‘Please,’ she said to Charlotte, ‘please don’t have those puppies today. Not a good idea.’
Charlotte wagged her tail and went back to sleep.
It was dancing day, she realized, at school; she phoned Miss Merton, told her she couldn’t come.
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Bennett. I understand. It must be very – hectic for you,’ she said, choosing her words with care, ‘your husband coming home. What about next week?’
‘Next week will be fine,’ said Grace, and put the phone down.
‘What will be fine?’ said Charles. He had come downstairs; he looked terrible.
‘Oh – I play the piano at the school, for dancing lessons. I cancelled it today, though. As you were here.’
‘What, the village school?’
‘Yes. Is there anything wrong with that? I give some of them individual lessons as well.’
‘Do they come here?’ he said. ‘To the house?’
‘A few of them, yes. There’s one little girl called Elspeth Dunn, she’s very—’
‘I don’t think I quite like that idea,’ he said, ‘not in the house. Keep it at the school in future perhaps.’
‘Well, we can see,’ said Grace.
‘No, Grace, we won’t see,’ said Charles, and for the first time since his return he looked as she remembered him, overbearing, self-important. ‘I don’t want the village children overrunning this house.’
‘Hardly overrunning.’
‘It seems that way to me. Village children, evacuees from London slums – God help me.’ He pushed his hands through his cropped hair. ‘We have to talk. Urgently.’
‘Yes,’ she said and followed him meekly into the kitchen.
‘This man,’ he said, ‘the business with this man—’
‘Yes?’ said Grace.
‘Did – did everyone know about it? I mean was it common knowledge?’
‘Well – yes and no.’
‘Grace, either it was or it wasn’t. Answer me please!’
He sounded angry; his mouth was very taut, a white line round it. For the first time she felt frightened.
‘Well, everyone knew, I suppose, that we – that, well, that we were very close. I mean it was fairly obvious.’
‘But possibly as friends. Is that possible?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t have thought so, not really. Does it matter?’
‘It matters very much. Of course it does. It’s all the difference between my being a laughing stock and not, I would say.’
Grace stared at him. ‘Is that your main concern, Charles? That you might be a laughing stock?’
‘It’s a concern, yes. Although obviously not the only one. I would have thought you could see that.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘What I’m trying to get at,’ he said, ‘is did everyone know you were – Christ, that you were sleeping with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Grace again. ‘If they’d had any common sense, I would have thought so, yes. I mean Florence knew, and Clarissa – and your father of course—’
‘What? Florence knew? What the hell did she have to say about it?’
‘She – she – oh, you’d better ask her yourself,’ said Grace. ‘All I would say is, she’s been a very good friend to me. And I to her, for that matter. We’ve been through a lot together, Charles. If you’d let me tell you about it, I’d—’
He interrupted her. ‘And Clarissa? I suppose she thought it was rather amusing, did she? Had a good laugh together, did you, the two of you?’
‘Charles, please don’t. You’re making things worse.’
‘They couldn’t be much worse,’ he said, ‘as far as I can see. What about this – pregnancy? Was that common knowledge?’
‘No,’ said Grace quietly.
‘Thank Christ for that.’
He was silent for a moment, staring at her, broodingly, blankly angry; she looked back at him, and thought of her baby, Ben’s baby, lost to her, dismissed as something that had not been common knowledge, that could be covered up, and suddenly she stopped being sad, and became furiously, wildly angry. She stood up, hit him suddenly, hard about the head; then stood back, shocked at herself, but still feeling the same violence.
‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ she said. ‘Don’t, don’t. That baby was precious to me. You don’t seem to understand any of it. You’d been away, Charles, for four years. I’d been alone all that time. For the last year I thought you were dead. We all did. I haven’t been behaving like some whore—’
‘Don’t use words like that.’
