by Mary Wesley
“Well, he sounds well.”
“I have not seen him since he was a boy.”
“You wouldn’t know him; he’s filled out, going grey. But his eyebrows are bushier than ever.”
“Is he married,” Irena asked, “yet?”
“Says he’ll get married when the war is over, meanwhile lots of girls. He’s sort of in the Navy, just as Cosmo is sort of in the R.A.F.,” she said.
“His mother died,” said Tashie from the chaise longue. “He has a bit of money now.”
“And a reputation,” said Irena, pinning, “as a left-wing journalist. There, how’s that?” She sat back to watch Mabs twirl.
“We could have done without Hubert’s reputation in our family,” said Mabs, easing herself out of the dress. “Shall you need another fitting?”
Irena said, “Yes. Now your dress, Tashie.” She was making them warm evening dresses to wear in the cold wartime winter.
“Tell Irena about the chandelier,” said Tashie, as Irena lowered a half-made dress over her head.
“The chandelier?” Irena looked from Tashie to Mabs.
“It was a chandelier which made Father change his mind about Hitler,” said Mabs.
“Stand still,” said Irena to Tashie, her mouth full of pins.
“Tell her,” said Tashie. “She’s English now; she will get the gist.”
“Father was dining at his club during an air-raid,” said Mabs, “with Freddy Ward and Ian MacNiece. They were too proud, of course, to go to the shelter. This was early in the Blitz. Now nobody in the Club had thought to remove the chandeliers, so when a bomb dropped in Pall Mall the chandeliers flew. Father was cut and Freddy Ward needed five stitches. Father was enraged. Up to then he had still been muttering that Hitler had a point.”
Irena sniffed disapproval.
“If it had not been for Hubert’s articles General Leigh would have changed his mind long before,” said Tashie.
“Why?” Irena was fitting a sleeve. “Stand still, Tashie.”
“Honestly, Irena! You read them! Hubert kept stressing how anti-Communist Hitler is. General Leigh is too. That was the point they had in common.”
Irena said, “Tiens.”
“Nigel maintains Hubert has a genius for rubbing old gentlemen up the wrong way,” said Mabs. “But Father’s all right now.”
“Didn’t he paint Heil Hitler on some main road?” teased Tashie.
“That was someone else,” said Mabs. “How does it feel to have Russia on our side, Irena?”
“Bolsheviks,” said Irena. “Ça finira mal.”
“You and father should get together,” said Mabs. “Careful with that pin.”
“Perhaps we are too set in our opinions,” said Irena. “Some people disassociate themselves from the war altogether.”
“I wonder who she was talking about,” said Tashie as they drove in a taxi towards Wiltons. “She didn’t get your joke about your pa and the chandelier.”
“Well, she’s Russian,” said Mabs. “Here we are and there’s Hubert just going in.
“Hubert,” she said presently, as they sat eating oysters, “do you know anyone who is not taking part in the war even minimally, like Tashie and me?”
“Yes,” said Hubert.
“Gosh, Hubert, who?”
Hubert thought of Felix, who would rather take no part, but said nothing. He swallowed an oyster. Mabs and Tashie were wonderful, he thought, but one could not talk to them, too silly.
“Who? Tell us,” said Tashie.
“Joyce’s young brother, for one.”
“Really? How does he manage? Is he ill?”
“He’s a conscientious objector.”
“I call that jolly brave,” said Mabs.
Hubert adjusted his opinion. “Got himself sent to prison,” he said.
“My word,” said Tashie. “Wasn’t he a queer?”
“Still is, no doubt. He’s now been sent down a mine.”
“So he is taking part, and much less minimally than Mabs and I bringing up our tots in the safety of Wiltshire, and keeping up our husbands’ morale by being silly.”
Hubert laughed. “You keep up my morale, too, you know. Are you two going to buy hats after lunch? Hats, like oysters, are unrationed. Shall we have some more or would that be greedy?”
“Let’s be greedy,” said Tashie.
“I could do with a hat,” said Mabs. “Clever fellow to remind us.”
