At the side of the road was one of the camps which had been established for the soldiers returned from Dunkirk. The shambles of their arrival had now been cleared and the tents were in ordered rows, some vehicles were parked on a cindered square and a sentry stood in a slope-roofed box by the gate. It had no sides, only a roof. The guard called on him to halt and he showed his identity card. The young, coarse-looking soldier squinted at him from under his steel helmet. Stevens knew what he was thinking. He opened his jacket and lifted his shirt. ‘Wounded,’ he mentioned, wondering why he was doing it.
‘That’s why you wasn’t called up,’ said the sentry. ‘That looks ’orrible. Did it ’urt?’
Stevens nodded and smiled in the dark. ‘Nice sentry box,’ he added. He tapped the non-existent sides. ‘Very airy.’
‘Bloody cold more like it,’ amended the soldier. ‘It’ll be murder if they don’t change them before the fucking winter. ’Ow can they make them with no bleeding walls? What sense is there in that, I ask you?’
‘Meant for India or somewhere hot. The Sudan, somewhere like that, I expect,’ Stevens told him. Singing was coming from one of the tents, low and not unmelodious singing. The sentry smirked. ‘Fed up and far from ’ome,’ he said, ‘that lot. No beer money so they’re ’aving a sing-song. They been at it all night on and off.’
Stevens wished him good night and continued towards the village. He passed close to the tent from which the singing was emanating. They were chorusing a song from the First World War.
‘Goodbye Dolly I must leave you,
Though it breaks my heart to go,
Goodbye Dolly I must leave you,
To the front to fight the foe.’
Reflectively he walked on. The Germans, the Spanish, the Russians, the French and others had defiant, boastful marching songs, songs of triumph, or at least the promise of triumph. But the British soldier sang of making excuses to his girl before he marched off to death.
As he walked he was aware of a stiff figure standing outside the tent. Even in the dark he could see it was a sergeant-major, the very angle of the body, the cocked ear, the cane as rigid as the arm that held it.
‘Listen to those squaddies,’ the NCO said softly, seeing him. ‘Just listen to them, sir.’ He inclined further towards the tent. Then, as if ignited, he bawled: ‘Stop that ’orrible noise in there! Time you was asleep in your beds. Lights out twenty minutes ago. The Germans will be ’ere in the morning.’ The song was silenced.
Stevens went on. A three-quarter moon was clearing the horizon of forest trees, its light webbing the village roofs and chimneys. He was conscious of his footsteps. He remembered a rhyme he had once heard and he repeated it to himself as he walked:
‘I was playing golf the day
That the Germans landed,
All our troops had run away,
All our ships were stranded;
And the thought of England’s shame,
Very nearly spoilt my game.’
At what he judged to be the right moment, Mussolini, the Italian dictator, declared war on crumbling France and cornered Britain. His troops advanced to the borders at Menton where they were held up by French customs officers who only let them through on orders from their own disarrayed Government. In the first hours of the war Italian anti-aircraft guns had shot down their own greatest and most fêted airman.
The third week of June began with the Germans entering Paris, trotting their horses and drumming their men past the Arc de Triomphe. Verdun, the great bastion of the First World War, had crumbled like cake, and its old Defender Marshal Pétain, who had said at Verdun, ‘They shall not pass,’ made his first act on becoming France’s new President the act of surrender to the foe.
When she heard the news of the French capitulation, Elizabeth left her sitting-room and walked quickly and alone across the garden and into the surrounding trees. She felt foolish, as if she were trying to hide.
She walked out into the deserted lane and turned, away from the village, and arrived, almost surprised, outside Mrs Spofforth’s gate, a place like a short tunnel beneath a dark yew.
‘I thought I would come to see how you are,’ Elizabeth explained a little lamely when she went into the old lady’s garden. Mrs Spofforth was sitting under a plum tree. She was enclosed in a barrel that had been cut into a seat. It gave her the look of a chess-set queen.
Mrs Spofforth’s eyebrows arched with genuine pleasure. ‘How nice of you, Elizabeth,’ she said. Elizabeth was quite surprised she remembered her name. ‘I’m very pleased. Pull up a barrel.’
