She felt herself getting hot; she took several deep breaths.
‘No, no, dear. I’ll go. You sit down there.’
‘I’ll come with you. Help you.’
That was better; she felt calmer already.
She watched her mother going through the desk, carefully and methodically. There didn’t seem to be anything there.
‘Upstairs? In his wardrobe?’
‘I don’t think so, dear. But we can have a look, if you like.’
‘Yes, I would like.’
No letter.
‘I’m really not sure there was one, dear.’
Susannah felt her temper rising.
‘Mother, please don’t lie to me. I may be a depressive; I may be on permanent medication, but I am not a fool. Clearly there was a letter and you’ve chosen to keep it from me. Why?’
‘Well—’
‘Mother, if you don’t tell me, I shall allow myself to get upset. All right? I’m trying very hard at the moment but I could – let go. So—’
‘We thought the letter would upset you, dear.’
‘You thought so. Why?’
‘It was from a young man who wanted to talk to you About your time at Cambridge. He’s a journalist.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that? I’d rather like that, I—’
‘Professor Lothian didn’t want you to talk to him.’
‘Professor Lothian! Why on earth not, why should he care?’ But – she knew. So did her mother.
‘Now you can imagine why, dear. Although how he knew about it, I really don’t know. Anyway, that’s why we thought it best to – well leave it for a while. You haven’t been very well lately and—’
‘I’ve been perfectly well, Mother. Rather better than usual. What I want to know is what you were doing opening my letters anyway. And how did you know Jasper Lothian didn’t want me to see him?’
‘He – he – wrote to us. About it.’
‘He what? But that’s outrageous.’
She felt herself getting edgy now; she sat down. Her mother looked at her.
‘Susannah, please.’
‘I’m going to get that letter,’ she said, ‘now where is it?’
‘I really don’t know, dear. Your father had it.’
‘I know. You said.’ She could hear her voice shake again. ‘Mother I don’t like this at all. Not at all. I think I’d better go and find Father now.’
‘Oh, Susannah, no.’ And then clearly seeing that Susannah meant it, she said, ‘well have a nice drink first. And perhaps you should take your second tablet early.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Susannah, ‘I will. If that will make you feel any better. Now tell me more about this letter. Please.’
My darling Celia,
I know I said I would leave you alone but there was so much left unsaid yesterday, I thought I must write to you.
I love you. That is the first thing. Not unsaid, I know, but so important that you have to hear it again and again. I love you unimaginably, beyond thought, beyond reason.
I want you with me. Forever. I want to love you and care for you, I want to live with you, wake with you, sleep with you. I want to see the world with you, come home with you. Be with you. You, and now, it seems, our child.
The thought that we have created a child is almost unbearable. Not a happiness I had thought to know; and an extraordinary and precious one. That child is ours: yours and mine. I know that, with absolute certainty. We made it, our love made it; we must share it, we must love it.
Without it and without you, I have nothing, nothing at all. I love it tenderly, and deeply already with all my heart. As I love you. Absolutely.
Sebastian
‘Oh God,’ said Celia.
She lay back on the bed, tears streaming down her face. This was awful; this was unendurable. She would have to go; go with Sebastian. Anything else was madness. She explored the decision for a few minutes, waiting for uncertainty to return. It didn’t. She remained sure, calm and suddenly and astonishingly happy.
She would leave now, today. She could, easily. She could get up, get dressed, there was no one about, she was perfectly all right now. And just go to him. She got out of bed; went to the wardrobe, pulled out a dress and some shoes. She began to dress, slightly shakily. She must keep calm, must be quick; suppose Mary came in, suppose her mother arrived—
She brushed her hair, picked up her handbag, started down the stairs. There was her car: good. She had been half afraid LM might have borrowed it. She opened the front door; she felt a sudden rush of exhilaration. She’d done it. She’d escaped. Escaped from Oliver, escaped from her old, dead life. She was free.
