Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  Illogically, knowing that he still loved her, that he felt no anger or desire to blame her made her feel less remorse, more happiness; ‘and so you should,’ said Venetia, with whom at least some of the contents of the letter had been shared, ‘he’s admitting he was wrong, that he deserved for you to act as you did. It’s not as if it was in a fit of pique, or so you could run off with someone else.’

  ‘I know, I know. But I should still have given him a chance to explain, to make me understand.’

  ‘In which case you’d still be there.’

  ‘Yes.’ Adele was silent; thinking then of the dangers of still being there, with her children. She would certainly have been imprisoned, and possibly all of them; as it was, they all lived free and happy in the English countryside. She felt sad still, she missed Luc and she feared most dreadfully for his safety; but in days she had changed; she became easy, smiling, released her children from her suffocating care, helped in the house, sat with Kit, and helped her grandmother with the farm, which she discovered she loved.

  In her darker moments – and they came more frequently than anyone knew, with the exception of Venetia – this idyll would be punctured by fears for Luc and by her impotence at being able to contact him. She longed to write back to him; had indeed posted several letters (while knowing how hopeless an initiative it was), had telephoned Cedric to ask him (while knowing it was fruitless) if the courier service between Paris and London was still running, albeit via New York.

  He had rather specific news of Paris, gleaned from messages via New York; that couture was still alive, despite German endeavours to move it to Berlin, that Vogue had ceased to publish along with Style, that the fashions were of necessity modest, minimal even, in their use of fabric. News that at another time, in another life would have fascinated her, but now meant nothing, nothing at all.

  But, in spite of her frustration and her anxiety, she was deeply happy; released from guilt and restored most surprisingly to love. Love and a state of grace.

  And then, a few weeks after the arrival of Luc’s letter, Helena had telephoned.

  ‘Adele? I have some news for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes. It’s about getting messages to – well, to your – your—– ’

  ‘To Luc?’ said Adele helpfully. She was constantly amused by the difficulty Helena had with such matters. And then she realised what she was actually saying. ‘What, Helena, how—’

  ‘Apparently through the Red Cross, you can send a written message. It’s quite easy. Well, not exactly easy but it does more or less guarantee the person getting the message in due course.’

  ‘Oh my God—’ Adele’s voice was shaky, very quiet.

  ‘Yes. You go to the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. Where you fill in a form, saying whatever it is you want to say—’

  ‘You mean I can write to him?’

  ‘Well – not exactly. Not a long letter, anyway. There’s a limit of – let me see, I wrote it down for you . . . oh, yes, twenty words—’

  Twenty words. Enough. Enough to tell him she was safe, that she still loved him, that she had only just got his letter to her.

  ‘So how, what—’

  ‘I’ve got all the details here,’ said Helena, her bossy voice more clipped than usual. ‘As I said, you go to the nearest Citizens’ Advice Bureau. That twenty words does exclude name, address and relationship, incidentally. Then it gets transcribed on to a Red Cross form—’

  ‘You mean they get to read it?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently it’s against the censor’s regulations for the sender to fill in the Red Cross form.’

  ‘Oh, oh I see. Well—’ That seemed an outrage; then she realised that set against Luc’s assuming she must either be dead or still absolutely hostile to him it was nothing, nothing at all. ‘Well go on.’

  ‘After that, they get posted to the International Red Cross Committee. And they send them on to the person to whom they are addressed. Via their own Foreign Relations Department.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Adele suddenly couldn’t even hold the phone, so weak with shock and relief did she feel. She put it down on the hall table, buried her face in her hands.

  She could hear Helena calling her but could do nothing about it; finally she managed to pick it up again, and said simply, ‘Helena, I don’t know how to thank you for this, I really don’t.’

  ‘It’s not my personal scheme, Adele,’ said Helena, her voice almost a reproof, ‘but I’m very glad if it will help.’

  Adele cycled into Beaconsfield that very afternoon, after playing for hours with her twenty words, working out how she could make them say the most; handed them over in all their raw love and concern, watched, feeling oddly exposed as a coolly emotionless woman read them carefully, nodded at her, took her sevenpence, checked the address and said she would see it went off with the next bundle.

  ‘And then – how – how soon will it get there?’ she said, hearing her voice shake.

  ‘It’s impossible to say. They often have to go by a fairly roundabout route, as I am sure you can imagine. But you can rest assured it will arrive.’

  ‘Even – even in Paris?’

  ‘Of course.’ She gave her a slightly superior smile. ‘Try not to worry. Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Adele. And cycled home, her heart singing. She tried to believe that Luc would receive the letter within a few days. Or at the very most weeks.

  She buried her anxiety and her frustration in helping her grandmother on the farm: and there was a great deal to be done. The young men had all gone; in their place was a small group of land girls, not quite the smiling, sturdy creatures of the posters, many of them townies, unused to physical work of any kind, let alone the backbreaking toil of hoeing, planting, lifting potatoes, making silage, repairing fences. A couple were dreadfully homesick, even took to their beds; surprisingly, Lady Beckenham’s brisk sympathy, her watchful eye on the more serious problems of injured backs, strained joints, and, on one occasion, a septic cut sustained from a rusty scythe, and her willingness to work alongside them at all but the heaviest tasks, did more for their morale than anything.

