‘Yes?’ said Grace.
‘I’ve a letter I’d like posted. It’s to – to a client of mine. If Muriel thought I was – well, doing anything remotely connected with work, she’d have me under lock and key literally, with the nurse as jailer. I wonder’ – he hesitated, went slightly pink – ‘I wonder if I could ask you to do that for me?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Grace, smiling at him. ‘That would be fine. Do you want to give it to me now?’
‘Yes, please. If that would be all right. Now not a word to Muriel.’
‘Of course not,’ said Grace. ‘And Clifford, if you – well, if you wanted any urgent letters sent to you, you could always have them addressed here. That would be quite all right.’
‘Sweet of you, my dear. I would try not to bother you, but of course in an emergency – well, thank you. Now here we are – all stamped, as you see.’
He gave her the letter; as she had expected, it was addressed to Mrs Mary Saunders. The address, which she really couldn’t not look at, was in Hammersmith.
She felt fairly certain there was more to the relationship than a business one, but if that was the story Clifford was happy with, then she had no intention of embarrassing him by saying so. Allowing him to use her as postmistress seemed a very small return for all his kindness to her. She wondered if Mrs Saunders was a past girlfriend. Or even a present one. The thought made her giggle. If she was married to Muriel, she’d want a little light relief.
Charles was awarded a week’s leave over Christmas, then he was to go to France. He had promised to be home on the day before Christmas Eve, but he phoned that morning, saying he had to stay an extra day. ‘Be back tomorrow night, darling. Along with Santa.’
‘But Charles,’ said Grace, aware she sounded fretful, unable to help it, ‘that’s nearly two extra days. Will they make it up to you at the end?’
‘Grace, of course not. There’s a war on. I do assure you I’m as disappointed as you are.’
She was looking forward to Christmas. Muriel had persuaded Florence and Robert to come, and had also – Grace suspected at Clifford’s suggestion – invited her parents for Christmas lunch, and however fraught with tension that might be, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about them on their own.
She was trimming the small tree she had bought and set up in the hall a week before Christmas when the phone rang; Janet came and said it was Mrs Grieg.
‘Who? Hallo? Oh, Florence!’ said Grace. She was astonished.
Florence had never rung her, never made the slightest attempt to be more than coolly friendly.
‘Yes, hallo, Grace. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine, Florence. And you?’
‘I’m all right, thanks.’ She sounded rather bright and brittle, and – what? Embarrassed. ‘Look, Grace. I wondered if I – well – could ask you a bit of a favour.’
‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Grace carefully.
‘Could I come and stay with you, at the Mill House, for a couple of days after Christmas? On my own I mean: Robert’s got to get back, he’s terribly busy, and I’d like to stay down for a bit longer, but I don’t think I could stand too much of Mother just at the moment.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace. She didn’t quite know how to react.
‘Well, she does go on and on about my coming to live down here when Robert’s gone and I really don’t want to’ – (No, thought Grace, I’m sure you don’t) – ‘and it’s beginning to get on my nerves. I thought if I said I wanted to spend a bit of time with you and Charles she wouldn’t mind too much. Would that be all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so,’ said Grace. She was completely baffled by this request; the story sounded so unlikely, and Florence never seemed to take the slightest notice of her mother; Grace couldn’t imagine her allowing Muriel to get on her nerves. On the other hand, she couldn’t think of any other reason for Florence wanting to stay with them; in fact surely if she was still seeing her man-friend she’d want to get back to London.
‘Thanks very much. I’ll come over on Boxing evening if I may. Well, goodbye, Grace. Looking forward to seeing you,’ she added, in so transparent an afterthought that Grace almost laughed.
‘Yes, you too, Florence. Well, till Christmas then.’
‘Yes. Oh, by the way, I may be a bit of a liability to you all. I’ve sprained my wrist. Fell over on the icy steps yesterday. Can’t cut up my food very well. And I’ve got a great bruise developing on my forehead as well. So silly. Bye, Grace.’
