‘They’ve flown the Channel, little one – it’ll be the Atlantic next, you’ll see. America next stop!’
She liked Uncle Peter. Sometimes she still wondered with interest about the fuss that had attended his typically capricious and sudden decision to join the army, and the family upset it had caused. Something had happened that neither Grandfather nor Mama or Papa had much cared for, though no one had ever got round to explaining the problem to the intrigued child. She well remembered the strange day when a man had called at the Bear and shouted about Uncle Peter. And a silly lady had cried. Rachel remembered that quite clearly too, because she had been so fascinated to see a grown-up woman sobbing in public – a thing Rachel herself would never be allowed to do – that she had quite forgotten her manners and stared. For which Nurse Winterbottom had slapped her soundly. She directed a small, triumphant glance at her companion in the back seat of the car. Nurse Winterbottom was not in a fit state to slap anyone at the moment. She was clinging to her seat in terror, her eyes shut. She was scared. Scared as a pussy cat. Scared as stupid little Bessie Harper had been when Toby had chased her with a spider – Rachel grinned at the thought.
‘Sit up straight, Rachel. Young ladies don’t slouch,’ Charlotte called over her shoulder, above the noise of the wind and the engine, and without turning her head.
Automatically Rachel straightened her back, sighing. She truly sometimes believed that Mama had eyes in the back of her head.
Ben’s thoughts, like Rachel’s, had turned to his scapegrace young brother. ‘Peter seems settled at last. Army life seems to suit him.’
‘I should think anything would suit him better than marriage to that milk and water miss who’d set her cap at him,’ she said a little waspishly.
He smiled a little. ‘You’re probably right. Not the marrying kind, our Peter. He certainly makes a dashing young lieutenant.’
‘Second lieutenant,’ she corrected him, still tart. ‘And, oh, Ben, do slow down a little! I declare I shall be quite sick if you don’t!’
Brightsea was a pleasant little place, as much a large village as a town, which straggled up low, chalky cliffs from a small sandy beach. Over the past few years several fair-sized and substantial houses had been built for those with fortune and time at their disposal to enjoy summer by the sea. There were too several very respectable boarding houses and a few villas and cottages to let. The main street contained perhaps a half dozen small shops and the tea shop, run by a genteel widow and her daughter, which had caught Charlotte’s eye when they had visited the place earlier in the year. It was, she thought, an agreeable enough place to spend a couple of weeks. Anywhere was better than Poplar, from where, for all her scheming and pleading, she could not persuade her stubborn husband to move.
The house they had rented looked out over the sea and was a mere five-minute stroll from the beach. A cook and housemaid came with the let, the rooms were large and comfortably furnished. She stood on the balcony and looked across the glittering space of the seascape. In the road below a handsome young couple glanced up, paused, then acknowledged her with smiles and slight bows. Graciously she nodded. Oh yes, Brightsea might really prove quite an entertaining break in a life that lately had been quite provokingly tedious.
Ben, knowing with neither surprise nor resentment that he would not be missed at least by his wife, motored back to a London where half the population strolled in the sunshine of the parks, rowed on the peaceful river or attended the summer race meetings in their new motor cars whilst the other half looked on with growing anger and discontent.
‘Real trouble coming if I’m any judge,’ Will commented that evening. He had aged in the past couple of years. His hair had thinned and his eyes, though still bright and sharp were tired.
‘You think so?’
He nodded, tamping down his pipe. ‘Been building for months. And the damned weather doesn’t help.’ He stopped as the parlour door opened and a harassed Sally popped her head around it.
‘Ah, there you are – could one of you come, please? The new little boy – Harry Potts – has fallen off the stable roof. I think his arm might be broken.’
Ben grabbed the bag that was never far from his hand, ‘I’ll come.’
She led him, hurrying, across the courtyard to the home, to where Bron sat in the schoolroom nursing a sobbing little boy. Ben dropped to his knees beside them, gently took the child’s arm. ‘Well, now, what’s all this?’
