No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘No,’ said Lily. She smiled rather reluctantly back at LM. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘And,’ said LM, wondering why she was revealing all this to a complete stranger, ‘My – that is, Jay’s father was a builder. He was killed in the war. As for Celia: well, yes, her parents are rather posh. As you put it. But I think we outnumber them rather satisfactorily. Although I have to tell you that her father would be extremely pleased to have you in the family. Anyway – if Jack has been giving you the impression that he’s in some way socially superior, then I can only say it’s time he was brought back down to earth with a bit of a bang.’

  ‘Oh, no he hasn’t. Really. Honestly.’

  Lily was still crying; but she was smiling at the same time.

  ‘I think I might get on down to Lewes now,’ she said, ‘I should be able to get a train, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Of course you will. Good luck. And send my love to Jack. Tell him he’s a very lucky chap. To have you, I mean.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lily, ‘thank you very much, Miss Lytton.’

  ‘I didn’t realise for a long time,’ said Susannah Bartlett. ‘I was rather naive, I suppose. I loved my brother very much; he was only eighteen months younger than me, and a year behind me academically. When he arrived at Cambridge, I introduced him to all my friends. And to Jasper Lothian of course. We used to go to his house a lot. And we invited him to our rooms. He was often alone, you see, Mrs Lothian being away so much. He was so theatrical, so much larger than life. Very generous and hospitable.

  ‘And amusing. He just attracted gossip. People used to tease me, ask was I in love with him? Ask if he was in love with me. I’m afraid I rather encouraged it, I enjoyed being the centre of attention. I hadn’t had any men friends before, I’d led a very sheltered life. Anyway – well, I did find out. My brother told me actually.’

  ‘And – how did you feel?’

  ‘Oh—’ she smiled, ‘actually rather excited. Once I got used to the idea. Certainly not shocked or anything. It all seemed rather splendid and decadent. Light years away from Ealing and my father’s job at the bank. But then – well then Lothian began to get rather – unpleasant. For all his unconventional talk, he was terrified of the truth getting out. He said he would like to encourage the idea of our having an affair, to put up a sort of smokescreen. That did shock me; I said I didn’t want to do that and he said he thought it would be in my interests, that if it did get out about Freddie being homosexual, it would be dreadfully distressing for my parents and so on. It was a sort of blackmail.’

  ‘How frightful,’ said Guy.

  ‘Yes. He is frightful. But then I couldn’t see it, of course. I was literally dazzled by him. And, as I said, it all seemed rather exciting. Anyway, I went along with the fiction, for about a term and a half. Then he got tired of Freddie, dropped him just like that. Freddie was heartbroken. He threw it all up, said he didn’t want to finish his degree. He was nearly nineteen by then; he went out to France.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he was killed,’ said Susannah. Her voice shook. ‘After only about three months.’ There was a very long silence; then she said, ‘But before that, when he first went away, things became very unpleasant. One of the other masters had heard rumours about him and Freddie; Jasper came to my room one night and said he wanted me to tell this man that it was quite untrue, that my brother was completely heterosexual, and that nothing of the sort had ever happened. That I would know if it had, and that Lothian and I had been having – not an affair, exactly, but a relationship. I said I didn’t feel I could do that and he said if I didn’t, he would tell my parents about Freddie. And implied that I wouldn’t do very well in the exams. So I – I did. I don’t know if this other man believed me or not, but anyway, I did. I hated doing it, I felt depraved myself. The irony was that I never minded about that sort of thing, homosexuality I mean. I could never see anything wrong in it. Freddie and I talked about it endlessly, he said he’d known he was – well that he was one since he’d been quite a little boy—’

  ‘It is terrible to think,’ said Guy, ‘that it is a criminal offence.’

