I was stunned, and stopped walking for a moment to take it all in. I mean, I knew he was a black marketeer and everything, but he sounded like a completely renegade criminal, who clearly had no conscience whatsoever.
“And now you’re a traitor, too,” I said limply. I looked up into his clear brown eyes, the word so ugly and clumsy in my mouth, so repulsive. “How could you help the enemy, and on our own soil, too?” I was angry with him for letting me down, angry for what he was doing. “I never knew you spoke German! How many other people are you, Alastair?”
“Many,” he said simply. “I speak French, too, if it’s any consolation.”
“Why would that be a consolation?” I said, and started walking again.
“It’s a lot more complicated, Venetia. I can’t tell you about it right now, but you have to trust me.” He came after me, trying to take my hand.
“How could it get more complicated?” I spat, snatching my hand away. “You’re a criminal and a traitor. Most people would be satisfied with just one: criminal or traitor, but no, Alastair Slater has to be both.” Then I added, “And a very poor artist just in case that’s not enough.”
He laughed. “Oh Venetia, I’m not really that bad an artist, am I?”
“Yes.” I smarted. “You had my portrait completely wrong. You don’t know me at all. You’ve had me wrong all along.”
“I see that I have,” he smirked, although I could see he was getting ruffled. “I’ll change it, Venetia. I’ll find the painting and I’ll change it. I’ll make you into the gentle goddess that you are.”
“Why should you bother?” I shouted. “I’d have thought another minx would be exactly your style!” I turned to face him. “You have a nerve asking me to trust you, when all you’ve done is lie and cover up.”
He took my hand. “Venetia, I may be a lot of things, but I have always been true to you.” His voice was velvet smooth, steady and serious. “I love you, Venetia. I thought you loved me, too, felt it inside. We’re meant to be together.”
“I don’t know if I can be with a traitor,” I said, my voice breaking, tears beginning to well up in my eyes, and then I made a feeble wobbly laugh. “Black marketeer was fine,” I said, “but not a traitor.” My face dropped, and I began to cry, right there in the wood, the trees silently standing around us, conveying on the world their stoical constancy.
“It’s not that bad, Venetia.” He put his arms around me and pulled me in tight, trying to recapture our cozy nighttime world. “You have to trust me. It’s far more complicated.”
I sank into his warm body like it was a sustaining or intoxicating drink that kept me alive, and yet I knew deep inside that the morning’s endeavors had put a different light on him, on us.
“Tell me then!” I pulled back, angry with him for ruining everything. “Tell me how it’s so very complicated.”
“I can’t,” he said simply, a look of utter remorse in his eyes. “I can only tell you that I love you, and that you need to believe me.” He put his hand into his pocket and pulled something out, a tiny pendant. There was no chain, no necklace, just the little silver object, the etching worn.
“Take it,” he said.
I was unsure whether to or not, but my curiosity got the better of me and I took it, turning it over in my palm. It was a St. Christopher medal, a good-luck charm.
“It’s from my grandfather,” he said softly, a memory making him smile. “John MacIntyre, the man I thought to be the cleverest in all the world.” He closed my hand around it. “Take it.”
“No,” I said, flashing my hand open again. “You’re the one who needs it.” I gave a frail laugh. “I’m sure you have dozens of criminals and spies after you, not to mention the police and military intelligence.”
“Losing you scares me more than any of them.”
There was something strange in his look, a look I couldn’t read; was it sadness or a kind of plea, a prayer?
I glanced at him, uncertain. “You never told me about your grandfather,” I said. It was such an odd moment, as if the world had stopped turning, all the air abruptly still, the silence complete.
“I don’t like to talk about myself,” he whispered, taking my hand in his. “But you know how I feel about you. When all this is over, we can be married.”
The wind blew through the branches, sending a chill over my neck and face. I felt tangled up with the enormity of everything, what might be ahead of me: the shame, the hatred, the poverty, the loss. The baby growing inside me. I took an unsteady step back.
“I need time to think about everything,” I said hesitantly, and then, on hearing my voice feeble and scared, added in a more bold way, “And I’m sure that you need time to get rid of the Nazi in the wood.” I shook my head in disbelief, trying to erase the image out of my mind. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll hand you in?” I asked, intrigued that he hadn’t brought it up.
“No,” he replied quietly.
“Golly, you’re mighty confident, aren’t you?” I blurted back. “Do you think you have me so smitten?”
“No, Venetia. I’m just not afraid of being handed in,” he said gently, his hand reaching up and picking up a fallen emerald leaf from the hair on my shoulder. “I’m far more afraid of losing you.” And there was a longing in his eyes that I knew would take me over if I stayed for much longer.
“I don’t know who you are, Alastair Slater,” I blustered, furious that he was being so evasive. “And I don’t know your game, but you can jolly well find yourself a new muse.”
With that, I turned my back on him and stalked out of the copse to the orchard, each gentle breeze shifting the delicate shadows of the branches, like life flickering between light and dark. Above me a great bird of prey circled, wings spread wide and powerful in the pale dawn light.
