Mother came down to take us out last Sunday, it was lovely to see her. She works at Lyttons in London all the time now, bit risky I’d have thought, although there isn’t that much bombing these days, and she seems to enjoy it. She was looking jolly pretty.
Anyway, there’s a bit of news. I’ve thought quite hard about telling you this, but I’ve decided I should because no one else is going to. I know GGM and Grandpapa both think you ought to know, I heard them talking about it, and they said LM thought the same, and I do too. Mother said no one was to tell you because it would be something more for you to worry about, but I honestly think that’s a bit ridiculous. Anyway, here goes: the news is, Mother’s had a baby. Well, not exactly a baby, he’s a year old now. He’s a nice little chap, quite jolly, looks a lot like Roo. His name is Fergal. I imagine Mother will be pretty fed up with me when she finds out I’ve told you, but it can’t be helped. I tried to think what I’d want if I were you, and I decided I’d really rather know, worried or not. Anyway, he’s at Ashingham with Nanny and everyone, so quite safe. No need to worry at all in fact!
Well that’s all for now. Quite enough, I expect you’re thinking.
Write soon, if you can. Look after yourself.
Your loving son,
Henry
Boy read this letter several times; growing angrier each time. How could Venetia have done that to him: had a baby, for Christ’s sake and not told him. It was monstrous. He was astonished no one else at Ashingham had told him.
Well, she hadn’t wasted any time. Interesting there was no mention of any man in her life; no doubt she was keeping that very quiet. Presumably he was away. Working in London must be very convenient for her. She had probably led the children to think that the baby was his. They would assume that anyway of course, they’d never quite grasped the concept of divorce, especially as he’d been at the house so much and they’d both worked so hard at being nice to one another in front of them. Lucky for her the baby looked like Roo – who in turn looked exactly like his mother. If he’d had blond hair and blue eyes she’d have had a bit more trouble explaining it. And Fergal – what a bloody silly name.
God, it was a shock. That she’d just got together with this chap, almost as soon as he’d left, and gone on her own sweet way. The baby was a year old. That meant – Boy did some ferocious calculations – only two or three months after that last night together. It had obviously meant a lot to her, that night. Christ, he felt a fool. An absolute, bloody fool. Saying all those things to her, about how he still loved her, wanted to be with her again. Thank God nobody had really known about their reconciliation. Their extremely short-lived reconciliation. Who the hell had Willoughby-Clarke seen her with? He’d been too proud to quiz him at the time and now the poor chap had copped it. God, he’d lost some good friends over this past eighteen months.
Filthy business, war was. Absolutely filthy. He was so utterly sick of it, the heat and the filth and the flies, those fucking flies. Morale was up a bit now of course, Auchinleck, the new General, was a good chap, and the retaking of Tobruk and Bengazi had done a lot for them all, but just the same the men were tired. Sick and tired. And that was how he felt. Sick and tired and unutterably miserable. It wasn’t what you needed, when you were giving your bloody all for king and country, to hear that your reconciled wife had not only cheated on you weeks after swearing she still loved you, but had had a baby by her new lover. And not had the guts to tell you.
Boy looked at his watch; an hour before dinner. He needed a drink. Several drinks. And then he’d write to Venetia and tell her – Boy stopped, motioned to the mess sergeant to fetch him another whisky – tell her what, exactly? After all, they were divorced. Technically, she had every right to have a relationship and indeed a baby with whomsoever she chose. Maybe he ought to be a bit less emotional about this. She might have said she still loved him that night, but she was probably only trying to be kind, to send him off to war happily. He’d been a fool to believe her, but apart from that, she hadn’t actually done anything wrong. He’d provided the grounds for their divorce after all, from their very first year. He’d do a lot better, look much less foolish, if he played it cool. Just wrote and congratulated her, made it plain he couldn’t be less concerned, wish her well even. He might suggest that she told the children the truth – no, that would be difficult for them at the moment, time for that after the war when presumably she’d want to marry this chap.