  ‘I know, isn’t it?’ She was silent. Then, ‘Anyway, just before I did my finals, the news came that Freddie had been killed. I did very badly, and Lothian was the opposite of supportive. He said I’d let him down, let the whole college down. And I don’t know, it was all too much for me, the whole thing was so horrible, and that was when I had my breakdown. I was in hospital for months.

  ‘He came to see me several times, ostensibly to see if I was all right, but actually to make sure I wasn’t talking about him and Freddie while I was in analysis, or with the drugs, or anything. He kept telling me over and over again I must never tell anyone. I honestly think he was trying to drive it into my subconscious. While presenting himself to my parents as a kind, concerned father figure. Showing a huge interest in my illness, the management and treatment of it, suggesting friends who were psychiatrists, who might be able to help. My parents are very simple people. Very impressed by authority and terribly impressed by someone like him. They knew he’d had been very influential in Freddie’s life at Cambridge, and he told them what a brilliant boy he’d been, how he would have got a First, And he sort of implied that I just wasn’t up to it, that university, the course even, was all too much for me. He really belittled me in their eyes.’

  ‘But why? And why did you let him get away with it?’ said Guy. Susannah smiled at him. ‘I really was quite ill. I couldn’t fight him. They thought he was wonderful, kept saying how lucky we were to have him as a friend. I have come to loathe him. Loathe him. Anyway, I haven’t had to speak to him for a couple of years now. I’ve kept well away from the college, never go to reunions or anything like that. He’s kept in touch with my parents, always asking how I am, sending them Christmas cards, that sort of thing. But when I found you’d written to me, and that he’d told them not to give me the letter, I knew it must be pretty important.’

  ‘Yes, well it is,’ said Guy, ‘pretty important.’ He looked at her; ‘it’s so very good of you to tell me all this. I don’t know quite why you should.’

  ‘Two reasons,’ she said, ‘I don’t like being manipulated by anyone. Least of all by Jasper Lothian. And I liked your cousin, and I liked your story. I wouldn’t have told you if I hadn’t. I’d just have said it was wonderful at Cambridge and left it at that. The only thing is,’ she added, ‘I don’t want Freddie’s name dragged into this, publicly I mean, It would break my parents’ hearts.’

  ‘It won’t be,’ said Guy, ‘I promise. Golly, look at the time. Look, let me escort you back.’

  ‘No, really. I’ll be fine,’ She smiled at him again. ‘I’m not mentally deficient, you know. I’m perfectly capable of finding my way from Kew to Ealing. If you give me my fare, that is.’

  ‘But I’d like to,’ said Guy, ‘really.’

  ‘You’re very kind. But you mustn’t get off the train with me. I’m quite serious; if my father, or my mother saw us, they’d guess. And I really don’t want that.’

  ‘Well – I’ll just come to Ealing with you, then.’

  ‘What – what do you think you might do,’ said Susannah, ‘about it all?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Talk to my cousin first. I swear I won’t tell the publishers. Not about your brother, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Susannah, ‘I do trust you not to.’

  CHAPTER 32

  Celia sat in her room, on the edge of her bed, with one arm round each of the twins and looked at them through a haze of tears. They looked back at her and smiled uncertainly. She had been crying for a while; Venetia had heard her and summoned Adele; they had come in, alarmed, to comfort her.

  ‘You never cry,’ said Ventia, ‘whatever is the matter?’

  ‘You mustn’t cry,’ said Adele, ‘please, please stop.’

  Celia stopped: with a great effort.

  ‘What is it?’ said Venetia, ‘please tell us.’
/>   She couldn’t; how could she? She looked at them, thinking how much she loved them, wondering how she could possibly leave them and began to cry again; then stopped once more and wondered whether children could be a cure for grown-up grief.

  ‘It’s – nothing,’ she said finally, ‘nothing important.’

  ‘It can’t be be nothing,’ said Adele, ‘people don’t cry over nothing. Has someone been unkind to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Celia (if only they would be).

  ‘Are you feeling ill again?’

  ‘No.’ (She almost wished she was).