‘I’ll use any words I like,’ said Grace, her voice quieter now, ‘and you will listen. I am sorry, so sorry, about what has happened, sorrier than I can possibly tell you. Of course it’s terrible for you. I understand. It’s dreadful, horrible. But you have to think of me too. I – I loved Ben. I was going to marry him. I thought so long and so hard about it, felt such guilt, even after you were – after I thought you were dead. Think what it’s like for me, too, Charles, please. Or there is no hope for either of us.’
‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said.
When he got back he seemed calmer, even tried to smile at her. She smiled back, warily, offered him food; he ate some toast and a couple of eggs in silence, went and had a bath and got dressed.
When he came down she said, ‘Why don’t you go over to the Priory? They’re longing to see you. Especially your mother.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ he said, briefly, ‘not yet. I can’t face them. In the knowledge of all this, and their collusion in it—’
She dug her nails into her hands, in an effort not to say anything.
‘It’s Florence, I think,’ he said, ‘that I mind most about. That she could have tolerated it. Which she obviously did. You and some – some other man. In my house.’
‘You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said,’ said Grace. She felt icy calm suddenly, went upstairs, started putting a few clothes into a bag.
He followed her up, into the room. ‘What are you doing? Leaving me, going to your soldier, I suppose.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Grace, ‘I haven’t decided. Not yet anyway. And I’m not going to my soldier, as you call him. That’s what hurts most, isn’t it, Charles? A soldier, not even an officer, being in love with a soldier.’
‘Where are you going then?’ he said ignoring this.
‘I’m not sure. To my parents, probably. Just for a few days. To think.’
‘To think about what?’ he said, and he looked genuinely baffled. ‘About what I’m going to do.’
‘You mean you might – might not stay?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I might not. I might not feel I can.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, ‘I simply don’t understand you. I can see – just how this thing has happened. But to talk of not staying now. It’s – well, it’s terrible, Grace. Shocking. That’s it. I’m shocked.’
‘How can you be shocked?’ she said.
‘I’m shocked because you seem to have no sense of honour. Of wanting to do the right, the decent thing. We’re married, Grace. You’re my wife. I’ve had a dreadful, a terrible, five years. And at the end of them, I think I’m coming home to a loving wife, and I find a – a – oh, Jesus. Christ Jesus, help me.’
Grace sat down suddenly on the bed. For the first time she felt genuine pity for him. Pity and remorse. She put out her hand and took his. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘so sorry. I don’t feel I’ve done anything wrong, but I am terribly sorry for you.’
He looked down at them, at their two clasped hands, and said dully, ‘It would be very wrong of you to leave me. Wrong and dishonourable. As I said.’
A little later she heard him on the phone to his mother.
‘Yes,’ he was saying, quite normally, ‘absolutely fine. It’s marvellous to be home. What? Yes, I’d like that very much. I’m a bit tired, today, maybe tomorrow? Lunch, yes, thank you. Yes, I’m sure she
’d like to come. How’s Father? Good. Give him my regards. Tomorrow then. Will Florence be there? Oh, I see. No, don’t worry about anything. I really am pretty fit. Yes, I agree, the house does look very nice. Bye, Mother.’
‘What would I like to go to?’ said Grace.
‘Lunch. At the Priory. Tomorrow.’
‘I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m working tomorrow.’
‘Can’t you cancel it?’
‘No, of course I can’t. You should have asked me, Charles. Anyway, it’ll be better for you to go on your own.’
He had moved his things into the guest room; they sat all evening, reading in silence. She found a concert to listen to, but he said he would prefer her to switch it off. Nobody phoned; the house was hideously silent.
She got back at four the next day to find him sitting in the kitchen. He looked exhausted.
‘How were they all?’ she asked, putting down her file. She was tired; she had cycled a long way, to a couple of farms near Westhorne. She would have taken the car, but he had simply assumed he could have it, and it certainly didn’t seem worth arguing about.
‘Oh – all right. Bloody chaos over there. That ghastly woman, I cannot imagine how my mother stands her. And those children, the small ones, totally undisciplined. Florence must be out of her mind, turning Imogen over to her.’
‘Did you – did you meet the boys?’
‘Who? Oh – yes, briefly. They didn’t seem too bad. Not a lot to say for themselves.’