‘Goodbye, Florence. I’m sorry to hear—’ But Florence had rung off. She really did seem to have a great propensity for hurling herself down steps and stairs, thought Grace; which led her to wonder when or if Florence would find herself in the position of having to have another baby and how she might resolve what was clearly going to be a rather knotty little problem.
Charles didn’t actually arrive on Christmas Eve; he phoned after midnight, as a near-hysterical Grace sat by the fire visualizing car or train crashes on icy roads or rails, a sudden military crisis necessitating his departure for France, a car turned over in a ditch in the blackout.
‘Darling, it’s me!’ he shouted down the crackling line, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but we’ve been delayed, and it’s impossible to get anywhere now. Much too dangerous. I’ll leave really early in the morning, be with you by lunchtime. As long as I don’t get lost. These beastly road signs being turned round doesn’t help. Sorry I didn’t ring before – simply couldn’t get through. What? Oh darling, don’t be absurd. There is a war on, you know.’
And Grace went to bed alone, not sure whether her prime emotion was rage, relief or misery, trying to tell herself there was indeed a war on, that she had to expect these things, and at the same time wondering why it had been so impossible for him to at least phone earlier in the day. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t been told of this delay until after he was supposed to leave for home. She finally fell asleep at five, into a confused dream whereby she was in a bus driven by Robert down endless dark icy lanes. Florence was on the back seat with her boyfriend, kissing him, and her task was to keep Robert from turning round and seeing them. Charles didn’t seem to figure in the dream at all.
Charles finally reached the Priory at half past one on Christmas Day; he looked shattered, but very cheerful, still in uniform, and hugged and kissed her most tenderly in the front drive before producing an improbably large pile of presents out of the boot of the MG. After lunch, during which he talked a great deal, he distributed them with great and rather touching pride: a silk scarf for Grace, and another for her mother, cigars for her father, perfume for Florence and Muriel, a tie for Robert and a first edition of Bleak House for his father.
‘Charles, how extravagant!’ said Clifford, examining this last with huge pleasure. ‘They must be paying you very handsomely in the army. Have you been made up to brigadier already, dear boy?’
‘No, but I’ll be major by the time we leave for France,’ said Charles. ‘How do you feel about that, Grace darling? Aren’t you proud of me?’
‘Terribly,’ said Grace. ‘Charles, wherever did you get all these lovely things? I thought the shops were empty.’
‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘in London, months ago. We had to go up for a regimental dinner.’
‘Good for the regiment,’ said Grace, smiling at him. She had quite forgiven him. She hadn’t yet told him about Florence coming, but she thought he would probably be pleased.
Florence had been quiet, but seemed cheerful; Robert was very attentive, cutting up all her food for her, enquiring constantly if her wrist hurt. The bruise on her forehead was fading to an interestingly variegated blend of green and purple; she also, Grace noticed, had a second one on her kneecap which made her limp and was clearly painful. It had obviously been a hard, bad fall.
Muriel asked Robert about his call-up; he said he hadn’t yet heard, and that it was all a bit slower than everyone had thought. ‘Apparently there’s a shortage of uniform
and arms, only no one’s meant to know that, of course.’ He was hoping to join the Sappers, he said, he’d always fancied himself as a bit of an engineer, but as long as he saw some active service that was all he really cared about. ‘My father was killed at Mons. I’m looking forward to redressing the balance.’
It seemed to Grace a rather chilling remark, a cold-blooded determination to kill, unlike the affectionate, tactile Robert she knew. But if you had grown up without a father you probably felt pretty cold-blooded about it. She looked at Florence, to check her reaction, but she was rather determinedly reading the Radio Times. ‘We mustn’t miss the King’s broadcast,’ she said.
They were all sitting in the drawing room having tea when there was a ring at the front door; Clifford caught Grace’s eye, winked at her and said, ‘I’ll get that.’
He walked slowly out of the room; there was then a lot of laughter, and a yelping sound, and he came in again with a rather wriggly bundle in his arms, covered with a blanket.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘this has just arrived. Grace, my dear, it is for you. She is for you, I should say, I don’t mean to insult her. Here she is, with my love, a token of my gratitude for all those concerts you arranged for me. Happy Christmas.’
