‘Yes,’ said Florence, ‘yes, well, I thought he did.’
‘You seem to have misread the situation. Now it is clearly within his rights to refuse. If he were to be the plaintiff that would be a different matter. Is there no evidence of grounds on Major Grieg’s part?’
He was looking, for him, quite animated: he was visibly gaining in enthusiasm for his task. He probably wasn’t used to cases of such complexity, Florence thought; and of course his fee must be escalating nicely. She sighed and said slowly, ‘No. No, not really.’
‘Mrs Grieg –’ He hesitated. ‘Mrs Grieg, I really must stress how important it is for you to tell me everything. It may be that with further information at my disposal I will be able to suggest another approach. And of course’ – he cleared his throat – ‘anything between us is totally confidential.’
He looked at her earnestly, then, as she met his gaze, blushed slightly. ‘There is no need to feel embarrassed in any way, Mrs Grieg. There is very little that would surprise or shock me, anyone indeed in the legal profession, I do assure you.’
Good Lord, thought Florence, he thinks Robert’s some kind of pervert. That he’s queer, or dresses up in women’s clothes. The thought made her smile.
Then she realized that Mr Dodds was actually right, and that Robert was indeed a pervert. But of oh so much more dangerous a kind. The kind that could come back, find her, haunt her for the rest of her life, if she spoke out, had him damned in court, wrecked his professional career. She couldn’t do that; it was too dangerous. He would come and find her and take his revenge. On her and Imogen. Wherever they were.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, there’s nothing I haven’t told you.’
Muriel was appalled by the arrival of Jeannette and Mamie. ‘I’m sorry, Florence,’ she said, ‘I’m simply not prepared to put up with it. It’s one thing Grace filling Charles’s house with riffraff, and quite another for you to do it in mine. The girl can stay tonight if she has to, but she must leave in the morning.’
Imogen burst into the room, beaming, holding an indignantly struggling Mamie to her small chest. ‘Baby’s done a poo,’ she said, ‘on the floor.’
‘I think I’m going to be ill,’ said Muriel.
‘My mother’s going to have supper in her room,’ said Florence. ‘She’s feeling very tired.’
‘Doesn’t want to ’ave to sit at a table with me, more likely,’ said Jeannette cheerfully. ‘That little girl of yours isn’t ’alf bright. Fancy knowing the words of all them songs at ’er age. And being able to count – right up to eighty-four she got.’
Any qualms Florence might have had about the wisdom of taking Jeannette in were immediately banished.
She took Muriel’s supper tray up, knocked gently on the door and set it by her bed.
‘I really don’t want it,’ said Muriel, ‘whatever it is. I feel much too upset.’
‘It’s some soup,’ said Florence, ‘that Jeannette made. Goodness knows what with, but she rummaged round and – well, it smells a lot better than anything Cook ever made.’
‘I might have a sip,’ said Muriel, ‘but I’m sure it’s not very nice, these people just don’t know the meaning of decent food.’
‘Not like Cook, you mean,’ said Florence.
When she went back for the tray the soup bowl was empty.
‘It was lovely,’ she said to Jeannette, helping herself to more soup. ‘What was in it?’
‘Potatoes mostly. And some bits and pieces. Yeah, well, I like cooking. Me mum worked in the kitchen at the Savoy,’ she added, ‘till she got sacked.’
‘What did she get sacked for?’ asked Florence nervously.
‘Nicking things.’
‘I think it might be better’, said Florence, ‘if you didn’t mention that to my mother.’
Mamie didn’t cry all night, she didn’t cry at all, and Florence came down to breakfast to the smell of fresh bread.
‘Put some to rise,’ said Jeannette, ‘found some yeast. Much nicer than that national loaf rubbish. Tastes like smelly feet, national loaf does.’
After three days of delicious soups, vegetable casseroles and near-miracle omelettes made from a mixture of dried and fresh egg, Muriel said rather grudgingly that Jeannette could stay until the end of the month, ‘as long as Cook doesn’t mind’.
Florence didn’t report Cook’s actual words on the subject which were to the effect that if she never saw Mrs Bennett again until Judgment Day it wouldn’t be too long for her.