There was another of the curiously formed seats a few feet away and Elizabeth rolled it on its bottom coop under the plum tree and sat down. The weathered, warm wood fitted around her. ‘Yes, I am pleased,’ repeated Mrs Spofforth. ‘You always were a nice little person. I’ve often thought we could have been great friends if you’d been a bit more ancient or me a bit less.’
Elizabeth smiled her embarrassment. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said, ‘but when I heard the news about France I just came out. I just wanted to . . . well, walk somewhere.’
‘You’re always welcome to walk this way,’ replied Mrs Spofforth. ‘We’ll have some tea in a minute. So France is cooked is she? Well, I’m not surprised. Never counted on them myself. Too many men hiding behind walrus moustaches and large ornate caps. We’re better off on our own, dear.’ She leaned closer. ‘These continentals are a funny bundle, anyway.’ She nodded caustically behind her. ‘Take a peep into the paddock. That Dutchman of ours in there. He just walks around there all day. It’s like having a horse.’
‘I can see his head,’ confirmed Elizabeth, half turning.
‘Looking over the hedge,’ suggested Mrs Spofforth. She gurgled. ‘Wants a bucket of water, I expect. I’d never have had him if I’d known.’
Elizabeth said: ‘If the Germans begin bombing London we’ll all be inundated with evacuees again, I imagine. Remember how they all arrived here in those buses the first time? Mothers, babies, all sorts.’
‘Hah!’ snorted the old lady. ‘Soon scurried back though, didn’t they. Once they thought London was safe. And I, for one, wasn’t sorry. Children wandering aimlessly around the countryside, stoning cows and eating deadly-nightshade.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘How is Bess settling down?’ she asked carefully. ‘I saw her at the fête.’
‘The little madam,’ sniffed Mrs Spofforth. ‘Wants the bright life of London but her parents won’t hear of it. So I’m having to put up with her. Fortunately she spends half the time on a horse, keeping a watch for German parachutists, she says. Lord help any poor Boche she gets her hands on.’
A bicycle bearing a woman in a flowered dress passed a gap in the hedge. ‘Oh dammit,’ exclaimed Mrs Spofforth. ‘It’s Gloria Arbuthnot. You know, the witch. I’d forgotten it was today. She’s come to tell my fortune. She does every couple of weeks. Silly old fool never gets a single thing right and I lead her on something terrible, but it passes the odd hour. Time goes slowly when you get to my age. Then you look round and it’s all gone.’
Elizabeth rose from the barrel with difficulty. ‘Perhaps I’d better be off,’ she said.
The old lady responded kindly: ‘Oh no, please don’t go. We haven’t had any tea yet. Stay for another half an hour.’ She looked sad and concerned and Elizabeth smiled and patted her hand. ‘All right. Of course. I’ll help you get the tea.’ Mrs Spofforth thanked her happily. ‘Here she comes,’ she nodded towards the drive. ‘Clutching her crystal ball.’
Gloria Arbuthnot, her dress like a garden, her face like puffy blossom, her streaked hair held under a wide straw hat tied up with ribbons of varying hues. ‘What a sight,’ sighed Mrs Spofforth. ‘She’s like some sort of oriental, isn’t she.’
The visitor placed her bicycle up against the gate and, with a glance towards them, carefully locked it to a rail with a padlock. ‘No reflection on you, Mrs Spofforth,’ she bustled as she approached. ‘A precaution in case an enemy
agent decides to steal it. That’s what they tell you to do. Good afternoon, Mrs Lovatt, how very nice to see you. What a lovely day.’ She paused dramatically. ‘France has fallen,’ she announced.
‘Your crystal ball is getting a bit worn out, Gloria,’ commented Mrs Spofforth. ‘I heard the news from Mrs Lovatt some time ago.’
‘The crystal only tells the future,’ said Mrs Arbuthnot a little huffily. ‘It does not deal in events which have already taken place. That is history. Where is Mr Van Lorn? I have a message for him.’
‘Good news or bad?’ asked Mrs Spofforth. ‘He’s in a sorry enough state as it is. He’ll be eating the grass next.’
‘It’s quite good,’ claimed Gloria doubtfully. ‘His aunt has escaped the Germans.’
‘Where is she now?’ demanded Mrs Spofforth suspiciously. ‘Not coming in this direction.’