She half-ran down the steps, pulling her car keys from her bag. Above her head, over the river, seagulls wheeled and screeched; a tug hooted. The air felt warm, wonderfully sweetly warm, on her face, a breeze lifted her hair. She smiled, opened the door of her car. Just for a moment, her happiness was pure; there was nothing else. It would not, could not last like that; but just for now, she was safe, encased in it.
‘Lady Celia!’
It was Brunson. He’d seen her. Damn, damn, damn.
‘Yes, Brunson, I can’t stop I’m afraid. I’m in a terrible hurry.’
‘It’s Dr Perring, Lady Celia. The hospital has phoned him. Mrs Miller is worse. He wants to speak to you.’
Sylvia! The one person she could not fail, the one friendship she would not deny. Slowly, unwillingly, she got back out of the car, walked up the steps, in through the door. Picked up the phone. It felt very heavy.
‘Yes. Dr Perring?’
‘Lady Celia, Mrs Miller is dying. There is no hope for her. I think you should send Barty over straight away. And the other children too – if it can be arranged. Before it’s too late. Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and heard the loss of hope in her own voice, ‘yes, of course I can. I’ll bring Barty myself. I won’t be long.’
‘Is that Mr Lytton?’
‘Yes. This is he.’
‘It’s Lily Fortescue. I – wondered if I could just speak to Jack.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not here. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh. Well, do you know where he is, then?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I rather wish I did, as a matter of fact.’
‘Oh, I see. Well – if he does appear, could you tell him I telephoned? I was looking after his wallet last night, had it in my handbag, and I went off with it. He’ll be needing it. It hasn’t got much in it, but just the same—’
‘Yes, of course, Miss Fortescue. Thank you for telephoning. And if you do hear from him, would you let us know? Thank you.’
Roger Bartlett was the accountant at the Westminster Bank, South Ealing. He was very proud of his position; it was the result of many years’ hard work. He didn’t earn very much, of course, and indeed such things as university fees could not have been managed without the help of a legacy from Mary’s godmother; but it was nonetheless a salary, rather than a wage, and for a profession. That was what he was proudest of, having an important job locally. He knew everyone in the community and they knew him; he was someone. And it was a very respectable job. Respectability was everything to Roger Bartlett; he had a horror of anything that he labelled unsuitable. Causing a commotion; making a noise; being improperly dressed.
The appearance in the foyer of his daughter, wearing only the casual shirt and shabby skirt in which she worked, with no hat or gloves, her hair unbrushed and her face wearing the tense expression which often heralded one of her fits of hysteria, was one of the worst moments, therefore, of his life.
‘I want my letter,’ she said, very loudly and clearly, walking over to his counter, ‘I want my letter, at once, please.’
‘Barty, darling, I want you.’
Barty was playing snap with the twins; she went white and stood up immediately, dropping her cards sharply on the table. The twins, sensing the drama, were silent also, their eyes large, their faces solemn
.
‘Come along,’ said Celia, ‘come with me downstairs. To my room. Girls, you stay here.’
It was a measure of the moment that they did not even attempt to argue.
‘Your mother—’ Celia stopped.
‘I know. She’s going to die Isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Celia, quietly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid she is. I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry. But we must go and see her now, and you can—’
‘Say goodbye. Yes, of course.’
She was so composed; Celia could not believe it.
‘What about the others?’
‘We can send Daniels for them. If you give me the addresses. I know some of them, of course but—’
‘Yes. Yes of course. And Billy—’
‘I’ve telephoned Ashingham. He’s coming on the next train.’
‘I hope he’s in time,’ said Barty. Still so calm.
‘Yes. Well, I expect he will be.’
Billy wasn’t in time. Nobody was, except Barty. Barty and Celia. Sylvia had been moved to a small ward on her own; she was heavily sedated with morphine and was quite calm and still; there was none of the dreadful agony and trauma of the night before. She lay, already somehow in another place, her breathing fast and dreadfully shallow, her face pinched and fallen in on itself. A nurse sat by her bed, holding her hand; as they came in, she stood up and left the room.
