Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  She was not pregnant; she had told Luc, her black eyes earnestly sad, that it had been a false alarm, that very sadly she had been wrong. Luc was not surprised.

  He had moved back into the apartment in Passy; there seemed no point staying in the St-Sulpice apartment with its attendant expense and memories. He had moved out without a word to Mme André – and taking only a few of the favourite books and ornaments which he had brought with him from Passy. Suzette received them back with an irritating nod, clearly indicating that they were restored to their rightful place.

  But he remained desperate for news of Adele. And for contact with her. He had no idea whether she was alive or dead, whether she had reached England in safety, or was marooned in some southern French town. Or something a great deal worse. It was dreadful; he was haunted by visions of her being arrested, imprisoned, killed even, and the children with her. There were dreadful stories of what had happened on that road south; he woke sweating night after night from bad dreams to worse wakefulness. He tried to tell himself he would have heard if she had not arrived; but she was not his wife, and there was nothing to show that she was. The children were on her passport, her British passport; but that was worth nothing – or a great deal worse than nothing – in a country where the British were officially the enemy.

  The Lyttons would almost certainly not have known she was coming, the phone lines had been impossible – and would therefore have had no idea of her whereabouts, unless she arrived. It became an obsession; he spent hours pondering the odds, making enquiries of friends, acquaintances, colleagues. And of course his letter to her, the one he had sent through the Style magazine courier had never arrived.

  They had said in any case that the consignment could not be sent direct to London that day, but were trying to get it there via the New York offices; months later Philippe Lelong told him there was no indication they had even arrived there. It was truly a nightmare, a living, ceaseless nightmare. Too late, far too late, Luc realised how very much he loved her; and how absolutely impossible it was for him to tell her so.

  ‘Nearly got him,’ said Parfitt with great satisfaction.

  ‘Number One! You’re not meant to hit the pilot.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’ Her face was carefully innocent, as she turned to face the sergeant.

  ‘Sorry, thought I was. Thought he was the enemy.’

  ‘Of course he’s not. He’s trailing that windsock. You’re meant to hit that.’

  ‘It’s not that bugger wot takes us for drill, is it? Because if it is—’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. Now for Christ’s sake concentrate next time. Number Two, you next.’

  They were numbers on the gun park, not names. Barty took careful aim; hit the windsock exactly.

  ‘Bullseye!’

  ‘Not bad. Number Three.’

  They had been doing it for hours; firing at the windsock, trailed by a very slow, very old plane, piloted by an extremely brave man. If anyone got the Military Cross, Barty thought, it should be that pilot.

  She stepped back, winced as her shoe caught a new set of blisters. God, this drill was a pain. Literally. They’d had to learn a new form down here; artillery drill rather than infantry. The rhythm was different, you counted differently; it was very confusing. They were all taking a long time to pick it up, partly because they were all feeling bolshie about it.

  ‘We’ve learned to bloody march,’ Parfitt had said, after the first morning, ‘I’ll give that sergeant ruddy gunnery drill, right up his backside. As if that was going to win the war. Bleedin’ army.’

  It did seem just a little unnecessary.

  But they were still enjoying themselves.

  They were doing proper training now; in Oswestry they’d learned to use the complex equipment, the height-finders and predictors, to use binoculars, telescopes, matching manually the information fed them by a complex mass of dials, adding in wind speed, bearing and range, all information that was relayed to the guns, telling them where to fire, how high a plane was, how fast it was travelling, what the wind direction was. And then there was the gunpowder: which was like the dye in knitting wool, she discovered, no two batches behaved exactly the same. Calculations had to be adjusted for each one.

  And every gun barrel behaved differently too, changing with age; and the wind speed and bearing affected the round in flight. It was all complex and difficult but enthralling. And wonderfully therapeutic; she realised one evening she hadn’t even thought about Laurence for weeks.

