No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘I know, but—’ Giles hesitated, they looked at his mother. She smiled at him, but her eyes were hard. ‘I do really,’ he said finally.

  ‘Good,’ said Oliver, setting him down, ‘that’s fine, I don’t want to go away worrying about you. And anyway, you are the man of the family for now, you have to be very brave and strong.’

  ‘I – will,’ said Giles. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Barty, my darling, goodbye. Take care of yourself, work hard at school, and I shall expect a long story ready for me to publish when I get home.’

  Barty had started writing stories; very short, a page at the most, but unusually for so young a child she gave them structure and a point. One about a robin that lost its wing, but found another bird to carry it on its back, another about a fairy whose wand didn’t work magic any more and had to take an exam at fairy school before she could have another. No one else had been allowed to see them; he had been touched by the honour and impressed by the stories themselves.

  ‘I will,’ she said, biting her lip, managing a smile, clearly determined not to cry. Her self-control was remarkable, he thought, for so young a child.

  ‘And as for you two—’ he said, scooping up the twins, one in each arm. No such considerations for them; carried away by the drama, by the chance for attention, unable to understand more than that he was going away for a while, they both buried their heads in his neck and bellowed, clinging to him with their small arms until they were prised off by Celia and Nanny.

  ‘They’re so tender-hearted, poor little things,’ said Celia.

  Nanny said nothing.

  Oliver bent and kissed Celia briefly, very briefly, he could not bear to do more, picked up his bag and walked to the gate; Truman was waiting by the car. Oliver looked back, at the small group, at Celia and Nanny holding the twins, with Barty and Giles in front of her, all waving the small Union Jacks Celia had bought them. Celia was smiling bravely, radiantly. He focused in on her, removed the children from the picture, saw only her lovely face, her brilliant eyes, her tall slender body, the body which gave him so much pleasure, and then focused in further, just to her mouth, her smiling, beautiful mouth. It moved, silently as he looked at it, one last lingering time. It was that picture and above all that mouth, telling him she loved him, that Oliver carried with him through the next four, dreadful years.

  ‘I have thought about what you said,’ said LM, ‘and I’ve decided you are right. I have written a letter. With my news.’

  ‘Well I’m very glad,’ said Celia, ‘very glad indeed. I just know he’ll be pleased. Anyone would be.’

  LM wished she felt as sure.

  She had actually been out three times to post the letter; had stood at the letterbox, dreading knowing that the news was irrevocably on its way, that it was no longer under her control. That she could not stop it. Twice she brought the letter back again; finally, sick with terror, on 3rd January, 1915, she let it drop, then stood there staring at the box, wondering if she waited, the postman would give the letter back to her when he came to empy it.

  While Jago did not know, she was safe, their relationship was safe. She did not have to picture him filled with fear, or filled with distaste; not knowing what to say to her, how to react. Pretending he was glad, pretending he was happy. All kinds of morbid imaginings filled her: that he no longer loved her, that he had never loved her; that he had never loved her after Violet Brown; that he had actually continued with his relationship with Violet Brown, had been waiting to tell her. That he would picture her, not tenderly, not proudly, as she hoped in her more optimistic moments, but with pity, as someone old, too old for motherhood, a slightly ridiculous figure; that he would be horrified, repulsed, ashamed of her. That he would feel he would have to marry her, while not loving her, not wanting to; that he would look for excuses, even now, to end their relationship. And enduring all this, she waited.

  She told herself that he would write quickly if he was pleased; that a long silence would indicate his distress. Letters went back and forward quickly; it was considered vital for the morale of the troops. She knew that she could get a reply to her letter within four days of its arrival; just over a week then from her posting. 11th or 12th or even 13th or 14th January should bring it; all those dates meant the message would be hopeful, happy. She was up at dawn each day, waiting restlessly for the postman; she saw him in the distance, down the street, watched from the window, waited until she could hear him on the path, counted his footsteps, heard the letterbox open, the letters drop. Or not drop. On the 11th there were none, the 12th just one, from a friend, the 13th, none; on the 14th, sick with terror, she saw a small pile on the floor. Surely one of them must be from Jago; it must be.

