Here Archie stopped and said, That’s as far as Pipette has got with his story. So from now on, it will have to be me asking questions and translating for you.’
There had been a furious argument. Pipette did not wish to leave Rupert; Rupert said he should go. The woman joined in here. She had not gone to all this trouble, she said, to have it all come to nothing because of sentiment. At least one of them should get away. She would look after Rupert, and he would get away when his ankle was restored. She became quite angry and, in the end, Pipette gave in. They helped Rupert up to the bank and settled him behind some bushes. Michèle said she would fetch him on her way back.
‘And then,’ Archie said, ‘Clary, he gave Pipette this,’ and he handed her the flimsy piece of paper.
She read it under her breath. ‘Darling Clary, I think of you every day. Love Dad.’ She read it again to herself and then bent her head over it. Then she looked at the paper again, ‘Oh! my beastly hair’s spoiling the paper!’ Her eyes, that had become like stars, began to stream: ‘The second piece of paper! The second piece of love sent!’
‘The second piece is for Zoë,’ Archie said, not understanding.
‘She means the postcard her mother sent from Cassis with her love on it,’ Polly said.
She was trying to blot the paper with tender anxious nail-bitten fingers.
‘It’s in pencil, Clary, it won’t run,’ Archie said.
‘So it is. When did he write it?’
‘In the barn, at La Fôret. He asked me to deliver it if I should get to England. Not to post. To go – to come – myself. That was eight months ago. I do not know—’
Archie held up his hand, and Pipette fell silent, but a shadow of the old anguish crossed Clary’s face: a momentary darkening of the incandescence in her eyes came – and went. She read the piece of paper again and when she looked up at Archie he saw that her loving faith had been resolutely resumed.
‘It’s just a question of time,’ she said. ‘That’s all it is. Waiting till he comes back.’
The news about Rupert spread fast. That evening Hugh and Edward carried Archie down for dinner, to drink the champagne that the Brig produced from his cellar. Pipette was to stay, of course, the Duchy said. An atmosphere of determined relief prevailed – if Rupert had been alive eight months ago, then they would find no reason why he might since have met misfortune. His excellent French, the intelligence of the woman Michèle, his nearness to the coast, the fact that Pipette had made it – all these factors were optimistically discussed, and more stories of Pipette’s and Rupert’s adventures came to light. Once he felt at ease with the family, Pipette was a wonderful raconteur and sometimes very funny in a manner which was endearingly like Rupert. On one occasion, he said, when the Germans suddenly turned up at a farm where they were lying up and where there was nowhere safe to hide, Rupert had put Pipette into a wheelbarrow: he only had time to say ‘You are a complete idiot – understand?’, as he began, with a pronounced limp, to wheel him past the German lorries that were disgorging their occupants. Here Pipette flung his legs over the arm of his chair and lolled in it with a vacant smile and his tongue slipping out of the side of his mouth, then springing to his feet to become Rupert limping and conducting a monologue of contempt and hatred for this idiot brother, while at the same time managing to imply that he had a screw loose himself. He was taking his brother to the doctor for his fits, he told the German officer, although a vet would be more suitable since he was hardly more than an animal. The officer had shrugged and turned away; the men had stared, and one of them had even looked sorry for him, Pipette said. The Duchy was crying with laughter and wiping her eyes on her little handkerchief. Pipette said they had to keep it up for ages, as the road to the farm was long and perfectly straight, and they could not be sure that the farmer would not come out of his house and give the show away. There were many stories, he ended, turning to Archie, who had interpolated translation where necessary for the non-French speakers of the party.
That evening though, after dinner, they listened to the nine o’clock news and heard that the Japanese had launched a massive surprise attack on the American Fleet in Hawaii at a place called Pearl Harbor. As this had happened only an hour before, details of damage had not come through but clearly a state of war was imminent, if it did not exist already.
‘How can it have happened an hour ago when it’s evening now and they said the attack was seven o’clock in the morning?’
‘It’s the time difference, Poll,’ her father said. ‘What with double summer time and it being the other side of the world, we’re hours and hours ahead. It’s breakfast time there, and bedtime here – for you.’
Sunday evenings were always early, because the London contingent had to leave so early in the morning, and everybody dispersed soon after that.