Gloria looked a shade hurt. ‘She’s in heaven,’ she asserted. ‘I had a message. Last night.’
‘Tell him after we’ve had tea,’ decided the old lady firmly. ‘He’ll bother us dreadfully and he’ll eat all the cake. He always does.’
They had tea on an iron table on the terrace. Large clouds had gathered but the afternoon remained benign. After tea Gloria read their fortunes in the tea leaves and then revealed to them that Hitler would be dead before Christmas. That, she said, was a certainty. She produced a misty crystal ball and set it on the table. Elizabeth felt amused and tried not to smile. Mrs Spofforth said: ‘It’s as cracked as you are, Gloria. You ought to get a new one.’
‘There’s a war on, you know,’ returned Gloria primly. ‘You can’t get them for love nor money. Nor spirit trumpets.’
‘The forces have got them all, I expect,’ said Mrs Spofforth briskly. ‘Now, are you going to do the cards?’
Elizabeth rose. ‘I must be going,’ she said. As she rose she saw just over her head a spider’s web, stretched beautifully across the gap between two branches of a climbing rose that bloomed pink against the house. ‘See that?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it perfect.’ She looked at the other women a little shyly. ‘I read the other day that the spider’s web would make the perfect gunsight,’ she said suddenly. ‘Isn’t that a sad thing?’
She left them in the garden and made her way slowly towards the gate. Mr Van Lorn was coming from the paddock and making his way towards the tea table. ‘Cake?’ he ventured. ‘Tea?’
Mrs Spofforth and Gloria watched Elizabeth go out into the lane. ‘She’s a nice little person,’ said the old lady. ‘I went off with her father, you know. Donkeys years ago. The mother was very upset. She used to go and cry her eyes out in the church. Of course, Elizabeth never knew. We went to Bognor Regis but we soon came back.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Gloria, hurrying to take some cake as Mr Van Lorn advanced. ‘Don’t like Bognor myself. Why the King used to go there I can’t think.’ She continued looking towards the gate. ‘I’m afraid though,’ she said, ‘that her sorrow has not all gone away. There is to be a terrible tragedy in her family, mark my words.’
Sixteen
THROUGH THE NIGHT James was driven back from Portland on the Channel coast, huddled, drifting in and out of sleep in the back of the military car while the driver went through squally rain on the road to London. At almost every village they were challenged and stopped at a road-block and the driver had to show identification. James became irritable. ‘Christ,’ he breathed, ‘do they really think German agents are going to tear through the bloody country in an army staff car?’
‘Seems like they’ll believe anything, sir,’ answered the driver from the front darkness. ‘That last lot said they’d heard the invasion had started and that the beaches down in Devon are covered with dead Germans.’
James laughed drily. That day he had been watching a demonstration of supposed secret weapons hurriedly dreamed into existence. Bombs on carts which would, it was hoped, be rolled down hills at a conveniently exposed enemy, metal drainpipes stuffed with dynamite and aimed like the spears of ancient Britons. An amazing axle with two wheels had run amok on the shingle beach, detonating as it careered, causing the assembled military watchers to scatter ignominiously. They had also seen a grim demonstration of setting fire to the sea, with oil pumped from just below the surface and ignited; an idea, thought James, with possibilities. The rest were playthings of inventors.
The road taking them back passed only a little north of the New Forest and he was tempted to tell the driver to turn off to Binford. He could go home, to Millie, for a few hours. But he closed his eyes until they had gone beyond the region and were heading closer to London.
There were increased road-blocks and inspections as they entered the suburbs. Elderly men and boys who should long ago have been in bed were patrolling the streets like vigilantes. A boy, too young for the army, poked his face into the driver’s window and demanded identification. ‘It’s Goering, sonny,’ retorted the driver. ‘Say it’s Goering.’
The young head withdrew and there were whispered words outside in the dark street. Then a bald-headed man who looked as if he had never known sleep pushed his face in the window. ‘Who did you say, sir? The lad is on his first night.’
The driver answered brusquely. ‘This is Major Lovatt of Mr Churchill’s special staff. And he’s tired.’