  She knelt beside them, fumbling through them: a bill from the butcher, a letter from a rather depressed woman poet she had befriended, a note from another friend.

  And – yes! A letter from France; in the military envelope with the military stamp. Her fingers shook so much, were so clumsy with fear that she literally could not get it open. She ran, half crying, into the kitchen for a knife, slid it under the flap of the envelope, pulled the letter out. And sat on the kitchen table, staring at it, hating it, hating the sender, hating what it said. Which was kindly, affectionate, wellintentioned ; but not in the right handwriting, not expressing the right emotions, in not the right words. And was not from the right person, not from Jago, saying how happy he was about their baby, but from Oliver, saying along with other such platitudes, how much he hoped she was better, and that life at the front was after all not so bad.

  Despair overtook her; quiet, dreadful despair. January turned to February, and still no letter; she went to work, went home again, ate the suppers Mrs Bill had prepared for her, went to bed and tried to sleep. Nothing could lift her mood or distract her. It was in those weeks she said afterwards that she finally began to lose her faith in God. He provided her with no comfort, no strength. She cared about nothing and no one, and she developed a great hatred for the child she carried inside. It was kicking now, vigorous and uncomfortable; she loathed the sensation, the feeling that her body was not her own, that it was invaded by an alien, unwelcome presence which had destroyed Jago’s love for her. She was hostile and uncommunicative to Celia, who she blamed for persuading her to write to Jago, short-tempered with her staff, abrupt and cold to poor Mrs Bill, who deserved it least, and would have lain down her life for her. She looked back on the person she had been a year before, confident, in command of herself, in control of her life, with a man she loved and who loved her, and found it almost incredible that everything should have changed so dreadfully much.

  ‘Your dad’s gone,’ said Sylvia to Barty one Saturday.

  ‘Gone where?’ she asked.

  ‘To fight in the war, of course. Went on Tuesday, just like that. Said he couldn’t stand it no longer, that he had to do his bit. He thought they might turn him down, being a bit chesty and that, but they took him at once. He was really chuffed.’

  ‘Oh mum. Mum, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sylvia, ‘yes, it’s quite hard.’

  It was; Ted might have got a bit difficult over the last few years, but she still loved him; and after Christmas, when he had hurt her so much, he had signed the pledge, never touched another drop, and they had been really happy again, like the old days. Only worry had been falling again, but she’d escaped. And now he had gone; just when things were getting better.

  ‘It was that poster,’ he said to her, when she asked him why he’d finally decided to go.

  ‘What, Lord Kitchener?’

  ‘No,’ he said soberly, ‘worse than that. Picture of some bloke sitting in a chair, little girl on his knee, saying, “what did you do in the war, Daddy?” Made me realise, the kids want to be proud of their dad, want to know he did his bit.’

  ‘You’re such a good man, Ted Miller,’ she said kissing him. ‘I’m lucky to have had you.’

  ‘Don’t start talking in the past,’ he
said smiling at her. ‘I’ll be all right. Lucky I am, always have been. I’ve had you for a start. I don’t deserve you, Sylvia, and that’s a fact. And when I come home, things’ll be better, I know they will. Now, you going to be all right without me? Should be, there’ll be the army pay, coming in regular, only twelve and six, but I’ll have it all sent to you.’

  ‘I’ll manage, Ted, course I will.’ She couldn’t think how, but nor could she say so. In fact, ‘You should keep a bit, for your tobacco and that,’ she said.

  ‘Oh we get that, Syl. With our rations.’

  He wasn’t yet at the front, he was training somewhere in Kent, Sylvia said, but he’d be off in a few weeks. ‘I don’t think we’ll see him before he goes.’

  ‘Did he – did he say anything about saying goodbye to me?’ asked Barty in a small voice.

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Sylvia, ‘but he couldn’t, could he? He said to give you a kiss.’

