When I met Tom early that evening he was distracted, and as we sat upon the steps of the boathouse we had little to say to each other.
“Strange, isn’t it? Summer seems to have ended already,” he said, lighting another cigarette.
I turned to him, placed my hand upon his arm. I couldn’t think of anything to say at that moment and somehow a touch seemed more voluble than any words. But he simply glanced at my hand and then looked away.
I don’t know how long we sat there for, but long enough. And when we rose to our feet and I began to walk back toward the house, he called after me, said my name. I turned, expecting him to say something, but he simply stared at me, frowning.
“What is it?” I asked. And I so wanted to add to that, “my darling.”
“Don’t go back yet,” he said.
“But I must go back. I have to.”
“Clarissa . . .”
“Yes?”
He looked down at the grass. “Oh, nothing,” he said.
When I arrived back at the house I bumped into Mama in the hallway.
“Have you seen Tom?” she asked.
I swallowed. “No, why?”
“I thought I’d invite him to join us for dinner. It’s Edna’s night off and Mrs. Cuthbert’s cooking for us. He shouldn’t be on his own at a time like this,” she added, and walked off toward the servants’ hall.
I stood still; I could hear Mama asking Mrs. Cuthbert if Tom would like to join us for dinner, but I couldn’t quite hear Mrs. Cuthbert’s reply; and then I heard Mama’s footsteps coming back toward the hallway and I quickly turned and hurried off up the stairs.
Half an hour or so later, when I entered the drawing room, he was there, looking extraordinarily dapper, and sitting in front of the fire with Venetia and Jimmy. He glanced over at me, nervously, and I smiled. It was strange to see him there, in that room, dressed for dinner. There he was: one of us.
I wandered over to the boys, who were gathered by the window around George. He’d received a telegram requesting him to be back at Aldershot by midnight. They were asking him questions, talking about the war. I glanced across at Tom, wondered what he and Venetia were discussing. I could hear her saying something about Paris. She loved talking about Paris, slipping into French here and there. I looked ahead, out of the window. Nothing stirred. Every blade of grass, each stem and flower and leaf and shrub appeared perfectly still, as though all of nature held her breath, waiting; and the sun, still above the trees, more achingly golden than ever before. I’m not sure how long I stood there, transfixed, lost in that halcyon moment, but as I turned away I wondered what tomorrow would bring. Would it all be the same? Will it be the same?
I walked over to Maude, Edina and Lucy, who sat playing cards next to another window.
“Would you like to join us, dear?”
“No thank you, Aunt. I’m a little bored of cards . . . or rather, bored of losing at cards,” I replied, and she laughed.
I moved on again, slowly, toward the fireplace. Above it hung the portrait of Mama by Philip de László. It had been commissioned by my father some years earlier, and was mesmerizingly beautiful. Venetia was speaking about Venice, another of her most favorite and yet-to-be-visited places. I caught Tom’s eye, smiled. He didn’t smile back at me, but I saw his gaze move from my face down over my body. And as I stood in front of the fireplace, running my finger over the contours of one of Mama’s precious Meissen figurines, I sensed him watching me.
No fire had been lit that evening, which struck me as odd, because Mama usually insisted on a fire in that room each evening, even in summer. Lends the place atmosphere and warmth, she said. But the polished steel grate remained empty, and the carved marble surround—with its acanthus scrolls, swags of husk and little putti—felt colder than usual to the touch. When I turned, the sky beyond the windows was changing, the last of the sun’s rays shining low into the room, throwing pale mauve jets of light across the patterned carpet and silk furnishings.
“Clarissa, darling,” Venetia began, her cigarette holder in hand, “you’re such an ongoing distraction to these poor, poor boys . . . I’m surprised they can think of war—or anything else—with such a vision of beauty in their presence.”
“Is there any news?”
She smiled. “No, dear child, not yet. We shan’t know anything until much later tonight or perhaps tomorrow morning,” she replied. “Do sit with us.”
“You do look terribly beautiful tonight, Clarissa,” Jimmy said, as I sat down next to him on the sofa.