‘Do you suppose,’ said Grace to Clifford one evening, a week or so later, ‘that Charles left a will? If so, I ought to see it. I don’t know much about all this sort of thing, but I do know there are various things that have to be sorted out, probate and so on. I’m not a bank manager’s daughter for nothing.’
‘I’m quite sure he did,’ said Clifford. ‘Most unlike a solicitor not to leave everything in apple-pie order.’
‘Well, I’ve looked in all the obvious places, his desk and so on. Where do you think it might be?’
‘Probably at the bank, or lodged with another solicitor. Maybe even up at the Priory. I’m – well, I’m going up there tomorrow for a short while. Muriel’s having a bit of trouble with the garden. I could have a look in his old files there if you like.’
His expression was carefully blank, he didn’t meet her eye; Grace said how kind that would be, but fled to the phone when he went out for a walk, made Florence promise to report back the following day. Florence did: ‘Sitting in the garden, like an old married couple they were. Mother looking disapproving and knitting rather pointedly, Daddy asking her help with crossword clues. Heaven, as Clarissa would say.’
‘It is heaven,’ said Grace, thinking that if Charles’s death could accomplish what had hitherto seemed impossible, the reunion of two lonely unhappy old people, then it had not, after all, been entirely in vain.
Clifford had found the will: perfectly straightforward, everything left to Grace, the house, all his assets. She was, he told her, a woman of some substance, of independent means; Grace, trying to adjust to that thought, felt more guilty about Ben than ever. Guilty and wretchedly depressed.
She hadn’t heard from him for weeks; had decided he must have been posted somewhere completely different, or worse, was uncertain himself what to do; every morning she waited, feigning disinterest, pretending even to herself, for the postman; every morning she took the letters, riffled through them, pretending her hand wasn’t shaking, put them down on the hall table, went upstairs to her bedroom and gazed blankly out, every day her heart lower, heavier, out onto the drive where she had first set eyes on him, easing his long, rangy body out of the jeep, wondering if she was ever to see him there again. She told herself she was being absurd, ridiculous, there was a war on, and that war was at a stage where every shred, every atom of available human endeavour was engaged in fighting it; that letters were held up for weeks, were censored, possibly never arrived at all, but it didn’t really help; the daily torture continued.
And then finally one morning, when she had given up all hope, one morning when everything went wrong, when she overslept and woke up with a headache, when David spilt tea on his homework and Daniel remembered he had football even as Flossie was observed munching her way contentedly through his shorts, when Clifford asked her three times if she felt all right, told her she was looking very peaky, when Muriel phoned and insisted she spoke to Florence about Jeannette, when Mrs Lacey wrote to say there had been three complaints about a land girl she had been staunchly defending, when she glanced in the mirror and saw that not only did her hair need washing, but she had a pimple right on the end of her nose, when Florence dropped by on her way to work to ask could she possibly take a delivery of several dozen old blankets and wash them for her, when the postman hadn’t been at all, never mind bring a letter from Ben – suddenly there was a crunch of tyres in the drive and she stood up and knocked her tea all over her toast, the last slice in the loaf. ‘If,’ she said, ‘i
f that is those wretched WVS blankets, arriving already, I’ll—’
And then she stopped, and Clifford watching her saw her turn first glassy pale, then bright pink; and he got up, walked over to the window himself, and there in the drive was a jeep, and out of it appeared a very long leg, and then –
‘Ben!’ said Grace, her voice shaky, quiet, and then, more loudly, ‘It’s Ben!’ and she was gone, flying into the hall, out of the front door, into his arms, and they stood there entangled, the pair of them, she on tiptoe, his head bent low over her, his mouth buried in her hair, her face in his chest, her body pressed against his.
‘Good gracious,’ said Clifford, looking at the two of them with some indulgence, ‘Good gracious. So I was right.’
He greeted Ben charmingly, graciously (‘And it couldn’t have been easy for him,’ said Grace later. ‘He must have felt some jealousy and reservations about you’), then said he felt like a walk, and he would meet the boys from school, tell them the news.
‘Why were you so long?’ she said, looking up at him, from the depths of her happiness. ‘Why didn’t you ring at least? What happened? I was so frightened, so terribly worried –’
‘I didn’t get your letter,’ he said, ‘not until two days ago. I’ve been all over the place, and then I had to lie to get away, I said Dan was ill again. I can’t stay long.’
