by Sadie Jones
The station, like a toy station, was a mile away, along a road of arching trees, and so many of the men worked in London that the road to it had been made wider in places so that the cars could pass one another. Now there had been the war, the station had taken on a new significance. There had been partings and reunions that had made the sound of the trains in the distance, as they were heard from the houses, invested with emotion, not just an everyday sound like before. Even though so many people had come back, it seemed there would never be a point where you could say it was over. There was a lot of talk about rebuilding and making fresh starts, but really it was an odd sort of victory after the first rush of it, because so many people were still away and the news they heard every day was not peacetime news, but full of death and emerging horror.
The rain stopped as everybody came out of the church and got into their cars or walked away through the village and Elizabeth pulled Gilbert to the car faster and faster, like running away, and made him laugh. At home they ate lunch without talking very much and not tasting anything particularly at all and the afternoon, for Lewis at least, was strangely flat and just difficult. He couldn’t seem to do any of the things he normally did, and the sight of his father was still unfamiliar to him and disturbing. He was used to a feminine presence and he found his father’s maleness oddly threatening. He was exciting, and to be adored, but he was foreign too, and he changed the balance of the house. Gilbert’s uniform had not been burned, but hung in the wardrobe in the spare room, where he dressed, and Lewis should have liked him to keep wearing it and be distant and heroic instead of real and influencing Lewis’s daily life the way he did. In his suits and tweed jackets he looked like a father and more approachable, but it was deceiving, because he was a stranger, and it would have been easier if he hadn’t looked like someone you might know very well and yet not be.
The night Gilbert came home it had been at first like he and Elizabeth had never made love before and then, suddenly, familiar and just like always. She had cried with gratitude and he had held her and said, ‘What on earth is it?’ – as if he didn’t know.
‘Is it odd to be home?’
‘Of course it’s odd. What do you want me to say about it?’
‘I don’t know. I think I want to know everything in your mind. I want to know what it’s been like for you. I want to know what you’re thinking right now and if you’re happy. You never say anything.’
‘All right then. I was thinking it’s jolly nice to be on proper sheets.’
‘You weren’t!’
‘I was.’
‘And what else?’
‘Oh, how much I enjoyed dinner.’
‘Stop it!’
‘Absolutely true. You can think me as superficial as you like.’
Elizabeth, giggling, ‘No jelly then, in North Africa?’
‘Actually we did have jelly at Christmas.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell him? He would have been thrilled.’
‘Well, what about you? How’s your war been, darling?’
‘Ha-ha.’
‘Ha-ha.’
‘I know I write dreadful letters, but everything was in them.’
‘Just Lewis?’
‘Lewis and being here and not going up to town much.’
‘Not too lonely?’
‘Of course lonely. But Kate came once or twice when she could get away from the boys. And Lewis is just a perfect companion.’
‘You’ve been spoiling him.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s not as if I indulge him.’
‘With your time you do.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Of course not, but you ought to have had a nanny. I don’t understand you. You could have had more time to yourself.’
‘If I had any more time to myself, I’d drink myself into a stupor within about two minutes.’
‘Lizzie!’
‘You know I would. For goodness’ sake, time to what? Visit Claire Carmichael, or Bridget Cargill? Or go up to town and most likely get bombed to buggery?’
‘Your language is appalling.’
‘Don’t be so pompous.’
‘He’ll be off to school in September.’
‘Yes. I suppose he will. Eight seems so little to go.’
‘All the others will be eight too. You’ll miss him.’
‘He’ll miss me, too.’
‘It’ll be good for him.’
‘Probably.’
‘Now I’m back, you won’t be lonely and bored.’
‘You’ll be home every night.’
‘Every night.’
‘I can’t really believe it.’
‘I know.’
‘If I fall asleep, will you still be here? Tomorrow?’