“And it may not be fashionable for a lady to have tanned skin, but it suits you, suits you very well,” Venetia added. “Don’t you agree, Tom?”
I looked at him. He was leaning forward in his chair, holding a glass of something. “Yes, it does,” he replied, looking back at me, without any trace of a smile.
“Clarissa is going to be a sensation in London, an absolute sensation,” Venetia continued, with a little shiver, and a shrug of lace. She reminded me of a box of chocolates that night. Confection, sealed in tight, perfectly wrapped and tied up in ribbons. The previous evening she’d come down to dinner in a purple-plumed silver turban and opera cloak. Oh, is it fancy dress? Lucy had asked.
“I’ve already warned your father, warned him that he’ll have to keep a gun by his bed,” she continued. “You’ll be inundated, darling, inundated, but I’m hoping that Jimmy might be able to be your chaperone about town one day,” she added, smiling at her son.
Jimmy turned to me. “I’d be more than delighted, anytime at all,” he said, looking slightly awkward.
“Thank you, that’s very kind, but I don’t know when that will be, at least not now. If there’s to be a war, I don’t suppose there’ll be many parties or balls to attend.”
“Oh but of course there’ll be. Life must go on,” Venetia said, and then she looked across at Tom. “And Tom, you must call on me next time you’re up in town. I just adore having the young around me.”
I felt my skin bristle. I hadn’t told Tom—hadn’t told anyone—about Henry’s affair with Venetia, and it was definitely an affair. I’d been watching them, surreptitiously noting their furtive glances and private little jokes. Only that morning, when I’d walked around to the veranda, I’d found them there, almost entwined. They’d quickly moved away from one another and Henry had stuttered something to me about looking for a tennis racquet for Venetia, but Venetia didn’t play tennis. I knew that. What did he take me for? And now she was trying to lure Tom to London.
“Yes, I shall do that,” I heard him say.
I looked over to him. “Oh, and do you go to London very often, Mr. Cuthbert?”
He raised one side of his mouth. “No, I don’t, but I’ll be there soon enough and I’m sure I’ll be grateful for a few friends.”
I picked up one of Mama’s magazines lying upon the ottoman in front of me and began flicking the pages, and then I glanced up and saw Venetia smiling at him with a worldly look about her. I glanced over at Tom. He was looking down but still smiling. I put down the magazine and stood up.
“I really must go and find Mama,” I said, and left the room.
I didn’t go in search of Mama. I went outside and stood on the terrace. He’s going to have an affair with Venetia, I thought, wringing my hands and feeling utterly powerless. He’s going to go up to London and embark on a torrid affair with that woman. I was pleased I’d broken her plate, and as I walked toward the window I wondered if its shattering had in fact been portentous. I peeked in through the glass: he was still sitting in the same place, listening to Mama, now seated on the sofa next to Jimmy. They all looked so serious, so worried. I marched back along the terrace toward the door into the house.
“Clarissa! I was wondering where you were. Can I get you a glass of lemonade or something?”
It was Charlie Boyd.
“No, no thank you, Charlie. I was taking some air. It’s so stuffy inside and . . . and all of this waiting, waiting for news
, it’s altogether rather depressing.”
“Hmm. Yes, it is somewhat. But you mustn’t let it worry you too much, you know. You’re much too pretty to wear a frown.”
“So I’ve been told,” I said, my head still full of Tom’s impending trip to London. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” I added, glancing back at the window. “I’ve recently discovered something quite . . . quite shocking, and I’m a little distracted.”
“Oh dear, nothing sinister, I hope.”
“Well, that’s just it; it could be. But I really can’t say any more.”
“I see,” he said, looking at me, smiling. And I immediately wondered if he knew something.
We walked back inside and as we entered the drawing room I took hold of his arm. I was determined not to look across at Tom or Venetia, but I heard her saying something to him about a hotel, and then the gong sounded and we all made our way through to the dining room.