‘How long?’ she said, and ‘Only till tomorrow,’ he said, ‘but at least you’ll know I love you.’ And ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I’ll know you love me. And you’ll know I love you too.’
She looked out of the window; the tall figure of Clifford was walking away down the lane. ‘Come along,’ she said, holding out her hand to him, ‘we have a little while now. A little while to show you how much I love you.’ And she led him upstairs without a word, into her room, and her bed.
She was never to forget that time; never again, in the whole of her life, did she fly so high, so exquisitely perfectly into pleasure, climbing, reaching, soaring into it, his hands, his mouth, his voice all taking her, carrying her towards it, his body moving through hers, a long, long journey of high brilliant peaks and sweet tumb ling valleys, of great raging triumph and slow, gentle peacefulness; of strange wild progressions close, close to the brink, and then again and yet again a drawing back, a gathering towards the next, and then the next and then, yes, surely this time, yes, yes, the tumbling, final release.
‘I love you,’ he said, after they had lain in the stillness for a while, smiling in something close to astonishment at what they had accomplished, ‘I love you so much. More than ever.’
‘And I love you,’ said Grace, ‘more than ever.’
‘It can’t be very easy,’ he said, looking at her consideringly. ‘You must feel at least a bit – bad.’
‘I do, Ben, I feel more than a bit bad. Guilty and remorseful and quite wicked, quite often. And afraid of what everyone will say, and think. But the thing is, the only person who matters, who would really have been hurt by it, is dead. Safe from it. And he never knew. Thank God. Thank God. And I keep thinking it’s wicked to think that, but it’s not, not really, well, it might be wicked to think it, but it’s not doing him any harm.’
He lay there looking at her, reached out a hand, pushed back a tendril of hair that had fallen over her eyes. ‘I think you’re perfect,’ he said simply, ‘quite perfect.’
‘Ben, I’m not,’ said Grace, laughing at the absurdity of the statement. ‘Of course I’m not.’
‘I’ve got a spot on the end of my nose for a start and my hair needs washing and—’
‘For me you are,’ he said, ‘that’s what I meant. I love you however you are. You’re perfect for me.’
‘You two in love then?’ said Daniel.
‘Well – yes. Yes, I think we probably are,’ said Ben cautiously. He smiled at Grace.
They had come in with Clifford, haring into the house, hurling themselves at him; they all had tea in the garden, for it was hot, really hot for May, and then Ben and Grace had sat on the bench, outside the French windows, his arm round her shoulders, smiling at them slightly foolishly.
‘Yuk,’ said Daniel. ‘Like David and Elspeth. Yuk.’
David was very quiet. Grace looked at him; Ben followed her eyes, saw it too.
After a bit, he said, ‘Dave, d’you want to come for a walk?’
‘Not specially,’ said David briefly.
‘I would like it. Then we could play football.’
David looked at him rather distantly. ‘OK.’
‘I’ll come,’ said Daniel.
‘You’ve got to come with me up to the Priory,’ said Grace firmly.
‘Not the Priory,’ said Daniel, ‘not to see Imogen!’
‘Well, she might be there. But Jeannette wants some help. She rang up. Skinning a rabbit.’
Daniel brightened. Skinning rabbits was one of his proudest accomplishments. ‘OK, then. Sir Clifford, what are you going to do?’
‘I have an appointment up there too,’ said Clifford, ‘with some blackfly.’ He winked at Grace.
Ben and David walked across the field in silence. Then Ben said, ‘So it’s the grammar school in September?’
‘Yup.’
‘Well done. Looking forward to it?’
He shrugged. ‘S’pose so.’
‘Good lad. I’m proud of you.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘How’s the music?’
‘OK.’
‘Want to learn something else at school? You could probably learn the fiddle, like your granddad.’
He shrugged again. ‘Dunno. Might.’
‘David.’
‘What?’
‘David, look at me.’
David looked at him, and Ben saw hurt, deep hostility in his eyes.
‘What is it? Is it Grace? Grace and me?’
‘No.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
There was a silence. Then he said, all in a rush, ‘I don’t know how you could. You were supposed to love Mum. What do you think she’d say, if she knew?’