“Are you sad about your mother, Hubert?” Tashie enquired. “Or didn’t you like her?”
“Not sad, no, but I got to like her latterly. I used to buy her hats to console her for my boring step-father’s demise. It worked. I even took her to Pengappah and she quite liked it.”
“So that’s all right,” said Mabs. “Has she left you a lot of money?”
“What was left after the racing; she was keen on the gees.”
“But you earn a mint.”
“I did up to the war. It wasn’t bad.”
“You should get married,” said Mabs.
“Time enough,” said Hubert.
“We could pick you someone suitable,” said Tashie, teasing.
“I’ll pick my own, thanks,” said Hubert. “I’m off to North Africa soon, by the way.”
“Oh, Hubert. If you possibly can, send us some cans of olive oil. Will you do that? All the oil I hoarded had to go to help premature babies.”
“What premature babies?”
“The ones I work with in the local hospital. Oh, Hubert, you really believe we sit around doing nothing, don’t you?”
Watching the two friends disappear towards Bond Street, Hubert felt great affection for them. Their relentless shopping represented continuity. Wartime shortages only whetted their appetites; when the war ended they would snap back into peacetime quicker than most. Did Mabs ever regret Felix? he wondered. Or had she forgotten him? She seemed content with Nigel. As he headed back to his office, he wondered where Felix had disappeared to that night. It was not like Felix to pick up a tan; his explanation had been unconvincing. He hoped he had not done anything rash, like looking up old friends.
FORTY-EIGHT
BACK IN LONDON A year later, Flora stubbed her toe on the kerb, stumbled onto the pavement and landed on her knees. In the ochre-coloured gloom the driver of the car which had nearly hit her sounded his horn. As she groped across the pavement to the railings its tyres squeaked, slithering against the kerb. She had ladered her stockings and grazed her knees, and the latch of her overnight case had burst open. She swore, “God damn and blast,” as she straightened her skirt and spat on her handkerchief to wipe the cuts. “God damn and blast.” Her voice was muffled by the fog. She snapped the lock of her case, kept close to the railings and limped on. The monsters in the street crawled invisibly, adding their exhausts to the fog. Her knees hurt, the pain made her gasp, and gasping she inhaled the fog as she bumped into a fog-coloured uniform. The American was stationary. Flora said, “Sorry, I didn’t see you.” She had hit the man’s legs with her case.
He said: “That’s okay, lady. I was just wiping my glasses; they get kinda misted in this climatic speciality of yours.”
Flora said: “Oh, I say, you’ve got a map.”
The American held the map close to his face. “How else would I find my way around in this goddam city, where none of the streets run straight?”
“We are in Farm Street,” said Flora helpfully. “I can tell you that much.”
“Wrong, lady. This is Bruton Street. Don’t you know your own city?”
Flora said: “I thought I knew the way. I am trying to get to Piccadilly. I must be lost.”
“Catch hold of my arm,” said the American, “and I will get you there. This is Bruton Street, right?” He stabbed at the map. “We turn right at the end and go down Bruton Lane. See it?”
“Yes.”
“Takes us into Berkeley Street; turn left and Piccadilly’s at the bottom. Keep close to the railings or we get run down by a nut.” Flora took
hold of his sleeve and they started to walk.
“You are very kind,” she said. “I have never actually visualised seeing the air I breathe. Are you a navigator?” (It would be good manners to chat.)
“I do a desk job. Back home I deal in real estate. In San Francisco we get fogs, but nothing like this.”
“At least it stops the air-raids.” Flora was grateful for his company.
“Been in many raids?” Her escort stopped to wipe his glasses.
“Not many. I live in the country.”
“They scare the shit out of me, but we have a great shelter in Grosvenor Square.”
“I’m afraid of shelters, of being buried alive.”
“We should turn left here, and Piccadilly’s at the end of the street. My name is Roger.”
“I thought all Americans were called Chuck or Wayne or Hank.” Flora could now hear heavier traffic; there would be buses, a taxi perhaps, but it would be quicker to get in the tube.