  Both she and Parfitt had passed out well and had been sent on to their next post – marching on their way through the town to the station. They were sent to Anglesey, to an actual gun park, based on the cliffs overlooking the sea.

  They were addressed on their first day by a young and rather good-looking young officer; he gave them a terrific talk, telling them that they would be treated equally, men and women alike, that they would work together, that they had a job to do regardless of sex and that they must be prepared to die together too. There had been a silence after that; even Parfitt looked subdued.

  But it was the noise which was really separating the women from the girls now; and it was frightful. There had been ‘gun shyness’ tests: if you could cope with standing behind four 3.7 guns, all going off at the same time, you were all right. Barty found she could – just; but it wasn’t only the noise, it was the closeness of it all, the heat of the smoking cartridge case as it shot out, the smell of grease and cordite, they were all part of an assault that seemed to go deep within her, confusing all her responses. She developed strategies to cope with it, bracing herself mentally as well as physically, but a few of the girls couldn’t cope at all and developed something similar to the shell-shock Barty had observed in the men at Ashingham during the First War, a kind of withdrawal and even quite severe trembling. They had to leave, to do other work; Parfitt was very scornful.

  They were all given rubber ear plugs, but mostly they didn’t wear them; there was so much crucial shouting going on, shouting of orders, information, warnings and you simply couldn’t hear that with plugs in. Barty learned to manage without, and sent up silent prayers that she wouldn’t suffer from permanent deafness.

  Permanent deafness: better than blindness, though. Her heart ached so much for Kit that she sometimes felt it physically, a heavy throbbing of helpless sympathy. She had been given compassionate leave when she first heard the news, to go and see him; remembering his glorious looks, his joyful attitude to life, his burning inquisitiveness, she was shocked by what she found, a still, dull shell, hardly troubling to greet her, certainly not to smile.

  She had expected to have to work hard, to be tactful, gentle, careful of everything she said and did, but it was far worse than she had feared. He patently didn’t listen to much that was said to him, hardly answered her questions, shrugged off her enquiries as to his health, refused every offer, of a walk, being read to, the radio, the gramophone. After half an hour she had felt exhausted and made an excuse to leave, and went to find Lady Beckenham; she was brusque with her.

  ‘Of course it’s difficult. I should know, I’m dealing with him every day. But hardly surprising. Wouldn’t you feel like that? I know I would.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But – what will become of him, it’s hard to see him getting any better at all, with this attitude.’

  ‘Oh, give him time,’ said Lady Beckenham cheerfully, ‘amazing what that will do. And look at Billy, what a state he was in.’

  ‘Yes, but you found him something to do, something to give him hope. I can’t think of anything that might help Kit. What on earth can he do, for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Can’t imagine. But there was some composer who was deaf, wasn’t there—’

  ‘Beethoven,’ said Barty. ‘Can – can Aunt Celia get through to him?’

  ‘Not really. She comes down every weekend, sits with him for hours, but he’s just the same with her. Poor chap.’

  ‘Doesn’t he want to go home?’
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  ‘Not really. He’s happier down here. Says it’s more peaceful. And it’s safer of course. Anyway, he’ll come through. I’m sure of it. Just a matter of finding something. When you get to my age, Barty, you know that things usually do pan out. They have to. He can’t sit there for the rest of his life brooding. It won’t work.’

  Barty smiled at her; and thought what an amazing woman she was. She must be over eighty, yet she still charged about Ashingham day and night, ordering everyone about, more than half running the school, helping Lord Beckenham when necessary in his Home Guard duties, overseeing her horses – and still riding herself. The doctor had forbidden it, saying that a fall could be fatal, but she told him that if she couldn’t ride she’d rather be dead and that was the end of it.

  ‘Izzie is being marvellous, she’s the only person he’ll talk to at all. That upsets Celia, between you and me. I did think Billy might be able to help, but Kit gave him very short shrift. Dear old Bill; wedding bells in the air, you know.’