  They liked Adele too; she was always the last to come in at night, working into the long summer twilight – made even longer with the establishment of double summertime – little Noni often sitting beside her in the tractor, her small face burnt dark brown, her large black eyes brilliant with pleasure.

  Lucas, sturdy and sunburnt too, spent much of his time at the stables with Billy; he would sit for hours on a manger in the yard, watching the horses, allowed to help mix their feed and even, when Joan managed to find him a small enough broom, sweeping out the stables. The horses were working now: with the shortage of petrol, horse-drawn ploughs were being brought back into service; and Lucas would trail along on his short legs behind Billy as he drove the two great shires over the fields.

  Tucking them up in bed each night, after going through the small, sweet ritual she had evolved of looking out of the window, and sending their love to their father, she managed, slightly to her own surprise to find considerable happiness for herself. And to believe that she had after all done the best thing. For all of them.

  It was high summer now; and that evening, Barty and John were going to see what John had warned might be a rather limited production of Arsenic and Old Lace; ‘And then maybe supper somewhere?’

  Barty was looking forward to it; but she was also anxious. He had told her there was something he wanted to talk to her about; and she knew what it would be. Commitment from her: in the event of his going away. She had a decision to make and she owed it to him to make sure it was the right one.

  The play was better than they had expected; supper in a small Chelsea restaurant surprisingly good; the inevitable rabbit was a strong feature of the menu, but they both ordered it, cooked in cider, and agreed it was almost indistinguishable from pork. After it, they sat unusually silent, but comfortably so; finally John said, ‘Barty, the
re’s something—’

  And then, as she tensed herself for the question, probed her own consciousness for the hundredth time for the answer, it happened: the siren went.

  ‘Everyone was right then,’ said John cheerfully, standing up, holding out his hand. ‘It’s starting again. Hitler was just biding his time, waiting for us to get lulled into a sense of false security. What shall we do, public shelter, underground station, what? It’s up to you.’

  He might have been reacting to the need to shelter from a light shower of rain; Barty looked at him: so level, so physically calm with no sense of panic anywhere in him, and felt a wave of gratitude and admiration. And something else too: a desire to show her gratitude, and to stay with him, not to allow the evening to disintegrate into the squalor of the shelters.

  ‘We could – go to my little house,’ she said quite casually. ‘It’s very near here. I – well, I’m not sure if I mentioned that.’

  ‘You didn’t actually,’ he said, ‘no.’

  ‘Oh well – anyway, we could go there. And I have a Morrison shelter, so if it does get near – but of course you may prefer the underground.’

  ‘Barty,’ said John, smiling his sweet calm smile, ‘I would far prefer to share your Morrison shelter.’

  ‘Not as safe. You do realise that?’

  ‘Of course I do. I prefer the risks as well.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  They walked to the Mews, just a few streets away, a few people were running in the direction of the shelter, but there was a general air of calm. Barty suddenly remembered she had left her house in a great rush, that her clothes were in dreadful disarray all over her small bedroom, and the remnants of her lunch were on the kitchen table. She hoped that John would not be too offended by it.

  He didn’t seem to be.

  ‘This is charming,’ he said, looking round her sitting room – that at least was tidy – ‘how very nice for you to have such a welcoming place to come to.’

  ‘I’m glad you think it’s welcoming,’ said Barty, ‘that’s what I aimed for when I did it up. Having grown up in a rather grand house, I wanted exactly the opposite. Somewhere anyone could walk into and feel – well, unthreatened.’

  ‘No one could feel threatened by this. And yet it’s delightful. I like the colour scheme, all that white, it’s so unexpected these days.’

  ‘Well, it suited the house, I thought. The whole point about mews houses is that once they were stables. They don’t ask for a lot of dressing up and fuss. And then white is such a marvellous background to colour, which is why I was quite bold with it. I mean, some people are shocked by those scarlet curtains, but I love them, they cheer me up.’

  ‘They cheer me up as well,’ he said, ‘they’re an incredible colour, like poppies. And that’s a beautiful little figure there.’

  ‘Present from Celia Lytton. When I moved in.’

  ‘The famous Lady Celia. What a very grand family you belong to: I feel quite overawed.’

  ‘But I don’t belong to it,’ said Barty almost fretfully, ‘it just took me over.’

  ‘And made you part of it. You can’t deny it, Barty. When it’s done so much for you.’

  ‘I know, I know all that. But that’s exactly the problem, that it’s done so much for me. I had to be so grateful for so long and now gratitude is an emotion that has the ugliest connotations for me.’

  ‘Oh, I can understand that,’ he said, ‘although in quite a minor way. My godmother paid my school fees. Very kind, of course. But never a week passed without my having to express gratitude and to prove that I was working hard.’

  She smiled at him; ‘Then you will exactly understand.’

  ‘But it’s not quite the same thing as being brought up by Lady Celia, educated by her, and very expensively it must be said, and then given a job in the company.’

