Camomile Lawn

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Yes.’ Calypso was silent as they reached her house. ‘Would you bring the bicycle into the hall?’

  Oliver propped the machine against a radiator and took Calypso in his arms, kissing her neck gently. ‘My darling.’

  ‘Darling Olly. Nice sofa. Come.’ She led him to her drawing room. ‘I must pull the curtains. Take off your scratchy uniform. Oh, it isn’t, I’d forgotten you’d become an officer, but take it off, I hate being squashed against buttons. Hector’s make quite a pattern in groups of three, or is it four?’

  ‘Being snobby about buttons won’t put me off. You’d better unzip yourself this time—’

  Calypso laughed, kicking off her shoes. Oliver watched her undress, then walk naked across the room to put logs on the fire. ‘One of my luxuries, having a log fire. We get the logs from a friend of Hector’s in Berkshire.’

  ‘Stop talking. Come here.’

  ‘I’m nervous.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Here. There.’ He held her, stroking her back. ‘Relax. Remember the camomile lawn—magic.’

  ‘Helena planted it for our games, our plots.’

  ‘Hush, pay attention.’

  ‘Oh, Oliver, Oliver.’

  ‘You didn’t enjoy it. My God, you didn’t enjoy it. Oh, damn and hell and blast.’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  ‘You didn’t need to.’ Oliver was collecting his clothes, pulling on his trousers, buttoning his shirt, tucking it into his trousers, putting on his tie, putting on socks and shoes in bitter concentration.

  Calypso sat naked on the sofa watching him, her eyes in her pale face thoughtful. Below them the street door opened with a bang, then slammed shut. There was a clatter of collision with the bicycle, a man’s voice: ‘Whoops!’

  Calypso snatched her dress, pulling it over her head, zipping it up. ‘Hector.’ She pushed her underclothes behind a cushion.

  ‘Whoops-a-daisy.’ The bicycle clattered again. Hector broke into song: ‘And when I’m dead don’t bury me at all.’ He kicked the bicycle. ‘Out of my way, weighy! Just pickle my bones in alcohol.’

  Calypso, who had been listening intently, grinned. ‘He’s in a good temper. Thank God.’

  ‘Is he often drunk?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She was evasive.

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘I think you’d better go.’ She went out on the landing and leaned over the banisters, looking down. Hector lay entangled with the bicycle. ‘He’s passing out,’ she whispered.

  ‘Shall I help you put him to bed?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll see you out from the kitchen, he’s blocking the front door. Come on,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Are you sure? Surely I can—’

  ‘No. Please, Olly, go.’ She took his hand, leading him down to the basement, through the kitchen, up the area steps.

  In the street he took her shoulders, looking into her face. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘It was small comfort, I’m afraid. Better than none, I hope.’

  Almost, Oliver thought, she minded. ‘Better to know.’ His voice was neutral. He kissed her lightly and was gone, his steps diminishing fast in the quiet street.

  Calypso noticed the Lagonda at an angle to the pavement, its lights still on. She parked the car properly, switched off the lights. Back in the house she disentangled Hector’s legs from the bicycle, fetched cushions to prop his head and blankets from the dressing room bed, making him as comfortable as possible, unbuttoning his tunic.

  ‘What a pattern of buttons!’ The affection in her voice surprised her. Hector opened his eyes, focusing carefully, squinting up.

  ‘I’m drunk.’

  ‘I know. Come to bed when you can.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m not—er—er—what do I want to say? Calypso, don’t leave me, stay here.’

  She lay down beside him. He put an arm round her while she pulled the blankets up to cover herself.

  ‘Come close.’

  ‘Your buttons hurt.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I’m terribly uncomfortable.’

  ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘D’you think you could get up to bed?’

  ‘All fours.’

  ‘I’ll help you. Come on, try.’

  ‘So drunk.’

  ‘Yes. Try harder.’

  Hector suddenly reared to his feet and headed up the stairs at a run. As she propped the bicycle against the wall she heard a crash and Hector laughing. She helped him undress, levering him out of his trousers. ‘There, lie still.’

  ‘The room’s going round and round and it comes out here.’

  ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

  When she came back with the coffee Hector was asleep. Calypso drank coffee, watching Hector. He looked vulnerable, eyes closed under his thick eyebrows. She smoothed them gently with a finger and then ran it along his lips, which were slightly rough. Outside the All Clear sounded. She had not realized there was an alert. She put the light out and drew the curtains to look down at the street. Was it possible Oliver was still there? The street was empty.

  As she stood looking down a special constable strolled round the corner. He was joined by an air raid warden. She saw them laughing. They walked along to Hector’s car and admired it. The warden patted the bonnet as though it were the nose of a horse. Calypso turned to look at Hector whose eyes were open watching her.

  ‘Hector?’

  He pulled her down. ‘Does my breath smell?’

  ‘No.’ She sniffed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get in with me. Would you mind?’

  ‘No. What’s the matter?’ She slipped her dress over her head and got in beside him. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m on embarkation leave.’

  ‘You too?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Oliver.’

  ‘Was he here?’

  ‘Yes, he walked me home from Polly’s.’

  ‘He’s in love with you.’

  ‘He thinks he is.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘No. I like all those boys. They are cousins, might be brothers.’

  ‘There’s incest.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘I might be your father.’

  ‘My father never behaved like you. Wild.’

  ‘Ah me. Do you think there’s any Alka Seltzer?’

  ‘Yes. And coffee.’ She brought him coffee. He drank and lay back with his arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Will you go to Scotland? Stay there?’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Would be safe.’

  ‘But lonely. I hate it. I’d die of melancholy. When are you off?’

  ‘Two weeks. Put my affairs in order. Get lightweight uniform.’

  ‘Egypt?’

  ‘Probably. I must do a dash north, will you come with me?’

  ‘Of course I will, just for a day or two, not more.’

  ‘I wish you’d stay there, safe out of London.’

  ‘If London gets too bad I’ll go to Cornwall. I’ll take care of myself.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That man Tony Wood is in love with you too.’

  ‘It isn’t love, it’s lust.’

  ‘Do you know the difference?’

  ‘I know lust. I don’t think I know love.’ Calypso leant her head back, closing her eyes.

  ‘Lucky you, oh lucky, lucky you.’

  ‘Why? I thought I was missing something.’

  ‘You are, you certainly are.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Pain, lots of pain.’

  ‘You do talk rubbish.’ Calypso chuckled.

  ‘If you say so,’ said Hector dryly.

  ‘I don’t even know anyone who is in love. I don’t think it exists.’

  ‘Quite apart from me, it’s under your lovely nose.’

  ‘Who, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Helena, Polly, Sophy.’

  ‘What a buffoon you are. Perhaps that’s why I put
up with you, apart from your money.’

  ‘That reminds me, I must make my will.’

  ‘What filthy bad taste.’

  ‘I’m a hard-headed Scot.’

  ‘You hurt me.’

  ‘Good. Another time,’ Hector’s voice was turning nasty, ‘please leave your bicycle where I won’t fall over it.’ They laughed together, relaxing.

  ‘My mother says she and my father used to laugh together,’ Hamish said conversationally to his passenger.

  ‘Yes, they did. Calypso had very little humour, but then she had no love either, poor girl.’

  ‘They say my father had humour.’

  ‘He also had love.’

  ‘Did he love my mother?’

  ‘He adored her and he knew her.’

  ‘What do you mean? You sound a bit,’ Hamish hesitated, ‘a bit, well, as though you didn’t like my mother.’

  ‘I like her, she’s always been very nice to me, she’s not a giver, that’s all. She can’t help her character.’

  ‘She gave my father me.’

  ‘You were part of a bargain. For his money an heir.’

  Hamish pulled across to the slow lane and stopped the car.

  ‘What’s the matter? Something wrong with the engine?’ Helena watched Hamish get out and stand with his back to her. He reminded her of Hector at his wedding long ago, tall, towering above Calypso, who was a tall girl.

  ‘Did he love me?’ Hamish got back into the car.

  ‘He loved you very much.’

  ‘Are you sure? I never really knew.’

  ‘Quite sure. He was very happy about you. You are very like your father, less endearing, though.’

  Hamish laughed. ‘You are a wicked old woman.’

  ‘I know I am.’ Helena nodded. ‘Evil.’

