The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  Eve heard the sound of the front door closing. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms folded, her face expressionless, for several moments. Then she crossed the room, dropped on her knees by the sofa, and buried her head in the cushions and wept.

  6

  AT THE END of an autumn afternoon spent in the kitchen garden with Lobb, Sonia came in to the kitchen and sat down wearily.

  ‘We have an outbreak of soft rot in the potatoes, Mrs Goodall. Such a dreadful waste, after all the hard work we’ve put in. It’s been a thankless year, what with caterpillars eating the celery, leaf spot on the runner beans – and look what happened to the marrows. Now this.’

  ‘We’ll just have to buy in,’ observed Mrs Goodall phlegmatically.

  ‘Lobb says we need to rotate things more. It’s the potatoes I regret most. Cabbages I can live without. But the potatoes should have lasted us through to next year.’ Sonia took off her muddy boots and stretched out her legs, leaning back and closing her eyes.

  Mrs Goodall, who was busy stewing apples, gave her a glance. Who would have imagined elegant Mrs Haddon, as she was four years ago, with her fancy tea gowns and fine jewellery and lovely kid shoes, sitting now in the kitchen in her stocking feet and a pair of old dungarees, mud under her nails, and her hair any-old-how. Funny how the war had changed everything. Mr G always said it was about time the well-offs saw how the other half lived, but then he was a socialist. She didn’t mind everyone muddling in together while the war was on, but she couldn’t help thinking there’d been something comforting about the old order. Mrs Haddon upstairs writing her letters and having her guests to stay and being driven about in the Bentley, with a maid attending to her clothes, housemaids seeing to the rooms, Lobb and his men looking after the garden and the grounds, while she herself had been queen of her own domain, with a kitchen maid to boss about, and no one to interfere or come in scavenging for biscuits and making cups of tea. There had been a rightness to it all. Now almost all the old rituals and formalities had disappeared, which was a pity, in a way.

  As though in response to Mrs Goodall’s thoughts, Sonia opened her eyes and said, ‘Do you know, Mrs Goodall, I’m tired of going about like a land girl. I shall go upstairs and have a bath, and put on something nice, and have tea in my sitting room. It’s been an age since I did that. Would you bring a tray in about half an hour, please?’

  Sonia put her boots in the scullery to dry and went upstairs to the chilly bathroom. She sighed as she ran her permitted few inches of water. Oh, for a hot, deep, foaming bath into which one could sink properly, instead of shivering in a miserable puddle with horrid cheap soap that barely produced a lather. As she watched the water trickle into the enamelled bath, she was dimly aware of a sense of anxiety, and as she sought its source, a rebellious urge suddenly overtook her. Turning the tap on full, she let the hot water gush into the bath, and went to her bedroom and fetched from a cupboard a bottle of rose and cucumber bath milk which she had bought from Harris the chemist in St James’s Street before the war. She had been saving it, succumbing to the wartime instinct for eschewing all luxuries. She went back to the bathroom and purposefully poured in a liberal amount, watching it melt into foam as the steaming water crept upwards. She was above her allotted inches, but now had enough for a decent soak. The war would surely not be lost because she, Sonia Haddon, had an extra six inches of water in her bathtub. She’d read somewhere that the Queen had a line painted inside her bath to ensure her maid didn’t run too much. Well, bully for the Queen still having a maid to run her bath.

  Sonia undressed and got into the bath, sinking with pleasure into the hot, scented water, feeling the grime of the chicken coop and the ungratefully mouldering kitchen garden soaking away. She closed her eyes and searched for the source of the disquiet which had assailed her a few moments earlier. For a couple of weeks now she had been aware of a coolness between Meg and Diana, which she had put down to some minor disagreement or other, assuming it would right itself in time. With so many women living together under one roof, little quarrels were bound to happen – there were days when she and Helen were scarcely civil to one another – particularly with both Diana and Meg under the strain of having their husbands in constant danger. But matters did not seem to have put themselves right. Meg in particular seemed utterly dejected, and she had noticed that the two young women, such close friends for so long, no longer walked down to the village together with the children, or sat sewing and gossiping by the wireless. Something was amiss, and she needed to find out what, and remedy it if she could, for the sake of her peace of mind and for the good of the household.

