Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  Clarissa was too busy to think at all, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful. Dartmouth was a restricted area, and nobody was allowed to leave or enter it except on official naval business. The town by now was so full that it was, she said to Jack in a rare conversation one night, like being permanently on the tube in the rush hour: ‘Americans are just sitting on the pavements, all over the town, waiting to embark. And thousands of bored, homesick soldiers, all desperate for something to do. One feels so sorry for them, darling.’

  ‘Just keep it that way,’ said Jack, ‘I don’t want you easing their homesickness.’

  There had been an appalling casualty at the end of April at Slapton Sands: some American ships, on an exercise simulating the Normandy landings, were attacked by German E-boats. Hundreds of men were killed or seriously injured; in the following days pubs and dance halls in the town were hushed by a grief and shock no one could openly acknowledge. Such was the intense security that anyone revealing what had happened, even the medical staff treating the men, was subject to court-martial.

  In so strangely nightmarish a world, her anxieties, her fear for Jack and his safety seemed comparatively easy to contain.

  The Maypole dance at the school May Fayre, to take place at the Whitsun bank holiday, was difficult and causing problems to the children. ‘It’s difficult but not impossible,’ said Miss Merton firmly, ‘and if they could do it two hundred years ago or whatever, I don’t see why we can’t do it now.’

  Grace could, but she had agreed to find a suitable piece of music and to play for the event; it made a welcome distraction from fretful land girls and bad-tempered farmers. The more she worked with the children, the more she loved it; one of her few positive – and she felt sound – plans for the future was to start some kind of music school.

  Grace and Miss Merton were near to despair. It was Wednesday, the May Fayre was on the Saturday, only three children had really mastered the intricacies of the Maypole dance, and that was no good at all, as Miss Merton said. They all had to get it right. Miss Merton had by this stage half a mind to cut it out of the programme altogether, but its fame had spread and the local newspaper was coming specifically to photograph it.

  ‘We’ll be a laughing stock,’ moaned Miss Merton. She was sitting at her desk after the latest disastrous rehearsal, her face with its multiple chins drooping with misery. She looked like a huge bloodhound. ‘We’ll just have to abandon it.’

  ‘No we won’t,’ said Grace firmly. ‘We’ll get it right. I know we can. We’ll just have to pack in some extra rehearsals after school. Starting tomorrow. Don’t despair, Miss Merton. Think of – well, think of Winston Churchill.’

  ‘I think I’d rather have the Germans,’ said Miss Merton. ‘At least they do what Hitler tells them.’

  In Scotland Major Robert Grieg had asked for an emergency interview with his CO.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask you, sir, but I desperately need a twenty-four-hour pass. My wife is not at all well, may have to go into hospital. It’s – well, it’s a woman’s thing, sir. I wondered if—’

  ‘Yes, yes. I should think that could be arranged, Major Grieg. Take forty-eight if it’d help. Pretty quiet for a few days now, I should think. Before the move. You’ve done a fine job. Sorry to hear about your wife.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Robert arranged for a travel warrant for the next day, and then made a phone call to a friend in London. ‘I need a car and some petrol tomorrow, Bertie, and I don’t care how much it costs. Got to get down to Wiltshire first thing, to see my wife. Got any strings you can pull?’

  ‘Robert! When did I not have any?’

  ‘Jeannette,’ said Florence the next morning, ‘I’m going now. I won’t be back till teatime, probably later. I’m on late shift at the canteen. Is that all right?’

  ‘All the same if it’s not,’ said Jeannette cheerfully. What about you, Mrs B? ‘You busy today?’

  ‘I am as a matter of fact,’ said Muriel coldly. She had made it very plain on several occasions to Jeannette that she didn’t like being called Mrs B, but it had had little effect.

  ‘Suits you,’ Jeannette had said. ‘My old gran was known to the whole street as Mrs B. You remind me of her, you know.’ Muriel had closed her eyes in an expression of immense pain.

  ‘So you’ll be on your own, Jeannette,’ said Florence. ‘If there are any problems, any problems at all, just ring Grace, at the Mill House, all right? Oh and there’s a rehearsal of the Maypole dance this afternoon, you know she’s persuaded me to let Imogen be in it. So could you take her down to the school at three o’clock?’