‘I think,’ said Ben with great care, ‘I think she’d say she was glad.’
‘Why? What’s there to be glad about?’
‘That I’m not lonely any more.’
‘Are you lonely?’
‘Yes, of course I was. It’s been not so bad for you, you’ve had Grace to love you and look after you. I didn’t have anyone.’
‘But you loved Mum. How could you forget her?’
‘David, have you forgotten her?’
‘Course not.’
‘Well then, there you are. Neither have I. I haven’t forgotten anything about her. I can remember how she looked, and how pretty she was, how she made us laugh, and how she used to boss us all about, and the nice meals she cooked us, and how she got cross with Nan, and with us, come to that, and how much she loved us. I haven’t forgotten anything. Honest.’
David didn’t say anything. His eyes, looking determinedly ahead of him, were blank.
‘She was a very special person, Mum was,’ said Ben. ‘We were lucky to have her. But now she’s gone. She’s been gone a long time. We can’t get her back.’
David sat down suddenly and buried his head in his skinny arms. ‘I miss her,’ he said, his voice muffled, ‘I still miss her. I do. I want to tell her things. I wanted to tell her when I got the scholarship and when we won the football league, and I wanted to show her how I trained the puppies and taught Imogen to play “Three Blind Mice”.’
‘So do I,’ said Ben, gently, sitting down beside him, taking him in his arms, ‘I still miss her too. I don’t love Grace instead of her. I love her as well. I know it seems hard to understand but it’s true. And Mum would have liked Grace, wouldn’t she? She’d have liked her very much.’
‘Yeah,’ said David, slightly reluctantly. ‘I s’pose so. Yeah.’
There was a long silence, then he looked up at his father. ‘You going to marry her then? Marry Grace?’
>
‘Maybe,’ said Ben. ‘Maybe, one day. If that’d be all right.’
There was another silence. Then David said, ‘Yeah, I s’pose so.’ He grinned rather sheepishly at his father. ‘Yeah, that’d be all right.’
Chapter 25
Early Summer 1944
It was an incredibly beautiful early summer. The days grew warm and golden, and everyone said it was an omen, that the war must soon finally be over. Spirits rose, people stopped complaining about shortages and deprivation. Grace moved through the lovely days, happier than she could ever remember, her head full of half-formed plans, struggling to keep the future carefully blank. Ben was at Tidworth and did not know when he would be given leave again. In a strange way that suited her; she was almost glad not to see him. He loved her and she loved him; for the time being that must be enough. She was not ready to move forward; she was still confused, still guilty, still to her surprise grieving for Charles. They had, if nothing else, time; she had to take it and use it with care.
Happiness seemed to her to be everywhere: Clifford was noisily busy, whistling and singing through the days – ‘Honestly, it’s like living with the Seven Dwarfs,’ said Grace, laughing, to Florence one day – and spending an increasing amount of time at the Priory. He had, as he had threatened to do, joined the church choir, was on the organ rota, and had become a rather belated and unnecessary recruit to the Home Guard. He got up early every day to do the garden at the Mill House before mounting his rickety old bicycle and pedalling over to Thorpe Magna and Muriel. He often stayed for lunch, and even once or twice for supper, although lured quite as much, Florence said, by Jeannette’s cooking as Muriel’s charms. And Florence herself was uncharacteristically serene, staunchly pursuing her divorce, her frequently waning courage bolstered by almost daily love letters from Giles. She – or rather Mr Dodds the solicitor – had sent yet another letter to Robert, reaffirming her wish for him to divorce her. At least this time he hadn’t written to refuse. Perhaps he had finally got the idea.
She was working longer and longer hours for the WVS, her domestic responsibilities almost entirely taken over by Jeannette; Mrs Haverford frequently said she couldn’t imagine how they had managed without her. She was enchanted herself, by her own newly discovered organizational skills; she now talked as endlessly and passionately about her work as she did about Imogen. She could not envisage a return to the old life, of dinner parties and domesticity; her plans for herself were varied, ranging from politics to industrial management, but ambitious in the extreme. Like Grace, she shied away from anything but the haziest thoughts about her personal future; like Grace she saw it as forbidden territory. The present was occupation enough.
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