  *

  ‘Don’t bother with any for me,’ said Diana, as dinner was being served that evening. ‘I had tea with the children in the nursery. I’ll get myself some supper later.’

  ‘That’s the third time this week she hasn’t sat down with us,’ observed Helen, after Diana had gone. ‘And the amount of time she spends at the piano going over and over that Chopin piece. We don’t have much of her company at all these days.’

  ‘It’s dreadfully hard for her,’ said Sonia. ‘I know her nerves are perpetually on edge over Roddy. She goes white whenever the doorbell rings.’

  ‘Half the women in the country are in the same boat,’ went on Helen, helping herself to vegetables. ‘Look at Meg. It’s just as hard for her with Paul, but she doesn’t constantly shut herself away in the music room.’

  ‘Oh, well – Diana clearly needs time to herself. I think we should leave her be.’

  ‘I rather think it’s she who is leaving us be,’ replied Helen. ‘She’ll need to buck up. I’ll be needing helpers for my rummage sale soon.’

  *

  After dinner Helen went into the village on some WI errand, and Sonia invited Meg to listen to the radio with her in her sitting room. A cosy fire was burning in the grate, and Rufus and Domino lay snoozing on the hearthrug.

  Meg and Sonia settled in armchairs, Meg with her knitting, Sonia her sewing.

  ‘The Brains Trust will be on in a minute,’ said Sonia. She paused, then added, ‘By the way, I’ve noticed you and Diana don’t seem to be getting on as well as you used to. I’m sure it’s none of my business, but it worries me when there’s tension in the house. Have you had a quarrel?’

  Meg sighed. She had hoped Sonia wouldn’t broach the subject. ‘Yes. A few weeks ago. I’d rather not say what it was about.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think it’s time you two made it up? No one likes an atmosphere.’

  Meg nodded. ‘I suppose so. I’ll talk to her, I promise.’

  Sonia resumed her sewing. Rufus wheezed and rolled on to his side, blinked at the fire, then fell back into his doze. After a moment Sonia said, ‘Are you sure that’s all that’s the matter, Meg? Quarrels are upsetting, I know, but I wondered if there wasn’t something else amiss. You seem terribly listless lately. One would almost think you were unhappy.’

  Meg gazed fixedly at her knitting. Unhappy was hardly a big enough word to describe her state of being. Since the argument with Dan she had been wretched, unable to sleep properly, her appetite gone, and her concentration shattered. Behaving normally on Paul’s last leave had been the hardest thing of all – mercifully he’d only been back for twelve hours. She had no idea whether he’d noticed. In the past weeks Paul had become less distant towards her, treating her with his old affection, as though trying to heal things between them.

  ‘I suppose I’m still unhappy about Hazelhurst.’

  ‘That was dreadful, but you and Paul will make a fresh start when the war is over.’

  Meg nodded, bending her head over her work again, pretending to count the stitches. How ironic. The fresh start was to have been with Dan, and that would never happen now. She would simply have to pick up the pieces with Paul and carry on. There was no one and nowhere else to go to. Her fingers faltered as she counted. She suddenly saw herself for the coward she was. She had put her fear of being friendless and alone above her lo
ve for Dan, and had told him so. No wonder he had ended it.

  Sonia reached to the wireless and switched it on. As they waited for it to warm up, she added, ‘Grieving for a home you loved must be as hard as grieving for someone who has died. But there are always other houses, and after the war you and Paul can make another home every bit as wonderful as Hazelhurst. At least for the present you’re safe with those who love you.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Meg. ‘I don’t think anyone could have been kinder than you’ve been, Aunt Sonia.’ Stay with the people who matter to you. That was the last thing Dan had said.

  The announcer’s voice drifted into the room, and the programme began, putting further conversation at an end.

  When it finished half an hour later, Sonia looked up from her sewing and remarked, ‘I always enjoy listening to Professor Joad. He sounds like the kind of person one would like to have to dinner. Will you stay and listen to the news?’