‘Of course. And Lizzie, do you really want to know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking – just that—’
‘Oh don’t, you don’t need to tell me if it makes you cry. Don’t …’
Chapter Two
Christmas 1947
Dicky Carmichael would have liked a double-height hall, as some houses have, and to have had space for a really tall Christmas tree. He made do with the hall he had, and the tree did look splendid to him against all the dark wood panelling, but that was the disadvantage of having an old house – it was never exactly what you wanted. He thought he might build a new one, and please himself completely. The Tudor house was long, with rooms going off one another, and most of the party would be in the drawing room, which had three fireplaces and mullioned windows down two sides. There were bowls of punch and cases of champagne and a buffet lunch laid out over tables in two rooms – even if it was what Claire called ‘all gong and no dinner’ because of rationing. Claire had hired two girls from the village to help the housekeeper and fires were lit in all the downstairs rooms.
The party was an annual event and a talking point; it didn’t matter about New Year’s Eve; this was the end of the year. Because it was a lunchtime party there were always a lot of children, and this was felt to be acceptable so long as they were mainly confined to the morning room and a room known as the pink drawing room, which was in fact red and had once been used as a dining room, being nearer the kitchen than the room they used now. There were nannies assigned to keep control of the children, but as the day went on the children broke free and went upstairs and played sardines or murder, and the nannies surrendered responsibility and sat by the fire eating leftover cake and holding the smallest children on their laps.
When everything was ready and the polished silver and bottles and glasses lay in perfectly arranged splendour, Kit Carmichael lay on her tummy in the hall under the Christmas tree. Occasionally a maid or her mother or Dicky would pass by, carrying something or instructing somebody about something. She was very uncomfortable in her smocked dress, the elastic of it itched, and she hated her hair, which was tightly plaited and dug into her scalp. Gradually the sounds stopped as the servants went into the kitchen to eat an early lunch. Her parents were in the library and Kit didn’t know where Tamsin was; in her room probably, sulking about having to be with the children still, even though she was eleven. The best bit of the party was in the evening, when all the children had gone and been sent to bed.
Kit turned over on her back and looked up through the branches of the Christmas tree. She half-closed her eyes and pretended she was in a forest and could feel snow on her face. She imagined the very soft fall of it and how each flake would melt on her cheeks or eyelids. She imagined a small, hot campfire next to her and wolves waiting in the trees with the fire reflected in their yellow eyes. She couldn’t hear anything now, except the crackle of the fire and the wind in the pine trees. Then there was a sound. It was the sound of a cry and a glass breaking, and then a thump.
Kit didn’t sit up. Her forest and the snow and the wolves had all disappeared. She heard her parents’ voices and then a sharp sound. She didn’t move, except to slide a bit more under the tree; her father was hitting her mother and she
didn’t want to go and look.
Dicky often hit Claire, it was his habit, and part of the pattern of the family, and it wasn’t questioned between them at all. None of them had ever, ever referred to it, but Kit got so angry it made her cry with rage. The crying was because of being six and not able to change anything. She used to imagine Dicky meeting God, and God saying, ‘I know what you do to Mummy, you’re a very, very bad man and I’m going to send you to Hell!’, and Dicky would be so terrified he would beg, but it would be too late, and he would burn for ever. Kit imagined tying him up when he was asleep and then kicking him and hitting him with the poker until he cried, but she wouldn’t stop until he realised how unfair he was and apologised to her mother.
Kit knew it was silly of her really, because her mother didn’t like her at all and would never have thanked her even if she did manage to save her, and Kit cried about that, but always in her room away from everybody. She had learned to guard herself and it was very important to her never to cry in front of anyone. When Tamsin cried, which was often, she was soft, with a dipped head and big tears, and it was natural for arms to go around her and for her to be soothed. Kit’s crying was hard and tight and lonely; she didn’t want or imagine arms around her when she cried.
She lay under the Christmas tree and listened some more for noises from the library, but couldn’t hear anything else. She was aware of her heart thumping and the hot feeling of it in her chest. She stared up into the tree again and worked hard at imagining the snowflakes falling on her, but they had gone away. Then she heard the library door open and the footsteps of her mother. Kit held her breath. Claire stopped by the bottom of the stairs and looked at Kit’s feet sticking out.
