Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  It was all so incongruous; one moment you were half lying in a deck chair in the sun, playing chess, pretending to read, fooling around, the next the phone would go. It didn’t always mean scramble either, it could be a time check, a change of duties. That made it worse, the prolonged agony. But then it would come – ‘Squadron scramble’ – the ground crew would ring the bell and that was it.

  ‘We run to the aircraft,’ he wrote to Catriona, ‘the ground crew start the planes, and we just put on our parachute packs, and get in. While we’re being strapped in, we put on our helmets. And then that’s it, we’re up and away. All very exciting indeed.’

  That wasn’t quite true; but he knew it was what she would want to hear, would find less worrying.

  What he found harder to describe was the change in his mood once he was up: the sense of absolute concentration which drove every other emotion away. But knowing that was to come didn’t seem to help him through the waiting.

  Catriona was enjoying her nursing training; her great ambition, she said, was to go and nurse abroad. ‘Or in London, that would be grand. Anywhere the action is. But the rate I’m going, the war will be over before I finish emptying bed pans at the Infirmary. Although it’s a lot faster than the usual nursing training; the older nurses, sisters and so on, are rather shocked by it, keep telling us we’re having it easy and we’re not properly trained.’

  All their letters to one another ended the same way: with the words ‘Love for ever and ever’.

  ‘Look, I know it isn’t very important. In the larger scale of things.’

  ‘No, Oliver, it isn’t.’

  ‘But Celia, we still have a publishing house to run. And if this bill goes through . . .’

  The bill was one proposed by Kingsley Wood, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, to subject books to purchase tax, it was seen as a death knell by the trade.

  ‘I honestly don’t care if it goes through. And I don’t see how you can either.’ Celia glared at him across the breakfast table; she seemed even to herself to be in a perpetual bad temper these days, driven to it, by anxiety for her children, three of the four in dreadful danger. She was surprised by how powerful and invasive the anxiety was; she had felt just as terrified for Oliver in the last war, but somehow she had managed to set it aside at least while she was at Lyttons. But now, not even work could distract her; everyone noticed it, the uncharacteristic lack of opposition, the nod of slightly uninterested approval at anything she was asked to approve and, most notably, the lack of inspiration emanating from her office. Barty noticed it most and hated it, it added to her general depression; Celia’s perfectionism was what most inspired her at Lyttons, made her struggle to match it. Suddenly life as one of Lyttons’ major editors was absurdly easy; the taut wires of command and communication from her office had gone slack. And it was not a happy thing.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Barty said to Edgar Greene, walking into his office after what she had imagined to be a long confrontation with Celia and which had lasted for all of ten minutes, ‘she’s agreed to the lot. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Make the most of it,’ said Edgar, ‘it won’t last.’

  But it seemed it would.

  Celia was aware of it herself and hardly cared; she went through the days in an odd state, her mind only half on what she was doing, the other half listening for the phone, for the ring at the bell which would mean the telegram, or Brunson coming in with the post. They were good, the boys; Kit phoned regularly, brief, confident calls, telling her of the fun in the mess and the greater fun of flying. It was odd, she thought, that no one in his squadron was ever killed or even injured; did he really think she was that stupid? Well, he was only twenty: a child still. Then she would reflect that he was actually taking his life in his hands every single day, along with the controls of his plane and moving out into the skies and enemy fire, all in order to defend his country; and realised he must be further beyond childhood, beyond carefree, thoughtless, self-indulgent time than she would ever be. Oliver could accompany him notionally into that life; he could understand. And when Kit did come home as he quite often did, for twenty-four hours, when he sat at the dinner table, telling tales of incredible courage and unimaginable skill, talking of the comradeship of the squadron, the terrific decency of the other chaps, the bond that had formed between them all, she would see Oliver’s eyes on him, proud, smiling and then suddenly sad, and felt alienated by the shared bond between them, the bond of death faced, over and over again, faced and avoided, and the shadow of it over every victory, every escape.