The man chuckled. ‘Ha, and he said you reckoned it was Goering,’ he said. ‘That’s a good one, I must say.’ He looked intently, poking his head closer towards James dozing in the gloom, just to make quite sure. ‘Still, he’s only a boy. He’ll learn.’ Withdrawing, he banged the side of the staff car with the flat of his hand. ‘Right you are, sir. Give our regards to Winnie. Tell him we’ll beat the buggers if they show their noses in South Wandsworth.’
At three o’clock they reached the flat and James let himself in. There was a light under Mrs Beauchamp’s door and she opened it cautiously and appeared in a woollen dressing-gown. ‘Do you want anything, sir?’ she inquired. He sat down heavily and said he did not. ‘Except sleep, I expect,’ she said. ‘You look worn out. Good night, sir.’
The curtains in the bedroom had not been drawn. Still dressed, he lay down on the bed, propped by a pillow, and slowly drank a Scotch. The sky above London was already awash with another dawn. He realized that Midsummer Day had gone by and he had not noticed.
He awoke at seven, still in his battledress, the empty glass fallen beside him on the quilt. Every limb and joint ached. He wanted to telephone Millie then but he thought he would leave it until later. He was forever putting her off and yet hoping that she might telephone him. He had a bath and shaved. Mrs Beauchamp appeared with a breakfast tray, the Daily Telegraph and the post.
There was a letter from Joanne Schorner, a note on a card inside an envelope. ‘Have been trying to call you,’ it said. ‘Have two tickets for Tchaikovsky concert, Queen’s Hall, Thursday 23rd. Would you like one?’
There was something inevitable about it, he knew that. He went through the newspaper as he ate his breakfast. The last ship, the Polish liner Batory, had escaped from France loaded with Polish soldiers. France had now completely capitulated but had refused to send its powerful unused warships into American or other neutral ports. James wondered where those ships were and how long it would be until the Germans got their hands on them.
At eight-thirty he telephoned Millie. Wearily he heard her talking about the village and its war efforts. She was going to the air-raid warden’s post that day to help roll bandages. Yesterday she had cut the lawn and trimmed the hedge. Would he be able to come home for a day or a couple of days soon?
When he reached his office that morning he telephoned Joanne Schorner and said he would be delighted to go to the Tchaikovsky concert.
They sat in the circular stillness of the great cool concert hall, her shoulder touching his arm. James was full of the feeling of her presence. Joanne scarcely moved, her face intent and quiet. Romeo and Juliet, Swan Lake, Symphony Number Four, The Nutcracker Suite.
Afterwards
, in the late evening, they walked through streets of tall silent houses, for a while without speaking. Eventually she said: ‘When I first went to New York I used to get up early just to see the streets without people. I lived with an uncle who’s a farmer in West Virginia and somehow that seemed noisier than New York.’
‘Where were you born?’ he asked. They knew little of each other.
‘In West Virginia,’ she said. ‘My parents divorced and then my mother died and I went to live with my uncle and his family. He’s a great man. I had a letter from him yesterday. He wants to take Hitler on single-handed.’
James laughed. ‘It sounds like my father,’ he said. ‘Except he’s too old for it. Not that anyone would tell him.’
‘James,’ she said, ‘do you have a wife?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Millie. She lives down in Hampshire.’
‘I see.’ She looked about them and laughed a little sharply. ‘Do you have any idea where we are?’ she asked. ‘We just seem to be walking.’
‘It’s the back of Knightsbridge,’ he said. ‘I’d not noticed. We seemed to be just meandering.’
‘Hanson Place is quite close then, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes, I suppose so. I’m never very sure, being a mere country lad.’
‘It’s two blocks,’ she said. ‘I know where we are. That’s where I live now. I’ve taken an apartment for a while.’
They walked on, their shoes sounding on the pavement in the darkening street. An air-raid warden approached treading with heavy carefulness like an elephant. He appeared pleased to see them and touched the rim of his steel helmet with his finger.
‘All quiet, sir,’ he said to James, giving the impression he had been told to make a report.
‘Ah, yes,’ agreed James inadequately. Joanne smothered a smile. ‘Good.’
‘Nothing moving but the cats,’ continued the man. ‘Still,’ he sniffed up at the sky, ‘don’t suppose it will be all that long before they start on us.’ He performed another salute. ‘Good night, sir. Good night, miss.’
The Dearest and the Best Page 29