The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  But I think the parcel she was most pleased about was Daniel’s, which arrived in the morning post, wrapped up in brown paper. He sent a thick letter and a couple of books about politics, one of which he’d actually written himself. Anthony was a bit condescending over Daniel’s book, because it was about Socialism rather than Communism. I’d thought they were pretty much the same, and Anthony’s explanation didn’t really clear up matters. I’d just about grasped the idea that Socialism was a milder form, with less emphasis on violent revolutions, when he and Veronica got into a debate about it (“But Engels said …” “Yet didn’t Trotsky …” “Well, what about Stalin?”).

  So the rest of us left them to it and talked about the forthcoming Season. I’m not officially old enough to make my debut into Society this year, but I’ll be doing so regardless—Aunt Charlotte has put up my age by six months in order that Veronica and I can come out at the same time. It’s unlikely the Palace officials will find out. I don’t have a birth certificate for them to check, and Julia’s uncle pulled strings so that we didn’t need to acquire British registration cards. (Apparently, all new arrivals to this country are meant to register as “aliens” and have to carry identification cards around and inform the police every time they change their address or start a new job.) I’m beginning to feel rather nervous regarding this whole Season thing, though, so I asked Julia about her experiences as a debutante.

  “Oh, the dances are lovely, and you meet such a lot of new people, which is awfully stimulating,” she said. “Of course, it’s a bother remembering their names, especially the men, all dressed exactly alike, whereas at least with the girls … although one does look at everyone else’s beautiful dresses and turn green with envy. Then there’s the presentation at Buckingham Palace, which makes one go green all over again, from sheer nerves. The girl in front of me was sick into an equerry’s top hat, another girl started gnawing on her Card of Command, and when she got to the Lord Chamberlain, he couldn’t read a word and sent her to the back of the line, then someone else’s bouquet fell apart, fern leaves and pink carnations scattered all over the carpet of the Throne Room—”

  Which really didn’t do much to relieve my anxieties.

  Toby also used the occasion to present Anthony with his Order of Benedict. (It turned out Aunt Charlotte had half a dozen of them in her safe—the family must have had them made up in bulk at the jeweler’s, decades ago.) I was worried Anthony might not believe in accepting royal honors, being a Communist and everything, but he seemed very pleased and gave a nice, rambling speech in return. We decided to get Julia to pass along her uncle’s Order of Benedict to him, as he was abroad doing top-secret government things, and no one was sure where he was or when he’d be back. Unfortunately, Simon hadn’t yet located Captain Zuleta.

  “Because he’s resigned from the shipping company,” Toby explained after Julia and Anthony had left. “And they wouldn’t give out his address.”

  “He told us once that all his family lived in the ancient Basque capital,” I said. “The town with the historic oak tree—I forget its name.”

  “Guernica,” said Veronica.

  “Perhaps he’s got his own ship now,” said Henry, lying on the carpet. She was sharing her crumpet with Carlos, who’d been allowed upstairs as a special birthday treat. “Simon should look for a ship called Veronica.”

  “Well, if the new ship’s registered in Spain, it might be difficult to get details,” said Toby.

  “Oh, yes, Spaniards are quite impossible,” said Aunt Charlotte absently, not looking up from the letter she was reading. “Erratic, unreliable—”

  “I just meant with the war going on and everything,” said Toby hurriedly, glancing at Veronica.

  “Exactly,” said Aunt Charlotte. “All due to their excitable temperament. Wouldn’t be having a war if they were capable of discussing things calmly and rationally amongst themselves.”

  “It’s rather difficult to have calm, rational discussions with Fascist thugs,” snapped Veronica.

  “Thugs?” said Aunt Charlotte, putting down her letter. “Nonsense! Look at Mussolini, getting the trains to run on time. Not in the least thug-like. Pamela Bosworth met him in Venice years ago, says he was absolutely charming.” Aunt Charlotte frowned at Veronica. “You know, you always seemed such a sensible girl from your letters, Veronica, and now here you are, spouting Communist slogans. It’s the influence of young Whittingham, of course. He’s been such a worry to his poor father …”

  Veronica, looking as though she wanted to throw her copy of Daniel’s Principles of Evolutionary Socialism at Aunt Charlotte’s head, instead gathered up her books and stalked out.

