Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Of course I’m still here,’ she said, putting the brake on the pram, throwing herself into his arms, ‘How lovely to see you.’

  ‘And you. As beautiful as ever. This is Philippe. Philippe Lelong. Immensely talented photographer.’

  Philippe Lelong bowed rather coolly at Adele; jealous, she thought, how extraordinary these pansies were, as if Cedric could possibly be harbouring any lustful emotions towards her.

  ‘We could have done with you today, darling. We’ve been working for Style. We needed six perambulators, and six miniature poodles to put in them. Not easy. You would have dealt with it in a trice.’

  Not a trice, thought Adele, a pang of longing for her old life clutching at her, but she would have found them.

  ‘It sounds wonderful. What fun.’

  ‘It wasn’t, it was quite dreadful. Again, it would have been fun with you. Anyway, absolutely my last job for Style. Or indeed anyone else in Paris. I’m bolting home, like a frightened bunny, and not in the least ashamed of it. I’ve been trying to persuade Philippe to come too, but he says I’m being foolish, that the dangers are hugely exaggerated.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ said Adele, ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving. The Germans will never reach Paris.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence. I hope you’re right. But I’m playing safe.’

  ‘Is English Style still running its letter from Paris?’ asked Adele, hungry for such frivolous news, ‘I never see it these days.’

  ‘It most certainly is. Philippe has been contributing to it, haven’t you mon ami? He’s their most valued contributor at the moment, so wonderfully good at gossip. Why don’t your offer your services for that at least, my darling, they’d love it.’

  ‘I’m afraid the only gossip I have is what I pick up in the children’s playground at the Luxembourg Gardens,’ said Adele. ‘Not what they want. Oh, Cedric it’s so nice to see you. Are you really worried about the situation here?’

  ‘Of course I am, darling.’ He sounded stern, almost cross. ‘So would you be, if you had any sense at all.’

  ‘Well maybe I haven’t. Noni, not too near the road, my angel.’

  ‘What an exquisite little creature,’ said Philippe Lelong suddenly, ‘may I take a couple of photographs of her?’

  ‘Well of course. Here, now? Noni, you wouldn’t mind that would you, darling? This gentleman wants to take your picture.’

  Noni smiled at him, her rather slow, solemn smile. ‘No.’

  ‘Bon. Then let us have her over here, against the fountains. Smile, little one, that’s the way – and again here, now—’

  ‘I will send you a copy,’ he said, when he had finished, ‘Cedric will give me your address.’

  ‘Of course. I live just along there, actually.’ She pointed down the street. ‘See on the left, big black door. But yes, Cedric has the proper address. Thank you so much. Now I must go. Cedric, give my love to everyone, and could you tell Venetia I’m perfectly all right, and don’t, whatever you do, say you think it’s dangerous. They all fuss so. So silly.’

  ‘So sensible, in my view. But no, I shall be terribly bright and breezy about it all. Have you time for an aperitif, my darling?’

  ‘Very sadly no,’ said Adele, ‘much as I’d adore it. Goodbye, darling Cedric. It was so lovely to see you, and to meet you, Philippe. I shall look forward to seeing the pictures of Noni. I’m sure they’ll be divine.’

  ‘They certainly will,’ said Cedric, ‘au revoir, mon ange. Look after yourself.’

  ‘I will,’ said Adele. She kissed him again, and felt horribly sad as she watched them walk off together across the street.

  ‘I – thought I’d like to buy you dinner,’ said Boy. ‘I’m off tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow! Oh, God. Where to—’

  ‘Somewhere in the north of Scotland. I’ve volunteered for some commando type training. Can’t tell you any more than that.’

  ‘And what – what exactly will you be doing?’

  ‘I don’t know – exactly. Might even see some action quite soon. There’s talk of raids on Norway. Needless to say, that is absolutely confidential information.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It sounds pretty exciting, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said fretfully. ‘Oh Boy, I’m so frightened. For the children and Giles and Kit. And Adele of course, so terribly frightened for her, I wish she was home—’

  ‘What about me? Aren’t you frightened for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and was surprised by how much, ‘yes, and for you.’

