by Rachel Hore
‘Thank you, Beatrice. Always so helpful.’
She glared at her daughter. Angie glared back.
‘My ladies have been here packing Christmas boxes,’ Oenone explained, ‘for little Jewish children.’
‘Who don’t actually celebrate Christmas,’ Angie said. ‘Daddy laughed like a drain when he heard that one, Bea.’
‘Your father, as usual, is infuriating. Jews still have to eat at Christmas. And wash, one would hope. Plus, many of them are homeless. And if you’d helped, Angie, instead of swanning about, the job would have been done more quickly. Instead, I’m still tying up boxes and hardly had time to tell you about Beatrice.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘Angelina. Your rudeness – and in front of our guest.’
‘Beatrice isn’t a guest, Mummy, she’s part of the fur— family.’ She smiled at Beatrice, who forced her mouth to turn up at the edges. She couldn’t remember Angelina ever being as bad as this. Grown up. Glittering. Beautiful. Hard. Spoilt.
‘Mummy, we mustn’t embarrass poor Bea. Shall I ring for tea?’ Without waiting for a response she went over to the fireplace and with an arrogant swoop of her hand, pressed an electric bell.
‘Bea, dear, would you mind putting your finger here while I tie?’ Mrs Wincanton asked. ‘We’ll take tea in the drawing room,’ she told the maid when she appeared.
‘Yes, mam. And Mr Wincanton telephoned to tell you he’s dining out, mam.’
‘Oh, did he? There’ll be the four of us for dinner, then. I believe Peter’s train is due in at five. That’ll be all.’
‘Mummy, I was going to the James’s. You didn’t tell me about Beatrice coming. Remember?’
‘Well, you’ll have to un-go to the James’s. Tell them there’s a war on and you’re wanted here.’
Angie gave an exasperated little screech, but she turned on her elegant heel and marched out of the room. There came the impatient tones of her trying to get through to the James household on the telephone.
‘Last one,’ Mrs Wincanton said, and Beatrice obediently placed her finger on the knot. ‘Then Bless can move them ready for the van tomorrow. The morning room would be best, I think.’ She piled the last box with the others, glanced towards the door and said in a low voice, ‘I should like to have the opportunity of a private word, Beatrice. Perhaps you’d come to my room before dinner?’
‘You’ve seen how she’s become,’ Oenone Wincanton said, balancing a cigarette in a diamond-studded holder on an ashtray on her dressing-table. ‘Of course you’re only young once and I was hardly an angel myself, but I’m worried about her. She does rather play the field, and one’s reputation . . . It doesn’t look well with the dowagers. So protective of their darling heirs.’ She gazed at herself in the mirror, and taking up a silver-backed brush, touched it to her hair in two or three places. ‘I imagine she’ll marry young and then she’ll be someone else’s problem.’
Angie’s mother still looked beautiful, but faded – more unhappy, thought Beatrice, who was sitting on a bedroom chair behind, sipping a tiny glass of sherry and darting little glances about. Interestingly, although the Wincantons were living all together, there was no sign of any of Michael Wincanton’s possessions in the bedroom.
Oenone’s languid eyes – so like Angelina’s – met hers in the mirror.
‘That’s a very pretty dress, Bea, did I say?’ She tapped the long ash from her cigarette and took a lengthy drag of it. The smoke coiled out from between her dazzling red lips as though she were a dragonness. ‘You’re becoming a very graceful young woman.’
Beatrice felt the blood flow to her face. ‘Thank you,’ she stammered.
‘I thought you might talk some sense into her – you know. You’re a calming influence. She listens to you.’
‘I don’t think she does, Mrs Wincanton.’
Oenone turned round on the stool to face her. ‘Still, I’d like you to try,’ she said simply, and there was no mistaking the order. Then, ‘Shall we go down?’
So that was why she’d been invited, Beatrice thought bitterly, as she followed Oenone down to the drawing room. Not for herself, but because she was good for Angie. Perhaps that wasn’t fair on Mrs Wincanton; it was just that she was so hurt by Angie’s coldness.
