by Jane Bailey
‘God knows. Some poor bugger with lots of money and no sense, I should think.’ He could see I was shot to pieces, and tried to stop smiling. ‘She’s Celia’s friend, not mine. That’s why she was down here that Boxing Day – to take Celia back to Cirencester with her.’
I was glad I was driving: it was somewhere to look.
And then the unthinkable happened.
The truck began to slow down. I was suddenly not in control. I tried the accelerator but it didn’t work. I pretended nothing was wrong, but soon it was so obvious that James mentioned it.
‘It’s okay – it’s nothing,’ I said, as the truck slowly ground to a halt. ‘Nothing I can’t fix.’
I got out and looked under the bonnet for a while. If there was one thing I was certain of it was my ability to fix trucks. I would get it going in no time, and my competence in a man’s field would be a small victory, at least.
But there was nothing wrong with the engine, and I soon realized we were simply out of petrol. I kept my cool. I closed the bonnet efficiently and went to fetch the petrol can. He very sensibly said nothing, but watched me with what could well have been mistaken for genuine admiration.
I let out a moan.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, turning round in his seat.
‘No. Oh, no!’
The petrol can was there all right. Ken had given it back, but it was empty. I cursed him under my breath and kicked the wheel. My dainty Oxford shoe rebounded off it and I had difficulty concealing the agony.
‘Is that all it needs?’ he smiled. ‘A good kicking?’
I sighed; I closed my eyes; I sighed again. Then I explained that we would have to walk the rest of the way.
James Buckleigh was quite amenable to walking. He said he could do with the exercise, and if he was amused by my inadequacies with the truck I didn’t see it, for I avoided looking at him as best I could.
After we’d been walking a few hundred yards along the road he stopped, and said if it was the same hospital he’d been at, then he knew a much quicker way across country. I also knew a quicker way, but hadn’t dared to suggest it because it cut through a mile or so of beech trees, and I was afraid he’d think I was making some sort of pass at him. So I let him lead the way, and followed him – over a couple of fields – into the woods.
35
‘How’s Celia?’
‘Celia! …’ A blackbird somewhere above us started up his alarm call, ‘Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak!’ and we both looked up together. ‘Celia has been spoilt. I mean, really ruined.’
‘What’s happened?’
He sighed deeply, and held back some brambles for me. ‘Poor Celia. She hasn’t had much of a life, really.’
This was so typical of people like James Buckleigh. They had no idea – absolutely no idea – of how the other half lived. I thought of Celia’s wardrobe full of clothes, the house with a gardener, a housekeeper, greenhouses, a car, and rooms that Celia was unfamiliar with because she never visited them, outhouses she didn’t know the contents of. I thought of her education all dressed in green with girls who washed in bathrooms and thought towns were for buying buns and clutch bags.
‘Yes,’ I said hastily. ‘Life’s been cruel to her.’
‘No.’ He slowed his pace and kicked a large rotten stick out of the path. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Of course you’re right. It’s all been very easy for her – she’s had so much – so much given to her on a plate. But it’s what she’s had to do to get it … and what she hasn’t had …’
‘How’s that then?’
The wood was giving off a potent stink of wild garlic, and as we made our way through the leathery shoots, I thought of the layer upon layer of leaves underneath us, hiding years of decay and insects and shoots and secret seeds yet to show themselves.
‘When you have a mother who manipulates … When I think of it, nothing’s been given freely. Celia’s had to lie and spy and say the right things in the right places and shut up when she hasn’t been needed. Every single thing has been conditional. There’s probably not a brooch or a scarf that hasn’t been lied for, wrung out of a mother who dangles everything in front of her like bait.’
This was bitter stuff. I wanted to hear more but, embarrassed by my earlier sarcasm, I hoped he would continue unprompted. He was silent.
‘I see,’ I said.
‘Do you?’
The wood became suddenly very dense. A thick, polleny smell oozed out of everything, and the leafy undergrowth seemed like hidden pores, releasing the earth’s sweat in quick reeking bursts as we waded through it.
