by Caro Fraser
‘Well, our mutual friend Dan. He rather did the dirty on us both, didn’t he? It seems to be his forte, making a fool of people.’
Alec gave Paul an uneasy glance. He didn’t properly understand what Eve was saying, but he earnestly wished she would stop.
‘After all,’ Eve went on, ‘I trusted Dan, you trusted your wife. And we both turned out to be fools.’ Paul stared at her, his face white. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect something was going on. It probably still is. Perhaps it was tactless of me to bring it up, but I think it’s always good to know where one really stands with one’s friends and family, don’t you?’
Alec got to his feet. ‘I think perhaps you should return to your friends, Corporal Meyerson.’
Eve tossed back the remains of her drink and stood up. ‘I think so, too. Nice to have seen you, Paul. Thanks for the drink. Give my best to Meg, won’t you?’
Alec sat down and looked intently at Paul, who was staring at his beer.
‘Perhaps you should pay no attention to what she said. She was obviously a bit tipsy. Probably talking a load of old bunk.’
Paul gave a twisted smile. He got to his feet. ‘You know, I think I’ll call it a night, if you don’t mind, old man. Got a bit of a long day tomorrow.’ He took his coat and cap from the peg and put them on. ‘You’ll forgive me, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ murmured Alec. But Paul was already gone.
8
IN EARLY APRIL Meg received a letter from Sonia giving news of Mrs Goodall’s death. She had just made herself a cup of tea, the Forces programme was on the wireless, and Max was sitting at the living-room table, sticking pictures of aircraft into his scrap book.
‘Oh, dear,’ murmured Meg, as she read the letter.
‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ asked Max.
‘Some upsetting news,’ said Meg. ‘Don’t worry – it isn’t Daddy. Aunt Sonia’s cook, Mrs Goodall, has died. Most unexpected.’
Max stopped his crayoning. ‘That’s sad. I liked Mrs Goodall. And she was very clever. She could make sweets out of carrots.’
‘She was very fond of you.’ Meg pondered. The funeral was the day after tomorrow. She felt she should go. Perhaps Max could stay for tea with one of his schoolfriends. The funeral was at noon. If she left at half past eight she could be back by teatime.
She went to ring Sonia.
‘Only come if you feel you want to,’ said Sonia. ‘It’s a long way, with the trains as bad as they are. Your mother doesn’t feel up to coming.’
‘No, I’d like to. I was so fond of Mrs Goodall. Did anyone know she had a bad heart?’
‘She never said anything. I am quite at a loss without her – not just as a cook, but as a friend. I am feeling quite wretched. Though having Dan here helps, of course.’
‘Dan?’
‘He’s staying here for a few weeks while he convalesces.’
Meg’s heart seemed to rise in her chest. So Dan would be there. She would be able to see him, and be in his company for a while, and that was something.
*
Later, after Max had gone to bed, it occurred to her that at least Mrs Goodall’s untimely death would be something to talk about to Paul when he came home on leave tomorrow, something to leaven the dead atmosphere that currently existed between them. Over the past month their relationship seemed to have deteriorated again, inexplicably. On the rare occasions when he was home, he didn’t seem to be trying any more. Meg, who scarcely ever tried herself but had become used to Paul’s attempts to keep things cheerful, was perplexed by this change, and even a little alarmed. She was concerned that Max might sense something was not right, and grow unhappy, so in an attempt to right the balance she had recently been making efforts of her own to keep things harmonious. It hadn’t entirely worked. How appalling to find herself relying on dismal news to provide an artificial means of bridging the emotional gulf that yawned between them.
But when Paul came home the next morning and heard the news, he said only, ‘Oh, the cook.’ He hung up his cap and took off his jacket. ‘Where’s Max?’
‘He’s playing in his room.’ She followed him to the foot of the stairs. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘What would you have me say?’
‘Paul, I simply don’t understand…’ She stopped.
‘What?’
‘Why you’re so unfeeling. So cold – about everything. And to me especially.’
