No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Oliver. ‘Well, thank you.’

  He felt quite sick.

  ‘I feel quite sick,’ he said to Jack, ‘it’s an appalling way to behave. Drunk, I have no doubt—’

  ‘Oh Wol, don’t you start,’ said Jack gloomily. He had adopted the children’s name for Oliver years earlier. ‘It could happen to anyone. Just bad luck.’

  ‘Bad luck! Making so much commotion the royal guard had to be called out, getting thrown into jail, your name in the papers—’

  ‘Is it? Good Lord!’

  ‘Yes, it is, and it’s nothing to be proud of. You’re thirty-five Jack, for God’s sake, not fifteen—’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. If I say it was stupid and I’ll never do it again, will that help?’

  ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t believe you,’ said Oliver. ‘Why do you do it, Jack, what’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Probably being thirty-five,’ said Jack gloomily, ‘thirty-five and nothing to show for it. Getting drunk and having fun, that’s just about all there is. Life isn’t exactly rosy at the moment.’

  ‘Isn’t it? What’s wrong? You’ve got a job and a decent place to live, and a very nice girlfriend—’

  ‘I’m about to lose the job, aren’t I?’

  Oliver hesitated; then he said, ‘Not lose it, of course not. But maybe it will – change a little. Anyway, I feel bad about it. Responsible. I shouldn’t have entrusted you with so much so soon.’

  ‘Well, never mind about that. And I may not have the girlfriend any more. She was pretty bloody furious with me—’

  ‘I expect she was. Sensible girl, Lily.’

  ‘And as for the place to live – well it’s damned expensive. I’m always worried about money—’

  ‘So you conserve it carefully,’ said Oliver drily. ‘Well you can always come home, you know. If you really can’t afford your flat.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Oliver looked at him. ‘Why not? We miss you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Jack? Is something wrong? I do assure you, you would be very welcome to come back to Cheyne Walk. For a while, at least. Celia would love it, she misses you particularly, you cheer her up and—’

  ‘Oliver, no. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Well, at least come to supper tonight and let’s talk about it.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘What, come to supper?’

  ‘Yes. Since you ask.’

  He was staring down into his coffee cup; Oliver looked at him intently.

  ‘I don’t understand. You used to be so happy with us—’

  ‘Oliver,’ said Jack in a sudden rush of words. ‘Oliver, you’ve got to understand. I can’t live with you any more.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘No. With – with—’

  ‘Celia?’

  A long silence. Then, ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘But why? You’ve always been so fond of one another.’

  ‘Let’s just say we’re not any more. Oh – it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry.’

  Oliver looked at him very steadily across the table; then he said, ‘No, Jack, you shouldn’t. Shouldn’t say harsh things about Celia.’

  He was silent: Jack sat staring at him. ‘You must know,’ he said finally, ‘you must.’

  Oliver was silent.

  ‘Oliver, why do you put up with it? How can you stand it?’

  ‘Jack,’ said Oliver, ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. And I think it would be a good idea if we talked about something quite different. Like how you might deal with your debts.’

  The doctor, whose name was Blake, was obnoxiously, smarmily polite, nauseatingly sympathetic. Celia told him, as instructed by Bunty, that she could not face another pregnancy.

  ‘Of course I understand your dilemma Mrs, – ah yes, Mrs Jones. Several bad pregnancies, difficult births, severe post-natal depression. No, you certainly shouldn’t have to go through it again. Your husband has no idea you’re here, of course? No, I thought not. Good, good. Absolute discretion is our byword. Now, our nursing home is in Surrey. Near Godalming. It was a convalescent home in the war and is still used for that. Plus there is a small wing for minor surgical cases. The removal of ovarian cysts, fibroids, appendices, that sort of thing. Nothing too serious. I would like you to be there this Friday, at eleven. If the dates you have given me are correct, then we have very little time. After three months, as you will know, this sort of thing is impossible. You will be home by Saturday midday. I would prefer you to come in your own car, or a taxi of course. We find third parties on these occasions are simply – upsetting. For all concerned. Now – do you have the fee with you – good. In cash? Yes, excellent. Well good morning, Mrs Jones. I shall see you on Friday morning.’