At least she might hear from Rafe. And at the thought of him a great longing swept over her. And now they were entering the drawing room and here was lovely Angie, glowing like a goddess in amber velvet, coming to coo over Beatrice’s new dress in such a friendly way that Beatrice instantly forgave her earlier rudeness. Then a thin dark figure emerged from the shadows by the book-lined walls. Peter.
‘Hello, Beatrice,’ he said, putting out his hand. He was taller than she remembered, though he’d never be tall, but his gaze as ever met hers then skittered away. The old nervous habit.
‘How are you, Peter?’ she asked, responding with the usual feelings of pity and wariness.
‘Not so bad,’ he replied. ‘I say, I wasn’t expecting to see you. Quite a surprise.’
She couldn’t tell whether he thought it was a nice one or not but decided to be optimistic.
‘Your mother was kind enough to invite me,’ she explained. ‘It’s my first proper visit to London, you know.’
‘Is it, by Jove,’ he said, perking up. ‘Well, perhaps I can take you about a bit tomorrow. A lot of the museums have opened again – you might have heard. Though some of the best pictures have been sent away.’
‘Thank you,’ she said politely, unsure whether to accept or not. There would still be the second full day free if the opportunity arose to see Rafe. If he was in Town, which she rather supposed he couldn’t be. She glanced at Angie and her mother. ‘Did you have particular plans for me, or should I go with Peter?’
Angie shrugged. ‘Doesn’t worry me if you do. I’ve a dress fitting in the morning and Mummy, I’ve simply got to meet Felicity Wheeler for lunch or she’ll blank me. I’ve put her off three times already.’
‘Well, if Beatrice doesn’t mind,’ Oenone said, a little doubtful. ‘I’m afraid Peter’s a bit of a bore when it comes to pictures and things, Beatrice.’
‘All those Italian Old Masters he likes,’ Angie said. ‘Either pious rolling eyes or scenes of torture.’
‘They’re not all like that,’ Peter said. ‘There are some more modern pieces. Will it bore you?’ he asked Beatrice, with heavy irony.
‘I’m sure it won’t,’ she replied hastily, ‘though Aunt Julia said I should be certain to see Madame Tussaud’s.’
‘Oh lordy, really? Well, if you must. In the afternoon perhaps, when you’re fed up with high art.’
‘The Chamber of Horrors. More scenes of torture,’ Angie groaned.
‘Just because you only like pictures of pretty landscapes and animals.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ This bickering continued until the maid came in to announce dinner.
The atmosphere at dinner was as fragile as the crystal glasses. The Wincantons, it seemed, lived more formally in London than in Cornwall, though the food wasn’t up to much. A clear soup like fatty water was followed by overdone beef – Mrs Wincanton complained at the salty gravy – and whoever made the apple pie had a heavy hand with pastry. The beloved Mrs Pargeter, Beatrice learned, was left behind in Cornwall and the Wincantons were between cooks in London, the old one having, in a fit of patriotism, gone off to make aeroplanes. Ed was flying them in Sussex. It was the one moment of the meal when they were all united in warmth, talking about Ed, his fearlessness, his recent promotion, and how they worried about his safety.
They had just risen from the table when Mr Wincanton arrived home, apparently having dined at his club. His appearance in the drawing room – broad, manly, in a cloud of tobacco fumes, exuding his glamorous aura of power and mystery – affected each of the party differently.
Mrs Wincanton, pouring coffee, didn’t bother to look up.
‘Good evening, everybody,’ he said, throwing his newspaper o
n the chair nearest the fire, which Beatrice realized now had deliberately been left vacant. ‘Ah, the traveller’s returned, I see. Hello, Peter. A pleasant journey, I hope?’
‘Hello, sir,’ Peter muttered, standing to shake hands with his father. ‘Yes, not bad.’
‘Daddy!’ Angie squeaked like a little girl.
‘Hello, Princess,’ he said, his glance hardly resting on his daughter. ‘Ah, Beatrice, or should I say Miss Marlow?’ He took her hand in both of his and Beatrice felt herself go red under his searching gaze. ‘And how are your parents? Well, I hope? Your father’s written to me a number of times about local defences. I’m glad someone’s on the case, I must say.’