Barty stood looking at her mother in silence for a while, holding Celia’s hand very tightly; then she moved forward, and bent to kiss the changed, lost face.
‘It’s Barty, Mum,’ she said quite clearly, ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’ And then, ‘You mustn’t worry about me. You mustn’t worry about any of us. We’ll be all right.’
And somehow the words pierced Sylvia’s consciousness and her eyelids flickered, even though her eyes did not open. She licked her dry, cracked lips, almost smiled and lifted her hand just a little from the bed. Barty took the hand, kissed it and said nothing more; there was silence, then, for a while. Celia stood very quiet, very still, watching the two of them, mother and daughter, together, absolutely close, despite all the years and the circumstances of their separation and found it profoundly difficult to bear; she moved forward once, herself, to say goodbye to Sylvia, kissed her other hand, smoothed her hair: then went back to her vigil at the back of the room.
Suddenly there was a rough, rasping breath, then absolute silence and Barty turned to Celia and said, her voice very low, very steady, ‘Is she – is she dead?’
‘Yes,’ said Celia, coming over to her now, looking down at Sylvia, thinking of the long years and their strong, strange friendship, hoping, praying even, she realised, that she had done something to make her sad, difficult life a little better, ‘yes, Barty she is dead. She’s gone from us now.’
And Barty laid down her mother’s hand gently on the bed, and turned and walked out of the little room. Celia waited a few minutes, looking down at Sylvia, released from pain, thinking how brave and how good she had always been, uncomplaining, loving, optimistic, infinitely loyal and thinking how unfair life was, that she should have so much and that Sylvia should have had so little it counted for almost nothing at all. She went out and found Barty, sitting on a chair in the corridor, crying silently, her face white and her eyes full of something she did not understand.
Barty said, ‘Now I’m quite alone,’ and then Celia did understand, and it hurt more than she would have ever believed.
CHAPTER 30
‘She’s written. She’s written at last. I can’t believe it.’
‘Who’s written?’
‘Susannah Bartlett, You total idiot. It came this morning. She says she’ll see me.’
‘When?’
‘Um – not till Thursday. She’s not very well, apparently. But I’ve got a telephone number, I can phone tomorrow. Isn’t that marvellous?’
‘It is. Absolutely marvellous. Are you going to tell Oliver Lytton?’ Guy thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘No I don’t think so. It might not help, as you said, it might even make things worse. So he’ll just get his hopes up. And we have a fortnight after all, another day isn’t going to make much difference. Oh, this is so exciting.’
‘What does she actually say?’
‘She says, Dear Mr Worsley, Thank you for your letter. I apologise for the delay in replying but I haven’t been very well. I will be very happy to see you and talk to you about my time at Cambridge, although I don’t know how helpful it will be. I don’t know how much hurry there is, but I would prefer to leave it a couple of days yet. Perhaps you would like to telephone me tomorrow morning, on Ealing 459, and we can arrange a mutually convenient time. Yours sincerely, Susannah Bartlett.’
‘Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.’
‘Isn’t it? And there can’t be anything for her to hide, surely, or she’d be a bit more cagey. Don’t you think?’
‘Well I’m not so sure about that,’ said Jeremy, ‘all she knows is you’re writing something about Cambridge in the war years. It probably hasn’t even entered her head that you want to know about her and Lothian.’
‘No. No, I suppose not. But even so – I’d have thought she’d be a bit wary, at least. Oh go on, Jeremy, allow me a bit of triumph. I think it looks as if everything might be all right after all. Won’t you agree even to that?’
‘Yes,’ said Jeremy, ‘yes, all right. I’ll agree to that.’
Jack lay in a haze of pain; everything hurt. His leg of course, but it was broken, so you’d expect that; but also his stomach, encased in bandages. Three broken ribs, they’d said. And his head: that was really bad. He’d tried to sit up a couple of times, but he just felt so sick and dizzy, it hadn’t seemed worth the effort.