  They had dinner at the Savoy; it was exceptionally busy, everyone dressed beautifully, Venetia was wearing a new beaded black dress – ‘Probably the last new dress for a long time,’ she said when Boy admired it, ‘English, of course, Hartnell, one must be patriotic, mustn’t one?’

  ‘Oh one must,’ he said very seriously. He smiled at her, looked round the room. Everyone was chattering, greeting friends, dancing: no one who had not known would have dreamed there was a war on.

  But Boy was quiet, slightly distracted; they danced a couple of times, then he said, ‘Can we sit down?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked at him, across the table, so immaculate as always in his dinner jacket, so unusually serious. ‘So – how do you feel?’ she said.

  ‘Oh – bit odd, really. Excited, in a way; relieved it’s actually starting, that I finally can get a crack at the whip—’

  ‘And – scared?’ she said gently. ‘Aren’t you scared at all?’

  ‘Oh – a bit,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘yes, of course. Only a fool would be otherwise. I might not come back, I might come back wounded, I might not conduct myself as I would like—’

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Venetia, ‘you always do. I’ve never known anyone as in control of themselves as you are – with the possible exception of Mummy.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like that. I hadn’t seen myself as being terribly like your mother.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were like her. I said you were self-controlled like her. She’s terribly brave too,’ she added. ‘Probably the bravest person I know. Sebastian often says that.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, he should know.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she said, intrigued, looking at him; but his face became an immediate blank.

  ‘No reason; champagne talking.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Well, that I certainly am. As you know.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I do.’ She pushed her fork round her plate; somehow she wasn’t hungry.

  ‘I’d like you to be out of London really,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Boy, I can’t. We can’t all desert the sinking ship. I’ve sent all the children away, half the servants, and anyway, I’ve got a job to do. I want to do that, it’s become important to me.’

  ‘You’re quite – brave too, I think,’ he said, looking at her. ‘It was one of the things I always – admired about you.’

  ‘Me? Don’t be silly. What did I ever do that was brave?’

  ‘All sorts of things. Stood up to your mother for a start. Insisted on marrying me. Big mistake as it turned out.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And then you had all those babies.’

  ‘All women have babies.’

  ‘Yes, and a lot of them make a frightful fuss, I’m told. Not a squeak out of you, by all accounts. And then you were always amazing out hunting—’

  ‘Boy, when did you last see me hunting?’

  ‘It may be a while ago. But I’ve never forgotten, certainly not the first time I saw you. At Ashingham, you’ve probably forgotten, you took one most incredible fence on that little horse of your mother’s – what was she called?’

  ‘Oh – must have been Butterfly. She did fly too.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I just watched you, open-mouthed, practically came off myself—’

  ‘You never said—’

  ‘Didn’t I? Probably too overcome. Anyway, life ra
ther overtook us after that, didn’t it? All those babies, my bad behaviour—’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Venetia. She brushed her hand across her eyes.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t know. So much time gone, so many mistakes – and now—’

  ‘I—’ He stopped, staring into his glass.

  ‘What, Boy? What is it?’

  ‘Oh – nothing.’

  She was intrigued; she had never seen him nervous, at a loss for words. ‘There must be something.’

  ‘No – well, that is—’ He took a deep breath, as if he was about to do something rather reckless, then began to talk, speaking very fast. ‘There is something. Something I wanted to say. I don’t know if you’ll believe me. Or if this is what – what you want to hear. But I decided I couldn’t go away maybe for – well, for a long time – without telling you that I still – still love you. It was important to me, Venetia. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She stared at him; she felt very surprised, shocked even. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘I know I’ve given you an awful time. I’m very ashamed of it. I wanted to say that too.’