  ‘Yeah, OK. What you doin’ then, Mrs B? Imogen, say ta if you want some more.’

  ‘Ta,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘The word is thank you, Imogen,’ said Muriel. ‘I’m doing the flowers at the church, Jeannette. I shall be there most of the day. Whitsun is a very important Christian festival you know,’ she added, as if Jeannette was from some primitive country that news of Christianity had not yet reached.

  ‘Yeah, I ’ad ’eard. Imogen, take Mamie outside. But not near the pond, mind.’

  ‘Clifford,’ said Grace, ‘we’re going to rehearse the Maypole dance this afternoon, at the school. Do you want to come? I could do with a deputy pianist and Miss Merton’s going to need some help with the choreography. Jeannette’s bringing the little ones down, Florence has twisted my arm to let Imogen be in it. It’ll be so sweet. At least,’ she added, ‘if Miss Merton doesn’t have a heart attack it’ll be sweet.’

  ‘What a charming idea. Yes, I’d love to.’

  ‘Good. Perhaps we could go over early, at lunchtime, so you could run through the music.’

  ‘Absolutely fine by me.’

  ‘And who’s going to be doing her awful drippy singing by the Maypole then? And who’ll be watching her with a yukky stupid face on? Yuk!’

  ‘Be quiet, Daniel, at once. Now go and wash your face. And you, David. You both look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

  ‘I have,’ said Daniel, ‘only because I said about Elspeth being such a – Ow! David, stop it. Ow!’

  Jeannette was upstairs cleaning the bathroom when she heard the car in the drive. She looked out of the window. It was quite a big one: someone must have money.

  A man got out of it, wearing uniform. Officer’s uniform. He looked up at the house, then walked to the door and rang the bell. Jeannette went down and opened it.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, taking his hat off, smiling at her. He was very good-looking in a sort of foreignish way. Bit too dark for her taste, but still.

  ‘Mornin’,’ she said.

  ‘Is Mrs Grieg here?’

  ‘No, she isn’t. Off with the WVS.’

  ‘Oh yes of course, how stupid of me. When will she be back?’

  ‘Not till late.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘oh dear.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I thought – oh well. She’s obviously forgotten.’

  ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘An arrangement we had. Damn. Is Mrs Bennett here? Or is she’ – he looked at his watch – ‘yes, she would be.’

  ‘Would be what?’

  ‘Resting.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about her,’ said Jeannette.

  ‘Yes, well, I’m her son-in-law. Major Grieg. Mrs Grieg’s husband. Sorry, I should have introduced myself. And you are?’

  ‘My name’s Jeannette. Jeannette Marks. I look after Imogen and the house and that. I do recognize you,’ she added, ‘from the photo in Mrs B’s room.’

  ‘Oh really? Is that a new idea – you looking after Imogen? Where is Miss Baines?’

  ‘Over at ’ers I suppose,’ said Jeanette. ‘She couldn’t cope no more, Imogen being so into everything and that.’

  ‘Well, this is very difficult,’ said Major Grieg. ‘I can’t believe my wife didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ />
  ‘That I was to collect Imogen this afternoon. Take her to tea with my mother.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. Where is she then? Your mother?’

  ‘Oh – not far away. She’s staying with a friend, over the other side of Salisbury. Oh dear. It’s her birthday, you see. It was going to be such a treat for her, seeing Imogen.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it would be nice, I can see that.’

  Imogen and Mamie suddenly appeared round the house, Mamie in Imogen’s wooden wheelbarrow. Her small brown face and arms were coated liberally in green slime; she was crying.

  ‘Imogen!’ said Jeannette. ‘Imogen, what you done to ’er?’

  ‘She fell in the pond,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Imogen, I told you not to go near the pond. Really. What will your dad think?’

  ‘Hallo, Imogen darling,’ said Robert, bending down, trying to kiss Imogen’s face. She turned away. ‘It’s so sad,’ he said. ‘She’s seen me about three times in three years. That’s what the war’s done to families. What about your husband?’