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ said Barty, ‘I’m so happy about it. She’s such a dear girl. She really loves him. Well, I’d better go and have another try with Kit, and then I’ll have to leave. I’ve got to report back tonight.’

  ‘Enjoying it, are you? Beckenham is desperately jealous.’

  ‘I absolutely adore it,’ said Barty simply.

  Another letter had come from Boy: equally cold, equally distant. He had a final leave before moving off with his regiment to another location; he could be away some considerable time and he would like to see the children again before he left. Again he would prefer her not to be there. He imagined she would understand. As far as he could gather from what Henry and Roo had said, she was very seldom at Ashingham, so he imagined it would not exactly be a problem. He would be staying with a friend in London, since she had closed the house up. (‘And I can imagine the sex of the friend,’ Venetia said bitterly to Adele.) He would be gone before Christmas, and would organise some presents for the children which he would have delivered to Cheyne Walk. Perhaps she would be good enough to take them down with her.

  And that was it.

  Thank God, she thought, standing up, pressing her hand into her aching back, thank God she had her work to distract her. Otherwise she’d go completely mad.

  Barty was having quite a lot of fun now; the nearest town put on very good Saturday night dances. The first one had actually been a bit of a shock, they had got used to the army hops with everyone in uniform and had sat there, khaki wallflowers, in a line, miserable in their stout shoes and thick stockings, looking at the civvy girls in frocks and curls; ‘bleedin’ tarts,’ said Parfitt, speaking for them all.

  They had a few drinks at the bar, and had just decided to go and catch the bus back to barracks when a young officer came over to them, half bowed to Parfitt.

  ‘May I have the pleasure?’ he said.

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she said, and allowed herself to be led into a rather stiff waltz, winking at them over her partner’s shoulder every time she faced them.

  Barty watched her enviously; she thought the officer was rather good-looking, wasted on Parfitt . . .

  ‘Wake up, Miller.’ Parfitt was grinning at her. ‘I brought you a partner over. Told him you was more his sort than me. Here you are.’

  Barty shook her head, laughing; but ‘no, honest, he said he’d like to talk to you. Didn’t you?’ she said rather aggressively, digging him in the ribs.

  ‘I – did, yes. That is if you wouldn’t mind, Miss—’

  ‘Miller,’ said Barty, ‘and I wouldn’t mind a bit.’ The more she looked at him, the more he seemed to look like Cary Grant.

  He was stationed nearby; doing commando training. He was very young, just thirty, but ‘I was born middle-aged,’ he said apologetically. ‘Everyone always thinks I’m older. John Munnings, by the way, sorry, should have said.’

  ‘And what do you do, John Munnings? When you’re not a’ – she examined the stars on his epaulette – ‘lieutenant.’

  ‘Oh – solicitor. There you are, you see. Dull. Middle-aged.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re not an accountant,’ she said cheerfully. He grinned back at her; he had a very nice smile.

  The band struck up again: ‘You are My Sunshine’.

  ‘I love this,’ she said happily.

  ‘You dance awfully well,’ he said, unscrambling his feet for the third time.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Barty.

  ‘I know I don’t.’

  ‘Well – you’re not bad. And you know what they said about Fred Astaire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When he did his screen test: can’t act, can’t sing, can dance a little. Look what happened to him. You could get better.’

  ‘All right. Will you be my Ginger for the next dance at least?’

  ‘I will. With pleasure.’

  She had seen him several times since then; she liked him more and more. And he was very good-looking. He was hating army life, he said, ‘but we have to do it, don’t we?’

  ‘We do. Actually I love it.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Yes, I can. It’s so – different. So absorbing.’

  ‘You’re amazing,’ he said. And then, rather awkwardly, ‘I would have thought you’d be an officer.’