Somehow, that day, that evening, was a watershed, a turning point for many of them. The Brig, when he had made his way to his bedroom and slowly divested himself of his many clothes – his jacket, waistcoat, flannel shirt, woollen vest, trousers and braces, long johns, polished brogues, prickly woollen socks speckled like a thrush’s breast – groped about on the bed until he found his thick flannel, widely striped pyjamas, thought wearily that there was little or no chance now that he would see the end of this war. He was eighty-one, and it seemed to him that with the Japs and the Americans in, it could last twice as long as the last war. He’d been on the sidelines for that one as well – a position he intensely disliked. Still, he had got Hugh and Edward back the first time, so perhaps there’d be a third stroke of luck with Rupert. But the idea that he might not live to know this disturbed and depressed him. It won’t matter to Rupert, he thought, one way or another. It matters to me. He did not pursue this: he had never been any good at using words about love – even to himself.
Sid, in London, rushed home after the news came through at her ambulance station incase Rachel rang up. There was no particular reason why the news would make Rachel ring, but irrational hope persisted, and she sat, in her now very dusty sitting room (she loathed housework) eating a Spam sandwich, and making up and then changing her mind about whether she would ring. Just to hear her voice, she thought. She had nothing much to say, and she thought that perhaps there would come a time when she had nothing at all to say to Rachel, since she was not able – would never be able – to say what lay nearest her heart. She thought of all the people in the world who were in love, to whom that would simply come as a joyous and natural asseveration: I want you. I want your naked body in my bed, your flesh against my flesh, your need to be my pleasure, your pleasure to be my joy.’ She had long become used to concealing herself from other people – it was second nature to her now – but she never got used to disguising herself for Rachel. It made her feel like some secret agent or spy: her true identity in this endless alien land would mean death.
That evening, as she sat and waited and the telephone did not ring, was the first time that the idea of not loving Rachel came to her, not as some terrible limbo, but as a possible release.
‘He didn’t write to me,’ Neville said to Lydia as they lay in bed.
‘He might have, and that French person might have lost it and felt too embarrassed to tell you.’
‘No fear.’
Lydia could sense he was deeply hurt. ‘He didn’t write to Juliet, either,’ she said.
‘Of course he didn’t! Write to a horrible little baby who can’t even read! Even Dad wouldn’t be as silly as that. Well, all I can say is that when I’m grown up and doing a lot of interesting dangerous things, I shall write to—’ he considered, ‘Archie, and you and Hitler and Flossy. And not to him. Then he’ll see.’
She was so flattered at being included that she did not mention anything about cats not being able to read.
‘I should treasure your letters,’ she said. ‘And I should think Hitler will soon be dead and not worth writing to.’ Then, when he didn’t say anything back, she said, ‘I’m honestly awfully
sorry, Nev. I know how important he is to you.’
‘Important? I hardly ever think about him. He’s a distant memory. Soon he’ll just vanish like a puff of smoke. He’s just a little tiny weeny thing I’m nearly forgetting. I wouldn’t have thought of him at all if he hadn’t written a letter to Clary.’ His love and disappointment raged on until, worn out by it, he eventually fell asleep.
The Duchy sank gratefully onto the stool before her dressing table and bent to unstrap her shoes. The evening had tired her more than she would admit, even to herself, and her fatigue increased her apprehension. The news about Rupert – though it was a hundred times better than no news at all – was still uncertain, incomplete. He had been alive eight months ago. But since then anything might have happened. He could not escape without some help, and people had to risk their lives to do that. It was because of this that she had said that Zoë should not be telephoned. They could not tell her he was alive and safe, and therefore it was better to wait the few days until she returned and could be told the whole story. Is that what I would want? she thought. Yes. I should not like not being told at once, but I should be grateful all the same. That was that.
She took off her sapphire and pearl cross that was slung round her neck and held it in her hand for a long time before putting it on the table.