  ‘I think I’ll go and talk to Diana, if you don’t mind, Aunt Sonia. No time like the present.’ Meg rolled up her knitting and went out, closing the door. She paused and listened. Sure enough, she could hear the distant ripple of piano notes. She went down the hall to the music room and opened the door. Diana didn’t hear her come in. Her fair head was bent over the keys as she repeated a phrase over and over, trying to get it right. Only when she looked up to frown at the music did she become aware of Meg’s presence. Abruptly she stopped playing.

  ‘It’s chilly in here,’ said Meg, rubbing her arms and pulling her cardigan further round her.

  ‘I don’t really notice.’

  Meg walked around the piano. ‘Your knuckles are blue.’ There was a silence, then she added, ‘Please carry on. You play so well. I never really got past “Three Blind Mice”.’

  Diana shook her head. She looked candidly at Meg. ‘You didn’t come here to listen to me play.’

  ‘No. I’ve been with Sonia. She’s noticed things aren’t right between us, and it’s upsetting her. I told her I would speak to you.’

  Diana shrugged. ‘Not much to say.’

  Meg drew up a chair and sat down. ‘I think there is. I’m prepared to forget what you said, if you are.’ Her conscience pricked her, but there was no other way to deal with this.

  Diana stared down at her hands, then rubbed them together to warm them. Ever since she had accused Meg of having an affair with Dan, the idea had seemed more and more outlandish. What had Meg been doing for the past two years? Running her home in wartime, looking after Paul and Max and Helen, then coping with the loss of her house, accommodating herself to the new surroundings of Woodbourne House. How would anyone find time for a love affair?

  ‘I don’t know why I said it, or thought it. Something. Nothing.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why don’t we just forget it ever happened?’

  Diana looked up, her eyes searching Meg’s, and something in her gaze made Meg’s soul shrink. She was effectively asking Diana to admit she’d been in the wrong. But Dan was gone from her life, so there was some small justification for what she was doing.

  ‘Very well.’ Diana closed her eyes, and suddenly her shoulders began to shake, and she was weeping. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel as though I’m… as though I’m deranged, somehow. I’ve been like this for weeks now. Every morning I wake up convinced that this will be Roddy’s last day. I tell myself he can’t possibly survive. It’s just a question of when the telegram will come. Will it be this morning, or in the afternoon? Will he be blown to smithereens, or burnt alive?’ It was the opportunity Meg needed. She pulled her chair forward and put her arms round Diana as she wept.

  ‘Don’t. I know how dreadful it is. But you have to tell yourself he’s survived this far because he’s good at what he does, because he’s experienced and clever.’

  Diana pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. ‘No. Only because he’s lucky. And no one’s luck can last for ever. Do you know, ten of Roddy’s squadron were killed last week? He said not one of them was over twenty-one.’

  ‘But what good will it do to work yourself up into such a state all the time?’

  ‘None. I know that. But I can’t help it. Every time he leaves I think, why didn’t I tell you how much I love you? Because we don’t, you know. It’s not our style. We just rag each other all the time, and say silly, offhand things.’

  ‘I think he knows how much you love him. Men always know, without you having to say a thing.’ She pushed the thought of Paul from her mind.

  Diana was silent for a while, fiddling with her handkerchief. ‘It’s been even worse not having you to talk to. You’re right. Let’s forget what I said. It was ridiculous, and I’m ashamed of myself.’

  Meg winced inwardly. The deception was never-ending. She took Diana’s hands in hers. ‘Darling, you’re positively icy. I vote we go and join Sonia in her room. She’s got the nicest fire, and I’m sure we can prevail upon her to break out the sherry. I think it’s just what we both need.’

  Diana smiled. ‘Let’s. I can’t stand much more of this Chopin, anyway.’

  ‘I don’t think any of us can.’

  ‘Cheek!’ Diana wiped away the last of her tears and stood up. ‘I feel so much better. I’m glad you came to talk. It must have been difficult, after the awful things I implied.’

  ‘Let’s never mention it again. Ever.’