  Eighteen

  POLLY ANSWERED THE TELEPHONE. ‘Oh, hullo Monika, how are you? Can you speak louder?’

  ‘Polly, we only have three minutes, can you find Helena, it is urgent.’

  ‘There’s a raid on, try to speak louder.’

  ‘Mein Gott! I want Helena. She does not answer her phone.’

  ‘She’s gone to Max’s concert in Liverpool.’

  ‘There are raids there too, lieber Gott. What is that noise?’

  ‘A bomb.’ Polly crept under the table, taking the telephone with her. ‘Sophy and I are under the kitchen table. What do you want Helena for?’

  ‘Richard is ill. I think and der General and der Rektor thinks she should come, and Frau Rektor.’

  ‘I see. I’ll try and get hold of her. She will be back in London tomorrow. How ill is he? What? I can’t hear you,’ Polly shouted.

  ‘It was flu and now pneumonia.’

  ‘Poor old boy. Gosh, that was close.’

  ‘What did you say? Polly, are those bombs?’

  ‘Yes,’ yelled Polly. ‘I’ll do what I can. Don’t worry, I promise.’

  ‘We have bombs too in Penzance.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about them.’

  ‘They hit der wine merchant, your uncle got his chill trying to rescue his wine.’

  ‘His what?

  ‘His wine. He had tree dozen clarets. They got bomped.’ Monika’s voice faded. Polly clutched Sophy as she replaced the receiver.

  ‘His claret!’ The girls shrieked with laughter.

  ‘You girls got hysterics?’ Tony Wood came in from the street. ‘It’s quite lively tonight.’

  ‘Aren’t you on duty?’

  ‘Just on my way, came to see if you were all right. What’s Sophy doing here? You all right, Sophy?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. My holidays have started.’

  ‘If we can find Aunt Helena you can travel down with her.’

  ‘I’d much rather go alone, thank you.’

  ‘Safer with Helena. Plymouth has raids too, you have to go through it.’

  ‘People always help. I’d rather be alone—’ They all cowered, listening to the sound of a bomb coming down. ‘Ouch, that was close.’

  ‘Somewhere near the Brompton Road.’

  ‘Wish I could leave my tin hat with you. Here comes another.’ Tony put an arm round each girl. They listened. Not far away an anti-aircraft gun fired, pom, pom, pom—pom, pom, pom.

  ‘And another. What time are you on duty?’

  ‘In half an hour. Must leave you, I’m afraid. I brought you some whisky.’

  ‘How good of you. Do be careful.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. And another! I always think of Peter Pan—’

  ‘Captain Hook’s trousers tearing.’

  ‘Of course. Goodbye, girls, must be off.’ Tony kissed the girls. ‘Keep under that table.’ He was gone.

  ‘Nice of him to come, it’s out of his way. Lovely whisky.’

  ‘I wish Oliver was here. Have you heard from him?’ Sophy came as close as she could to Polly.

  ‘Aunt Sarah had a letter, he’s in the Middle East. Safer than Walter on the Atlantic run. He says it’s awful, sick all the time, non-stop.’

  ‘Polly.’

  ‘Yes?’ They huddled together.

  ‘You remember the Terror Run?’

  ‘Of course I do. Yes, let’s think of that. The sea, the moon, the camomile lawn.’

  ‘I’m scared. I wish—I must tell.’

  ‘It will be over soon. We will all be back there one day.’

  ‘Polly, on the cliff path I—’ The sound of a bomb very near drowned Sophy’s voice. It fell close by and Sophy finished her sentence on a high note of fear, ‘—so I—it was just a push,’ but Polly listened to the falling masonry and glass tinkling into the street and failed to hear what Sophy heard, the cry of a man, the sound of seagulls. She was concerned that Sophy wept and trembled in her arms. ‘Don’t, Sophy, that one was further away, it will be over soon. When the All Clear sounds I’ll make some tea and lace it. There may be people hurt out there, we must help them. Tony’s whisky will be welcome.’

  ‘I tried to tell you.’

  ‘Of course you did. Naturally. Listen. No guns, no planes. Ah, the All Clear. Pop up the steps and look, while I put the kettle on. I shall have to get hold of Aunt Helena if the telephone’s working.’

