The FitzOsbornes at War

by Michelle Cooper

  ‘Dreadful,’ she muttered, staring about the hall. ‘This is absolutely dreadful.’ She shook her head, then drew herself up. ‘Wait here, Sophia,’ she ordered. ‘I’m going to find the doctor in charge!’

  And before I could stop her, she’d marched off. I just hoped she’d remember why we were there. I wandered past the empty reception area, then peered down a corridor towards what had once been the Velvet Drawing Room, wondering where Toby’s ward might be.

  ‘Well, well,’ said a voice behind me. ‘If it isn’t the Angel Thief.’

  I whirled about. ‘What?’ I said. ‘Oh – it’s you.’ It was the man I’d seen on my last – my only – visit to the hospital, the patient who’d caught me sneaking out with our Christmas tree decoration.

  ‘Me again,’ he agreed.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ I said, quite sincerely. His scars weren’t anywhere near as livid as they had been, he’d acquired a very realistic glass eye, and his mouth was turned up in a smile that looked almost normal. If I’d passed him on the street, I’d hardly have blinked – although perhaps that was just because I’d become accustomed to seeing men with far worse disfigurements. ‘But why are you still here, after all this time?’ I asked. It must have been at least three years since I’d seen him, and he was still on crutches.

  ‘Oh, I only arrived yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’ve been working in London, pushing papers at the War Office. But it wasn’t enough for the Nazis to shoot my Spit down in flames, with me in it. Oh, no – they had to come back and drop a bloody great bomb on my house last week. Smashed my leg to bits. I suppose I ought to be grateful it was the fake leg I’d taken off for the night, and not the real one. Anyway, I’m here to get a replacement fitted.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘Well, you might have arrived with my brother. He’s here for the same thing – I mean, a new leg. Have you seen him? Squadron Leader Toby FitzOsborne?’

  ‘Hmm. Haven’t met anyone of that name, but a couple of men turned up a few hours after I got here. He might be one of them. They’re in the ward beside the –’

  ‘Sophia!’ came an imperious cry behind me. ‘Sophia, have you –’ Aunt Charlotte rounded the corner, then stopped and stared at my companion. ‘Is that . . . That isn’t your brother?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said quickly, because she’d gone so pale. ‘This is, um . . .’

  ‘Pilot Officer Sam Jones.’ He began the effortful task of shifting one crutch so he could hold out his hand to shake, but she’d already stepped back.

  ‘Yes, how do you do?’ she said coldly. Then she turned to me and said, ‘Sophia, don’t stand about chatting. Come along, I want you to see what they’ve done to my house. There is a bathtub sitting in the middle of my dining room!’ And she stalked off in a swirl of mothball-scented mink.

  I began to apologise to the pilot, but he just shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘My grandma went just as dotty in her old age. Used to think the postman was her long-dead brother, kept insisting there was a cat trapped inside her teapot, that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, you see –’ Then I decided an explanation would take too much time. ‘Sorry, I’d better go and find her before she offends anyone else. Where did you say that ward was?’

  Toby, when we eventually tracked him down, was almost too tired to talk, let alone snap at anyone. He’d spent most of the past six weeks in bed or propped up in chairs, so his first session with the physiotherapist had been exhausting and painful. He did tell us it would take two weeks before his new leg was ready, and that he’d need to practise using it after that, so he supposed he’d be at Milford till the end of the month. Then a nurse arrived to change his dressings and we left.

  Poor Aunt Charlotte was terribly shaken. She’d said almost nothing to Toby – she’d found it difficult even to meet his eye. After we were outside again, walking past the fountain littered with cigarette butts and sweets wrappers, she stopped and looked back at the hospital.

  ‘Oh, Sophia,’ she said. ‘What has become of us?’

  She sounded so sad and bewildered that I wasn’t sure whether she was thinking of Toby, or the house, or the world in general, but I tucked my arm in hers and after a while, I led her slowly back down the driveway, home to Barnes.