  Rage hit Venetia: hot, violent rage. It was so easy, so horribly easy for him. Behave badly all their married life, from the very beginning: and then suddenly, because it suited him, because he was going away, tell her he loved her. Just like that And that he was ashamed of himself. As if it could negate all the wrong, that easily, that quickly. She stared at him, feeling her face flush.

  ‘Look—’ he said, ‘I can see I’ve upset you. It was a bit crass, I should have gone off quietly, I suppose. I mean I certainly didn’t expect you to suddenly throw yourself into my arms, say you forgive me.’

  ‘No,’ she said, still staring at him, ‘no, I should hope not.’

  It all ran before her then, like a bad film, the endless absences, once even on the night Elspeth had been born, the suspicions, was it her, what about her, the easy lies, the denials, the horrible discovery of Abigail Clarence, the pain of it all rushing at her again, fresh, most vividly recalled, hurting so much she caught her breath.

  There was silence; finally he stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry. Bad idea. This whole thing. If you want to go home, I’ll quite understand.’

  ‘I – yes, I think perhaps I would. I really can’t cope with this, Boy, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of course not. I’m sorry. So sorry.’

  He was pale, more shaken than she had ever known him, except perhaps on the day when she confronted him with his affair with Abigail. She left quickly, he saw her to the door, into a taxi; as it pulled away from the Savoy courtyard, she looked back and saw him standing in the doorway staring after her, just discernible in the darkness.

  When she got home, she went into her sitting room, and lit a cigarette; gradually her anger eased and she felt dreadfully unhappy instead. Unhappy and hurt, newly, freshly hurt. She looked at one of the few photographs that she had kept of herself and Boy, not on their wedding day, those had all been put away but at Henry’s christening, taken by Adele, both of them laughing, looking at one another and Henry’s small, sleeping face between them. They looked so happy: but had they been? And what was happiness anyway? She wasn’t sure any more, it had become a shadowy commodity for her, confused by disappointment and failure, she didn’t know where she might find it, or indeed where it had ever been. Lost in her childhood probably, her happy, easy childhood with Adele, when life had been simply a matter for them both of enjoying each day and getting what they wanted out of it. Sometimes she found it still: playing with the children, working at Lyttons, even round the big table at Cheyne Walk or last Christmas at Ashingham, when they were all together. Happy memories; was that what happiness actually was, never now, only then, in the past where you could pick your time, say then, yes, that was it, that was safe.

  There were happy memories with Boy, of course, some very happy ones; but they were fragmented, blurred with unhappiness. She remembered one sharply suddenly; when he had come to her, after Roo had been born, had sat down on her bed, and kissed her and said simply ‘thank you.’ She had felt happy then, terribly happy and so safe.

  Safe: it was something none of them would be for a long time now. A precious, half-forgotten thing; danger would fill their lives, all of them, it would surround them, never leave them alone.

  And then she thought of Boy, going away tomorrow, into terrible dreadful danger and in spite of everything, she wished she could keep him from it. She kept seeing him again, sitting at the table, so uncharacteristically nervous and quiet, saying the last thing she had expected, the last thing she would have wanted. Or had she? Was she really so angry, and if so, why? And would she be glad tomorrow she had sent him away crushed, unhappy, when he had so clearly struggled to say what he had, and had meant, at that moment anyway, everything he had said. What good would that do her, to reject him, rebuff him, send him away: how would she live with herself, come to terms with that, over the months and years ahead when he was in danger, when he might be injured, taken prisoner, possibly, quite possibly killed? And then she had the thought, and having had it, sat for a little longer, at first very serious and then smiling to herself; she crossed the room and picked up the telephone and dialled Boy’s number in his flat in Pont Street.

  He probably wouldn’t be there of course, was probably finding comfort with someone else, comfort from his fear, it was ridiculous of her to even expect it.

  But he was there.

  ‘I just thought,’ she said carelessly, as if he were a friend, someone she hardly knew, someone she was inviting to dinner, ‘I just thought if you had nothing else to do, you might like to come round for a drink. Or something.’

