by Alison Love
“I’m going to buy you a Guinness, you need fattening up. No, actually, it suits you. It makes you look très distinguée. All tits and cheekbones. You’ve really grown up, darling, haven’t you?”
Jimmy’s attention brought back memories of her younger, innocent self, startled to find herself the object of desire. Between this nostalgia and two glasses of Guinness it seemed natural—pleasurable, even—to go back to his flat in Romilly Street. Just once, she thought woozily, for old times’ sake. It can’t do any harm.
They were already naked when Jimmy, reaching to his bedside table, said: “Damn it, I was sure I’d got a condom. I don’t suppose you…”
Olivia shook her head. “I haven’t got anything with me. It’s probably all right, though. I’m due to get the curse next week.”
Jimmy looked at her admiringly. “My, my. You have changed, my darling. I must say, I rather adore you like this. You used to be a bit of a dozy Dora.” He slid back into the bed. “Well, I’ll be careful anyway, I promise.”
It did not take long for Olivia to realize what had happened. She tried to keep it from the other girls, but of course word got out; she could tell from the way they looked at her. How are the mighty fallen, their glances said. Jimmy would probably have given her the money to help her out, handing it over with that hard-done-by look of his, but Olivia was too proud to ask. Instead she sold the last bits of jewelry she had inherited from her mother: her wedding ring, a silver locket, a cameo brooch with a Medusa’s head upon it.
The abortionist was a former doctor, pallid with a smattering of gingery hair. The fact that he had been struck off for misconduct did not hamper his sense of superiority. He peered at Olivia through round metal spectacles, as if it demeaned him to be breaking the law on her account.
“Will I—will it stop me from ever having children?” asked Olivia, as she lay on the narrow couch, knees raised, staring at the cream distempered ceiling. The smell of antiseptic, which should have been reassuring, filled her with horror. She wanted to ask, Will it hurt? but she was afraid of what the answer might be.
The doctor was sterilizing his hooks and knives in a pan of boiling water. “It’s possible,” he said. “To be frank with you, young lady, you should have thought of that before.”
—
Dickie’s house was a sprawling, flint-clad cottage just below Firle Beacon. As he had said, it was very pretty, with a garden full of cornflowers and pink rambling roses, leading to a small orchard. They sat upon the sunlit terrace drinking Dickie’s favorite, Negronis.
“A barman in Florence taught me how to mix them. He claimed that he used to make them for the Count de Negroni himself, although I suspect it was a fib.” Dickie handed Olivia her glass with its clinking ice and its twist of orange. “Katya liked Negronis too, you know.”
“I’m not surprised, if you made them like this.” Olivia felt strangely joyful. Perhaps it is because I am in the country, she thought, perhaps this is where I belong, not in London at all. She did not want to believe, even for a moment, that she was happy because she was away from Bernard.
Dickie was watching the gardener, a ruddy-faced boy in a collarless shirt, cross the lawn from the orchard. When the boy came within earshot he called: “Plums, Fred?”
“Greengages.” Fred held out his trug with a sweet lazy smile. “Ripe as you like.”
Dickie took one of the green and gold plums and bit into it. “Pure nectar,” he said, catching the juice from his chin with his little finger. “Olivia? No? Go on, then, Fred. Take them through to Mrs. Gander in the kitchen.”
“It’s so beautiful here.” Olivia stretched out her long legs. Above her loomed the snub-nosed mass of Firle Beacon, like a benign watchful spirit. It seemed to her that the very beat of her heart was slower, calmer. “I’m astonished you can ever bring yourself to leave and go back to Chelsea.”
“Oh, it’s a rural idyll. Hills, sunlight, wood smoke, plum trees, boys. What could be more like paradise? You and Bernard should find a place in the country. Except, of course, Bernard would never go there. He would be full of the best intentions but there would always be something new to keep him in London: one of his committees, one of his protégés.” Dickie fitted a cigarette into his jade holder. “Is he neglecting you, my angel?”