  19th April, 1944

  TOBY HAS RETURNED TO THE Queen Victoria Hospital for his next operation, so I’ve moved back to London for a few weeks. I can easily get down to visit him by train, and I’m taking the opportunity to give our flat a spring clean and cook Veronica some proper meals. She’s become far too thin – I think she subsists on tea and toast when I’m not around. Anyway, I was scrubbing some potatoes early this evening when Kick burst in.

  ‘Is Veronica home?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said, wiping my hands. ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to ask her whether she thinks England will turn Socialist after the war.’

  I couldn’t help laughing, despite (or possibly, due to) Kick’s earnest expression. ‘What on Earth . . .?’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ she sighed, pulling out a chair, ‘Billy says Socialism is inevitable now. He says there’ll be massive taxes, and the government will take over all the industries, and families like his will have to give up their estates.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, the fog lifting. ‘So, if the Devonshire dynasty is going to become redundant anyway –’

  ‘Then we can bring up our children as Catholics,’ she said, nodding. ‘But if there’s any chance he’ll be the next Duke, he says our children will have to be Protestants.’ She propped her chin on her hand and sent me a despairing look. ‘You know how I wrote to Daddy? Asking if he could organise a special dispensation from the Church so I could marry Billy? Well, the archbishop said no! Can you believe it?’

  The Kennedys think they can buy anything – and with their money, they generally can. Just not this time.

  ‘Oh, I just don’t know what to do, Sophie!’ wailed Kick. ‘I love Billy. I want to spend the rest of my life with him! And his mother’s being so sweet to me. But my mother would never forgive me if I left the Catholic Church. She keeps telling me I’d be living in mortal sin.’

  Mrs Kennedy has a distinctly flexible attitude towards reality. Kick’s brother Joe is currently having an affair with a woman whose husband’s off fighting overseas – and she was divorced before this marriage, and she’s a Protestant. And Jack’s just as bad as Joe, chasing after anything in a skirt. But does Mrs Kennedy ever say a word about their immortal souls, let alone that of her philandering husband?

  ‘Of course,’ Kick went on, ‘there was that one priest who said it wouldn’t be mortal sin, because I wouldn’t be marrying Billy out of selfishness, I’d be doing it for love.’

  ‘Well, he’s right,’ I said. ‘I’m glad someone in your Church is showing a bit of compassion and good sense.’

  ‘And Billy could get shipped out any day now, couldn’t he?’ she said. Poor Billy had been so stung by the accusations of cowardice levelled at him during the election campaign that he’d gone straight back into his regiment after the results were announced. ‘He’ll be off fighting in France soon, and – Oh, how could I be so selfish as to refuse him anything?’

  She jumped up, determination written all over her freckled face.

  ‘Thanks, Sophie, you’ve been a great help,’ she said. She gave me a hug, rushed towards the door, then came to a sudden halt. ‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘but I haven’t even asked how Toby’s doing!’

  ‘He’s making progress, thanks,’ I said. ‘Much less frustrated now that he can walk about and do things for himself. I’m sure he’ll feel even more positive once this next set of skin grafts is done.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been saying a novena for him,’ Kick said, ‘to the Little Flower.’ Then she bounced off.

  I stared after her, astounded – and a little awed – at how deeply embedded her faith was. No wonder the poor girl has been feeling torn in two over Billy.

  BU
T EVEN MORE ASTOUNDING WAS our next visitor, who turned up five minutes after Veronica arrived home from work.

  ‘Sorry, I know this is a bad time to drop in,’ Julia said, ‘but I’ve just come from the hospital.’

  ‘Is Toby all right?’ Veronica asked sharply, letting a plate clatter onto the table.

  ‘Oh, yes! Yes, he’s fine. But I needed to talk to you about . . . well, about him, really.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’

  ‘No, I can’t stay,’ she said, but she obediently took a seat. ‘You see, I’d been thinking about where Toby could go after his operation. Did you know there’s been another streptococcus outbreak in that awful Ward Three? Imagine if he got an infection – it would set him back months. I don’t think he should stay in that hospital a minute longer than is absolutely necessary, once he’s out of surgery.’

  ‘Yes, Sister Connor mentioned an RAF convalescent home that’s not far away,’ I said. ‘But Toby didn’t sound very keen on the idea.’

