‘Yes, ’tis broken,’ said Constable Johnson. ‘Thought so. You’d best take her to John Roberts, Mrs Bennett.’
‘I’m going to,’ said Grace, ‘right away.’ She picked the box up; Charlotte licked her face. ‘Thank you for making her so comfortable, it was very kind of you.’
‘I didn’t do nothing,’ said Constable Johnson. ‘Don’t have time for looking after stray animals. You get a collar for her, Mrs Bennett.’
‘Yes I will, and thank you anyway,’ said Grace, ‘and it was so lucky you had the box and the blanket in the cell.’
She smiled at him sweetly; he blushed and looked sheepish.
‘Come along Charlotte.’
It was only when she had put Charlotte in the back of the car that she realized she was going to have to do a reverse.
All might have been well had not Miss Parker come out of the post office and waved to her; so busy was Grace smiling and waving back, trying to look like someone who had been driving for years, that her foot slipped on the clutch and the car shot backwards and juddered to a halt into the lamp post. She was sitting, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, wondering what on earth she could do, who could save her now, when a voice said, ‘Grace, can I help? And whatever is going on?’
It was Robert.
Clarissa ran up the front steps of her house in Campden Hill Square singing under her breath; she knew she had no business to be singing, when Jack was in such deadly endless danger, when the Germans were about to bound up the beaches and march on London, but she really couldn’t help it, it had been such a beautiful day. She had been told she had a fair chance of being accepted into the WRNS (which she happened to know meant she almost certainly would be), had passed the medical which had been foul, some hamfisted old hag of a doctor mauling her about with freezing cold hands, and her interview board, at which she had admitted cheerfully to being able to do nothing at all except drive and rather unusually, she thought, to ride a motorbike (‘my uncle taught me up on his estate in Scotland, such fun, you can’t imagine’), had told her she would be hearing shortly about her draft if she was accepted, and given her a lot of literature none of which she had had time to read. She felt very excited about the prospect of her new life. She had also had a marvellous lunch with three old friends, caught up on a lot of gossip, and, most important of all, had managed to find a very pretty hat in Harrods, in palest blue straw, for her great friend Lily Maitland’s wedding. It had been horrifically expensive, but never mind; it was going to be the last hat she bought before the end of the war. The last hat she bought ever, probably. She was just fumbling in her bag for her front door key when she saw a figure huddled by the basement steps.
Her first instinct was to hurry inside and call the police, thinking it was a tramp or some other such intruder; then, as she peered down at it (thinking its hair was very shiny for a tramp), it looked up and Florence spoke.
‘Clarissa! Oh thank God you’re back.’
‘Florence! What on earth are you doing there? Oh, here, let me help you up, you look terrible. Florence, whatever is the matter?’
Florence did look terrible; ashen, dishevelled, exhausted. She was wearing a raincoat, and flat shoes, and clutching a small attaché case. She stared at Clarissa and burst into noisy tears.
Clarissa opened the front door, took her hand, led her into the house and through into the kitchen. ‘I’m so sorry, it’s Dorothy’s day off, otherwise she’d have let you in. She’ll be back in a minute, she can make us some supper. You look as if you need it. Sit down and I’ll get us some tea. Or do you want something stronger? Like gin?’
Florence shook her head. ‘Tea’d be much better.’
‘Well, all right. Darling, you’re shaking. Are you cold?’
‘No,’ said Florence, her teeth chattering.
‘Here, have a ciggie. I’m not at all sure I shouldn’t get the doctor. Do you feel ill?’
‘Yes,’ said Florence, pulling herself together with a great effort, lighting the cigarette Clarissa offered her, drawing on it thankfully, ‘I do feel ill. I feel terrible. All the time. But only because I’m pregnant.’
‘You’re pregnant! Florence, what is this, why are you hiding at the bottom of the steps? Does Robert know?’
‘No,’ said Florence. ‘Not yet. But when he does – well, that’s why I was hiding.’
‘Florence, you’re not making any sense. You’ll have to explain.’
There was a silence. Then: ‘It’s – not – Robert’s,’ said Florence, dragging each word out of herself very slowly.