I was seated at the opposite end of the table to Tom, and on the same side, so that I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to—which I didn’t—see his face. And after dinner, when Mama asked the ladies to retire to the drawing room for some cards and leave the boys to enjoy a glass of port, I excused myself, saying that I was tired. Edina seemed keen to come with me, and with a look of practiced concern on her face, she whispered, “Is it the war, dear? Or is it something else?”
“No, Edina, I’m simply tired.”
I was in my bedroom, had unpinned my hair, when I realized that I hadn’t bid my brother, George, good-bye, and he’d be leaving within the hour. I went back downstairs to the dining room, stood for a moment outside the door, and then opened it.
“Issa! Are you going to join us for a glass?” Henry asked and then laughed, the port decanter raised in one hand, a cigar in the other.
I looked over at Tom, who’d moved to the opposite side of the table. He smiled at me, wearily.
“I wanted to say good night, and good-bye to George,” I said. “I’m going to my bed.”
“Aha, beauty sleep, that’s the secret, eh, Clarissa?” Charlie said, turning to me.
I moved over to George, who stood up and wrapped his arms around me.
“You’re so brave, Issa, coming in here with all these obnoxious young men,” he said to me quietly, and then he kissed my forehead.
I looked up at him. “When will you next be home?”
“I really don’t know, but soon I hope.”
“If you have to go and fight—will you be able to come home first?”
“That I also don’t know,” he said.
I put my head on his chest, held him tightly for a moment, then looked up at him and kissed him on both cheeks. “I love you, Georgie.”
“I love you too, darling,” he replied, to an echo of, “Aah!”
I moved toward the door.
“Do we each get a kiss?” Charlie asked. “Have pity, Clarissa. It may be our last chance.”
I turned back to them, and—with a little affectation and perhaps rather dramatically—I blew them each a kiss. Tom smiled, and I allowed myself to look back at him for longer than the others.
“I say! That’s not fair! That’s cheating!” Jimmy shouted out.
“Yes, that doesn’t count, doesn’t count at all,” Charlie said.
And as I turned to close the door, I glanced over once more at Tom, but he’d already turned away and was deep in conversation with Henry and Archie.
Oddly enough, I fell asleep very quickly that night. But I had a most peculiar and muddled dream, which I later recorded in my journal. I was in an enormous building, walking down a long corridor with doors on either side. I was searching for a particular door and when I found it, it had the letters VR painted upon it in purple. I opened it, and immediately inside, in a lobby area, Mama was standing clutching a telegram. “Clarissa, you shouldn’t be here,” she said. “Tom is performing an exam and he mustn’t be disturbed.” Then I heard Venetia’s voice and I pushed past Mama to see Venetia lying on a bed with Tom bending over her. He looked up at me. “She’s unattainable,” he said. “You need to send for a doctor.”
I shouted, “I know what you’re doing, Tom!” And then Henry appeared and said, “But it’s only a game, Clarissa,” and when I looked back at Tom, he’d changed into Charlie Boyd and was dressed as a soldier.
I awoke early the following morning, stirred from my fretful dreams by the sounds of activity in the house: doors opening and closing; voices and footsteps in the hallway downstairs. I dressed hastily and went to find Mama. She was not in her room and so I rushed downstairs, where I found everyone sitting in the dining room, in a collective somber silence. Mama looked up at me and I knew immediately.
“We’re going to war?”
She reached out, took hold of my hand. “We are at war, Clarissa,” she replied.
. . . I was resting in the hammock, contemplating all of this, & what lies ahead. It’s all too worrying & depressing. Lord K is asking for another 100,000, & H is determined to sign up . . . my very dearest dear, I fear our “plan” may have to wait. D
Chapter Eight
Over the next couple of days there was a flurry of activity at Deyning, but none of the activity any of us had hoped for or imagined that summer. My cousins and Aunt Maude left Deyning to return to their home in Devon, and Venetia, Jimmy and Charlie all returned to London. At the time I wondered why: why did they all have to cut short their stay with us? Surely it wasn’t going to make any difference where they were. But almost immediately the fighting had begun; Kitchener was asking for volunteers; church was packed, special prayers said. It was upon us, and yet to me it all seemed to happen so quickly, so suddenly. By the end of the week Henry had been to Godalming to try for a commission in Kitchener’s army and was waiting to hear. And Will was in a conundrum. He considered himself a pacifist and found the notion of war abhorrent, but he was also a patriotic Englishman.