God, what a mess: what a bloody awful mess.
He ordered a third whisky and then walked rather unsteadily into dinner.
CHAPTER 37
‘I think that if possible he should be got home now.’
‘It could be difficult.’ The voice was heavy.
‘Obviously. But she is going down much faster than I feared. If he is to say goodbye to her—’
‘Of course. I’ll see what I can do. First thing in the morning.’
‘I think that’s wise. You go back to her, I’ll see myself out.’
‘Thank you. For everything.’
‘I wish I could do more. I’ve told the nurse: as much morphine as is required.’
‘Thank you.’
That had been the one thing Gordon had feared: that she would die in dreadful agony. As it was, she was torpid, only half conscious most of the time, but in very little pain.
And calm, serene, her only anxiety being Jay. Jay, and not being a trouble or a worry to him. Or indeed to anyone else.
She had forbidden them to tell him. ‘How can he possibly do whatever it is, if he’s worrying about me all the time? There is simply no point. If he comes home, then he’ll have to know. But for now – please don’t tell him.’
And Jay, deeply in love, eager to spend what meagre leave he had with Victoria, had not been home for months.
He had hardly taken in that his mother had moved to Ashingham, had accepted that it was safer there, that she was more or less retired anyway, that Gordon had always loved the countryside, that it made perfect sense.
LM had been surprised herself at her desire to go there; it was hardly home, she and Gordon had been very happy in the house in Hampstead. But as her illness progressed, her pain and weakness increased, she felt a profound longing for the place.
‘I’m sorry, if you feel it is a rejection of you,’ she said, placing her hand in Gordon’s, ‘it is of course nothing of the sort. But it was where I feel my roots are, especially now that Lytton House is gone. Jay and I lived there when he was first born, as well as through his childhood, after – well, after I had met you. And—’
‘My dear, there is no need to say any more. I understand. And besides, some of my happiest times have been spent there in your cottage.’
‘Well that is occupied by the landgirls,’ said LM, ‘and I don’t think we should disturb them. But the Dovecot is probably available. You could perhaps ask Lady Beckenham for me?’
‘Of course.’
And Lady Beckenham listened as Gordon made his request, his voice heavy with weariness and pain, and remembered Celia making the same request for her, twenty-five years earlier, and agreed with the same reassuring lack of fuss, ‘Of course. Whenever you want it. Just let me know.’
She didn’t even ask why.
She knew of course; they all did. Gordon had come to Celia and Oliver and told them. They had both been shocked, both in tears, amazed by his calm courage.
‘If she can be brave, then surely so can I,’ he said. ‘She asked me to tell you on my own, because she was afraid we would all become emotional. She wants everything kept as calm as possible, not a lot of histrionics as she puts it.’
Celia had managed to smile. ‘Not quite LM’s style, histrionics. Of course. We’ll tell the others.’
‘Not the children yet. And I see no point worrying poor old Giles and Boy.’
‘Jay?’ said Celia, while knowing the answer.
‘Not yet. Not until she feels it’s time.’
They had moved down to Ashingham
in May; spent a happy summer there, LM sitting on the terrace much of the time, watching the little boys, listening to Lord Beckenham, talking to Kit, admiring Amy’s horsemanship. Celia came down whenever she could; shocked each time by the speed with which LM was deteriorating. Eating had become impossible, she was put on first a liquid diet and now was being fed intravenously. A full-time nurse had been engaged, and a small room had been found for her in the house. If she found LM’s insistence on staying at the Dovecot with all its inconvenience irritating she never said so.
And it was inconvenient, there were no cooking facilities, and if LM needed her in the night she had to be fetched and to walk across – all right on a fine night but disagreeable if it was raining. But LM was happy there, reliving, as her morphine-induced confusion increased, the infinitely joyful time she had spent there after Jay was born. When she became too weak to make her way to the terrace, Gordon had a chaise longue set up in the walled garden and she lay there, cocooned in warmth, reading, chatting easily to her visitors.