‘Don’t you? Really?’ His eyes met hers for a moment, then he turned and carried on upstairs to see Max.
She stood uncertainly in the hallway. He must be talking about the stress he was under. It probably made dealing with ordinary feelings so much more difficult. She had to remember that.
For the rest of the day, and over the evening meal, and while Max was around, they conversed on a nominal level about domestic matters, and items on the news. In bed, there was silence. Meg was weary of making further effort.
After Paul had switched off his light, she said, ‘I intend to go to the funeral tomorrow. Mrs Lewis has said she will have Max until I get back.’
‘I can’t come, obviously.’
‘No. Though you wouldn’t, even if you could – would you?’
‘That’s right,’ he said after a moment. ‘I wouldn’t.’
Meg switched off her own light and lay in the darkness, and wondered how it had come to this. Then she let herself slip into the sad little fantasy she so often indulged in these days, even though she knew it would leave her heartsore, full of regret and longing. She pretended she was nineteen again, lying asleep in her bedroom at Woodbourne House, and that any moment now Dan would rap lightly on her door. Then the rest would unfold exactly as it had that summer’s night. She closed her eyes.
*
The next day Meg’s journey to Surrey was fraught with delays and frustrations, and she arrived late. When she reached the church the service had already taken place and people were at the graveside. Quietly Meg joined the handful of mourners in time to hear the vicar’s words of committal.
‘We have entrusted our sister Dorothy to God’s mercy, and we now commit her body to the ground…’ Dan was standing a few feet away, on the other side of Sonia. Meg felt her heart tighten at the sight of him. ‘…through our Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our frail bodies…’ Dan turned and met her gaze, then looked away. Meg was dazed by the emptiness of the moment. ‘…was buried, and rose again for us. To him be glory for ever.’
As people filed from the graveside, Sonia turned and saw Meg.
‘Oh, my dear, I was worried you might not be coming.’
Meg exchanged kisses with Sonia. ‘I’m sorry I was too late for the service.’
‘Not to worry. You’re here now. I’ve arranged for a little gathering up at the house. I think Mr Goodall is very glad of that. Poor man, he’s not really up to providing luncheon for all.’
‘I’ll just go and say hello to Dan,’ said Meg. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.’
Dan was standing reading the headstones, leaning on a stick, and glanced up as Meg approached. They smiled awkwardly at one another, then Dan said, ‘This is a bit of a sad occasion, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Dear old Mrs Goodall.’ There was a silence in which Meg fought for something meaningful to say. ‘How are you?’ she said at last. ‘I heard you were wounded.’
‘Just a bit of a scratch. Sonia insisted I come here to recuperate. I’m pretty much mended now.’ He wagged his stick. ‘Don’t really need this thing, but Sonia insists I should use it.’
‘Paul says the war might be over soon. Maybe you won’t have to fight again.’
Dan squinted into the spring sunshine. ‘Maybe. Things seem to be moving that way. But who knows?’
There was a silence. She looked into his eyes, hoping to find some eloquence there, but was disappointed. ‘Dan,’ she said with difficulty, ‘I wanted…’ She stopped, having no idea what words she wanted to utter, except that she loved hi
m. And to say that would be trite, senseless.
Dan poked at a piece of moss with his stick, and said, ‘There’s a biblical saying – something about perfect love casting out fear. Seems to me that it’s more a case of perfect fear casting out love, wouldn’t you say? Your fear, Meg. Not mine.’
Meg had nothing to say to this. Dan moved away to join the others, who began to make their way out of the churchyard.
Effie had done her best with lunch, but her talents could stretch no further than a few sandwiches and salad from the kitchen garden. Even so, Mrs Goodall’s family lingered for some time. By the time everyone had left it was almost three, and Sonia suggested to Dan and Meg that they should go to the drawing room and have coffee.
Meg glanced at the clock. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go, Aunt Sonia.’
‘In that case,’ said Sonia, ‘I’ll walk down to the village with you. I need to speak to Mrs Tremlett about our whist drive. Dan can stay here and rest.’