“No. What Bernard does is important, I admire him for it. It is only—”
“You wish that he would spend some time with you, instead of rushing madly from one enthusiasm to the next. I’m afraid that is Bernard, my sweet. I love my nephew very much, he is a clever man, a generous man, but you could not commend him for his staying power. None of his passions last long.”
“Including his passion for me?” Olivia said. Dickie paused, breathing a blue scented plume of smoke into the air. Then he reached for Olivia’s hand and kissed it. She knew that he was searching for a diplomatic way of saying, Yes, including you.
“That will be different,” he managed at last. “In my experience the best marriages are never built on passion.”
“It is all right, Dickie,” said Olivia. “You don’t have to be tactful. I’ve learned what Bernard is like. He didn’t fall in love with me: he fell in love with the idea of me.” Even as she spoke Olivia recognized, for the first time, that this was true. It gave her a frisson of satisfaction, to have at last named the thing that had been troubling her.
“Of course he did. We only ever fall in love with ideas.” Dickie flicked a gray worm of ash from his cigarette. “Reality would send us screaming to the madhouse. But Bernard does it more than most. He’s a born romantic. The trouble is, he doesn’t realize it. As that great connoisseur of human nature William Shakespeare would say, he hath ever but slenderly known himself.”
They sat in silence, gazing at the dappled lawn, the plum trees, the curve of the South Downs. What would happen, Olivia thought, if I confided in Dickie? What would happen if I said, Once upon a time I had an abortion, and now I am afraid that I will never have children? She looked at Dickie’s face, wise and faintly waspish, and she opened her mouth to speak.
Before she could say anything Dickie stubbed out his cigarette and patted her briskly on the knee.
“Come on now, drink up, my angel. It’s time to get dressed for dinner. We’re having duck with damson sauce, and plum tart for pudding. Mrs. Gander makes the most wonderful pastry, you can taste the butter in it. My mouth’s watering already.”
As summer ended the tension in London grew. After months of rumbling thunder it seemed the storm was now, at last, about to break. Trenches were hacked out in the parks to provide makeshift bomb shelters, scarring the grass with their deep zigzag lines; there were calls for air raid wardens and auxiliary firemen to join the civil defense forces. Wherever you went you heard whispers. Nazi bombs would pulverize the city within hours, the government had a secret cache of sixty thousand coffins, there would be chaos in the streets as London panicked beneath the onslaught.
In September loudspeakers across the city called on residents to queue for their gas masks. Danila, who had just returned from mass in St. Patrick’s church, refused to go.
“It is nonsense. The authorities are trying to frighten us, to turn us against the fascist cause. There isn’t going to be a war, the duce will intervene personally to prevent it. That is what Valentino says.”
“And I suppose if there is a war the duce will intervene personally to prevent our son from being gassed?” Antonio said in exasperation, as he put on his coat to join the queue. He was feeling tired and anxious. The night before he had performed at a society party: a subdued affair despite the champagne and the glittering dresses, overshadowed by talk of Czechoslovakia. “Come, Danila. It is foolish to risk the child’s life.”
Danila’s mouth pursed into a sullen rosebud, but she went upstairs to fetch the baby. He was a stout child now, nearly a year old, dressed in white piqué leggings and a bonnet that Danila had made herself. He wriggled in his mother’s arms, fractious at being woken.
&nbs
p; “I will carry him, Danila, if you like,” said Filomena. “He is getting too heavy for you.” She and Enrico were waiting in the hall, ready to set off. As for Valentino, he was still in bed. He had come home in the small hours of the morning—out carousing, Enrico said indulgently—and nothing could waken him, not even the loudspeakers calling from Soho Square.
“No, thank you.” Danila struggled to hoist the child to her shoulder. She did not like Filomena handling her baby. It was as though she feared he might soak up some rebellious influence through his aunt’s touch.
The queue for gas masks was, like most London queues, grumbling but obedient. As he shepherded his family toward the hall, Antonio heard the disgruntled word Eyeties once or twice, but to his face everyone was polite. A couple of people stepped aside to give Danila and her child more room, and one man, a leather-cheeked fellow in a tweed cap, offered Enrico a Fisherman’s Friend to ease his cough.