  Jasper Lothian was sitting on a bench in one of the lovely quadrangles in Cambridge, reading the Times Educational Supplement when he was interrupted by one of his least favourite voices.

  ‘Professor Lothian! Good morning, sir. What a lovely day.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lothian, delving physically deeper into his paper.

  ‘I hope I find you well, sir.’

  ‘You do, Mr Stubbs, thank you. Very well.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it, sir. And Mrs Lothian?’

  ‘She is also in the best of health.’

  ‘Good. Is your son enjoying his life—’

  ‘Yes, thank you Mr Stubbs, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a great deal of reading to do this morning; perhaps you would—’

  ‘Of course, sir. I do apologise, sir. Would you remember Mr Bateson?’

  ‘Dimly,’ said Lothian, ‘but—’

  ‘He was here at the beginning of the war. Nice young fellow.

  Anyway, I heard from him a few days ago. Expressed an interest in the next college reunion. Just got the letter off to him now.’

  ‘Really? Mr Stubbs, I—’

  ‘I thought you might be pleased, because I know you used to tutor him. And he hasn’t been up since the war.’

  ‘That applies to a great many young men. Whose absence will be permanent. Unfortunately.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. Most unfortunately. A whole generation wiped out. Dreadful. Dreadful.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Lothian gave up, put his paper down.

  ‘Was there anything else you wanted to say Mr Stubbs?’

  ‘Oh, not really, sir, no. I just thought you might be interested. Would enjoy seeing him. Strange he should have written now. After so long. And he was also trying to contact Miss Bartlett.’

  A student of what was later known as body language would have found Lothian’s speaking volumes at this point; he became very still, and his eyes focused intently on Mr Stubbs.

  ‘Miss Bartlett?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She was in your tutorial group, wasn’t she?’

  ‘No,’ said Lothian. Very firmly.

  ‘Oh, I apologise, sir, I thought she was. Well, anyway, he wanted her address. Mr Bateson I mean.’

  ‘And – you’ve given it to him?’

  ‘Well, of course, I only had her parents’ address, sir. I gave him that, yes. They can forward the letter if they so desire. If she is no longer living with them. Of course she may be. You wouldn’t know, I suppose, sir?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Jasper Lothian. ‘Of course I don’t know. Excuse me, Mr Stubbs. I have to get home.’

  He walked very quickly back to his house in the college, went straight up to his study, wrote a letter, stuck a stamp on it and went out to the nearest letter-box. Then he sat down and, although it was still only just after eleven, had a very stiff drink.

  ‘I would like to get home tomorrow,’ said LM. ‘The other children have gone and Jay will be miserable without them. And, of course, I miss him.’

  Celia looked up at her wearily. It had been so good to have her in the office for a few days, receiving her wonderful, brisk common sense, knowing sh
e was passing it on to Oliver, saying the kind of things that she would never have dared say. That Jack should not have been given his head, or allowed to waste so much money; that James Sharpe was spending far too much on coloured illustrations when simple line drawings would have done; that perhaps Oliver should consider taking out libel insurance, as several publishers were doing now. ‘Too late for this time, but in future, I would propose it very strongly’; that perhaps Peter Briscoe, with his slow, careful ways was not quite the match for the cut-throat young fellow the Lothians were clearly employing; and that the editors should be trawling the agents energetically for a possible alternative work to The Buchanans.

  ‘Of course we can’t manage the autumn, but that is no reason for inertia. Christmas is just about possible.’

  Celia knew she should have been doing that herself, but she felt too ill, was too wretched to do more than go through the motions of each day. Well, this was the last day; she was off in an hour. Then it would be over.