He finally relinquished her hand and moved over to the drinks cabinet. ‘Peter, some brandy?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
‘How was your day?’ Mrs Wincanton murmured, but she seemed more interested in turning the pages of a first-aid manual than in her husband. ‘Is the country still running?’
‘Interminable meetings and administrative bloody-mindedness,’ he replied, splashing amber liquid into a tumbler, swilling it round and taking a large mouthful, as though it were medicine. ‘If certain people would stop defending their own patch and start defending the country instead, we might find some way of stopping Hitler.’
‘How very frustrating,’ Mrs Wincanton said vaguely, and frowned at something in her book. ‘Is that really how you manage an amputation? It all looks a bit tidy to me,’ she said to herself.
‘Which department are you concerned with?’ Beatrice asked Michael Wincanton, her voice betraying her nervousness, and she regretted asking, because he looked at her so shrewdly, she felt he could see right through her.
‘General War Office duties at the moment, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘And never mind what I said just now, we’re making headway. Now tell me about your school. Are you happy there?’
‘On the whole,’ Beatrice said, hating to be turned into a schoolgirl again. ‘But . . . I suppose I’d like life to begin.’
‘It’ll begin soon enough,’ he said, narrowing his eyes in a way that she found disturbing, and he swallowed the rest of his drink. ‘Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’ve some paperwork to do. No peace for the wicked. Oenone, there might be a telephone call for me later. Please make sure it’s put through to the study right away.’
‘Of course, dear,’ was the weary reply.
Angie said, ‘Oh, Daddy, there’s a letter from Hetty on the mantelpiece there. She’s desperate to come home.’
‘Well, she can’t,’ Mr Wincanton said. Picking up the envelope, he extracted the contents, read it quickly and smiled at something in it. ‘No,’ he said, putting it back. ‘Germany could strike at any time. She’s safer in Devon with her cousins. Don’t worry, Angie, Nanny will look after her.’
‘I wondered where Hetty was,’ Beatrice said when Mr Wincanton had left the room. ‘Is she well?’
‘We haven’t heard otherwise,’ Oenone said. ‘Though I gather there’s some measles about.’
Beatrice had been given her own small room at the back of the second floor of the house. The fire wasn’t lit, and she was slipping, shivering, into bed when there came a knock on the door. ‘Are you awake?’ Angie said, peering round. She floated in, swathed in broderie anglaise, and perched on the bed, knees drawn up, like a runaway angel. ‘Goodness, it’s chilly in here.’ She frowned and Beatrice watched her nervously.
‘It’s no use pretending,’ she told Beatrice severely. ‘I know you and Mummy have something cooked up. Out with it.’
Beatrice felt a stab of anger. ‘I have nothing cooked up with anyone,’ she said. ‘Your mother invited me and I thought it was a social visit and that you must know about it. That’s all.’
‘She’s got you as a spy, I know she has. She hardly lets me do a thing these days.’
‘Angie, I am not a spy, all right? I’ve no idea what’s going on between you, but I’m not getting involved.’
‘But she’s asked you to, hasn’t she?’
Beatrice shrugged. ‘What if she has?’
‘You’re in her clutches, I can tell.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You make me wish I hadn’t come.’
Angie stared at her for a moment, then her expression softened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and gave one of her most dazzling smiles. ‘It’s just everything’s so deathly at the moment.’ She stood up and started walking about the room, peering into Beatrice’s washbag, admiring herself in a long mirror, and finally swooping on a tiny framed photograph of Rafe that she found in the suitcase Beatrice regretted having left open. She studied the picture thoughtfully for a moment, seemed about to say something, then didn’t, and put the photo down.
‘So,’ Angie said, wrapping the candlewick bedspread around her shoulders and sitting on the bed again, ‘you’re stuck with Peterkin all day tomorrow.’
‘It’s very kind of him,’ Beatrice replied, wondering what was going on behind Angie’s mild expression. Angie’s fingers traced around the printed roses on the eiderdown.
‘Isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Well, perhaps you’d come out for dinner later at Quag’s. Dickie’s bringing some friends. Have I told you about Dickie Bestbridge? He’s an absolute scream. Listen, I’ll tell Mummy you’ve lectured me and that I’ve promised, hope to die, to be better, then maybe she’ll get off our backs.’