Meg’s spirits plummeted. She’d been desperately hoping Dan would walk down with her. She couldn’t bear to leave so much unsaid. She glanced at him to see if her feelings were reflected, but his face told her nothing.
She put out her hand to Dan and he took it, letting it rest in his for as long as was decently possible.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
She met his gaze, hardly able to bear the strength of all she felt. In a few weeks, unless it ended, he would be back in the war, and she might never see him again. She should have been brave, and taken a chance on their happiness. How she had failed them both.
‘Goodbye,’ said Meg.
He let her hand slip from his, and at the last touch of her fingertips his mind seemed to turn to ice. He couldn’t bear to see her go. But he could do nothing except watch from the window as she walked away down the driveway towards the gates, her arm linked in Sonia’s. Turn around, he thought. Look at me. But she didn’t turn round.
*
That evening, before Paul went back to his base, Max insisted on the usual lengthy bedtime chat with his father. Meg, putting away sheets in the linen cupboard, overheard the tail end of it. She always liked listening in on their conversations. They showed a side of Paul which she didn’t often glimpse these days, and which gave her reassurance.
‘Mummy says if you get a nice long leave we might go to the seaside this summer.’
‘That sounds a topping idea. You haven’t been to the seaside much, have you?’
‘We went to a place one day the summer before last, when we were all living at Aunt Sonia’s. I don’t remember its name. There were donkey rides, and I dropped my ice cream.’
‘When I was a boy we used to go to a splendid place down in Devon called Ilfracombe. There’s a beach you can only get to through a tunnel, and wonderful rock pools.’
‘Can we go there?’
‘I don’t see why not. Now, enough chat for one night. Snuggle down.’
‘Daddy?’
‘Yes, old fellow?’
‘One of my friends told me that his daddy won’t be coming home any more. He’s very sad about it.’ Meg paused, a bale of pillowcases in hand. That would be the Ashcroft boy. They’d heard just the other day that his father had been killed in Burma. ‘When you go away I get frightened you might not come back.’ Meg could tell from Max’s voice that he was a little tearful.
‘Well now, don’t you worry about that. Come on, dry your eyes. I always do come back, don’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then. Now, off you go to sleep. I’ll see you next time, old man.’
In bed that night, Meg played her usual part, talking in a way that allowed them both to pretend that things were fine.
‘I overheard you talking to Max about us all going to Ilfracombe this summer. That sounds like a nice idea. Do you think you’ll get enough leave?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so.’
‘Max loves having things to look forward to.’
Paul laid his book on the bedside table. He lay looking at Meg, then after a moment he put out a hand and stroked her hair.
‘Can I kiss you?’ he asked.
How sad, she thought, that he had to ask. She turned to him and let him kiss her, feeling nothing, knowing she should feel glad, after the deadness of the past months, that he even wanted to touch her. He moved closer, slipping his hand beneath her nightgown, attempting to caress her in a way she had shown him in the past, in the days when she was hopeful that things might be made to work between them. She pushed his hand away gently, trying not to show her distaste and impatience.
‘Paul, I’m sorry. I’m simply not feeling that way tonight.’ Suddenly despair overwhelmed her, and she began to weep. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Paul lay gazing at her. After a few moments she grew calmer, and her tears subsided. She wiped her eyes and shook back her hair. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired. So terribly tired.’
‘I understand,’ said Paul. Then he switched off the bedside light and rolled over, away from her.
*
A week later, on a mild April morning, Dan was planting seed potatoes in the kitchen garden, while Sonia was sowing broad beans.
She glanced at Dan as he worked. ‘Do be careful of your leg. You shouldn’t put too much strain on it.’
‘It feels fine. Exercise is good for it. By the way,’ Dan laid down the garden fork, ‘I got a letter this morning. I have to go up to London for a medical tomorrow. If they give me the all-clear, I go back to my unit.’
‘Oh.’ Sonia pushed a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. ‘It seems absurd, getting you fit and well so that you can go off to be cannon fodder again.’
