She told him she was putting together a small concert at the school for Christmas at which her pupils would be playing and Miss Merton’s pupils dancing, and that Miss Merton was threatening to do a solo (followed by a brief description of Miss Merton, lest Ben might not realize how alarming a prospect this was). David, she said, was playing a simple Chopin waltz at the concert that Clifford had taught him, and practised it night and day (‘All right at first, but driving us mad now, the piano needs tuning so badly, but it’s proving impossible to get done’), and that old John Stokes the organist said he would give David a few lessons on the organ from time to time, David loved the music, it made so much noise. (‘He’s very excited, but I don’t know that he’ll be able to manage it, it’s a very physical instrument as I’m sure you know.’) She found such details difficult to handle; she was so unfamiliar with Ben, what he did and didn’t know, was terrified of sounding patronizing and more of sounding superior.
She finished with a couple of funny stories about her land girls – one had been bidden to hold a heifer while the bull did its work (‘You put your thumb and first finger up its nose and pinch, then they stand still; anyway she was so sorry for the poor thing she let go, whereupon the bull drove the heifer into such thick mud she had to be hauled out with a tractor.’). She worried that this might be a rather unseemly story to tell a man she hardly knew but decided it was more important to cheer him up. She deliberated for a long time about how to sign off, and finally settled on ‘Yours, Grace’, which seemed warm and friendly without being overfamiliar. She realized as she posted it (complete with enclosures from David and Daniel) how much more she had enjoyed writing it than she did her letters to Charles.
‘I’ve never been in bed with an officer,’ said Jack.
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ said Clarissa lightly. She turned and traced the outline of his profile with her finger. ‘Was it different?’
‘Oh yes. Much more classy.’
‘I think I find that faintly insulting. Was it such a common experience before?’
‘Most uncommon,’ he said, smiling at her, and then sighed and said, ‘It always is. Every time. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that makes sense in this whole ghastly mess I call my life.’
‘Oh Jack. Are you hating it so much?’
‘I am now. Boredom, futility, sending little boys off to slaughter—’
He had used that phrase before; Clarissa winced. ‘Don’t say that, Jack. Don’t.’
‘Why not? It’s true.’
‘You make it sound as if slaughter is inevitable. It isn’t.’
‘It almost is.’
‘You weren’t. And you won’t be. I know it.’
‘I wish I did,’ he said with another sigh, ‘God, I wish I did.’
It was Christmas again, but sadly different from the previous one. They were still together, still at home in the house they both loved, but increasingly distanced, as much by time as by Jack’s depression and restlessness, and what Clarissa recognized as the growing change in her. It was not so much what she was actually doing, but the effect on her of having so clear a purpose in life, above and beyond pleasing herself, pleasing Jack, travelling along the path she had always seen so clearly and pleasurably laid out for her, that of any girl of her class: the conduct of a satisfactory marriage, the running of a home and household, the eventual bearing and raising of children. Slowly that had come to seem empty, without sufficient reward; what she delighted in daily now was the acute satisfaction of doing a job, pursuing a common end, the ability she had discovered in herself to direct and even inspire other people. She could see that the war was providing her with a highly specific and extraordinary situation, but she could not, just the same, imagine her life now without this sense of direction and achievement, and the intense pleasure of its discipline. She looked back at the Clarissa who had found fulfilment in shopping, gossiping, entertaining, amusing, and wondered at her; she still loved all those things, but they were like the baubles she had hung on the tiny tree that stood in their drawing room, pleasing, delightful, but only trivial adornments to the important thing beneath.
She had tried to explain this to Jack, to tell him about her officer selection course at Greenwich, about what it meant to her and how much, but he was morose and difficult, deliberately misunderstanding, asking if she saw the war as some kind of a game. Eventually she gave up, and tried to revert to the old Clarissa, to please him, and things improved, and she told herself that when the war was over (an unimaginable concept at that point, at the very heart of all of it) there would be plenty of time to reassess, to adjust, to examine who she had become and where she might be going. But she was aware even as she did so that she was making an effort, dissembling, that a shadow lay between them; and it was only when they made love, when she soared, flew, tumbled effortlessly, gloriously into orgasm, when afterwards she lay in Jack’s arms, loving him, telling him she loved him, that she could see their marriage as the thing it had once been.
On the last evening they quarrelled yet again and he left her in the drawing room and went up to bed alone, leaving her half remorseful, half defiant. She sat for a while, waiting for him to come down again, wondering why she didn’t go up herself to apologize, knowing he was waiting for her, but somehow unable to do it, had fallen asleep in her chair, woke hours later, cramped, miserable, feeling sick, had run upstairs, climbed into bed beside him, woken him, weeping with remorse, with distress at wasting their last precious hours together. He had enfolded her in his arms and made love to her, but it had been different, had lacked joy, and although more profound than she could ever remember, although he had given her experiences so extraordinary her body was disturbed, shaken for many hours, days even, afterwards, it had had a weariness, almost a despair about it. And in the morning as he packed, as they breakfasted wearily together, on stale coffee and dry toast, she looked at him and wondered if it was love itself that was leaving her and not just Jack.