‘Ah,’ said Clarissa. She looked at her friend thoughtfully. ‘Well, whose – I mean you don’t have to tell me, but—’
‘Yes, I do have to tell you. It’ll be wonderful to tell you. To tell anyone, but specially you. No one you know. He’s called Giles. Giles Henry. He’s a musician.’
‘Darling! How very exotic.’
‘Not really. He plays the piano in a nightclub.’
‘Oh how thrilling! I’m sure it’ll be the Albert Hall next.’
‘It might be. He’s very good. I mean he’s had a classical training but anyway, we’ve been – well, you know, for a long time. About – oh, I don’t know, over a year.’
‘So this is what the little drama was about, with my godmother at Christmas? I thought your story about being taken ill in the hotel that night and not getting back was a little far-fetched, darling.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry about that. But I thought it was best not to involve you.’
‘Another time involve away. It’s exciting. But tell me, darling, the other baby wasn’t—?’
‘Oh God no. That was Robert’s.’
‘Oh Florence. What a mess. What are you going to do? Have it – seen to?’
‘I can’t, Clarissa. I haven’t got any money. Not of my own. And of course Giles hasn’t.’
‘Darling, I’ll lend you the money. If you like.’
‘Oh Clarissa, I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.’
‘Of course you could. You have only to ask—’
‘The thing is’ – Florence sighed – ‘it’s probably too late. I’m – well, I’ve missed the curse three times. And I think—’
‘You must see someone tomorrow,’ said Clarissa firmly, ‘only I don’t know who. Do you?’
‘No. No I don’t.’
‘But I know someone who will. Bunty. Bunty Levinson. You know? She’s had at least three. I’ll ring her in a minute. But I still don’t know why you’re at the bottom of my steps.’
‘It’s because Robert is home,’ said Florence. ‘He came home last night. I was ringing and ringing you, I was desperate. Weren’t you here?’
‘We were here,’ said Clarissa, smiling fondly at the memory, ‘but we were awfully busy. And – well, I suppose we just didn’t hear the phone. Oh Florence, darling, I’m so sorry. Where did you go?’
‘I spent the night in some awful hotel,’ said Florence, ‘and then I came here this morning. I’ve been waiting ever since. Where have you been?’
‘Oh darling, I’ve had such a day,’ said Clarissa. ‘First I signed on with the Wrens, stopped talking about it and actually did it, well, applied to anyway, there are huge waiting lists, and then I went out to lunch with some chums. It was too sad, we went to the Berkeley, and the heavenly maître d’hôtel, do you know him? – his name’s Ferraro, has been got rid of in a foul hurry, just because he’s Italian. As if he was going to do any harm, blow up the Berkeley or some thing – he’s been there for donkey’s years. Honestly, this whole country’s going mad. Oh, and then I got a hat for Lily Maitland’s wedding. Are you going?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Florence listlessly, ‘I shouldn’t think so. Oh God, Clarissa, I’m so frightened. Where do you think he is?’
‘You really are frightened, aren’t you?’ said Clarissa, looking tenderly at her shaking hands, her quivering lip. ‘Poor darling. I don’t know. At home I expect.’
‘If he comes here, you w
on’t tell him, will you?’ Florence was crying again, clinging to Clarissa’s hand. ‘Swear to me you won’t tell him.’
‘Of course I won’t. But I don’t see why you’re quite so frightened. Unless –’ she looked at Florence intently, almost afraid to ask the question – ‘he doesn’t – well – hit you, does he?’
Florence looked at her, then got up and walked over to the window, looked out at the evening sky.
‘Yes,’ she said finally, in a very low voice, ‘yes he does. He hits me all the time. He loses his temper and knocks me about. He knocked me down the stairs when I – when I was – well, that’s why I lost the baby.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Clarissa, ‘dear God, Florence, why didn’t you say? Why on earth didn’t you tell someone?’
‘I couldn’t,’ said Florence simply, ‘I really couldn’t. I’ve never told anyone. Not even Giles.’
‘But why? I don’t understand. Why ever not?’
