But as far as he understood things, sex was the only way to get babies. Rosie would have to do it a few times when she got married, then. But she wouldn’t be keen on it like Betty. Too ladylike.
Lots to tell his friend George. But would he understand? Did he get feelings like that? Maybe it would upset him. Maybe not say a word to anybody, like Betty said. He wanted to see George again. It had been too long since he visited at Blexton. He’d ask Rosie. But there was so much happening these days. He’d been busy.
* * *
This time had been best of all. Betty had come to his room a few times. But now they lay on a blanket in the boathouse. He didn’t know what she’d told her husband. Jamie told Rosie he wanted to go for a walk. On his own. To think about his book. Rosie had said, “All right then,” in a hurt little voice and stomped off. He’d felt guilty for a little while. Not for long, though.
Betty had brought a candle so he could see her bare body, all of her skin, not just parts here and there. He wanted to get a peek at where he went inside her, too, but he thought he’d better not tell her that. He’d explained how he wanted to be stroked all over, and how he wanted to stroke her too, and how he wanted them to lie down together without any clothes on at all. She said she thought that was sweet, just so long as it didn’t take too long.
The stroking had been beautiful, like climbing up to heaven, one cloud at a time. And he had managed to take a look down there, at that strange looking part like some sort of fat flower. Pretty, in its own way. Had its own smell, sharp and fishy, quite different from how the rest of her smelled.
He gazed at her body, creamy in the candlelight. Cat lazy, she stretched out on her back, one leg bent across the other, arms all the way out behind her head. Her breasts stood high, very large, very nice to bury your face in, and good to suck on once she’d taught him how. When they’d come to the last part, the magic part, he’d been the one on top, been the master, given her his seeds.
He’d find a way to see the baby, to teach it some of what Gran had taught him. To make the baby understand someone would look after him if things went wrong. He was a man now. A man must do what’s right. Even keep this secret, although he’d sworn he’d never do secrets again. This one was different—it was a right kind of secret.
If he told George, it wasn’t as if he could turn around and tell anyone else. But perhaps he wouldn’t approve. Did he get awfully lonely without any friends to visit? He must ask Lady Audrey if he could go for a visit. It was important, and he didn’t have to tell George anything about anything.
And she’d promised not to drink.
31
Jamie frowned as he formed his words, slowly, painfully, mostly staying on the lines, but not always.
“I’ll never write my book. I’m learning too slowly. I’m too slow.”
“Now, Jamie, it took me a few years to learn how to write properly, you’ll get it. Be patient.”
Rosie felt far from patient. A friend from school was coming to stay and bringing her brother. She seemed to remember he was rather dishy. He’d been wounded, but was on the mend, apparently, nothing missing. For New Year’s Eve she’d get the servants to push the living room furniture back and they could play records and dance.
Nearly 1942 already, she felt life passing her by. Heartily sick of this war, she wanted music and dancing and romance. She didn’t want to hear about “Our boys at the front,” any more, either. Christmas had been really boring, everyone so serious and brooding. They might have made an effort to cheer up. They never had been that merry at Christmas. Probably mooning over that Fiona. Even Jamie had been quiet, although intrigued by the idea of a dressed up tree and presents wrapped in pretty paper carefully saved from the year before. He’d been thrilled when Mummy opened the box of paper and let Jamie choose some for his own wrapping. Daddy had given him some pocket money and taken him shopping for presents, too. So sweet.
Jamie visited Sarah at the cottage from time to time. Betty wouldn’t be able to work at the Manor much longer now that her pregnancy was becoming obvious. Mummy was old-fashioned that way. At least Betty would be able to keep her sister company so Rosie wouldn’t feel obliged to go down there so often. Sarah was so damned stoical. Lost her family, lost her leg, you’d think she’d whine or cry occasionally. She’d just about grown a halo. She did a little sewing for the Manor these days in return for extra rations. No reason why she shouldn’t. Her hands worked all right, although she wasn’t that good at it. She’d sewn up a hem of Rosie’s and the stitches were much too big. Funny how she had more brains and refinement than Betty, almost as if she came from a different family.