‘All right.’ Beatrice smiled, with relief. The cloud had passed. Angie shrugged off the bedspread, came over and kissed her cheek, then padded out of the room, not quite closing the door behind her. Beatrice climbed out of bed and pushed it shut. There was something wrong with the latch, so to keep it closed she turned the key.
The next morning there was still no call from Rafe. Beatrice and Peter trailed about the National Gallery, Peter deploring the sad gaps on the walls.
‘Where’ve they put everything?’ Beatrice asked.
‘I don’t know. My father thinks somewhere in Wales. I’ve got this vision of a cave in the mountains, where King Arthur’s sleeping, hundreds of paintings stacked up all around him.’
She laughed, then said more soberly, ‘He’s supposed to wake in England’s time of need, isn’t he?’
‘Perhaps that’ll come before too long. It’s unnerving, this war-that-isn’t-a-war. I wonder how Ed’s getting on? He hasn’t written lately.’ He looked around the room. ‘I say, if you’ve seen enough pictures, let’s get a bite of lunch, then catch a bus back to Kensington. The Victoria and Albert’s rather splendid.’
Peter was much nicer away from his family, Beatrice thought. He’d lost that hang-dog look, and when he was talking about things that interested him – pictures and antiques – he became quite animated.
They ate sandwiches in a Lyons Corner House, where Beatrice admired the nippies rushing to and fro and tried to imagine what it would be like to work in a job like that. She’d like to do something useful once she’d finished with school, but the question was what. Anything but go back to St Florian and live a suffocating life of seclusion with her parents, she knew that much.
‘I suppose I’ll have to try and get a commission,’ Peter said miserably, when they discussed the future, ‘unless Father can find me a desk job. I couldn’t stand to stay at home. I’d go mad. Beatrice, why did you come?’
‘I wanted to see the museums,’ she replied, knowing exactly what he meant but not sure of the reason behind his question.
‘No, why did you come to stay? You know my mother’s up to something.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Beatrice said, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief. ‘But it’s all right, I can manage her.’
‘Thank the lord for that,’ he said. ‘We’re no good for you, any of us.’
‘You said that before. Don’t be silly,’ she said.
‘No, I mean it. You’re too nice for us Wincantons, Bea.’
‘Well, thanks very much.’
They hardly spoke on the journey up to the Exhibition Road,
both a bit out of sorts after this conversation. Looking down from the bus Beatrice considered how calm and ordinary everything seemed. She’d expected people to be fearful, to see more evidence that invasion was expected any day. Yet there was little, apart from the ubiquitous piles of sandbags, the blackout paper and the odd boarded-up window, to suggest that this wasn’t like any other Christmas. Occasionally she saw men in uniform, but not as many as might be expected. Every now and then she’d glimpse the back of one who looked like Rafe and would will him to turn round so she could see his face. Every time one did, she was disappointed. Why hadn’t Rafe replied to her letter? Had he been sent away somewhere?
When they reached Knightsbridge it started to sleet. Feeling unaccountably melancholy, she watched the blobs of melting snow shuffle down the window.
The V&A cheered her. It was delightful, she decided, as they moved through the rooms, Peter in a world of his own as he studied the objects and read the labels, she drifting after him in a pleasant haze. When they emerged, a little before three, the sleet was worse, and as they descended the steps, she slipped in slush and fell, scraping her leg on the sharp edge of the stone.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, helping her up.
‘I think so,’ she replied, examining her calf. ‘Blast!’ Her stocking had torn, and the graze underneath was already beginning to smart and well with blood.
‘Oh,’ he said, too young and inexperienced to handle the matter. ‘I say, will you really want to do Madame Tussaud’s with that? We can always go home, you know. It’s not far from here.’
She looked again to judge whether the tear was very obvious and decided it was.
‘We could take a cab,’ Peter said anxiously. ‘Mother’s given me enough.’
‘Why don’t I stop off quickly and change,’ Beatrice said. She could find out if Rafe had called, and if he hadn’t, well, it would be miserable to sit indoors listening for the phone. ‘I’d like to see the waxworks.’