Before he left, she said she was sorry, again and again, asked him to forgive her, told him she loved him, and he kissed her and said he knew and he understood; but she knew it was not quite true, not really what he meant at all.
‘Oh God,’ said Clarissa, sitting on the stairs, hugging her knees, watching him as he stood by the door – they always said goodbye at home, he forbade the brutal, public parting places – ‘Oh God, Jack, I don’t like this,’ and she meant not just the parting from one another, but the way their lives had parted too, and he understood while pretending he did not, looked at her seriously, said that when it was all over it would seem like a bad dream, and they could start again, start a new life.
And she stared at him, conserving him, this picture of him, carving it into her head, her consciousness, freezing time, suspending it, to keep him there, knowing that once he had opened the door, gone through it, closed it behind him, she would be left alone, without him, and with the fear, the fear of him being killed. She was afraid as she had never been before, not only of being alone, of losing him, but of the fear itself, of what it did to her, crawling through her, probing her sleep, disturbing her work. Everyone said she was so brave, so blithely, easily optimistic; if only they knew how she suffered, choked, was haunted by fear, how hard she worked to hide it, how desperately, when she was alone, she failed.
And finally he was gone, said goodbye, hoarsely, helplessly, and shut the door; and she thought for a moment she should go after him, try once more to put things right, call him, tell him she hadn’t changed, that nothing else mattered but him, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. She stayed there, thinking about him, calling up his image, his tall graceful body, his absurdly handsome face, his blue eyes probing hers, his deep voice, and thought that it was safer that way, she could not hurt the image, could not disappoint it, nor it her. And then, tears streaming down her face at what had happened to them, as much as at his leaving, she went slowly and painfully up the stairs, to get ready for her return to what she reali
zed with a thud of shock was real life.
Egypt
My dear Grace,
Just a short note, to thank you for yours and to let you know that all is well here. We have been through a pretty rough time, and have been driven back within the Egyptian border, as you will know by now from the newspaper reports, but the men have been terrific, morale is surprisingly good and the spirit of comradeship is excellent. I am quite convinced that we shall very shortly be pressing forward again. The men are longing for more action; the waiting is most frustrating, and there is somehow a sense of guilt that one isn’t doing more.
Conditions are not too bad, although the heat is pretty unpleasant. We are in a desert station, sleeping in tents, with mud floors; scorpions are also a hazard. Don’t worry, darling, if I can survive enemy bombs and guns and tanks, I can certainly get the better of a few scorpions.
The desert is rather beautiful, your romantic little soul would be very moved. The mornings, as the sun comes up, are particularly fine, although we survey that beautiful red ball rising into the sky with some foreboding, knowing the physical discomfort it brings. The stars at night are incredible. The nights are mercifully cold. I think of you so much and hope you are as happy as can reasonably be expected. I am of course disappointed that you have persisted in keeping the evacuee boys, but I understand many of these children are returning to their homes now that the bombing of London has more or less ended. So no doubt that will sort itself out – well before I get home, I trust!
On the subject of my father I confess to feeling rather ambivalent, I was appalled initially, and felt it an almost unbearable situation for my mother, but I had a letter from Florence, setting out both your case and his, and I can see that you were genuinely acting for the best and your tender-heartedness was once again to blame. He does seem to be a considerable liability. When the war is over and I am home and can take charge of things again, I shall see about some kind of a home for him. Florence has explained that funds are limited at the moment, and that this would be rather difficult. But of course I could not consider living under the same roof as him and when the normal order of things is restored then he must go again. Meanwhile, slightly reluctantly, I am prepared to tolerate his presence at the Mill House. Desperate times and desperate measures and all that.
I think of you so much, and miss you unbelievably. Please keep writing your wonderful letters; they are all we have out here. My mother is a very good correspondent, and her letters are very amusing and informative, so I don’t do too badly; oh and darling, could you send some photographs, if you have any new ones? Florence sent several of Imogen, but nothing else.
All my love, darling,
Charles
Grace felt rather odd when she finished reading this letter, with its combination of clearly genuine affection and the high-handed direction of her life, and its complete lack of grasp of the anxiety and problems she was enduring as a result of taking care of his father, his nocturnal drinking, his habit of taking a bath at three in the morning, his enormous appetite, catered for so inadequately by the official rations. The thought of Charles sitting out in his lofty position in the Middle East, telling her he was – what was it? – oh yes, prepared to tolerate his father’s presence in a house thousands of miles away, to giving Clifford permission to stay until the end of the war and no longer, and insisting she dispatch her little orphaned boys to some vaguely distant relative before he arrived home, first enraged her, and then made her laugh.
She wrote back a letter which was cheerful and affectionate, but avoided the subject of any of her charges. She had no intention of agreeing to anything at all as to their futures, but neither did she wish to quarrel with Charles, albeit it only on paper, while his life was in daily danger. The least she could do while he was fighting to defend her and his country was reassure him that she loved him. Time enough to worry about everything else when the war was over and he finally came home.
