‘Yes, miss.’
When she had gone, David reached out across the attic bedroom, grasped his little brother’s hand. ‘We’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Don’t cry any more. It’s fun in the country. Everyone says so.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Daniel. But he was quieter now, exhausted with crying; he fell asleep holding David’s hand. David didn’t go to sleep; he lay looking out at the fading light, trying to be brave, trying to remember he was the oldest, that at five he had to set an example, trying not to think of leaving his mother at King’s Cross, of hugging her desperately, trying not to cling, but not being able to tear himself away from her, from the warmth of her, the safe familiar smell of her, then having to make way so Daniel could kiss her, watching her holding his brother to her, trying not to cry, looking so pretty in her pale blue coat and her bright red lipstick, much prettier than all the other mothers. And then the fat lady in the beret had come along, the one who had earlier ticked off their names in her book, given them a carrier bag each, and said, ‘Follow me, now, all of you,’ and Mum had said, ‘Be brave now, David, be a big brave boy,’ and he had swallowed the lump in his throat because he wanted her to be proud of him, and held Daniel’s hand very tightly, trying to dry his tears at the same time with his dirty handkerchief, and off they had gone in a great crowd of other children, some crying, some showing off, all with their names pinned to their chests and their rucksacks on their backs, and their gas masks. He had looked back finally, as they were shepherded onto the train, to this far, far-away place called – what was it called? – York-something, and he could hardly see his mother, so lost was she in the crush, pressed against the iron gates, but he could see her pale blue arm waving, so he knew she was still there, and then he was pushed into a carriage, still holding Daniel tightly, and when he turned round all the places at the window had gone and he couldn’t see her any more.
They had travelled all day, first a long train journey, followed by another, and then a bus, finally finishing up in this hall place, and they had had to wait to be chosen by their foster-mothers as they called them. Some of them had looked quite nice, but theirs had a mean, stern face, that was fat at the same time, a bit like Miss Barrington at school. David knew that they were lucky in one respect: they hadn’t been separated. Two other boys had been wrenched apart peremptorily and sent off in different directions, both crying. Their lady, whose name was Mrs Harris, had taken them back to what she called their billet; it was a small, rather dirty cottage down a street she called a lane. She’d shown them where the lav was, outside at the bottom of the garden, and their room which wasn’t really a room, just a space in the roof, an attic, with beds made up on the floor, and told them they would be expected to work hard for their keep. David didn’t want to argue with that, but he knew she was getting seven and six a week each for them, he’d heard his dad say so, but he did say Daniel was only three, too little to work, and she’d said not too little to do things in the house he wasn’t. ‘And you can help in the garden, and around the place. My husband works on the farm, there’s always too much to do here.’
She’d also taken the two half-crowns their father had given them that morning ‘for emergencies’; David tried to explain, but she said she’d need them for all the extras she’d had to buy. That was very hard to bear; worse was when she’d taken Daniel’s sucky, the old nappy he needed to get to sleep, saying it was filthy and she wasn’t having it in the house until it was sterilized. At least she hadn’t found the two tiny threadbare teddies they’d got in the bottom of their rucksacks, or David was sure she’d take them too.
And then she’d given them what she called tea, a couple of slices of bread and jam and mugs of tea, and sent them up to bed. It had been, he’d looked at the clock carefully, just after five …
Charles had gone; he was at Sandhurst, doing his basic training with the army. He would be there for two or three months before being sent to his battalion. He had joined the Royal Wiltshires as a lieutenant and had been assured that in the space of a very few months he would be promoted to captain, possibly major.
Grace was terribly proud of him even while she was sad: that he had not hesitated for a day, or at any rate not since Clifford was pronounced out of immediate danger. She had cried for a brief while in his arms in bed the night before he went, had clung to him after he made love to her, to have something to remember – although of course he would be home again, more than once probably, before he was sent anywhere remotely dangerous – and then had waved him off bravely, gaily in the morning before going back into the house and wandering round and round it in a black misery that was not only to do with Charles going away from her.