  She hoped Barty would believe this; in fact Ted hadn’t mentioned her. He had seen her very seldom over the past two years, disappearing whenever she was about to visit, probably Sylvia thought, because he was so ashamed of himself, afraid of what she might discern, perhaps report him to Celia.

  ‘He could, you know,’ said Barty, ‘have said goodbye. He could have come to the house. Or written, at least.’ She blinked back the tears. Every time one of her family displayed a loss of love for her, it hurt more, not less.

  ‘Now Barty, he’d never have come to the house. Of course he wouldn’t.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Barty, and then stopped. She was beginnning to see why not; and beginning to realise why they regarded her as they did. Billy’s goggle-eyed report of the house, the servants, the huge Christmas tree even, had done her no service. ‘Well anyway,’ she said, ‘I’d like to write to him. How do I do that?’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Sylvia, ‘and then there’s a special address. But don’t expect anything back,’ she added warningly, ‘you know he can’t write that well.’

  That was an understatement; Ted could hardly write at all; Sylvia was by far the more literate of the two.

  ‘No,’ said Barty, thinking this was not the only reason her father wouldn’t write to her, ‘no, I won’t expect anything back.’

  ‘I did wonder,’ said Laurence thoughtfully, ‘if you would feel compelled to go and fight for your native country.’

  Robert looked at him; the tone was particularly cold, the expression especially derisive.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no Laurence, I don’t. The war in Europe is dreadful, and my brother has enlisted, but this is my home now. And even if I did, I am far too old to be accepted. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

  Laurence shrugged. ‘It’s of no importance to me either way. I was just a little – surprised that’s all. I would have thought it was the gentlemanly thing to do.’ He paused, then said, ‘No, perhaps surprise is the wrong word. Under the circumstances.’

  With extreme difficulty, Robert said nothing. He was beginning to wonder how much longer he could endure this war of attrition. And how much it was worth enduring in any case. If Laurence hadn’t been away two thirds of the year, not even the charms and beauty of Elliott House and the gratification of keeping up appearances, would have made up for the discomfort and misery of the other third. With two years to go before Laurence came of age, he had already begun to look out for a site for his own house.

  The telegram came on 7th February. LM was getting ready to go to work, dressing herself carefully in the long loose coat she wore to conceal the quite small bump. When she got to work, she put on a loose pinafore, making the excuse that she needed it to protect her clothes down in the cellars, where she spent much more time now, with so many of the clerks gone to the front.

  She heard the footsteps on the pavement, then on the path and heard the doorbell go; she heard Mrs Bill’s voice, frightened, urgent, calling her name. And watched herself go down the stairs and take the yellow envelope, saw herself open it, and observed herself reading the words, the absolutely meaningless words.

  Regret to inform you . . . report dated 5th February . . . Corporal Ford . . . killed in action . . . sincere sympathy. Under Secretary of State.

  She heard herself saying to Mrs Bill, ‘Mr Ford has been killed,’ went upstairs, finished dressing, and quite dry-eyed, walked to the station as usual. She arrived at Lyttons, went into Celia’s office and said to her in an absolutely steady voice, ‘Jago has been killed,’ and walked out again.

  And although it was dreadful, very dreadful indeed, knowing she would never see him again, that he was lost to her forever, terrible knowing that he had probably died some hideous death, far away from her, by far the worst thing of all was knowing that he had died not loving her any more, not wanting her any more, and not wanting the child they had conceived together in an earlier, happier life.

  ‘I’m thinking of offering Ashingham as a convalescent home,’ said Lady Beckenham. ‘Just for officers, naturally. I think one should do one’s bit. Several friends have gone out to drive ambulances, that sort of thing. I have thought of that as well. With Beckenham out of the way, it’s so easy down here suddenly. What do you think?’

  ‘I should think with you out at the front, the war would be over much more quickly,’ said Celia, smiling at her. ‘You’d have the Hun on the run in no time.’