As I approached the edge of the wood, I couldn’t help but take one last glance back at him, and he was still there, standing at the edge of the glistening trees, silently watching me. Huffing, I turned away and marched up into the wood, beginning to run all the way home.
And so here I sit, confused and angry and not knowing what on earth to do. I long for him. And yet, how could I love a traitor? I may have his baby growing inside me, yet how could I ever trust this man who can betray our country, our world, our beloved little village? Everywhere I look, our choir, the Sewing Ladies, Mrs. B., Hattie and her little baby Rose, Silvie, even Kitty in her own way, are all so incredibly dear to me. How could he put us at risk? How could he aid our destruction in such a direct and final way?
Just as I was thinking the worst, I felt something in my pocket. It was the St. Christopher medal. I must have slipped it in when I was angry. I took it out and rolled it over in my hand, remembering the moment when time stopped, when he told me it was more complicated. When he told me to trust him. I want to, Angie. Yet how can I?
There was a small knock at my door. It was Kitty.
“I heard you crying,” she whispered as she stepped carefully into the room. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Well, I’m not, if you want the whole of it.” I suddenly felt close to her again, and beckoned her to come and sit on the bed with me. We huddled close, like we did when Daddy roared at us as children, and we would flee out into the woods, gripping each other for dear life.
“Can I do anything?” Kitty asked.
“Not really. It’s just that I don’t feel well, right down in the pit of my stomach.”
“You should go and see Mrs. Tilling. She always manages to make me feel better.”
And as we shared a moment of alliance, I decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to pay Mrs. Tilling a visit after all.
I promise to write soon,
Venetia
Thursday, 1st August, 1940
This afternoon as I returned from the hospital, I saw that I had a most unexpected visitor. The blue bicycle leaning against the whitewashed wall by the door belonged to Venetia, although there was no sign of he
r anywhere.
What now? I thought as I went in search of her. In the end, I went around the back of the house, and there she was on one of my wicker chairs on the terrace, the magnolia tree over her like an ivory-pink sun shade. She was leaning back, her eyes closed, her hair gleaming in the sunshine. She made quite a picture; she is such a beautiful girl, especially in the lovely floral green dress, with her golden hair and soft pale skin. It’s a shame she’s so reckless, although the influence of Angela Quail doesn’t help. I’m sure she’s not such a bad girl underneath all that makeup and pretense.
“Venetia,” I said, putting my hand gently on her arm.
She blinked her eyes open, and I could see she was tired. Her job at Litchfield Park has long hours, and I’ve reason to believe she’s been spending long hours somewhere else, too.
“I must have dozed off,” she said, sitting up straight and brushing herself down in a haze, a different world.
“Have you come to see me about something?” I asked. I had dinner to prepare, and a busy afternoon planned, and I hoped she wasn’t going to waste my time.
“Yes, I have.” She looked at me nervously for a moment, her pearly hands pushing against the arms of the chair, easing herself forward and up. “Could we go inside?”
I opened the back door, and she came in behind me, through the kitchen and the hall to the living room. I’d left the window open this morning, and the wonderful scent of the lavender bush from my front garden supplied the room with a brisk freshness, like washed sheets. The white net curtain was fluttering in and out of the window, as if the summer warmth were oblivious to the war.
I sat in the beige armchair, and she perched opposite on the sofa. I decided not to offer her tea, being busy and everything.
“Well,” I said, wishing she’d just come out with it.
And then she did.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
There was a long pause. She looked at her hands, which were moving in and out of each other on her lap. I didn’t want to think about the things that sprang into my head all too readily, so I pressed on.
“Do you know how long?”
“I don’t really know—”
“Do you remember when you had your last monthly?”
“Oh, about five or six weeks.”
She looked up and caught my expression, which obviously bespoke my disapproval.
“It was a mistake,” she said quietly. “It’s all a big mistake. I—” She broke off and started to cry, such a strange sight for the tough and headstrong girl she’s become, and reminding me of the small girl I once knew, the girl running scared from her father or brother. I went over and put my arm around her, her turmoil dissolving the distance between us like fingers of dawn threading light into a new day.
“It’s Mr. Slater’s, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she muttered through her sobs. “What should I do?”
“Have you told him?”
“No.” She pulled away, as if with determination in spite of the circumstance. “I want to be sure. I want to work out how I feel about it before I tell him.” She abruptly looked at me, scared and restless. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“No, of course I won’t.” I took her hand. “But people are going to have to know sooner or later.”
She began crying again, this time harder, with more concentrated sobs of desperation. “I want to find someone to get rid of it. I’ve heard there are women who—”
“You don’t need to know about that, Venetia,” I butted in. I’m not having her go to the likes of Mrs. Nees in a back street in Litchfield. “It’s illegal and dangerous.”
“But I can’t have a baby!” She flew into a rage and began pacing the room. “I can’t believe this has happened to me! There has to be someone who can help?”
“Venetia,” I said gently, trying to calm her down. “Firstly, we know how it happened, don’t we? Let’s not be coy here.”
She looked at the ground, reddening, her beautiful face crushed.
