreeing to marry Lady Lavinia Bourne? Almost two years his senior, but like a small child throwing a temper tantrum because her favourite toy had been taken from her.
‘I needed some time on my own,’ he said, at last.
‘You don’t like me,’ she whined, then broke again into sobs.
‘Not when you cry like that. Not when you say the kind of things you said before.’
‘You’re mean. I want to go home. I want my dogs. I hate you.’
Christopher groaned. He was tempted to get up and leave the room, go down to one of the public rooms, find a newspaper, read a book, go to the bar. Anything to get away from her.
As if sensing that her self-pitying behaviour was making no impact on her husband, Lavinia got up off the bed and went into the bathroom. She was gone for more than ten minutes and when she emerged, she had dried her eyes, refreshed her face and tidied her hair.
‘I don’t want to quarrel,’ she said. She moved across the room towards him, a shy smile on her face. ‘Can’t you be nice to me? Please?’
To his surprise, she reached for his hand. ‘Mummy said to me that men are always nicer if one lets them have what they want. I think it’s time we did what you want, then maybe you’ll be nicer to me. I think we should get it over with. You know, so it won’t be between us. You wanting it and me being afraid.’
She turned to him, her eyes large, her lips plump and moist. She was trembling and he saw that she was indeed afraid. The childishness that had irritated him now touched him. He saw that for her, like him, this honeymoon was something to be endured, got through, got over. His annoyance turned to pity. He wanted to tell her that no, he didn’t want it. He didn’t love her. Could never love her. But right now making love to her seemed inevitable.
‘Shall I get undressed?’ She spoke softly, almost a whisper.
He nodded. ‘Would you like me to close the curtains?’
‘Yes, please. Thank you.’
They took off their clothes in the darkened room and got into the bed. They lay side-by-side on their backs for a few minutes. Christopher realised that for Lavinia it was undoubtedly a frightening prospect.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said. ‘And if at any time you want me to stop, tell me. I promise to be gentle.’
He heard her small quick breaths. ‘Thank you.’
As soon as he touched her she gave a gasp. Not of horror, but to Christopher’s surprise it seemed to indicate pleasure.
‘Is this all right?’ he asked as he ran his hand over her body. ‘Say if you want me to stop.’
‘Don’t stop.’
She took his hand and put it between her legs. To his surprise she was wet. Instinct took over and he manoeuvred himself over her. As he entered her, she cried out in pain, but then her arms wrapped around him, her legs rose to clamp him tighter to her and her hips moved under him, drawing him into her.
Christopher forced himself to blank out everything and concentrate only on what they were doing. He mustn’t pretend that it was Martha underneath him now. He decided to let it all wash over him, relieved that he had not caused Lavinia distress and more tears. The act felt impersonal to him. How he imagined it might have been had he slept with that Belgian girl during the war. He relaxed into it, let the physical sensations seep into him, two young bodies acting reflexively, mindlessly, intent only on the pleasure of the moment.
Little gasps and groans from Lavinia signalled her own unexpected enjoyment at what they were doing. Christopher was grateful. If she had, as he had expected, hated what they were doing, it would have made the rest of the week hard to endure, but here she was, clutching at him, moving under him, arching her hips up to meet him, like a dairymaid having a romp in the hay with her lover.
When it was over, she curled her body up against his, and began to nuzzle at his neck, like a small animal. But Christopher didn’t want this intimacy. Performing his marital obligations with her was one thing, and he was glad it had not proved to be a trial. But lying with her in his arms, as she clearly wanted, was another. He couldn’t bring himself to offer that. He dropped a perfunctory kiss on her forehead, swung himself off the bed and went towards the bathroom. ‘It’s time we got ready for dinner,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘It’s getting late.’
Then, remembering that she did deserve some courtesy, he turned back and said, ‘Thank you, Lavinia. I trust that was not too unpleasant for you?’ Without waiting for her response, he went into his bathroom. He closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed as he gathered himself together. A few moments later, from the adjoining bathroom, he could hear taps running and the sound of Lavinia singing to herself over the rush of the water.
He had a mix of emotions. Relief that, at last, they had got the act out of the way, that she had enjoyed it and that he had managed to perform. Sorrow and guilt, at what felt like a betrayal of Martha. Self-loathing that he had allowed himself to be put in this position by his mother. He was weak. Wasn’t he? But what choice had he had? It had been this or Jane losing her place in St Crispin’s. And Martha had chosen another. Reggie Henderson. Christopher hoped Henderson would make her happy. Then a wave of jealousy swept over him and all he wanted to do was punch Henderson on the nose.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, realising he needed to shave. A longing for Martha ate into him, hollowing out his stomach. Why could it not have been her in the room with him? Why could it not be her on his arm when they descended to the dining room? Why was she not here to walk with him on those windswept clifftops, holding his hand as they stared out to sea, cocooned in their love for each other?