‘I just couldn’t. You don’t understand, Clarissa, no one could who hadn’t gone through it. You feel so frightened all the time and so ashamed. That’s the worst thing. Feeling so ashamed, as if it’s somehow your fault. And he’s so clever. No one would have believed me, I’m sure.’
‘I would have believed you,’ said Clarissa, taking her in her arms, holding her very close. ‘I really would.’
‘I know. I know you would. But – oh, it’s so hard to explain. You feel all the time that if you don’t admit it, it doesn’t happen. And half the time he’s so sorry, says he’ll never do it again, that he loves me. But he’s very, very violent. And very dangerous. I just wish I knew where he was now.’
Chapter 11
Summer–Autumn 1940
‘This is so kind of you,’ said Grace.
She smiled at Robert; he had just come in from collecting Charlotte from the vet. Her leg was in plaster, but she was otherwise in high spirits, hopping round the kitchen looking for food.
‘My pleasure. Really. And the chap’s coming over in the morning to collect the car, do whatever’s necessary. There really isn’t much harm done. I was very impressed with your driving.’
‘Oh Robert, really! I’m hopeless.’
‘Not at all. You get a pretty good idea, following someone. You were very competent. You should be driving without any difficulty at all soon.’
‘Well, anyway. Supper’s ready. I hope you like stew.’
‘I adore stew. I love all that homey, kitcheney cooking. Florence is very clever at the more exotic stuff, but she doesn’t produce anything that smells that good.’
‘Well, I hope it tastes good as well,’ said Grace. ‘Sit down, Robert. Can I get you a drink? I think we’ve got everything.’
‘I’d love a G and T. That’d be very welcome. And I’ll go and wash if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. I’ve put your bag in the room next to the bathroom.’
‘Bless you. Is it really all right for me to stay? I’m totally thrown by Muriel and Florence being away. Such a silly misunderstanding.’
‘It’s absolutely all right. Of course.’
Grace smiled at him just slightly awkwardly. She thought it was extremely unlikely that Florence was with Muriel, but if that was what her sister-in-law had told Robert, then it certainly wasn’t for her to suggest otherwise. She was infinitely grateful she didn’t have a number for the friend in Cornwall, and didn’t have to get involved in any way. Her dislike for Florence had increased a hundredfold that afternoon, as Robert had been so kind, so gentle, so soothing, had sorted out her problems, disentangled the car from the lamp post. And he was obviously very worried about Florence and where she might be, and distressed at not being with her in his precious seven days of leave, having driven the long, long way from London to Wiltshire to try to find her.
He came back down, smiled at her; she handed him his drink.
‘Bless you, Grace. Cheers. And thank you.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
‘My pleasure. Gosh, that looks good. Can we start? I’m famished. Ages since I had some decent food.’
‘I hope it is good,’ she said, ladling it onto his plate. ‘Meat’s not what it was, awfully tough and gristly half the time. I can’t imagine why, I think the war’s just an excuse.’
‘Probably. You’re not eating much.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not very hungry.’
‘Not ill, are you?’
‘Oh no. It’s just the heat.’
After supper they sat in the drawing room, Grace sewing, Robert reading the paper. It was so nice to have someone in the house; she kept looking up at him and smiling. He made a few phone calls, trying to track down Florence, ‘just in case she’s not in Cornwall still’ but without success. He tried Clarissa’s number, but the maid told him she was out.
‘I’ll just have to head back to London in the morning, see if I can find her. Long drive. I’m so grateful not to have to do it tonight, Grace. I hope I’m not endangering your reputation, staying here unchaperoned.’
‘Oh don’t be silly, Robert. Anyway, I don’t have a reputation. Certainly not one worth endangering.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘No I don’t,’ she said and was shocked at the bitterness in her voice. ‘I’m the most unpopular girl in Wiltshire. Or at any rate this bit of it.’
‘Grace, I really can’t believe that.’
‘You don’t have to believe it, Robert, it’s true. I’m an outcast.’
‘But why?’ He looked so genuinely puzzled she felt comforted.