I was overcome with curiosity.
‘You mean … Mrs Buckleigh made Celia tell lies?’
‘I shouldn’t speak about her like this, I know. But she’s made Celia so miserable. You see, Celia doesn’t really have any friends – apart from Beatrice, I suppose, and she’s hardly your sensitive type.’ He pushed a branch away and held it until I’d gone past. ‘You were probably the closest thing she had to a friend … at one time.’
‘Me?’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘We hardly spent any time together. And you remember the way she got us to … she didn’t seem much of a friend then.’
‘I think she would’ve liked to have had you as her friend. But she couldn’t. How can you be friends with someone you’ve been sent to spy on?’
Now it was my turn to be silent. It hurt. Even though I’d suspected something when I found Gracie’s photograph in the wallet, even so, it felt like a new wound, and it hurt the more for being exposed so openly to James Buckleigh.
‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have—’
‘No!’ I said airily. ‘It’s fine.’ My voice was high-pitched and offhand.
‘It’s not fine at all. I assumed you knew about all that years ago – I’m so sorry, I—’
‘All what, exactly? What did she want with me?’
He rubbed his forehead anxiously. ‘She thought your mother – Miss Burrows – had had an affair with—’
‘—your father – Mr Buckleigh.’
‘That’s right.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘She would’ve liked to. They were in love, you know.’
He stopped and looked at me earnestly. ‘What’s that?’
I blushed. ‘They were in love.’
‘Hmm.’
‘It’s true. But before he met your mother.’
‘I know. He told me so himself.’
‘Did he? Then why …?’ I swear he had only got me to repeat it to see my cheeks colour.
‘But did you know that the woman he married was not quite so modest?’ He was walking behind me now, talking quite loudly to make sure I was listening. ‘Of course you do. That boyfriend of yours called us both bastards.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Isn’t he? Well, you see he was half right. She hasn’t been remotely loyal to him. She only married him for his money. Always partying. Still does. Always flirting and taking things too far. She’s been in St. Tropez since before the war. He’s quite quiet, you see. Doesn’t go in for parties.’
‘A bit like you, then.’
‘Yes.’
It was uncomfortably hot, and my hair roots were prickling with sweat. ‘So Mrs Buckleigh thought I was his love child.’
‘In a nutshell.’
‘But why would she care?’
‘All to do with inheritance, I should think.’
‘Yes but … Celia would have as much right as me.’
‘If her father wasn’t some gambling party-goer.’
‘Oh.’ We were deep in the heat of the woods. ‘Yours wasn’t, then?’
‘No. Most certainly not. That’s why Celia’s always been hell-bent on belittling me if she can. A sort of defensive thing. Always trying to make me look stupid.’
‘Like setting you up with village scum at an elegant party?’
&n
bsp; He looked embarrassed. ‘That sort of thing …’
We continued walking without speaking, and he led the way through a tricky bit of undergrowth. The silence, which I thought was awkward for him at first, soon became easy between us, and I realized he was as comfortable not speaking as I was. There was quite enough to listen to with the songbirds filling the air, their alarm calls as we approached, the soft sweep of our legs through the ferns, the cracking of twigs.
A bramble scratched my hand deeply and I drew in my breath. I was glad he was ahead of me, and I was watching the way he coped one-armed with the tall undergrowth when he turned suddenly to hold back a giant thorny stem away from my path. I passed ahead of him, but he grabbed my wrist. I had barely time to register the large thorn embedded at the end of the streak of blood on my hand, when he pulled it to his lips with his free hand and took the thorn from my skin between his teeth. He spat it out, wiped the blood with his cheek, and continued on his way ahead of me, leaving me as startled to realize that he hadn’t suddenly kissed my hand as I would’ve been if he had.
36
‘I hope it’s not going to be much longer,’ said the woman sitting next to me in the reception area. ‘The buses only go on the hour from ’ere, don’t they? And that’s ’alf a mile down the road.’