  And ‘That would be very nice, yes, thank you,’ he said, as if he were accepting an invitation to dinner, and she knew that he was absolutely aware of what she was actually saying. ‘I’d like that very much. Very much indeed.’

  It was extraordinary, what took place between them that night: everything was there, tenderness, violence, sweetness, familiarity, even discovery. She would not have believed it possible, that this man, with whom she had had four children, shared almost ten years of marriage, could possibly lead her into this new place, further, higher, deeper than she could ever remember; it was as if he wanted to reach, to explore, to savour every part of her, imprint himself upon her, and her on to him. And when it was finally over, and they lay holding one another, shaken, almost shocked by what they’d achieved and where they had been, she felt tears on her face, and realised they were his; and realised too that the terrible ghosts of unhappiness had been sent away and that whatever became of them now, they had this, this extraordinary physical memory to sustain them.

  ‘I love you,’ was all he said over and over again, stroking her hair; and ‘I love you too, Boy,’ she said, and fell asleep, smiling.

  In the morning he was gone: leaving only a note on his pillow that said: ‘I couldn’t bear to say goodbye again.’

  And then it was Venetia’s turn to weep.

  Well, this was it. At last. Today. He was going. Over to France, to meet the Luftwaffe.

  He had dressed carefully, absolutely according to instructions: in his blue shirt (Catriona’s letter carefully tucked into the left breast-pocket), a spotted cravat into the neck – they all wore cravats, he’d told his mother, and she’d sent half a dozen, in silk, all different colours – thick trousers tucked into his boots – ‘cold up there, never forget’ – leather helmet and gloves – ‘you’ll need those, chaps, save your hands from being burned’ – goggles, Mae West jacket: he slung his parachute pack over his shoulder, looked out of the small window above his bed at the blue sky, took a deep breath: and then, quite suddenly, had to run to the lavatory where he was violently sick. Again and again.

  He emerged shaking, slightly groggy on his legs, walked back into the mess, hoping, praying, no one would have observed or heard him, witnessed this terrible rush of fear. B
ut: ‘Throwing up, were you?’ said a sympathetic voice. It was one of the older chaps, twenty-five he was, an RAF regular, they’d done some of their training down here with him.

  ‘Oh – it was nothing,’ said Kit quickly, ‘bit too much beer last night I expect.’

  ‘Yes, I expect it was. Well, don’t worry about it. It gets to us all – the beer. Come on, old boy, we’re flying in convoy. Stay close to me, you’ll be fine. All right now?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ said Kit politely.

  Barty looked at Wol; he was sitting in his wheelchair, behind his desk, his blue eyes, faded now, fixed on her. She knew that look, knew what it meant; and her heart sank.

  ‘Barty, my dear—’

  She had been right. ‘Yes, Wol?’

  ‘Barty, I know you want to go and join one of the women’s services.’

  ‘Yes, I do. The ATS, I thought. It appeals to me most—’

  ‘Well, I would ask you not to go just yet.’

  ‘But Wol—’

  ‘No, let me finish. There is a – a great deal to be done here. We are somewhat bereft already and it will get worse. Giles is gone, of course and Jay and—’

  ‘Edgar Greene is still here. And you, and Celia and LM and Venetia and—’

  ‘Of course. But the main strength of the staff is gone. And a challenge lies before us. To keep Lyttons going through the war. It won’t be easy. Already there is the paper shortage, we are not to be exempt from rationing, you know, we’re allowed exactly 60 per cent of last year’s consumption. And costs are rising dreadfully, we have to pay for war risk insurance and—’

  ‘Wol, I’m sorry. I do know all this, and of course I want Lyttons to survive. I’m sure it will. But I can’t see it as being terribly important to the war effort. I’m sorry, I know that must sound like heresy to you. But I don’t feel it’s right for me to sit here, launching new titles and proofreading catalogues while Hitler is advancing on us day by day. I want to go. Well I am going. I’m – ’ her lips twitched ‘ – I’m not seven any more, Wol. Or even seventeen. I’m thirty-two. Just give me your blessing – please.’