  ‘Don’t joke, I’m perfectly serious. I heard the most marvellous story the other day. Absolutely true. Some woman called Blanche Thirieau, who lived in Paris, knew that her husband was involved in the Battle of the Marne, and decided to go down there and visit him. And she actually managed it. Charmed the captain, who sent off a soldier to fetch her husband. It just shows what can be done if you won’t take no for an answer. Still, I think I’d probably be as much use here. Now, when do you envisage sending the children?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mama. Still no bombs are there? But at the first hiss, then down they’ll come. Is Papa enjoying life at the War Office?’

  ‘Immensely. I can’t imagine he’s doing anything remotely useful, but he seems happy.’

  ‘I must have him to dinner again,’ said Celia, ‘I feel bad about being so inhospitable. But what with one thing and another, I haven’t got around to entertaining much lately. It’s difficult without Oliver and—’ she looked down at her burgeoning stomach.

  ‘Don’t worry about your father. He’s perfectly happy. How do you feel?’

  ‘Oh, tired. But all right. Five months is quite a good time. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Lady Beckenham vaguely. ‘Whole thing’s a bit of a blur, thank God. Have you told Oliver yet?’

  ‘Yes. I thought I’d better. In case someone else did. He was thrilled, although a bit worried of course.’

  ‘Any real news?’

  ‘No,’ said Celia soberly, ‘only that he was alive four days ago. That’s all you know. You get a letter and you think, thank God, and then remember that in the four days since it was sent anything could have happened.’

  ‘Jolly tough,’ said Lady Beckenham. ‘I do know, I’ve been through it.’ There was a silence, then, ‘Was he at the last big one, do you think?’

  ‘Mama, I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ The reports of the attack on Neuve Chappelle and its attendant huge casualties had frightened her severely, not least because she had no idea if Oliver had been there or not. That made things infinitely worse.

  His letters were determinedly cheerful, but still told of horrors: ‘We are shelled the whole day long, the noise is dreadful and carries on in one’s head the whole night. My main problem is lack of sleep, yesterday we were moving up a hill, having been ordered to reinforce another Division, lovely day, sun shining, blue sky, I have to admit to a flash of happiness and was thinking of you rather intently, when there was a rain of shellfire from concealed machine guns and snipers. So much for daydreaming. We lost quite a few men, and were starting to dig ourselves in at our destinat
ion, when the shelling started again and went on all night. But don’t worry about me, my darling, I am not even scratched.’

  She slept badly, visions of Oliver mutilated, dead, dying, and perhaps most hideously choked and blinded by the new terror, poison gas, waking her constantly from restless sleep; only going to Lyttons kept her sane. She was working feverishly, long, long hours, doing not only her own work but also that of Oliver, Richard Douglas, and James Sharpe, the art director. She particularly enjoyed the design work; she had a quick, innovative eye and some of the jackets she was commissioning were more interesting and arresting than anything Lyttons had done before. She had replaced James and his assistant, Philip, with two clever young women; the three of them worked together extraordinarily well. The more senior of the two, Gill Thomas, was a great admirer of the look and ideas to be found in the weekly magazines; she had designed a range of jackets of the women’s fiction list which were strongly reminiscent of the covers of Women’s Weekly. They were selling in thousands.

  LM was still working hard, overseeing everything from budgets to shipments, promotions to stock control. Knowing she would have to leave for a while at least, and in the foreseeable future, was frightening Celia. She could not imagine how she would be replaced. LM had recruited and trained an excellent assistant – who had been told in strictest confidence the terms of her engagement – but she would be in no way a substitute.

  Which reminded her. She looked at her mother.

  ‘Is – is the dovecot in use at the moment?’

  The dovecot was a small, exquisite building, reputedly designed by the third Earl to house his mistresses. It was called the dovecot because of its construction; it was circular, with a slate roof topped by a small glass rotunda, and stood about fifty yards or so back from the terrace, next to the sunken rose garden and close to a side door, which allowed discreet access to and from the main house. Inside there was a small panelled drawing-room on the ground floor, and a bedroom above it. It had no kitchen, but a bathroom, with primitive but perfectly efficient plumbing, led from the bedroom. Most wonderfully of all, it had its own tiny walled garden; it afforded, in its own way, perfect privacy.