It was mid-October now; Clifford was home, in a convalescent unit created in the house by Muriel on the ground floor, with a full-time nurse to care for him. He was very weak still, but recovering steadily; Dr Hardacre had told him he was the luckiest man in England. Grace spent a long time there, reading to him, planning changes to the Mill House garden with his help, or just sitting with him sewing while he listened to the wireless. He loved music as much as she did, and she liked to pick out concerts on the Third Programme that she knew they would both enjoy, get a tray ready with tea and biscuits, make an occasion of it. It tended to make Muriel cross, but neither of them cared.
Charles had spent the morning after they had arrived in the London office trying among other things to contact the mysterious Mary Saunders, had trawled the firm’s files; he had found nothing, he told his mother, but no doubt something would emerge in a day or two. ‘Or the Sister at the hospital will get something more tangible for us.’
Nothing emerged and the Sister didn’t; ‘a mystery,’ said Charles to Muriel, ‘but obviously she was something to do with work, maybe a typist or something.’
He looked less cheerfully confident than he sounded; Muriel accepted the explanation, but Grace didn’t.
‘Charles,’ she said quietly to him that evening, after Muriel had gone to bed, ‘who do you think this Mary Saunders is? You don’t think – well—’ Her voice trailed away.
Charles glowered at her. ‘I don’t think what?’ he said, heavily irritable. ‘What are you trying to say, Grace?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
‘Yes you are.’
‘Well, I just wondered if she – well, you know, Charles, if she—’
‘If you’re trying to imply that there was something unsavoury going on between my father and this woman, Grace, I would urge you very strongly to reconsider.’
She had never seen him look so angry; she was quite frightened. ‘No, of course not,’ she said, ‘of course not.’
‘Good. Because not only would I find it immensely offensive that you should think that of my father, but it would greatly distress my mother.’
‘Charles, all right,’ said Grace, ‘let’s forget it. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought. I mean that’s what you thought I thought.’
‘This is a ridiculous conversation,’ said Charles shortly. ‘Let’s stop it at once, shall we?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Grace meekly.
But it didn’t alter her basic suspicions.
Robert had not volunteered for the army; he had said that he would go, of course, when he was called up, but until then he would work on in London. Florence was still a little fragile, he didn’t want to leave her, he was terribly busy, and – he added to Muriel to whom he was imparting this information – it required a fair amount of courage to stay in the capital at all.
Grace couldn’t help feeling a slight touch of amused satisfaction at this; if Florence was still conducting her affair, she must be dying for Robert to go.
Florence did come down to stay for a few days once her father was home; Muriel said she would like to have her, and that London was dangerous. It didn’t seem in the least dangerous; people were amused at their own early panic, as the bombs and the gas attacks failed to arrive, and the regulations seemed more ridi
culous every day. Cinemas, closed with much drama, began to open again; masks were provided for car headlights, and the use of torches was permitted, providing their beams were muffled with two layers of tissue paper. ‘Honestly,’ Florence said, ‘you’re in more danger of being run down walking down the street at night than from a bomb.’
She looked better, Grace thought, not so thin, but she was still very jumpy, starting every time the phone rang, sitting tensely by the wireless listening to the news each night.
‘What are you going to do,’ Grace asked her, ‘when Robert is called up? Come and stay with your mother?’
‘Oh – I don’t know,’ said Florence vaguely. ‘I might stay in London, I want to work for the Red Cross. One of my friends said she was sure they’d welcome me.’
‘Florence, you are not staying in London on your own,’ said Muriel firmly. ‘I wouldn’t know a moment’s peace. You can work for the Red Cross down here, I’m sure, if you want to be useful.’
‘Mother, I really don’t know what I’m going to do,’ said Florence. ‘Clarissa said I could go and stay with her if I liked, I don’t have to be alone.’