  ‘Well, he’s sick of living with dozens of men. Never any peace and quiet, no privacy. I don’t blame him. So I talked to a friend of mine who owns a cottage near East Grinstead. The tenants have just left and he said we could have it. It’s tiny, but there aren’t any stairs for Toby to have to manage and there’s a lovely little garden. It’s right on the bus route, too.’

  ‘I suppose I could go down and look after him,’ I said slowly. ‘At least, I could cook and clean and so on. I wouldn’t be much good at changing his dressings, though. I know it’s weak-minded of me, but I still feel a bit faint whenever I see blood. And I’m not trained in first aid – I’d be so afraid of doing the wrong thing and hurting him.’

  ‘We could hire a nurse –’ Veronica began, but Julia interrupted.

  ‘Oh, no, I meant I could move in with him. I could do all the dressings and help with his exercises, and then I’d just have to take him in to the hospital when he has his doctor’s appointments.’

  ‘But what about your job?’ I said. ‘You can’t take that much leave from the ambulance station.’

  ‘Well . . . I’ve handed in my notice,’ she said, avoiding our gaze and twisting the rings on her fingers in a very uncharacteristic display of nervousness.

  ‘You’ve resigned?’ Veronica said. ‘But Julia, if you leave the ambulance station, you’ll get called up!’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ she said. ‘Not if I get married.’

  We stared at her.

  ‘Oh dear!’ she said, with a shaky laugh. ‘I feel like a young gentleman asking his sweetheart’s father for her hand in marriage. But I did want to make sure you were all right with it and . . . well, there’s your aunt to consider.’

  ‘Toby?’ said Veronica. ‘You can’t be serious. He can’t be serious! How can he possibly have asked you to –’

  ‘Actually, I did the asking. This time.’ She shot me a look, too quickly for Veronica to catch. ‘But he agreed with me. He always did plan to get married, eventually. And it makes sense to do it now – otherwise people will fuss about us living together at the cottage – and it’ll be easier for me to look after him properly if I’m his wife.’

  Veronica turned to me in mute consternation.

  ‘Julia,’ I said, picking my words with care. ‘That all sounds very . . . sensible. But marriage is . . . I mean, what about love?’

  ‘But I do love him,’ she cried, ‘and he loves me, in his own way. We’re friends, really dear friends, we have been for years and years. And I’m tired of being alone all the time and, and . . . he needs me!’

  Then the tears sparkling in her eyes spilled over, and I rushed over to put my arms round her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said after a minute, wiping her eyes. ‘I really am happy about it. I wish you could be, too.’

  ‘Well, we are,’ I said uncertainly, with a glance at Veronica. ‘We’re just a bit surprised, that’s all. Didn’t you say you wanted children, after the war is over?’

  ‘I do,’ she said at once, ‘and there’s no reason why we can’t have them! It’s not as though he’s had some terrible spinal injury. He wants children too, he told me. And I thought that might make your aunt feel a bit happier about it. I know she dislikes me, but . . . do you think she’ll try to stop us going ahead with it?’

  ‘I don’t see how she could. You’re both of age, and you’re both of sound mind,’ said Veronica (although her tone suggested she had some doubts about the latter).

  ‘She could make things difficult, though,’ sighed Julia, ‘with money and so on. And Toby doesn’t need any more difficulties in his life right now.’

  ‘I honestly don’t think she will object,’ I said. ‘She might grumble a bit at first, but I imagine she’ll be very pleased he’s getting married at all. That’s part of why she’s been so upset about him – she thought the family name was going to die out.’

  What she’d actually said to me at Milford last month was, ‘Oh, Sophia, why didn’t he take my advice and get married before the war? When he was handsome and charming and whole? What girl will want to marry him now that he’s so changed – now that he looks so frightful?’ But, of course, I wasn’t going to repeat that remark to Julia, or to anyone else.