“Only in the movies,” said Roger. “If we can get across your Piccadilly we could reach the Ritz. What d’you say to a drink in the bar, or lunch?”
“I have to catch a train,” said Flora. “I’ve never been in the Ritz. It’s kind of you, though.”
“If we could get out of this fog, I could see your face.” Roger stopped yet again to demist his glasses. “My mom back home wrote that I would be too shy to proposition an English girl. Come on, help me prove her wrong.”
Flora laughed. “Sorry, I must catch my train. But thanks all the same.”
“There ain’t no trains in Piccadilly,” said Roger sarcastically. “I know that much. You want to get away because I’m homely.”
“No!” said Flora. “No.” Homely was exactly what he was, kind and homely. “There are buses and the tube,” she said, “which will get me to my train.” She felt ashamed. She had taken advantage of his map.
“She said not to bother with English girls. Maybe she was right.” Roger’s face had a mulish look. “Hey!” he exclaimed angrily, as a man coming out of the fog at a run cannoned into them. Flora was swung out into the street. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Sorry,” said the man, “I didn’t see you. Here, get back where it’s safe.” He reached for Flora’s arm. “I don’t want to be responsible if you’re squashed. My God,” he said, “it’s Flora. Darling! Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for ten bloody years.”
Flora said, “Cosmo,” leaning back against the railings and clutching her suitcase with both hands.
“D’you know this guy?” asked Roger.
“Yes, she does,” said Cosmo. “Where have you been hiding?” He towered above her. “Look, you’d better come with me, I have to catch a train. We can talk on the way.”
“But does she want—” said Roger.
“Of course she wants.” Cosmo put his arms round Flora, pinning her to stand still. “We don’t want this between us.” He snatched her case from her and bent to kiss her. “Can’t you fuck off?” he said to the American.
“The lady has a train to catch too,” said Roger, speaking to Cosmo’s back.
“It will have to wait, won’t it, darling?”
“Paddington,” Flora gasped, as he kissed her again.
“Me too,” said Cosmo. “Come on, there’s an empty taxi in the gloom, let’s try it.” He picked up Flora’s case. “Come on. Do you think you can get us to Paddington?” he asked, as he opened the taxi’s door and pushed Flora in.
“You’d do better in the tube,” said the driver, “but I’m going that way; might as well be paid for it. But don’t blame me if you miss your train.”
Flora pulled the window down. “I must say thank you. He invited me to the Ritz. Thank you, thank you,” she shouted into the fog. “You’ve been very kind, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Roger’s disembodied voice.
Cosmo pulled her in and shut the window. “Getting yourself picked up by GIs,” he said.
“He was a captain. I counted his pips.”
“What has he done to your knees? You’re bleeding.”
“I fell, tripped on the kerb—”
“That’ll teach you to rush off without me.” Cosmo held her close, hugging her. “Oh God,” he said, “this is wonderful. Ten long years.”
“Why are you crying?” asked Flora.
“Shock. Don’t speak for a moment.” Cosmo gulped, sniffed and blew his nose. “Could one ask why you are crying too?”
“I hurt my knees. I am so glad to see you and—”
The driver slid the glass partition open. “What time is your train, sir?”
“Oh, any time. It doesn’t matter.”
The driver closed the partition.
“And what’s the third reason?” asked Cosmo.
“I can’t talk about it. I have not been able to cry, it is so awful.”
“One of those? Something really bad?”
“Yes.”
It had been the most terrible thing. She had heard it on the radio and later read it in The Times. Infuriated by the Dutch resistance the Germans had taken hostages. Two mayors, a well known banker, some prominent people. One of the hostages had been Felix. The hostages had been shot. She had heard the news on an exquisite autumn morning of clear skies and early frost. The beauty of the day made the news worse. Her grief bunched in her stomach and froze in her brain. She had been stunned.
“Ah,” said Cosmo, “I can guess. Felix.”