I’d heard Mrs. Cuthbert and others say that the war would be over by Christmas, and the vicar, too, seemed to hold that belief. But my parents were not so optimistic. In the middle of August, barely two weeks after George returned to Aldershot, my parents received word that he’d arrived safely in France with the British Expeditionary Force. The very same day, Henry received his commission.
In Guildford, with Mama, I’d seen the billboards and the posters calling for volunteers: “There is still a place in the line for you . . .” they said, and I wondered which line, where? And on a trip to London, to visit Mama’s dressmaker, we’d passed through Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus and from the back of the taxicab I’d looked out at the smiling faces of pristine, uniformed young men. To me, their faces didn’t appear to be troubled, worried or anxious; they looked excited, happy to be going off to war. Later, we’d intended on going to Lyons Corner House for tea, as we usually did before returning home, but the place was packed with soldiers, and with crowds outside on the pavement too. So we went straight to the station, where Mama held on to my hand tightly as we maneuvered our way through a chaotic, heaving mass of khaki. And as we headed back through the sleepy meadows and pastures, I could hear the soldiers bound for France and singing, farther down the train.
“How can they be so jolly?” I asked Mama.
“Because they’re proud and patriotic,” she said. “And now they know their purpose, and how noble it is.”
My mother, like my father, believed and lived by noble principles: duty, sacrifice, and honor, truth and fidelity. And the war, still new and fresh, bound up in flags and bunting and patriotic rhetoric, offered her and others—including my brothers and all those other young men—an opportunity to truly live by and test those principles. After all, was there anything nobler than self-sacrifice?
We were standing under the chestnut tree in lower meadow, sheltering from a shower, when Tom told me he was going to volunteer. I’d been expecting it, waiting for him to tell me. He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but gazed ahead, across the field to the lake beyond, and t
here was an unfamiliar formality to his tone.
“Everyone should sign up,” he said. “I’m going to go to Guildford tomorrow, and I intend to ask William to come with me.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. What was there to say? “Don’t go; stay here with me”? It would have been pointless. We’d already lost so many of the men on the estate and were left with only those who were too old or too frail to enlist. I’d heard Father repeating Kitchener’s words, “Every man should do his duty.” It was a mantra, spoken with a stern face. It was the Cause.
“I shall miss you,” I said.
He turned to me, reached out and pushed my damp hair back from my face. “And I shall miss you, Clarissa.”
I wanted him to kiss me then but, like all those other moments before, he moved on and began speaking of something different, steering us away from that point. I didn’t hear his words. All I could think was that he, too, was going to war; that he, too, was leaving Deyning, leaving my world. I’d only just found him, only just realized that the universe included someone named Tom Cuthbert and now he was about to disappear. It seemed already the war had found me. It had reached into my life, interrupting my summer and all those anticipated days of picnics, eating strawberries on the lawn, tennis and croquet tournaments. It had taken my brothers, and now it was taking him, Tom. And even then, in the slipping away, I sensed something more: an almost imperceptible queer tilting feeling. As though a magnet in the core of the earth was very gently, very slowly moving, and pulling me with it.
The rain stopped and we walked on in silence toward the lake. As we descended the bank I didn’t bother to lift my skirt, and it clung about my ankles, wet and heavy. He offered me his hand, said my name: “Clarissa.” I loved to hear him say my name; he said it so differently to anyone else: as though it was a question in itself. I took his hand, and as we walked on neither of us released our grip. We stood by the water’s edge, side by side, hand in hand. It didn’t matter anymore that anyone saw us; I no longer cared what the servants or anyone else thought. And I wanted to savor that moment, there, with him. A steam was rising from the water and the air already smelled of autumn. I had just turned seventeen.
The Last Summer Page 7