  Giles was safe for the moment: training with his battalion in Wiltshire. He was doing rather well. She would not have believed it possible, the triumph of her dull, dry, nervous son, his recommendation for the Military Medal after Dunkirk. After his failure to get a commission she had expected an indifferent war. But Helena had come to tell her about Dunkirk in person, in an odd mixture of pride and hostility. I know you never thought it of him, she was clearly saying, never thought he was worth anything and here he is, so brave, so fine a soldier that in the first months of the war he has been recommended for one of the highest military decorations. And Celia listened to her, equally proud, but suddenly ashamed of herself, not only of her attitude to Helena, but to Giles as well, her impatience, her condescension, her near-contempt.

  ‘I’m – sorry, Helena,’ she said suddenly, ‘very sorry.’

  Helena looked at her, clearly surprised. ‘What for?’

  ‘For failing to recognise Giles’s sterling qualities. And I made that rather clear to you, I’m afraid. I feel badly about it now.’

  Helena, recognising the enormity of this concession, still couldn’t quite bring herself to kiss her; but she went over to her and smiled and said, ‘Of course, Celia. Thank you.’ And when she left, a very short time later, she did offer Celia her cheek.

  Later, the shelling started; and that really was like being in hell. Out of nowhere it began, another clear blue sky, another hot, hot day: and then suddenly low-flying planes swooping down on them and then fire dropping from the sky, people screaming, diving for cover, in ditches. How could they do this, Adele thought, sitting helplessly in the back seat of the car, trying to soothe her children, holding their heads against her, how could they bomb defenceless people, who had done them no harm, threatened them with nothing, helpless old people in horse-drawn carts, little children, exhausted mothers? This was not an army to be defeated, this was a mass of unarmed, passive people.

  They saw some dreadful sights, a girl screaming by her injured mother, a dead woman lying on top of her baby, which was nonetheless alive, and scooped up by another woman who had been with her. The woman stood there, holding the baby, covered with its mother’s blood, shaking her fist at the planes, foolishly defiant, but nonetheless an emblem of courage for them all.

  The cries were not all of ‘Les Boches’; ‘Les Italiens’ were also blamed.

  The attack passed; shaking, she climbed back into the driving seat and drove on; there was nothing else to do.

  When she got home. When she got home . . .

  And then, that evening towards sunset she saw the wonderful sight of the twin spires of Chartres across the flat plain; she recognised them at once, she had been to Chartres once before, Oliver had driven them there, via the fields of Flanders which he’d wanted them to see, and she felt a lift of triumph, as if she were already home.

  ‘Look,’ she said to Noni, ‘look, we’re nearly there.’

  She had spoken unthinkingly; it was a dreadful mistake.

  The small face, filthy after two days and nights now in the car, tearstreaked with misery and fear, looked up at her, the black eyes alight with joy. ‘In England? And is Papa there?’

  ‘Oh, my darling,’ said Adele and burst into tears, Noni’s misplaced joy affecting her as the shelling and her own growing hunger had not. How could she have done this to her, her beloved little daughter, who until forty-eight hours earlier had been playin
g happily in her home in Paris, safe, contented, how could she have dragged her into this hell of shellfire and heat and hostility and danger? To which there was no certain end?

  In the cramped sleeplessness of the nights she faced that over and over again. Why did she think that there would be a boat waiting for her at Bordeaux, with a cabin neatly labelled ‘Lytton’? It was madness, a dangerous, reckless madness that she had dragged them all into: simply because she had discovered her husband had gone back to his wife. Suddenly that seemed utterly inconsequential, a passing injury inflicted upon her, of no account at all set against what she had done to her child, a grown-up quarrel, a source of hurt pride, that she should have set aside, dealt with in a grown-up way.

  She pulled over, signalled to Noni to climb into her lap, sat kissing her, cuddling her, making reassuring noises. Lucas slept on; he slept more and more, clutching his toy cow, dulled with misery and boredom.