  “Takes after her mother,” said Aunt Charlotte, highly gratified by this evidence of Spanish excitability. “Who, I notice, didn’t bother to send so much as a birthday card.”

  Toby and I exchanged looks. Aunt Charlotte had no idea Isabella was dead. I was just glad Veronica hadn’t stayed around to hear her mother mentioned. If it ached to hear about Montmaray, then the subject of Isabella was a raw, gaping wound. I wondered if I should tell Aunt Charlotte—but Toby and I had agreed between ourselves that it should be up to Veronica.

  “And what about me, Aunt Charlotte?” said Toby quickly. “Whom do I take after?”

  “Ah—now, you’re the very image of your father,” she said, giving him a fond smile. “Poor dear Robert, my little golden-haired brother, wrenched away from us at such a tender age …”

  “And me?” cried Henry, kneeling up. “What about me?”

  “You,” she said, peering over at Henry, “remind me of a monkey your Great-uncle William brought back from India.”

  Henry hooted with glee and rolled around on the floor with Carlos. I didn’t ask about myself. I was afraid she’d say, “Oh, I expect you’re like your mother—what was her name? Jean? Joan?” Everyone remembers my father—he was so lively and affable, so open, so uncomplicated. But my mother, Jane, tended to fade into the background even when she was alive—just as I do. Although this might simply be because the other members of my family are so very conspicuous. It will be interesting to see if I fare any better in a crowd of strangers …

  To take my mind off that terrifying prospect, I will now describe Henry’s latest governess, who arrived this afternoon. Miss Bullock is not pink but a steely shade of gray. Her tweed suit is cut like a uniform, her felt hat resembles a helmet, and her voice is raspy, probably from shouting at her charges.

  “I don’t go in for modern, namby-pamby ways,” she told Aunt Charlotte. “I won’t stand for children who don’t do as they’re told.”

  “Quite right,” said Aunt Charlotte. “And how do you—”

  “I lock naughty children in their rooms,” she said. “Without any supper!”

  This didn’t sound like much of a punishment to me. We often went without supper at Montmaray, if the supply ship was overdue and there hadn’t been much luck with the fishing nets or lobster pots that day. Besides, Henry is more than capable of climbing out a window and down the drainpipe, then raiding the kitchen—or else catching a fish in the lake, scaling and gutting it, and cooking it over an open fire. Also, I don’t think Henry is deliberately naughty, not very often. Mostly it’s that she doesn’t consider the consequences of her actions before she plunges in, or doesn’t understand social conventions (especially the ones that don’t even make much sense to grown-ups). I didn’t point this out to Miss Bullock, though. She doesn’t seem the sort to welcome the advice of others. She’ll figure it out eventually—and if not, Henry’s pretty good at standing up for herself.

  Still, I should disregard any uncongenial first impressions and make an effort to be kind to Miss Bullock, because the life of a governess does not seem to have improved much since Jane Eyre’s day. They are regarded as neither one of the servants nor part of the family, so she eats breakfast with us, luncheon with Henry in the schoolroom, and a solitary supper off a tray in her room. She isn’t permitted in the draw
ing rooms except when she brings Henry in, can’t join the staff in their sitting room off the kitchen unless expressly invited, isn’t provided with a uniform but can only wear clothes approved of by her employer … No wonder she’s crabby after years of being treated like that.

  I’m starting to understand more of the other unwritten household rules now—not that I agree with them. For example, we’re not supposed to say “please” and “thank you” to the servants, but I do, anyway, because it seems awfully rude to pretend they’re not people with feelings. Aunt Charlotte says they’re paid good money to do their job invisibly, that that is the point of a servant—although I notice she treats Barnes, her lady’s maid, as a trusted confidante, so she’s not being entirely consistent there.