Dispassionately Sally watched him. There had been a time when she would have gone to almost any lengths to avoid this close a contact, but no more. How she had ever found courage to face him at all after that Christmas night three years before she had never known. The temptation to run away, to hide, never to come near nor by the Bear again had been so overwhelming that at first there had been no resisting it. She could not stay. She would not! But there had been Toby to consider – what would she tell him? How explain a decision to leave, to ruin all the plans they had laid for his future? And to a lesser degree there had been Hannah, who had extended the open and generous hand of friendship – how could she betray her trust by simply running away? She had lain the next day alone in her darkened room after a bitter and sleepless night, by turns savagely, defensively angry and filled with an intolerable humiliation. She had thrown herself at Ben Patten like any street walker: and like any street walker she had been roughly rejected. It served her right, she supposed, though it was a bleak and bitter thought. For twenty-four hours she had neither eaten nor slept. And when she emerged from her room it was with the decision made that, Toby or no Toby, Hannah or no Hannah, she would have to leave.
The first person she had met had been Ben Patten. Whether by design or accident she had never known, but his was the face she saw as she crossed the courtyard, his the voice that said calmly, ‘Ah – Sally – Bron was looking for you. There’s a crisis in the Seconds’ dormitory that seems quite beyond her.’
She had stared at him. Opened her mouth.
Very quickly he had held up his hand to prevent the words. Slowly and firmly he had shaken his head. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t say anything. There is no need.’ The granite face had been completely expressionless.
And so, after a moment’s hesitation, wordlessly she had pushed past him and taken up her responsibilities again, and though in the months that had followed she had avoided him as much as was humanly possible – as, she was certain, he had her – in a surprisingly short while she had mastered her emotions, though even now the sight of him could sometimes bring an unexpected twinge, a small, almost nauseous twist of humiliation and hurt that would quickly transmute itself into a welcome edge of resentment, almost of dislike, which she made little effort to hide. And, with the passing of time the wound had healed, as most wounds did: it was, after all, as she had told herself constantly during those first hard months, only her pride that had been hurt.
‘Not broken,’ Ben said now, straightening. ‘A bad sprain is all. Cold water compresses should sort it out – oh, and—’ he rummaged in his bag, ‘—a jelly baby. That should do the trick.’
* * *
The industrial unrest both in London and in the rest of the country did indeed, as Will had predicted, become steadily worse as the month progressed towards the Coronation of George the Fifth. By the time Ben arrived at Brightsea to pick up Charlotte and Rachel two days before the event, the ports of London, Hull and Southampton were crippled by strikes; a piece of information that did not impress Charlotte a jot compared to the other news Ben carried. ‘But Ben! Why didn’t someone let me know? When did he arrive?’
Ben piled the last piece of luggage into the boot of the car. ‘Only the day before yesterday. And we had no time to tell anyone. He telegraphed on Monday and arrived the next day. It’s partly a business trip – Aunt Alice has financial affairs in London that he keeps an eye on – and partly pleasure. He decided he wanted to be here for the Coronation.’
Charlotte clapped her hands like a child. ‘But t
hat’s wonderful! Oh, what fun it will be showing him London!’
Rachel, eyeing her mother’s unusual excitement a little warily, tugged at her father’s sleeve. ‘Who’s come?’
He bent and scooped her into his arms. ‘Your Cousin Philippe from Belgium. Well – strictly speaking, your second cousin.’
‘Why is he only second? Who came first?’ the child asked, interested in an apparent pecking order she had never before come across.
He laughed. ‘No – Philippe is your mother’s and Uncle Ralph’s cousin. So that makes him your second cousin.’
‘Ben – do come!’ Charlotte was waiting impatiently to be handed into the car. ‘Or we’ll never get away!’
Ben deposited Rachel upon the back seat next to the already pale-faced Nurse Winterbottom and extended a hand to his wife. ‘So – you’ve enjoyed your holiday?’
