Clarissa
Ben grinned rather weakly and sat down to accept Clarissa’s offer.
Grace read Daniel’s letter and burst into tears. She wrote him a long one by return of post and sent it, enclosing a big box of oil paints in tubes which she knew he had always wanted:
This is to go to Australia too, without fail, as well as the picture of Charlotte and Floss. And we’ll have a last tea. You say you’re going on the 27th. What about the 24th? That would suit me, and you won’t be quite all packed up. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll see you both in the Bear at four.
Brian Meredith had had gastric flu. He was getting better now, but he was still feeling feak and weeble, as Sandra called it. The doctor said he should have another week off work.
‘What you really need is some good country air,’ he said.
‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ said Brian.
But the mention of country air reminded him of Mrs Bennett and the fact that he hadn’t answered her letter. One of the dates she had suggested was already gone, and the other one was only a couple of days off.
‘I’d best telephone her,’ he said to Sandra.
‘Think what that’d cost,’ said Sandra. ‘You write.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ he said. A sudden spasm gripped his innards; he winced. An hour later he was back in bed; Mrs Bennett seemed a rather low priority.
‘I’m going for a ride, darling,’ said Charles, putting down the Sunday paper. ‘I’ll be back in an hour. Mother might phone, she’s keen to see how Lara’s shaping up. Perhaps she could come for lunch – Father’s playing golf.’
Grace was stuffing a chicken for Sunday lunch, a very small chicken. She knew what that meant: Muriel would eat her share of it as well as her own.
‘All right,’ she said and sighed.
Charles heard the sigh and glared at her. When he came over to kiss her briefly, she turned her head away.
Elspeth appeared at about eleven o’clock, to do her practice. Grace listened to the scales winging through the golden morning and felt calmer; when Elspeth had finished she gave her a cup of cocoa, told her to come and sit in the garden.
‘How’s school going? Any better?’
‘It’s all right, miss.’
‘Is it really? You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘No, not really,’ said Elspeth and smiled rather feebly at her. ‘Most of the girls are horrible, and the work’s really boring.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Grace. ‘There’s a music scholarship offered at St Felicia’s. The big school, you know, the other side of Shaftesbury. I think you ought to go in for it. If you agree, I’m going to speak to your father.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, miss,’ said Elspeth doubtfully. ‘I failed the other scholarship.’
‘I know you did, but that was nothing to do with music. I think you have a really good chance of getting this one. Look, if you wait I’ll write a note to him and suggest it. Only we’ll have to get our skates on – it’s in a fortnight. I only know about it because I heard about it at my music college. You tell him to ring me today, if he thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘Yes, all right, miss.’
When Elspeth had gone, she most unusually poured herself a drink and sat on the terrace trying to enjoy it. She felt edgy, she wasn’t sure why. She supposed it was because Muriel was coming to lunch without Clifford. She would have to sit and listen to horsy talk for hours, and wait on them both like an exceptionally stupid maidservant.
Charles had been gone a very long time; she hoped he was all right. Sooner or later he was going to have a real fall from that horse. Break something. Well, serve him right, she thought, and then felt dreadful. In the house the phone rang sharply; she went to answer it.
It was Peter Roberts, a riding friend of Charles; Charles had dropped in for a drink, he said, and had thought she might be worried, asked him to ring. He was on his way back, shouldn’t be more than half an hour longer.
‘Thank you,’ said Grace, and put the phone down; Charles’s thoughtfulness made her feel even more remorseful.
She was just thinking she ought to go in and get on with the lunch when she saw Lara and Charles in the distance, walking admirably slowly, she thought, down Thorpe Hill. He disappeared briefly into the woods, and then she saw him on the path that cut round the edge of the wood, coming towards the paddock. It was all very lyrical, like a watercolour painting: the sun shining on Lara’s gleaming coat, her tail swishing the flies away, and behind them the brilliant springtime woods. And then it happened.