‘Why don’t you get up? You’ll spoil your frock.’
Kit slithered out and Claire turned away and went upstairs before Kit could see her face, just the back of her straight wool skirt and cardigan, and her heels tapping up the polished stairs.
‘I’m sick and tired of you, Kit, you do nothing but make a mess and spoil things. If that dress is ruined you’ll just have to change. Do you hear?’
The people started to arrive promptly at one. Kit’s dress had been spoiled, so she’d changed into another one her body was too narrow for, and the sash made creases in the skirt where it was pulled tight to disguise the wrong shape of her. She stood in the shadow of the stairs and watched the people arriving and taking off their coats and hats. The long hall table piled up with overcoats and minks, fox furs and white scarves and men’s hats, and Kit wanted to jump onto it and climb underneath and wriggle about, and had to hold her hands behind her back to stop herself.
Outside the house Preston helped to direct all the cars that arrived. A couple of the cars had drivers who went into the kitchen to wait. Elizabeth would have liked to save the petrol and walk through the woods to the party, but Gilbert wouldn’t hear of it – ‘Walk there in mud and home in the dark? Are you mad?’ – so they drove, with Lewis bouncing on the back seat and shoving the door with his shoulder and being told off.
‘This is our third Christmas since Daddy came home,’ he said. He counted lots of things like that; he thought that was to be the main event of his childhood, and he underscored the memory of life with and without his father in his mind.
Gilbert stopped the car by the steps and they got out, and he gave the keys to Preston, and thanked him. It wasn’t a cold winter, there hadn’t even been a hard frost yet, but it was dark and wet, and inside the house was all brightness.
In the afternoon, during the party, Elizabeth stood on her own with her back to the bare window and Gilbert fought his way through his neighbours and friends to get to her.
‘You can say one thing for Dicky and Claire, they always have enough to drink,’ she said.
‘Lizzie, you promised to try to behave properly about this.’
‘Darling, I love parties.’
‘You hate them. You hate people.’
‘Nonsense. People are adorable. I wonder what the children are doing. Rolling around in cake, I should think.’
‘Dicky wanted me to talk to him in the study. Or the library.’
‘The study or the library or the gun room or the blue room or the pink standing-up room—’
‘Elizabeth—’
‘What royal line was it he came from again? Oh, silly me! It was the Northern Line, wasn’t it? Straight out from Camden Town.’
‘Ssh! Lizzie, can you manage until I come back?’
‘Of course I can. I’ll find Tommy Mulhall and flirt with him.’
‘You do that. And eat something or you’ll drown.’
‘Ha-ha. See you later, darling.’
He went, and Elizabeth stood and waited with the black windows behind her.
Gilbert found Dicky in the library, standing by the fire and smoking a large cigar with his legs spread out as if he were practising to be Winston Churchill. Gilbert thought of Lizzie and smiled.
‘Dicky. Lovely party. As always.’
‘Another year over.’
‘Wonder if the next one will be any better.’
‘Human modus operandi seems to be making a mess of things and killing each other. Don’t see what can be done about it. Brandy?’
Dicky had asked Gilbert to talk to him because he was going to promote him and they both knew it.
‘There’s a certain amount of entertaining amongst the executives at Carmichael’s. Terribly important. Oh – you do have that flat in Chelsea, don’t you?’
‘Cadogan Square.’
‘Of course, we’ve been there, haven’t we? Elizabeth isn’t too keen on all that, I gather. Boring old business dinners, and so forth.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Well, we’ll see. Claire’s always been marvellous at that kind of thing.’
‘Claire’s a charming hostess.’
‘Well, her family, you know …’ He let their joint knowledge of Claire’s superior family hang silently in the air for a while. ‘But also Elizabeth isn’t—’
‘I was away for a long time.’