  ‘’aven’t married ’im yet,’ said Jeannette briefly.

  ‘I see. Well now, look. I don’t suppose you’d let me take Imogen, would you? I’d only be a couple of hours. She’d be back before Florence – before my wife gets home.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Jeannette. ‘I ought to ask.’

  ‘Oh really! I am her father. Do you want to see proof of my identity or something?’

  He looked hurt, upset; then he said, ‘But if you want to check – I mean, that would be quite the proper thing to do.’

  ‘I could, I s’pose. But I don’t know who with. Mrs G, she’s never where I can get ’er. I’m s’posed to be taking them down to the other village, do some dance or other this afternoon. But Mamie don’t look too much in the dancing mood –’

  She looked at Mamie, who was still crying. She could quite do with a couple of hours’ peace, she didn’t really fancy the five-mile round trip to Thorpe Magna and back. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’ll just check with young Mrs B. She’ll know if it’s all right. To miss the dancing and that.’

  ‘Oh – all right. Fine. I’ll keep Imogen here, shall I, and then you can take your little one with you?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  Mrs Boscombe was just telling her that everyone at the Mill House was out, they were all down at the school, when she heard the car engine start; alarmed, she ran out, but he was still sitting there, Imogen beside him, smiling. She loved cars.

  ‘Going driving,’ she said. ‘Broom-broom.’

  ‘Mrs Bennett’s not there,’ said Jeannette. ‘They’re all at the school, down at Lower Thorpe.’

  ‘Well look,’ he said, ‘I tell you what, just so you’re not worried. I’ll go that way, check with Grace that Imogen’s not needed. Then I’ll take her over to my mother. And have her back by – what? – half past four? That be all right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jeannette, ‘yeah, fine Mamie, do shut your face. I’m just coming.’

  He moved off quite slowly, with a wave and a smile. Imogen’s small blonde head appeared out of the window.

  ‘Bye-bye,’ she said, ‘broom-broom.’

  She’ll be all right, thought Jeannette. She’ll be perfectly all right. He is her father after all.

  ‘Jeannette’s very late,’ said Grace, ‘we’ll have to start without her. Well, Imogen was never going to be anything but a nuisance, I’m afraid. At least I’ll have an excuse not to include her in the actual thing. She really didn’t have a clue.’

  The rehearsal was as much a disaster as ever; the children all went the wrong way at the wrong time, and the ribbons at the top of the pole more closely resembled a tangled skein of wool than a neatly woven plait.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Miss Merton, philosophical in her despair. ‘You know what they say about bad dress rehearsals. It’ll be all right on Whit Monday, I’m sure. Elspeth dear, that was lovely. David, would you help Elspeth with those ribbons please? Daniel, are you all right, dear?’ Daniel was making loud being-sick noises behind the piano.

  ‘Well-earned cup of tea, I think,’ said Miss Merton. ‘I’ll put the kettle on in the staff room. Mr Bennett, would you join us?’

  ‘Delighted,’ said Clifford. ‘Most kind. Let me help with those ribbons, David. You have a very lovely voice, my dear,’ he said to Elspeth. ‘A great gift. I’ve heard all about your musical prowess from young David here.’

  David went scarlet; there were further vomit noises in the background from Daniel.

  ‘Well, let’s have this tea then,’ said Grace. ‘Goodness, it’s almost five. And then we must get back. I wonder what did happen to Imogen. Maybe Jeannette just couldn’t face the walk.’

  ‘Where’s Imogen?’ said Muriel.

  ‘With ’er gran,’ said Jeannette, ‘and ’er dad.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘I told you, with ’er gran.’

  ‘Her grandmother is up in the North of England.’

  ‘Not today she’s not,’ said Jeannette. ‘She’s in Salisbury.’

  ‘How extraordinary. And what did you say about her father?’

  ‘’er father came to get ’er,’ said Jeannette patiently, with only a slightly anxious glance at the clock, which now read 4.45, ‘to ’ave tea with ’er gran.’