  Later, leaving Sophy to dispense tea to an assortment of bombed-out neighbours with tales of lucky escapes, Polly managed to get through to the hotel in Liverpool where she knew Max Erstweiler was staying.

  ‘’Allo. Erstweiler hier.’

  ‘Max, do you know where Aunt Helena is? I’m trying to get hold of her. Monika rang up from Cornwall.’

  ‘Monika?’ Max’s voice conveyed distrust. ‘What she want?’

  ‘She wants Helena.’

  ‘What for she want Helena?’ Max switched on the bedside light and prodded Helena, asleep beside him. Helena woke, saw Max’s finger to his lips, the other hand holding the telephone.

  ‘It is five in the morning.’

  ‘I know it. Can you find Helena? Monika says Uncle Richard is very ill. She and the Rector and the General think Helena should come.’

  ‘I find her, ein Moment.’ Max stuffed the telephone under the pillow. ‘It is Richard, is ill, you should go to him.’

  ‘Oh damn.’ Helena pushed her hair back and pulled a shawl round her shoulders. She held out her hand for the receiver. ‘Helena here. What’s the matter? I only just got to sleep. There was a raid after Max’s concert. It was a great success, the concert.’

  ‘Aunt Helena, Monika tried to find you, Uncle Richard is very ill.’

  ‘I knew he had flu.’

  ‘Well, now he’s got pneumonia.’

  ‘How did he get that?’ Helena listened to Polly’s voice shouting eerily from London, a garbled explanation.

  ‘His claret? Trying to save his claret? It is my claret. I thought we might run short, can’t get rice either now. No, not mice, rice. No.’

  Polly’s voice suddenly sounded clear and angry. ‘While you are waffling he may be dying. I’m putting Sophy on the ten o’clock train. If you can get
to Bristol you could join it at Exeter.’

  ‘Sophy?’

  ‘Yes, her holidays have started. She’s here but it isn’t healthy. I have to work. I can’t leave her in the house alone.’

  ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can. Can you get through to Cornwall? I can’t. I tried last night. Max wanted to tell Monika about the concert,’ Helena lied. She put the telephone down. ‘Why does one lie?’

  ‘Instinct.’ Max was watching her, pink, amply rounded, blonde, the type he liked. ‘You look like a Greuze.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Helena was angrily brushing her hair. ‘How inconvenient this is! Oh, do be of some help, find out about trains while I pack. Buck up. Just like Richard to rush out in the rain with flu. I bet all the claret was running down the gutter. Oh, why do I have to behave badly in times of crisis?’ Helena wailed with frustration.

  ‘Nimm deine Ihre Arschbacken zusammen,’ exclaimed Max.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A coarse German expression. I will enquire for trains.’

  ‘I’d forgotten Sophy’s holidays, lost my head as well as my heart.’

  ‘You do not love me.’

  ‘Not at the moment. Do go and ask about trains. There will be some terrible cross-country connection. Hurry up and do it.’

  Sophy from her corner saw Helena puffing from another platform at Exeter to join the train. She huddled back, hiding her face with a book, having no wish to endure Helena’s company on the train, which stopped at every station from Exeter to Penzance. She hid, even though she suspected Helena had no more wish for her company than she for Helena’s.

  Crammed into an over-full carriage Helena reproached herself for neglecting Richard, all too aware that since the incident in the daffodil field she had discarded her former life, left the running of her household to her lover’s wife, the care of Sophy to a school, with help in the holidays from the Rectory. In her mind she saw herself and Max making love under a blue sky surrounded by golden daffodils, ecstasy in the midst of war. She ignored the truth, which was that the daffodil season had long been over, the leaves withered to a dull straw colour, that there were weeds among the bulbs and that while slipping off her knickers she had been stung by nettles. What was true was that the encounter with Max had produced the first orgasm she had ever experienced and in return she loved him with an aggressive devotion he found touching and useful. It wasn’t until now that Richard was ill that she considered his feelings and felt regret, tinged with guilt, about her new mode of life. She had no intention of changing it. Another woman, a good woman, would stand by Richard just because he was boring, just because he had lost a leg, just because he’d been gassed. ‘Not me,’ said Helena aloud, to confirm the course of her life. ‘Not for me.’ Her neighbour, a fresh-faced Wren, looked at her in surprise.