  *

  Max sat forlornly on a footstool and cast a sad glance at the Christmas tree. Lobb had gone to great pains to get hold of a decent one, and had erected it in a red-painted bucket at the far end of the drawing room. Meg and Diana had decorated it with Sonia’s rather cumbersome old Christmas ornaments, and the children had added festoons of coloured paper chains, which they had spent happy hours gumming together in the nursery. Underneath were such presents as people had been able to buy, or make, wrapped in paper which Sonia had been carefully harvesting and reusing for two years now.

  ‘But why isn’t Daddy coming home? It’s Christmas Eve. He should be here.’

  ‘Because he’s got operations tonight. It can’t be helped, darling. I’m afraid the war doesn’t stop for Christmas.’ Meg stroked Max’s cheek. Poor darling. He worshipped Paul, and had been looking forward for weeks to his father’s Christmas leave. For her own part, Meg was relieved. It had been hard enough putting on a cheerful, normal face for Paul when he did come back now and then, but she thought she would have found Christmas particularly difficult.

  ‘Perhaps he’ll get here for Boxing Day,’ she added reassuringly.

  ‘That’s not the same.’

  ‘You know, I don’t think Daddy would want you to be miserable like this. If he were here he’d say “chin up, old boy”, wouldn’t he?’

  Max nodded glumly.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you to bed. Father Christmas will be here in a few hours. That’s one chap the Germans can’t stop getting through.’

  Roused by this interesting thought, and speculating on whether Father Christmas might possibly have a rear gunner on his sleigh, Max went upstairs with Meg to the nursery to hang up his stocking.

  *

  On Boxing Day Paul came back to Woodbourne House on leave. Meg was shocked by how grim and weary he looked. He managed the Boxing Day meal cheerfully enough, but fell into an exhausted sleep on the sofa afterwards. Max, on orders from his mother, waited patiently for two hours before gently shaking his father awake and dragging him off to the nursery to show him his new toys. At teatime Paul and Roddy had a couple of sandwiches and a slice of Mrs Goodall’s Christmas cake, and then took themselves off to the living room for an hour, where they sat by the fire with glasses of whisky, smoking and talking. It wasn’t until later in the evening that Meg was able to talk to him alone. Before that she sat with him as Max lay tucked up in his bed, subjecting his father to a cross-examination on the progress of the war, particularly Paul’s part in it.

  ‘Mummy said you couldn’t be here because you were on
operations.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sorry I missed Christmas, old man. It couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘Were you on a night run?’

  ‘Yes. Most of our ops are at night, you know.’

  ‘Did you see Father Christmas? I mean, might you have seen his sleigh, do you think?’

  Paul laughed and ruffled Max’s hair. ‘Do you know, I think maybe I did? One can never be sure, though, with so much going on.’

  ‘What was your target?’

  ‘Some enemy transport.’

  ‘Were there enemy planes on your tail? Did you have to corkscrew?’

  ‘No, no corkscrews last night. But I had to do a bit of rolling, and it was quite hairy.’

  ‘Did you hit the target with your bombs?’

  ‘It was hard to tell. When it’s dark, and you don’t know if you’ve identified the right thing, and with the plane wobbling about and being shunted with flak, it’s quite tricky, because it only needs the plane to swing a little and you’ll miss your target by a mile. There were shells exploding everywhere, and a lot of black smoke, so I was flying blind.’

  Meg noticed Paul clenching and unclenching the fingers of his left hand, which was out of Max’s sight, as he spoke.

  ‘That’s really dangerous, isn’t it?’

  ‘It most certainly is. I think it’s the most frightening thing I know. Except for flying low. We have to do that a lot, as I’ve told you.’

  ‘You get a better aim if you fly low, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. But it’s risky. Luckily, Scotty’s a very good navigator, and when he shouts “up!” I don’t argue. I just pull the stick and up we go.’

  Max wriggled further down the covers. ‘I bet you didn’t miss. I bet you smashed the Jerries to smithereens.’

  ‘Well, who knows? Now, that’s enough war talk. Do you want Mummy to read you a story and hear your prayers?’

  ‘Can’t we talk some more?’