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  ‘At the office, I suppose.’

  ‘Shall we telephone him?’ They liked doing that; it made them feel important.

  ‘No, Adele, certainly not. He has a great deal to worry about at the moment.’

  ‘Is that why you’re crying?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Poor, poor Mummy. Would you like a drink of something?’ Poison perhaps? That would solve things. ‘No, thank you, darling.’ ‘Cigarette?’ said Adele.

  ‘She’s given them up,’ said Venetia, ‘haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘That’s why you’re crying,’ said Adele, her face clearing. ‘When

  Nanny made us give up sweets for Lent, we cried all the time. It’s horrible, not having things you really like.’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ said Celia, managing to smile.

  And perhaps it was not having the thing, the one thing she really liked. The one thing that could make her happy: the thing which was leaving the country in about twelve hours’ time. Still waiting for her; still not knowing if she was going to come.

  She heard Nanny calling. ‘Run along. It’s teatime. Thank you for looking after me.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Venetia. ‘I should have a cigarette, if I were you. We won’t tell. Barty’s not well,’ she added, turning from the door. ‘She won’t come out of her room.’

  ‘I know. Now she really has got something to be upset about.’

  In his house in Primrose Hill, Sebastian continued to pack. It was an act of superstition: if he was all ready to go, everything packed, put away, then he would be required to stay. It was a simple as that. He grew increasingly confident that she would come to him. She would have told him by now if she was staying. She would have made her decision in her clear, brave way, and informed him of it. The indecision was good: a sign that he had changed her. Changed her permanently. Made her frailer, less independent. He had fractured her self-sufficiency, her toughness; he had made her love him, and he had made her need him. She would come to him; he was quite certain.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Jeremy, ‘I just don’t believe it.’

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous? Isn’t it superb? We’ve got him. We’ve really got him. The bastard.’

  ‘Yes, we have. Well you have. What a story. My God. It’s much better than yours.’

  ‘Thanks. Well, never mind.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Tell Oliver Lytton?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I promised Susannah I wouldn’t involve her brother and I can’t. I’m going to see him. Lothian, I mean.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the morning. It’s a bit late now.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose one more day can’t make any difference.’

  ‘No. I did think of just telling Oliver. I thought it would be all right, but then he’d start asking questions and it would get so complicated. Better to present him with a fait accompli, I thought. God, he’ll be so thrilled.’

  ‘He will indeed.’

  ‘She’s so nice, Jeremy. Susannah, I mean. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Yes, I do now. I think I liked her.’

  ‘She liked you. She said she only talked to me because I reminded her of you. She’s pretty, too.’

  ‘Is she? All those bluestocking girls looked the same to me, a bit severe and – sort of pale.’

  ‘Susannah’s neither. Certainly not severe. Very thin, wouldn’t eat anything. I tried to buy her lunch, but she wouldn’t hear of it, nibbled at a sandwich. Anyway, I’m off to Cambridge first thing in the morning. Can I stay here tonight? It’s so near Liverpool Street.’

  ‘Of course. Shall I open a bottle of champagne?’

  ‘No. Let’s keep that for the real celebration. Anyway, I want to have a very clear head in the morning.’

  ‘Very wise. I’d come with you, only school starts again in a fortnight and I have so much preparation to do. Anyway, I think you’ll be better on your own.’

  ‘I think so too. Have the champers on ice for when I return.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Staff Nurse Thompkins was growing very weary of Mr Lytton. He was nothing but trouble. He complained constantly, about the pain in his leg, his nausea, the inadequacy of pain-killing drugs. He wouldn’t eat his meals, saying they were disgusting and increased the nausea, and then complained that he was hungry. He kept demanding to see the doctor, and to be told how his treatment was progressing and when he could go home. He appeared able to set aside both his nausea and his pain every time any pretty young nurse appeared on the ward, and flirted disgracefully. He kept refusing to answer questions about his basic bodily functions and then demanded the bedpan or the water bottle when he could see she was at her busiest. His sister had arrived out of visiting hours and had insisted on being allowed to see him, in a very overbearing way; and now, as the last straw, a young woman, a rather showy-looking young woman, clearly no better than she should be, had arrived well after supper time and said she wanted to see him as well.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Staff Nurse Thompkins, ‘that is quite out of the question. Supper is over.’