‘Well, that’s nonsense too,’ said Muriel. ‘You’re not going to be any safer just because the two of you are together. What’s Clarissa planning to do anyway? I imagined she’d go and be with her own mother.’
‘She’s talking about going in the Wrens,’ said Florence, ‘but Jack’s a bit against it.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Muriel, ‘although knowing Clarissa I can’t imagine that will stop her.’ As always when she was talking about Clarissa an indulgent note came into her voice.
‘What I’d like to do,’ said Grace tentatively, feeling herself rather left out of all this, ‘is take in some evacuees.’
There was a silence, then: ‘What an appalling idea,’ said Muriel.
‘Why?’ said Grace boldly. ‘There’s a great deal of room at the Mill House, and there are so many of them needing homes. Poor little things,’ she added. They looked so lost the other day. I saw a coachload arrive, really tiny some of them, clinging to their brothers and sisters, trying not to cry.’
‘My dear, a lot of them come from the most appalling slums,’ said Muriel. ‘I heard that they all have headlice and wet their beds, and in fact Mrs Tucker was saying that the two her daughter has taken in just – well – relieve themselves on the floor. You couldn’t possibly have children like that in the Mill House.’
‘I dare say they could be educated quite quickly to use the lavatory,’ said Grace firmly, ‘and one could get rid of the headlice. It just seemed to be something I could do.’
‘Well, of course, Charles might agree,’ said Muriel, looking at her as if she might have headlice herself, ‘but I very much doubt it.’
‘I can’t see that it’s got a lot to do with Charles,’ said Grace. ‘Actually. As he won’t be there.’
‘Of course it has,’ said Muriel. ‘It’s his house that you would be bringing these creatures into. And when he comes home on leave, he will need peace and quiet, not the place turned into some kind of children’s hostel.’
Grace was silent. But the next day she telephoned the town hall in Shaftesbury and asked for details about the evacuee scheme.
After six weeks at Sandhurst, Charles came home on a forty-eight-hour pass; he looked tired and a bit thinner, but he was good-humoured and full of funny stories about his new life.
‘I’m enjoying it,’ he said to Grace, over dinner the first night, ‘marvellous spirit of camaraderie, you know. I almost wish I’d thought of the army as a career.’
‘Goodness,’ said Grace.
‘Rather see myself as a major general. How would you like that, darling? Being a lady of the regiment. No, that’s not right, makes you sound like the regimental trollop.’
He was rather drunk; he would never have said anything so crude if he’d been sober. He had already got through more than a bottle of claret over dinner and two very large gin and tonics beforehand. He put out his hand and took hers, raised it to his lips. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, ‘I’ve really missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too,’ said Grace truthfully.
‘Let’s have some coffee, shall we, darling, and then have an early night?’
‘Yes. Yes of course.’
Out in the kitchen, she sighed inwardly; sex with Charles when he was drunk was even more predictable, less sensitive than when he was sober. Maybe if he had a couple of brandies he’d just fall asleep – she crushed the thought decisively, shocked at herself. Her husband had been away for six weeks, and here she was begrudging him – what was the official name for them? – his conjugal rights. What sort of a wife was she? She carried the tray in, smiling determinedly.
‘Here you are, darling. Any news yet as to where you might go?’
‘No, not really. France I imagine.’
Another silence; he pulled heavily on his cigar.
‘I was talking to your mother. According to Florence, there’s nothing happening in London at all,’ said Grace. ‘All the cinemas are reopening, and the restaurants and so on. The only difference, she says, is that the roads are deserted, because of the petrol rationing, and the policemen are in tin hats of course, instead of their helmets. Otherwise you’d never notice anything out of the ordinary.’
‘I didn’t realize Florence had set herself up as a kind of unofficial war reporter,’ said Charles; but he looked more cheerful again, poured himself another brandy – that must be the third, Grace thought. ‘Anyway she’s missed the biggest change. Buckingham Palace guard in khaki. Bit of a shame that.’