Worse than all the physical pain though, was his misery. Lily’s rejection. It had been the first thing that came at him, through the sick, black blur as he slowly came to, next morning; the memory of her face, gazing into his, of her brown eyes, very sad, and of hearing her awful words. He really hadn’t expected them; he’d been sure she’d say yes, having had time to think about it, she had said, ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I really don’t think I can marry you.’
And now here he was, laid up in some awful hospital, not given enough dope for the pain; life was pretty bloody, it really was.
‘Do my family know I’m here?’ he asked the nurse who was taking his temperature and his pulse; she said she really couldn’t say, but she knew the police had been round, asking if they could interview him.
‘Interview me! What about?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the nurse, ‘time enough for you to find out when they get back.’
She prodded his stomach. Hard. ‘That hurt?’
‘Yes,’ said Jack.
‘How’s the headache?’
‘Terrible. Can I have something for it?’
‘You’ve had all you’re written up for, for quite a while.’
‘But it’s bl – absolutely terrible.’
‘Well, you can tell the doctor that, when he comes to see you.’
‘Look,’ said Jack, ‘look, could you get someone to come and talk to me, so I can ask them to contact my family?’
‘I’ll try, but everyone is extremely busy,’ said the nurse, ‘including me.’
Which meant, he reckoned, that she wasn’t even going to try. Well, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just died here, without bothering anyone further. No one would care. Least of all Lily.
‘A car crash! Oh, God. Is he all right, where is he? Oh, dear, when did you hear, has anyone seen him—’
‘He’s perfectly all right,’ said LM briskly. ‘Well, he has a broken leg, several fractured ribs and mild concussion, but he’s very much alive. Silly boy. It really is time he grew up.’
‘I know, but he must be feeling absolutely awful,’ said Lily. ‘I mean, it can’t be much fun—’
‘Possibly not. Anyway, I’m going to see him tomorrow. He’s in a hospital in Sus
sex, Lewes General. Do you want to come with me?’
‘Oh – I don’t know.’ Lily felt confused. Should she go? It would be different if he was in danger, but since he was comparatively all right, maybe it would be best if she stayed away. He might get the wrong idea if she turned up at his bedside, think she hadn’t meant what she’d said. It was terribly difficult.
‘Well, let me know,’ said LM. ‘I’ll be leaving London at about ten. You can telephone me later today, or early in the morning at my brother’s house. I’ll give you the number.’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you’ said Lily. ‘I’ll let you know today.’
Rum sort of girlfriend, thought LM; not rushing to Jack’s bedside. Well she was an actress, Celia had said. She was probably just using him, getting what she could out of him, and then moving on.
‘Billy, do you know anything about Mum’s baby that died?’ said Barty.
They were sitting in the garden at Cheyne Walk; Billy had arrived several hours too late to see his mother and had been very upset, far too upset to go back again. Celia had said he should stay until after the funeral; it would help Barty, she thought, as well as him. Barty was in a very odd state: withdrawn, almost cold, she couldn’t get near her to comfort her, or even to talk to her. Distressed by Sylvia’s death herself, she found it very hard.
Billy turned to look at her. ‘Not much, no. It was born dead, far as I know. I mean it didn’t die after.’
‘Oh. Oh I see. But—’ she was silent.
‘I was only six. Six or seven. Can’t remember much. What I do rememer is that Lady Celia was there.’
‘There! When it was born?’
‘Yeah. It was Christmas, and it come early. The baby I mean. We was all sent next door to Mrs Scott and I remember the big car coming, and Dad asking her to go in and be with Mum.’
‘Yes, that would make sense,’ she said slowly, ‘and then—’
‘And then what?’
‘Well, what happened?’
‘Barty, I don’t know. She come in next door and told us the baby was dead. The midwife took it away—’
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