She had hair the colour of old stone and deep-set blue eyes spliced by worry lines. I had been watching her hands for ten minutes, twisting a small white handkerchief around her long fingers. The skin on each hand was like a screwed-up brown paper bag that someone had tried to flatten out and use again. She seemed a bag of nerves.
‘You come far?’ I asked, just to be polite.
‘Just outside Painswick.’
James, who had gone to call his father about a return lift, now held open the front door for a pretty pregnant woman who came in. James sat next to me. The new arrival sat opposite us and started crying gently, wiping a tear away with her sleeve and then opening her eyes very wide to try and stop any more.
‘You all right, love?’ said my woman, her worry lines caving into deep ravines.
‘Oh – s’nothing. Just so relieved really. Geoff – my husband – he’s only broke his leg in a few places – bailing out or something. I know I shouldn’t say it, but I’m that relieved. He’ll be out of action – for a while at least – and I’m so bloody glad, I am. Might even get to see his baby.’
‘Oh there! Every cloud ’as a silver lining, see?’ She turned to me. ‘You got a young man in ’ere, then?’
I could sense James looking at me and I felt myself colour. ‘Sort of. He’s a sort of friend, really.’
‘Go on!’ She nudged me with a wicked wink. ‘There’s not many young men could see you as a friend, my love. You grab him while he’s down, I should!’
We all laughed.
‘Unless this is your young man …’
I shook my head vigorously and laughed. I didn’t dare to look at James. There was a brief silence, then she continued, ‘Still, you can’t help but worry about ’em, can you? My son’s in ’ere somewhere. I been worried sick about ’im, I ’ave. Worried sick…. Still, that’s motherhood, for you. You ’ave ’em, you worry about ’em. Just can’t help it.’
‘You got many children?’ asked the pregnant woman.
‘Three sons.’ She said it with enormous pride, as if it were a spectacular achievement, which, I suppose, in its own way, it was. ‘Two’s in the forces – army and RAF – and the other’s a bit simple, like – ’e’s doin’ ’is bit on the land, look. Might be daft as a brush, but I wouldn’t swap him for nothing – not if you paid me, I wouldn’t.’
The pregnant woman gave a slightly strained smile, perhaps worrying whether her baby would be ‘a bit simple’. ‘What’s it like, having sons?’
‘Oooh!’ The older lady took in a deep breath, all ready for this one. ‘There’s nothing like it, love. Tiz lovely. Oh! I love ’em to bits, I do. I really do. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for any of them.’
‘You must be very proud of them,’ I said.
‘Oooh! I am! Mind, I tried to stop ’em both from joining up. Worried me sick, it did. Still does. But they wouldn’t listen to me, and that’s always the way with young men when there’s a sniff of action. Worries me something rotten!’
‘It must be very hard.’
‘Oooh! You wait! You tell that young man of yours to give you a good time before he goes giving you a litter o’ kids. You ’ave your bit o’ fun, my girl. Tiz all worry after that …’
Then, seeing the face of the expectant mother opposite, she repeated, for good measure: ‘Not that it’s not all worth it, mind. Love ’em to bits, I do. There’s nothing like it.’
A nurse came in and shook a little bell. It was so loud and she smelt so nursey, it made me uneasy. She showed the pregnant woman, ‘Mrs Audrey’, to the stairs, and then went over to the little door of the drugs wing and unlocked it. To my dismay, the woman opposite us followed us to the door, and I realized straight away who she was.
We followed the nurse to Philip’s room, and I wondered what I was going to do.
‘Three visitors for you,’ said the crisp cottoned nurse.
James immediately said he would wait and turned back.
Philip smiled at me, then saw his mother behind, and his face dropped. I shrugged helplessly, and held the door open for her.
‘Phil!’ she said, rushing over. ‘Oh, my dear boy!’ She tried to hug him, but he remained motionless.
‘I’ll go and wait,’ I said.
‘Don’t go!’ he called.