And into Grace’s arms he deposited a small silken copper-coloured creature; it was trembling slightly, but as she stroked it tenderly, and bent, laughing, to kiss its head, it reached up and first sniffed and then rather tentatively licked her nose.
‘She’s called Maplethorpe Bougainvillaea,’ said Clifford, ‘but I expect you might go for something rather shorter.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace, looking up at him through a blur of tears. She had never quite dared to hope the puppy was going to materialize. ‘Oh, Clifford, she’s so lovely. Thank you so much. I love her. Really, really love her. I’m going to call her’ – her mind roved for some thing tactful, something gracious that would in some way balance out the undoubted irritation that Charles must be feeling – ‘Charlotte. Yes, that’s it, Charlotte, so she’ll never forget her master the major, even when he is away.’
‘She’ll cause you a lot of trouble,’ said Muriel irritably; but even her face softened into a near smile as the small creature slithered out of Grace’s arms and wandered floppily towards her, and Charles, mellowed with a great deal of port, reached out for the puppy and then fell fast asleep by the fire with her in his arms, a most indulgent smile on his face.
‘What a lovely Christmas,’ said Betty as she and Frank prepared to leave an hour or so later. ‘Thank you so much for inviting us, Muriel. Let us hope and pray that by this time next year the war will be over.’
‘Amen,’ said Clifford, very soberly.
Chapter 8
Winter–Spring 1940
Charles had gone and Grace had felt genuine pain as the MG disappeared down the lane. He would be home once more before he was sent to France, but only for twenty-four hours; the war, which up to Christmas had seemed so remote, almost unbelievable, was suddenly becoming real, painful and frightening.
She went back into the house, called Charlotte, and sat cuddling her in the big chair by the drawing-room fire. She felt very alone.
‘Grace! Grace, are you all right?’
It was Florence; her expression as she looked at Grace was genuinely concerned. Grace was surprised.
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so,’ she said. She wasn’t about to enter into a soul-baring exercise with Florence.
‘Can I get you a drink? Nice cup of tea, as Maureen would say. Cigarette?’
‘No. No, really,’ said Grace. She straightened herself up, set Charlotte on the floor; she promptly squatted down and did a puddle.
‘Oh how sweet,’ said Florence rather absently. ‘Shouldn’t you mop it up?’
Grace fetched a cloth, mopped up the puddle and was rather ineffectively rubbing at the carpet – ‘Try soda water,’ Florence suggested helpfully from the sofa – when the phone rang.
‘I’ll get that,’ said Florence, jumping up. It was the first time she had moved all morning. ‘Don’t worry.’
There was a brief conversation; then Florence came in looking faintly awkward. ‘Grace, would you be all right if I went out for the day tomorrow? That was Clarissa – apparently her godmother isn’t too well and she’s asked me to go and visit her. Over at Bath. You know how fond of her she is.’
‘Oh. Oh yes, of course,’ said Grace, Florence’s visit suddenly made perfect and utter sense to her; had she proffered this story to her mother, Muriel would have insisted on going with her, driving her there. ‘Yes I do. Of course I’ll be all right. I’d rather be on my own. Actually.’
‘Good. Now the thing is I can’t drive, with this wretched wrist, but Mrs Hartington, that’s the godmother, is sending over her chauffeur. Isn’t that sweet of her? Now are you sure you don’t mind, don’t think I’m terribly rude?’
‘No of course not,’ said Grace briefly. ‘No, you must go. How very sweet of you, Florence.’
‘Oh I don’t mind,’ said Florence. ‘She’s a wonderfully amusing old lady. I love listening to her,’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Grace. Florence looked sharply at her, but Grace smiled. She was slightly tempted to ask if she could go too, just to frighten her.
There seemed little doubt that visiting the godmother was genuinely at least part of the trip; a very beautiful light grey Rolls Bentley pulled up in the Mill House drive next morning, and a uniformed chauffeur came to the door and asked for Mrs Grieg.