  They were on the outskirts of another village; they had parked the car beside a signpost. On it were pasted the now-familiar notes, heartbreaking, dreadful cries of pain: ‘Madame DuClos, chez l’Hotel Reynaud, demande nouvelles de ses fils Bernard et Jacques, 4 et 5 ans, perdu près d’ici le 10 juin’.

  It kept happening; the children got lost in the crush, in the crowds, climbed unnoticed on to carts or trucks, their small legs too tired to walk further, without their parents realising they had gone, and in ten, fifteen minutes in the huge crowd it was too late. They were lost, for ever it seemed while their parents continued to search, to ask, running up and down the line of people. Frantic mothers or fathers often banged on the window of her car, showing her pictures, desperately crying, ‘avez-vous vu cette fille, Madame?’ All she could say was ‘non’; but faced with that notice, thinking of the tiny Bernard and Jacques, lost to their mother probably for ever, imagining her panic and anguish as she waited so futilely in the hotel, Adele considered her own position and felt calmer. She had her children; they were all together; they still had some food; and they were nearly in Chartres.

  On the other hand, it had taken two days to travel fifty miles – fifty miles as the crow flew at least – they were running out of petrol – and, it seemed days – it was days – since she had spoken to anyone, other than a fractious child or a hostile French adult.

  When they got home . . . when they got home . . .

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘Home! You’re home. But you can’t be,’ said Venetia. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry if it’s unwelcome news, but I am.’

  ‘Of course it’s not unwelcome, it’s marvellous. But why – how—’

  ‘Well you know I’m doing this course, para training, in Warminster. I’ve got a twenty-four-hour leave. I’d love to see you.’

  ‘Jay, of course you can see me. I’ll – I’ll take you out to dinner. How would you like that? Oh, no, you’ve probably got someone much more glamorous and younger than me to spend the evening with—’

  ‘Well not in London,’ said Jay blithely tactless, ‘and yes, dinner would be splendid. But of course I’d like to see my mother—’

  ‘Of course you would. But she’s at Ashingham, Jay. She’s gone down with Gordon for a few days. She’s been so tired lately, she collapsed last week, nothing serious, promise, and the doctor prescribed a week of country air. So she’s in the Dovecot.’

  ‘The dear old Dovecot. My first home. Are you sure she’s OK?’

  ‘She’s absolutely fine. But she can’t sleep, worrying about you and everything, and she’s been working like a demon. She’ll be brokenhearted to have missed you. Could you get down for the night?’

  ‘Maybe on the way back. Not tonight, have to catch the dawn train. I’ll telephone her.’

  ‘Well, ask for Gordon first, otherwise the shock’ll finish her off. Only joking. So – dinner, then?’

  ‘Dinner it is. Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll take you to the Dorch.’

  The Dorchester was in good form that night; filled with glamorous people, all beautifully dressed, the women in long dresses, the men in dinner jackets. Several of its regular set were there, the people who regarded it as their second home, a sort of clubhouse, the Duff Coopers, Loelia, Duchess of Westminster, Emerald Cunard, Lord Halifax – ‘And look, there’s Maggie Greville,’ said Venetia. ‘See, in her wheelchair, she’s always here, holding court, she gives the kitchen masses of cream and eggs from her home farm and – oh, there’s Hutch,’ Venetia pointed out an extremely handsome and elegant black man, ‘you know, the piano player, I think he was playing at the Savoy when we were there for Mummy’s birthday last year, if you remember, anyway, they say he’s having an affair with Edwina Mountbatten – oh, sorry, Jay, you probably don’t want to hear all this silly nonsense.’

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘it’s a marvellous relief, and I knew I’d get it from you, silly nonsense I mean—’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Venetia coolly.

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid, you know I don’t mean that. Have some more champagne, for goodness sake. Get some roses in your cheeks, you look a bit pale. I wanted to see you terribly. Most of all because I knew it would be fun. Bit short of fun we are, down there in Somerset.’

  ‘I expect you are. Oh, my God, Jay, time to hide behind the menus. One of Boy’s fellow officers has just come in, nice but frightfully dreary, I really don’t want to have to talk to him.’