Dan laughed. ‘That’s a nice expression. Not many cannon about these days. The thing is, I could get my orders in a matter of days. So it makes sense for me to stay on in London, rather than come back here. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. Though I had hoped I might have you for a little longer. It’s going to be another quiet summer. To think that just the year before last the house was full of people, almost as busy as when Henry was alive, though in a different way. And now…’ She straightened up, wiping her hands on her overalls, and sighed. ‘Perhaps I should take Avril and Laura on holiday somewhere. A change of air might be good for everyone—’ She broke off as Effie came hurrying from the house. ‘Oh dear, what new drama?’
‘It’s Miss Meg on the telephone, ma’am.’
Sonia trudged in the direction of the house. A few moments later she returned, walking slowly, her hands pressed together. When she spoke, her voice shook.
‘Paul has been killed.’
Dan put his arms round Sonia and she wept on his shoulder. His mind blazed with shock. He was already despising himself for the first thought that had entered his mind.
‘When did she hear the news?’ asked Dan, as they sat at the kitchen table drinking the tea which Effie had tearfully brewed.
‘First thing this morning. It happened overnight. Meg wasn’t in any state to go into details, but I gather Paul had been on a bombing raid over Germany. His plane was attacked, and though he completed the mission and made it back, he died of his wounds.’ Sonia shook her head. ‘Helen is already on her way from London. The funeral is tomorrow. We must go, of course. Effie can look after Laura.’
‘I hate to say it, but I don’t think I can come to the funeral,’ said Dan. He was the last person Meg would want to see at a time like this. Her grief would no doubt be compounded by the most terrible guilt. Any meeting must come later. ‘My medical is at noon. There isn’t time to postpone it, and I can’t duck it.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Sonia doubtfully. She sighed. ‘Meg won’t want to stay on in Bury St Edmunds on her own. I’ll speak to Helen, of course, but I think it might be an idea for her and Max to come here until they decide what to do, rather than go to Chelsea. Max knows Woodbourne House, and it may help him to be somewhere familiar. Poor little boy. Poor
Meg.’
*
Dan hadn’t been to the house in South Eaton Place for nearly six months. It had a dead, stale air about it. Crockery washed up after the last meal still sat in the rack on the kitchen sink. Ashes lay unraked in the drawing-room grate. He sat down in the drawing room, gazing around, remembering all the times that he and Meg had spent here, ruthlessly, carelessly deceiving Paul.
He still hadn’t properly taken in the fact of Paul’s death. He had been a solid, constant presence in Dan’s life for so long that it was hard to believe he was gone. To all outward appearances he had been the most straightforward of men, reliable, frank, kindly, occasionally pompous, courteous to a fault, and with an apparently abiding love of his country and the influences and institutions which had shaped him. The truth could well be stranger and far more complex, and might never now be known. The business of Alice Bauer’s list, Shirer’s letter, and the brigadier’s orders would probably remain a mystery, now that he was dead, as would his relationship with Arthur Bettany.
Best not to dwell on all that, Dan decided, and instead remember Paul as he had known him. Best, too, not to dwell on all the wrongs he had done his friend. At least Paul had died knowing nothing of them, loving Meg and his son to the end. God, no – perhaps that made it worse.
Dan glanced at his watch. It was almost half eleven. He might as well set off for the hospital.
The doctor who examined Dan’s shoulder and leg seemed satisfied with his progress.
‘The bones have knitted well, and the muscle in your leg seems pretty much restored. It says here in your notes that your particular service requires exceptionally high levels of fitness.’ He glanced at Dan. ‘I suspect you may have to undergo a fair bit of retraining to get you back to where you were, but your leg and shoulder should be up to it. How’s the appetite? Bowels all in working order? Good. I’ll pass on my report.’ He scribbled a few comments, then closed Dan’s notes and smiled. ‘Though who knows, the way things are going, maybe you won’t have to worry about going back on active service.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ replied Dan. For the war to be over, and to have a new beginning with Meg. It seemed too much to hope for.