“It won’t be long, Papa,” said Antonio. He could smell eucalyptus from the lozenge that Enrico had, after some hesitation, accepted. Behind them a man was complaining that it was a quarrel between foreigners, nothing to do with Britain, we ought to keep our noses out. Someone else shushed him swiftly.
At last the queue snaked inside the hall, where three air raid wardens were doling out masks in square cardboard boxes. A small girl with pigtails was chortling gleefully over hers, with its red rubber face and its long blue snout.
“Well, one happy customer,” said the warden, a plump woman in overalls and scarlet lipstick. Reaching forward she scooped the baby from Danila’s arms. “Now, my little princess, let’s see what we can find for you.”
“He’s a boy,” said Antonio. He could feel Danila bridling. She had understood what the warden had said, although her English was not good enough to answer back. Doubtfully the plump woman poked at the baby’s lacy bonnet. Antonio laid his hand upon Danila’s arm, to stop her from snatching her child away.
“You have special masks for babies, don’t you?” he said.
The air raid warden pulled out a khaki and black contraption, with a concertina-shaped tube on one side. “Pop the little cherub in this. You have to strap him in, and then operate the air pump here—do you see?—so he doesn’t breathe in the gas.” She spoke very fast, demonstrating flaps and buckles as she spoke. Danila threw Antonio a furious uncomprehending look.
“I’ll show you,” said the air raid warden, and she slid the rubber hood over the baby’s head. At once he began to shriek, in loud peals of fear and rage. The warden smiled.
“He’ll get used to it, they all do,” she was saying when Danila seized the baby. Dragging him free of the khaki rubber, she threw the mask to the floor.
“It’s horrible!” she screamed, in Italian. “How can you do this to your own wife, your own child? I’d rather die, Antonio. I’d rather choke to death.”
The baby’s face was wet and crimson. Clasping him to her shoulder Danila pushed her way through the queues and ran into the street. Several heads turned to watch her. There was the complacent sound of tongues clicking in disapproval.
“That’s Eyeties for you,” the air raid warden said serenely. “Screaming and wailing at the first sign of trouble. Let’s hope that if there is a war, they’ll be on the first boat home.”
—
Danila sulked for the rest of the afternoon, sitting on the bed with the baby in her arms. Antonio did his best to persuade her to return for her gas mask but she was immovable.
“You cannot ask me, Antonio, it is not fair to ask me. If we were in Italy we would not need these things, these masks. We would be safe, there would not be all this stupid talk of gas and bombs. And I would have my mother to help me with the baby, instead of being alone like this…” She began to cry, her tears dripping upon the baby’s white bonnet.
“Danila, you’re not alone. You have me, you have Filomena. We are your family now.” Antonio reached out to comfort her, but she threw him off, clutching at the child with a noisy sob. He gave a sigh, and went downstairs. Better to leave her in peace, he thought, until she had calmed down.
Valentino was in the yard, sprawled on the black metal fire escape, lazily smoking a cigarette.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk to my wife about politics, Valentino,” said Antonio. “It makes her obstinate.”
Valentino’s crumpled face was the picture of innocence. “But why shouldn’t I? She has a right to understand what is happening. You can’t keep her shut away like a doll.”
“I don’t want her to be shut away. I want her to know the truth, that’s all, not some moonshine you’ve heard in the fascio. And the truth is that this country could be at war before the month is out.”
“Nonsense. There isn’t going to be a war. In a week or two Hitler will turn to the duce for help. He will realize that on his own he cannot persuade Britain and France to back down, and he will ask our great leader to step in and broker an agreement.”
“I don’t see why. Hitler has made it clear that he intends to march into Czechoslovakia, and no threat of war can stop him.”
Valentino blew a smoke ring across the yard, where it dissolved in the autumn sunshine. “He’s bluffing. He’s not prepared to fight, he wants the Sudetenland without coming to blows. And Mussolini is the only man who can arrange it. Nobody else has any influence over Hitler. The duce holds the balance of power in Europe. Everyone trusts him.”