Kit was one of her favourites; he was gently amusing, telling her endless anecdotes about the happenings at the house and never minding when she lapsed into silence and asked him to do the same. He was excited about his book; he told her it was very odd, not having been able to read it, but it had been read to him in its final edited version and he was delighted with that.
‘I would like to see the cover of course, but Mother’s described it to me, and it sounds very clever. A globe, held by a small child. Or perhaps you’ve seen it.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said LM, ‘but your mother said she’d bring it down. She’s so proud of you, Kit.’
Celia was: intensely, joyfully so. As much by the change the book had wrought in Kit as of the book itself. He seemed to have grown up suddenly; the wretchedly brooding boy had become quietly content, if not exactly happy, and as surprised as everyone else by the discovery of his unexpected talent. He smiled more, laughed quite often, and clearly – to everyone’s delight – was looking forward to publication and the ensuing fuss.
‘He’s obviously a born celebrity,’ Oliver said to Celia, adding with one of his sudden, sharp smiles, ‘I wonder where he gets that from.’
And the fuss was well deserved, LM thought; the book was brilliant. She was only sad she would not see its publication, which had been delayed until Christmas that year.
‘But it is – superb,’ she said, ‘and you should be so very proud.’
‘I’m certainly – pleased,’ said Kit.
‘You should be more than that. Very pleased with yourself. Very – pleased—’ She was tiring now; he could hear it in her voice. He waited, then leaned over and gently kissed her cheek. She smiled and said, half asleep, ‘Your – father must be so – so delighted—’
‘I think he is,’ said Kit, ‘he is publishing it after all.’
‘Yes. Yes of course. Yes, Oliver too.’
And then she was gone, drifting away from him. Her words did not strike him in any way strange. Or at least any stranger than any others that she spoke during those last weeks . . .
Barty was shocked by LM’s illness: and desperately upset. She had loved her from the first time she had met her, had found in her the directness and common sense that the other Lyttons had lacked. Barty’s closeness to Jay, springing from those early days at Ashingham, and her reading to him from Meridian the night he nearly died, had created an unbreakable bond between them. Life without LM’s down-to-earth wisdom, her slightly dark humour, her steady affection, was unimaginable; Barty visited her whenever she could, and considerably to her own surprise, told her about John.
‘He’s just – perfect,’ she said, on the first visit to the Dovecot, ‘in every way.’
‘Then you’re very lucky,’ said LM, ‘very lucky indeed. You must hold on to him.’
‘Yes,’ said Barty. ‘Yes I – I suppose I must.’
LM looked at her sharply. ‘If he’s perfect, what’s wrong? Doesn’t he think you’re perfect too?’
Barty smiled. ‘Oh yes. He thinks I’m a lot more perfect than I am. He – well, he’s asked me to become engaged to him.’
An interesting choice of words, LM thought: not to marry him, but to become engaged.
‘And? What did you say?’
‘I said I was thinking about it,’ said Barty carefully.
‘But, Barty, why? If he’s so perfect?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. I want to be sure.’
‘Well if you want to be sure then you’re not,’ said LM.
Barty looked at her. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes, I really do.’
‘But – he makes me happy. It’s so strange. I don’t understand myself.’
There was a silence; then LM said, ‘It’s this other fellow, isn’t it? The one in America?’
‘I – suppose so. I can’t—’
‘Forget him?’
‘Oh, I’ll never forget him,’ said Barty, ‘that would be impossible. Of course. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten Jay’s father.’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
‘No, it’s more than that. I can’t – let go of him.’
‘But he was a rotter, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh yes,’ Barty spoke calmly, ‘an absolute rotter, as you put it. And a little mad as well. Well, quite mad. And he certainly didn’t make me happy. But – oh, LM—’
‘Only you can decide,’ said LM, ‘and you must be sure. But I can only tell you there is much to be said for security, Barty. For the kind of peaceful happiness that you say your John gives you. I have found that with Gordon. Absolute peace and happiness.’