‘So much of business is about one’s social—’
‘I understand.’
‘Claire says she doesn’t see much of Elizabeth. What do they get up to, our wives, I wonder? Actually I know what Claire gets up to, spending my money,’ he laughed. ‘Elizabeth isn’t much of a one for the shops, is she? Not all that interested in the high life? Enjoys a party though, by all accounts.’
‘She’s very sensible.’
‘I’m sure. I’m sure. Terribly important to be one of the gang though, isn’t it?’
Gilbert was too angry to speak. He smiled and nodded.
‘Anyway. All that taken into account, I’d like you to take over the reins from old man Roberts. From April. If you’re interested.’
He teased out the conversation some more and wouldn’t go into detail about money, and Gilbert didn’t like him or the way he spoke or the way he stood there, but he took it, and he told himself how pleased he was, and gradually became pleased as the meeting drew to a close. It was a good deal and he was happy about it. He just didn’t want to have to look at Dicky’s face any more and he wanted to take Lizzie home where she belonged and love her there. She was too good for any of them. She had her own way of looking at things. She was his and she was clever and lovely and he didn’t know what she saw in him, but he was grateful.
‘Cheers then,’ said Dicky. ‘To the new year; hard times over, good ones on the way, whatever anyone says. 1948.’
‘1948.’
The two men drank brandy to seal their deal and the air downstairs was hot and thick, while upstairs, in a linen cupboard, Lewis lay on warm wooden slats squashed against Tom Greene’s back. A child called Norman, whom nobody knew very well, was on the lower shelf. Lewis was hurting from being bent round. He shifted.
‘Ow! Stop it!’
‘Sh! There’s somebody there.’
They held their breath. They could hear someone on the
landing. The boards were creaking.
‘Have a look.’ Tom was barely whispering.
Slowly, Lewis pushed the door open with his finger. There wasn’t much light, just what came from one of the bedrooms. He could see a winter moon through the leaded window and a tiny figure tiptoeing past.
‘It’s Kit.’
‘Who?’
Tom was panicking and Lewis thought how silly he was being; the worst that could happen was four sardines instead of three.
‘Let’s let her in,’ whispered Norman in a strange hoarse voice that made Lewis want to laugh.
Tom, scandalised, ‘Why?’
‘We’ll be here for ever otherwise,’ said Norman, who was plainly not having the best time. He didn’t wait, but pushed the cupboard door a little.
‘No!’ said Tom, but Lewis hissed at Kit to make her turn.
Kit had been wondering if she was the only seeker left, if the others had gone downstairs for Welsh rarebit and she’d be laughed at later. She’d really stopped looking. She turned at Lewis’s hiss and managed not to scream.
‘Who is it?’
‘Lewis. And Tom. Here. Get in.’
Kit went. She was on the bottom shelf of the linen cupboard with Norman and squashed against the hot pipes in two seconds flat.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
Giggling.
‘Where are the others?’ said Tom.
‘I don’t know. I saw Tamsin, but I don’t think she’s playing.’
‘Did you see Ed?’
‘I haven’t seen anyone for ages.’
Kit didn’t tell them her fears of being last and hopeless; she had been invited into the boys’ hiding place with Lewis Aldridge and she wasn’t going to spoil it. It was the best thing that could have happened.
Kit couldn’t remember all that far back, but as far back as she could, she had wanted to be Lewis. He looked just right to her. He looked how people should look. She remembered seeing him in the summer holidays when she was trying to join in with the boys who were climbing trees in the woods behind her house. She was five then and couldn’t manage. Lewis was there and he, at nine, was so grown-up – grown-up first and then heroic – because he had stopped a boy teasing Kit and taken her to the edge of the woods so that she could find her way home. He hadn’t talked to her or anything; it was that he was kind. She wanted to be him, and knowing that he was coming to the party had been a good thing that came into her mind sometimes and made her smile and feel nervous in case he wouldn’t be as nice as she’d thought.