“I am not sure that trust is the word,” said Antonio. He did not really believe Valentino, and yet he found his brother’s confidence perversely reassuring.
“It will be good for Italy,” Valentino went on. “Hitler will be grateful, Britain and France will have more respect for the duce, we will be well placed to regain our empire.” He ground out his spent cigarette beneath his heel. “And now that I have explained the political situation to you, Antonio, my brother, I must go. I have an assignation with a beautiful woman, and it would be churlish to turn up late.”
“I thought Claudia’s husband was at home on Sundays.”
“Oh, it’s not Claudia. I’m tired of Claudia, she’s too clingy, she does nothing but weep and whine. And she’s lost her looks anyway now that she’s pregnant.” Valentino sighed. “The baby’s due in the spring. Claudia’s terrified that something will go wrong, that God will punish her for being an unfaithful wife. It’s very boring. Women, ha?”
“It is her husband’s child, I presume?” said Antonio in a dry voice.
“Who can tell? I’m not sure Claudia knows herself. I tried to be careful, but there’s a limit to what a man can do. It won’t matter, though.” Valentino grinned and ran his index finger along his beaky profile. “Her husband Pasquale’s got a big nose too.”
—
In Bedford Square Olivia watched Konrad Fischer cradle a cup of nearly cold tea. He had started to linger after his singing lessons as though he could not bear to return to his lodgings in Riding House Street. There had still been no word from his sister in Vienna.
“We have to reach an agreement with Germany,” Bernard said. He had just returned from a Labour Party meeting, to discuss what would happen in case of war. “A clear agreement to show Hitler once and for all that we are serious, we will not allow him to expand his territory willy-nilly. Perhaps that will call a halt to his ambitions.”
“But it will not,” said Herr Fischer, in a mournful, singsong voice. “Once he has the Sudetenland he will swallow up the rest of Czechoslovakia, and then he will turn his greedy eyes upon Poland. He will be like a German Napoléon, stretching his grip across Europe. In the meantime, wherever he goes he will persecute the Jewish people. Your excellent welfare societies, Mr. Rodway, will be overwhelmed by refugees, homeless people who have lost everything. And they will be the lucky ones.”
Olivia leaned attentively forward. She wished that Herr Fischer would finish his cold tea and go. She and Bernard were meeting Dickie for the first night of a new play, and it was already past six o’clock; if he did not leave
soon there would be no time to bathe and dress. The thought made her feel guilty. It was unkind to shoo away a lonely, troubled man so that they would not be late for cocktails; her husband would be ashamed of her if he knew what she was thinking.
“What is the alternative, though?” Bernard was saying. “I too believe that Hitler is a monster, that the fascist cause is evil, but anything, surely, is better than war.”
“Is it? It will come to war sooner or later, Mr. Rodway. Better sooner, in my opinion. More lives will be saved.”
“At least if we reach an agreement with Hitler now we will be buying time,” said Olivia, who had heard Dickie say this. “We can prepare ourselves for war: rearm, improve our civil defense.”
Herr Fischer gave a shrug. “So can the Germans. It makes no difference, gnädige Frau.” At last he drank his tea, and carefully setting his cup upon the saucer he rose to his feet. “But I must go. I am sure that you have many things to occupy you, I do not wish to overstay my welcome.”
Bernard threw a sharp look at Olivia, as though she had somehow precipitated Herr Fischer’s departure. She flushed. “Please stay,” she said. “Let us offer you a glass of sherry…”
She was too late, though. Herr Fischer had already reached the door, his music case in his hand. For an instant he paused and then, with a prim desolate bow, he left the room.
—
In the theater the audience was restless. Nobody could settle to the play, which was a gentle family comedy: Dear Octopus by Dodie Smith, with Marie Tempest and John Gielgud in it.
“Oh, dear,” said Dickie at the interval, fanning his round pink face with his program, “it’s going to be a disaster, they’re hardly laughing at all. The woman in the seat next to me is so fidgety, you’d think she had ants in her pants.”