Rosie knew her annoyance was unreasonable but, these days, everything was annoying.
“Rosie. It’s my birthday tomorrow.”
“Cook’s managing a cake, I think.” Rationing was tighter than ever now.
“It’s just a year since … well, everything.”
“I know, Jamie. Are you sad, then?” God, not more of this.
“No, I’ve finished with that, except for sometimes at night. No, it’s my book.”
“What book?”
“How could you forget? The one I want to write about how people should live right.”
“Oh, that. Yes, I remember. But it’s hard writing a book. You’re not ready yet.”
“But I’ll be sixteen tomorrow. When?”
“What’s the hurry?”
“Well, I sort of promised Gran when she came to me in the forest.” Jamie studied his lap, cheeks getting pink now.
“You never told me that.” Rosie was surprised, and a little offended he’d kept it back.
“I haven’t told anyone except you just now. It’s really a private sort of thing, don’t you think?”
“Yes. I suppose so.” She took a deep breath. Patience. This went deep with him.
“I’ve got an idea. Sarah doesn’t have enough to do. Why don’t we ask her to work with you on your reading and writing? You’d be helping her feel better.”
“You don’t want to do it anymore, do you? You’re bored with me.” He looked her straight on, no tears, and no quivering chin. He sensed how she felt, but she’d have to lie.
“Of course I’m not bored with you, you’re my brother.” She patted his shoulder, but he shrugged off her hand. Feeling startled and annoyed and guilty, she slapped her palms on the desk and said in her brightest voice, “Tell you what. We’ll make a list of things you want to talk about. Then, when you’re ready, Sarah can help you can fill them in with the details. You know, like chapters.” Good thought, get this out of his head and off her back for a while.
“That’s a wonderful idea. That would mean I’ve at least made a start before a new year starts.” Happy again, so easy to please.
“All right. One word ideas to write about when you can.”
Jamie drew the pad towards her. She didn’t fancy his pencil, chewed soggy on the end, and rummaged around in the desk drawer for another.
“I might not get them in the right order.”
“That’s fine, we can switch them around later. Just get started.”
“Here goes: Christmas. I never knew Christmas was done this way, so lovely, so quiet and happy. I dreamed of Gran on Christmas Eve, you know, so she wasn’t left out.”
Rosie’s impatience died as she watched his bright face and wide honest eyes.
“I’m glad you are happy here, Jamie, very glad you are my brother now.”
“Now, let me see.” He chewed on his thumb as he thought.
“I know what should come next. Being honest. Did you get that?” Rosie nodded. “Being kind. Then only keeping right secrets.”
“Is that the end, Jamie?”
Jamie turned his big eyes on her and smiled like a cherub.
“Just one more. Making babies.”
“What? You can’t put that in your book! What do you know about making babies?” What the dickens is this about?
“Oh, you’ve gone all
pink. I saw some sheep once, and Evans told me what they were doing and why they were doing it. It’s important to make babies.”
“And it’s important not to talk about it. People don’t, not in polite society. I’m not writing that down.”
“But my book isn’t only for polite society. It’s for all the other ones, too.”
When did he get so stubborn? “Well, I’m not writing it down!”
“Then I suppose I’ll just have to wait for Sarah. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
He was walking out on her, having a little tantrum. What cheek!
* * *
Jamie snuggled under his blankets and thought about his book. Funny how Rosie didn’t like the baby part. But no, now he thought about it, he’d realized before she wouldn’t like anything to do with that sort of thing. Anyway, it was his book, and Sarah was different, he could tell. He’d noticed her watching her visitors, as if she wasn’t part of anything going on around her. She had suffered a lot, and she had lost family like him. She had lost a leg and he had lost his cleverness before he was even born. All that losing made people think about things in a different way. Their important things were different from other people’s important things.
He had a good idea for the book. He’d think of one person to fit each bit—chapter Rosie called it—and talk about them and how they behaved. Some would be there because they’d got it right, and some because they hadn’t.