She said, “Yes,” and the tears came. Felix had seemed so slight, so afraid. Had he not talked of his fear? She had felt doubtful about him, found him dull as a lover, resented his taking all the bath water. How could I have been so petty? she thought. I should have been able to comfort him and give him love. I only thought of myself when I watched him go. I was disappointed. I cannot tell Cosmo that I saw him; I cannot tell him that we spent the night together. “He didn’t expect to be a hero,” she said, weeping.
Watching the tears make points of her eyelashes before they tipped onto her cheeks, Cosmo’s mind went back to Madame Tarasova’s room above the horse butcher in the Rue de Rance. They had been sitting on the floor; he had plucked an eyelash and measured it. Felix had come in and told them that it had stopped raining. He said, “He was a very brave man. I bet he made the Germans who shot him feel funny.” Flora choked. Cosmo said, “D’you remember when he came and told us that the rain had stopped? We had the picnic next day.”
“Yes.” And he had waltzed with her on the sand.
Cosmo said, “We are fortunate to have known him.”
It was private sitting in the taxi with Cosmo’s arm round her, cocooned in the fog, the taxi’s engine chugging as it inched along.
“The fog is khaki,” she said, still weeping, “not pea.”
Cosmo said, “I could not cry when my father died.”
“Not your father? I did not see it in The Times. Oh, Cosmo, when?”
“Six months ago. Heart attack.”
“He was such fun at the picnic, he had a flask—and kind; he gave me lunch at Quaglinos. I’d never been to a restaurant like that. And afterwards we shopped for your mother at Fortnum’s and Floris. I ran into him in the street.”
“My mother thought the worst—”
“Not? Oh, no! Oh—” Flora began to laugh. “Oh, with your father?”
Cosmo noted that she had stopped crying, or rather that she was laughing too. “Mixed emotions,” he said. “Are you pleased to see me? D’you observe that I wept for joy?”
She said, “Yes, very pleased,” and “Tell me about your father. Was he in a rage?”
“It wasn’t rage. There’s a girls’ school in the house for the duration. Mother and Father moved into the flat above the stables. He was too old to get back into the Army but he was overdoing it: Civil Defence, A.R.P., Min. of Ag., everything local. Everyone came to him all the time. It was the way he died which upset Mother. She was shattered anyway, of course; funny old things, they
were in love. No, it was the way he died,” Cosmo paused.
“What way was that?” The shy little girl would not have asked. Cosmo studied the adult’s face; the eyes were the same but the cheeks were slightly hollowed, the mouth grown more sensual. Where had she been these ten years? What doing, who with? “Tell me,” she said.
“He’d had a drink or two, I gather—”
“Go on.”
“The headmistress of the school came to make a complaint. Father was jollying her along, she was a bit of a stick, and he’d got to the stage when he would begin telling stories. You wouldn’t remember—”
“Yes, I do.”
“Apparently he got to his favourite—”
“Ces belles choses?”
“You remember? Oh Lord! The woman was not amused when Father finished with his comme ci comme ça etcetera; he looked at her, Mother says, and said: “She wouldn’t understand, would she, Milly? She’s as flat as a plank, not like you, darling.” And he pouted out his moustache in that way he had, gave a sort of cough, and died.”
“But that’s a lovely way to die, making a joke.”
“Mother thought it undignified.”
Cosmo, mirrored in the glass partition, had begun to weep. She hoped the driver would not choose this moment to open the partition, look back and launch some cockney quip.
The noise of the traffic altered; they were moving faster. She thought she could see trees loom out of the fog. They must be in Hyde Park. The last time she had seen Cosmo mirrored, he had been drunk; there had been no runnels for the tears from nose to mouth.
Presently he fumbled for a handkerchief, blew his nose and said, “That’s better. Thank you.”
Flora said, “What’s this uniform you’ve got on? Where are you going?”
“R.A.F., as you can see, and I’m going to North Africa.”
“To fight?”
“No. Intelligence is what they call it. I am out of the fighting, too old. I was a rear gunner for a while.”
“Then you are lucky to be alive,” she said crisply. (Thank God I did not know.)
“I gather I am.”
“And Blanco—Hubert?”
“In the Wavy Navy. He’s attached now to the Free French, aide to one of the squabbling Admirals.”