  ‘Where – oh, yes. Right oh. It’s all right, he hasn’t seen us.’

  ‘Good. Now, how is it all, Jay, what are you actually doing?’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you an edited version and then we won’t talk about it any more. I’m doing a para training course, as I told you. Frightfully exciting.’

  ‘Don’t tell your poor mother,’ said Venetia with a shudder, ‘she really will never sleep again.’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve actually told her I’m doing a code-breaking course. I couldn’t think of anything much safer, except perhaps catering. And I didn’t think she’d believe that.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘What news of Boy? And Adele?’

  ‘Oh, Jay, I wish there was some. Of Adele, I mean. As far as I know, she’s still in Paris. It’s a nightmare. An absolute nightmare. I can’t sleep either. I feel – oh, it’s hard to explain, permanently churned up. Odd. Distressed. If only, if only she’d come home earlier. Now it’s too late. And the most terrifying thing is, with the Germans actually on their way to Paris, she’s the enemy. God knows what will happen to her. It’s appalling. I could kill that bastard Luc Lieberman.’

  ‘Have you tried to make contact with her?’

  ‘Of course. We’ve phoned and phoned, but the lines are dead. We’ve sent cables, but nothing happens. Do you know Luc actually tried to make her come home in the end, and the stupid girl refused, told him she felt she should stay with him. Did you ever hear anything so stupid?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’d do the same. If Boy asked you. Well, perhaps not Boy any more,’ he added hastily, ‘but someone. You’re like that, I know you are.’

  ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t know that I would. Anyway, we can only hope and hang on.’

  ‘And – Boy? Any news of him?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine. At the moment. He’s up in Scotland doing some kind of training. He’s adoring it. He writes quite often.’

  ‘I’d forgotten how you two were still friends,’ said Jay, ‘jolly clever of you, I’d say. Whenever I end a relationship, I can’t wait to see the back of whoever it is.’

  ‘Yes, well we’ve got four children to worry about,’ said Venetia quickly, ‘so we have to keep – talking.’

  ‘S’pose so. I’m in love at the moment,’ he added, leaning forward. ‘Super girl. I really think this might be it.’

  ‘Jay! Really? How exciting.’

  She smiled at him fondly; this was actually not the first time Jay had thought someone might be it, indeed it seemed to take place on an almost monthly bas
is. ‘Tell me about her. And why aren’t you with her tonight, instead of your old cousin?’

  ‘You don’t look old,’ said Jay earnestly, ‘you look marvellous. I like that dress. Although you are a bit thin, Venetia. Come on, you’re not eating.’

  ‘Oh – I’m not terribly hungry,’ she said quickly, ‘it’s the worry about Adele. Tell me about your new lady love.’

  ‘Well, she’s in the WRNS. Posted down at Portsmouth. We’d have been together now, but she’s on duty, couldn’t get away. Bloody awful, but still—’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Victoria. Victoria Halifax. Tory for short. She’s an absolute stunner, so beautiful, look, I’ve got a picture here—’

  Venetia looked: Victoria Halifax wearing her WRNS uniform smiled at her, a perfect, even-teethed smile. She was indeed, if not beautiful, extremely pretty, blonde, with a heart-shaped face and very wide eyes; she had signed the photograph ‘With my fondest love – Tory’ in a rather florid hand. Venetia smiled at Jay.

  ‘She’s – lovely,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t she? We met just before I went off. At the Blue Angel. She’s a marvellous dancer, could be a professional, I should think. Anyway, she’s doing awfully well in the WRNS, she was training to be a legal secretary before the war, she’s frightfully clever, and funny too, she tells the most marvellous jokes, you’d love her Venetia, I know—’

  ‘I’m sure.’ And then because she felt suddenly dreadfully lonely, and missing Boy more than she could have imagined and felt so fiercely jealous of these two beautiful young people, she suddenly found her eyes filling with tears; Jay stared at her in horror; and she brushed them away quickly, horrified too, at herself for spoiling his one lovely evening in London that he had so touchingly entrusted to her.