Christopher asked himself how he might have done things differently. Could there have been a better way? A way for him to defy his mother and marry the woman he loved? But as he asked the question, he knew there was not.
Chapter 23
The late afternoon’s activity in the bedroom had evidently agreed with Lavinia. She dined with a hearty appetite and allowed the sommelier to keep her glass topped up with champagne without any sign of her usual moderation. She prattled away throughout the meal, talking of her pet dogs, of a new outfit she planned to wear tomorrow that she hoped Christopher would like, all the time looking around the dining room in her quest to find a face she recognised.
‘I’m sure that’s the Countess of Windermere,’ she hissed at him. ‘Don’t look now but she’s behind your right shoulder.’
Christopher felt no temptation to turn his head. ‘I have absolutely no idea who the Countess of Windermere might be.’
‘Really. You need to know these things.’
‘Why?’
She was nonplussed for a moment. ‘Because one must,’ she said, fatuously.
Christopher sipped his wine and wished he w
ere back in England. Back in the sunken garden, burning up his nervous energy, digging or tearing down ivy, stripping back the accumulated vegetation of six years of neglect. He stared across the table at the woman who was his wife. How had he been so lily-livered in agreeing to marry Lavinia? It had been unfair to her as well as himself. At least he had made her parents and his mother happy. Since happiness was something he no longer expected to experience for himself, then at least he’d achieved that. No doubt, plans were already advanced for the repairs to the Bournes’ roof. Edwina Shipley, meanwhile, would be relishing the prospect of her eventual grandson inheriting a title. Christopher shuddered as he imagined her planning a party to mark his and Lavinia’s return from honeymoon.
Lavinia had moved on to reciting her plans for how she intended them to spend the following day. These included a walk through the town to conduct some shopping at the Bonheur department store, followed by a stroll along the promenade to the old port before lunch. Christopher let her words flow over him, nodding occasionally and forcing an occasional smile to his lips.
Of course, he could have married someone else. Even a one-legged man was in demand in these post-war days, especially when he came with a sizeable fortune and a business with a healthy balance sheet. Notwithstanding heavy tax duties on the death of his father, Shipley Industries kept churning out profits faster than even his mother could spend them.
Perhaps Christopher could have found a more congenial woman, someone more intelligent, more sympathique as the French said. But if he couldn’t be with Martha, then it might as well be Lavinia. Her shallowness, her prettiness, her general vacuity made her as far removed from Martha as any woman could be. Rationally, he knew he was behaving like a martyr, but such was the weight of his melancholy that he could do nothing about it.
The small orchestra in the corner of the palatial dining room struck up a waltz. One or two of the diners moved onto the dance floor. Christopher sensed Lavinia was keen to join them. Another ordeal to face. He hadn’t even attempted to navigate his way around a dance floor with his wooden leg. There had been no dancing at the marriage celebrations, his mother declaring dancing at weddings to be vulgar. Lavinia was now twisting round in her chair watching the dancers eagerly. He muttered something about maybe having a turn after the pudding.
The waiter was serving their crèmes brûlées when someone slapped a hand on Christopher’s back. He jumped and turned to see a tall man with an unkempt mass of wiry hair, towering over him.
‘Well, well! Chris Shipley. I say, old boy. I thought it was you. Been craning my neck across the room all through dinner. Didn’t expect to run into anyone I know here, in May.’
The man leaning over his chair had been at school with him. A bighead and a bully, a year older than Christopher.
‘Algie,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’ But that was not an accurate expression of his feelings. He got to his feet and presented his wife. ‘Lavinia, this is Algernon Belford-Webb. We were at school together. Algie, my wife, Lady Lavinia.’
‘I say, Shippers, you lucky chap. I’d heard you’d got spliced, but had no idea that you’d plucked the fairest rose in the garden.’ The man bent his head over Lavinia’s hand, kissed it and was rewarded with a blush and a giggle.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Without waiting for a reply, Belford-Webb signalled a passing waiter to bring up a chair and, as soon as it was positioned, he sat down, turning in Lavinia’s direction. ‘So you’re honeymooning then? And what do you think of Biarritz, Lady Lavinia?’
‘It seems nice enough, but a little quiet. Rather early in the season.’
‘Dead as a dodo. I’m only here as the mater hates the heat and expects me to bring her here for a week every year in May. Place is as dull as ditch water this time of year. Now, July’s a different matter. Do you like to bathe?’
Lavinia told him she had never tried. ‘Mummy and Daddy are frightfully old-fashioned about that kind of thing.’
‘You must bring her again in July or August, Shippers.’ He said this to Christopher without looking at him, keeping his eyes fixed on Lavinia.
Christopher said, ‘Where is your mother? Perhaps she’d care to join us?’ He had no real desire to engage an elderly dowager in conversation, but Belford-Webb’s rudeness was annoying him.