  ‘But Robert’s mother never comes down here,’ said Muriel. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘Yeah, well, ’e was very clear about it. Said she was staying with a friend. Said it was ’er birthday.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Muriel uncertainly. ‘Well Florence certainly didn’t know about it. I do hope – Are you sure it was her father? Major Grieg?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I recognized ’im from the picture in your room,’ said Jeannette. ‘’e was very nice. And Imogen definitely seemed to know ’im. Said they’d be back by four-thirty.’

  ‘It was very wrong of you,’ said Muriel severely, ‘to let her go. But I expect it will be perfectly all right. Perfectly all right. Major Grieg is a charming man.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jeannette.

  The small party were halfway up the lane in the soft spring evening when Florence’s car came screeching down the hill; she leapt out of it, rushed at them, clutched Grace’s arm as if she was drowning.

  ‘Grace, Grace,’ she said. ‘Oh Grace, have you seen Imogen?’

  ‘No,’ said Grace, ‘no, we haven’t. They never turned up. I’m sorry, Florence, we—’

  ‘Robert didn’t bring her down?’

  ‘Robert! No, of course not. Florence, what on earth is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Robert’s got her,’ said Florence, bursting into hysterical sobs. ‘He’s got her, Grace, he’s taken her, and I know why, it’s to stop me divorcing him, keep me with him always. What am I going to do, Grace, what am I going to do?’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Grace. ‘Florence, surely, surely he wouldn’t—’

  ‘Of course he would,’ said Florence. Her voice rose in a loud wail. ‘It’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do.’

  ‘Well, look. Try to calm down. You’re not helping Imogen like that. Come to the Mill House, we’ll phone the police.’

  ‘No no, I must get back. Just in case there’s any news. Please, please ring at once, won’t you, if you hear anything.’

  She hurled herself back into the car, wrenching at the wheel, turned it round and roared back up the lane.

  ‘She shouldn’t be driving,’ said Clifford, ‘not in that state. She’s not safe.’

  Florence’s main emotion was one of sheer disbelief that she could have been so stupid. Leaving Imogen with anyone, anyone at all, not making sure that she was safe, not at the very least warning Jeannette that there was a danger such a thing might happen. She should have stayed with her, all the time, instead of haring round Wiltshire feeling important with the WVS. What on earth would Giles say, what would everyone say, when they heard she’d been kidnapped?

  And then another thought struck
her, so awful, so hideous that panic rose up and literally blinded her and she had to stop the car. Why should Robert stop at kidnapping Imogen? Suppose he beat her up – or worse? It was not unlikely. He was perfectly capable of it, mad enough. He couldn’t possibly believe she was really his child, he must see her as living proof of Florence’s infidelity, he must quite literally loathe the sight of her. Suppose, even now, he was hitting her, hurting her; Imogen was absolutely defenceless, so tiny and vulnerable, there would be nothing at all that she would be able to do. A vision rose before Florence’s eyes of Imogen’s small blonde head hit, knocked from side to side, her great blue eyes wide with hopeless, helpless terror, her little body lying on the ground, broken, kicked repeatedly. She fell out of the car, vomiting into the hedge.

  ‘Florence? Florence, what on earth is the matter? Are you all right?’ It was Robert’s voice. Florence turned round, very slowly, sure she must be hallucinating, and saw him sitting at the wheel of a large car, an Austin, she thought confusedly, as if it mattered, smiling at her. He was alone.

  ‘Robert,’ screamed Florence, ‘Robert, where is Imogen? What have you done with her?’

  ‘Florence darling, do calm down. I took her to have tea with my mother and her friend. She’s still with them as a matter of fact. I explained it most carefully to that ghastly woman at the house. Who I really don’t think, incidentally, is a very suitable person to take charge of my daughter.’

  ‘Where? Your mother’s in Yorkshire. What friend? Where is she? I want her back now, now, Robert, at once.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Robert. He still sounded very calm, was still smiling easily at her. ‘She’s only in Salisbury, with two extremely respectable old ladies. You can ring them the minute we get back to the Priory. I’m sorry I was a bit late back, but Imogen was having such a nice time I thought I’d leave her there for a bit. Shall I drive you back? You look absolutely terrible.’