‘No,’ said Grace.
‘My mother looks marvellous though. And my father seems pretty well settled again. A lot older of course.’
‘Yes, poor old chap,’ said Grace. ‘He’s had a very difficult time.’
‘I really don’t think’, said Charles, ‘he deserves any sympathy whatsoever.’ There was a silence. Then, ‘What’s this fellow Giles like?’
‘Sweet,’ said Grace, ‘terribly nice. He’s a musician.’
‘Yes, so I gather. Plays in nightclubs, or did, is that right? Extra ordinary.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said Grace. The irony was completely lost on him.
That night Charlotte had her puppies. Grace sat there, stroking her, talking to her, hardly able to bear the pain of remembering. There were only four this time, all black and white, all large and healthy. None to die, none to grieve over.
In the morning, Charles said shouldn’t they get rid of at least two of them, and she said no, they shouldn’t. He was obviously annoyed, but he didn’t argue. He was struggling to accommodate her; she could see that.
The next day he arranged to go to London; he said he had an appointment at the War Office, had to try and sort a few things out. ‘What do you think you might do now?’ said Grace. ‘Go back to the firm, or—’
‘Yes, of course, back to the firm,’ he said, clearly astonished that she should ask. ‘I know there’s not much of it left, but I think I can work it up again. Not sure about the London office, but we’ll see.’
‘I thought I might like to train properly as a music teacher,’ she said.
‘What’s that, darling?’ he said, slightly absently. It was the first time he had called her darling since she had told him about Ben.
‘I said I wanted to train as a music teacher.’
‘Whatever for?’ he said.
‘Because I want to do something. With my life.’
‘Grace,’ he said, ‘you have quite a lot to do with your life. As I see it.’
He came back from London looking rather wary. He had a large bunch of flowers in his hand. ‘These are for you,’ he said.
‘Oh. Thank you, they’re lovely.’ She reached up, kissed him briefly.
‘I saw Clarissa while I was there.’
‘Oh, did you?’
‘Yes. We had quite a chat, actually. She made me feel better about everything. I’ – he looked at her awkwardly – ‘well, I can see it’s very hard for you. I’m sorry. If I didn’t seem to understand, it was – it was a bit of a shock, you know. For me. As well as for you, of course.’
‘Yes of course. I do know.’
‘Poor old Jack, face like that. Dreadful.’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course I’d seen some other cases. In the hospital.’
‘Tell me,’ she said carefully, later, over supper, ‘tell me about the hospital. About all of it. It’s still all such a muddle, such a mess.’
He still seemed reluctant to talk at any length. He had been taken prisoner in Italy, in the street fighting; the chaos was indescribable, he said. They were driven northwards for a couple of days, were fairly near the French–German border and had stopped for a break, and he and another officer, Colin Barlowe, had escaped.
‘It was about two in the morning, there was some nonsense with another convoy overtaking us and somehow or other we got away. Barlowe was shot in the leg, but we still managed to get quite a way, travelled for three days and nights, practically reached the border by then, pretty bloody exhausted, and hungry and thirsty, but we thought we had at least a chance of making it. Then he began to get worse. His wound became infected, he was pretty bad. I didn’t know what to do. Then some local farmer found us, hiding in a barn—’
‘What, an Italian farmer?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Charles irritably.
‘Sorry.’
‘He was a good chap, and he said he’d help, fetched blankets and so on, promised to get a doctor. I left at that point, Barlowe insisted, said there was no point both of us risking recapture. Well, it was true, and he was obviously going to be OK by then. Or so I thought.’
For months Charles was on the run, travelling across southern France, sleeping in barns, haystacks, occasionally given help by sympathizers, surviving on his wits, what he was given, or could steal or beg. ‘Luckily it was summer, it was warm, one farmer gave me some boots, another a jacket to wear over my uniform.’ Finally he reached Vichy France, only to be captured by the German Army. ‘That was when I got this,’ he said, indicating his face, ‘and the leg.’ He was in hospital for weeks – ‘hardly knowing or caring if I was alive or dead’ – sent into Germany under escort to a prisoner-of-war camp, and then twice moved with the retreating army. ‘There was absolute bloody chaos, it was a complete nightmare. Twice I thought they were going to shoot us just to get rid of us. There were dozens of us, always on the move, got caught up in the most ghastly heavy fighting in the Ardennes, and so on. No way I could get word to you. Absolutely no way.’