  She had been trying, and had for the most part managed to overcome the sense of blind panic and searing misery which attacked her whenever she actually faced what was going to happen. She had kept her mind somehow turned away from the violation not only of herself, and of her uterus, but of everything she believed in and cared about. From the fact that she held within her all that remained of her love affair, her joyful, ecstatic exquisite love affair, or perhaps – and it had to be a real possibility – the last sad shreds of her marriage. She could not think about the fact that she was wilfully destroying it, brutally, savagely, destroying it, tearing it out, throwing it away; denying it its chance, its future, its potential for happiness. Of any pain to herself, any danger, any misery, she was quite careless. That would be her penance, almost welcome. And in an hour – no less than an hour now – the process would begin. In the name, she kept telling herself, of sanity, of common sense, of pragmatism. So that when it was over, she could begin again. It was the only possible decision to make, the only possible thing to do, the only possible way to be free.

  ‘Mum? Mum, hallo! How are you? Oh, it’s so nice to see you.’

  Sylvia looked at her daughter with an odd blend of sadness and pride; she was growing up so fast, was so tall, so pretty. Her figure was developing now she couldn’t help noticing that; her hair was beautifully cut in a long, curvy bob, her skin had turned a golden brown in the summer sun, her small, straight nose was covered in tiny freckles. No longer a child; almost a woman; a charming, clever, pretty woman. And she had had almost nothing to do with it herself; Barty might be her daughter, but she was Celia’s creation. It was hard. But – Sylvia shook herself mentally. She didn’t begrudge Barty any of it. She couldn’t. And there was still room for pride.

  ‘I’m fine, love,’ she said, ‘really, I am.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘Well I am.’

  ‘Frank said you’d been bad again.’

  ‘I am – sometimes. You know.’

  Barty nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, I do know. I remember when – well anyway, Mum, you are to see Dr Perring. Aunt Celia’s doctor. It’s all arranged. Daniels is coming for you on Monday and we’re taking you to his rooms. In Harley Street.’

  ‘Oh, Barty, not Monday, dear.’

  ‘Why not? Why ever not?’

  ‘Well because – because—’ Sylvia stopped. ‘It’s just not a good time,’ she said. ‘Because of – well, you know, what we just said.’

  ‘Oh. Oh I see. But – I thought that was when it was so bad. When it hurt so much.’

  ‘It is, Barty. But I can’t go to the doctor then. Can I?’

  Barty thought for a bit. Then she said, ‘Well, you could talk to him. And he could see how bad it was then. I mean that’s quite good, I would have thought. In a way.’

  ‘Barty—’

  ‘No, Mum. I think we should go. He’s a doctor, after all, Aunt Celia says they’re never embarrassed by anything. Now, come on, let me make you a cup of tea. Cook sent you this lovely cake, and a pork pie for our lunch. And it’s a nice day, we can sit outside in the sunshine, and I want to tell you all about what I’ve been doing. I can ride, Mum, ride a horse now. Lady Beckenham taught me. And Giles taught me to play tennis. And at the end of next week, we’re all going to the seaside. To Cornwall. Come on, let me help you up the steps. Goodness, you’re thin. I’m going to make you eat all that cake all by yourself.’

  The two letters arrived at the Bartlett house on the same day; ‘This one’s from Professor Lothian’, said Mary Bartlett.

  ‘Well open it, then.’

  ‘I will. It’s to us both.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  He slit it open, read it. Then he said, ‘I’m not sure about that. It sounds a bit complicated.’ He passed it to her. ‘What do you think?’

  She read it very slowly, twice. ‘I don’t know. I certainly don’t want her upset.’

  ‘No, of course not. But I never like opening her mail.’

  ‘Nor do I. But if it is what Professor Lothian says – we should check it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely. Yes. We can tell her it was a mistake. She won’t mind.’

  ‘All right,’ said Mr Bartlett, ‘here goes. If it is from this man – well, it could upset her.’

  He opened the letter, read it carefully. Then he looked up.