  ‘Besides, Aunt Charlotte doesn’t dislike you,’ I told Julia firmly. ‘She’s very fond of your family. You have a title and money, so she can’t help but approve of you. And you’ve been so kind to Toby – to all of us – for so long. She ought to be glad to have you as part of the family.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Sophie!’ Julia said, smiling for the first time that evening. She looked astonishingly pretty – and very young. I tried to remember how old she actually was. About twenty-eight, I calculated, a few years older than Toby and Rupert. ‘You really have put my mind at ease,’ Julia went on. ‘Toby will be relieved, too. But you mustn’t take my word for all of this – you ought to go and talk to him tomorrow.’ Then she chattered on for a few minutes about how long it might take to organise a registry office wedding and whether she’d be able to persuade her London housekeeper to come down to the cottage a couple of days a week. Then she had to dash off to have dinner with her father, who’d come into town to see his solicitor. ‘Wish me luck!’ she said.

  I rescued my slightly burnt shepherd’s pie from the oven, and Veronica and I sat down to dinner.

  ‘Well,’ said Veronica, after we’d silently pushed food around our plates for a while, ‘it’s really only been recently that marriage has been connected with romance. Historically, it was all about alliances between families – everything to do with mutual advantage, and nothing at all with love.’

  ‘I just hope Julia isn’t being all self-sacrificial because she wants to atone for Anthony in some way,’ I said. ‘Although . . . no, I really believe she cares for Toby. And they do get on awfully well with each other. And oh, I nearly forgot! She’ll be a queen now, won’t she?’

  ‘For what that’s worth,’ said Veronica, starting to laugh, ‘when Britain is overrun by Socialists.’

  ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘First Kick and Billy, and now these two.’

  ‘An epidemic of engagements,’ said Veronica. ‘I know I’m impervious to the disease – but I’m not certain about you.’ And she gave me a mock-stern look.

  ‘Oh, I think I’m safe for a little while,’ I said, with a smile. ‘At least until the war’s over.’

  8th May, 1944

  A TALE OF TWO WEDDINGS. First was Toby and Julia’s at Chelsea Town Hall. Toby looked very distinguished in his RAF dress uniform with all his medals, and Julia looked lovely in pale blue silk. A friend in the Air Transport Auxiliary had given her a torn parachute, and she’d dyed it and had it made up by a dressmaker to copy one of her old Paris frocks. She also wore a pillbox hat with spotted veil, white gloves, silk stockings and indigo shoes (Veronica and I had given her all our clothing coupons as a wedding present) and she carried a posy of violets that her mother brought up fro
m Astley. The formalities, presided over by a lugubrious clerk with an eyepatch, were over in ten minutes, and then we all went to Claridge’s for a five-shilling luncheon. Neither Rupert nor Daphne had been able to get time off work, so the wedding guests were just Julia’s parents, Aunt Charlotte, Veronica and me.

  It was a rather strained meal. Lord Astley was his usual gruff self, Lady Astley seemed sad and subdued, and Aunt Charlotte was still feeling affronted by the shabbiness of the registry office and the ‘insolence’ of the clerk (he’d referred to her at one stage as ‘Mrs FitzOsborne’). Toby responded politely whenever anyone spoke to him, but was otherwise silent. He’d insisted on leaving his walking stick in the car, and I suspected his leg was starting to hurt. He also seemed uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people. He’d spent most of the past four months in hospital, with only an occasional visit to East Grinstead (where, of course, everybody is quite accustomed to seeing men with severe burns). Here in London, strangers stared, or averted their gaze, or muttered behind their hands to their companions. One woman regarded him with undisguised revulsion, then hustled away her small child. I wanted to run after her and slap her stupid face. How dare she! For all she knew, Toby had shot down a Luftwaffe bomber aiming for her house! If it weren’t for him and hundreds of men like him, we could all be living under Nazi rule by now! I don’t think Toby saw that particular woman, but he couldn’t have missed all the others. For most of the meal, he looked as though he were trying to shrink back inside his skin, like a snail whose shell had been wrenched off, and he gave Julia a grateful smile when she said, ‘Darling, we really ought to be getting back now. You’ve an appointment with the physiotherapist at three.’

  ‘That,’ said Aunt Charlotte, after we’d waved off Julia and Toby, and then Lord and Lady Astley, ‘was the most dismal wedding I’ve ever attended. I still don’t understand why they couldn’t at least have had it in a church.’

  ‘It would have taken longer to organise,’ I said, ‘and it’s not as though either of them is religious.’