‘Goodbye, Grace,’ said Florence, kissing her briefly. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’
She must be very excited, Grace thought; Florence had never kissed her before.
It was after tea when the phone rang. It was Florence; she sounded strained.
‘Grace, it’s me. Look, Grace, I’ve got in a bit of a hole. The chauffeur can’t bring me back tonight in the blackout, and of course there aren’t any buses. So I’m staying here. Is that all right?’
‘Florence, of course it’s all right,’ said Grace, feeling rather sick. ‘You do whatever you like.’
There was a silence, while Florence was obviously digesting this, then she said, ‘I don’t know what you mean, Grace, it’s not what I like. I can’t get back.’
‘No,’ said Grace, ‘so you said.’
Another silence, then: ‘Well, goodbye then, Grace, I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, and by the way, if by any chance, any chance at all Robert rings and wants me, could you explain? But I’m sure he won’t. Bye, Grace.’
And the line went dead before Grace could ask her for the telephone number.
She went into the kitchen and most unusually poured herself a stiff whisky. The thought of what Florence was doing, the risks she was running, made her feel very frightened. Supposing Robert did phone, supposing he then tried to ring Mrs Hartington; it couldn’t be that difficult to get her phone number. Clarissa would have it, Muriel might even have it. And then presumably Florence wouldn’t be there. Surely not even a godmother of Clarissa’s would lie for her to that extent? Grace spent the whole evening dreading Robert’s call, the sound of the phone ringing, but it remained most conveniently and steadfastly silent.
Until the morning, when Robert did ring.
‘I told him you were in Shaftesbury, shopping,’ said Grace briefly, when Florence finally arrived back at lunchtime, flustered, embarrassed, dropped off, she said, at the end of the lane ‘by a sweet friend of Mrs Hartington’s’. ‘I don’t know why I should lie for you, Florence, but I did. So you’d better know that. When you speak to him.’
‘Grace,’ said Florence tentatively, ‘Grace—’
‘Look, Florence,’ said Grace, ‘I don’t care what you do. It so happens I saw you one day in London, with – well, it wasn’t Robert. But I do mind having to lie on your behalf. And most of all I mind you treating me like a fool. So please don’t in future, because I’m not.’
There was a long silence; then Florence said slowly, hesitantly, as if it
was hugely difficult, painful even to begin, ‘Grace, please, I think I ought to try and explain – to make you understand—’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Grace, ‘and I do understand. Rather too well.’
‘Grace,’ said Florence, and her voice was ineffably weary and sad, her angular face softened and more fragile, ‘Grace, I do assure you you don’t understand. You really don’t.’
She left that afternoon, without either of them mentioning the subject again.
‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’ said Ben. ‘I can’t see that we are, Linda, not any more. It’s not dangerous at all up here, is it? Safe as houses.’
‘Yeah, till the houses get bombed,’ said Linda. ‘Oh Ben, I really don’t know. It seems all right at the moment, yes, of course it does. But once you’ve gone for good—’ She looked at him, laughed slightly awkwardly. ‘Oh Ben, I didn’t mean that. I meant once you’d gone off to France or wherever. Then what?’
‘Well, I know. But I’d rather think of the three of you all together. I really would.’
‘What, with the bombs raining down?’
‘Linda, they’re not going to rain. Specially not if I’m in France.’
‘No,’ said Linda, ‘you’ll keep them all at bay, won’t you, Ben Lucas? Won’t get a chance if you’re there.’
Ben sighed, got up, walked over to the window, looked out at the narrow street, where David and Daniel were playing football with several other small boys. ‘I hated it,’ he said, ‘when they first came home. They seemed so – changed. Little Dan, so jumpy. David so quiet. They’ve just got better, cheered up and now we’re sending them back again.’
‘Well, we don’t have to,’ said Linda, ‘of course. But they looked all right. You said so yourself. Daniel’s grown about three inches and never stops talking about his rabbit, and they’ve both got a wonderful colour. You know how kids talk, like to make up stories, get sympathy. If these people were really as bad as they said, they wouldn’t look like they do.’ But her voice lacked conviction; she hated them being away.
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