‘Oh – well, let’s say I don’t belong to the tribe. And they won’t let me in.’
‘I still don’t understand, I’m afraid.’
Grace looked at him and wondered if he meant it or was just being polite. ‘Robert, it’s perfectly simple. I’ve married above myself. A bit anyway. And it – well, it doesn’t make for an easy life.’
‘Grace, really, that is quite absurd—’
‘No, honestly. It’s sweet of you to look like that, Robert, but it’s true. Charles’s friends don’t think I’m worth inviting to their homes without him. They were perfectly nice to me when they had to be, but now they can ignore me, they do.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m more shocked than I can say.’
‘Thank you, Robert.’
‘May I say,’ he added, ‘that you seem to me to be worth ten of every one of them. Really.’
‘It’s sweet of you to say so. I appreciate it.’
He stood up, came over to her; his eyes were very gentle, very sympathetic as he looked at her. ‘I think it’s quite foul,’ he said, ‘and if there’s anything I can do—’
‘I’m afraid there isn’t,’ she said, laughing. ‘I daresay when I’ve been a Bennett for fifty years they’ll start to accept me. Till then – well –’
Robert went on looking down at her; then he bent and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I repeat,’ he said, ‘you’re worth more than the whole damn lot of them. I think you’re a very special person, Grace. Very special.’
Grace sat staring up at him, suddenly very aware of the fact that they were alone in the house, that she liked Robert tremendously, that Florence hated her, that she had already probably been deeply indiscreet. She smiled awkwardly, stood up, said, ‘Goodness, I’m tired, Robert. I wonder if you’d forgive me if I went to bed. Is there anything you need? Just say, otherwise—’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, nothing. Just a wife.’ He sighed heavily. Her heart went out to him. ‘Anyway, yes, of course you must go to bed. You look all in. And thank you again. Goodnight, Grace.’
She lay awake for a long time, thinking of him, opposite her on the landing, not sure what she was feeling, but most of all desperately angry with Florence.
She woke up a couple of hours later; she couldn’t think at first why, then realized with a stab of alarm that it was pain. Pain, a horribly familiar, miserable pain, in the bot
tom of her stomach; pulling, dragging at her. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered, ‘oh please God, no.’
Fearful even of looking, she went on lying there; in the end she had to get up. There was a large red stain on the bed, where she had been lying; her nightdress was stained too.
Misery wrenched at Grace; she felt a genuine, huge sense of loss. She wanted to wail, to rage. It wasn’t fair, her baby, the only thing in the world she had that was truly hers, was not a baby at all, not a lovely, growing, tangible thing, but a hormonal hiccup, a lateness, a mistake. She sat down on the edge of the bed and cried for quite a long time, then went to the bathroom, found a sanitary towel and a belt, put them on. The pain was bad; not as bad as the pain in her heart, but still bad. Worse than any she could remember. Maybe she had been pregnant, maybe it was an early miscarriage; the thought made her feel worse, started her crying again. She would have to go and get a hot drink and some aspirin.
She went stealthily out onto the landing, down the stairs. Charlotte followed her, hopping on her three legs.
The kitchen was warm, comforting; she put the kettle on, found the aspirin. She was just swallowing them when the door opened, slowly, cautiously; Robert came in.
‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t sleep. Heard you moving about. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ said Grace. ‘Just – got a bit of a headache.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and then she saw that he had noticed her stained nightdress. Mortified, blushing furiously, she sat down, pulled it under her. He smiled, saw her distress, came over to her, stroked her head.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry. Poor you. Woman trouble, Florence calls it. Let me make the tea. What about a hot-water bottle on your sore tummy? Would that be a good idea?’
He was so kind, so tender, as Charles never was in this situation – always slightly embarrassed, impatient – that she started to cry again.
‘Now look,’ he said, ‘there’s no need for that. Here, drink your tea.’
‘There is a need,’ she said, swallowing it obediently. ‘I thought – I thought I was pregnant. I wanted to be pregnant so badly. With Charles gone. To have someone to keep me company. Someone of my own. And now – well, that’s it, I suppose.’
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