Diana, having padded along what seemed like about a quarter of a mile of stone corridor to the only loo on the bedroom floor of the Scottish baronial Victorian castle that her parents-in-law, so imaginatively, she thought, called home, crept thankfully into the enormous dark and, of course, cold bedroom. Its stone walls were adorned with an uneasy mixture of weapons and watercolours. Some quite vicious coconut matting provided an occasional contrast to the stone floor. The deeply recessed gothic windows had been deemed too small to merit curtains, so fresh air, in the form of draughts, was unchecked. The huge bed was superlatively uncomfortable. It stood very high off the ground and was furnished with a thin horsehair mattress, a bolster fit to dam a dyke, two soft thin pillows that smelled of violet hair oil and blankets of the kind that rich people threw over the back of a horse that had won a race. She slept in her dressing gown and bedsocks. It was the room they had slept in when Angus was alive, and would always be hers, his parents had said. They had tried to be very kind to her, especially when they learned that she was pregnant, but even two days with them had her screaming with boredom. Naturally, they assumed that she was hardly herself from grief (their phrase), and, poor dears, they were hard hit, and she knew it, and made extra efforts. Already Angus seemed to her to have died a long time ago, but in fact it was just over three weeks. With the older children soon to be home from school, she had no choice but to go to Scotland for the holidays. At least, apart from getting there, it meant she didn’t have to spend any money, which now, she knew, would be tighter than ever. And there would be a fourth baby. She adored the others, especially Jamie, but if she had another son the financial situation would be dire. If it were not for Edward, she supposed she would sell the London flat (supposing she could find anyone who wanted a bombed flat in London in the middle of a war), and rent or buy somewhere very cheap in the country. Even so, the prospect of two more sets of school fees seemed bankrupting. These thoughts were foremost in her mind, because after the news that evening about the Japanese bombing the American Navy, everybody had agreed that the war was obviously going to be a very long one, and her father-in-law had offered a permanent home with them. She recognised that this was noble of him, since he had never liked her, but she knew that she would rather die than accept. It would mean never seeing Edward again, and without him, she felt she would sink into a morass of isolated responsibility. If only he was here now, she thought, as she climbed miserably into the icy bed. He would make even this place fun. If only he was with me all the time, she then thought, after she had turned out the light. This thought did not go away; it prevented her from sleeping, and towards the small hours it began to seem so essential to her that for the first time she began to consider how on earth it might be achieved.
Michael Hadleigh had at once offered to share his room with Pipette, who now lay asleep in the bed next to him. They had not talked much, as Michael’s French was rudimentary – he had gone to Germany as an art student – but he gathered that Pipette had had a pretty rough time getting to England. They had tried to talk about the Japanese attack, and had agreed that the damage had probably been awful because of the element of surprise. Then Pipette had said good night, rolled himself in his bedclothes and become silent. His coming had prevented Louise from spending another evening with him as she had yesterday. Just as well, probably, he thought. The last one, although extremely enjoyable, had been a severe strain. She was so young – almost too young to have an idea what she wanted. She was beginning to love him a bit, but it would not be fair even to try to sweep her off her feet unless he knew he was serious. Was he? Mummy always said she wanted him to get married, and he knew she passionately wanted a grandson. Usually, she had found good reasons why the girls he brought home would not do, but she had not done that with Louise. He hadn’t talked to her about it directly, but the subject of the grandchild had come up again at the end of his last leave. ‘Don’t leave it too late,’ she had said, and then pretended that she had meant until he was too old, but he knew what she meant: don’t get killed without having begotten an heir.
Tonight, listening to that stark piece of news and knowing that it contained, or would contain, terrible statistics in terms of ships and human life, he had thought seriously, and for the first time, that the possibility of getting killed was something he had to take into account. Until now, he had operated on the charmed life, he’d-always-been-lucky mode; in a sense that had seemed to him to be courage, and he took his own courage very seriously. It ran in the family: he must be as brave, or braver, than his father. Now, imagining those American sailors in their mess at breakfast being shockingly assailed by screaming planes that rained down bombs upon them – a colossal, hideous ambush of thousands of unsuspecting and innocent men, he felt real fear for the first time in his life. How would he have behaved under that sort of fire? Would he have been a survivor even? Would poor darling Mummy have to go through all that again? First his father, then him: the two people she had loved most in the world? The ship that he was going to command – the MTB building now at Cowes – was as vulnerable to air attacks, mines, torpedoes as any other vessel, but it was gunfire that picked off the coxswains and the officers, it was the people on the bridge who most often copped it. And that was where he was going to be. Again, he felt a cold, sick fear of the apparently imperturbable hours he must spend there. That evening he recognised that fear was an essential element of courage, as he also saw that the chances of his getting killed in his new job were quite high. Mummy, as usual, had been right – he could easily leave having a son until it was too late …
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 102