‘And – with Jay’s father?’
‘Oh, a lot of that was sex,’ said LM. ‘There now, that’s shocked you.’
‘No it hasn’t,’ said Barty laughing. ‘I was just – surprised.’
‘Of course you were. Young people always think they’ve invented sex. Anyway, Jago was very exciting. He was a rough kind of fellow, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Barty. She was hugely intrigued; LM had never talked to her about Jay’s father before, she couldn’t remember her mentioning his name.
‘Yes, he was a builder. Oh, I absolutely adored him. And he was very intelligent. We had a very good life together. Although we never actually lived together. I don’t know that that would have worked. Anyway, as I say, I absolutely adored him, but as a marriage I don’t know that it would ever have worked. We’d have had terrible differences over bringing up Jay, for a start. Whereas with Gordon – well, I have been blessed. Very blessed indeed. It has been a truly shared life. I hate the thought of him being alone.’
‘We’ll all look after him,’ said Barty, leaning over and giving her a kiss.
‘I promise.’
It was the last lucid conversation they had; a month later, when she was able to visit again, LM was incapable of anything but the briefest exchange.
Barty looked at her, lying with her eyes closed, holding Gordon’s hand, looked at the love and absolute trust with which she smiled at him – and went back that night and wrote to John, telling him she would very much like to become engaged to him.
‘I’m sorry I have been a while telling you,’ she wrote, ‘but I wanted to be quite, quite sure. And of course I am. And I love you very much.’
She posted it next day, praying it would reach him quickly and that it would not be too late. That was what haunted them all these days: that letters would be too late.
Boy had written to Venetia; a cool, extremely brief note, congratulating her on her new baby, saying he looked forward to meeting him when he came home. That was all. She sat and read it, staring at it in disbelief; that he could be so disinterested, so harsh about his own child. Whatever else, he had always been a loving father. Clearly his new woman, whoever she was, had absolutely taken him over.
Adele tried to comfort her, to remind her what Boy must be enduring in the desert, that the news of Fergal’s bir
th must have been a shock – ‘Who told him, anyway?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. He just said he’d heard. I suppose it was inevitable, all our friends knew.’
‘Well there you are. What news to get, out of the blue.’
‘I wish you were in London more,’ said Venetia miserably. ‘You do make me feel more – sane.’
‘Well I’m coming up for a few days next week. I’ve been given another job by Style.’
‘Dell, that’s so thrilling.’
‘Isn’t it? I’m adoring it so. I feel a bit of a fraud, but I’ve got lots of books out of the library about photographic techniques—’
‘I thought that was exactly what you were good at.’
‘Not the technical stuff. The shutter speeds and so on. But it’s quite easy once you get the hang of it. Lighting’s more difficult, that’s why I’m coming up for a bit longer, so I can play around in Cedric’s studio.’
‘Isn’t he jealous?’
‘Only a bit. He’s been very sweet, actually. He’s found some new boyfriend, so poor old Bertie Cullingford is being given the heave-ho and he’s far more bothered about that. Anyway, I’m sure this is all just a nine-day wonder. But it’s so marvellous to be busy and using one’s brain again. Or whatever it is I’m using. It’s distracting me wonderfully.’
‘Good. Well you deserve it. How’s LM?’
‘Not good. In fact – well, they say only a very short time now. But she’s happy. Extraordinarily so, actually. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘Not quite the word I’d use. Let me know, won’t you, when it’s—’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
Jay had just left for France; he had never told his mother what he did, had never told anyone in the family. He had been trained for glider operations, sent repeatedly on raids into occupied France, with a mission to destroy crucial roads, bridges, communication centres. That done, he and his fellow soldiers, often helped by members of the French Resistance, would make for the coast, where they would be met and transported at high speed back to England. It was exciting and it was extremely dangerous; he had more than once almost run out of his famous luck.
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