‘Oh yes. Well enough, thank you.’ The words were light.
‘You weren’t lonely?’
‘No, not at all. We met a charming young woman. A Miss Weston. Holidaying with her mother. She made a most pleasant companion.’
Rachel cocked her head to one side. Odd that Mama had made no mention of Miss Weston’s brother who had, it seemed to Rachel, spent even more time with them than had Miss Weston or her mother. He had made the most splendid sand castles and had not seemed to mind a bit when she had jumped on them and knocked them down. In fact – astonishingly – even Mama had laughed. She had laughed quite a lot when young Mr Weston was with them.
Ben wound the handle and the engine jumped to life. Charlotte settled happily into her seat, delicately adjusting the brim of her hat. ‘Cousin Philippe! How marvellous. What a lovely surprise!’
* * *
They arrived in London, hot and tired, a little after tea time. Rachel, heavy-eyed and crumpled, held up her arms to her father. Charlotte, however, stepped brightly down, shaking out her skirts and untying the scarf that fastened her hat, looking round expectantly. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘Taken some of the youngsters to the park for a picnic. They’ll be back soon.’ Will stood at the door, leaning on a stick. ‘Welcome home, my dear.’ His old eyes sparkled as they always did at sight of her pretty face. ‘We’ve missed you.’
‘Thank you.’ She dropped a quick and slightly absent kiss upon his cheek. ‘And Cousin Philippe? Is he here?’
He shook his head. ‘No. He’s gone off with the others to Regent’s Park. In fact it was his idea. But they won’t be long now.’
‘Oh.’ Disappointment pulled down the corners of Charlotte’s mouth a little. Then she brightened. All the better, it gave her a chance to make herself especially pretty. ‘Ben – I really feel a terrible fright. I’ll bathe, I think, and change my clothes before we eat. Nurse – take Rachel to the nursery, please, for tea. And then straight to bed, if you please. She’s had a very tiring day.’
‘But Mama!’ Rachel was outraged. The only thing that had kept her cheerful during the long, hot journey back had been the thought of meeting her intriguing-sounding second cousin from Belgium, wherever that was. A sharp-eyed and quick-witted child, she had not missed her mother’s interest.
Charlotte quelled her with an irritated glance. ‘Bed,’ she said.
It was more than two hours later in the long June twilight that the picnic party returned.
Charlotte heard the singing before, looking out of her bedroom window, she saw a wide cart drawn by an ancient, shambling horse pull into the courtyard. Ralph held the reins, Hannah, laughing and dishevelled, beside him. The flat body of the cart was a tumble of children, in the midst of whom Sally Smith stood, swaying to the movement, hatless and breathless with laughter. ‘Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic!’ Seated upon a bale of hay in the corner of the vehicle sat a figure in straw hat and shirtsleeves, his jacket flung carelessly over one shoulder, the long, dark, amused face Charlotte remembered so well lifted to the singer. As she watched he unfolded his tall, oddly elegant frame, vaulted lightly over the shallow side of the cart and lifted a courteous hand to help Sally down.
Smiling, Charlotte turned back to her mirror. Outside Sally’s distinctive, husky, slightly off-key voice was threaded with tiredness and laughter. ‘Down you get – Picnic time for teddy bears – the little teddy bears have had a lovely time today. Whoops!’ There came the sound of a tumble, a long, childishly aggrieved wail. The song broke off. ‘Ups-a-daisy,’ Sally said easily, ‘nothing broken.’
What very tiresome beings children were. Charlotte applied herself to her reflection. She did hope that her sojourn by the sea – enjoyable as it had been – had not put too much colour into her delicate complexion, which Philippe, in those weeks in Bruges, had so often commented upon.