‘Turned in already. The old girl doesn’t like staying up late and always scarpers as soon as the musicians start up. I say, why don’t you two tootle along with me to the casino later? Have you been yet?’
Lavinia clasped her hands together. ‘Ooh, do let’s, Christopher.’
‘I’m not sure–’
‘Come, come, Shippers. How can you turn this divinely lovely creature down?’
Lavinia was giggling and making her eyes widen when they caught Belford-Webb’s. ‘Christopher’s a mean old thing. He’s been terribly grumpy since we got here. I sometimes think all he wants to do is disappoint me.’ She pouted and looked down at the tablecloth, peering upwards through her long eyelashes at Algernon as he leaned closer.
‘If we’re to go to the casino I’ll go back to the room and fetch my wrap,’ she said.
Christopher got to his feet. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘No, you stay here and talk with Mr Belford-Webb.’ She gave Algie one of her winning smiles as the two men rose. ‘I’m sure you’ve lots to catch up on since schooldays.’
A roll call of the dead and maimed, thought Christopher.
Algernon Belford-Webb had missed the war altogether. At least the active service part. His father was a Lieutenant General and had contrived for his son to get a desk job behind the lines. Algie had spent the war years in uniform, doing little more than rubber-stamping orders that came from further up the chain of command before transmitting them onward. He had emerged at the end of 1918 without a scratch and with his full complement of campaign medals.
Looking at Algernon now, Christopher felt only contempt for him. At school he had been a frequent snitch, in the pockets of the prefects, until he became one himself, doling out punishments with little cause. It rankled that he’d spent the war years safe behind the lines, pushing a pen, while men like Percy had paid the ultimate sacrifice.
‘Hear you copped a Blighty before the war was over.’ Belford-Webb turned to Christopher, sneering. ‘Couldn’t take the pressure any longer? Quick shot in the foot, eh?’
‘Part of my leg was blown off.’ Christopher ground his teeth, wanting to wipe the sneering expression off Algernon’s face. ‘How was your war? See much action?’
‘Strategy.’ Belford-Webb patted two fingers against his skull. ‘Planning troop movements. Top secret stuff. They couldn’t spare me for routine duties.’
Routine duties? Lying festering in filth and lice in the bottom of a muddy trench, while the Germans bombarded the lines with mortars. Stomachs rumbling from hunger. Eating worm-ridden or flyblown food. Dealing with diarrhoea and constipation with only a hastily-dug, stinking latrine to squat over – sometimes, just a corner of the trench. Watching schoolboys being killed or maimed, their limbs blown off, their brains destroyed, their lives snuffed out or damaged utterly. The stench, the cold, the wet, the squalor. Night after night. Day after day. On and on. Men being fed into the meat-grinding machine that was the Western Front. Barbed wire, shell craters, the stink of rotting corpses from no man’s land. Filth. Horror. Destruction. Men pointlessly pounding other men, whom they knew not and held no grudge against, with the destructive powers of industrial armaments. Routine duties?
Christopher imagined Algernon Belford-Webb billeted in some chateau or provincial inn, enjoying the contents of the wine cellars, while dining on the finest of food. He bit his tongue and clenched a fist under the table.
Lavinia returned, a cashmere wrap over one arm and a hat and gloves in the other. She had evidently taken advantage of her return to the room to apply lipstick and powder. ‘Shall we go, chaps?’ she said brightly.
‘Oh, rather!’ Algernon was already on his feet.
&
nbsp; Christopher stood up. Could a trip to the casino be so terrible? At least if they were watching or playing the tables he wouldn’t need to talk to either of them.
* * *
The Bellevue casino was on a promontory at the southern end of the Grande Plage, above the sea. A large belle époque building, it was also home to musical concerts and a crowd of people were making their way up the stairs and under the portico.
‘What’s your vice?’ Belford-Webb addressed Christopher. ‘I’m a roulette man myself.’
‘I don’t care for gambling.’ Christopher realised he sounded priggish but was past caring.
‘Ooh, roulette! How wicked! May I have a go? Please, darling.’ Lavinia clasped her hands in front of her and turned her face up to Christopher’s. She made a moue with her plump lips. ‘Please!’
Christopher went to buy her some chips. When he returned, she was talking animatedly to Algernon. Christopher handed her the little tray of wooden chips. She beamed at him. At least she wasn’t difficult to please. Like a small child, easily gratified.
‘Have you ever played roulette, Lavinia?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She drew her eyebrows together. ‘But Algie has promised to show me how.’
So it was Algie already? Christopher followed the pair into the salon. Belford-Webb had a proprietary hand on Lavinia’s arm as he steered her towards one of the tables. It was apparent that neither of them were interested in Christopher’s presence. He watched as they exchanged their casino chips for coloured ones at the table.