Florence woke up to hear the telephone ringing. She looked at her clock: 6 a.m. It must be important; nobody could be ringing at this hour for a chat, or with an invitation to tea. She lay for a while listening to it, praying it was a mistake, that it would stop, and then finally gave in and went to answer it. Muriel certainly wasn’t going to: she slept more profoundly every night, and Cook, who was now supposed to be a member of that new species, a cook-general, became selectively deafer every day. It saved her from much, that deafness, and certainly from any general duties, from doing the washing-up (she always retired for what she called a sitdown after serving the supper and was not seen again before morning), from helping Muriel with the cleaning, or Florence with caring for Imogen, but she could always hear a quiet compliment about her cooking, a request for some particular dish, or an entreaty to make chutneys and jams which she loved to do, or her sister on the telephone.
Florence glanced in on Imogen as she passed her little room; she was sleeping peacefully, her covers kicked off, her arms flung wide, her small face sweetly serene. She never looked serene during the day; she was always laughing or screaming or raging, or concentrating fiercely on what she was doing. Florence smiled at her indulgently and ran down to the hall.
‘Seven-two-four,’ she said.
‘Florence?’
The hall swayed round Florence; she felt the floor heave heneath her, saw the pictures on the walls come first towards her, then recede, heard a roaring in her ears, a great suffocating lump in her throat, and then: ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Yes, this is me.’
‘Darling, I’m in England. In Harwich. London by tonight. On leave. Three weeks of it. Can you come to me? Or shall I come to you?’
‘Oh my God,’ said Florence, and her legs gave way beneath her, and she sat down on the floor. ‘Oh dear, dear God.’
‘No,’ he said and there was laughter in his voice, ‘no, not God. Me, Giles. Giles, who loves you.’
‘Oh Giles,’ whispered Florence, ‘oh, this can’t be true.’
‘Of course it’s true. Darling, you sound so odd, so strange. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said, swallowing with great difficulty, ‘yes, yes of course, it’s just the shock, I’m fine.’
‘Can you get up here? Or shall I come down to you? Might be easier – I can get a travel warrant.’
‘No,’ said Florence, ‘no, no, don’t come here. I’ll come to you. But not today – I really can’t. Tomorrow. At the house. In the evening. You may have to wait a while for me. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Darling, I’ve waited nearly two years. I can wait two days. Just. Are you sure you’re all right? Is Imogen all right?’
‘She’s perfect. I may have to bring her.’
‘I want you to bring her. All my love, darling.’
‘Yes,’ said Florence, and she could hear her voice sounding shaky, ‘yes, mine too. Tomorrow then.’
She burst into tears of joy and relief. At last she could share the dreadful burden of her fear of Robert, her inability to decide what to do, she could recharge herself and her courage with Giles and his love. She had not realized how desperate she felt, how lonely, until she heard his voice. The last few months had been a night mare; Robert was in Scotland, and hadn’t been home, but the very knowledge that he could appear at any moment meant that every step on the drive, or even on the stairs in the night, every phone call, every message, made her flesh crawl. She had got through his leave, after that first dreadful day and night had relaxed a little; he had been on the face of it sweet, thoughtful, kind, continuing in his insistence that Imogen looked exactly like him, never referring to the timing of her birth or indeed anything else in a way that implied he thought there was a shadow of doubt as to her parentage. He had nursed her, fed her, played with her; Florence had still not left them alone together for a moment but by the end of the week she had become less afraid at least that he would hurt the baby.
And he had made love to her every night, with a strangely increasing fervour, as if enforcing his domination
of her, and every night she both shrank from him and responded to him more. Clarissa was right: the hold he had over her was a deep and deadly thing, and the fear an intrinsic part of it. And when he had gone, driving off in his jeep, she had wondered if he had indeed done as he had promised and changed, that there was less need now for the fear; and then she remembered the menace in his voice when he had made her move Imogen out of their bedroom and knew that there wasn’t.
She spent the day preparing for it, for her trip to London. She checked on trains and buses – not that it meant very much, but it gave her an idea, phoned old Nanny Baines in the village who had baby-sat for her once or twice, to see if she could have Imogen for a few days, for it would surely be better if she and Giles could be alone, together, for a while at least, he could meet Imogen later. She washed her hair, pressed her only good dress, and sponged and pressed her coat, rehearsed a careful lie for her mother (that she had to go to London, for a long-overdue check on the house that Robert had asked her to make, adding that it was months since there had been any bombs, that London was as safe as Wiltshire these days, that she might even stay on and see a few friends).
She felt remorseful that she hadn’t shown more joy, more excitement at Giles’s call – she hadn’t told him she loved him, had missed him even – but there was time, so much time for that. Tomorrow, tomorrow she would be with him, they would be together for hours, days, weeks even; time then for reassurance, for tenderness, for promises, for pledges. Perhaps, once they had worked out, decided exactly what they would do with their lives, she could bring him down to Wiltshire to the Priory and they could even be together as a family for a short, precious time. She was excited, joyfully shaky; it was well after lunch before she realized that Imogen was being particularly awkward, crying even when she wasn’t thwarted, refusing to eat even the dried-egg custard she so perversely loved.
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