II
London, despite her troubles, put on a brave face and gala dress for the Coronation of George the Fifth. The city was decked with flags and with flowers, the streets thronged with people dressed in their Sunday best, out in the sunshine to enjoy the pageantry of the occasion, the fairytale procession with its handsome coaches, prancing horses and brilliantly uniformed soldiers. It was a day for rejoicing, and many were ready to put aside their grievances for a while and enjoy it. Tomorrow they might be facing these very soldiers across a picket line or at a dock gate, but for today they were ready to cheer themselves hoarse as the trim and picturesque columns rode proudly by escorting their monarch to his crowning.
In common with the rest of the city the party from the Bear were up and about early. They took an omnibus through the gaily decorated streets to the Mall, the great thoroughfare that led to Buckingham Palace, where they staked their claim to a section of pavement in front of the park, spread their rugs and settled down to a picnic breakfast. Everyone was there with the exception of the very smallest children, the timid Maud who had stayed willingly behind to care for them, Mrs Briggs who had flatly refused – even for her sovereign – to brave crowded streets that she insisted were alive with thieves and vagabonds, and Doctor Will, who had insisted good naturedly that if someone had to stay behind and hold the fort it might as well be him. Rachel, sitting in triumphant elevation upon her father’s wide shoulders as they walked down the Mall, had a splendid view all the way down the grand, sweeping avenue to the palace at the end. Soldiers in bright red jackets glittering with brass that gleamed like gold, and with tall bearskins on their heads ceremoniously guarded the way. Rachel waved her Union Jack with enthusiasm. ‘When’s the King coming?’
‘Not for hours yet.’ A little peevishly Charlotte, before settling herself upon the rug, smoothed the skirt of the pretty white dress she had chosen for the day: high-waisted, slender-skirted, it showed off her figure to perfection. Red and blue flowers decorated her wide-brimmed hat and ribbons of the same colours fluttered from her narrow waist. She looked lovely and she knew it; but yet the set of her mouth was not happy. The day that had started in such hope and excitement was already, for Charlotte, turning sour. Around her were laughter and exhilaration, children shrieked and played under the indulgent eyes of their elders. A Punch and Judy man had set up in the park behind them and the squawks and squeals of the puppets and of their young audience added to the excited commotion. A flower seller with a basket of red, white and blue flowers sang her wares in a sweet and piercing voice. Somewhere not far away a barrel organ played. Charlotte twitched her skirt away from the sticky fingers of one of the orphanage children. Toby was organizing them into ranks, small ones at the front. ‘There. Now you’ll all be able to see. And don’t forget to wave your flags.’ The boy was resplendent in the smart school uniform that Ralph had, over Charlotte’s protests, bought for him in celebration of his gaining his scholarship to a school in the City.
A little way away Sally Smith stood with Hannah. She was dressed in cool pale green and white, a pretty hat that Charlotte had never seen before perched upon the piled soft brown hair, the wide brim shading her laughing face. As Charlotte watched, Philippe van Damme joined them, tall and strik
ing in his elegantly casual slacks and striped blazer, his long, engagingly mobile face vivid with laughter and interest.
Charlotte turned away.
‘Mama – may I go to see the Punch and Judy?’
‘No,’ Charlotte said ill-temperedly, ‘stay here with us, or you’ll get lost. And I’ve no intention of spending my day looking for you.’ She could hear Philippe’s voice, and then Sally’s, husky and distinctive. Hannah let out a shout of unladylike laughter.
Upon her lap, folded in apparent calm, Charlotte’s laced fingers tightened to a painful grip upon each other. How could he? How could he prefer the company of – of that girl – to hers? For there could no longer be any denying it, he certainly did. From the first, light, cousinly kiss of greeting he had made it perfectly clear that she, Charlotte, had no special claim upon his time. He had, of course, in those moments he had spared her been charming and pleasant, the very soul of courtesy – he was Philippe, he could not be otherwise. But the warmth she so well remembered, the special, flattering interest – that, she had seen to her disbelief and mortification, had been bestowed elsewhere.
Tomorrow, Jerusalem Page 28