Something – no one would ever know what – startled Lara; Grace saw her shy violently, then go into her well-known double buck, and when that failed to unseat Charles she began to gallop towards the paddock gate. She gathered herself, jumped it high, landed awkwardly, and pecked: had it not been for that peck, all might have been well. But it was that which sent Charles flying off her, over her head, landing with horrible awkwardness on the ground. Lara, finally calm, stood nuzzling him, clearly wondering why he didn’t get up and remount her as he had so many times in the past. Or why he didn’t even move at all.
Chapter 36
Late May 1946
All Grace could think, as she raced across the paddock, careless for once of Lara and what the horse might do to her, was that the last thing she had done before Charles left was turn her face away and refuse to let him kiss her. And the last thing he had done was thoughtfully phone to tell her not to worry about him.
Well, maybe this was a judgment on her. For all her wickedness.
She stood looking down at him, lying still as stone, totally silent and wondered if he was dead, or hopelessly paralysed perhaps, would have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. That would probably be worse. She didn’t like to touch him; she knew it was dangerous to move anyone after an accident, she had learnt that at a first-aid course she had done, had been told so repeatedly by Florence. But she did have to know if he was actually alive. She sank to her knees and put her hand out gingerly to his neck, trying to find a pulse. She couldn’t. Dear God, he was, he was dead.
She looked round wildly, wondering what to do; Lara, pleased with her morning’s work, was cropping at the grass a few yards away. Over in the drive she could see Muriel’s car. She waved frantically, thinking it was the first and probably the last time she would ever be pleased to see her. Muriel ducked under the rails and came running towards them.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘It’s Charles, he – she – he—’
‘I can see it’s Charles,’ said Muriel, ‘but what happened? Surely even you—’
‘Sorry,’ said Grace, thinking as she said it that even Muriel could hardly blame her for Charles being thrown by his horse. ‘She jumped the gate, stumbled and he fell. And I can’t feel a pulse, I think – I think—’
Muriel knelt down by Charles, put her hand to his neck, probed about a bit. Grace watched in agony. Then: ‘What the hell are you doing?’ said an irritable voice.
He had broken his leg and sustained mild concussion, Dr Hardacre said. He was driven off in the ambulance, Grace and Muriel following, to have his leg set, and came home next day. Grace looked at him with some foreboding, as he was borne into the house. Charles was a terrible patient. He found the crutches difficult to manage, and most of the time he lay on his bed and railed at Grace. He didn’t complain about the pain he was in, which was clearly considerable, but he did complain about everything else: boredom, discomfort, the heat, the food, the books Grace brought him, the radio programmes the BBC chose to put on, the work which was piling up, the dogs barking, Grace’s inability to cope with Lara. Lara was easily dealt with, sent back to her stud farm; the rest was more difficult.
Grace had made up a bed for Charles in the drawing room, so that he could have the French windows open to the lovely summer air, but he complained that he got no peace; unsure why not, she moved the bed into his study. He said that was an improvement as
there was a phone there, and he could talk to the office, but after a few days he said he got no peace from the phone and Grace had to fly to answer it at the first ring, dropping whatever she was doing. If she went to the lavatory, or even to hang out the washing, she took it off the hook first. As it was almost always for him anyway, it all seemed a complete waste of time and effort, but it obviously made him feel better to have the calls filtered.
She did her best with the food, but there was no pleasing him: he said he needed meat to build up his strength, but after the first couple of meals complained that it was too heavy, while he was so inactive; she gave him eggs and cheese instead, but he said they gave him indigestion. He demanded sweet things, but sugar was still rationed, and he had a craving for bread, which Grace made herself, and which he criticized as being too doughy.
‘Get my mother to give you her recipe, much nicer.’
Grace knew Muriel had never made a loaf of bread in her life, and the recipe was Cook’s, but she didn’t argue. The recipe that actually came down was Jeannette’s which was delicious.
He couldn’t sleep, and he said reading made his head ache; Grace offered to read to him, but after the first chapter he complained the story was too slow and he couldn’t stand listening to it.
After another week, she could have cheerfully throttled him with his pyjama cord.