  ‘I didn’t want to be. I’m happier mucking in with the girls. It’s more – I don’t know – relaxing.’ She smiled. ‘It’s funny, you know, Parfitt, the one you danced with first, she’s the greatest snob I’ve ever met. Well, with a couple of exceptions,’ she cast a mental glance at Celia and Lady Beckenham, ‘she’s so class-conscious, never stops going on about it.’

  ‘But you like her?’

  ‘I love her,’ said Barty, smiling.

  After the third dance he asked her if he might kiss her. Amused at his old-fashioned chivalry, she had said of course he could. It hadn’t been – earth-shattering, not exactly – well, not in the least earth-shattering – but very nice. She liked him more and more. They had a lot in common, liked the same books, music, the theatre; they found a great deal to talk about.

  Parfitt was hugely excited by what she called the romance.

  ‘Obviously likes you, Miller. But you can’t marry him.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to,’ said Barty, laughing. ‘But why not?’

  ‘“Change the name, but not the letter, change for worse and not for better.” You must know that.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Anyway, if you do get spliced, I want to be chief bridesmaid. Seeing as I introduced you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Barty, ‘you can be. That’s a promise. If we do.’

  Even Venetia, with her lack of literary experience, could see that Lyttons were publishing a lot of the wrong things. Her father, Edgar Greene, and a couple of the other elderly male editors were suddenly in charge again, virtually unopposed, offering the public historical biographies, earnest intellectual novels, books of collected essays. Celia did her best, but she was distracted, depressed about Kit and bereft of Barty, of Jay, and of the two new young editors she had hired; she found it hard to push her own ideas through.

  ‘I feel like the army at Dunkirk,’ she said to Venetia one day, ‘stranded on the beaches. Without a landing craft in sight. What was the use of beating off the purchase-tax threat in order to publish all this dreary rubbish?’ She sighed, pushed away the proofs of a new edition of her Queen Anne biography. ‘This is not what people want. Or that dreadful pompous set of political nonsense that Oliver is so pleased with. We need lots and lots of popular fiction, things like Rebecca and My Son, My Son. Even really good, meaty stuff like The Grapes of Wrath – did you read that – no, of course you didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be horrid,’ said Venetia equably. ‘I loved Rebecca though.’

  ‘Oh, she’s so marvellous, Daphne du Maurier. I do wish she was ours. You know Oliver turned her down, all those years ago. I can hardly bear to think about it. And you know that
Macmillan’s biggest problem is finding enough paper for reprints of Gone With the Wind. And Oliver tells me, with his eyebrows raised, that people don’t want what he calls that sort of thing . . .’

  ‘That’s what we want,’ said Venetia, ‘an English Gone With the Wind.’

  ‘A little unlikely,’ said Celia briskly, ‘but yes, something like that. Anyway, if we don’t find something soon, we’ll be in serious trouble. We need a really big seller. Lyttons is barely breaking even at the moment. Sales are abysmal.’

  It needed a German bomb to drop on Venetia’s hairdresser for them to find it.

  ‘It’s too awful,’ she wailed when she arrived at Lyttons one morning, ‘look at me, hair like one of those hedgehogs baked in clay Grandpapa’s always going on about, stomach like an unexploded bomb, and I’ve got to go and see Christina Foyle about a lunch for Guy Worsley. She’ll just show me the door.’

  ‘I’m sure she won’t,’ said Celia, ‘but you don’t look quite your best. Why don’t you go to Elizabeth Arden? They don’t do a bad job. You could get your nails done as well, they certainly need it. I would, Venetia, you’ll feel a lot better.’

  It was very hectic at Miss Arden’s; Venetia had to wait for almost an hour. She was sitting reading an article in Vogue on the new hospitality – ‘offer a hot bath, far more welcome than gin’ – when she realised someone was trying to attract her attention. She pretended not to notice; she really wasn’t in a mood to be sociable.

  But ‘It’s Venetia, isn’t it? Venetia Warwick. You may not remember me, I knew your sister. I work on Style magazine.’

  Venetia smiled politely. ‘Yes. That’s me.’