  The servant we have most to do with is Phoebe, Veronica’s and my lady’s maid. I expect she’d be fairly good at her job if she had a mistress who could tell her exactly what she needed to do, but we know even less than she does. Unfortunately, Phoebe is the one held responsible if Veronica comes down to dinner with her hair lopsided or if I’m late to breakfast because I can’t find two clean, matching stockings. Barnes is not as patient as she could be when explaining things, which makes Phoebe more and more anxious, and then she spills talcum powder on the carpet or knocks over a vase of flowers, and gets into even more trouble. It doesn’t help that the poor thing is homesick. Her village is about fifteen miles away, and her single day off a fortnight doesn’t always coincide with the bus timetable. She has two brothers and three sisters, and I think her father drinks, or is dead, or something—anyway, he doesn’t seem very helpful. Her mother takes in laundry, all the children older than fourteen are in service (apart from a brother who works on the docks up north, which sounds even worse than being in service), and the little ones are taken out of school anytime they are needed in the fields, which seems to be six months out of every year. It’s like something from a Thomas Hardy novel, the way she tells it.

  Of course, Aunt Charlotte would say they oughtn’t to have so many children if they can’t afford them, but firstly, isn’t it rather difficult not having children if one is married? And secondly, surely it’s obvious that some people start off with far less in life than others and that for them a minor bit of bad luck can quite easily turn into catastrophe. Even if Aunt Charlotte says it’s bad management, not bad luck—well, children can’t develop into good managers unless they have a decent education and proper food for their growing brains … But now I’m starting to sound like a Socialist (or is it a Communist?).

  And speaking of Communists—while Julia was saying goodbye to Veronica and Toby, I pulled Anthony aside and asked if he’d happened to fly anywhere near Montmaray recently. I was suddenly stricken with a desperate desire to find out whether the Germans were there, if the castle was really as badly damaged as I remembered, that the island still existed … anything. Anything at all.

  But it was silly of me to ask—he explained he was still working on those engine problems he’d been having and hadn’t been able to fly anywhere. I ought to have known that; he told Veronica all about it when we visited Astley Manor. And anyway, I’m supposed to be behaving sensibly about Montmaray, not pining over things that are gone. Still, Anthony was very sweet about it, and patted me on the shoulder, and said he’d ask his pilot friends if they’d seen anything. He’s such a kind man.

  By the way, I gave Rupert’s handkerchief to Julia to return to him. He’s very nice, too. It’s a relief, in fact, to find there are so many good people in the world, after all. I was really beginning to doubt that.

  26th January 1937

  Last night we went to our first proper dinner party, and it was a disaster. Or rather, a series of disasters.

  Firstly, Aunt Charlotte sprained something in her foot as she was getting off her horse in the morning. The doctor said nothing was broken but that she wasn’t to stand on it for forty-eight hours because it was the foot that had been in plaster.

  It was awful luck, especially as I then received Julia’s note saying she’d rather eat her own head than endure another dinner at the boring Bosworths, and thank God, she and Ant had been invited elsewhere. I’d been hoping Julia would be there to give me clandestine signals across the table if I picked up the wrong fork.

  “Don’t worry,” said Toby as I fretted over what shoes to wear. “They won’t even notice you.”

  It was depressing to consider he was probably correct, given that Veronica looked absolutely stunning in her clinging black silk, worn with Aunt Charlotte’s rubies. In contrast, I had on an old bridesmaid’s frock of Julia’s, mauve chiffon with puff sleeves and a white organza sash. It was pretty enough, but hardly the height of sophistication. Worse, the satin shoes that went with the frock were slightly too big for me, and one of the heels was loose. I hadn’t even thought to try walking in them till then. But the only other shoes I owned were my everyday pairs—tan lace-up brogues (out of the question) or black Mary Janes with no heel whatsoever.

  “Can you see my feet if I’m standing up?” I asked Toby, tugging my dress down in a vain attempt to cover the Mary Janes. But they poked out beneath the hem like a pair of fat black beetles emerging from under a leaf.