Mr Dunn had agreed that Elspeth should try for the scholarship at St Felicia’s. It was clearly impossible for Elspeth to practise at the Mill House, while Charles was there, so Grace had asked Miss Merton if she could go to the school.
‘You can go in every day when you get home,’ she said to Elspeth, ‘and then drop the key off at Miss Merton’s when you finish.’
‘Thank you, miss. What do you think I should play? The Mozart or the Haydn?’
‘Both,’ said Grace firmly. ‘They want at least two pieces, and your scales and so on, and I think you should play the one you wrote, you know, the lullaby? It really shows off your musicality. All right? Now they’ll notify me when they want you, what time and so on, as I’m your teacher. And I’ll take you there. It’s on the twenty-fifth of May. Don’t look so frightened, Elspeth, I know you’re going to do wonderfully.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Oh my lord,’ said Brian Meredith, properly recovered at last, ‘I still haven’t been in touch with Mrs Bennett. Tomorrow’s the nineteenth, isn’t it? The day I was supposed to meet her. The last one of the three she suggested. What’ll I do, San?’
‘S’pose you’ll have to phone. Want me to do it? I’ve got to go out.’
‘No, it’s all right. I ought to really. She sounds a nice person – what must she be thinking? I’ll go down the corner now I’ve got to go to the surgery, anyway, get my final certificate signed.’
‘You really going back to work?’ said Sandra. ‘I’ll be glad to get you out the house.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘No I don’t,’ she said, giving him a kiss. ‘I’ll miss you.’
Whereupon one thing led to another and it was rather later than Brian had intended before he set off; he decided he would have to go to the surgery before he made his telephone call, otherwise he might miss the doctor and then there’d be hell to pay when he went back to work next day.
‘I’ve got to do some shopping,’ said Grace, ‘we’re out of everything and—’
‘Can’t you get it delivered?’
‘No I can’t, Charles. It’s still difficult getting things delivered. Apart from fish, and you won’t eat that. I won’t be long, and if you have a problem you can just lift the phone and your mother can be down in ten minutes. I’ve checked that she’s there. But I’ll only be an hour.’
The number Brian had for Mrs Bennett was engaged for a very long time; the woman on the exchange was sympathetic.
‘Been engaged all afternoon, my dear.’
‘There’s not a problem, is there?’
‘I don’t know. I’m only temporary here.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Brian.
‘Is it urgent? I know Mrs Boscombe, she’s the usual operator, takes a message if it’s really urgent.’
‘My Lord,’ said Brian, ‘that wouldn’t happen up here, in London.’
‘Don’t s’pose it would, my dear,’ said the operator. ‘Look, give me your name, and I’ll try once more. Can they ring you back?’
‘No, they can’t. The name’s Meredith. Brian Meredith. I can’t meet Mrs Bennett, that’s the message. Oh, and I’ll call again.’
‘Right. I’ve written that down. Oh now then, wouldn’t you just know, it’s ringing. Hold the line, caller.’
A man answered the phone; he sounded disagreeable. ‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s not here. Who wants her?’
‘This is Mr Meredith,’ said Brian.
‘Look, if you’re from the college, or it’s about some music scholarship, I really don’t want to have to—’
‘No I’m not,’ said Brian, pushing another two pennies in. He felt rattled by the severely authoritative tone; the conditioning of five years in the army surfaced. ‘Sorry about that, sir, running out of money. No, nothing to do with music, sir. I had an appointment with Mrs Bennett, and I can’t keep it. I’m very sorry. I’ve been ill.’
‘What sort of appointment? What is this?’ He sounded even more bad-tempered. ‘With a doctor or something?’
‘No, not a doctor. It’s a bit difficult to explain, sir.’
‘Well, I think you’d better try. I’ve got better things to do than embark on some guessing game.’
‘Yes, sir, of course. I’ve got something for her, something that belonged to her late husband. Something he – well, that he lost. In the war. That I’ve been keeping, sir.’
There was a silence; then the voice said, ‘What regiment were you in?’