‘I won’t. I’ll be in the reception. I’ll … wait my turn.’
His mother turned round and looked at me, then at him. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a young lady! Well, I never …’
I didn’t wait to hear any more. I felt so guilty for letting him down. I slunk off to the waiting area until she had finished.
I didn’t have to wait long. She came out after ten minutes or so, blowing her nose in her wrung-out hankie. ‘Doesn’t want to see me! Tiz you he wants!’ She blinked at me, sniffing. ‘Not that I blame him, love. You’re a lovely girl, I can tell. I’m glad he’s got you, love … I know you’ll look after him.’ I felt my cheeks burning in front of James. ‘P’raps you can tell me what’s got into him. P’raps you can talk some sense into him.’ She put her hand on my arm. It seemed tender rather than accusatory. She wiped her soggy hankie under her nose. ‘I shall see you again, anyway, sweetheart. I’ll be off an’ catch my bus. You can go in.’
37
I didn’t stay long with him. He wasn’t angry with me, but he was in a dark place, tapping at his eiderdown repeatedly, over and over, nodding his head in rhythm. It was difficult to tell whether the room itself echoed his mood or infected it. The wallpaper was striped, and relentlessly cruel on the eye. The one long window faced north, and the heavy net curtains prevented any view upon the world outside.
‘Food’s good here,’ he said, at one point, not looking at me. ‘At least the food’s not bad.’
‘That’s something.’
A great sigh. ‘Yes!’
I began to question my being there at all. Maybe there was a bit of vanity in it, checking up on the results of my heroic rescue, little updates on my bravery. Or maybe I was flattered by his dependency on me. People’s neediness was a mystery to me, and I wallowed in it a little. He was what Reeny would call ‘a handsome chap’, and I certainly found him attractive. But it was more to do with the way his face fitted together: something about the way his nose and his eyes and his mouth sat in his head seemed just right. He was – if I were a painter – the way I would paint a Man.
I found I was stroking his free arm, but he didn’t seem to notice. I told him his friend Jim was safe and well and had come to see him. I gave his hand a squeeze and told him I’d visit again soon. I don’t think he was even aware, as James went in, that I had dosed the door and left.
Outside a tabby cat sprung across my path and int
o a flowerbed in front of the hospital’s main bay window. It disappeared for a moment, and I stood making kissing noises at it to lure it out. Then its ears and eyes popped out above some lemon balm. It gave me a leaf-green stare. ‘You’re in up to your neck,’ it said.
‘I know.’
I reached my barracks at midday, having been escorted back to my truck by Howard Buckleigh. Exhausted, I lay down on the bed and fell asleep. I was woken by the sound of Hurricanes overhead, and Betty shaking my arm.
‘Joy. It’s five to four. They’re back!’
I scrambled for my truck, and made it down to the dispersal hut in time to see the planes being checked over, and the pilots milling around.
When they were nearly all in Laurie Harper tapped me on the shoulder to say, ‘Drive on.’ I turned round.
‘Where’s Ken?’
There was no answer.
Then a usually chirpy Scot called Hamish said, ‘Somewhere in the English Channel.’
As soon as he said it he looked at his boots. I looked around their faces, but they were all looking down. No one was laughing. I turned back to the wheel. Laurie tapped me on the shoulder again, and said, ‘Sorry, Haps. Best get on.’
I didn’t cry. Perhaps it was some instinct for self-preservation, but I don’t think my body could have taken the weight of the grief. There was just too much adrenalin pumping round, and my head felt as heavy as a boulder as we bumped over the road. Tomorrow would be the Friday dance, and I had promised him. The fields were flooded in that evening glow that makes the grass and leaves translucent. The cows were huddled by their gate, heavy, expectant, longing for milking. As we sank into the village a child’s wail drifted through an open window (‘I hate cabbage!’) and further on two women laughed by a washing line, a long chime of giggles that echoed down the valley. I clasped the steering wheel as if it were the last piece floating off a sunken wreck.