  ‘Well if it’s over,’ said the girl, ‘I’m not interrupting it. Am I?’

  Nurse Thompkins glared at her. ‘After supper,’ she said, ‘patients need to be quiet, preparing for the night.’

  The girl looked at the fob watch, pinned to her unfashionably large breast. ‘At – half past six?’

  ‘There are important things to be done for them. It all takes time.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Staff Nurse Thompkins sighed. ‘I am not prepared to discuss medical matters with you. Please leave. You can come back tomorrow. At two o’clock. That is official visiting time.’

  ‘But I’ve come all the way from London.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is your problem, not mine. Please leave.’

  She escorted Lily physically to the Reception area of the hospital. ‘This young lady,’ she said to the porter on duty, with a strong and ironic emphasis to the word lady, ‘is leaving. She naturally will not be able to return until tomorrow.’

  ‘Right, Staff,’ said the porter. He leered at Lily; she didn’t like the look of him.

  She went out; it was a lovely evening. She thought of Jack, cooped up in bed in a hot stuffy ward and could hardly bear it. Well, she wasn’t going to take this lying down. She looked around her; various people came in and out of the hospital all the time. Surely she could sneak in with one or other of them. But the porter knew her; he had her number, as her dad would say. She sat down on a bench, just out of sight of the door and waited. Lily’s dad had always told her there was much to be said for waiting, when all else failed.

  ‘Something usually turns up,’ he said, ‘sooner or later.’

  She had never put much faith in it till now, but it seemed worth a try. Certainly in the absence of anything else.

  Something did turn up. In the form of a young, and very good-looking doctor. He was in a small car; Lily watched him. Initially she had thought he was a visitor, but then she saw him reach into his car for his bag. Right. Here was her chance. She dropped her face into her hands and began to cry. She was very good at crying. Not loudly, but absolutely noticeably. When she was a child actress, she had once played Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop. Her heart-rending tears were mentioned in more than one review.

&
nbsp; She heard the doctor’s footsteps slow; then stop.

  ‘Excuse me. Are you – all right?’ he said.

  Lily looked up at him; her large brown eyes surprised to see him, her tears and her sobs momentarily halted.

  ‘I – I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I must have startled you.’

  ‘Only a little.’

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, failed to find one. ‘Oh dear,’ she said.

  ‘Here,’ He offered her his. That was good. Men were always moved, for some reason, by the sight of a girl using their handkerchiefs. It seemed to give them a proprietory feeling. She took it, wiped her eyes, smiled at him gratefully.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh – well you see – no, I mustn’t keep you, I’m sure you’ve got important patients to see.’

  ‘I have. But they can wait.’

  She shifted on the seat slightly, so that her skirts slipped up, showed more of her legs. She could see him looking at them. She sighed again.

  ‘Well – the thing is, my fiancé is in the hospital. I’ve come to see him, he’s had a terrible accident, and I’ve been travelling all day. And the nurse won’t let me in.’

  ‘Won’t let you in?’

  ‘No. She says it’s not visiting hours. Of course I understand you must have rules, but—’

  ‘Well, that’s absurd. Does she know you’ve had such a long journey?’

  ‘Yes, I did tell her But she said – she said I must come back tomorrow. And I’ve nowhere to stay, and it’s cost me a lot to to get here and – oh dear.’ More tears. Welling up. She’d better stop after this, or her eyes and nose would start looking red. She swallowed. ‘Anyway, thank you for listening to me. For being so kind.’