  “Here, give me the others,” Toby said.

  He stuffed some cotton wool in the toes of the satin shoes, and I tried them again. It was slightly better, although I was forced into a weird shuffling gait.

  “You won’t have to walk far,” he said consolingly. “And at least there won’t be dancing. It won’t even be a very late night. Wiltshire in January isn’t exactly High Society.”

  It may have been dull by London standards, but there was more than enough noise and dazzle to frighten me into speechlessness. Lady Bosworth swooped down on Toby the moment we arrived (“Ah! Your Majesty!”), settling him into an armchair and shoving her daughter in his direction. The daughter seemed more interested in Simon, although he quickly shook her off. A moment later, I saw him leaning against the chimneypiece, lighting a cigarette for a raven-haired beauty in a strapless scarlet gown (I caught Toby glowering at both of them). Meanwhile, Veronica and I stood in a corner, sipping our glasses of lemonade and trying to make polite conversation with David Stanley-Ross and his wife, Penelope. It was heavy going. David was nothing like Rupert in looks or manner. He had little to say in response to Veronica’s openings on the subject of Amelia Earhart’s plan to fly around the world, the forthcoming coronation of King George the Sixth, or the state of President Roosevelt’s health. He merely gazed around the room, tilting his head back so he could stare down his long, aristocratic nose. I fared no better with Penelope.

  “That’s a lovely dress,” I said brightly.

  “Oh—this,” she said, glancing at herself with disdain. “Had it made in Paris.” There was a pause as she looked me up and down. “I recognize your frock, of course.” Which was when I realized my bridesmaid’s dress was from her wedding. I know there are worse things than being discovered wearing a hand-me-down frock, but I wanted to sink through the floor. I twisted round, searching for an escape, and found myself nose to nose with Lady Bosworth’s daughter, Cynthia.

  “Hellooo,” she brayed. “Hunt much?”

  “Er, I’m afraid I don’t ride,” I said. She looked at me as though I’d announced I was from the planet Mars. I quickly added, “My little sister does, though, and she says it’s lots of fun.”

  “What’s she ride?”

  “Um … a pony?”

  Fortunately, there was a flurry at the door at that moment and several men stomped in, calling out greetings.

  “Ah, Tom!” cried Lord Bosworth. “There you are, late as usual, ha-ha!”

  “Who’s that?” I whispered, nodding at the tallest, most important-looking one. He had sleek black hair, extremely mobile eyebrows, and a rakish mustache.

  “Mummy’s cousin Tom,” said Cynthia, waving at him. “You know—Sir Oswald Mosley.” Veronica suddenly stiffened, like Carlos catching sight of a rabbit. Mo
sley’s appraising glance landed on her, then brushed past me, unseeing. I shivered. I didn’t like him then, and I liked him even less when Simon explained who he was.

  “Leader of the British Union of Fascists. Amazing speaker. Riles up his Blackshirts, then they rampage through the East End, getting into fights with the Communists.”

  I gave Simon a horrified look.

  “So keep Veronica away from him,” Simon hissed as we went in to dinner. Of course, there was nothing I could do about our placement at the dining table, which was determined by social rank. Toby was up one end between Lady Bosworth and a wizened duchess, and Veronica down the other next to the Marquess of Londonderry and across from Mosley. Simon was between Penelope and the Scarlet Woman, and I was in the middle of the table, perfectly placed to watch the whole catastrophe unfold. I didn’t even have a conversation of my own to distract me, the two middle-aged gentlemen either side of me simply talking over the top of my head once they realized I knew nothing about horses or gambling. The soup and fish courses passed without incident, but then Lord Bosworth asked what Mosley thought about reports of Fascist atrocities in the Spanish war.

  “Pure invention,” Mosley said promptly. “A pathetic attempt by Red propagandists to cover up their own barbarities and generate some sympathy for their doomed cause. And of course, our Labour Members of Parliament are wringing their hands, on cue.”