“And secondly, women like Mrs. Nees don’t know what they’re doing. She may get rid of your baby, yes—but at what cost? Do you want an infection that might strip you of your ability to have children? Or may lead to your own death?”
“But that’s rare, surely?”
“She uses old scissors, blunt and rusty.” I found a few tears coming from my eyes. “There was a girl in the hospital last year, only fifteen, taken advantage of by an uncle popping in and finding her alone. She spoke of the pain, the hour-long wrestling with various instruments, none of them cleaned, on the woman’s filthy living room floor. Then she collapsed on the street and a policeman took her to hospital.”
Venetia had sat back down and was focusing on the pattern on the rug.
“She died, Venetia.” I swallowed, pursing my lips with the horror of the memory. “She contracted septicemia. She died.”
Silence sat haphazardly in the still room, although I could almost feel the turbulence in Venetia’s mind, her eyes darting over the rug as if weighing the costs.
“How can she get away with it? Letting women die like that?” she eventually said quietly.
“It’s illegal, Venetia. She can get away with whatever she wants.”
“Surely there’s someone out there who would do it properly, with the right equipment?”
“No, Venetia. There are other people who would do it, but not properly, with the right equipment sterilized, the right procedure, the right clinical experience. It’s a tremendous risk, Venetia, and I will do everything in my power to stop you from taking it.”
“What about you? Couldn’t you get rid of this baby for me?”
I was stunned into silence for a moment.
“No, Venetia. I’m not qualified to give you an abortion, nor would it be within my powers. It is illegal. We would both be criminals.”
“But no one would find out—no one else knows I’m pregnant.”
“I don’t care, Venetia. I don’t know how to do it, and I’m not putting myself in a situation where I might be responsible for your death.”
She went quiet. Then came the tears.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You can do what most girls do in this situation. Tell Slater and get him to marry you.”
At that point she burst into a whole new wave of tears. “I’m not sure I want to marry him anymore.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I was getting a bit cross. “You’ve been carrying on with him these past months, getting yourself pregnant. Why wouldn’t you want to marry him? I thought you rather liked him?”
“I do. I mean, I love him like my heart will explode, but he isn’t who he says he is, and I’m scared, Mrs. Tilling.” I put an arm around her and she turned into my shoulder. “I’m so terribly scared.”
“What are you so scared of, child?”
“I can’t tell you.” She looked up, her eyes full of tears, great pools that seemed to be drowning her.
“Do you want to keep the baby?”
“Of course I do, but I can’t imagine how my life would be. I can’t marry him, and Daddy will turn me out, and everything will be horrific.” She looked up at me. “Please help me get rid of it, Mrs. Tilling.”
I sat uncomfortably with her head against my shoulder, weighing the moral and practical implications of illegal abortion. Since the whole Carrington situation made me reconsider the moral standpoint of homosexuality, I’ve spent more time contemplating my own values, asking myself questions that I thought I’d always known the answer to. That juxtaposition between society and humanity, of what it is to be human, in all its guises.
“No, Venetia,” I said finally. “I can’t help. And I refuse to let you see Mrs. Nees or anyone else who might kill you.”
She sat up and blew her nose, as if she knew it was pointless pushing me.
“What should I do?”
“You should talk to Mr. Slater.”
She got
up, thrust her handkerchief in her bag, and replied sharply, “I can’t go to him.” And then with a furious look at me, she added, “I’ll have to go and see Miss Paltry then. I’m sure she’ll be able to help me.”
“Please, Venetia,” I begged. “Whatever you do, stay away from the likes of Mrs. Nees.”
“But Miss Paltry knows—”
“Miss Paltry doesn’t always have her patients’ best interests at heart, and I’m sure there’s money in it for her if she refers you to a butcher like Mrs. Nees.” I came up next to her, taking her wrist in my hand as if she were a small child. “If you can’t tell Mr. Slater, then come to me and I’ll help you through the pregnancy and to have the baby. We can hide it.”
Her eyes shone with doubt and hope and a richness of fear that seemed to loop around her mind, switching back and forth between horror and pain, and then she briskly flinched her wrist out of my hand and strode out of the door, without even saying good-bye.
As she got on her bicycle and left, I took a deep breath, a breath that acknowledged that I was involved in this now, and that I was the one she would come to when everything gets too much. With that I went inside and cleared out the back storage room. There’s a small sofa in there, under some boxes and chests, and you never know, Venetia might need somewhere to sleep when the Brigadier finds out.
Colonel Mallard arrived home as I was scurrying around upstairs with sheets and blankets, and he watched me pensively. “Can I help?”
“No, thank you,” I snapped, going into the tiny room and shifting boxes to make some space.
“Are we to expect a guest?” he said, coming up behind me and trying to help with a chest.
“Over there,” I muttered, reluctantly accepting the help. He’s a large, strong man, after all, and he may as well be of some use.
He shunted around some of the other big items, putting boxes on top of the chest, clearing the bed and making a good space.
“Thank you,” I said begrudgingly. “And no, we’re not expecting a guest.” I looked out of the small window to the treetops in the back garden, where a lone magpie stood watching me from the branches. “At least, not yet.”
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 18