  ‘I earned it,’ she said sharply and then felt ashamed of herself.

  ‘Of course you did. But the opportunity, that was a gift for you to make the most of.’

  ‘Well – yes. But—’

  ‘Barty it was. You shouldn’t, you cannot deny it. And I don’t see why you should.’

  She stared at him: suddenly seeing she must agree with him, wondering at his gift of simplicity and straightforwardness, and his ability to pass it so quietly on.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘of course you are. And—’

  She was interrupted. The noise had suddenly begun; the incessant, growing roar, louder all the time.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, calmly sensible, ‘I think it’s time to stop philosophising. Where’s this Morrison of yours?’

  There was no raid on Chelsea that night; West London bore the brunt, with several bombs on Acton. They sat in the Morrison for an hour or so until the All Clear went, and then wriggled out.

  ‘Well, that was fun. I enjoyed it.’

  They had; they had taken in two of the Meridian books with them which John had never read. He had been spellbound, apparently oblivious to the noise and the danger; Barty, who had been given the page proofs of Grace and Favour by Celia, had read equally oblivious.

  ‘Good,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘mine wasn’t bad either. Clever lot, those Lyttons. It was Venetia who discovered this one apparently.’

  ‘So she works there, does she?’

  ‘Not really, at the moment. She had a baby just after Christmas, she’s down in the country with him and all her other children. But Celia says she’s got to come back soon, they’re so short-staffed.’

  ‘You’re not tempted?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I’m like you, I’m enjoying my war. Anyway, women are about to be called up, I heard. So not a lot of point me going back.’

  ‘We shouldn’t really, should we?’ he said.

  ‘Shouldn’t what?’

  ‘Be enjoying it. When so many people are suffering so horribly.’

  ‘I know,’ she said soberly, ‘it worries me.’

  ‘Me too. But – it doesn’t stop me, well, liking what I’ve got. Although—’ He stopped, looked down at his hands, then took a deep breath, leaned forward, looked at her very intently. ‘I was going to tell you earlier. But I have to anyway now. I’m – going away, Barty. In a week’s time.’

  ‘Going away?’ she said stupidly. She had felt so safe, so secure in the isolation of their relationship, that she was shocked at the notion of it ending.

  ‘Yes. Being sent abroad.’

  ‘Where? Do you know?’

  ‘Not yet. Really I don’t. But – it will be for some time. And so—’

  ‘Oh John,’ she said, and found her eyes stinging with tears. ‘I—’ and then stopped and blew her nose hard.

  ‘You what?’ he said gently.

  ‘I – I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘I’ll tell my CO,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand, change the arrangement.’

  ‘Sorry. That was such a stupid thing to say.’

  ‘Not stupid,’ he said, ‘and very welcome. I would have been most upset had you seemed pleased or relieved.’

  She managed to smile. ‘Oh dear. I shall miss you.’

  And realised, as she said it, exactly how much; she felt new tears rising and sat staring at him, letting them roll down her face, unchecked.

  ‘I shall miss you too,’ he said gently, ‘terribly. It’s been such a happy time, Barty. Really so very happy.’

  ‘It has, hasn’t it?’ she said, blowing her nose again. ‘Very happy. I’ve loved it.’

  ‘Well – that’s why I wanted to talk to you. Because I’ve loved it too. And I – love you, Barty. I didn’t say so before, because I wanted to be sure. As you know, I’m a cautious sort of a chap. But – well, I do. Love you. I think you’re very lovely and very special and I can’t believe how lucky I am.’

  She was silent; a raw illogical panic slithering into her.

  ‘And what I wanted to say was—’ he stopped, clearly looking for courage, and the right words, then sli
ghtly loudly and with gathering speed, ‘I wondered if you could consider – a promise. Not an engagement as such, that would be too formal, perhaps too soon, but if I knew you were here, waiting for me, I’d be a lot less—’ He stopped.

  ‘A lot less what?’ she said, playing for time as much as anything.

  There was a long silence; then he said, his voice low and shaky, ‘Frightened.’

  Barty looked at him: moved beyond anything she would have believed by this confession, the courage of it, a further revelation of everything she liked and admired about him. All of a sudden, doubt flickered and died; she felt strong, happy, almost certain.

  She put out her hand, took his, kissed it gently.

  ‘I like it so much that you said that,’ she said.

  ‘What, that I was frightened?’

  ‘Well – yes. It’s not an easy thing to say.’

  ‘It was easier than the rest,’ he said, smiling at her now. ‘I was very frightened indeed of that.’

  ‘What of asking me to – be waiting here for you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve never said anything like that before.’

  ‘Haven’t you really?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said and he looked quite indignant. ‘I told you, I’ve hardly ever cared for anybody very much. And certainly not enough to ask them such a tremendously important thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Barty. She felt very humble.

  ‘I’m not going to ask you about your past, because I suspect there is something quite – big there that you will tell me about if and when you want to.’

  She was silent.

  ‘But I would like an answer. To my question.’

  ‘May I think about it? Just for a little while?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled at her; she could see that even this had hurt him, that she was not sure enough to answer immediately. ‘But I would like to know before I go.’