‘How do you know?’ said Grace. ‘You haven’t been to London, have you?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Charles. ‘Every soldier knows that, Grace. Most important military change this century.’ He had moved closer to her again, was massaging her thigh. ‘Darling, hurry up and drink your coffee, and let’s go up.’
Sex that night, as she had feared, was more mechanical, more emotionless than she could ever remember. She was beginning to worry about it, to think that she wasn’t giving Charles any pleasure; she had even tried to broach the subject, but he had discouraged it, said it wasn’t for her to do anything, that was his department, everything was fine. She was also finding the absolute predictability of his performances the opposite of exciting, was finding herself resenting the fact that he could make her come without apparent effort, could control his own orgasm totally, waiting until she had finished, then releasing himself moments later and promptly turning over and falling asleep. Increasingly, as she lay beneath him, responding almost unwillingly, she felt like some well-trained animal, doing what its master told it.
‘I wondered,’ she said, smiling brightly at Charles over the breakfast table, ‘if you’d like to ask your parents over for lunch. I’ve got a big piece of beef, and I expect your father would like it, like to come out. He’s strong enough now.’
‘Why not?’ he said, smiling back at her. He seemed completely unaware that she might have been anything but perfectly content the night before. ‘Got a bit of a head this morning. I might go for a walk. Want to come, darling?’
‘No, I think I’d better stay and do the lunch,’ said Grace. ‘Otherwise I would have come. I love walking. Which reminds me, Charles, I’d like to get a dog. I’d feel less alone somehow. And safer,’ she added.
‘Good idea. Only do get something decent, a lab or something. No point having some little runt.’ The implication was very clear: that she was quite liable to buy a little runt, something rather less than aristocratic. ‘Get my mother to help you choose one.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Grace. She had actually longed for a cocker spaniel, and she certainly didn’t want any dog that Muriel might think suitable, but she was so relieved he had agreed that she wasn’t going to argue. ‘I’ll talk to her about it today.’
‘Grace wants a dog, Mother,’ said Charles, over the beef. It was slightly overdone,
and Grace feared he was going to complain about it. It had been so difficult to time everything, it being Janet’s day off, and the potatoes had been a bit hard so she’d had to leave it in for an extra ten minutes. But he didn’t, was eating it very cheerfully, had even remarked it was nice and tender. ‘I said you’d help her get one. If you don’t mind, that is,’ he added.
‘Of course,’ said Muriel. ‘Good idea. You’d be best off with a lab, Grace, a black one, like Marcus. Joan Durrant’s bitch is a splendid animal. She’s just whelped so we could go over and have a look at the litter this week. I’ll have a word with her.’
‘I really would rather have a long-haired dog,’ said Grace, trying to sound firm rather than defiant. ‘I thought a spaniel, or maybe a setter.’
‘Oh you don’t want anything long-haired,’ said Muriel. ‘Get caught up in the undergrowth and they’re always filthy. And setters are stupid creatures, and they stray. No, you have one of Joan’s puppies. Ideal for your purpose, and Charles likes them too.’
‘But—’
‘Grace darling, if there’s one thing Mother knows about it’s dogs,’ said Charles. ‘You let her advise you. And labs are so sensible, and so easy to train. And Joan’s puppies are always beauties. Never any hip problems or anything like that—’
‘But I really don’t terribly like black labradors,’ said Grace, making a last desperate stab. ‘I’d at least like a golden one if—’
‘Grace darling, this will be my dog too,’ said Charles, an end-of-the-subject note in his voice.
Grace told Clifford, quite casually, that she was thinking of going to London to do some shopping and asked him if there was anything he’d like her to get him while she was there. She had meant no more than that; but it occurred to her, even as she suggested it, that he might want a message delivered or even a letter posted to the mysterious Mary Saunders.
She was right: Clifford looked at her for a moment or two, then he said, ‘Sweet of you, my dear, but I have everything I need. There is one thing though – I might ask you a small favour.’
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