‘No, of course not. I can see that,’ said Grace. ‘And this other man? What was his name?’
‘Barlowe.’
‘Obviously he did die. And they thought he was you.’
‘Yes. Yes, it must have been him. No doubt at all really. It was in the right area certainly, as far as I can make out, that he was found, we’d escaped together, we weren’t dissimilar to look at, and there was this strange business with the identity tags. You see he had mine –’
‘I don’t understand. How did that happen?’
‘God knows. I thought it was lost. I was half carrying him by then, trying to help him along. It must have broken or something. Got caught in his clothing—’
‘And where was his?’
‘I had that. He gave it to me. We agreed I must have one in case I was captured and they thought I was a spy and shot me. Very strong on that, both sides.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Grace. ‘So poor Mrs Barlowe must have thought her husband was all right. Until now. Alive. Or at least she could hope.’
‘I’m afraid so, yes.’
‘So you’ve no idea what happened to him after that?’
‘No, of course not. But as I say, when I left he was being looked after, he was fine, I thought. Poor chap.’
‘We were just told you’d – he’d – been found dead. Killed escaping,’ said Grace. ‘No details or anything. I don’t see how he could have been escaping, if he was in someone’s care—’
‘Grace, it was Germans with
a jeepload of prisoners who found him, wasn’t it? Well, you wouldn’t expect chapter and verse. I don’t think you can have the faintest idea of the chaos out there. It’s not like anything you might have seen in a film, you know.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Grace humbly. ‘But—’
‘Look,’ said Charles, ‘can we stop this now? I’m in no mood for a bloody inquisition.’
‘Sorry,’ said Grace.
That night he came to her room. She had been half asleep, woke to see him standing there. The light from the landing showed him up clearly; there was an expression on his face that terrified her, half rage, half raw misery. She pulled the bedclothes round her, tried to sound calm.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said, and his voice was harsh, ‘no, I bloody well can’t.’
He had obviously been drinking; he smelt of whisky and cigarettes. He sat down on the bed, leant over, tried to kiss her; she turned her head away.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he said. ‘How long do I have to endure this? Well, I won’t Grace, do you hear me? I’ve come home, and I need you.’
He dragged the bedclothes off her, pulled up her nightdress; fell on her. She could feel his penis, hard, jutting at her. ‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘please, please don’t.’
‘I will,’ he said, and his voice was filled with a violence that frightened her. ‘I will.’
It was over very quickly. He entered her, thrust a few times and climaxed; then he rolled off her and lay quietly on his side, turned away from her.
‘You just don’t seem to understand,’ he said after a while, ‘you don’t seem to be trying to understand. I’m so appalled, Grace. At what you’ve done to me. At what I’ve come back to.’
‘But—’ she said.
‘No, don’t start. I know it’s not your fault. I know it’s a shock for you. But you’re my wife, for God’s sake, don’t you feel anything for me?’
She was silent.
‘You shock me,’ he said, ‘you shock me, with your lack of feeling. You must have got very hard, in the years I’ve been away. And lost any sense of loyalty. Or even of honour. Goodnight.’
And he was gone, leaving her alone with her guilt.
The war was over: or at least the war in Europe. The Rhine had been crossed, Hitler was dead, Germany had surrendered; every street and village had held parties, bonfires were lit on every hill. Blackout curtains were ripped down and thrown away; the country parried and celebrated. And a quarter of a million British service men had died in battle, as many injured, almost a hundred thousand civilians had been killed. And many many millions more: Germans, Russians, Americans, French. The cost was almost immeasurable; but the war had been won.
Forbidden Places Page 60