‘Paras, sir.’
‘How could you have anything of – of Major Bennett’s?’
‘Well, sir, it was me found him, you see. In France. After his – after he—’
There was a very long silence; then the man said, ‘Look, what is it exactly you’ve got?’
The pips went again; he had only two more pennies. He pushed them in. ‘I’ll have to be quick, sir, haven’t got no more money.’
‘Give me your number, I’ll ring you back.’
‘You can’t do that, sir, it’s a public box.’ Didn’t these people know anything? ‘Could you just tell Mrs Bennett I’ll write and arrange another day?’
‘Absolutely no point in that,’ said the man. ‘Sorry. She’s gone away, for some time as a matter of fact. Hasn’t been at all well. Look, just send it, whatever it is. A letter did you say?’
‘No, I didn’t say, sir.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘A ring, sir. A signet ring.’
Another long silence; the pips went yet again. ‘Christ,’ said the voice, ‘just send it. I can’t imagine why you took it anyway. Most irregular. But don’t worry Mrs Bennett any more. I’ll deal with it. All right?’
‘Yes, sir. Who shall I address it to, sir?’
‘To me. The name’s Jacobs. Michael Jacobs. At this address. And I’d like your address, and—’ The phone went dead.
He was obviously Mrs Bennett’s new bloke, thought Brian, putting down the phone. None too nice either by the sound of things. He decided to take his time sending the ring. There was still a chance Mrs Bennett might get in touch herself.
‘There may be some stuff for the office coming here,’ said Charles that evening. ‘Some of it addressed to Jacobs. I know he’s retired, but he still gets mail. Just bring it all to me, won’t you? I mean don’t start opening it.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Grace. ‘I wouldn’t dream of opening any of your letters. You know that. And I’m sure you wouldn’t open mine.’
‘No. No, of course not.’
‘Did John Stokes phone this afternoon by the way? About the music on Sunday?’
‘No. Nobody rang.’
‘I’d better ring him then. Charles, are you all right? You look a bit odd.’
‘No, I’m perfectly all right. Just sick to death of lying here, bored out of my mind.’
Early next morning, the music head of St Felicia’s rang up about Elspeth’s scholarship.
‘This is just to warn you. We’re asking all the children to play a piece sight unseen. And there will also be a few extra compulsory scales, chords and so on. Can I just tell you those, so that Elspeth can work on them?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Grace, ‘let me just get a piece of paper. Could you just hold on while I—’
‘Grace!’ came a roar from the study. ‘Can you come here quickly? I’ve spilt the damn tea.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Grace, rustling frantically through her bag for something, anything to write on, finding the letter from Brian Meredith, turning it over, scribbling frantically. ‘B sharp minor, G flat, yes, chords, yes – yes, got those. Thank you so much. See you next week. Goodbye.’
She put the letter back into her bag, went into the study; Charles was looking furious, tea dripping all over his Times. She tried to appear suitably sorry for him.
She looked at the date on The Times as she dabbed at it. The twentieth of May. Exactly a week until Ben and the boys sailed for Australia. In four days she was seeing the boys. Every time she thought about that, saying goodbye to them for the last time, she felt sick; she didn’t know how she was going to get through it. She wished desperately now she had never said she would meet them. But she owed it to them; they wanted to say goodbye, it would be wrong, unkind, to refuse them. She didn’t want them to remember her as someone who hadn’t had time for them, who refused to see them.
She wasn’t sure whether the thought of Ben going made her feel better or worse; the thought of him being on the other side of the world was horrible. On the other hand knowing he was there, quite near, but forbidden to her, was very painful; there had been times when she had been so unhappy, so desperate for him, she had found the temptation simply to go to where she knew he lived, to knock on the door, to cross over into that territory, almost overwhelming. And she was terrified of bumping into him by accident one day; she knew that if she did she wouldn’t be able to stand it. She never went to Salisbury without half expecting it, never stood at her bus stop or walked through the streets without feeling he might, must one day be there.
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