He mustn’t write anything to make people know about him and Betty. Better stick to the sheep. Mustn’t write anything bad about people still alive. Could make pretend names for them.
Rosie, now. The kindness chapter? She was very kind to him, but sometimes impatient and cross. Got bored easily, especially with him these days, and that made him sad. She used to want to be with him all the time, but not anymore. She was always complaining about the war too. The soldiers had the hardest job, and she didn’t have any hard things to do. And she liked a lot of things that don’t really matter. But she was mostly kind, and he loved her. His sister.
Wickedness, he only just thought of that. That was Hitler—no need to say Mister Hitler. He was even worse than Roy and Bernhardt. Jamie sometimes listened to Mr. Churchill when the family gathered around the wireless in the evenings. In the best talk, Mr. Churchill called Hitler a “monster of wickedness” and said he was a “bloodthirsty guttersnipe.” He’d had to practice that last one to remember for later. It sounded super. Hitler had gone to war in Russia when he’d promised Mr. Stalin he wouldn’t. And he’d done it without telling him first, which was against the rules. So he’d broken a serious promise and broken big rules. And made people die all the time. Hitler liked to paint pictures, though. He’d heard Lady Audrey mention it to Sir Geoffrey, who’d made a rude noise.
He should write about George, too. He’d have to think of another word for George. Silence? He made noises, though. Goodness? Yes, as far as Jamie knew. Who knew what he really thought about things, all locked up in that twisty body.
Friend. That was not a word for Jamie. He’d abandoned George, and that had to stop as soon as the holidays were over. He could come to his lessons with Sarah. And eat cake when there was any. There’d be cake tomorrow. He’d ask Sir Geoffrey about getting George over here for his birthday. Stop putting him off, stop leaving him until last. Would George be cross or sad? Jamie had not been a good friend.
Honesty. Sir Geoffrey. But he was always in his office talking secrets, or at least that’s what Rosie said. He’d acted honest with Jamie, though. A very good man. And honesty was not Jamie.
He leaned over the side of his bed and pulled a handkerchief out of the space between the two mattresses. He uncurled it and gazed at the lovely shining ring. He slipped it on his finger and held it this way and that so it picked up the light from his lamp. He’d left the little girl’s necklace back at the farm and he missed playing with that sparkly bracelet Gran had given him. Had anyone found it under his bed? Did another boy or girl play with it now?
Biffy’s secret sparkly bear heart must stay a secret, just in case. Roy stole it from Gran and Jamie stole it—no, took it—from Roy. No one to remember that brooch anymore. He’d been very good, though, done nothing until Lady Audrey left this ring in the downstairs cloakroom. After washing her hands, probably. She hadn’t mentioned it, not that he’d heard.
He couldn’t keep it. There was no safe place to hide it. And what would happen to him if they found it in his room? They turned the mattresses every now and then. No, he would have to drop it somewhere. Maybe in the garden. No, in her car. No, behind the toilet in the cloakroom. Yes, then she’d remember taking it off there and it might have rolled across the floor. He couldn’t have Sir Geoffrey and all of them looking at him with disappointed faces.
He couldn’t keep it. Mustn’t keep it. Put it back tomorrow.
A little of this and a little of that. That’s people. Perhaps he should wait to write his book, spend another year getting more clever.
He jumped as Betty knocked and barged in and almost dropped the ring as he shoved it back in its place. He loved to feel her bump, and the best thing was when the baby moved. She said it kicked, but how did she know it was a foot and not a hand? Perhaps it wanted to say hello, even to shake hands.
“Got a nice cup of tea for you, dear. I’ll start your fire too.”
“Betty, I miss you, I miss all of that … you know. You are so big and lovely and soft.”
“I’ll need another baby later, Jamie. You’ll just have to wait for a year.”
“But I can’t wait that long.”
“Well, I suppose we can have a little cuddle and see what happens.”
She heaved herself onto the bed and took him in her arms. Soon, he found himself drowning again, or was it more like flying? Best to stop thinking at times like these. Even clever people have to stop thinking sometimes, only feel and do.
Just knowing that is clever.
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