  ‘It is. So I think – don’t you?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Mary Bartlett worriedly and went out to the kitchen to wash the floor.

  ‘LM, I’m off in about quarter of an hour. I did hear what you said about going home, but I wish you’d reconsider it. Just for a few days.’

  ‘Celia, I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m worried about Jay.’

  ‘Of course. But it’s so wonderful having you here, like old times. I hadn’t realised how alone I feel till you were here with me again. But anyway, can you stay at least until the end of the day?’

  ‘Of course. As you won’t be here. Where are you going?’

  ‘Oh – to a meeting with some booksellers. In Guildford. And then to stay with a friend overnight. I’ll be back in the morning.’

  ‘You really don’t look well,’ said LM quietly, shutting the door behind her, ‘do you really have to rush about like this? You should be taking things easy.’

  ‘LM, it doesn’t suit me to take things easy,’ said Celia, managing a smile, and then, suddenly, she burst into tears. LM looked at her, then sat down on one of the sofas, patted the seat beside her, held out her arms. She was such an undemonstrative woman normally, that even in her misery, Celia was surprised. She sat down obediently beside her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘so sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said LM. She put her arm round Celia’s shoulders.

  ‘Something’s wrong isn’t it? Something more than just being pregnant, I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia, blowing her nose, ‘but – well, I can’t tell you about it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why not? I hope you don’t think I’d be shocked. Or even judgemental.’

  Celia looked at her very steadily. Normally, she knew, LM would be neither. She longed more than anything at that moment to talk to her, to tell her, to get a brush of her pragmatic wisdom. But this was LM’s brother, a beloved and much revered brother moreover, whom she had betrayed. It was impossible to talk to her about it.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said briskly, sitting up, blowing her nose. ‘Of course I don’t. And it’s nothing very – serious. Honestly. Now I must go. My car is downstairs.’

  ‘You’re not driving yourself?’

  ‘Yes, of course. LM, I’m not ill. I hope,’ she added carefully, for she had thought this through, as well. LM knew she was pregnant, would know she had gone away. She just might suspect something. Certain seeds needed to be planted. God, this affair had made her a mistress of deception.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just feel slightly odd.
I was terribly sick this morning, I expect that’s it. Anyway, I must be on my way.’

  Somehow, once she had left the office, was in her car, she knew she would feel better. It would be irrevocable. No turning back. And there was no other way. No other way at all.

  ‘Bye, dearest LM. I’ll see you very soon. I’m hoping to come down to stay with my mother soon. Possibly when the children are in Cornwall.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Go on, Celia, walk out of the door. Then you’ve only got to get downstairs and into your car and then—

  ‘Lady Celia.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gould?’

  ‘These page proofs have just come in. Mr Lytton said he particularly wanted you to see them.’

  ‘I can’t. Not now.’ She felt an odd outrage that something should be managing to detain her.

  ‘They’re Lady Annabel’s proofs. Mr Lytton did say I had to make sure you saw them.’

  ‘Oh—’ she hesitated. They were indeed crucially important. There were a few things which she had been worried about: chapter headings, the typesetting of the index, these needed the sort of attention only she could give. And it would only take half an hour. She hadn’t got to check the whole damn book. She’d just have to do it now. Otherwise, there’d be terrible trouble next week. Life would be going on. Well most of it anyway . . . Resigning herself to thirty more minutes of churning misery, she sat down again and reached for her pencil.

  ‘Is there anything we can do to speed up this action?’ said Jasper Lothian.

  Howard Shaw looked at him; he appeared extremely agitated. His always wild hair looked as if it had not been combed for a week and he was very pale. Even his hands looked pale, pale and clawlike. He really was not a very attractive man Still – he was the client.

  ‘Well, we’re giving them the full ten days if you remember. To reply to my last letter.’

  ‘Which said?’

  ‘That I was applying for an injunction, unless they gave me their written assurance that the book had been substantially rewritten or pulped.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Well, I would prefer we didn’t do that. Did you tell them they had ten days?’